Young life

This morning I was standing in my backyard admiring the miniature red tulips that have so far escaped the jaws of the squirrels (I spread blood meal liberally around the plants, making a mental note to buy a bag of cayenne pepper instead -- blood meal gives me the creeps, though it seems to work). Suddenly I realized I could almost see the house in which the child who will always be known as little Jeffrey Baldwin died four years ago. The trial of his grandparents concluded last week with their conviction of second-degree murder, and the case has been much in the news, especially the revelation that the Catholic Children's Aid Society managed to place this child with a convicted child abuser. (Does this feel like dejà vu?)

I was shocked some weeks into the trial news not only to realize that Jeffrey had lived on the street just behind me, but also to learn that he'd been starved and neglected to death four years ago and I'd never heard the story in all that time. Neighbours didn't even know he existed, let alone that he was being abused, locked in a filthy room, sleeping in his own excrement. Staff at the local school didn't know his older siblings had a little brother.

I'm known to crow about the community-mindedness of our working-class neighbourhood, and to denigrate the aloofness of suburban and upper-class districts. But we have nothing to be proud of in this case. A woman who doesn't even live in Toronto and never knew Jeffrey arranged for a memorial to be dedicated to his memory in a nearby playground. I didn't make it to the ceremony.

CBC's The Fifth Estate is broadcasting a program on the case tonight.