Little Mercies
“Mom,” I said, startling her, “what are you doing?”
I looked at the open freezer. “Mom?” I said again, a lilt of fear creeping into my voice. “What’s going on?” I heard her stomach rumble in protest, but still she ate, moving on to a Ziplock bag filled with peanut butter crisscross cookies. “Mom!” I shouted, rousing Craig and Danny who by the time they ran down the stairs found me trying to wrestle the plastic bag from my mother, and her dog, Dolly, lapping up the crumbs that tumbled to the floor because of the tussle. We took my mother to the doctor, watched her carefully, encouraged her to get a part-time job, to volunteer. But life goes on. Our own lives resumed, my brothers going back to their own towns and families, me going back to work and my family. She seems better, but I know she is still so lonely and once again I utter a silent vow to spend more time with her.
I ignore the buzz but grab the phone and rush down the stairs, nearly tripping on the pile of folded laundry I had set there the night before to be put away. In the kitchen the TV is blaring, the phone is ringing and the kids are bickering over who gets the last Pop-Tart and who has to have a granola bar with raisins. In exasperation, Adam breaks both the Pop-Tart and the granola bar in halves and gives one each to the Leah and Lucas, who grumble anyway.
“Morning,” I say, ignoring the phone and distractedly tucking my blouse into my skirt. Avery is in her high chair, her eyes still heavy with sleep. Leah has dressed her in one of her Sunday dresses and shoved tennis shoes on her feet. She looks beautiful. I bend over and lay a kiss on the top of her head and do the same to Leah and Lucas. “Thanks for helping out this morning, I gotta go,” I say, and then stop short. “Damn,” Lucas looks at me with reproach. “Sorry. Darn,” I amend. “I left my bag upstairs.”
I turn on my heel and hurry out of the kitchen. “Ellen,” Adam calls after me, “I’ve got a game in Cherokee tonight, you’re going to pick up Avery after work, too, right?” Adam’s muffled words continue to follow me to the second floor but are blanketed by the buzz of my phone.
“Okay,” I yell from the stairs. Maybe it’s my mother again, or maybe Caren, my supervisor, wondering where I am. We have a staff meeting every Tuesday at eight and once again I’m running late. Not recognizing the number, I press the phone to my ear. “Hello,” I say breathlessly. Nothing. No one is there. I shake my head in frustration and grab my bag teeming with notes and case files.
I skitter down the steps, weighed down by my bag, and fling open the front door meeting Adam on his way back in the house.
“Bye, guys!” I shout, blowing kisses in the direction of the kitchen. I am immediately met by the day’s heat; already it must be eighty degrees. As I open the van door my phone rings again and I fumble for it in the depths of my purse. Tumbling from my sweaty fingers to the driveway the phone bounces beneath the car. “Dammit,” I mutter, and try to tuck my skirt tightly around my knees as I lower myself to the ground. The ringing stops as I snake my hand beneath the van’s carriage, but the phone is not quite within my reach. Sharp pebbles bite into my knees as I try to angle my way closer. Again my phone rings. I slip off my sandal and, using the heel as a hook, I snag the phone, pulling it within my reach and it falls silent. Sweat has soaked through my blouse and my skirt is dusty and wrinkled. I glance at my watch before getting up. I’m late as it is. The meeting has already started and I will be lucky to get there before it even adjourns. No time to change my clothes. I slide into the driver’s seat and the heat seeps through the fabric of my skirt.
Sweetly, Adam has started the van for me and lukewarm air from the air conditioner strikes ineffectually at my face. From the front steps Adam is waving. I catch snippets of what he is saying, practice, day care, kids. I wave back and give him a thumbs-up as my phone trills once again. “Hello,” I say breathlessly into the receiver as I brush my sweaty bangs from my forehead.
The voice on the other end is young and frantic sounding, unintelligible. “Slow down,” I urge as I put the van into Reverse. “I can’t understand you.” I back out of my driveway and head toward the office.
I listen for a moment finally realizing that it’s Kylie, a seven-year-old client of mine. “Where are they now?” There is no answer. Just heavy, frantic breaths. “Where are you? Are you safe?” I ask. In the bathroom, I don’t know, she answers uncertainly, more of a whimper actually, and a nugget of fear settles in my chest. Across the phone line I hear a heavy thud. “I’m calling the police and I’ll be right over. I promise,” I say, but the line is already dead. I stop the van in the middle of the road to dial 911 and I’m vaguely aware of cars honking at me from behind. I give the emergency operator the address, tell her who I am and what little I know about the situation. Cool air is finally puffing through the vents, but I barely notice it as I wrench the steering wheel to the right and pull into the nearest driveway so I can turn around.
Chapter 6
Jenny gradually awoke to the not so unpleasant feeling of being gently swayed back and forth. Disoriented, her mouth sticky and dry, she sat up in her seat, stretched and looked around. With dread she realized that she was not in the musty-smelling hotel with her father snoring loudly in the bed across from her, but all by herself on a bus traveling through the countryside.
A few new passengers must have boarded while she was sleeping. In the seat across the aisle was a scraggly man wearing a camouflage jacket, eyes closed, headphones covering his ears; in front of her and to the right was a plump man wearing khaki pants and a striped button-down shirt. The bride and groom had gotten off the bus somewhere along the way as had the businessman. Remaining were the crabby old woman and the lady with the white hair.
Jenny looked out the window where fields painted with gold and green rolled past. She had no idea how much time had gone by, though the sun had risen, and had no inkling as to where she was. A spasm of anxiety filled her chest and tears bunched in the corners of her eyes. The man in the khakis glanced back at her, a look of concern crinkling his friendly face. Jenny bowed her head and she began rummaging through her book bag until she found the bottle of water she had tossed in when she packed her few belongings. The quickest way to find your way into foster care, Jenny knew, was to gain the attention of some well-meaning adult. She blinked back her tears, twisted the lid and tilted the plastic bottle so that the warm water filled her mouth. After replacing the lid and returning it to her bag, Jenny turned her attention to her father’s duffel bag, which lay on the floor beneath her feet, and wondered what had happened to him. Remembering the wail of the sirens and the policeman yanking her father to his feet, she figured he was in a jail cell back in Benton. Jenny realized she had abandoned him by remaining on the bus, too scared to move. Jenny’s face reddened in shame and she felt the weight of her father’s cell phone in her pocket.
She could call the Benton police department and tell them who she was and what she had seen, that it was the three men who had attacked her father. But what would that mean for her? Maybe it would be best if at the next bus station she just hopped on a bus back to Benton. Then she could talk to the police in person, or maybe by then the whole misunderstanding would have been worked out. Jenny had the feeling it wasn’t going to be that simple.
She could call her father’s former friend-girl. Connie would know what to do. But what could she possibly say to her? Connie and her dad hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Her father wasn’t mean. He got grouchy once in a while when he got one of his headaches or when his hands started to shake, but he always went right to bed or out for a little while and then he would wake up or come back and be just fine. But Jenny knew that something wasn’t quite right about her father. He couldn’t keep a job; they never stayed in one place for more than a few months, sleeping on couches and floors of friends, moving in and out of run-down apartments and hotels. Plus he had so many friend-girls that sometimes he would confuse their names.
Even if she could explain to Connie what she had seen, what if her father went to jail for a long time? Then what would happen to her? Why would Connie care? Back to Benton? Back to another foster family. Maybe back to the same foster family she was with when she was little, before she got to live with her father all the time. Never.
She tried to think of who else she could call. Her mother? No. She didn’t know where she was, hadn’t heard a peep from her since she ran away with Jimmy. When she tried to bring up the topic of her mother with her father, his lips would press into a thin tight line and he would pull Jenny close to him. “You don’t want to think about that now. You’re safe. No one will hurt you ever again. I promise.” Jenny thought about telling him that she wasn’t ever really afraid of her mother. Her mother’s boyfriend, yes. And even he wasn’t always such a bad guy, but when he was mean he was really mean. Besides, she wanted to tell him, there were many kinds of hurt. There was, of course, the pain of being beaten, but there was also the ache that stretched itself across your belly when you realized that your mother was never coming back. Jenny also wanted to tell her father, but wasn’t quite sure how to put it into words, that the very worst kind of hurt was the kind that wasn’t there yet, but you knew was slowly creeping toward you.
In the seat across the aisle, the rumpled man wearing the camouflage jacket stood, his knees crackling as he rose and stretched his arms above his head. Unsmiling, he nodded at her as he stepped into the aisle and wedged his way through the narrow bathroom door.
Jenny bent over and unzipped her father’s duffel bag, hoping to find something, anything that would help her get out of this mess. She riffled past two pairs of jeans, four shirts, underwear, a pair of dress pants that she’d never seen before, a disposable razor, deodorant and a box of condoms. Jenny recoiled. She never actually thought of her father having sex, but of course he did, with all the women who came in and out of their apartment over the years. She learned all about condoms on the school bus while eavesdropping on a conversation between two middle-school girls. “It unrolls right over it,” a girl with purple streaks in her hair and a mouth filled with braces explained to her skeptical seatmate with canary-yellow hair and eyes heavily lined with black makeup. The two girls looked up to find Jenny peeking over the seat. The two began giggling, huddled more closely together, lowered their voices and resumed their conversation, but Jenny could still hear.
Jenny pushed the box of condoms to the bottom of the bag and turned her attention to an overstuffed manila envelope that was sealed shut. She pulled it out of the duffel bag and turned it over in her hands. The envelope was wrinkled and battered and there was no writing on the outside to indicate what the contents were. Jenny was picking at the red string that was wound tightly around a small, round metal clasp at the top of the envelope when she felt someone settle in the seat next to her. Startled, Jenny looked up to find the plump man wearing khaki pants in the seat next to her. “You looked lonely back here all by yourself,” he said with a wide grin that showed a set of small, straight white teeth. Tic Tacs came to Jenny’s mind. “You hungry? I’ve got trail mix.” He produced a baggie filled with nuts, dried fruit and chocolate chips and shook it at her like she could be lured like a hungry puppy.
Jenny shook her head. “Excuse me,” she said, “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Someone’s already in there,” the man said. “He didn’t look so good. He might be in there for a while.” Jenny looked around the bus, hoping to get someone’s attention, but the other passengers were near the front of the bus. She’d have to yell and what did she have to holler about? A man with trail mix? A pink flush had risen up the man’s neck and he leaned in closely to Jenny so that she could feel his breath on her cheek. His short, pudgy fingers released the plastic bag and it dropped heavily into her lap. Before the man could retrieve the bag and just as the man in the army jacket emerged from the bathroom Jenny stood up, causing dried cranberries and peanuts to spill to the floor.
“Jeez,” she exclaimed. “Took you long enough, Uncle Mike.” Jenny squeezed past the surprised man in the seat next to her and quickly stepped into the bathroom, slammed the door and slid the lock into place. Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. If the man in the army coat was surprised at being called uncle, he didn’t let on and she hoped that he wouldn’t tell the creepy man with the trail mix otherwise. The bathroom was tiny and dimly lit. Realizing she really did have to go to the bathroom, she set the manila envelope she was carrying carefully on the edge of the small sink, spread toilet paper around the rim of the toilet seat as her father had always told her to do. When Jenny was finished and had washed her hands, she found that she was hesitant to open the door and return to her seat, worried that the strange man was still there and that the army jacket man had told him that he wasn’t really her uncle. She could stay where she was, ensconced within the stuffy, narrow walls of the bathroom and wait until the bus stopped or return to her seat where her book bag and father’s duffel, and possibly the weird man waited for her. There was a sudden knock on the bathroom door, causing Jenny to jump and forcing her decision. Jenny slowly opened the door and found the grouchy old woman in the red-and-pink sundress waiting outside.
“Everything okay?” the woman asked. “I thought you fell in.”
“I’m okay,” Jenny murmured, ducking past her, relieved to see that the khaki man had returned to his own seat. She avoided eye contact with Uncle Mike, slid into her seat and dropped the manila envelope damp from her sweaty fingers on the chair next to her. Sensing the weight of his stare upon her, Jenny finally looked up to meet his gaze.
He leaned slightly toward her and whispered conspiratorially, “By the way, it’s Uncle Dave.” Jenny responded with a limp smile and returned her attention to the unopened envelope.
She tried to imagine what could be inside. She often played this game with wrapped birthday and Christmas presents, with unopened doors. Maybe there was a treasure map in the envelope with clues to a buried treasure, but the chance of a pirate’s booty ending up in Iowa was not a good bet. Maybe there was a wad of money inside, enough for her to buy a bus ticket so that she could get back to Benton and get her father out of jail. Someone was always bailing someone out of jail on television. She could imagine herself walking into the police station, wearing her blue-jean skirt and her best polo shirt. Soft pink and sporting an alligator emblem, she saved this shirt for the most special of occasions: school concerts, holidays, and now for bailing her father out of jail. “Here,” she would say importantly as she slapped the money down on the counter. “Billy Briard is coming with me now.” The policeman behind the counter would be impressed and quickly bring her father to her.
“If you just open it you’ll find out what’s inside,” the man in camouflage offered. Though Jenny saw the wisdom in this, she was undecided. Inside the envelope could be something awful, the evidence of a terrible crime, some apparently deadly powder that is always being sent in the mail to courthouses and important people. But, even worse, there could be nothing inside. Nothing of value anyway. Receipts or bills or boring clippings from the newspaper. She dared a look at her newly acquired Uncle Dave. He was staring expectantly at her as if saying, Just open it already. Jenny unwound the red string and pushed back the flap. Peering inside the envelope she could see that she was right on almost all counts. There was no toxic powder, but the envelope held a map, a wad of money and a stack of smaller envelopes held together with a thick rubber band.
“You want me to call someone for you?” Uncle Dave asked, wagging a cell phone toward her.
Jenny shook her head and held up her father’s phone. “I’m good. Thanks though.” Uncle Dave looked at her thoughtfully for a moment nodded and closed his eyes. Jenny pulled out the folded map of Iowa. It had been folded and unfolded so many times it looked as if it would disintegrate at any moment. “How far are we from Cedar City?” Jenny asked suddenly, struck with a wonderfully, startling idea.
Uncle Dave opened one eye. “It’s the next stop, about an hour from here.” He sat up, the narrow space between his eyes creased with worry. “You getting off there? You sure you’ve got someone meeting you? What town are you getting off at?”
“I’m getting off in Cedar City,” Jenny answered, hope rising in her chest as the bus lumbered onward.
“Who’s meeting you at the station?” Dave asked, his steadfast gaze making Jenny uncomfortable. She didn’t like lying, especially to those who were nice to her, but it had never stopped her before.
“My grandma,” Jenny said, pinning her eyes to Dave’s. The quickest way for someone to figure out you’re lying is if you look away when the hard questions are being asked. And, besides, she wasn’t really lying, not really, she rationalized, thinking of the letter from her grandmother in the lavender envelope inside her backpack.
Dave didn’t look convinced, but Jenny continued looking him in the eye until he sighed and reached for the phone she held in her hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll put my number in. If you need something, give me a call and I’ll try and help if I can.” Jenny reluctantly handed him the phone and he began punching numbers. “Don’t try and get so good at it.” At Jenny’s confused look, he went on. “Lying. Don’t get so good at it that you forget what’s real.” Dave handed Jenny the phone and slumped back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Chapter 7
When I arrive at the familiarly ramshackle neighborhood, I am struck at how depressingly run-down it has gotten through the years. Burnt yellow lawns are edged with rusty metal fences, windows are boarded up and the ones that are intact are covered with grungy sheets or threadbare blankets.
Before I even turn onto Madison Street, I hear the sirens behind me. I pull to the side of the road to let a police car pass. Please just be precautionary, I say to myself, hoping that help hasn’t arrived too late. I drive the final four blocks as people in the neighboring houses peek out screened windows and step out onto crumbling front steps to see what’s happening. I stop three houses away, throw the van into Park and leap out and hit Lock on my key fob. The temperature has risen in just the few minutes I’ve been driving; the oppressive air crawls heavily into my nostrils and sits like sludge in my chest. Two police cars are idling in front of the house and I rush up to the nearest officer, who has emerged from his squad car and is calmly surveying the house that looks eerily quiet, empty.
Without looking at me, the officer holds up his hand to silence me before I even speak.
“Please stay back,” he says.
“I’m Ellen Moore, the social worker. I called 911,” I say, as if this explains everything.
He raises his eyebrows, finally looking me in the face. Sweat glistens on his bald forehead, his uniform already darkened with perspiration. “Officer Stamm,” he introduces himself. “Then you probably know a lot more about what’s going on in there than I do. What’s the situation?”
I try to keep my voice composed, level, but it still shakes with fear. “Manda Haskins lives here with her two children, Kylie who is seven and Krissie is four. Kylie called me a few minutes ago and said that her mom’s boyfriend, whom Manda has a temporary restraining order against, came over last night. Kylie said that this morning he started beating up their mother, so she and her little sister locked themselves in the bathroom and called me. We got disconnected and then I called you. I’m afraid the boyfriend is done with the mom and now is going after the girls.”
I don’t have time to go into the entire all-too-familiar story of Manda Haskins’s life with Officer Stamm. That Manda is twenty-five years old but still seems to always choose the wrong man. She may have been pretty once, but now Manda looks closer to forty than twenty-five—a meth addiction will do that to you. Her face is set in a permanent scowl. Manda lost custody of Kylie and Krissie two years ago when the police stopped her van and found that she was housing a mobile meth lab inside. She swore that her boyfriend was the one who placed all the drug paraphernalia in the back. In return for testifying against the boyfriend and admitting herself into an inpatient drug treatment center, Manda avoided jail time. In foster care the two children did well and all thought that Manda had done the work. Gotten clean, gotten a job. I’d hoped for so much more for Manda and her girls, but apparently her self-improvement didn’t extend to her choice in men.
“Any weapons in the house that you know about?” Officer Stamm asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean I don’t know. Have you been able find out what’s going on inside?”
“Not yet. We’re going to walk around the house, take a look in the windows, see if we can hear anything. Have you tried to call the kids back?” Stamm asks.
“No,” I say. “I was afraid if the phone started ringing it might lead the boyfriend to where Kylie and Krissie are hiding. Should I call now?”
“Yeah, go ahead. We’ll walk around the perimeter and see if we can hear a phone ringing. That might give us an idea of where the kids are. If the kids or the mom answer, try to find out the status of the situation and keep them on the line.” Stamm and the other officer begin to make their way around the house and I scroll through my received calls to find the number that Kylie called me from, hit Send and the phone goes directly to voice mail. Stamm looks at me over his shoulder and I shake my head in disappointment. He rotates his hand in a keep-trying gesture. I scan my phone looking for Manda’s contact information. In the back of my mind I remember that at one time she had a landline number as well as a cell phone. I locate the number, press Send and an instant later I can hear the faint trill of a phone ringing from within the house.
A woman, a neighbor I presume, sidles up next to me. “What’s going on?” she asks. I give her a cursory look. She is wearing flip-flops, flannel boxers, a tank top and holds a crusty-nosed toddler on her hip.
“I’m sorry, I can’t talk right now,” I say to her, and take two steps toward the house. The phone continues to ring and ring. “What’s going on?” the woman asks again, this time more insistently. The boy in her arms begins to giggle, a strange sound amid such a tense situation. I turn to face the woman and immediately recognize her as one my former clients, a woman whose son was removed from her home because of severe neglect. “Jade, Anthony,” I say. I give the little boy’s bare foot a squeeze and he smiles shyly back at me before burying his face in his mother’s shoulder. I lower my phone down to my side as it continues to ring, unanswered from within the house. “It’s Manda Haskins. The police are afraid that she’s got some trouble in there and are worried about her girls.”
Jade shakes her head, her dark eyes knowingly serious. “Haven’t met her new boyfriend, but I’ve seen him coming and going. Used to be Manda would be outside all the time in her front yard while the girls played. Her Kylie is real good with Anthony here. They would sit in their little pool.” She nods toward the small, round, plastic pool. A yellow duck floats aimlessly and a few Barbie dolls are submerged in the shallow, dirty water. “It’s too hot to be inside.”
“You don’t see them outside much anymore?” I ask.
“No.” Jade shifts Anthony to her other hip. “The boyfriend is over all the time and Manda won’t let the girls outside by themselves. Haven’t seen much of them the past three weeks or so...” Jade trails off and we both watch as Officer Stamm and his partner emerge from the other side of the house and make their way back toward to where we are standing.