Authors: Margaret Fenton
He laughed, short and loud. “Ha! G? I
ain’t no fuckin’ kaleidoscope kid. Neither was Ashley.”
“Kaleidoscope kid?”
“Kaleidoscope. That bar down near
Lakeview. That’s where all them ravin’ X-heads hang.”
I had one last question. “Were you
Michael’s father?”
“Shit, man, I better not be. I told that
bitch if she got knocked up it was her problem. I ain’t fixin’ to pay no
fuckin’ child support.”
Nice. Gina had been listening to all
this in silence. I realized where her earlier reaction had come from. On the
one hand, maybe she thought a grandchild would have given her the opportunity
to do things right. A do-over, so to speak. Then again, what if he had turned
out like Flash?
After Flash stormed back to his room
with one final curse, I said good-bye to Gina and drove carefully home. If I’d
gotten pulled over, there was no way any police officer would have believed
that I hadn’t been smoking weed. I reeked.
Dad had cut the grass while I was gone.
I took another shower as soon as I got in, trading my stinky outfit for a pair
of comfortable shorts and a different T-shirt. I spent the rest of Saturday
afternoon running errands, to the grocery store and the bakery. I gave up on
the idea of making anything for Royanne’s barbeque, instead going to Edgar’s
Bakery and getting an apple pie. Heck, they made a better one than I could any
day.
Then, on Sunday, all hell broke loose.
Chapter Eleven
Sunday morning I awoke in a good mood and
made my way down the driveway as usual in my robe. I lugged the two-pound paper
into the dining area and made myself comfortable with a cup of Sumatran coffee.
The front-page news was about a pharmaceutical firm. They’d gotten permission
to start drug trials in conjunction with the university on a new medicine for a
sleep disorder. Another article discussed the search for Birmingham Southern
College’s new basketball coach. The sports section was already predicting how
the University of Alabama’s football team was going to perform, even though the
start of the season was well over a month away. I always loved fall, when
Birmingham went Crimson Tide crazy. Except for the Auburn fans, of course.
There was no in-between, either.
It wasn’t until I’d looked through the
stack of ads and had gone on to the Comments and Editorials section that I
choked on my coffee. On the front page was the headline MOTHERS AND ADDICTS. By
Kirk Mahoney.
Last week brought the overdose death of
little Michael Hennessy, two-year-old son of Ashley Hennessy, now serving up to
five years in jail for negligent homicide. Ms. Hennessy is only one of hundreds
of drug and alcohol users whose addiction impacts the lives of children. Claire
Conover, a caseworker at the Department of Human Services familiar with the
Hennessy case, points to the cycle of domestic violence, emotional abuse, and
drugs as the real culprit that destroys the lives of our city’s youth.
Oh, shit.
Birmingham’s shelters are full of women
whose own biographies mirror that of Ashley Hennessy’s. April Schulz, a
resident of The Harbor, a homeless shelter for women and children, is one of
those victims. “I started drinking when I was thirteen,” she states. “My father
used to beat me and my sister. I drank to escape.” Ms. Schultz’s children have
been in and out of foster care for the past eight years. “It’s tough on them.
They want to come home.”
April Schultz wasn’t my client. But the
next one was.
Cheyenne Phillips, another resident of
The Harbor, has lost custody of her children for the last time. “They’re going
up for adoption. I’m not getting another chance.”
So that was where Cheyenne had landed
after St. Monica’s. I’d wondered. Kirk went on to interview a sociologist from
the university in Montevallo, who correlated the histories of drug use and
foster care in the United States. The last section of the article discussed new
and novel approaches to dealing with the problem, including in-home parenting
services and one local OB/GYN who offered addiction counseling and recovery
along with prenatal care. The article concluded with:
Programs like these, not government
agencies, may be the best hope for children of addicts.
I was in so much trouble. God only knew
what Mac and Dr. Pope were going to say. I was considering placing a preemptive
call to Mac when my cell phone rang in the bedroom. I unplugged it from its
charge cord and checked the caller ID. The office. Not good.
“Hello?”
“I need you to come down here.” Mac.
“Sure.”
I didn’t need a college degree to tell
how pissed he was. I threw on jeans, a polo, and my Birkenstocks. Hell, if I
was going to be fired, at least I was going to wear comfortable shoes.
I flew downtown at a speed that would have
made a Talladega NASCAR driver proud, jogged through the empty lot behind the
building, and went to the front door. Mac was there, dressed for church and
waiting with a key. He let me in and locked the door again.
He didn’t say anything other than to nod
a greeting. When Mac goes quiet, it’s very bad. We entered the elevator
together, and the higher it rose the more nauseous with dread I got. The silver
doors slid open and we marched our way to Dr. Pope’s office.
She was dressed out of the L.L. Bean
catalog. Chic and sporty, in a golf shirt and long walking shorts. She pointed
to the conference table and I sat down. She and Mac sat across from me, stern
looks on their faces. I stiffened and readied myself for the words they were
about to say: You’re fired. I was financially, emotionally, and professionally
screwed.
Today’s paper was sitting on the table.
Dr. Pope began with, “You’ve seen this?”
“Yes.”
“You were specifically instructed not to
talk to the press.”
“I know. I didn’t.”
“Then how do you explain this?”
“I ran into Kirk Mahoney a couple of
times. Once here, the day he interviewed you. In the lobby.”
“I remember.”
“Then, after the article about you came
out, I ran into him at a restaurant. He asked me to comment on the case, and I
didn’t. But I was mad about the article he’d written about you. So I said
something to the effect of why didn’t he write about all the good stuff we do
here. About all the kids we rescue out of bad situations instead of making DHS
sound bad. He’s taken what I said and turned it around to something I didn’t
say.” My words were coming out haphazardly.
Mac said, his tone sarcastic, “You just
ran into him at a restaurant, and somehow he figured out that you were the
worker on the case? You didn’t say anything at all to him about it?”
I squirmed. “Um, the restaurant was the
Top of the Hill Grill.”
Mac, now even madder, said, “I see.”
I said, by way of explanation to Dr.
Pope, “The Top of the Hill Grill is where Ashley Hennessy worked.”
Mac asked, “What were you doing there?”
“I went by to check on Brandi. She’s
Ashley’s best friend. And to tell her about the memorial on Tuesday.”
Dr. Pope said, “And that’s the last time
you saw Kirk?”
“I saw him again at Ashley’s sentencing.
But I didn’t say anything to him, I swear. Well, not much, anyway.”
Dr. Pope sighed, fingering the corner of
the newspaper on the table. “See, Claire, the problem is now the agency looks
bad. Because of Mr. Mahoney’s article, it appears as if we are trying to shift
the blame away from us. I’ve been doing damage control all morning with the
press and the state office. I think I have it under control. I appreciate your
trying to defend me and your client and the agency, but you really shouldn’t
have said anything at all.”
Mac barked, “When we said don’t say
anything to anyone, we meant it. This also violated the confidentiality of our
clients.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t mention Cheyenne at all?”
“No! I would never do that. I think he
just went down to The Harbor and met her. It’s just a coincidence that she’s
also mine.”
Dr. Pope strode once across the room.
“Here’s where we are, Claire. Your involvement with this case is over. Period.
We have no reason to keep the case open, and you have no reason to have
anything to do with anyone involved in it. The state office hasn’t said
anything about letting you go, but if your name comes up again they may not
give me a choice. Understood?”
“What about the memorial on Tuesday? I’m
going.” That last statement came out a little more forcefully than I had
intended. Now was not the time to argue.
“I know you want to pay your respects.”
Dr. Pope said. “You may even feel there was something you could have done to
prevent Michael’s death. Even if there was, it’s over. Whatever prompted Ashley
to use drugs again, we may never know. She’s pled guilty, and DHS is out of it.
Understood? I strongly suggest you stay away from the memorial.”
“What does that mean? I want to go.”
She glanced at Mac. “I can’t forbid you
to go, but I really don’t think you should.”
Mac stood and placed his hands flat on
the table and leaned toward me. “You are on thin ice. Get it?”
I got it.
I apologized repeatedly for everything,
including bringing them down to the office on a Sunday. Mac warned me once more
to keep my nose clean, and I left, able to breathe again and with the relieved
sensation that I’d dodged the bullet. For now.
At home, I read the article again and
fumed. I changed to old clothes and went out to weed the pitiful-looking beds
near the house. With every stem I plucked, I pretended it was Kirk Mahoney’s
neck I was snapping. Very therapeutic. I watered the plants, cleaned up the
small concrete patio in the backyard, and washed the outdoor furniture. After
that I cleaned out the storeroom in the carport and washed my car. By the time
I finished I was sore, and it felt like I’d been beaten.
I turned my attention to my answering
machine. Its message light was blinking like a red-alert button. The first one
was from my father, who saw the article in the paper this morning and wanted to
know if he needed to change the sign at his office. Changing the sign from
Conover & Associates to Conover, Conover, & Associates was something
he’d wanted to do forever, to the point where it was now a joke between us. I
called him back and told him about my morning.
The second call was from my brother,
Chris, a nurse in Orlando. I talked to him for an hour. The third call was from
Royanne, confirming the cookout for tomorrow. The last three messages were
hang-ups. I wondered briefly if Flash had gotten his hands on my home number.
Late Monday morning I dressed in light
shorts and a tank top and, with apple pie in hand, went to Royanne and Toby’s.
Royanne lived in a 1970’s split-level in the suburb of Pelham. The house was
crammed with furniture and toys, and always loud with the cries and shrieks of
their three kids. Royanne thrived on all the chaos, but I have to admit
sometimes it drove me nuts. Her parents’ Buick was already there when I
arrived, along with another truck I didn’t recognize.
Royanne greeted me with a hug at the
door and took the dessert. Roy and Anne, her parents, were on the deck already,
ice-cold Miller Lites in hand. The strange truck turned out to be Bo’s, the
friend of Toby’s my alleged best friend was trying to fix me up with. He
muttered a hi as I shot Royanne a look. Today Bo looked like a goldfish, with
bright orange hair and a vacant, surprised look on his face. I spent most of
the afternoon playing with the kids, talking to Royanne’s parents, and avoiding
him.
After we’d all stuffed ourselves on
ribs, chicken, potato salad, cole slaw, and apple pie, I helped Royanne with
the dishes. “How’s work?” I asked.
“Fine. We just had a big account come
in, so I’m working a lot on that. What about you? What’d Mac say about the
article?”
“Nothing good.” I summarized yesterday’s
events for her.
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I gotta watch it.”
“So are you going tomorrow? To the memorial?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because. Lots of reasons. I want to see
who shows up, first of all. See their reactions. I’m still not buying that
Ashley knew the drug was in the juice. And,” I swallowed hard, “I just want to
go, that’s all.” To say good-bye.
Royanne’s kids ran screaming into the
kitchen. The eldest, Alicia, squirted the youngest with a water pistol.
Richard, the four-year-old, retaliated on behalf of his younger sister by
hitting Alicia in the back with a foam ball. Alicia giggled. Olivia wailed. Royanne
bellowed, “Outside! Now!”
That’s what childhood was. Laughing,
giggling, pretending, playing. Not lying dead in a tiny coffin. I stared out
the café-curtained window above Royanne’s sink and started to shake. My eyes
welled. Damn it. I’d been doing so well, not letting myself go there. Not
picturing Michael like that. Or Olivia. Or Alicia. Or Richard. Or any of my
other clients. I brushed the tears away quickly and struggled for control as
Royanne finished shooing her brood out of the sliding glass door. She caught
the look on my face and said, “You okay?”