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Authors: Lowell Cauffiel
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after she told counselors she liked working with plants. Machelle also had been placed in a shepherding home in Stark County. But she was running into trouble with the shepherding program’s house rules. She’d violated a couple of curfews and not kept the host family informed of her whereabouts. Anne decided to talk to her in the backseat of the director’s Cadillac as they gave her a ride back to her shepherding home. “She was very small at the time, underweight,” Greene would later say. “But when I think of Shelly, I think of her eyes. She had really catching blue eyes, but eyes that also were afraid. She wouldn’t look at you when she talked.
Yet, there still seemed to be an eagerness to be wanted. She was kind of walking a grey line of I don’t trust you, but I want you.”
” Anne was the program’s dorm mother. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called in to explain the rules. She leaned close to Machelle and arranged the hair behind her neck. “You know the rules are for a reason,” she said, rubbing her shoulder. “People who care about you need to know where you are It’s all about accountability. Not punishment. It’s something we ali need in our life.” Machelle turned, nodding. Those eyes, Anne thought. There’s something more here than a young single girl expecting a child. Eleven days later, Anne received surprising news. The clinic’s pregnancy test showed that Machelle Sexton was not pregnant. She had no explanation as to why she thought she was expecting. When a counselor asked her who the father was, she fell into a dark silence. Machelle’s shepherding family also was reporting strange behavior. She slept in a cozy, carpeted bedroom in the host family’s basement, but there she was besieged with nightmares.
A couple of nights they found her sleeping under the bed. Another night they found her huddled in a dark closet, her eyes filled with fear. Technically, Anne knew Machelle Sexton was no longer eligible for the shepherding program. But obviously the girl was in crisis. The directors decided to provide services until Machelle could get her problems sorted out. Anne decided to do a little digging. She’d never been reluctant to evoke her official-sounding title to get police, prosecutors, and social workers on the phone. She called up Ruth Killion, Machelle s guidance counselor at Jackson High School. “What can you tell me about this girl?” she asked. Killion gave a long narrative about all the Sexton teenagers. Two other girls had tried to hide their pregnancies in school, she said. She told Anne about the hitting incident that had prompted Machelle to come to her in the first place. The father ruled the family like the gestapo, Killion said.
“The parents pick them up and drop them off every day. “They don’t take a bus?” Anne asked. “The parents drop them off every morning.
They pick them up every afternoon at the front door of the school.”
Killion told her about the quarters they were given to turn each other in.
“What happens if they don’t call?” Anne asked. “They say they get whupped,” Killion said. Not whipped. Whupped. Anne wrote it down.
It was the first of hundreds of notes she would make on Machelle Sexton. She made entries in her journal or grabbed anything handy, sometimes writing on napkins, paper towels, or brown shopping bags. On February 29, Anne was called to Machelle’s shepherding home again.
Machelle was still breaking curfews. The family was getting frustrated. Now a new problem had come up. A neighbor was complaining that her daughter disappeared with Machelle for several hours one night. “I think I need to spend some time alone with her,” Anne told Anne found Machelle sitting on the edge of the bed. Her blond hair was unkempt, her shoulders hunched. And those eyes. They looked as if they held a thousand secrets. Anne sat next to her, putting her arms around her, drawing her cheek to her breast. She
Yet, there still seemed to be an eagerness to be wanted. She was kind of walking a grey line of I don’t trust you, but I want you.”
” Anne was the program’s dorm mother. It wasn’t the first time she’d been called in to explain the rules. She leaned close to Machelle and arranged the hair behind her neck. “You know the rules are for a reason,” she said, rubbing her shoulder. “People who care about you need to know where you are It’s all about accountability. Not punishment. It’s something we ali need in our life.” Machelle turned, nodding. Those eyes, Anne thought. There’s something more here than a young single girl expecting a child. Eleven days later, Anne received surprising news. The clinic’s pregnancy test showed that Machelle Sexton was not pregnant. She had no explanation as to why she thought she was expecting. When a counselor asked her who the father was, she fell into a dark silence. Machelle’s shepherding family also was reporting strange behavior. She slept in a cozy, carpeted bedroom in the host family’s basement, but there she was besieged with nightmares.
A couple of nights they found her sleeping under the bed. Another night they found her huddled in a dark closet, her eyes filled with fear. Technically, Anne knew Machelle Sexton was no longer eligible for the shepherding program. But obviously the girl was in crisis. The directors decided to provide services until Machelle could get her problems sorted out. Anne decided to do a little digging. She’d never been reluctant to evoke her official-sounding title to get police, prosecutors, and social workers on the phone. She called up Ruth Killion, Machelle s guidance counselor at Jackson High School. “What can you tell me about this girl?” she asked. Killion gave a long narrative about all the Sexton teenagers. Two other girls had tried to hide their pregnancies in school, she said. She told Anne about the hitting incident that had prompted Machelle to come to her in the first place. The father ruled the family like the gestapo, Killion said.
“The parents pick them up and drop them off every day. “They don’t take a bus?” Anne asked. “The parents drop them off every morning.
They pick them up every afternoon at the front door of the school.”
Killion told her about the quarters they were given to turn each other in.
“What happens if they don’t call?” Anne asked. “They say they get whupped,” Killion said. Not whipped. Whupped. Anne wrote it down.
It was the first of hundreds of notes she would make on Machelle Sexton. She made entries in her journal or grabbed anything handy, sometimes writing on napkins, paper towels, or brown shopping bags. On February 29, Anne was called to Machelle’s shepherding home again.
Machelle was still breaking curfews. The family was getting frustrated. Now a new problem had come up. A neighbor was complaining that her daughter disappeared with Machelle for several hours one night. “I think I need to spend some time alone with her,” Anne told Anne found Machelle sitting on the edge of the bed. Her blond hair was unkempt, her shoulders hunched. And those eyes. They looked as if they held a thousand secrets. Anne sat next to her, putting her arms around her, drawing her cheek to her breast. She
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