Penny Legend

by Lucy English

  “Penny.” She startled me back to attention. “I scheduled you because I have some news on DCF and Legend Harris.”

  Oh no.

  “As you’re apparently aware, Legend has been returned to his aunt’s care. DCF is closing the foster care case and ending his counseling.”

  “But he still needs counseling! Did they say he’s talking?”

  “They didn’t say.”

  “Can I go over and check on him?”

  “You can do what you like off the clock, but I strongly suggest you don’t get entangled.”

  “If he isn’t talking will you ask DCF to reconsider their decision?”

  “Why don’t we take one step at a time? You know I don’t want to strain the relationship with DCF. They’re funneling a lot of work our way lately.”

  I took that as a no, but I wasn’t going to argue without more information. I thanked Vivian and went back to my office for a Snickers bar and twenty minutes of peace before my next client.

  Nobody took me out for a drink after work. I just stumbled home through a light rain so hot it was almost sticky. At the apartment I peeled off my work clothes and tied back my frizz. I showered off the day’s sweat and tried to wash the despair away as well.

  I was definitely in a weakened state. I’d given myself over to Conner’s kiss, I hadn’t been keeping in contact with Will as much as he’d like, and I had no idea where Marco was—I didn’t even know literally where he was in the world. I grabbed my phone to see if he’d posted anything on Twitter. I didn’t see anything so I searched his name and found a picture someone else had posted with Marco’s Twitter handle. It was a group of people with arms around shoulders looking flushed and laughing. Two of them were gorgeous women. I felt a twinge in my gut, and reminded myself of the true state of affairs—as much as he liked to flirt with me, we didn’t have a thing anymore.

  I went to the kitchen, got beer, and sat on the couch. The apartment was quiet beyond the hum of the window air conditioner. I’d been there for almost ten years doing pretty much the same thing. I’d worked in juvenile probation, now at CCS, all one-on-one work, trying to help people who rarely wanted to be helped. Was it time for a change?

  I imagined myself at Will’s house, the windows open to catch a breeze, the smell of cow manure and hay, the sound of cicadas. Our big dog would walk up and bump me for attention. I’d pat his head and he’d turn and slobber on me in gratitude. I’d walk to the window and look out to see Will, stooped over weeding the garden while the chickens tripped around and pecked for bugs. I didn’t know what would be growing in June—melons maybe? It would be afternoon, time for me to think about cooking dinner. I’d grab an apron, tie it over my gigantic belly. The twins would be coming in a month and I’d be hungry. I’d call out to see if Will had anything from the garden for dinner and he’d call back, “Okra.”

  I set my empty beer down on the coffee table and got up to get another one. I was clearly crabby. I shouldn’t be making life-altering decisions in my state of mind.

  Life with Will would probably be lovely. I thought how much Legend would probably love to be raised by loving parents out in the country with good safe schools and a dog and chickens. I should give that to my kids, but I didn’t have kids, and creating kids just so I could give them a life that I thought might work… well, it didn’t entirely make sense. Once I had kids, then, I’d start making all sorts of sacrifices for them—which was fine—but maybe not what I wanted to do right away. I didn’t want to put myself in a position that I wasn’t sure I had bought into, then get in deeper by bringing kids into the picture.

  An image of the big dog shaking the life out of one of the chickens popped into my head and I decided I’d had enough thinking and needed to sleep.

  I reached Desiree’s apartment around seven Wednesday evening. I heard loud music and smelled meatloaf from the hallway. I knocked loudly and a man I didn’t know answered the door. He was loose limbed and lanky and had a silly grin on his face.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said, the smile broadening, “I’m Martel at your service.”

  I looked around him and saw Legend hanging back.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Penny Wade, the social worker who was helping Legend while Desiree was away.”

  “Well, come on in!” He hopped back and opened the door wide.

  “Mi casa es su casa!” He giggled. “Except that this ain’t mi casa.” He turned toward the kitchen and yelled, “Desiree, we have a distinguished guest!”

  I sat in the nearest chair to get to Legend’s level. He came over and stood looking at my face.

  “How are you?”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you glad to be home?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you go get your stuff from Maggie’s?”

  He nodded again and looked at the floor.

  Desiree came into the room as if it were a stage entrance. Her energy was strong and round, efficient and friendly.

  “I’m glad to see you, Penny. I want to thank you for all you did. I know you was part of getting me outta that place.”

  “I can’t claim credit for that,” I said, an image of Conner-as-superhero jumping uninvited into my head. “But I’m very glad. Did I interrupt you cooking or something?”

  “No. We ate. Can I get you something? A beer? Ice cream bar?”

  “No thanks.” I glanced at Legend, expecting a pleading puppy look with the mention of ice cream, but he was deadpan. Maybe he didn’t care about ice cream. I’d heard there are people like that.

  Martel had somehow stilled his buzzing energy and was sunk into the old brown plaid couch watching some sitcom that had him slapping his leg and howling from time to time. There was a bed pillow on the couch, and a tangle of blankets at the opposite end.

  “Legend, have you felt better about talking? I mean, are you talking at all?” I didn’t consider it anything to dance around. I mean, the kid was well aware that he wasn’t talking and that that wasn’t normal.

  He shook his head, keeping his eyes on his hands, which were clasped in front of him. I looked at Desiree. “How are you doing? Do you feel like things are looking better?”

  “I’m relieved, you can believe!” she said. “But of course I worry about our little brown sugar here. He just don’t want to talk to no one.”

  Martel tuned in and lowered the TV volume. “Little man just overcome with it all, that’s all. He just need some time. Right, Legend? Pretty soon you be bossin’ old Desiree just like old times!”

  Legend sidestepped over to the couch and sat on the side closest to where I was on the chair. He turned and looked at me.

  “Do you have any drawings or schoolwork you want to show me?” I asked.

  He shook his head. My stomach had been slowly tightening since I arrived and it was getting uncomfortable. I had to get the bad news out and see if a solution could come.

  “So, the Department of Children and Families has, of course, closed out the foster placement for you, Legend.” I glanced from him to Desiree to be sure she was included in the conversation, but I didn’t want him to feel talked about. I wanted him to know he was included and my main focus. “They also ended the request for counseling services.”

  Legend’s eyes went from his shoes to my face. I tried to look neutral in case he was taking cues from me, but I found it hard to even say this, as he clearly needed continued support and I felt like he and I had really built something.

  Nobody said anything and I knew it was on me to make sense of this, but I didn’t know what to say. Every fiber of me wanted to say that I would still help, but getting involved beyond what was officially sanctioned had gotten me in a lot of trouble before and I didn’t want to lose my job. I was still on probation.

  Martel’s phone chimed and he checked it. “Gotta run,” he sang, “duty calls!” He gathered up some stuff from the far end of the couch, shoved it into a backpack, and left.

  The three of us sat in silence again. Lege
nd looked sad. Or I imagined that Legend looked sad because I was sad and maybe I hoped he was a little attached to me too.

  “Well, who gonna help Legend get back to talkin’?” Desiree said.

  I looked at her. She had a fine sheen of sweat on her face. The one window unit A/C couldn’t keep the apartment cool and there was no circulation in the room. She had big shadows under her eyes and her kinky-curly hair drooped as though it couldn’t keep up the perky act any longer.

  “I don’t know.”

  Desiree looked at Legend. “Legend baby, you know you safe with me and Ms. Wade. You feel like talkin’? You feel like you can talk now?”

  Legend lowered his head and swung it side-to-side, a slow, apologetic no.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Every week I had a check-in with Nathan. As my mentor at the agency, he also served as a counselor to me. Social work can be emotionally trying, so it’s good for us to have our own sessions with a therapist to help sort through what we’re dealing with personally and in relation to our cases.

  We met at our favorite sandwich shop at noon. I took in the smell of fresh bread and looked around. Nathan was waiting at a table by the window. He was wearing a sweatshirt with a rabbit in a snowy scene with pine trees.

  I was glad we had two hours scheduled. I had a lot to cover.

  I started by recapping my visit to Desiree’s the previous evening.

  “What can I do? DCF cut his counseling and Vivian isn’t gonna fight to get it back.”

  “Did you ask Lynnie to see what it would cost Desiree on the sliding fee scale?”

  “No. I didn’t think of that. Desiree lost her job when she went to jail. I don’t know how she could afford anything.”

  “Well, the less she can afford, the less it costs.”

  “Right.” I thought about that for a moment. My veteran client had barely any income, and some of my elderly clients were living off of tiny social security checks. A lot of clients were referred through other agencies who provided funding, but part of the mission of CCS was to make counseling accessible. I was going to find out if we lived up to that claim. I decided to call Desiree that afternoon and put her in touch with Lynnie to figure out a plan.

  After lunch we walked back to Nathan’s office to continue our conversation. The sun had returned with a vengeance and the city seemed over-illuminated, radiant with harsh light and heat.

  I stopped up front to tell Lynnie to expect a call from Desiree and explain that I needed her to see what she could figure out to make it affordable for Legend to keep seeing me. She bobbed her curly head and promised to do her best.

  “I’m not gonna marry Will,” I said as I sat down in the armchair in the corner of Nathan’s office.

  “Are you happy with that decision?” he asked.

  “Of course I am. I must be. I made it.”

  He waited. I pulled at the sleeves of my hoodie and stuck my thumbs through the thumb holes. I hated thumb holes almost as much as the fact that I couldn’t resist using them.

  “It’s just that I really want to keep doing what I’m doing, and settling down to start a family wouldn’t work right now.”

  “So it’s just about the circumstances? Or is it also about Will?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really want to rely on someone, I guess. He’s a great guy, but we’ve broken up before and it was awful. There’s no guarantee it would work and I don’t want to give up what I have now for some ridiculous dream.” I shifted and slid my feet out of my shoes, tucked one foot under me.

  “Is it ridiculous?”

  “Yeah. The idea that this one guy will be the thing for the rest of my life and that we can hold together through me puking and gaining seventy pounds, through insomnia and bleeding nipples, through toddler meltdowns and bedwetting and bullying at school… well, I just can’t see it.”

  “Did your parents manage through all that?” he asked.

  “They stayed together, but it didn’t look like happiness. If that’s happiness I don’t want it.” I released my thumbs from the little nooses and pushed my sleeves up to my elbows to remove the temptation.

  “Let’s talk about how they interacted for a minute. Let’s say your mom is cooking—did your mom cook?”

  “She heated things in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, so your mom’s in the kitchen and she’s put the fish sticks in the oven and they’re heating, and the frozen corn is in a pot cooking and your dad is reading the paper and he says ‘Red Sox are on a winning streak.’ What does your mom do or say?”

  I could see my dad at the kitchen table with his newspaper. His head bowed, shiny on top, framed by a salt-and pepper horseshoe of hair. He usually sat in the living room in the evening, so that would have been more like breakfast; she could make scrambled eggs. But it was okay. I could pretend he was there in the evening. The Formica table with the yellow squiggly pattern, Mom standing in front of the sink, apron pooching out over her belly, staring absently out the window at the brown grass square of our suburban backyard. I could smell oil and fish and hear the wind-up kitchen timer ticking away the minutes until the fish sticks were done.

  “Nothing.”

  “Does he try again?”

  “No.”

  Nathan leaned forward and put his forearms on his knees. “Do you remember attachment theory? Did you learn that one?”

  “I remember a little. There are four kinds of attachment and only one is good?”

  “One is healthy, yes. The other three are adaptations that we make because we need to for some reason at some point in our life, or we’re taught the patterns. But the one we should strive for is called ‘secure attachment.’”

  I nodded and he continued. “It’s about how we get our emotional needs met and meet those of people close to us.”

  I stared at him. I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I liked when he shifted academic and took the spotlight off me.

  “How do you get your emotional needs met?” he asked.

  Spotlight on—huge floodlight. “What do you mean?”

  “You know what emotional needs are.”

  “Why do I have to have emotional needs?”

  He was silent. He waited, watching me, still leaning forward and shining the sky spot at me.

  “It just seems stupid and weak,” I said.

  More silence. I chewed on my bottom lip. I looked around to see if a window might have appeared in his office wall, one with a good distraction outside. No luck. He kept waiting.

  “Sure, I know people have emotional needs, but I’m trying to help them with those. Having my own, well, it just isn’t the thing.”

  “You don’t get to choose,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” I swallowed hard, “that was chosen for me.”

  “No. You may have been told not to have them in a thousand ways, but you still have them because you’re human.”

  My throat was tightening a little and I tried to breathe through and relax. “Why do I have to have them?”

  “Why do you need air and food and water? You just do. We all do.”

  “Aren’t there independent people who are just fine without other humans? What about those monks in caves?”

  Nathan sat back in his chair but his gaze on me never wavered. “If you can get your emotional needs met through a personal religious practice, through your relationship with divinity or nature, that’s fine. But most of us need other people.”

  This didn’t seem like a problem I could solve. I wasn’t even sure it was a problem except that I felt like crying, and that’s generally a sign that things aren’t just hunky dory. “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “That’s what you need to figure out. Come up with one thing for now and we can work on more later.”

  I untucked my foot and put both feet on the floor. “Sorry, I still don’t get it. It seems like anything I’d do to meet my emotional needs in a relationship with someone would stand a better chance of flattening me emotionally
than helping me.”

  “Let’s go back to attachment theory a minute,” he said. “One of the styles of adaptation is called ‘dismissive avoidant.’ It sounds pretty harsh, but it is characterized by behavior that’s highly independent and potentially defensive. If we look at what your parents modeled in the kitchen, that’s an example of it. Your dad makes what’s referred to as a ‘bid’ for attention, in this case by making a comment on the Red Sox. Your mom chose not to respond.”

  I hated talking about my family, but at least the focus wasn’t right on me. I put an ankle on the other knee and leaned in to listen.

  “Your dad made a bid to your mom. Demonstrating secure attachment and healthy interaction would have meant her responding to that bid in a positive way. It could be as simple as saying ‘glad to hear that. They’re overdue.’ Or she could engage him further and ask ‘what do you think about taking the kids to a game?’”

  I tried to imagine my mom doing that, but I couldn’t create the fiction. But of course, it made so much sense that it would be the best response from Dad’s perspective—to be acknowledged and given a little attention. None of us really got attention.

  “Ignoring him is avoidant. Other reactions in the ‘dismissive avoidant’ adaptation would be saying things like ‘it doesn’t matter’ or ‘you know I don’t care about sports.’”

  “So they modeled bad attachment,” I said. “Does that doom me?”

  “Not at all, and it’s more than how they were with each other, right? Did they respond to your bids for attention?”

  “I didn’t make any.”

  I texted Gloria from work to see if she had plans that evening. I wanted to spend some time with her. Drinking. Fate was with me and she was free, so we met at our neighborhood wine bar when I got off work. It was just another storefront on a typical South Boston street, but they’d tried to make it trendy with a cork ceiling and a little performance area for musicians. I was glad nobody was playing because even the smallest performance was too much for the tiny space.