Week 37 - Foster Farms

The weather in Central Appalachia is always tricky, but especially so this time of year. The old joke around WEMT’s Weather Center is “Don’t like the Forecast? Wait five minutes!” because nothing changes faster than Kentucky weather. Blair Montgomery was becoming accustomed to this after living in the region these past few months. The light coat, mud boots, umbrella and baseball cap in the back seat of her compact car all attested to the sudden changes in weather that happen faster than a frog’s first jump. But today, the crisp morning air gave way to huge, cotton-like clouds hanging in a sea of blue. 

“Good morning, Wanda,” she said as she entered the Peril County Community Help Center’s offices. In her two months on the job, Blair had made huge strides in modernizing the waiting area with new furniture, updated fixtures, and a bowl of fruit where the years-old magazines once lived. 

“Mornin’” Wanda croaked. She was an older-looking lady of around seventy, with dark gray hair that feathered out around her eyes. Her weathered face was caked with thick layers of makeup and the bright red lipstick she wore reminded Blair a little of a sad clown. The receptionist never looked away from her computer screen as Blair walked back to her office. 

Mr. Peterson was thumbing through the county newspaper. The Peril County Gazette had once been a thrice weekly, multi-sectional printing powerhouse in the region, with a staff of sixteen just ten years ago. Today, Billie Thompkins runs the paper from his garage with photos he snags off of social media, printing maybe four total pages once a week. But, as Mr. Peterson will tell you, there’s still a large section dedicated to Panther Athletics! 

“Good morning, Mr. Peterson. You’re in early,” she said, stopping in his doorway. He folded the top of his paper down to see her. He had a scowl on his face. “What’s the matter?”

Mr. Peterson shook his head. “Simpson’s JV team took an ‘L’ last night against Harlan. And I hear the new boy’s basketball coach is already causing waves. They can’t even start practicing for another month, but half of the boys are threatening to quit.” He shook his head in frustration. “Damn nightmare.”

Blair pursed her lips and took in a deep sigh. “That does sound like a lot. I have someone coming in this morning to speak with me about an issue with foster kids. Would you like to sit in?” 

He shook his head. “No. No. I’ve got to head up to Board of Education. There’s a coaches meeting, and the AD asked me to be there.”

“Sounds good, Mr. P. See you later, then?” But he was already back in his paper, so she walked on back to her office. It was small, but cozy. And next to a conference room she used for meetings. Since taking on this work, Blair had made it a point to meet as many local leaders and potential grant partners as she could. It quickly became apparent that there was more than enough need to go around and finding ways fulfill the Gulch Estate’s wishes would not be a challenge. 

She spent the first hour of her day responding to emails and scheduling meetings with various folks. It was a little after 10am when Wanda called her. “There’s an Amanda Acre here to see you.” Blair knew it was actually Amanda Archer, but didn’t bother correcting Wanda. She made her way to the front of the office to greet her guest.

Amanda was a firecracker of a woman, with bright orange hair, purple-rimed glasses and a matching pants suite. She was short and squat, with round features that reminded Blair of a Christmas Elf, somehow. “Amanda? I’m Blair. Nice to meet you in person. Follow me.” The two ladies walked back to the conference room and sat. Amanda spread out three folders in front of her. 

“I appreciate you taking time to speak with me this mornin’, Ms. Montgomery. I know your fiancee’s mother quite well. We went to school together many years ago.” Blair could hear something in Amanda’s voice, a twinge of accent, that was a little different from most of the Peril County residents.

Blair smiled. “She spoke highly of you. What can I do for you today?”

“As I said on the phone last week, I am a recently retired social worker. I spent most of my career in the inner cities of Louisville and moved back here just a few years ago. And I have noticed an escalating trend that needs to be addressed. We got a lot a kids in this community being seriously underserved and, in some cases, probably harmed. It’s an open secret and most folks don’t give it a second thought.” Amanda’s face was grim as she picked up the first of her folders. 

Blair sat forward in her chair, her mind racing with what calamity might be so detrimental to the region. “Of course, I’ll do what I can to help. What are we actually talking about here?” she asked. 

Amanda placed the folder, open to the first page, showing a dilapidated single-wide trailer with rusty windows and a row of doghouses along the side. It was clearly inhabited, but probably shouldn’t have been. “Have you ever heard of a foster factory? Or foster farm?”

Blair shook her head and picked up the folder. She started thumbing through and saw pictures of children in threadbare clothes, dirty faces, and sunken eyes. What must have been the interior of the trailer showed three separate rooms stacked floor to ceiling with bunk beds, six in all. She strained her eyes, trying to force her brain to comprehend what she was seeing.

“One of the few laws is one bed per child,” Amanda said, knowingly. 

Blair kept thumbing through the file where she found example after example of terrible living conditions: piles of garbage in every corner, animals living in their own waste among the family, and rotting food on the counters. But it was the faces of the children that crushed Blair’s soul. They looked like zombies, half alive, unloved, and barely surviving. “What is this?” she could finally ask.

“That, I’m afraid, is one of the worst examples of what are now being called foster factories. Or foster farms. They shut this one down, thank God, but there are dozens of these in this community right now.” Amanda opened her next folder and handed it across to Blair. 

Inside, she saw a small home flanked by a woodshed and open air garage. “These are some of the better ones from what I can gather,” Amanda told her. There were pictures of five kids, looking to range from four to fourteen, playing in a well-manicured lawn. They seemed clean and comfortable. Blair kept flipping through the folder to find images of a police raid on the same home, with an elderly man and woman being carted out in handcuffs. “Trafficking in Meth and Narcotics. Both convicted.” 

She reached across the table to Blair, handing her the third folder. Inside were three pictures. The first showed a family of six, four boys and two girls, all under the age of 10, Blair thought. The father was a bald man in his early forties and the mother not much younger. They were all wearing white collared shirts and blue jeans. Each face smiled up at her, beaming with happiness. The second picture showed the same family, minus the girls. The father was seated in a large, wicker chair with the four boys in his lap, hugging him. If it were possible, he smiled even bigger than before. The third was a black and white mug shot of this same man. He was younger, with a head full of hair. He couldn’t have been more than a teenager in the pic. His face awash in fear. 

Blair looked up at Amanda after scouring the three pics. “What’s the story here?” she asked.

She took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly through her nose. “That is Pastor Jeffrey Dean Wallins of the Full Holiness Church in Sassafras Fork. He also owns a used car lot over in Viper. That’s his wife of twelve years, Venessa and their two biological daughters. The four boys are fostered. And, as you can see, he’s a fan of his boys. And the third, the mug shot? That was taken when Pastor Wallins was living in Louisiana and named Thomas Labou, who at the age of 17, was convicted of sexually abusing three minors but got off on a technicality. He’s been in Peril County for the past fifteen years preachin’ the good word in the head of a holler after changin’ his name and all.”

Blair was stunned into silence. She adjusted in her seat, trying unsuccessfully to find some comfort where there was none. “What…How is this going on?” she finally got out.

“Sheriff raided that first home and took those kids. Parents there were on Meth and God knows what else. But all a’ the kids are still in the system. Same with the kids in the second home. Bobby Wicker and his wife got busted dealin’ and are both doin’ time now. But the kids are scattered across the state. But Paster Wallins and his four boys are still right up there on Sassafras Fork.” She took all three folders and closed them, stacking each on top of the last. 

There was a knock at the door. Wanda stuck her head in. “Blair, honey, your Daniel is on the phone. Said not to forget about the meeting with the bank at eleven.” 

“Damn!” she thought. She was supposed to be at the bank in fifteen minutes to close on a mortgage for their new home. “Amanda, I don’t know what to say. I hate to run out on you, but I have to be at the bank in just a few minutes. What you’ve shown me is horrifying. But, I’m not sure how I can help you.”

Amanda stood and grabbed her folders. “I’ll be honest, Ms. Montgomery. I done some checkin’ up on you and I think you’re good people. You got a good heart and you want what’s best for this town and for our kids. And right now, we got a hell of a lot a kids that need more than a Christmas present and a teeth cleaning.”

Blair nodded and asked Wanda to show Amanda the way out. In just a few minutes, she herself was racing the door and around the corner to the bank. There, in the lobby, she found Daniel, her partner and recent fiancee, sitting on a brown chair, looking at his phone. 

“Hey babe!” he said, excited to see her. “What’s wrong, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Dan, babe. Have you ever thought about being a foster parent?”