A little boy’s wait

Tony Cook, Las Vegas Sun

Sunday, March 4, 2007 | 7:33 a.m.

I met Joey* half an hour ago, but that's all it takes. He is attached to me, literally. His 5-year-old hand is buried in mine as he struts his scrawny frame across the playground.

To Joey, I'm his. I've become a possession.

The swiftness with which Joey forms this attachment is not healthy, I think. It happens because the children here at Child Haven own nothing, so they claim what they can as theirs: a teddy bear, a snack, even a reporter.

I came to write about the boy who has been at Child Haven longer than any other, waiting for a foster family. Of the roughly 100 children at the shelter, Joey has been here the longest, at 140 days - through Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's.

The county's shelter for abused, neglected and abandoned children is intended to house kids for no longer than 10 days, clearly a goal often not met. The result is that children can spend months at a place without their most basic possession: an adult caretaker they can call their own.

"Kids do better in the context of a normal family," said Lou Palma, the county's shelter services manager. Child Haven "is on its best day three shifts of staff that work with kids," he said.

The divided attention shows.

On an outdoor basketball court, Joey discovers a few small spots of blood on the concrete. He alerts one of the two staff members charged with watching the 11 boys in Joey's cottage. The worker washes the pavement.

"I'm melting," Joey says as the water dilutes the blood.

Where it came from is uncertain. A few minutes later, several new drops appear. "Who has the nosebleed?" a staff member says. No one responds. Behind the playground is a high chain-link fence topped with concertina wire, the barrier separating the delinquents of the county's juvenile detention center and the victims at Child Haven. It gives the place an ominous feel.

The children are ushered to morning classes.

Joey ended up at Child Haven after going to the neighbor's house at odd hours, asking for his mother - and food. County officials found that the boy's mother had mental problems, abused drugs and left her children unattended for days at a time.

It's not Joey's fault that he's been here so long. Also at Child Haven is his middle school-aged brother, who has behavioral problems. Under state law, the county is supposed to place siblings together, but finding a foster home willing to take on the brothers has been difficult.

This seems untenable after spending time with Joey. His small size and big personality make him inescapably endearing.

During a tick-tack-toe game with a staff member, he carefully places an X and yells, "I just got three!" He clearly doesn't understand the concept. His three X's are not in a row.

Moments later, he rubs his nose sheepishly and, pointing at a square, says, "I really want you to go right there." The staffer can't resist. She lets him win. He flexes like Hulk Hogan.

Another problem with Joey growing up at Child Haven is that his brother stays in a different cottage because of their age difference. Having already been separated from his parents, this saddens Joey.

During a breezy winter afternoon, he sticks out his bony chest and tells me proudly, "I am visiting my brother!"

His brother bounces a basketball off Joey's head, but Joey doesn't care. He laughs and runs in a dizzying circle, a long string of his Fruit-by-the-Foot snack streaming behind him. His brother barks, a noise he likes hearing himself make, and Joey pauses to let the fruit roll-up dangle from his tongue. He's a 5-year-old Gene Simmons.

He makes friends easily, but they don't stick. It's not a good neighborhood for that.

"The negative part is, Joey has probably seen 80 kids leave," Palma said. "Pretty soon, you start saying, 'What's wrong with me?' "

So I became his possession.

A few weeks after my second visit with Joey, things change. He and his brother are placed with a foster mother. Now, their bedrooms are next door and, for the first time in nearly five months, Joey has his own possessions - a toy tractor and a few race cars.

Foster care "is more better," he explains as I visit him Saturday. "I get to buy toys."

Joey and his brother are hanging out at an Alzheimer's patients group home, where their foster mother works. Joey seems excited to see me.

"Tony the handwriter. Yes!" he says. He calls me that because I scribble into a reporter's notebook when I am around him.

He jumps into a rocking chair to show me a game he and his brother play. It consists mostly of Joey nearly getting dumped on the floor.

When it's time for me to leave, Joey looks down at his shoes.

"Do you have something for me?" he asks.

"I don't," I reply.

"How about some handwriting paper?"

I rip out a few sheets and hand them to him, wishing I had something more.

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