GIVE HOPE CORNERSTONE

WHY, BILLY?

A Brother’s Story of Family, Loss, Faith—and the Questions That Remain

By Theodore James Johnson

Two young brothers walk along a country path in warm evening light, with the older boy slightly ahead.

His name was William Joseph Johnson.

But to me, he was Billy.

My big brother.

Our family had already suffered a severe blow when our parents’ marriage ended in divorce. Mom was left raising three children largely on her own.

My sister Debbie was the oldest. Billy was in the middle. I was the youngest.

We lived on Park Street, near the Frog Hollow projects in Hartford.

We didn't have much, but we had each other.

Where I came from matters less to me than where God has led me.

Debbie often cared for us when Mom wasn't there. When Mom couldn't understand something I said, Debbie or Billy would interpret for me. I had trouble pronouncing words clearly enough that I eventually had to repeat a year in school.

And Billy?

Billy led. I followed.

He was barely older than I was, and I would eventually grow bigger than him, but in my mind Billy was always the big brother.

We had a state park near our home, and we ventured over there all the time. There was a swimming pool, basketball courts and fields. In winter, there was ice hockey on the pond.

Billy led.

I followed.

He didn't necessarily know where he was going.

He was my big brother.

Of course, Billy wasn't always protecting me.

Sometimes I needed protection from Billy.

He picked on me.

He beat me up.

He flushed my teddy bear down the toilet.

He threw my bicycle off a second-story porch.

That was Billy.

Years later, his little brother grew a couple of inches taller and got serious about weightlifting.

Billy had a real fear that payday was coming.

It wasn't.

I'd already forgiven him.

I loved my brother more than I loved the debt.

Our childhood did not remain intact for long.

My sister Debbie was placed in foster care.

Later, Mom and a social worker took Billy to see Cromwell Children's Home. Cromwell had begun decades earlier as an orphanage, but by then places like it were changing. Children who once might simply have been called orphans were increasingly being cared for through foster homes and other forms of state-supervised care.

Billy acted out.

They decided Cromwell was the best place for him at the time.

From that point, Billy and I would not finish growing up together.

I was the last child home.

One day, Mom began calling people and telling them that she was going to kill herself.

Her best friend heard me crying during one of those calls and came to get me.

Two days later, a black State of Connecticut Dodge Dart pulled up.

I remember the state emblem on the doors.

There were three paper bags—the kind I'd only seen groceries carried in before.

Inside were my clothes.

And one handwritten letter from my mother.

The letter is long gone, but I remember what mattered.

She loved me.

She told me that as soon as she got herself better, I would be the first to know.

She told me to be strong.

And:

Be Mommy's good baby.

We drove straight to the State Receiving Home at Warehouse Point, where children entering state care could live while the state determined what came next.

At first, it was a scary place.

There were dormitories, unfamiliar sounds and more boys than I had ever lived around before.

One of those boys was Fritz Ingram. I had never seen a nose quite like his and apparently asked one question too many.

Perhaps I should have kept my curiosity to myself.

Fritz hauled off and punched me square in the nose.

My big brother wasn't there to intervene this time.

I learned to pay attention to what was happening around me.

A point system was used, and points earned privileges. We earned them by how well we kept our lockers organized, made our beds and completed our assigned chores.

I was consistently scoring among the top five.

The staff worked with us, showing us where we could improve.

They were there for us.

After I got over the initial shock, I began adjusting.

But I was looking forward to a visit home.

I planned to beg Mom not to make me go back.

Instead, Mom Cook and Pop Jack called me into the administrative building.

My mother had died.

I later learned she died of heart failure.

They asked if there was something special I wanted to do.

I simply chose to go back and finish my chores.

At my mother's funeral, I watched the adults approach her casket.

They touched her.

Some kissed her goodbye.

Next in line, I reached out and touched my mother.

She was cold.

I turned away crying.

My grandfather led me away.

After Mom died, I remained at Warehouse Point for a time.

Eventually, I went to live with the Gormans.

They gave me a home and made me part of their family.

Billy eventually left Cromwell.

Debbie, Billy and I saw each other from time to time, but we would finish growing up apart.

Time and distance changed our lives, but they did not erase the bond.

Billy was still Billy.

And he was still my big brother.

We grew into men.

We both became fathers.

Billy had two girls. I had one.

Billy married, made a home with his family and ran his own small business.

Then came July 1995.

Billy was thirty-two years old and being held in the Charlotte County Jail in Florida.

There are things about those days I can document.

There are other things I remember.

And there are questions I have carried for more than thirty years.

But there is a line I will not cross.

Billy isn't here to tell me everything that happened inside him.

I will not turn possibilities into facts simply because my brother is no longer here to speak for himself.