He touched her elbow with one finger, so lightly, but his finger must have landed directly on a meridian to her chest, along the ribs that protected her heart. “I’ll let you know if we find anything concrete,” he said.
“Me too,” she said. Although her information was woven into puppets, art therapy, and soon, dog therapy. Not concrete at all.
CHAPTER 34
With the file tucked under one arm, Delia knocked on Ira’s door. He called her in.
It was still early in the morning, so she wasn’t surprised by the heavy aroma of coffee and peanut butter. No one drank coffee darker than Ira. But peanut butter?
“You either had a peanut butter breakfast or you just dipped into an early lunch of your favorite PBJ,” she said, sitting down in front of his desk.
He looked puzzled. “How could you possibly know that? And it was the latter.”
Delia tapped the side of her nose with one finger. “You know I have a delicate nose. Don’t tell me that you’re already forgetting everything about me,” she said. “I’m not gone yet.”
“No, you’re not. And I plan on using every bit of your time left with us. No early dismissal for good behavior.” The printer behind his desk shot out two pieces of paper. “Regina’s report just came through. I wondered if you’d seen it, but then I saw you were occupied with Mike.”
She ignored the emphasis on occupied, as well as the slight jump in his mustache that begged for further commentary.
“I’m impressed with how good he is with kids. If he weren’t a detective, you could offer him a job with Foster Services,” she said.
She settled into the chair by the side of his desk. Ira passed the one-page report to her while he looked at his own copy. “I’ve read it once online but I prefer a hard copy,” he said.
Delia scanned the report, appreciative of Regina’s descriptive approach to Hayley’s demeanor, her replies to Regina, and the drawing. The printer clattered again, producing the drawing. It was the summary at the bottom that Delia wanted.
Hayley’s ability to amplify her emotions on paper, to explain her circumstances as she understands them, and her willingness to engage with adults continues to improve even from the first art therapy session to the second. She appears increasingly comfortable with her caseworker, Delia, and her foster mother, Erica. She does not draw the images associated with long-term abuse or neglect. She does, however, use classic images of sadness and related depression. In the family drawing, the father is distant and uncommunicative, and the mother is depicted as imprisoned and sad. Recommendation: further sessions to allow Hayley to express the distress that she is experiencing.
Ira pulled the drawing off his copier tray and looked at it. “I know we can’t use a drawing as fact, and she may just be drawing out a story that is representative of loss. But I am hopeful for her. She doesn’t show either parent as angry. The father is ineffective for some reason, which could be the result of simply not seeing him much, but it’s her commentary along with the drawing that sent shivers down my spine. She has parents and she feels wanted,” said Ira.
“But most kids, no matter how horrific the abuse, long to be home,” she said. Someone in the room had to play devil’s advocate, and today it was her turn.
He put down the copy of the drawing. “I didn’t,” he said.
In years of working with Ira, he rarely mentioned details of his childhood, the burn scars on his arms, his slow recovery in the burn unit, and his gratitude at finding loving parents through adoption. “We’ve all worked with the parents who were a danger to their kids, who should never be parents. I’m not Regina, but every bit of my experience tells me that her parents are not the problem. Let’s share this with the detective.”
Delia cleared her throat. “He’s already heard the highlights.” She told Ira about finding Mike driving by Erica’s house, going to J Bird Café, and giving him the pertinent parts of the art session.
He pulled his head back in mock alarm. “The detective has been to J Bird Café and I haven’t? What does it take to get an invitation?”
For a man who gave limited details about his past, Ira was relentlessly interested in romantic opportunities for Delia.
“You have an open invitation. Come to the grand opening and I’ll give you a free ginger scone,” she said.
They were making nice about her leaving. Ira was saying all the friendly, teasing things he should say when a colleague was ready to launch a new career. But still, it felt like an old grass-covered landfill of resentment with occasional wisps of waste matter seeping out. Resentment and encouragement. Sadness and pride. She felt it from everyone still working at Foster Services, and if she were in their places, she would struggle with the same conflicting emotions.
And why had fire been the topic of conversation with Mike and then Ira in such a short span of time? How often did that happen? With Mike, the fire had burst out fully engulfed, flames and black smoke from the genie bottle of her memories. Moments later with Ira, his touch had been subtle, a simple reminder that some things that adults do to kids are beyond redemption. His history of fire rarely emerged, yet it drove his career and his empathy with kids.
Delia would miss this man, her fire cousin, both of them born again from the disaster of flames. “If you wake up a little earlier in the morning, you can come to J Bird Café every day. We’ll make you something fancier than peanut butter sandwiches.”
It was better not to talk about fire, about how much they’d miss each other.
“Just keep me in the loop with your assessment visits with Hayley,” he said. He pushed away with his rolling chair. Delia stood up to leave and stuffed Regina’s report into the file.
“Hey, do you know what I miss?” he asked.
Dang it. She thought they were going to skip this part.
“What?” She braced herself.
“I miss the days before heroin moved into town like a steamroller. I miss our crackhead mothers who finally got clean, our alcoholic parents who latched onto AA. They might not be stellar parents, but they were good enough. Heroin brought the bad guys to town,” said Ira.
“I know,” she said, reaching for the door handle.
“By the way, try to remember to bring my road atlas back. When you’re done making fun of it, I’d like you to return it, please.”
“Sure. I must have left it at home. I’ll make a note of it.”
She’d bring it back after she finished scratching the itch when she looked at Tennessee.
CHAPTER 35
There were few creatures happier than a golden retriever in a car. They were the premier road trip partners, enjoying the journey and the destination, one feeding the other in a constant loop of anticipation. Delia left the office just in time to pick up Baxter and head for South Portland before the traffic on the Casco Bay Bridge turned thick and cumbersome. They pulled into Erica’s driveway, and Delia turned off the car. The passenger window was partway down; Baxter’s black, moist nose already sniffed the air for information. He’d never been here before, and a new environment offered him unlimited olfactory stimulation.
“Okay, here’s the situation,” said Delia. Baxter pulled his attention from the partially opened window and looked at her. “This little girl wants to go home to her family, and you and I have to help her find them. Your mission is to turn on your full throttle dog love, and my job is to ask just the right question at the perfect moment.”
Baxter stood up, which took up the entire passenger seat area. Whatever Delia had said, he was ready to proceed. His answer to almost everything was, Yes.
“One more thing. There is a large cat inside. This is his house, and you have to mind your manners. He is not a seagull; you cannot chase him. Besides, if you did, he would probably hurt you.”
She snapped the leash on his collar.
This was where the word manipulative could not be denied. She promised Hayley that she would bring Baxter to Erica’s house, which was true. But if she were strappe
d to a lie detector, she would be found lying if she said the trip was just recreational. She understood the overwhelming power of a dog, especially a dog like Baxter, the koala bear of the canine world, with his affable smile, brown eyes, and pink tongue at the ready for kisses. If Hayley felt safe enough, distracted enough, some bit of memory might just fall out, a link, an address, without Hayley being drilled into a state of withdrawal.
“Heel,” said Delia. Once outside, he stepped brightly to her left side, and she looped the leash over her wrist. The big unknown was Louie the Maine Coon cat, Hayley’s bodyguard and familiar.
They walked to the front door, but before she could knock, the door to the ranch house swung open.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said Erica. “I think every child in Hayley’s kindergarten class knows that Baxter, the big red dog, is coming to visit today. News of Baxter was Hayley’s share today.”
The child peeked from behind Erica. “Hi, Baxter,” she said.
If Delia’s level of anxiety transmitted through the leash to the dog, this could go badly. She was worried about animal territory, worried that Louie with his razor-sharp claws would lay siege to Baxter. She pictured his black nose in shreds, then Baxter growling and attacking the cat (which he had never once done in his entire life), blood streaming, the child screaming, and perhaps a bit of feline urine sprayed in the house to complete the picture.
“Where’s Louie?” she asked. She stepped gingerly into the house, scanning the entryway for the twenty-pound cat with large paws.
It was hard enough to keep track of human interactions, what with the unconscious lobbing grenades that the conscious mind wouldn’t take responsibility for. Animal language posed a greater dilemma because Delia could only react when all the messages had long been delivered and there was little she could do.
“Louie’s in the garden. Hayley and I thought it best to all meet outside.”
Delia knelt down on one knee next to Baxter and said, “It’s okay to pet him. In fact, you could pet him all day and he’d be happy about it.”
The dog was excited by the prospect of meeting new people to sniff, to rub against, to please, and yet he remained seated while Hayley stroked his head, then his neck. Delia released the lead. Hayley’s small hands soaked in what Baxter offered, the strum of his heartbeat, his energy coiling along the back legs, and his tail swishing along the floor. She leaned into him. Would it be a good thing or a bad thing that Hayley was now covered in dog smell? How would all of this register in the small yet specialized brain of Louie? How was it that two animals that were predators ever agreed to be domesticated by humans? Or were they domesticated?
Erica picked up a few pieces of paper from a basket marked SCHOOL WORK and said, “Let’s head outside and I’ll bring some of Hayley’s school work for you to look at.”
When Delia stood up, Baxter followed her example. “Destiny awaits you,” she said to the dog.
“His name is Louie. That’s who awaits him,” said Hayley, leading the way through the kitchen to the sliding glass doors.
Delia was frequently surprised by the vocabulary of young children, how quickly they absorbed new words and understood the meaning from context.
“You are correct. Baxter, Louie awaits you,” she said.
Hayley pulled open the sliding glass doors with some difficulty. She was a slight child and however long she’d spent with her abductors had taken a toll on her overall health. But she had now been in foster care for almost three weeks, and despite the trauma of her circumstances, her vitality was improving. Three weeks ago, muscling open the sliding glass door would have been impossible for Hayley. Delia must remember to mention this in the case notes.
Once on the deck, all of them scanned the area for Louie, from the right side of the fenced yard, along which grew borders of hostas backed by sunflowers now bursting with seed, to the back side of the deep yard where the portable soccer goal had tipped over. No cat. On the left side of the yard, a series of raised beds still produced tomatoes, cabbages, dark, curly greens. The garden closest to the deck still produced Hayley’s favorite plants, cucumbers. Still no cat.
Sometimes the best course of action was to ignore animals, especially cats. “Hayley, please show Baxter and me your school work,” said Delia, sitting down on the steps that led to the garden. She still had the dog on the leash.
The one constant of kindergarten over the ages had to be glue. There were no family drawings, but instead, three pages of bright bits of paper glued to a tree, a farmer’s field, and an apple orchard. “Look how Hayley glued all these colors on the apple tree,” said Delia, holding the paper in front of Baxter. He sniffed the page, then relaxed his face into a retriever smile.
But his attention was not held for long. Alerted to a noise that none of the humans heard, he swiveled his head to the side yard as Louie emerged from one of the broad-leafed hosta plants. If Louie was alarmed at the sight of a dog in his paradise, he didn’t show it. The cat walked easily with his tail held high in a question mark, pausing to bat at a bumblebee that flew too close and scooping it in for a snack. No arched back, no low, stalking body posture. Just a quick display of his prowess.
Delia swallowed and exhaled, ready for whatever might explode. Baxter sniffed the air again, decoded the hundreds of complex scents that swirled around the receptors in his nose, and stood up, ears alert, body idling at about fifty percent power. Louie took one effortless jump and landed on the deck and stood in front of Baxter without hesitation, without a question of who had animal priority. He didn’t make eye contact with the dog, instead, he pressed against the dog with a casualness that screamed confidence.
Baxter’s eyes grew wide and he froze as the introductory comments passed from cat to dog. As Louie curled his way along the side of Baxter, the dog lowered his head and chanced a butt sniff, which the cat permitted. Delia could only imagine what Baxter, and all other dogs, gleaned from butt sniffing: gender, diet, possible proclivities for aggressiveness or submission, and overall health. Whatever he concluded in summary caused him to sit down. There would be no cat chasing, even Delia could decode that message.
“Louie likes him,” said Hayley. “He’s lonely for another animal like him. He needs a friend. I’m his friend, but I’m a girl.”
This seemed as good a comment on interspecies relationships as any. “Let’s take a walk around the yard with Baxter and see what happens. Would you like to hold his leash?” said Delia. She held out the lead to Hayley. If all went well, she’d take off his leash after a stroll around the yard. “He wants to smell everything in the yard.”
Without hesitation, Hayley said, “Come on, Baxter.”
The dog glanced at Delia. She said, “Good boy.” And off he went with the girl, trailed far behind by the cat.
Erica crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Baxter is the first dog who hasn’t been totally intimidated by Louie. I don’t know what they just said to each other. Wouldn’t you like to hear what goes on in their brains?” she said.
“More than that, I’d like to photograph everything in Hayley’s brain: street address, town, last name. Did your daughter know her street address by the time she was in kindergarten?” said Delia.
“Yes. Address, telephone number, and her grandparents’ address. And, of course, her last name. It’s really unusual that a child Hayley’s age hasn’t been taught this kind of critical information.” She pensively rubbed one bare foot along the other. Her tan line from sandals formed a large V across the tops of her feet.
From the far end of the fenced yard, Hayley led the furred companions on a tour of garden beds.
“But aren’t addresses and numbers just abstract ideas for kids this age? How did you teach her all of that information?” asked Delia. Baxter wagged his tail enthusiastically when he found a small stick to carry.
“We taught her the same way a lot of parents do. We inserted our address into a song that the kids would know. We used
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” She stopped, mouth open. “Oh, my God, I wonder if Hayley’s parents used a song.” She pushed off the edge of the doorway.
Could it all be this simple? Was her address embedded in a song? All the agonies of a small child could be healed and parents found. Delia pictured the phone call to Ira and Mike, the euphoria, the relief, this one terrible crime that had blasted a family apart could now be solved. Among foster care caseworkers, this would be like winning the Nobel Prize for family reunification.
Hayley returned to the deck with Baxter. “He wants to give me the stick. He keeps dropping it at my feet,” she said, marveling at the event, wanting to share this discovery with Delia and Erica.
“He wants you to throw it,” said Delia. “He loves to chase the stick and then return it to you so that you’ll throw it again.” She could barely contain her anticipation about this new avenue for finding Hayley’s family.
Erica was unable to contain her excitement. She nearly levitated. “And after you throw the stick, we need to learn a song about the address of our house. It is a very cool song that my daughter, Sarah, learned when she was in kindergarten. And you can teach us the song about where you live with your mommy.”
Would Delia ever meet Erica’s daughter? Like most kids that she knew about, she was pretty tightly scheduled.
Hayley dropped the stick. “No. Emma said not to sing a song about my house. And I could never tell anyone where Mommy is. She said no songs or Mommy would be sad. Uncle Ray took away my special blanket when I sang a song. I cried so long.” Her lip quivered and her shoulders shook.
Baxter’s ears perked up. He stepped over the stick and stood directly in front of Hayley. He nudged his head under her elbow. She leaned forward slightly and wrapped her arms around the dog. She whispered to the dog, “Uncle Ray threw the special blanket out the car window.”
The momentary structure of happiness collapsed in Delia, crumbling like faulty concrete. Delia had seen so many children clinging to a relic of safety, a stuffed animal, a soft blanket, an action figure, and she understood the magnitude of such a loss, the final disassembling of children pulled from their family.
The Tiger in the House Page 17
