At Risk of Being a Fool (16 page)

God, it was endless, the crap they dreamed up for the girls to do. Whether a girl worked and went to school, or whether she just went to therapy and cried all day, she still plowed through the morning chores. Why did it have to be on Wednesdays? Why not clean everything on the weekends, like regular people?

Becca looked out of the kitchen door. “Breakfast,” she said. The door shut.

Sorrel tied the top of her trash bag in a knot, and slung it over her shoulder. Lisabet was already at the trashcan
. Cut out early, didn’t you, whore?
Sorrel thought. Lisabet flinched away. Sorrel lifted the lid on the trashcan and threw in her bag. She went inside and washed her hands at the bathroom sink. She pulled a nail file from the small box of toiletries sitting on a shelf.
Sorrel Quintana
, it blared in black print. That was another of Torrez’s nitpicky rules. She couldn’t leave her stuff in the bedroom, oh no. She had to leave it in the bathroom, where anybody could use her comb on their greasy hair, and get lice all over everything. Well, they weren’t getting their hands on her makeup. That stayed in her purse, and the purse stayed in the bedroom. There was one good thing about Torrez’s rules. No one dared go in her bedroom except Torrez, Cuthbert, and the aides. If a girl set foot in another’s room, it was five demerits. The trouble was, she couldn’t get her purse until it was time for the van to leave, and so she never got her face done before she left.

Breakfast was nauseating. They’d rushed cleanup because Cuthbert detailed the wrong girls, and these couldn’t do sausages without grease blanketing the kitchen. Cuthbert was a nervous wreck, with Torrez gone. Cuthbert didn’t do Wednesdays; Torrez did. Cuthbert was a flurry of waving arms, like the routine actually mattered. How was Torrez going to know if they’d picked up cigarette butts before breakfast or after dinner, or even on a Wednesday?

Just a few days ago, Sorrel had seen Torrez staring at her, those gray eyes of hers like stones from a slingshot. She’d wanted to vomit; she was so sure Torrez knew. But the car bomb took care of it. It didn’t matter what Torrez knew anymore; she couldn’t do anything about it. And Cuthbert was as good as blind.

The van dropped her at the courthouse. As she got out, Mrs. Mahoney held out a hand, stopping her. “Now, Sorrel,” Mrs. Mahoney said, “we’re short-handed today, so here’s a bus token. Since Mrs. Cuthbert’s covering for Mrs. Torrez, I have to cover for Mrs. Cuthbert. Things are really messed up right now.”

“Yeah,” said Sorrel. She strove to sound sympathetic. “I’m sure it’s hard on you guys.”

“Uh huh,” said Mrs. Mahoney, undeceived. “Anyway, we’re asking our working girls to take the bus home, until the State loans us a driver. I’m sure you won’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine.” She tried to keep her voice even. “Thanks.”

Mrs. Mahoney raised an eyebrow. “Just remember, we know the bus schedules, and when you get off work. Check in when you get back. Don’t blow it, Sorrel.”

“I won’t.” Sorrel stood frozen, staring after the van as it swung away. She closed her hand tightly over the bus token. God, if only Mahoney knew. What a piece of luck. Maybe she could sound things out, or make some plans. If she could get to Carol, and the woman let her off a few minutes early, she might actually live through this.

~*~

Sorrel paced up and down the sidewalk. Again, she checked her watch, and the distance to the bus stop. She had half an hour. It was only down two blocks, and across the street. How hard could it be? She eyed the door. All she had to do was step inside, go up the stairs, and knock. No one would know.

It took all the guts she had to open the door. Her feet were blocks of concrete, dragging up the stairs with clanks that shook the building. At the top of the stairs, a plain wooden door barred her way, with its discreet, unrevealing sign.

She looked over her shoulder at the light filtering in through the entry door’s window. She could leave. It would be so easy. There was Torrez, though. Cuthbert was clueless, but that wouldn’t last. She thought of Tiffany, growing up without her, for two more goddamned years. The inner door seemed to open by itself.

“Hello,” said a cheery voice. The woman had fluffy gray hair and a perpetually surprised look, like a cat under a blow dryer. Sylvia Palenski, her desk sign read. “I’m Mrs. Palenski, so pleased to meet you. We’ve had such a dull day, just manning the telephones.”

Sorrel found herself seated in front of the woman’s desk. She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten there.

“What can we help you with?” The delighted look on Sylvia Palenski’s face left no doubt that she would be of the greatest help to anyone who walked through the door. Sorrel had met a social worker with the same expression. She’d nearly swept Tiffany out the door into foster care.

“Um. I thought maybe, like, you could tell me some stuff?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Palenski warmly. “We’d be happy to, that’s why we’re here. Tina? Bring the intake forms with you, dear.”

Intake forms. Sorrel edged sideways, ready to flee.

Mrs. Palenski smiled at her. “I have a young volunteer with me today. She’s in training. She’s a little nervous still. Would it be all right if she helped us out?”

“Um.”

“Tina!”

Tina bustled in from an adjoining office, intently scanning the paperwork in her hands. She looked up, saw Sorrel, and grinned at her, a perky expression, a duplicate of Mrs. Palenski’s. Oh God, they were twins.

Tina pulled up a chair next to Mrs. Palenski, across the desk from Sorrel. She fanned the papers out. “Are these the right ones?”

“Perfect, Tina. Excellent. Why don’t you begin the interview?”

Tina squared the papers together self-importantly. She picked up a pen, and turned to Sorrel with eager eyes. “Hi. I’m so glad you came in. I was afraid I wasn’t going to get any practice today at all. We’ve got just a few questions first, if that’s okay. It’s for our funding, you know.” She shot a glance at Mrs. Palenski, and became suitably grave. “Of course, everything’s confidential. I’ve just been through the training on it. Confidentiality is a really big deal. So you can trust us.”

Yeah, sure. Sorrel edged back further. She closed her eyes for a moment. She had to get home. It was killing her, not seeing Tiffany, or Mama. Grandma was getting so old. What if she died while Sorrel was inside? How would Mama cope?

“So, if you don’t mind, could you give me your name?”

Sorrel’s eyes flew open. “Brynna,” she said. Not fair to use Gallagher. She hated Brynna, but not that much. “McCoy. Brynna McCoy.”

Mrs. Palenski looked hard at Sorrel. “McCoy?”

“Yeah. My Dad was a McCoy,” she said stiffly.

“Thanks,” said Tina, oblivious to the significance of a Scottish name for a Hispanic girl. She stuck out her tongue, frowned at the paper, and wrote “Brenda McCoy.” With similar care, she obtained a false address and phone number. “Now, Brenda, we’ve got lots of information we can give you—”

Mrs. Palenski cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Tina? Did you forget something?”

Tina looked at her blankly.

“The warning? About classes of information? Their availability?”

“Oh.” Comprehension lit Tina’s face. “Right. I’ve got to ask you, how old are you? Because if you’re under eighteen, we have to get parental permission for some stuff.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“Could I see your ID? You know, just for the forms.”

Sorrel’s ID lay in her purse. Sorrel Quintana, it read, aged nineteen, in care of the Oregon Youth Authority. “Didn’t bring it today. Taking the bus, you know, not driving.”

“Oh,” Tina said, stymied.

Mrs. Palenski recovered for her. “Well, we don’t really need the ID right now. It’s possible it will be required if we meet again. Now Brynna, what information can we offer you today?”

Dust motes danced in the air. Sorrel’s head began its daily throb. She lifted a trembling hand to her temple. She hid her hand in her lap. Tina looked puzzled, vaguely concerned. She began to speak, but Mrs. Palenski rested a hand on her arm.

“The door is right there, Miss McCoy,” Mrs. Palenski said. “You can leave at any time.”

Just for a minute, Mrs. Palenski looked approachable, like Mackie, like Randy, like Jeanie. Torn between fear and hopelessness, Sorrel opened her mouth, unsure what would come out.

“I wondered if you could tell me, like, about abortions.”

CHAPTER
TEN

“Hi, Mike. So how’s everything at Starfire these days? Hmm, well for goodness sakes. I never thought she’d do it. That must be tough, training a replacement mid-job like that. Oh, really? That’s a bit of luck.” Jeanie leaned back in her armchair, doodling on a notepad on her lap. “I wanted to thank you for coming down last week. I know Edward appreciates it, even if he’s a little confused these days.”

Mike’s deep voice boomed across the phone wires. “My pleasure. He’s still a great conversationalist. We got to talking about the Navy, and the time just flew.”

“I’m really glad you came, Mike. Women surround him, and there’s not an engineer among us. Look, after you left, he brought up a story, and I never heard the ending. I thought I’d heard all his stories! I even pumped him yesterday, and got a bit more, but then it was time for his meds, and that derailed us. It’s been bugging me ever since.”

Mike chuckled. “You always were a nosy parker. A work story, was it?”

“Yes, about a construction job. You guys were overseeing removal of one of those old underground gas tanks down on the south side. Delancey Brothers bought the site at a distressed property auction.”

“Yeah, it happened a lot then. The expense of pulling a tank sometimes wiped out the property value. Owners just walked away, and let the banks foreclose. They figured that was the end of it, poor fellows. Delancey bought a few that way, rebuilt them.”

“Right. And Edward was talking about a construction chief he met just a few years ago, Bryce Wogan.”

“Wogan
...
I don’t quite—”

“Something about a gang, Edward said, and Bryce Wogan’s daughter? A teenager.”

“Oh, that one.” A long exhale. “Poor guy. Yeah, Wogan came by one day, to see when the site would be ready for building. He was grumpy as all hell, picking fights, got everybody’s back up. The backhoe operator was all set to walk off the job. Then this guy, a friend of his, big Hispanic guy, what’s his name? Romero? Maybe it was Padilla. Shoot, why can’t I remember . . .”

“Danny Rivera.” Jeanie scribbled on her notepad.

“Yeah, that’s it! By God, Edward’s memory’s better than mine is! Rivera, he kind of lassoed Wogan, rounded him up, shoved him in the truck, sent him off to bug somebody else. Then he apologized to everybody. I got the impression he’d been doing that a lot lately. Seems Wogan’s daughter tangled herself up with some gang kid. He had her selling drugs at the high school. I don’t know if she was hooked, or just selling it. Cops got her, but the guy split to the winds. She’s in the reform system somewhere.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Oh geez, Jeanie, this was a couple of years ago. How am I going to remember that?”

“I just thought you might. You’ve got a couple of daughters yourself, Mike. Carly’s about that age, isn’t she?”

“Not quite, couple years older. I remember the girl went by her mother’s last name, not Wogan’s. Divorced right after he married, I bet! Shoot, what was the name? Liz?
Elizabeth
? Something like that. Wasn’t in the newspapers.”

“No, it wouldn’t be, if she was a minor.”

“Oh God yes, sixteen, I remember that! Kind of struck home hard, you know?”

Jeanie wrote a few more notes, thanked him, and hung up. She flipped back to the front page on the notepad, and checked off Starfire Engineering. She added a page number, so she could find her notes on Mike’s conversation later on. She scanned her list, covering some thirty lines. She’d marked off about half of them. Most showed cross-references to other pages. Nancy Zernel, at the top of the list, had put her on to half of them, while Ann and Janine filled in the blanks. God bless the teacher network. Their inquisitive fingers dug deeply into the guts of any community, and
Salem
was no exception.

The head counselor at Jeanie’s old school had a network of her own. If anyone could zero in on a nameless girl two years back, somewhere in the Salem/Keizer School District, it was Susan McLain. She added a star to Susan’s name. But before that, Jeanie needed a broader understanding of gang activity in the area. Ah, there it was. The Marion Area Gang and Narcotics Enforcement Team. MAG-NET.

Jeanie turned to a fresh page, and dialed another phone number.

~*~

“The wheel’s turning, but the hamster’s gone,” Jeanie remarked.

Tonio turned his eyes on her. They seemed blind, out of focus.

She cleared her throat. “How about this. The phone’s ringing, but nobody’s home.”

“What?”

His toneless response worried her. “Tonio, Tonio, Tonio, wake up and smell the coffee. Usually you get my dumb little jokes. What I’m saying is, you seem lost in thought. Having a problem with the essay?”

“Essay? Uh, no.” Tonio shook himself, reminding her of Corrigan after he’d walked under a sprinkler. “I was just, uh, thinking real hard.”