When Secrets Die

by Lynn S. Hightower

  Charlie was wise enough now to know that his answer to Mitchell’s worry should have been, (1) he thought Mitchell was wise to take that kind of academic commitment seriously; (2) that he’d support Mitchell no matter what decision he made; and (3) that he had enough confidence in Mitchell that he had no doubts about his son’s ability to not only survive but to excel in the architecture program. All of that would be topped off with a suggestion that maybe more information would be useful, and couched in a very gentle sort of wondering way.

  That’s how he reacted now with the kids he worked with in his job with the Kentucky Department of Child Protective Services, but at the time he’d just said, “Hey, go for it, what you got to lose?”

  The only kind of person ignorant enough to give such an answer was the kind who’d never paid college tuition for his kids and then been rewarded with the grade report from hell. And that only if the kid was inclined to share this bit of information. Universities were clear on one issue—parents were there to fund the universities and their children’s education, to enjoy significant responsibilities and zero rights. It was, by God, one time in your life when there was absolutely no hint of discrimination. White, black, male, female, Muslim or Baptist, skinny or fat—a parent was a parent was a checkbook. In high school, you complained that your kid thought you had ATM stamped on your forehead, but in college they wanted you to take out loans.

  This kid Twyla, who he was on his way to meet with, was a particular frustration. No doubt she had some kind of disorder that made it hard.

  It helped to like the kid, though, and he just couldn’t stand this little twit Twyla. She wasn’t stupid, she was just hell-bent on acting like it. And truth to tell, he just wasn’t as good with the girl-child as with the boy-child. Girls were mystifying. Harder to scare, but easier to get under their skin, and then when you did, they made you feel so damn guilty about it—sometimes it just wasn’t worth the effort. Girls were better motivated by showing them how to help themselves, or help someone else. By showing them how to get some kind of control over their lives, since, being female, they usually had so little, or so they thought. Helping them find the power was what he liked to do. The power to know what you want, and then go about getting it. Part Two was always harder than Part One, except with kids like Twyla. The problem with her was that what she wanted was just plain silly, plain unrealistic, plain dangerous. She wanted to be the center of attention, no matter what and no matter where, and no matter what anybody said about self-esteem, or upbringing, none of that mattered. She had to be the center. If she had to light a damn fire to get there, she’d do it, and in fact made a habit of doing it, which had landed her in his lap—that and her inability to attend school on any kind of a regular basis.

  And he just didn’t like her. In fact, he found her the most irritating person on earth. He reminded himself, as he did whenever he had a kid like this, that his own son, Kirby, hadn’t been overly likable when he’d gotten into his bit of trouble.

  Back then Kirby had been in the habit of wearing a worn top hat, which looked especially silly on a boy no more than five feet one inch tall, a skinny boy at that. A skinny boy in glasses, who oozed intelligence in such a way that he was irresistible to the neighborhood school bus bully—a kid called Reef who had locked on to Kirby like a heat-seeking missile.

  Reef was an oversized coward, a six-foot-four, slope-shouldered idiot weighing in at roughly three hundred twenty-five pounds. Kirby, not one to wait for the fates, had lifted a small pistol from the collection at the house next door—a particular frustration to Charlie, who was strict about keeping firearms out of the hands of children—and gone looking for Reef at the Y.

  School shootings and violence surprised Charlie as much as they did other people, just not the same way. He couldn’t figure out why it didn’t happen more often, considering the weapons people left sitting around.

  Kirby confronted Reef in the YMCA lobby, pausing right by the door (for a quick getaway—the boy wasn’t stupid). Sure enough, as soon as Reef caught sight of him, he started in. Only this time Kirby pulled out his little handgun and fired and missed three times. Reef had dropped to the ground and gone quiet, one of the few intelligent moments of his life, and the bullets had bounced harmlessly off the glass door, the pistol being of such negligible caliber as not to even penetrate the glass. All of this was witnessed by two women at the desk, one an employee, and the other newly arrived for an aerobics class.

  Kirby, surviving in the netherworld of high school, was making sure the right people knew better than to mess with him. He hadn’t been worried about that other world—the world of police, social services, the Kentucky State court system, and that fast train to trouble.

  Cathy Reardon, on her way to a supervisory position at Child Protective Services, hated kids with guns in their hands and was a no-tolerance brick wall, deaf to any plea. Charlie could see her point. She looked at Kirby and saw the gun in his hand. He looked at Kirby and saw his son.

  Kirby had been lucky, sentenced to community service at Cardinal Hill Rehabilitation Facility (where he would assist a brain-damaged victim of a gunshot wound, as it turned out), a strict eight PM curfew that could be checked up on by CPS any time they wanted to drop around, family counseling, and a parent training class for Charlie and Janine that galled like a knife in the gut but made the system happy.

  Charlie wanted to be the kind of guy who saw it from both sides, the gun and the child. So far, that kind of even-handed emotion was impossible with Twyla, so as usual, he faked it.

  He took her to Sonic. They sat outside at a picnic table on a measly strip of grass and gravel between the two caverns of overhangs where cars parked. Customers leaned out of their car windows and punched the speaker buttons, ordering from their own neon plasticine menus. Twyla loved Sonic. Charlie let her order whatever she wanted. Some kids you had to encourage to order because they were shy about it; others, like Twyla, blazed through the overhead menu like it was Christmas morning.

  She ordered chicken strips, a grilled cheese sandwich, jalapeño cheese poppers, and fries. A jumbo drink that was blue and packed with shaved ice. Charlie had taken Twyla for food before, and he told the waitress to please bring out forty packets of catsup exactly, and he would give her a big tip. Charlie did not have an exact figure in mind for what would constitute a big tip at Sonic, but it had to be worth avoiding the aggravation of Twyla’s constant recalls for more catsup please, more catsup.

  Charlie was less than adept with the chitchat when it came to females. With Twyla that wasn’t a problem. She came to every meeting between them with an agenda, and as soon as she had squeezed catsup into a formidable hill of sweet red, she took a bite out of her grilled cheese sandwich, opened the box that held the chicken strips, and canted her head sideways, meeting his eyes.

  “How’s things at school these days, Twyla?” he asked. So she’d know his agenda right up front.

  Twyla chewed, considering. He waited. She didn’t have much patience for cat-and-mouse. One of the few things that made her tolerable—except if she decided to outright lie, which was always extremely likely, then she’d stick to her story in the face of ninety-mile-an-hour headwinds and not blink an eye. A good liar, Charlie had discovered, always believes his own version of the truth. The memory of making it up is the first to fade.

  “Who told you?” she asked. Sliding a french fry through the mound of catsup.

  “I never reveal a source.”

  The truth was, nobody had told him. Her mother hadn’t called, nor had her real father from upstate New York, or her stepfather, from right down the road. No school counselor had called his office. No one had made a fuss. She’d been written off, this child had, and he supposed she knew it. Supposed that was the real source of the trouble. Someone to give a damn. Funny how some kids would not walk straight no matter what—good parents who cared, a school administration on its toes and ready to intervene. But that was the exception and not the rule. Most were li
ke Twyla. Most were like grass in the desert, no chance in a hostile, uncaring environment. His job was to be the touchstone, and then the one who showed them that they could create their own caring environment. That they could discipline themselves and have a good life, if they so chose. Many of them did. Charlie was weary of complaints from his colleagues. If they hadn’t come into the job with ridiculous delusions, they wouldn’t be so weary. Nobody could save the world, and those who tried were guilty of arrogance and foolish time management. The opportunities to help were frequent, and eminently doable. Whether or not Twyla was one of the opportunities remained to be seen. Charlie well knew that what he tried to teach her now, about herself and about life, might well not sink in for years. If ever. On the other hand, it could sink in today or next week. Many of his clients got over all the acting-out and nonsense. The problem was getting them to that point of reference before they did permanent damage.

  “I’ve got a friend who’s in trouble.”

  “You’re in enough trouble yourself, my girl. Better pay attention to that.”

  She frowned at him and flipped the long blond hair back over her shoulder. She was a little bit chubby, but it did not seem to concern her, as it did 98 percent of the other girls her age. She had a focused self-confidence that Charlie felt he ought to admire, but instead it just made him think of the single-mindedness of a sociopath.

  Not that Twyla was one.

  “I’m serious, Charlie.”

  “Mr. Russell.”

  “Mr. Russell. You know, lots of kids call their social workers by their first names.”

  “You can call me Mr. Russell.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, distancing herself. He had just caught on to that little habit. As if when she glanced away, he no longer existed.

  “I said I have a friend who is in serious trouble. Like she’s been kidnapped, sort of. She’s stuck with some weird old lady who won’t let her go home.”

  Charlie took a sip of coffee. He ignored the hush puppies he’d ordered. He knew that Twyla would eventually eat those too.

  “Where’s her mama and her daddy?”

  “Daddy? God knows. Her mother doesn’t know where she is. She ran away.”

  “Do we need to go to the police about this?” Charlie was prepared to call her bluff. He also knew that Twyla might well go through the motions of a police report if she were planning to stick to one of her stories.

  “She made me promise not to.”

  “Twyla, this whole thing sounds like a—”

  She looked up at him. He’d been about to say “load of crap,” and he stopped himself.

  “Twyla, the person I’m worried about right now is you. I’m worried about why you’re not going to school and dropping out your junior year. I’m worried about you flunking Algebra I after we worked so hard to get you some tutoring and you brought your grade up to a C. I’m worried about you not going to chorus class after we got things taken care of so you could go on the field trip over Thanksgiving.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Russell. If I go back to school and stop skipping, will you help my friend?”

  “Maybe. If I can. But not until you have six weeks of attendance without missing a day. Not even one sick day.”

  “Mr. Russell, she’s—she can’t wait six weeks. How about I promise you six months, not one day missed, and you help her now.”

  “First you have to talk to me a little about why you’ve been skipping.”

  She shrugged.

  “Come on, Twyla. You always have a reason for everything you do. And if we don’t work on it, then your promise to me, no matter how much you mean it right this minute, will be impossible for you to keep. So what’s going on with you right now?”

  She looked at the catsup. “I’ve been thinking about going to live with my dad again.”

  “Now, Twyla, you told me before you don’t like that school up in Syracuse. You said the kids up there weren’t friendly, and you didn’t have any friends, like you do here, where you grew up.”

  “I might need to get away.”

  “From what?”

  “From a boy. I ummm … I told him I was pregnant. With his kid. And I’m not. And he wants to marry me. And it’s kind of getting out of hand. He’s Mormon, see, and he wants to keep this baby and settle down.”

  “Is there a baby, Twyla?”

  She shrugged. “Not this time. I did get pregnant once before, just so you know. And I thought I was. I missed my monthly bill.”

  It still amazed Charlie that such a young girl could talk so frankly about such things and not bat an eye. In his experience, most girls did not discuss these issues with most males. But Twyla, as he had discovered early on, was not most girls.

  “Anyhow, I told him I’m pregnant, and now he’s pressuring me and calling and waiting for me in the hallway at school. I’m scared I might just marry him to make him leave me alone.”

  Charlie nodded. In actuality, he did not understand, but one of his first and hardest lessons in social work had been how the female of the species succumbs to pressure.

  “How old is this boy?” Charlie asked.

  “Eighteen.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. He just turned.”

  Charlie smiled. “Bingo, then. You’re fifteen. He’s eighteen. I can make him go away.”

  Twyla frowned at him. “I don’t want him in jail.”

  “I think a well-placed call to parents in this case will likely do the trick.”

  “He’s Mormon.”

  “Even better.”

  “Okay, about my friend.”

  “Six months, Twyla. A written agreement between you and me, and I expect you to sign it.”

  “Never hold up in court,” she told him.

  “It doesn’t have to. It just has to hold up between you and me.”

  She nodded. “Okay.”

  “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “No names. Not yet. See, she ran away from home.”

  He wanted to roll his eyes, he really did. “Why?”

  “She had a dumb fight with her mom. So she didn’t go back home. She went and stayed with her mom’s friend.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Not a bad move, having a short time-out, unless this friend happens to be male.”

  “No, a woman. Only now, this woman, she won’t let Blaine go home. She’s, like, keeping her prisoner. She won’t let her out of the house, she won’t let her near the phone.”

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really now? So how did you find out about it?”

  “See, she talked to some kid in the neighborhood who was walking by. And gave him my name and number and told him what was up.”

  Charlie fingered the Styrofoam edge of the coffee cup. Possible, actually. The helping hand of other kids on the street, or off, was a presence in this generation. They trusted each other, and in truth, the trust was often very well placed. Which was a comforting piece of knowledge when one considered the future of the world.

  “What about the mother? Is she okay?”

  Twyla shrugged. “She just doesn’t like me, so it’s hard for me to be objective. She thinks I’m a bad influence.”

  Score one point for the mother, Charlie thought.

  “Blaine says she and her mother mixed it up a little.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Blaine says she kind of got physical with her mom, but you have to understand, it is so totally—well, the thing is, they’ve had some hard times. But even if Blaine thought she had a good reason. I mean, there’s no excuse for beating up on your own mom.”

  Charlie looked at Twyla and smiled, for real. “There’s an opinion we both share.”

  She smiled up at him, showing a chipped front tooth. Their first moment of rapport. Even though Charlie was fully aware that Twyla was manipulating him, telling him what he wanted to hear to get him to help. He didn’t care how his clients got on the right pathway, so long as they got on i
t.

  “Twyla, I admire you for one thing.”

  “What?”

  “That you’ve agreed to not skip school for six months if I’ll help your buddy Blaine. It’s selfless.”

  “Selfish?”

  “Selfless. You’re putting her interests before your own.”

  “Not really, Charlie, since you always tell me it’s in my own best interest to go to school.”

  He gave her a sideways look but let the “Charlie” slide. She was on the right track with him, and she knew it. And no reason she shouldn’t.

  “Has her mother reported her missing to the police?”

  Twyla shrugged. “I doubt it. She’s got her own problems. You’ve read about Emma Marsden, and that Munchausen’s thing?”

  Charlie felt a headache coming on. “That’s your friend’s mother? Tell me what you know.”

  He listened and took notes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he would have to be very careful with this. Twyla was more than capable of making the whole thing up. He believed her, though. He believed her because she had stopped eating.

  One of the biggest problems, to Charlie’s way of thinking, was that the kid, this girl-child, Blaine, was across the state line and somewhere in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. He took the problem home to Janine.

  They sat out on the back porch, Charlie watching over the steaks, Janine hopping up every few minutes to check on whatever she felt needed checking on in the kitchen. He wished she’d just sit still; knew it was impossible.

  “They have a lot of pancake houses there?”

  “Like raisins in a cookie,” she said. “Why? Who’s down there? Something going on I should know about? With the boys?”

  “Ah, no, hon, the boys are fine. This is about one of my kids. Twyla.”

  Janine rolled her eyes. “Twyla? The one who called last night and demanded to see you?”

  “She’s got a friend in trouble.”