32
people
The Boy in the Box WORDS Dwain Hebda images courtesy Joseph Wood
Caesar Johnson left his warm apartment, making his way into the cold Chicago night. The Korean War veteran was headed for his work shift, as supervisor at the Campbell’s Soup factory. The ice and snow outside were common this far north, even three months into the new year, but the eight-degree first breath he took outside stung nonetheless. Maybe it was that breath that caused him to look down, or maybe it was the snow that blew into his face that night. Whatever it was, it drew his eye to a package on the steps of the apartment building, wrapped in some sort of cloth. Caesar nudged the box with his shoe and when it nudged back, his breath again burned in his lungs, this time in shock. Under the thin fabric, an infant writhed against the cold in a shoebox. Dazed, Caesar looked up and down the silent street, but darkness and the falling snow revealed nothing. Whoever had left the child was long gone and, left out here much longer, the child would be, too. He quickly returned to the apartment, woke up his wife, woke up the neighbors, called the police. Chicago’s finest showed up a few hours later, made Joseph Wood
casual inquiries around the neighborhood. Nobody saw nothin’, was about as official as the reporting got. One of the officers tucked the box under his arm and out the door as his sidekick lent a parting word to the shaken Johnson family. “Thank you,” says the policeman. “You saved the kid’s life.” They pulled from the curb, squad car pointed to the local orphanage, March 20, 1965.
DOSOUTHMAGAZINE.COM
