Hurry Home Read online

  “Oh, the house looks better,” she says.

  The home itself is squat and peeling, the deck ragged with rusted nails. On the porch outside the door is a cat litter tray full of crooked cigarette stubs. Next to that, a Hot Wheels car, blue, abandoned. If this is “better,” then what on earth was the place like before?

  She pauses on the top step of the deck. “Let’s remember: even if Buster was left alone for a minute or two, when you’re a mother, shit happens. You might not know that, but mothers do. Those of us with kids have all been there.”

  There’s that card again, her favorite in the stack of superiority. I could retaliate, especially because I know about her son, know he’s estranged and won’t talk to her, but my heart’s begun to race and my palms are sweating. The Hot Wheels car is faded and forlorn and reminds me of misery. Nothing good will come from this house. I wipe my hands on the back of my jeans.

  “Okay, ready?” Minerva has her knuckles poised to knock, but the door is open. We walk into a tiny linoleum-floored vestibule that serves as some kind of pantry. Three shelves face us, empty apart from a couple of tins of baked beans, one of them opened with the ragged metal sticking up. The glass of the main door itself is busted as if someone has put an elbow through it. Duct tape crisscrosses the pane.

  “Let’s get on with it,” I say.

  “Okay. If Frank Floyd comes at us, stay calm. In the old days, he was something of a charging bull.”

  I nod, wipe my palms once more on my pants. Nobody answers Minerva’s knock, or the second one.

  “Hello?” she calls out. “Anyone home?”

  The vestibule smells musty, grainy, with the pungency that always comes with poverty. It’s sour, hoppy, horrific. I cover my mouth with my sleeve. From inside we hear a crash and a shout, the sound of a plate clattering in a circle as it settles. Minerva pushes the rickety door open. She steps inside as Frank Floyd rounds the kitchen counter, leading with the top half of his body.

  “I’m coming,” he growls. He wears track pants, rolled at the waist, and a T-shirt that swamps him despite the fact that he’s a huge guy. “Can’t a man take a nap in his own house?” He spots Minerva, clearly recognizing her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go again. Send in the clowns.”

  “Mr. Floyd,” Minerva says cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”

  “I do fucking mind, and I don’t remember inviting you in.”

  I peep around Minerva, taking in Frank Floyd’s bare feet, the ashtray on the floor, the dishes stacked up in the sink.

  “We wanted to make sure everyone was okay in here. How are you doing today? I’m Minerva Cummins—do you remember me? We met years ago, but I’ve changed jobs since then: I’m here with Family Services. This is my coworker Alexandra Van Ness.” Minerva sounds like she’s gritting out a smile.

  I still have one hand on the door handle.

  “No, no, no,” Frank says, bashing his fist against his own hip with each syllable like a toddler in a tantrum. “You’re not coming in. You’re trespassing. Nobody’s fucking asked you to come here.”

  “It’s okay, Frank. It’s all right.” She moves into the kitchen, both palms up. “Listen, I know you don’t want us here. Is your wife around? Evelyn? Can we have a chat with her? We’ve just had a tiny little report, and we need to check up on it.”

  I edge into the kitchen and stand close to Minerva. The house is as long and straight as a shipping container, the kitchen sprawling into the living room, where, at the far end on a sofa with a missing cushion, a woman is sleeping facedown, wearing only an undershirt and panties. She sleeps as if dropped from a height, her limbs splayed. And it’s then, only then, that I see the baby.

  He’s tiny and fast asleep, his face pressed dangerously against the cheap sponge of the couch cushion. He has nothing on but a diaper, the bulge of it round and tight like a soccer ball. The coloring of him, the tan and the sandy skin tones, the way his hair sticks up at the crown, the bumpy little muscles in his shoulders—it all grips me like a fist. He’s a carbon copy. I have to rescue this child, just like I had to rescue another one before him.

  “My wife’s tired,” Frank says, tracking my gaze. “She banged her head.” He’s sweaty around the hairline, jerky in his movements.

  “Should we call for an ambulance or bring her into the hospital?” I ask. Why isn’t Minerva rushing toward the baby? He’s clearly not safe. I take a step toward the couch but tread on something that skids under my shoe. A cooked pasta tube squelches into the peeling floor tile.

  “No! She didn’t bang it that hard.” Frank runs a mitt of fingers through greasy strands of his hair. “Look, everything’s fine and shit. We’re just tired. It’s fucking difficult.”

  “Can we sit down, Frank?” Minerva asks. She pulls out a seat before he’s responded and sits.

  “What’s difficult?” I say. “Is it something we can help you with?”

  “Having a baby.”

  “Oh, steepest learning curve in the world!” Minerva says cheerfully. “I have a ten-year-old son, and I couldn’t tell you a thing about the first year of his life, Frank. It’s literally a blur. You probably won’t believe me, but I’ve been thinking lately that I wish I could do it all over again.”

  “Yeah,” Frank says uncertainly.

  “Is Mrs. Floyd finding it really hard, too?” I ask.

  “Yeah. I suppose. Yeah, yes. Look, okay, my wife didn’t really bump her head.”

  “No? Then can we wake her up, do you think? It’s really important that we speak with you both.” I wait, still standing, while Minerva sits tidily amid the carnage that surrounds her.

  “Yes, let’s figure this all out together.” Minerva’s arms rest on the table as if she’s waiting for a Sunday roast. Has she seen the state of the house? Does she really think this is a safe environment for a child?

  Frank lumbers toward the sofa and pushes hard at his wife’s shoulder. On the second attempt, she sits up, rubbing her eyes. Immediately she grabs Buster and he awakens, his face reddening, his arms sticking out straight, but he doesn’t cry.

  “The fuck are you two?” Evelyn looks from my face to Minerva’s. “Who’s this?”

  “They’re Family Services,” Frank says, handing her a baggy pair of track pants he’s found on the floor. “Put those on, and don’t say shit.”

  Deep inside my stomach, I feel the grit of pitted stone, the same gnawing that hits me every time I meet liars with a brand-new child.

  Frank’s sweating harder now, round circles visible in the armpits of his T-shirt. While Evelyn struggles to put on the pants without letting go of her son, Buster dips and flails.

  “Mrs. Floyd, good morning.” Minerva half rises from her seat at the table, holding out a Family Services card that wavers pointlessly in the gap. “Do you remember me? I’m Minerva Cummins, and this is Alex Van Ness.”

  Evelyn doesn’t look at either of us.

  “We’ve had a report we need to follow up on.”

  “About what?” Evelyn sits, shifting Buster, who raises one little hand to hold on to the strap of her shirt.

  Frank and I also take a seat at the table, and the four of us face each other like opponents in a quiz show, Family Services versus the Floyds. Buster starts to wriggle.

  “He needs a diaper change,” I say quietly. “That one looks full.”

  “I’ll get to it,” Evelyn replies. “What do you want?”

  Buster makes strange little just-awake noises, a snuffling, more animal than infant. It’s all I can do not to reach across and take him to my chest.

  “We had a phone call,” Minerva says.

  “Who from?”

  “It was anonymous. A woman called to say that you left little Buster unattended in a vehicle outside a public building.”

  Evelyn reaches back to the kitchen counter for a packet of cigarettes, tipping sideways on her chair so that the soft curve of Buster’s forehead becomes visible. That beautiful skin, olive and smooth. Ev
elyn pulls out a cigarette from the pack and lights it, jiggling the little boy in her lap as she smokes. She’s bitten every fingernail she has, just like Ruth used to. I’m flooded again by all the lies, all the nervous little tremors and tics. They’re universal among people hiding things.

  “What do you mean unattended? What public building?”

  “Well, a bystander noticed that Buster was in your car on his own with the engine running. You were in the post office. Does that ring a bell, Evelyn? It would have been yesterday, or possibly the day before.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “I’m afraid the bystander wrote down your vehicle license number,” Minerva says.

  We wait. Frank’s shoulders slump. Thoughts flicker across Evelyn’s face like she’s assessing a poker hand.

  “If it was me, I was only in the post office for two minutes.”

  “Two?” I say. “Are you sure?”

  Frank elbows his wife suddenly, his voice cracked. “You fucking idiot. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  “He was asleep!” Evelyn drags deeply on her cigarette and billows a long, straight plume of smoke over Buster’s head.

  Minerva turns to me with a look that says, I’ve got this. But she doesn’t. Meanwhile, Buster keeps reaching up to his mother’s face, but each time she jerks her chin out of his way.

  He wants you to look at him, I think. Why won’t you?

  “He was fucking sleeping when I pulled up. All right? I didn’t want to wake him. I left the car running because otherwise, the air-conditioning would shut off and it was the afternoon and hot. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  “Totally. No. I get that.” Minerva takes out a notebook, writes something and underlines it. “I’m a mother, too, Evelyn.”

  Evelyn rolls her eyes, but Minerva continues as though she hasn’t seen. “I know how hard it can be to get things done with a little one in tow. But you can’t leave Buster unattended. What if something happened? What if someone jumped in the car and just took off with him? You can’t…” She searches for the most diplomatic phrasing. “Just don’t do that again, okay?”

  “She won’t,” Frank mutters.

  Evelyn lowers her head. I watch as ash droops on the end of her cigarette, then falls to the floor. “Are you taking Buster away?” she asks flatly.

  Oh, God, if only we could. The rules of procedure make it hard to remove a child. We need more evidence to present to court, but the second home visits are scheduled and never the same. The Floyds would have time to hide the drugs they’re probably using. Minerva knows this, too, so why isn’t she being more proactive?

  She snaps her notebook shut. “We’re not taking Buster anywhere. Absolutely not. Do you know what I see?”

  Abuse! I want to scream. Neglect! A boy being thrown to the wolves!

  “I see two people trying very hard, two people who are nearing the end of their resources.” Frank and Evelyn stare at her. “We’re going to offer you some support services. Ways to make this whole thing a bit easier, so you’re not”—she glances around at the debris of their house—“struggling so much. And we’ll do a follow-up home visit. Just to see how you’re getting on.”

  “Do we have to?” Frank asks. “Do we have to use the services? Do you have to come back?”

  “Don’t you want the help?” I ask, my eyes drilling into his.

  He shrugs. So does his wife.

  Minerva smiles like we’ve all just agreed on a fabulous business deal. “Great. So we’ll head out now, but we’ll be in touch soon, once we organize some supports. You’re doing very well. We’ll just help you do a bit of a cleanup of Buster and … your home. And no more leaving him alone in the car.”

  “All right,” Evelyn says. “All right already.”

  Minerva gets up. Is that it? She’s the senior worker here. Why is she not doing more of an inspection? Are we really going to leave the child in this filth?

  Slowly I stand. “Could I just use the bathroom?” I ask. “You can lead me there. I won’t go poking around.”

  Evelyn sighs. “I’ll take her.”

  Buster grips her neck as she stands. He’s entirely devoid of language, a red flag in one-year-olds. We move down a skinny hallway toward the bathroom, Evelyn behind me. When I turn to look at her, her eyes are beady and granite black. In a flash, I’m back in my dream, those fingernails behind me, about to grab. Will she pull me to the ground like Ruth does? I swallow hard, and we pass a bedroom that must be Buster’s. Quickly I glance in. There’s no furniture at all in the room apart from a standing bassinet. One stuffy lies on the floor—a blue bunny, the ears so sucked and slimy with grime that the fur looks like it’s been pulled through an engine.

  “Bathroom’s this one.” Evelyn tugs at my jacket, and I jump. “Push harder,” she says, doing so for me.

  I go in and close the door behind me, moving a heavy black garbage bag away with my leg. There’s no shower curtain, no soap. I breathe deeply with my eyes closed for a few seconds because my sister is everywhere.

  There’s a white bathroom cabinet over the sink, and I pull open the smudged front of it, rattling among lidless Tylenol bottles and brown-tinged Q-tips for some clear evidence of a drug habit. There’s nothing. They’re hiding it elsewhere. Goddamn it, I think.

  I flush the toilet, or try to, my jacket sleeve low over my fingers. Back out in the corridor, Evelyn is waiting for me, bouncing her son. We walk in silence to the door, where Minerva is standing with Frank.

  “All set?” Minerva asks. She’s working herself up to a chipper goodbye and makes another attempt to hand over her business card. “So we’ll be in touch. The future is bright. Don’t worry: we’ll work on all of this as a team.”

  Neither of the Floyds take her card. She sets it on the counter.

  “Please call if you need immediate help or assistance.” Minerva waves as she backs away down the porch steps.

  We leave them both there in the doorway, Buster obscured by the sinewy arms of his mom.

  In the car, Minerva turns to me. “That went well.” She snatches at levers on each side of the steering wheel, trying to find the left signal.

  “What?”

  “That whole visit. Didn’t you think? They’re doing so much better. I feel we can help them.”

  She’s out of her mind. If she thinks Buster is safe in that environment, she’s nothing but another risk factor in his life. “Minerva, their house was awful. That smell?”

  “What smell?” She turns the car around, making traffic slow as she swerves into the right-hand lane.

  “Like old beer. Like grain at harvest.” I shudder.

  “Haven’t you gotten used to that yet?” she asks.

  “No, and I don’t want to. How are you okay with the situation that child is in? There were definite signs of neglect.”

  “Be careful with that term,” she says quickly. “Just because the Floyds are struggling doesn’t mean they don’t love their son, or can’t look after him. They need some scaffolds around them.”

  I find my fingers clenching and jam them under my thighs. Minerva might have more years on the job than I do, but in all that time she hasn’t figured out that child protection is an oxymoron. Even when we save kids or remove them, workers like her throw them back into the fray. Safe enough is her motto, but it isn’t mine. We drive too fast in silence.

  After a while, I can’t help myself. “They don’t even change his diapers!” I say. “I bet he has welts all over his backside if we’d bothered to look.” I know I sound petulant, but I don’t care. Because I’m the one doing my job properly. I’m trying to protect a child.

  “You know the rules. There were no grounds for removal, Alex. They weren’t high on drugs. Which, incidentally, I’m very proud about. And there were no signs of abuse. They just seem overwhelmed.” Her hands whiten at the knuckle where she grips the steering wheel. “Loving someone and protecting them aren’t always the same thing.”

  Enabler. She wills hersel
f to see the best in people because she can’t handle conflict. And she won’t admit the impotence that we real child protection workers feel when we have to obey the fucking “rules”—which serve no one, especially not the children whose needs aren’t being met. She sets the bar so low and refuses to see it. I stare out the window and say nothing.

  The rest of day passes at the steady pace of paperwork and doleful phone calls. I have more than twenty files on my caseload, some of them reported incidents, others active investigations. That’s a whole crowd of children I’m desperately trying to save. As I sift through the voice mails left on my machine—most of them from bio parents, a lot of them incoherent or hateful—I think about all the gates I’m guarding for these kids and how none of them really know it’s me.

  By four o’clock, I’m happy to start the walk home to the loft. When I step inside the apartment, I see Chase standing in boxers and a yellow shirt with the collar up, dicing tomatoes. He turns when he hears me.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he says, the paring knife still in his hand. In the living room the baseball game is on, scores from around the league zooming across the ticker. “Everything okay?”

  He always asks me that. But how can everything be okay? To be fair, he hasn’t seen what I’ve seen today. He doesn’t know what I know. The bulge of Buster’s diaper. The press of his small face into couch cushions. The utter apathy of his parents. Chase’s world is much brighter than that. It’s a good thing. And his brightness buoys me. It’s what I love most about him.

  I smile. “Most things are fine.”

  “Tough day?” He rinses his hands and then grabs me a wineglass from the cupboard, fetches a chilled bottle of white from the fridge. “I don’t know how you do it. You could have gotten a job in a coffee shop, you know. Just deal with caffeinating people all day.”

  I laugh a little every time he makes suggestions like this, although I’m not sure he’s actually joking.

  “How was your day?” I sit on the chrome barstool at the kitchen counter and pry off my sneakers, letting each one drop with a thud. “You got in late last night. How was the photo shoot? Where did you go again?”