by Neta Jackson
Quit whining, Michelle. She knew once they started their lovemaking, she’d get into it. And she couldn’t just blame Jared’s schedule, crazy as it was. Even if he’d stayed home tonight, she was the one who had to go back to work.
Slipping into the bathroom, she heard Jared in the boys’ room talking to Destin, something about the summer job. Doing a quick brush of her teeth, she scurried back into the bedroom and rummaged in the drawer of her vanity for her diaphragm, wanting to put it in before Jared got back.
When he turned out the light and slid between the sheets several minutes later, she was waiting for him, sans nightgown.
Chapter 8
Michelle woke briefly when Jared’s alarm went off at five, but she didn’t move. She needed the extra hour of sleep before she had to get up. But it seemed like only minutes before her own alarm went off at six. Uhhh. If only she could sleep in . . .
Forcing herself to throw back the covers and get up, she almost stumbled out into the hall to go to the bathroom, but remembered in time that they’d made love last night and she was still naked. Slipping on her robe and slippers, she headed for the basement. They’d put in a second bathroom a few years ago when trying to make do with just one for a family of five became a major headache. Even though it was farther away, she preferred the newer bathroom for her morning shower—no tub, just a big shower with a glass front and glass sliding door, two sinks, and a large mirror with vanity lights. She wasn’t as likely to wake the kids before six thirty either.
Michelle let the hot water run over her head, waking up her brain. Today was Jared’s craziest day, working the control tower from six till two, then again from ten tonight till six Friday morning. But at least he’d be home for supper. And the weekend was coming up. Maybe they could even get a night out. And Memorial Day weekend was coming up too . . . If they planned ahead, maybe they could take a couple of days away as a family. Wouldn’t that be great?
But she couldn’t just stand in the shower. She had to get dressed, get the kids up, throw lunches together, set out breakfast—cold cereal on weekdays—and get out the door herself if she wanted to get to the office by eight.
* * *
Even though the day was overcast, the temperature had climbed into the seventies by noon. Made her glad she’d packed a sandwich and could eat her lunch in a park near her next client visit. She dreaded this one. DCFS had received at least five calls from neighbors in an apartment building about a baby crying for hours, what sounded like drunken fights, people coming and going who weren’t on the lease. DCFS had passed it on to Bridges Family Services and her supervisor had dropped it on her desk.
“Just check it out. Might not be anything we can do. Use your judgment.”
Right. Not serious enough for DCFS to intervene. And the parents themselves weren’t asking for help. One of those dysfunctional families that so often fell through the cracks. But . . . she’d “check it out.”
Michelle parked on a nearby residential street and found a bench where she could eat her lunch. The park was fairly empty for such a warm day. But it was only late May. Kids were still in school. Most adults were at work. Still, a cluster of young men loitered near the playground equipment, smoking, drinking beer, talking loudly. Walking around like ducks in their low-slung pants. Doing nothing. Why weren’t they in school—or at work? She shook her head. O Lord . . .
Sometimes the dysfunction in the city threatened to overwhelm her.
But once her sandwich, apple, and snack-sized bag of Fritos were gone, she couldn’t put it off any longer. She walked back to her car . . . darn it! A parking ticket! She snatched it off her windshield. What in the world for? There weren’t any parking meters . . . and then she saw the fire hydrant on the other side of the car. Oh great. Just great. How could she have been so stupid? She squinted at the fine print on the yellow ticket. $100?!
Now she felt like crying.
By the time she found the address of the apartment building she was supposed to visit—after encountering half a dozen one-way streets—her mood was as sour as spoiled sauerkraut. Standing in the foyer of the apartment building and staring at the names above the two rows of mailboxes—several of which hung open or otherwise looked busted—she finally located the name and apartment number she’d been given. 3B—BLACKWELL. Two other names had been scrawled beside it: Owens . . . Smith. She pushed the button. Heard nothing. She pushed again.
Just then a man barged out the inner door, startled to see her in the foyer, but just kept going out. Seemed in a big hurry. Michelle caught the inner door before it wheezed shut. Okaay. Not exactly legit, but she’d make one more try at contacting the Blackwells.
No elevator—but she wouldn’t trust one in these old apartment buildings anyway. The stairwell smelled musty, stale. She walked up the stairs to the first floor landing . . . then second . . . finally third, feeling out of breath. Was she that out of shape? Locating 3B, she rapped loudly on the door and listened. A baby was crying somewhere, but she wasn’t sure from which apartment. She knocked again, even louder.
The lock clicked. The handle turned and the door opened a few inches. But nobody was there . . . until she looked down and saw the cute face of a girl about seven. Nappy hair caught up in three pigtails, one on either side, one high in back. Why wasn’t she in school? But Michelle smiled. “Hi, sweetie. Is your mommy home?”
The nutmeg brown face nodded. “But she sleeping.”
The sound of the baby crying was louder now. From this apartment.
“What’s your name?”
“Candy.”
“Is anyone else home?”
A solemn nod. “Otto.”
“Who’s Otto?”
“Mommy’s friend.”
Hmm. “Can I speak to Otto?”
A shrug. The door opened wider and Michelle followed the little girl into the dim interior. The apartment smelled like urine and cheap alcohol. She tried to breathe through her mouth. The girl pointed into the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Michelle felt like gagging. Otto was slumped over the table, his face smashed in his plate of food, passed out, dead drunk.
Michelle turned and followed the sound of the crying baby into a dark living room, old sheets covering the windows. A child about nine months old stood hanging onto the side of a netted playpen, wailing halfheartedly. The baby was wearing a shirt and a dirty diaper—full from the way it hung. And smelled.
She turned to the little girl. “Can you go wake up your mommy?”
Candy shook her head. “She tol’ me she’d spank me good if I woke her up. Said she gots ta sleep, ’cause she gots ta work tonight.”
Yeah, I bet. Michelle was unsure what to do. She felt like an intruder, even though she was there on official business and the child had let her in. The one thing she could do she didn’t want to do. Oh, suck it up, Michelle. “Candy, do you know where the baby’s clean diapers are?”
Candy nodded, disappeared, and came back with a disposable. “We only gots one.”
One. Michelle was on the verge of either laughing hysterically or crying hysterically. The situation was heartbreaking! But she picked up the baby, found the bathroom, wrung out a used washcloth hanging on the tub, and tried to clean the baby’s bottom—him, it turned out, when she peeled off the offending diaper. An ugly rash covered his entire genital area. She wished she had some zinc oxide ointment to soothe it.
It took several rinses of the rag to wash the baby, but finally the clean diaper was on. The baby had stopped crying and just stared at her. She picked him up and held him, noticing his beautiful, large eyes as she returned to the living room. “What’s your brother’s name?”
“Pookey.”
“Pookey! Is that his real name?”
Candy shrugged. “That’s what Mommy calls him. Just Pookey.”
“Do you go to school, Candy?”
The little girl nodded, then shrugged. “But I had a tummy ache today.
“Who are you?” A harsh voice hurtled i
nto the room from the doorway. Startled, Michelle turned quickly. “Whatchu doin’ wit my baby? Give ’im to me!” A woman in a rumpled nightshirt stormed across the room and snatched the baby from Michelle’s arms. “Whatchu doin’ in my house?” She looked Michelle up and down. “You from the school? Kid’s got a tummy ache is all. Can’t send her to school sick.”
“No, I’m from Bridges Family Services. My name is—”
“Don’t care what yer name is.” The woman thrust her chin forward defiantly. “I wantchu to git outta my house!”
“Ms. Blackwell, DCFS has received calls about possible neglect, and we need—”
“I said, Git out! Or I’m callin’ the po-lice.”
You do that. Might be the best thing. But the woman’s face was twisted with fury and Michelle wasn’t sure what she might do. “All right. But we do need to talk about these children.” She held out her card to the woman. “Please, give me a call. Our agency can help. We have resources—”
Parked on his mother’s hip, Pookey started to cry again as the woman marched to the door and yanked it open. “I said, git out. Now!”
Michelle gave the card to Candy. “Don’t lose it,” she whispered . . . and a few moments later found herself in the hall with the door slammed behind her.
But as she started down the stairs, she heard the door open again and the mother’s harsh voice sailing after her. “How’d ya get in th’ buildin’ anyway? How’d ya get up here?”
Michelle just kept going and called back, “Good-bye, Ms. Blackwell! We’ll be in touch!” By the time she got to the ground floor and headed for her car, she was muttering to herself. Could she make a case for neglect? Turn it over to the state attorney’s office? Probably not. She didn’t have enough information. But she wished she could get those kids out of that awful situation.
She hardly noticed it had started to rain.
* * *
Michelle dragged herself into the house at five thirty and dumped her briefcase and purse on the living room couch. She didn’t feel like cooking, but they had to eat. Maybe she’d pull out those frozen burritos she’d bought last week.
Tabby had her face six inches from the computer screen at the dining room table, and Michelle peeked over her shoulder. Looked like her daughter was doing research on Harper Lee, the author of To Kill a Mockingbird.
“Doing a book report?” she asked.
Tabby grunted. “Is Daddy home?”
“Yeah . . . sleepin’, I think. Said to tell you to wake him up for supper.”
Par for the course on Thursdays, trying to catch some z’s before going back to work that night. She checked on Tavis, who was sprawled on the top bunk in the boys’ bedroom, working on math. “Hi, Mom. I’m hungry.”
“Didn’t you have a snack?”
“Yeah, but I’m hungry again.”
So what else was new? Their food bill had been climbing with three teenagers in the house—and Tavis hadn’t really started growing yet. But after cooking a couple of packages of already-seasoned red beans and rice to go with the burritos and throwing together a quick chop salad, she had food on the table by six thirty. Time to wake Jared.
Destin shoveled in copious amounts of the beans and rice, talking all the while about Saturday’s track meet at Lane Tech. “It’s the sectionals, Dad—last meet of the season before the state championships! Coach has me down for the 800 since I’ve been workin’ on my stamina, an’ he’s also got me down as backup for the 4-by-2. One of the guys had an ankle injury a few weeks ago; I might need to sub for him if he’s not up to par.”
“Will you go to state with the track team if Lane Tech wins?” Tabby was agape.
“Nah. That’s not how it works, twerp. Whoever wins first and second of each event goes, just the person, not the whole team. Got ten schools in our league, but we’ve got some great athletes. Lakewood is one of our biggest rivals, but I think Lane Tech is gonna kick their butt in overall wins.”
Jared gave him The Look over the top of his glasses. “Watch the language.”
In one ear, out the other. “The meet starts at ten thirty. Can you guys come?”
Jared cleared his throat. “Don’t think so, son. The deacon board scheduled a workday at the church Saturday to get some deep cleaning done and repair some broken windows—things that need doing before summer.”
“Aw, Dad.” Destin eyed Michelle. “Mom?”
Workday? When did that get scheduled? But Destin was waiting. “I’m sorry, honey. You know I lead a post-abortion support group at the crisis pregnancy center Saturday mornings . . .”
“Oh yeah.” Destin glumly took another burrito from the serving dish.
“I’ll come see your race if someone gives me a ride,” Tavis offered.
Jared eyed both of his sons as he chewed his food. Then he wiped his mouth. “Tell you what. Tavis, you come to the workday with me, and if enough people show up, we’ll take a break, drive over to Lane Tech, and take in Destin’s event at the meet—especially if you can text me, Destin, when you have an idea of when the 800 is. But after this weekend, you need to start on that job search for this summer. We have a deal, remember?”
Big sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
Jared pointed his fork at Destin. “You want to go to basketball camp or not?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“Well, then, conversation over. Pass those burritos, please.” But after a while Jared looked at Michelle. “You’re awfully quiet tonight. Everything okay?”
She shrugged. “Yeah, just . . . ran into an upsetting situation with a family today. I can tell you later.”
After supper, Michelle put away the food while Tavis loaded the dishwasher, then she wandered into the living room, where Jared was reading the paper on the couch. She flopped down beside him. “Honey? You got a minute?”
He lowered the paper. “Sure. I guess. Gotta leave for work in a while. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to talk about this weekend—and Memorial Day weekend too. I was hoping we could do something as a family if we planned ahead a little. Or maybe you and I could have a night out. You know, after a busy workweek.”
Jared took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “I’d like to, babe. But don’t see how this weekend. You heard what I told the kids at the table. Didn’t you see the announcement about the workday in the bulletin? I got it in last-minute Sunday morning. Deacon Jones’s wife is heading up a crew of ladies to tackle the kitchen . . . She didn’t call you?”
Michelle couldn’t remember. Had she? A voicemail she didn’t answer? She shrugged. “Don’t think so. But even if she did, I volunteer at the Lifeline Care Center Saturday mornings.” Oh drat! And she’d made an appointment to go back and talk with Brianna Lewis about Jeffrey on Saturday afternoon!
Jared frowned. “Well, between that and the workday at church and Destin’s track meet, that pretty much shoots Saturday. And you know what Sundays are like.”
Michelle sighed. “I know. It’s just . . . I think we’re all working too hard. We need to get away, or at least do some fun things.”
“Well . . .” Jared scratched his jaw. “Have you thought about cutting back on how often you volunteer at Lifeline? You wouldn’t have to go every Saturday.”
Why was she the one who had to cut back on something? Irritation crept into her voice. “I’d be glad to get a sub if I knew ahead of time. That’s why I’m asking ahead of time . . . about Memorial Day weekend, at least.”
“Well, maybe. Though I might have to cover for someone at work since it’s a holiday. But I’ll check the schedule tonight.” The paper went back up.
Michelle stared at the front-page headlines of the Chicago Tribune without seeing a thing. She would’ve liked to tell Jared about the horrible experience at the Blackwell apartment today. But she wasn’t about to say, “Can we talk?” again. He’d probably feel annoyed at a second interruption. Besides, he had to leave for work soon.
Cut him some slack, Michelle. His shifts at
O’Hare are intense . . . Let him relax.
Leaving the room abruptly, she headed for the kitchen. She needed a cup of chamomile tea. But a moment later she stormed down the hall to the boys’ bedroom, yelling for Tavis. “You call that loading the dishwasher? Get back in there and do it right. And wash the dining room table too!”
Chapter 9
The kids were eating their cold cereal on the fly the next morning when Jared got in from his night shift. “Hi, Dad! ’Bye, Dad! Gotta find my backpack!” Tabitha smacked a kiss on her father’s cheek as he came into the kitchen.
“It’s raining! Wear your windbreaker!” Michelle called after her, hoping she’d also remember to brush her teeth. She gave Jared a welcome-home peck. “You want some breakfast?”
“Nah, that’s all right. Not very hungry. Think I’ll just hit the sack.”
Michelle turned back to the four bag lunches she’d been packing. “Your night shift go okay?”
“More or less. The rain during the night screwed up a lot of schedules—mostly incoming flights from other cities that got delayed where the storm was worse. It wasn’t so bad here, but things got stacked up both coming and going. So I’m pretty tired.”
“Oh, okay. I’ve got to leave in about ten minutes, so we’ll all be out of here soon.” She stepped to the kitchen doorway and raised her voice. “Kids! Don’t forget your lunches!”
Michelle decided not to mention the headache she woke up with. She hadn’t slept that well . . . never did when he was gone overnight. She’d taken some Tylenol, which ought to kick in pretty soon. But the situation at the Blackwell apartment yesterday had nagged at her subconscious all night. Wasn’t much she could do since DCFS didn’t think the situation posed immediate danger to the children—not if the mother didn’t want any help from Bridges Family Services. Which had been obvious.
