The Forgotten Angels (standard:drama, 5602 words)
Author: Stephen-Carver Byrd	Added: Oct 03 2002	Views/Reads: 4310/2863	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A rough and tough homeless boy meets a small eight-year old who eventually becomes a treasured friend. The main stories occurs in the early 60‘s and quickly concludes in 2002 with a shocking ending.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Before my eyes, I found myself staring into the large frame of Don 
Shiner again! 

He was on the ground and struggling with an old broken down bicycle.
Lying beside the bike was a huge pile of neatly rolled newspapers. This 
time, I felt I owned the advantage, knowing well that my Flyer and I 
could disappear like a ghost should the need arise. I passed slowly by 
him trying to determine the nature of his mechanical problem. 
Apparently the chain had slipped free and Shiner was pulling hard, 
desperately trying to re-track it. 

“That happens to my bike all the time. You're going to need a pair of
pliers to pull it back on,” I told him, sounding as if I'd been in the 
bicycle repair business all my life. 

Shiner glanced a double look up at me. “Oh no crap, kid, and do you
happen to see a pair of pliers just conveniently lying around? By the 
way, ain't you that little kid that I caught a few days ago hanging 
round my camp?” 

“Yeah, that was me,” I admitted in a small voice. 

Shiner looked back at the stubborn, greasy chain and strung out a long
chain of obscenities to it. “So, just who are you, kid?” 

“Tad,” I told him. “Tad Mitchell,” 

“Tad?“ he laughed. “What kind of a dumb-ass name is that?” 

I shrugged my shoulders, my feelings somewhat trotted. “I don't know,
it's just a name I guess.” 

“Well, if I don't get these newspapers delivered on time I'm gonna be
fried meat,“ he said in genuine frustration.” 

I spun my bike around, telling Shiner I would return quickly with some
tools. Ten minutes passed when I slid to a quick arrest in front of the 
boy. “Here,” I said, handing him a pair of pliers and a large 
screwdriver. He glanced at me in admiration. I held the rear portion of 
the chain with the screwdriver while Shiner pulled hard with the pliers 
on the front section. On the first attempt the chain went smoothly 
around the teething fitting perfectly into place. 

“Hey, thanks, kid, that worked great.” He began to give me a
congratulate pat but his grease-soaked hand stopped just short. “Oh 
crap, I can't deliver these papers like this,” he grumbled. 

I walked over to my bike and handed him a large jar of water as well as
my mother's dishwashing soap. “Wow, you really thought of everything 
kid,” he said while scrubbing hard with the soap. I poured the water 
over his hands while he rinsed them fairly clean. 

“Sorry I made fun of your name, kid.” 

“It's ok, I think I was named after an ancestor who fought in the Civil
War.” 

“Oh yeah,” he asked curiously, “Which side?” 

“The South,” I returned. 

“Well, he must have been a decent man if he was a Reb,” stated Shiner,
giving me a noteworthy wink.” 

As I helped Shiner load all the newspapers back into his wire baskets an
idea came to me. “Say, sir, would you like if I helped you deliver 
these?“ I asked. 

“Shiner glanced at his watch. "You ever delivered newspapers before,
kid?” he queried. 

“No sir, but it couldn't be any worse than collecting bottles,” I
replied. 

“Well, I can't pay you anything.” 

“That's alright sir, I don't mind.” 

“Ok, I'll let you try it, but only under one condition; that you'll stop
calling me sir. I'm only fourteen and my name is Don.” 

“It's a deal,” I mocked, “If you'll stop calling me kid, I'm only eight
and my name is Tad.” 

Don and I shook with assertive hand to finalize the agreement. 

***** 

My first day in the career of a paperboy went rather smoothly on that
chilly afternoon in 1962. Don was a fine instructor and under his 
careful wing of my apprenticeship he revealed the ends and outs of the 
profession. My only real miscue of the day was sailing one of the 
papers slightly off target resulting in a crashing flowerpot. After 
that, Don quarantined my deliveries to the driveways. Even with that 
constraint, I still manage to lose a few in the bushes. 

After all fifty papers were delivered, we pulled upon another large
stack sitting along a secluded street corner. The Evening Times had 
apparently delivered these papers by truck. Don explained that there 
were four legs to the route, each consisting of fifty papers for each 
leg making a grand total of two hundred. He cut the taunt brown string 
with his large knife, the same knife that came only inches to my face 
just days earlier. He then handed me a large ball of blue rubber bands 
and we sat at the curb rolling the next fifty. I took the right side of 
the street while Don posted the left. It suddenly came to me that here 
I was, only an eight year old kid, helping out the toughest, most 
feared boy in town. I thought of the older boys at school, the ones who 
were always pushing me around. I only wished they could see me now. 

Once the route was finished we both headed back in the direction that we
had started. I looked at the sky and saw only a sliver of fading light 
hanging low in the west. The route had taken us several miles from 
home. About halfway back Don stopped and told me he was taking a 
shortcut the rest of way. 

“Thanks, Tad for helping out. I could've never gotten those papers
delivered on time without your help” he told me earnestly . 

“Ah, it was nothing,” I said, feeling the favor belonged to me. “Care if
I help you out tomorrow, I mean I can help you everyday if you like.” 

A thoughtful look came in his eyes. “Tell, you what Tad, if you're
willing to help me everyday, I might just have an idea how I could pay 
you, but it means giving up your bottle collecting in the afternoons.” 

“Sure thing!” This is a hundred times easier,” I cried out. 

“Great, come to my place tomorrow afternoon around four and I'll tell
you about my plan. I'll need to talk with the newspaper to get it 
approved.” 

I stood under the muted street light with a bewildered face. “Sure, I'll
come, but...where do you live?” 

“At my camp in the woods, do you remember how to get there?” 

“Yeah I remember,” I told him, “But don't you have a real home, I mean,
with a mom and dad and all? I thought your camp was a place where you 
just fooled around.” 

“No,” Don replied, “My camp is my home. I've never had any parents, at
least any that I can remember. Look, it's sort of a long story, ok?” 

I wanted to keep the question alive but something told me it was time to
back off. I rode away into an icy wind that ripped bluntly at my body. 
I glanced up at a totally blacken sky. I had never stayed out this late 
and I knew I was in for some real trouble. 

As I had expected, the first person I met as I walked through the front
door was my dad, a rather hefty size man adorning a large middle-age 
spread. Baggy eyes drooped heavy behind his small round spectacles 
illustrating the obvious signs of premature aging. He pointed a harsh 
finger into the outside darkness then exploded. “Where the mother-hell 
have you been!” 

“I'm sorry, Dad, I was out collecting and delivering,“ I answered,
trying to stretch the truth as far as possible. 

Mom soon entered the scene of the crime, her face not as mad as Dad's
but nevertheless carrying the worn expression of concern and 
frustration. “You had us both worried sick Tad. In fact we were just 
getting ready to call the police,” she said feebly, tears beginning to 
outline her eyes. 

“Eat your supper and go straight to bed,” roared Dad with a voice that
demanded only silence on my part. “And if I ever catch you out this 
late, your bottle collecting days will be permanently over.” 

Lying on my bed, I starred up into the white textured ceiling and
reflected hard on Don Shiner. He was only fourteen, and even though 
that particular age seemed a lifetime away, I'd never known any boy 
that age who didn't at least have a home and some sort of a parent. I 
closed my eyes and listened as the cold outside wind rattled at the 
windows. The coming of winter was harshly making it's presence known. I 
felt the warm air from the furnace enfold me. Then I envisioned Don 
lying in that miserably cold shack probably with little or no food. 
Tomorrow, I vowed, would be a day I would get some answers. 

*****Part 2***** 

Upon entering Don's camp I noticed he was seated outside at an old
rusted table. In in his hands was a small block of wood that he was 
painstakingly carving with the use of an odd shaped instrument. As I 
sat down he glanced over at me. 

“Glad you could make it, little guy.” 

I sat in silence watching him carefully slice fine segments from the
block. “What's that going to be?” I finally asked. 

“A pitching wild stallion,” he returned. “Do you like horses Tad?” 

“Sure, but I've never been on one.” 

“Neither have I but I think they're the most magnificent animal on
earth,” said Don, while squinting an eye and holding the block up to a 
bright chilly sky. “I talked with Mr. Anderson at the newspaper today, 
he's my boss,” Don continued. “I asked if he would allow me to add 
another fifty papers to the route and he agreed. He was just a little 
worried about getting that many papers delivered on time. That's when I 
told him I had a helper. Now here's the deal Tad; if you agree to help 
with all 250 papers you can keep the money from the extra fifty. 
That'll give you about seven dollars a week. Do you think you can 
handle it?” 

I gulped deep then spilled out in joy. “You bet,” I cried. “That's
almost three dollars more than I make collecting soda bottles on a good 
week.” I reached over the table and we both shook on the deal. Then my 
head dropped low as something occurred to me. “The only problem is, I 
really got in trouble last night for getting home so late.” 

Don began carving on the block of wood again, his mind deep in
contemplation. “We just got off to a late start yesterday and besides, 
we can always start at the very end of the route and work our way back 
to this area. That way you'll be home long before dark.” 

As I shook my head in agreement, Don stood up then motioned for me to
follow him into his tattered shack. “Come on, there's something I want 
to show you inside.” 

The shack was dark and dismal; yielding little light with the exception
of two cutouts in the wall that could be opened or closed by means of a 
small swinging door. Don lighted a large lantern that cast a bright 
flicker of illumination throughout the room. In the center of the shack 
sat another rusted table and a single chair. To the far right I saw 
what looked to be an old mattress on the floor with several worn-thin 
blankets. On the back wall were a few makeshift shelves that held a 
dozen or so of large, hefty books. 

“You must like reading?“ I remarked, pointing to the books. 

“I sure do. Those are all library books. I don't go to school anymore,
but I still try to stay up with things.” Alongside the books was 
another self that held four of Don's completed woodcarvings. I walked 
up for closer inspection. 

“That's what I wanted to show you,“ Don said. “Take ‘em down, they won't
break.” I carried all four to the table and began closely examining 
them under the bright yellow glow of the lantern. 

The first figure was that of an elegant dolphin that appeared to be
leaping gracefully from the sea. The second carving was that of a horse 
in a heaving gallop, it‘s cowboy rider hunkered low in the saddle. The 
third of Don's works was a beautiful soaring eagle in flight. The 
details were unbelievably fine and required perfect vision to see every 
single carved feather on that magnificent bird. 

“Don, these are just super-duper,” I told him, my mouth hanging wide
open in delight. “How do you do this?” 

“It's easy,” Don replied modestly. “I just follow the lines.” 

I picked up the unfinished block of wood and stared into it. “I don't
see any lines,” I remarked with a puzzled face. 

“I guess everyone can't see 'em. When I was little I could see the lines
even in a glob of clay. I could create the slickest stuff. When I was 
in fifth grade my teacher bought me these special carving tools. I 
couldn't afford to pay her back so I carved an apple for her desk,” 
laughed Don. “She told me it was the most beautiful present anyone had 
ever given her.” 

We sat for a few moments in silence, then I looked up to Don and asked
bluntly, “Why don't you have a mom or dad?” 

Don probed my eyes deeply then he handed me the last carving. I looked
at it closely and noticed it also displayed the same beautiful details 
of a master artist. It was a sculpture of a small boy and girl who 
portrayed a terrifying look to their eyes. Their arms stretched 
heavenly as if begging for divine intervention. 

“I never knew my father,” Don rejoined. “He left before I was even born.
I barely remember my mother. I think I was about three when she left.” 

“What happened to her?” I asked, barely audible 

“She abandoned me,” he said in heavy sigh. 

“You mean she just ran away or something?” 

“She took me to one of those large supermarkets and led me to the toy
isle. She told me I could have anything I wanted if I didn't leave. I 
kept waiting and waiting but she never came back. Finally I got really 
scarred and started running up and down the isles. I remember screaming 
and yelling out her name but she.... The next thing I remember was 
riding away in the back seat of a police car. They took me to this big 
house with lots of other kids. They called it a foster home.” I didn't 
stay there long, maybe a few months. They kept moving us around from 
house to house and maybe it was a good thing. Foster homes are nothing 
but a living hell.” 

“Why?” I asked, “do they treat the kids mean?” 

“Well you see Tad; these foster parents get paid for each child that
they care for. They're suppose to use most of the money for the 
children, but they don't. They'll take in as many kids as possible, 
then keep all the money themselves. The kids live dirt poor and starve 
half the time. But that's not the worst of it. If you complain or make 
threats to tell someone, they'll give you a good beatin' and even 
threaten your life. When you were moved, you never knew if you'd end up 
in a home even worse than the one you were leaving. When I was seven I 
had this friend named Andy. He was only five and was always getting the 
belt because he wet the bed. One night I heard him really getting a 
trouncing over in the next bedroom. He was screaming like I'd never 
heard 'em before. I could hear the belt ripping hard right into his 
skin. Then everything just went quite. After that I only heard the 
voices from the adults. They sounded like they were sort of shouting at 
each another. But not one peep from that little kid. That's the last 
time I ever saw Andy again. They told us they moved him to another home 
but I never believed ‘em. I think they did something really bad to that 
little boy.” 

I continued to study the small figurine of the weeping children. “You
made this carving for all those foster kids didn't you Don?” 

The large boy slowly shook his head. “I call it the “The Forgotten
Angels” because these kids are totally forgotten by the rest of the 
world.” 

“So what happened to you, I mean how did you get out on your own?” I
asked hesitantly. 

“About six months ago I was living in this home with about five other
kids. All ages you know. There was this girl, Sara, who was about my 
age and we sort of had a crush on each other. Well, one night we were 
all sitting round the table eating dinner. The adults, of course, had 
all the good stuff. We were eating soup and peanut butter sandwiches 
and maybe some other junk. Anyway, Sara made some off-the-wall remark 
about what the adults were eating. That's when Ted Jacobs, our foster 
father, came round the table and smacked Sara hard across the face. I 
guess all those years of frustration just blew-up in me that night. I 
leaped on Ted and got him to the floor. I beat him with my fist as hard 
as I could. I think if everyone hadn't pulled me off, I would have 
killed him right there. I grabbed my stuff, bought a bus ticket and 
never looked back.” 

I handed Don all of his carvings and he began carefully lining them up
on the dusty self. “Some of the older boys at my school said that you 
cut out the hearts of three little kids up here.” 

Don put his hands over his face and muttered, “Tad, do you really
believe that I did something like that?” 

“No,” I shot back with determined tone. 

“Those kids taunt the hell out of me just cause I'm different. I don't
have a sweet and warm little life like they do, so they try to make me 
into some kinda monster. They sneak round here trying to trash my camp 
and steal what little food I have. They don't know nothing about the 
other side of life. They're just a bunch of little punky-pinkies.” 

“How about the police? Why don't you tell them about these boys?” 

“Right,” Don sputtered. “If I do that, I'll end up back in another
foster home.” There's only one person with the police who I trust and 
that's officer Rosella. He knows I live out here, we've talked a lot 
about foster homes. In fact he lived in one himself. He knows what a 
hellhole they are and he promised not to tell on me. He's really a 
slick guy, brings me stuff too, like extra food and supplies. I think 
he's kinda worried about what I'm going to do with my life. He's always 
bugging me about it. I told him I'd do anything but go back to another 
foster home. That part of my life is over. Well anyway, Tad, what are 
you planning do with your life?” 

I thought for a long moment then shrugged my shoulders. “I don't know.
My dad's a TV repairman; he's always talking about me working with him 
someday.” 

“Well, that respectable work, I guess. But me, I ain't gonna graze
around with the other sheep, I'm gonna really make something of myself. 
Before I left the home, I was the best hitter on my baseball team. 
Coach said I could easily play in the big leagues if I put my mind to 
it. I think when spring comes, I going to Florida. You know, that's 
where all the big teams hold spring training. I gonna go round to every 
one of ‘em and ask for a try-out. I guess I'll have to lie about my age 
if that's what it takes.” 

I looked at Don's huge body realizing he wouldn't need to do much
convincing to that effect. “So, what happens if baseball doesn't work 
out?” I asked. 

Don walked to the open door and stared out into the cold afternoon
light. With dark, blank eyes he began talking as if no one were in the 
room but himself. “You wanna know something? You live your whole life, 
say seventy, eighty years, then you die. A hundred years later, no one 
even remembers that you existed. All that life...just wasted. But that 
ain't gonna happen to me. Even if I don't make it in baseball, I'm 
gonna keep trying, keep working at it. I'm gonna do something so 
spectacular that I'll be remembered for the rest of all time. No one 
will ever forget the name of “Donald Justin Shiner.” And that, my 
little friend, is a genuine promise.” 

Walking up to Don, I placed my small hand up to his massive shoulder. “I
really hope you do it Don, if anyone deserves it, it's you.” 

“Thanks,” he said, lightly patting my back. “But right now, first things
first, let's get those newspapers delivered.” 

*****Part 3***** 

The cold days of winter passed casually on their own accord. My paperboy
apprenticeship turned to mastery after only a few short weeks. I had 
learned to ease my newspapers to their desired fate like a future hall 
of fame pitcher. The cold winter dragged slowly. Many days Don and I 
were forced to walk the entire route on ice tormented streets. Days 
turned to weeks and weeks to months and the season rolled on. Soon the 
first breath of spring crested from a frozen landscape. The air became 
warm and lively. Slowly, the master of life unbounded it's covered 
kindred and the world stirred from a glacial slumber. 

Over the last four months I had saved over $100, combining this with my
bottle collecting money, I owned the unbelievable amount that was close 
to $140. I pulled the entire large wad of crinkled money from my pocket 
and handed it all to Don Shiner. 

The day hadn't gone well for Don. Just hours earlier, he had met me in a
panic along the street. Officer Rosella had just finished paying him a 
visit. Don was informed that the city police had learned his identity 
and were planning his arrest for the assault on Ted Jacobs. Now instead 
of returning to another foster home, Don was destined for someplace 
even worse; the county juvenile detention center. The large boy had 
already gathered his scant few belongings, packing them into a worn 
suitcase that Rosella had given him. The officer had also purchased for 
Don a single one-way bus ticket to Miami. 

“I'm not taking your money Tad, you've worked too hard for it. Besides,
I know how much you've been talking about that new bike.“ he said while 
handing all my money back. 

I took the cash and threw it to the sidewalk just in front of his feet.
The warm spring air gusted a few of the bills into the street and Don 
went scurrying after them. Suddenly I had lost all interest in a new 
bike. He stood looking down at me with eyes that reflected every hour 
of his abysmal life. Strong, long arms smothered around me, his embrace 
tender for such a large boy. I felt a quiver run through me knowing 
that Don's new journey was carrying him into a future that held little 
certainly and only a breath of hope. 

Don hesitantly slipped my money into his pocket. Opening the aged
suitcase, he pulled out the carving of the two weeping children. “Of 
all my carvings, this is my favorite. It would mean a lot if you kept 
it safe for me?” 

I timidly took the carving and placed it into my bicycle basket. The
green rabbit's foot hanging from my handlebars caught my eye and I 
unhooked it and held it out to Don. The large boy broke into a light 
emotional laugh. 

“It's not for good luck, it's my wishing foot,” I explained. “Whenever I
really want something that I know I can never have, I close my eyes 
then squeeze it and make the wish.” 

“Has it ever worked?” Don asked. 

“No, not really.” I replied, shaking my head and studying the ground. 

“Well maybe you just didn't have enough faith in yourself,” Don
returned, taking the rabbit's foot and giving me one last hug. “I'd 
better go, or I'm gonna miss my bus." 

He jumped on his bike then placed a large hand on my head. “You wanna
know something Tad? I think you were the best friend I ever had.” 
Immediately my eyes began to burn. 

Through swimming vision I watched as he rode away, the tattered suitcase
swinging awkwardly from side to side. I never saw Don Shiner again. 

*****Part 4***** 

April 17th 2002 

I aimed my curser and double clicked the left mouse button then watched
impatiently as my computer slowly materialized a blank white screen. 
Only seconds awaited before my desired page flashes before my eyes. 
Within that small instant of linger, great leaps of memory infiltrates 
a time almost forty years earlier. I had ran across the site almost two 
years ago by means of a simple search engine. Modern technology had at 
last reunited me with Don Shiner. 

A dispelling voice rings heavy in my head. I try to dismiss it but it
follows me like a haunted guest. Something of soul or sprit keeps me 
returning to this aberrant site. Or maybe something of my own desire to 
keep alive. 

The small carving of the weeping children rest just above my computer
and I reach up with heavy hand and touch it fondly. Each time that my 
hand comes in company with it, I hear those long ago words of a boy 
with a disparate cry: 

“”I'm gonna do something so spectacular that I'll be remembered for the
rest of all time. No one will ever forget the name of “Donald Justin 
Shiner.” And that my little friend is a genuine promise.” 

The screen rolls forward and my heart sinks in deep. Yes Don, you have
achieve your immortality and remembrance, as long as this nation keeps 
its honor and promise. You will always be there with pride and dignity, 
and forever amongst the world's very best. 

The screen adjusts into total focus and on this day which rejoices his
54th birthday, I read: 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

In Memory of Private Donald Justin Shiner 

Let us not forget Private Donald Justin Shiner, casuality of the Vietnam
War. As a member of the Army, Selective Service, PVT Shiner served our 
country until March 23rd, 1968 in Quang Tri, South Vietnam. He was 19 
years old and was not married. Donald died from enemy artillery fire. 
His body was recovered. Donald was born on April 17th, 1948 in 
Lynchburg, Virginia. 

PVT Shiner is on panel 33W, line 045 of the Veterans Memorial Wall in
Washington D.C. He served our country for less than a year. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Think about the light in your eyes Think about what you should know
Thered be no sadness in the world If everybody joined in the show 

-Cat Stevens 

******The End****** 

IMPORTANT NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR OF THIS STORY: 

Please Read 

1. Under no circumstances is this story discrediting the foster child
program of this country. It is a wonderful program that places children 
with no other alternatives into wonderful caring arms. My wife and I 
are giving loving care to two foster children ourselves. In this day 
and age, foster care is exceedingly regulated and assures that all 
children live in a safe and compassionate environment, free from abuse 
and neglect. I realize that some children may fall through the cracks, 
but overall, the program is foremost to anything like it in the world. 
But this wasn't always the case. When experimental foster care first 
became reality in the 1940's and 50's many children lived like 
unwanted, abused animals. Their lives were a living nightmare from day 
to day. I know firsthand, because I lived in a dozen or so of these 
horror homes for most of my early childhood. Thank God for modern times 
and for the people who really care. Please consider taking in a foster 
child yourself if your life conditions permit, there's nothing more 
gratifying. 

2. The Vietnam Memorial Wall, located in Washington, D.C. serves two
primary principles in my opinion. One, is a remembrance to the 58,000 
young men and woman who so gallantly gave their lives for what they 
thought was a patriotic purpose. The Wall is also a reminder that this 
nation shall never again give up their most prized and spirited young 
citizens for a government with a such a mislaid agenda. There upon that 
wall of death, is just not etched names but rather real lives, once 
lives with hopes and dreams of a bright future. May we never forget 
these young men and woman. They forfeited their youthful blood without 
reason or question. And let us also remember the survivors of this 
horrid war. The one's who returned home in disgrace and to see a nation 
turn its back on them. 

3. You can visit the same website as I mentioned in the story. Once you
are there, scroll to the bottom of the page and pick any letter A-Z. 
The database of over 58,000 names and profiles are listed. This site is 
absolutely mind-boggling when you experience the utter waste of human 
life. 

The Vietnam Memorial Wall: 

http://tanaya.net/vmw/index2.html


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