Just recently, however, Alex had told her that the hibernation wasn’t as all-pervasive as it appeared. He said that the Catskills were becoming a “second-bedroom” community. “In fact,” he’d added, “I invested in a development of town houses. And what do you know—two-thirds of the units have already been sold.”
Sharon smiled. Everything Alex touched turned to gold.
“But,” Alex had gone on, “the native population of this area is swelling with poor families, menial laborers, and minority groups. There are many more foster children now. They’re a real burden to the county’s child protection service.” And then he added what she thought to be something typical of him. “Which is another reason why we should do this, Sharon. We can’t just take out of a community; we’ve got to make some social contribution, too.”
And so they were traveling toward Monticello, the county seat, and their meeting with the clinical-sounding Mrs. Hoffman from the Child Protection Agency. At the end of this interview, assuming all went well, they were to meet with Richard, the fourteen-year-old boy Alex wanted.
“What do they ask you at these interviews?” she asked him. “I don’t want to say anything stupid and ruin things.”
“It’s not a cross-examination. Don’t worry, you’ll do all right.”
“I can’t help being nervous. I’ll let you do the talking. You always know just what to say.”
“Be yourself. That’s all.”
“I’ve had so little contact with children; she might hold that against me.”
“Why? Children are people, Sharon, just like you and me. You don’t have to go through an apprenticeship to deal with them. That’s why most adults have trouble with children—they treat them as though they were a different kind of animal.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“I know I’m right.” He reached over and squeezed her hand. She smiled, but she wondered how it was that Alex knew so much about people. Was it because he grew up in a tourist house, with hundreds of guests there every summer? It certainly wasn’t from the contact they had had with people during the years of their marriage. She could count on her fingers the number of friends they’d had, she thought. No, there was something special about Alex, something very special.
“We haven’t had anyone living in that big house with us since your father died,” she said, but she said it so low that perhaps he hadn’t heard it.
They rode in silence the rest of the way. When they pulled into the parking lot at the government center, she thought the long, modern stone building looked intimidating. From such a structure would come a child to live in her home. They got out and walked up the wide stone stairway to the front entrance. Alex took her arm at the entrance and directed her quickly to the small stairway on the right. It was apparent to her that he was familiar with the building.
As they walked through the lobby and up the stairs, she felt everyone was looking at them. She blamed this paranoia on her own failure to get out and mix with people more. Once again, she made a resolution to do so. I’m becoming a hermit, she thought. Maybe having a child in the home would help.
Alex was right about the house’s being too quiet recently. She wondered if she had gotten too accustomed to the library atmosphere in her home. A young boy’s voice and laughter would surely shatter that, but maybe it was something that should be shattered. A home should have a feel of life to it, she thought.
“Hey, take it easy,” he said when they reached the door of the Child Protection Agency. “I can feel you trembling.”
“Can’t help it,” she whispered. He shook his head and entered. The secretary looked up from her desk.
“Please tell Mrs. Hoffman that Mr. and Mrs. Gold are here,” he said.
Why is it that whenever Alex talks to people he sounds so authoritative, Sharon thought. The secretary moved quickly. She wouldn’t have moved more quickly had he been the governor of the state.
“Go right on in,” she said.
Sharon was surprised that Mrs. Hoffman was such a thin, fragile-looking woman. Her voice over the telephone had been filled with an official tone of strength and power. She had sounded like a woman fully aware of her responsibility over many young lives. If a woman this diminutive could control teenagers, as well as younger children, why couldn’t she?
Sharon’s initial impression was reinforced when they shook hands. Mrs. Hoffman’s hand was limp in hers. There was barely any pressure in the fingers. Alex looked positively gigantic beside her. He was six feet two inches tall and had wide shoulders. He looked like he had just retired from a professional football team.
“It’s so nice to meet you both,” Mrs. Hoffman said. “Please, sit down.” She gestured at the chairs in front of her desk. Her red knit blouse hung over her shoulders, emphatically outlining her collarbone. Although she was short, she had a long neck that looked as though it had been under continual strain—arteries and veins visible beneath transparent skin.
“Thank you,” Sharon said. So far so good, she thought.
“Richard will be with us in a few moments,” Mrs. Hoffman said. The sound of his name sent chills through Sharon. Her legs weakened and she was glad to fold her body into the shiny leather seat. When Alex looked at her, he closed and opened his eyes. It was his way of telling her to relax. She clasped her hands in her lap and forced herself to smile. Mrs. Hoffman practically disappeared behind the big desk. The piece of office furniture was so high and so long it was farcical. It was covered with official-looking documents, a very fancy telephone with an attached speaker system for conference calls, some family pictures, and a large book that looked like some kind of daily journal. The walls of the office, done in a light brown pressed board panel, were spotted here and there with plaques and certificates. There were no paintings or portraits.
“Our field rep, Marty Kaplan, was very impressed with your home, Mr. Gold. How long has it been since you and your family ran it as a tourist house?”
“I never did. My parents did. Right after my mother’s death, the Echo Lake Manor became a private home. I was never very fond of the resort business, and as you probably know, it’s changed considerably, anyway.”
“Yes,” she said, smiling stupidly. She looked at Sharon, and Sharon widened her false smile. “There’s no question you have the room and the facilities. In many cases, the children share rooms. And you have all that land with the lake…any child should be grateful.”
“Has this boy been in many homes?” Sharon asked.
“Unfortunately, too many. He’s been in three. As I explained to your husband, Richard’s been a difficult case.”
“Precisely the sort of boy who needs this opportunity,” Alex said quickly.
“Oh, no question, no question. I suppose you two have talked this over considerably. Are there any questions remaining that I might answer for either of you?” She looked from Alex to Sharon, and Sharon looked at Alex. He shook his head gently.
“Well,” Sharon said, “we’ve gone over his needs, the arrangements for school, the rules. I think we feel confident. We’ll certainly do the best we can.”
“I’m sure you will. I don’t have to tell you how difficult it is to find good couples who have the room and the willingness to take in these poor, unfortunate youngsters. Why just last week we had a terrible situation finally exposed.”
“Oh,” Alex said, his face alive with interest, “what was that?”
“A foster parent never informed us that her husband left her. The children were practically alone all night. She worked. You can just imagine what problems that led to.”
“Yes,” Alex said.
“One of us is always at home,” Sharon said quickly. “That won’t happen with us.”
“Good. Well then, why don’t I go get Richard. I like to be present during the first meeting.”
“Of course,” Alex said. “You see,” he said as soon as she left, “I told you this was going to be easy.”
“I thoug
ht she’d have more questions for us.”
“They need us,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.” Sharon nodded.
“I wish you had thought of this ten years ago, Alex. Not that I’m an old lady at thirty-four, and you certainly don’t look like a forty-three-year-old man, but we might have started with a younger child and eventually adopted him or her.”
“Well it’s not too late.”
“Did they give you a choice of children, Alex? I mean, someone who was younger and hasn’t been in so much trouble?”
“Children are children,” he said. “I don’t like the idea of writing one off because he’s fourteen.”
“I know. I just thought the first time we did this we should make it as easy as possible.”
“It’ll be easy; it’ll be easy,” he said. It sounded like the beginning of a chant. She sat back in the seat and continued to study the office. A few moments later, the door was opened.
Sharon wasn’t prepared at all for the boy who walked in behind Mrs. Hoffman. She had been working on bracing and hardening herself to confront a stereotypical juvenile delinquent: disheveled appearance, an angry and mean face, a sullen disposition. She’d thought their main work would involve rehabilitation.
Instead, Mrs. Hoffman brought in a neatly dressed and pleasant-looking fourteen-year-old, with styled, blown-dry wavy brown hair. He wore a pressed light blue short-sleeved shirt and a pair of new designer jeans. If anything, he looked like a young model who had paused on his way to do a television commercial.
Although Sharon could detect a bright and inquisitive look in his hazel-brown eyes, the boy also appeared frightened and vulnerable. She softened in sympathy. For the first time, she considered the situation from the child’s point of view. After all, he was the one who was being bounced around and placed into the hands of strangers.
It was so like Alex to want to help. He had understood this problem and had the compassion to want to do something about it. Despite the hard, strong appearance he often presented, there was a softness there, and she loved him for it.
Mrs. Hoffman stopped and brought the boy around to stand before her. She’s putting him on display, Sharon thought disgustedly. Mrs. Hoffman put her hands on the boy’s shoulders and smiled. Richard Murden waited in anticipation. Sharon saw that he tried not to appear obvious in the way he was inspecting them, his new guardians, but his gaze went back and forth anxiously between Alex and her. Sharon smiled at his childlike intensity, but Alex remained stoic, only the slightest gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
Richard was a little tall for his age, but thin and underdeveloped. To Alex’s discerning eyes, the cleanup preparation to present him did not hide the boy’s intrinsic disarray. He saw a mixture of fear and subdued anger. This boy had been sedated by hours and hours of instruction and threats, as well as sermons and pleas. Alex sensed a kind of institutional wear about him. He felt the boy’s battle for self-control. The wildness in him detested Mrs. Hoffman’s hands on his shoulders. He squirmed slightly, as though by instinct. Her bony fingers clung like talons.
“Richard, I want you to meet Mr. and Mrs. Gold. They are thinking of taking you into their home.”
“Call us Alex and Sharon,’” Alex said, more sharply than he had intended. Damn Mrs. Hoffman for making the boy feel like something for sale.
Mrs. Hoffman didn’t change expression, but Richard’s eyes widened and he looked at Alex with a deeper interest. “Hello, Richard,” Alex said, reaching out and deliberately forcing the boy to step forward so he would no longer be under Mrs. Hoffman’s grip. Gratefully, Richard accepted Alex’s hand. It was a much stronger handshake than the boy expected. Alex winked and nodded toward Sharon, who was smiling as warmly as she could. She put her hand out, too.
“Hi,” she said. He touched her hand quickly, as though it were too hot.
“Well then,” Mrs. Hoffman said slapping her hands together, “let’s all sit down and talk about responsibility.”
Alex let the boy see his expression of disgust. Richard permitted himself his first smile.
Mrs. Hoffman talked about money; she talked about the rules; she talked about school and about cleanliness. Both Sharon and Alex watched Richard, who stared ahead like someone hearing a judge pass sentence. Alex imagined the boy had been through the same speech a number of times. Once again he admired Richard’s self-control. This was exactly the kind of boy he wanted.
“There will be plenty of time for you to get to know the Golds,” Mrs. Hoffman finally said, “but is there anything you want to say or ask them in my presence?”
Richard reddened, a panicky look in his eyes. The silence went on longer than Sharon liked. It made her squirm in her seat. Mrs. Hoffman sat there smiling.
“In that case,” she went on, “we’ll bring Richard up late in the morning tomorrow, if that would be all right.”
“Perfect,” Alex said.
“Well then…” Mrs. Hoffman stood up, which was a signal for everyone else. Alex shook hands with her and Sharon did the same. “I wish everyone good luck,” she sang, “especially, Richard.”
“Thank you,” Alex said. “See you tomorrow, Champ,” he added, and tapped Richard gently on the left shoulder. The boy nodded and watched them leave.
It wasn’t until they were down the stairs and into the lobby that Sharon let out a sigh of relief.
“It was so hot in there!” she said. Alex didn’t reply.
“That woman is an idiot,” he said. “Why do they have people like that in charge?”
“I know. I felt bad for the boy. But you know something, Alex,” she said when they reached the parking lot, “that boy didn’t say one word. I just realized it. Isn’t that odd?”
“Not at all. They probably have him terrified.”
“Of what?”
“Of us not wanting him, of course.”
“Oh dear, that is terrible. The poor thing.” She looked back at the building.
“We have our work cut out for us,” he said.
“Maybe it’s too much, Alex.”
He stopped at the car and looked back at the building, too.
“No,” he said. “We’ll handle it. Just have patience and let me get a good hold on him.”
“I’ll try, Alex. I want it to go well for him.”
“And for us,” he added as they got into the car.
Pressed against the car window, his fingers looked like a claw. His cheek just touched the glass enough for him to feel the vibrations as the car wheels bumped and dropped over the ridges in the broken pavement of the driveway. Mr. Kaplan had told him to sit in the back, and he was reminded of the times he had been a prisoner in a police car.
“You won’t feel crowded here,” Mr. Kaplan said. Richard didn’t respond. He didn’t fully understand why he felt things or even why he did certain things, but he couldn’t help disliking the social service worker. One thing he did sense clearly—the man would be happy to be rid of him. He saw it in the artificiality of his soft, round face and his smile, and the way he avoided looking directly at him. He heard it in the hesitancy of his voice whenever he spoke. Like a wild animal, he had come to have an instinctive recognition of weakness, sensing when to back down and when to be assertive. He could be assertive with men like Martin Kaplan, the kind who stepped back from conflict. Richard imagined that as a boy Kaplan had been the sort who was easily bullied: cut in front of in lunch line, teased, happy to be ignored.
The house rose before them as the car continued along the driveway. It was as big as Kaplan had described. Richard was surprised. He had assumed Kaplan was just giving him more of his bullshit.
He didn’t know what to make of it. The house was filled with contradiction, having the warmth that comes from personality and style, but the cold that comes from the look of desertion and death. The cloudless sky did little to enliven the tired and worn wooded structure, and Alex Gold had not done much to maintain the outside. Hedges grew wild; flower beds went unweeded and unplante
d; shutters were in want of paint.
As they pulled to a stop before the main entrance, Richard noticed the hand-carved facing and the large, heavy oak front door that still had its brass palm-shaped knocker. There were two cats balanced comfortably on the porch railings, one grey and one black and white. They looked totally disinterested in his arrival.
He glanced up at the sharply sloped Queen Anne roof. Some of the shingles dangled over the edge, loose and windblown. He could see nothing through the windows; the house looked dark and gloomy within. For a fleeting moment, he felt like locking himself in the car and refusing to step out. Memories of his last foster parent’s strap beatings in the basement flashed through his mind. He perked up when he heard the short, snappy bark of a small dog inside.
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” Mr. Kaplan said as soon as he turned off the engine.
“Big deal.”
“Don’t start off on the wrong foot here, Richard. It’s not often people get so many chances.”
“I’ll kiss everyone’s ass before I go to sleep.”
“Jeezes,” Kaplan said, shaking his head. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk. Richard emerged slowly and then slammed the door. He looked over the grounds.
To the left, just below the house, he saw Echo Lake. A small dock was barely visible beneath the top of the ridge. Except for a small area around the house itself, all of the grounds were overgrown with grass and weeds.
“I hope they don’t expect me to be someone’s little slave around here,” he said.
“Don’t worry about that.”
He spun around. Alex Gold had suddenly appeared in the front doorway. He looked different here. The house changed him as he stood framed in the entrance. He was bigger, younger, but there was warmth in his smile.
“That’s all right, Mr. Gold,” Kaplan said. “He knows that chores are a part of living. It won’t hurt him to do some honest work, like help me with his own luggage.”
Child's Play Page 2
