All the Children Are Home

by Patry Francis

  She waited.

  “Mrs. Jackson told me about it,” I said, using the name they called my mother in the files. It was one of the only times I’d spoken about her to Ma and I was afraid she’d get up and walk away. She didn’t. Nor did she set her face the way she used to when the subject of our “so-called parents” came up.

  “It always bothered me that I don’t even know what kind of Indian I am. How we ended up in Claxton. Nothing. She told me once when I was five, but I was so little I forgot.” Mau Mau was older. She would have remembered, I thought, and once again the old grief washed over me.

  “Apache or Cherokee,” Ma said, listing the ones we knew from TV. “That’s what I always say when busybodies like Gina Lollobrigida ask.”

  “It’s neither of those, though. The only thing that stuck with me is the river part. That’s what they call us up in Canada: People of the Beautiful River.”

  “People of the Beautiful River,” Ma repeated slowly, tasting the words in her mouth. “Well, I’ll be. From Canada, you say? And you never told anyone?”

  It took a minute for me to answer. “Only Henry.”

  “Hmph. What did he have to say about it?”

  “He said someday he’d like to go there and see that river. Those people. And then he took me by the tenement his Chinese grandparents used to live in when they first came here and told me how kids who worked in the factories used to shoot peas at them on their lunch break.”

  “Little bastards. Probably a couple of my ancestors among them, too.”

  “He said they never forgot how it stung . . . but that only made them more determined. Just like it did for me.” I paused, almost seeing his face before me. “He understood, Ma. Like almost no one ever did, he understood.”

  “He’s a smart boy, your Henry,” she said, studying me the way she did. “You . . . care for him quite a lot, don’t you?”

  “Smartest I ever met,” I replied, though his understanding was something bone-deep. It had nothing to do with intelligence.

  I picked at the nubs on the couch, leaning into her question. “No one ever told me this could happen to me. You should have—”

  “Hah. You think it’s something anyone can warn you about?” Ma chuckled. “Good grief. You can’t even describe it yourself—and you’re in the thick of it.”

  I wondered if she was thinking of the boy in the pictures Zaidie and me had seen when we opened one of her boxes in the attic.

  “Yes, even your old Ma remembers what it was like,” she said, as if she heard the question I didn’t ask. “And in case you’re wondering, it was never Bobby Wood—though I thought so for a while.”

  I felt my face grow hot as she looked down at her puzzle.

  “No, the only one in my whole life who ever made me feel that way was Louie Moscatelli. My all and my everything. It took me a while to realize it, though. And even then, it wasn’t like it was for other people.”

  She hesitated like she had on the street when she told us about the golden tree, as if wondering whether I could handle it. Then she continued. “For the first few years, I couldn’t stand for anyone to touch me. And course you know I didn’t much leave the house. But your father married me anyway, married me and, eventually, I got used to . . . his touch and all.

  “After the beating I took, though, I’d been damaged inside. I couldn’t have kids like we wanted. But he stood by me. Even though his mother’s church, his church back then, said he could have walked out once he knew what he’d gotten into. And I have to give your Nonna credit. Much as she wanted grandchildren, much as she believed all the stuff about a wife’s duty, her love was bigger than that.”

  She picked up a piece of blue and fitted it into the ocean. “In the end, it turned out for the best.”

  “But you wanted—”

  “If we’d been able to have our own, we would never have had all of you. Did I ever tell you about my theory about the migration of souls? Incredible thing, it is. Once you begin to see . . .”

  She shrugged, seeming to change her mind. “Maybe another time.”

  Then she got up, went to the kitchen, and put on the kettle. After she’d fixed her instant coffee and brought me more ginger ale, she returned to her chair. “Where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about your Henry, weren’t we?”

  “Not my Henry, Ma. I haven’t even talked to him since . . .”

  “Well, you should. Before it’s too late, Agnes.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Go to your Henry now before he packs up and goes. And while you’re at it, you should see if the department has a number for . . . for that Mrs. Jackson. I expect she’d be right proud to know her girl’s swimming in the nationals.”

  “She hasn’t bothered with me in years. Why should I—?”

  “I expect she bothered about as much as she was able. Like we all do. And besides that, you’re almost grown now. You don’t have to sit here waiting anymore. You can go to her. But first—Henry.”

  I must have looked alarmed.

  “Not today, of course. You wouldn’t want to give anyone the grippe.” She glanced at me slyly, a smile trapped just beneath the surface.

  “I’m sure Henry’s heard about the nationals. What am I supposed to say to him, Ma? I can’t—”

  “Good Lord, Agnes, just walk up the steps and knock on the door like Louie did. When he opens it, well . . . you’ll know.”

  I planned to skip practice so I could visit Henry in the afternoon when his parents were out. Feel like taking a walk? I’d ask when he came to the door. Then the two of us would get in the car and head for Buskit’s River. After that, well, everything would fall in place.

  I even pictured how Henry would look when he saw me; how he’d fling the door wide and pull me inside before he went for his keys.

  But as soon as I saw him, I knew it was all wrong. This was nothing like Dad, showing up with his stones. Though I’d tried not to add to the Great Mountain, I had obviously made things worse—not just for Caroline, but for all of us.

  He cracked the door partway open. “Yeah?” Was this the boy who had promised he would never give up?

  “I . . . I just thought you might want to know I’m going to the nationals. After all the rides you gave me, I wanted to tell you.” As if everyone in the city hadn’t seen it in the paper. I shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Yeah, so I hear. Congratulations.” He moved to close the door, but I put my hand on it—the way he had done that day I tried to get out of the car.

  “I was going somewhere and I thought maybe . . . you could come with me?”

  When I left the house, I didn’t know I was going to the department, but something about being around Henry always made the muddy waters clear.

  “Sorry, but I’m kinda busy . . . and I’m not the one you should be asking.” Again, he attempted to close the door.

  Then when I still refused to go away, he released his hand and sighed. “There’s someone coming over.” And when I still didn’t budge: “A girl.”

  He closed the door.

  I waited a full five minutes before I knocked again. It was another five before he opened up.

  This time he was angry. “Listen, Agnes, I’m not sure why you’re here, but you need to leave before—”

  “You promised, though.”

  He gaped at me. “What?”

  “You said you’d go to the river with me. You promised.”

  “That river you told me about . . . where your people came from? You’re asking me to go to frigging Canada, Agnes? Now?” For the first time, he laughed.

  “No, I’m asking you to walk across town to the Department of Social Services. I want to see if they have a number for my . . . mother. I have to find out what happened to her—and to . . .” Somehow I still couldn’t say my sister’s name out loud. I felt the water rising in my eyes.

  He reached out to touch me, but then seemed to think the better of it. Instead he took a step back into the shadows of the house. “I hope
you find them, and that . . . everything’s okay.”

  Still, there was no mistaking the gentleness in his voice. Again, I fought tears. “Henry, I—”

  He shook his head almost imperceptibly, but it was enough to stop me.

  “Like I told you, someone’s coming over and—and even if they weren’t . . .” He paused, and for just a moment he looked at me the way he had the day he told me I was different, the day he made me feel the power of that.

  “You don’t need me to go with you, Agnes,” he said. “You never did. This is between you and them.”

  I think I nodded at him before I turned to go, but the only thing I know for sure is that I didn’t turn back. Not once. Not ever. Still, I felt him watching me as I left and for a long time after that, his face as clear and beautiful—if you can say that about a boy—as anything I’d ever seen.

  WHEN I REACHED the white building where the Department of Social Services was housed, I almost went home. Was I really ready to hear a stranger tell me my mother was dead? Or that she hadn’t called once in six years? I wasn’t sure which was worse. As for my sister, I’d given up the idea of asking about her—at least, that day.

  One piece of potentially devastating news at a time. With any luck, my new worker—Julie—wouldn’t be in.

  I was so distracted I almost collided with a woman in the hall outside the office. When I saw the familiar files poking from the top of her briefcase, I realized she was a social worker—though she didn’t look like any of the ones I’d ever met. She was wrapped up in a bright colored caftan thing like someone’s birthday gift. But it was the tiny silver elephants dangling from her earlobes that got my attention.

  “My favorite animal,” I said when I realized I’d been staring a minute too long.

  “Most girls your age would choose horses. Or kittens.” She touched one of the tiny animals pinned to her ear, almost as if she’d forgotten they were there. Then something flashed in her eyes. “Oh, my goodness. You’re Agnes, aren’t you?”

  I stretched out my hand like Zaidie taught me to do. Practice now so it will seem natural when it’s time for your interviews, she’d said, demonstrating the firm hand clasp. And say both your first and your last like you’re proud of it.

  “Agnes Juniper.”

  The woman with the elephants in her ears set down her briefcase, took my hand in her two, and said it with me in unison.

  “You must be looking for me. I’m Julie Rocher.” She consulted her watch before setting down her case and unwrapping herself from the caftan thing. Then she led me back inside.

  “Priscilla, could you please call Mrs. Benedetto and tell her I’m running a little late? No, on second thought, I’m going to cancel. Tell her I’ll give her a call in the morning.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can come back.”

  But Julie Rocher was having none of it. She led me into the office, where she immediately began to clear away several cups from her desk. “Forgive the mess. I’m one of those people who can’t think without a cup of tea in her hand.” She switched on an electric kettle. “Will you join me?”

  “No, thanks.” I looked around the room, taking in the posters of France, the small collection of elephants on her desk.

  “Are you from France?” I asked, cocking my chin at a print depicting a French country scene.

  “Not me, but my grandmother was and she painted such beautiful word pictures it became an obsession. Unfortunately, every time I plan a visit, something comes up.”

  She laughed, poured her tea, and settled herself behind her desk, indicating the seat opposite her. “Now I sit here and imagine. Sometimes that’s even better; don’t you think?”

  Her eyes were pale with age, but they sparkled when she talked.

  “Yes, sometimes,” I said, remembering the river. Almost unconsciously, I picked up one of her elephants.

  “Better than a puppy, huh?”

  I glanced up at her. “After one dies, the other elephants return to the grave to mourn. They even cry.”

  It seemed like a perfect segue into my question about my mother. But before I could ask, she produced an article about my win at the state meet from the Gazette—laminated and everything.

  “I hope you know we’re awfully proud of you around here.”

  “It’s not like the department had anything to do with it,” I blurted out, angry that the ones who had sent me to Mr. Dean’s, the ones who sent Mau Mau away in that car, were now taking credit for my victories.

  She watched me calmly. “This is a hard job, Agnes. We see so much that goes wrong—and sometimes, yes, we even play a part in it. We need to be reminded that sometimes, even in the most challenging situations, things turn out right. Better than right.”

  She pointed to a framed picture of a yellow feather on the wall. Beneath it was a quote from Emily Dickinson written in a fancy script:

  HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS

  “Some days it’s pretty hard to hold on to that little feather around here, but if we don’t, we might as well close the office.”

  What about my brother? I thought, still nursing my grudge. Do you have any laminated copies of the stories that were printed in the Gazette about him? And Mau Mau? Any poetic lines on the wall to describe her life? But I held back—partly because deep down, I knew it was unfair. None of that was Julie Rocher’s fault. Maybe it wasn’t anyone’s. It just was. And partly because her feather reminded me of something Zaidie would have hung on her wall.

  I picked up the article she had preserved and for the third time in one stinking day, I felt my eyes filling up.

  “Do you think my mother knows?”

  Julie set down her teacup and without answering went to her cabinet. I felt my jaw tightening when she produced the manila file that contained every ugly thing that had ever happened to me. Did she have to drag that out?

  She leafed through the pages to the end. “Last we heard, Mrs. Jackson and her husband were living in New Orleans. I believe the man’s a musician, isn’t he?”

  “When was that?” I asked, refusing to look down at the typed forms or to admit how little I knew about my mother’s life.

  “She called . . . looks like it was about three years ago. Yes, three years ago in December. That’s when we often hear from them,” she mused, almost to herself. “Unfortunately that was before I transferred here so I didn’t have a chance . . .” She flipped the page. “Oh, wait. It says she had a gift for you and wanted to make sure you were still at the same address. Did you receive anything?”

  I shook my head—again feeling ashamed for all kinds of vague things. For those pages of misery and craziness that were supposed to be the story of my life. For the mother who only called once in three years and never made it to the post office with her gift. And most of all for myself, tricked into caring one more time. What a fool.

  Apparently, I was more like my “father” than I thought.

  “Nope, never came—which was probably a good thing. Everything she ever gave me was worthless. Once she even brought me a chicken bone and called it a present.” I stood up so fast I knocked two of Julie’s elephants onto their sides.

  “She gave you that strong beautiful body, didn’t she? The spirit I see in your eyes right now. Be careful what you call worthless, my dear.” And then with the force of a revelation, she added, “You know something? I bet that wasn’t the reason she asked for your address at all.”

  I looked at her blankly.

  “I bet she just wanted to find out if you were still with the Moscatellis. So she’d know she didn’t have to worry about you.”

  She hated the homes, I wanted to say. And Ma hated her. But before I could speak, I saw Ma sitting in her chair, urging me to find her. Now. Before it’s too late.

  “So she’s—okay?” My voice was a whisper.

  Julie closed the file and touched my hand. “I wish I could answer that question for you, Agnes.”

  I shook my head. “My mother—Ma—she
figured the lady might want to know I’m swimming in the nationals. But since she hasn’t called in three years—”

  “I’m sure she’d be very proud,” Julie interrupted. She picked up the shiny copy of the article that was still on her desk and looked at it as if seeing that mysterious feathery thing she talked about before. “I’m not sure if she’s at the same address, but I’ll put this in the mail for her on the way home. If there’s any . . . follow-up, I’ll let you know.”

  “I won’t hold my breath.” When I looked down, I noticed I was still clutching the little jade elephant I’d picked up when I first came in. I returned it to the desk.

  “You can have that if you like.”

  “No, I . . . It looks expensive.”

  “I’m not even sure where I got it, but I doubt it’s real jade. Please. It’s my gift to you and I don’t give away my elephants often.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not much of a collector.” I hitched my pocketbook up onto my shoulder.

  My hand was on the doorknob when I caught sight of my reflection in the glass and remembered the Agnes Henry saw. The one who was different. The one who was never afraid. When I spun around, the files were still open on the desk. “Do those records say anything about my sister?”

  Julie gave me a long look before she returned to her seat and to the first page of the file. “Maud-Marie Juniper. Born April 18, 1951,” she read.

  “Yes. Where she is now? What happened to her? When I was little, Mr. Dean told me they put her in a . . . a place for retarded kids. Mrs. Dean said it, too. All these years . . . I was just . . . I was trying to survive myself. I didn’t ask. But now—”

  Julie looked down at the sheaf of papers. “Unfortunately, these are your files, Agnes. They make mention of her during the years you were together, but after that . . . it appears she was moved to another district.”

  “I know it says something.”

  She flipped through the pages, pausing to read some passages more carefully, skipping over others. Finally, she looked up.

  “The foster mothers in your early homes made note of your good nature from the start. Your sister, on the other hand, was called . . . troubled. Difficult. It was one reason they had such a hard time finding a placement for the two of you. The caregivers made mention of fits, tantrums that grew more violent as time went on. According to their notes, she couldn’t follow simple commands.”