Nobody's Child (The Jeri Howard Series Book 5)

by Janet Dawson

  This wasn’t Victorian England, I thought, standing in my warm kitchen, or the rookeries of London. It was modern America, just a few years from the twenty-first century. There were still people begging on the streets, people who would spend tonight burrowed in sleeping bags in doorways near People’s Park, while those of us who had jobs and homes argued about how to deal with the ones we called homeless. The specters of hunger and poverty and ignorance bothered me, huddled as they were under the technology and glitz of the last decade of the century, like the two ragged children huddled beneath the robes of the Ghost of Christmas Present.

  “We’ve always had people living on the margins of society,” my father said as I basted the roasting chicken that filled the kitchen with its fragrance. “For example, all those rugged individuals who figure into the mythology of the Old West. They were social isolates, unmarried men with no family or friends, moving from place to place. When they ran out of frontier, they wound up on Skid Row. And they had a tendency to abuse chemicals.”

  “Alcohol and drugs, just like today,” my brother chimed in.

  “The deserving and undeserving poor,” I said, shutting the oven door. I handed my brother a loaf of sourdough and told him to slice it.

  “Exactly.” He located the cutting board and took a knife from the block. “Nineteenth century reformers defined poverty as the result of misfortune, like widows and orphans and men who’d lost their jobs. Paupers had bad habits and wouldn’t work. Look at San Francisco history. Chinatown and the Barbary Coast were full of drug addicts, alcoholics, and panhandlers. Rightly or wrongly, people still make the distinction.”

  “Watch it with that knife.” My brother’s presence at the counter crowded my small kitchen. “What about societal change?” I argued. After all, I’d majored in history too, just like the rest of the family. “Nineteenth century poverty owed a lot to the Industrial Revolution and the transition from a rural society to an urban one.”

  “The decline of home industry,” my sister-in-law Sheila added. “The mechanization of farming and manufacturing brought people to the cities. Women didn’t make cloth at home anymore. They went into the textile mills.”

  “Agreed,” my father said. “And immigration. Look at how many people the Irish potato famine displaced. By the turn of the century most of the frontiers had been civilized, the gold rush was over, the railroads built, and the land fenced. But the transients were still there. These days we call them homeless. People are on the streets for a variety of reasons. You have to admit, Jeri, that two of the biggest reasons are drugs and alcohol.”

  “Yes, I know that.” I checked the broccoli steaming on one of the stove burners and thought about Denny, who lived out of his duffel bag and admitted that he had a little problem with booze. At least he was more honest about it than Naomi Smith, hiding behind the facade of her money, social position, and big house in Piedmont.

  “The current view seems to be that people are homeless simply because of poverty, economic upheaval, and the lack of affordable housing, something which is certainly true in California,” my brother said as he wiped the knife and returned it to the block. “But we can’t ignore substance abuse and mental illness. You can’t reason with someone whose brain is fried on booze or drugs. What about someone who is mentally ill? Is it really in that person’s best interest to leave him on the street talking to himself? Simply providing shelter isn’t solving the problem.” He scooped the bread into a basket I’d set aside and handed it to Sheila, who set it on the table.

  “Do we treat the symptoms or the disease?” I asked, not expecting any sort of answer. “How can we, when we can’t even agree on what they are? I think a lot of people would simply like to ignore homelessness and hope it goes away.”

  The music had stopped. I walked into the living room and fiddled with the CD player, and The Nutcracker overture began again.

  “It won’t go away.” Sheila folded her arms and pulled out a chair. “Society’s changing. Traditional jobs are going away. You mentioned the Industrial Revolution. Well, jobs in the lumber industry have disappeared. They’re not coming back. Neither are all those manufacturing jobs that have moved to other countries.”

  Back in the kitchen I examined the chicken, thinking of something my great-uncle Dominic had said earlier this fall, when I was down in Monterey. He’d talked about large-scale commercial fishing depleting the ocean’s resources and how the small independent fisherman was going the way of the passenger pigeon. Extinction—both of fish and jobs—was a real possibility.

  I shut the oven door and switched off the heat. “Those are people out on the streets. What does it say about our society that we do nothing to help them? Don’t we have a responsibility to help other people who are less fortunate, or who can’t help themselves?”

  “Of course we do,” Dad said. “No one can agree on the solutions.”

  “Sometimes you just can’t wait around for solutions,” I said. “You just have to jump in and do what you can.”

  Sheila looked at her son and daughter, dancing in the living room with their heads full of Sugar Plum Fairies. “Todd and Amy asked me about those panhandlers we saw outside the theater last night. When we walked around looking at all the Christmas displays in the department store windows, they asked why people were sleeping in doorways. What do I tell them?”

  No one responded.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I said finally, breaking our silence.

  Thirty-two

  MONDAY THE RAIN WAS BACK, AND SO WAS I, IN MY tattered mufti, back on Telegraph Avenue. Early that morning, I hung out on the periphery of the people who were queued up for breakfast at the Catholic ladies’ van in People’s Park. I felt like a character out of Dickens, reflecting on the contrasts and contradictions offered by my own comfortable life and the existence of these people who lived in the park.

  I kept turning words over in my head, the words that my family and I had used in Sunday evening’s discussion, words that neither fully explained why there were so many people living on the streets of Berkeley or other cities like it, nor solved what everyone agreed was a major issue.

  The rain increased in its intensity and I huddled deeper into my coat. I needed to move around just to keep warm. I began walking in the direction of Telegraph Avenue, stepping off the curb near a Volvo with a bumper sticker that read, IF YOU THINK EDUCATION IS EXPENSIVE, TRY IGNORANCE. I smiled grimly as I pictured the two ragged children huddled beneath the robes of the Ghost of Christmas Present. Try ignorance indeed.

  I made two long and seemingly aimless circuits of the avenue, up one side to where it dead-ended at the U.C. campus, then down the other side to Willard Junior High School. Finally the chill rain permeated the inadequate insulation provided by my coat, to the point where I was shivering and my teeth chattered. I ducked into a coffeehouse near Cody’s and stood for a moment savoring the heated interior. Then I dredged enough money from my pocket to purchase a latte, counting out change to an indifferent counter clerk. I sat at a table near the front window and warmed my hands on the tall glass of coffee. Behind the counter a radio was playing Christmas music. It dinned into my ear, nagging me. The holiday was barely a week away. I still couldn’t shake the malaise I’d felt since Thanksgiving.

  The avenue grew busier as the stores opened and shoppers and mendicants filled the rain-dampened sidewalks. I’d nursed my latte down to a residue of foam when I saw a familiar face on the other side of the glass. It was Denny, swathed in several layers of clothing, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. I tapped the streaked glass to get his attention. He turned, wariness etched on his thin grizzled features. Then his blue eyes brightened above a nose reddened by the cold. He hauled his duffel through the cafe door and joined me at the table.

  “Hey, I didn’t place you there for a minute,” he said cheerfully. “You look like you fit right in. You undercover?”

  “Yeah. Want some coffee?” I asked.

  “I can buy my own today.” He
left his duffel under the table and stepped over to the counter, returning a moment later with a tall glass of black coffee and a large croissant on a plate. He tore a corner off the flaky roll and popped it into his mouth. “Ah, fresh. Damn, that’s good.” He chewed slowly, savoring the buttery croissant, and chased it with a swig of coffee.

  “You know, I haven’t seen Rio, not since I talked with you last week. I even asked around, at Oregon Street and the Multi-Service Center. Nobody’s seen him, not for weeks. I figure he’s off on a bender somewheres.” Denny rubbed his chin and nodded sagely. “When I go off on a bender, which I don’t do too often, seeing as how I can’t afford the kind or amount of booze I like, I make myself scarce. I’m likely to hole up in one of those cheap hotels for a while. Or go down by the railroad tracks, where nobody will bother me. But like I said, I asked around. Rio just don’t seem on the streets right now.”

  “I’m beginning to think I’m wasting my time,” I said, hunched over my latte. “Although I did pick up some useful information from a woman over at the Oregon Street shelter, about the woman whose child I’m looking for. I can’t help but think that Rio may have been the last person to see her alive.”

  “Maybe he killed her.” Denny tore off another piece of croissant. “Maybe that’s why he made himself scarce. So maybe you really don’t want to find him.”

  “I have to find him.” I’d thought about that, of course. That Rio might be the one who killed Maureen. If that was the case, I’d be more than happy to alert Sid and Wayne to his whereabouts. But he was also a link to Dyese’s whereabouts.

  Denny ate his croissant in silence for a moment while I stepped up to the counter for another latte. It was so cold and dreary, I was reluctant to leave the warmth of the café for the cold embrace of the sidewalks and People’s Park. Drinking coffee was an excuse to stay inside.

  When I returned to the table, Denny was reading an alternative newspaper he’d snagged from a stack on the windowsill. “You know,” he said as I resumed my seat, “I’m wondering if Rio’s got family somewheres. It being Christmas and all, maybe he’s gone to spend the holidays with his family.”

  “Nobody’s seen him for weeks,” I pointed out. “That’s a long time to take a break. I’m wondering if he’s decided to make his absence permanent.” And there could be any number of reasons for that, I thought, lifting my coffee to my lips. Rio could have decided that he was tired of life on the streets of Berkeley. Perhaps he’d found a job, gone into detox, gone somewhere to a more salubrious and friendly climate. If he had killed Maureen, that would be a powerful incentive to get as far as he could from the scene of the crime.

  Or he could very well be dead himself. A little too much liquor, an overdose, the unidentified body of a homeless man in some alley or vacant lot. Belatedly, I realized that was something I hadn’t done yet, check the coroner’s office to see if they had any male John Does matching Rio’s description. I didn’t like the thought that he might be dead. I needed him alive.

  “What are you going to do for Christmas?” I asked Denny suddenly.

  He shrugged, as though he were reluctant to acknowledge the upcoming holiday, despite the fact that tinsel and lights were everywhere we looked. “I don’t think about it much. One of the shelters will do something.”

  I was sorry I’d asked. I didn’t know what else to say. “I’ve got to get moving,” I said finally, reluctance in my voice. It was raining harder now, and passersby scurried rather than walked. I placed a few bills on the table next to my empty glass. “Have another cup of coffee on me and stay dry.”

  He grinned and placed his hand over the money. “Thanks. I hear anything, I’ll get word to you with that guy down at the electronics store.”

  I used the rest room at the cafe before heading back out to the pavement. I made several circuits of Telegraph and People’s Park, talking to some of the homeless people sheltered in doorways and huddled under the trees. No one had seen Rio, or if they had, they wouldn’t cop to it. I stopped in at The Big Z to talk to Levi but he was busy on the sales floor. Then 1 retrieved my car and made the rounds of the Berkeley shelters before heading back to my apartment. I was chilled to the bone, and I took a hot shower and put on something more presentable. After a quick lunch of soup, I headed up into the hills, to a different world than the one I’d been in this morning.

  A Christmas wreath hung on the front door of Naomi Smith’s big stucco house on Hillside Avenue, a big expensive one. I rang the bell. A moment later Ramona Clark stared at me resentfully when she opened the door.

  “You can’t talk to her,” she said, her voice barely polite. “She’s not out of bed.”

  I glanced at my watch as I stepped into the foyer. It showed the same time as the ormolu clock on the mantel. One o’clock on a gray December Monday.

  “Is she in the habit of sleeping this late?”

  “She’s drunk.”

  Ramona slammed the front door, and the Christmas tinsel decorating the jamb quivered with the impact. “Passed out. Pickled in vodka. Or gin. Or whatever she had stashed in the liquor cabinet or delivered. She started Thursday afternoon before I left, and she must have sucked it up Friday as well as all weekend. The house was a mess when I arrived this morning.” She folded her arms over the front of the stylish beige sweater she wore with her brown slacks. “You won’t be able to get anything out of her until she sleeps it off. Based on the condition of the house and the number of empty bottles I saw on the floor in her bedroom, that should be in two or three days.”

  “Sounds like quite a bender,” I commented. “Does she do this often? What brought it on?”

  “Often enough. In this particular case, it’s Christmas. Naomi hates Christmas. It reminds her of all sorts of things she’d rather forget.”

  I moved to the doorway of the living room and saw that a Christmas tree had been added to the decor, a perfectly shaped Noble fir, its star brushing the ceiling. It looked as though the lights and ornaments had been applied by a decorator. There weren’t many presents scattered on the gold and white Christmas tree skirt. And those looked as though they’d been wrapped to complement the tree.

  “Why does she bother with the trappings, then?” I asked, turning back to look at Ramona. “If she hates Christmas so much.”

  “How the hell do I know what goes on in that woman’s head?” Ramona snapped. “She’s a drunk. Maybe she wants to be reminded so she’ll have an excuse to drink. You’re wasting your time here. Go away.”

  I stood unmoving in the doorway. “It’s you I came to talk with, not Naomi.”

  “I’m done talking with you.” She put her hands on her hips and glared at me.

  “Who took care of Dyese during the day, while you were at work?”

  “Why don’t you give it up?” she countered. “You’re never going to find that child. Naomi’s interest in finding her was never that great, and it lasted about two days. She’s going to fire you.”

  “If Naomi wants to fire me, she’ll have to do it herself,” I told her. “And sometimes I don’t stay fired. I thought you didn’t know what went on in Naomi’s head. What about your interest? What happened to all your concern for Dyese? After all, she’s your great-niece.”

  “I don’t know that. Not for sure.” She tossed her head, unwilling to consider the truth that seemed to look out at me when I’d seen that photograph of Patrick Ennis at her house. “I’m being realistic. Somebody’s got to. That child is probably dead, just like her mother.”

  “How convenient. Well, I’m not going to let you bury Dyese prematurely. She stayed with you for several months, and someone must have taken care of her while you were at work. Who was it?”

  “My next door neighbor. Why do you want to know?”

  “How was Dyese’s health? Did she ever have any colds, ear infections? Was she a good size for a baby almost two years old?”

  “Why are you asking these questions?” Ramona Clark narrowed her eyes. “Is there something wrong with
that child?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you if you noticed anything unusual.”

  “Babies get sick all the time. With my two, it was one thing after another.” She shook her head, one sharp abrupt movement “No, I didn’t notice anything unusual. Should I have?”

  I looked at her, wondering whether I should tell her that Maureen Smith was HIV-positive. If, as Maureen had claimed, Ramona’s nephew Patrick Ennis was Dyese’s father, Patrick was at risk for the virus. And I’m standing here worrying about protocol, the niceties of the situation, and whether I have a duty to disclose information about a dead woman.

  I knew why Naomi Smith had taken to the bottle. When Sid told me about Maureen’s HIV infection, he said he and Wayne had passed that information along to Maureen’s mother, who appeared not to take it. Not surprising. Alcoholics are well-schooled in denial. But the news had pierced Naomi’s ethyl-fueled armor. She’d come straight home to take comfort in her liquor cabinet.

  I considered telling Ramona Clark, if only to see what kind of reaction would penetrate her armor. But I needed to talk with Patrick Ennis myself.

  Thirty-three

  IT DIDN’T TAKE ME LONG TO FIND HIM. AT THE TIME he’d lived with his aunt, Patrick Ennis had been studying at Laney College in Oakland. Ramona Clark had let that much slip when I’d talked with her earlier at her North Oakland home. I had a contact at the administrative office at Laney, another acquaintance from my days as a paralegal. She told me Ennis had transferred his credits to San Francisco State University.

  I drove across the Bay Bridge, past the downtown towers and out to the avenues, where San Francisco State’s urban campus was tucked into a green parcel of land at Nineteenth and Holloway. The campus was deserted this week before Christmas, and there was a skeleton crew on duty at the school’s offices, where I cajoled and persuaded a staff member. I needed an address for Ennis. San Francisco State was as much a commuter campus as Cal State Hayward, where Dad taught. And Ennis could live anywhere, in or out of the city.