by Cindy Gerard
Intrigued, she asked again, “Michael, are you all right?”
He studied her leg for a long moment before he met her eyes. “Yeah. I’m fine. That little footrace just made me realize I’m getting to be an old man.”
She smiled. “Hardly.”
“Tell that to my body, toots. It’s screaming bloody murder for the beating I just put it through. The little hellion runs like a damn deer. If he hadn’t tripped over a garbage can in the alley, he’d be in Denver by now.” He grinned crookedly, making a stab at masking his feelings, which she suspected were dark and brooding. His eyes betrayed the forced lightness in his tone.
She glanced through the glass wall to Helen and the boy, then back to Michael. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Better yet, you’re the expert. Why don’t you tell me?” His voice was suddenly harsh, all pretense of levity gone. “Tell me what happens to make a kid hurl bricks through windows and talk like a gutter rat when he should be shooting baskets in his backyard and swiping cookies from his mom’s cookie jar.”
She remained silent, knowing he didn’t really want an answer but an ear. He needed to talk. Even more, he needed her to listen.
He flipped off her pump, slumped back in the chair, and flattened her foot on his thigh. His touch was intimate and familiar as he closed his hand over her foot and held on as if she were the link between right and wrong.
She tried to fight the softening taking place deep inside her. The children had always needed her. A man never had. Yet this man needed her now, and Lord help her, she wanted him to.
“His name is Toby Walters,” he said with that same weary anger. “He’s twelve years old, and he’s never slept under the same roof for more than a year at a time since he was five. You know why he threw that brick through your window? He was aiming at my Jeep and missed.” He laughed, but without humor. “Without laying it out in so many words, he told me he’d tried to break the Wrangler’s window for the sole reason that he resented the statement it made sitting by the curb. To Toby, it shouts success, independence, and power. All things that at some subconscious level he’s come to realize he’ll never have.”
Michael’s gaze was deeply troubled when he lifted it to hers. “How did he grow to the ripe old age of twelve and decide there isn’t any hope?”
Damn her stupid heart, January thought. It was aching for him. “And you, Michael,” she asked, forcing herself to meet the anguish in his eyes, “how did you grow to the ripe old age of thirty-nine and not know that the streets are full of kids like Toby?”
He looked away. “I know all about kids like Toby. I’ve just never known a Toby. How did I let that happen? How did I let myself become the kind of person who writes about life, but never actually gets involved in it?”
Fighting the urge to slip off the desk and fold him in her arms, she studied his dark head for a long moment. “He got to you good, didn’t he?”
Michael rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head. “When I caught up with him, I had to tackle him to slow him down. He fought like a marine. He was so small, and so damn scared . . . and so determined to be tough.”
“And . . .”
“And I told him I wouldn’t turn him in to juvenile hall if he’d talk to me.” He snorted. “Toby told me to take a flying— Well, let’s just say he told me what I could do with juvenile hall. So I bribed him with food. He was damned near starved to death.”
January looked from Michael to the boy and understood what was happening here.
Toby’s face was not a face you could easily love. To date, it appeared that no one had ever tried. At first glance his defiant, angry glare inspired fear, not affection. At second, it commanded a reluctant, distant sympathy that one so young could have become so hard. Yet as she watched him, all blustery indifference and foul mouth in the outer office, she took one long, searching look into his haunted, hollow eyes and melted. Michael had evidently done a little melting too.
“What now, Hayward?” she asked, watching him closely.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. If we just let him go, the next time he decides to wreak a little havoc, someone might get hurt. What are his other options?”
This was the tricky part. She slipped her foot out of his hands, retrieved her pump, and settled behind her desk. “What does he want to do?”
“Who knows. The only reason he’s even here is because I told him I’d pay him to tell me his life story.” When she grinned, he shrugged. “Whatever works, right? The way he’s got it figured, I’m just one more person using him. That’s something he can relate to.”
She studied his face for a long moment. “And what do you want to do?”
He didn’t answer. He wasn’t ready, she guessed, and decided to give him a little more time to think it through.
“Did he tell you where he lives?” she asked.
“With a cousin who has a bad habit of locking him out of the apartment when he leaves, which is often and for long stretches at a time.”
She could see he was struggling between wanting to wash his hands of the whole dirty mess and trying to deal with a conscience that was telling him it was time to get involved.
“One phone call and I can have him off your hands,” she said. “Human Services wouldn’t hesitate to place him in an emergency foster home.”
A muscle in his jaw worked hard before he tightened his lips and shook his head. Then he put voice to the private war she’d suspected he was waging. “I’ve had it so damn easy. All my life, I’ve had it easy. Peter Pan man, that’s me. Fairy-tale childhood, fairy-tale career. I’ve got no worries, no problems.” He scrubbed his face hard with his hands, then laughed grimly. “I can think of one time, one lousy time, that I’ve ever stopped to consider that what I was writing might affect someone’s life other than mine, and that it might hurt them. It was a damn long time ago, and afterward I was so disgusted with myself, I decided I was never going to let something as sentimental as sympathy ever keep me from telling the whole story.
“But you know what happens to a man who makes decisions like that? I’m what happens. A man who views life and doesn’t get involved in it is what happens. And you know what else? It’s a hell of an awakening at this stage in my life to find out I’ve still got a social conscience rattling around inside me.”
Again he shook his head, as if accepting his decision but not knowing whether he liked what he was about to do. “I want to help that kid.”
She listened, stunned, as he then told her what he wanted to do.
“Michael, this is crazy,” she finally said. “Please think about what you’re suggesting. I could expostulate for hours on the subject of abuse and neglect. I could quote you statistics that would make your mind rebel. I could give you odds—bad ones—on your chances of pulling this off. Even if we could get the court to agree, you have no idea what you’re letting yourself in for.”
“Then it’s past time I find out, don’t you think?”
She met his gaze levelly. “Why?”
“Maybe it’s time someone other than you took on the task of saving the world.”
She leaned back in her chair and studied him carefully. “If you’re doing this to impress me, you’re going to hurt that boy more than help him. If you’re doing this to make yourself feel better about the fact that you had it good and he hasn’t had anything but bad, you’ll hurt him even more.”
He looked, momentarily, like she’d slugged him in the solar plexus. “Low blow, January, but maybe I deserved it.”
Rising, he strode across her office and stared distractedly at the degrees framed on her walls. “I can’t even be insulted. I haven’t ever given you reason to believe there are anything but self-serving bones in this body, have I? A man on the make, that’s how you see me.” He shrugged. “Maybe that’s all I’ve ever shown you. Maybe that’s all I’ve ev
er been. But you know something, Counselor?” He turned slowly to face her. “There is something about you that makes a man think past his own needs and makes him wonder about others. You rub off, January. You never do anything halfway. You commit completely. You make a man care. You make this man care.”
The compassion and determination in his eyes touched a part of her heart that no man had ever touched before. With great effort she ignored that, ruthlessly focusing her attention on his proposition. He was a fool, she thought bleakly. But he was a sincere fool, and his mind was made up. The lawyer in her, however, offered one more chance at getting out. “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”
He nodded.
She let out a deep breath. “Let me make a few calls.”
Half an hour later, she had the necessary information on Toby. A couple more calls and she was his new court-appointed attorney. By the end of the hour, a messenger had delivered a copy of Toby’s file, compiled over the years by the Department of Human Services.
It read like a bad movie. Deprived of even the most basic and elemental love by a mother who had deserted him as a toddler, robbed of a childhood by unethical foster parents intent on making money off the system, and finally neglected by the cousin who offered a home for the sole sake of a monthly welfare check he received on Toby’s behalf, Toby had at last reached out for help.
“How does this happen?” Michael asked, his face a mirror of his anger.
January shrugged. “The system is overextended. Social workers are overworked, and they can’t get an accurate read on everyone out there who’s on the take. For every one hundred caring foster homes, there’s the one bad one that slips through the cracks. Toby was unfortunate enough to be placed in some bad ones, and then with his cousin.”
According to the file, Toby was heading for big trouble. The brick wasn’t his first attempt to cry out against a system that had failed him. January had intimate knowledge of those cries. Trying to make sense of her father’s abuse, then attempting to deal with his death alone, she’d cried out several times herself. Like Toby, she’d fallen in with a bad crowd and repeatedly gotten into scrapes with the law. Like him, her cries had gone unanswered until one overworked and underpaid social worker with a heart the size of Texas had looked past the anger and seen the pain. With her help January had turned her life around.
She watched Toby through the glass wall as he sprawled in feigned boredom in a chair. Toby didn’t realize it yet, but Michael might just have the answer to his cry—if they could pull this off.
Twenty-four hours later Judge Lawton, his hawkish features set in a grim scowl, addressed January. “I don’t have to remind you that what you’ve proposed is highly irregular. I am granting your requests and temporarily going along with your recommendations on the basis of your past performance and on your endorsement of Mr. Hayward and his family. In the meantime Human Services will be monitoring Toby’s case closely and keeping me apprised of the situation.”
They’d done it. They’d actually pulled it off. January breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, your honor.”
He rapped the gavel sharply. “This court is adjourned.”
With a last censuring glance at January and a swirl of his black robes, the judge exited the bench. Behind her January heard the shuffling murmurs of the crowd milling out of the courtroom.
She remained seated, her hand, out of sight beneath the defendant’s table, clasped firmly around Toby’s. She wasn’t even aware when she’d reached for him. His hand was shaking. So was hers. Not for the first time she hoped to heaven Michael knew what he was getting himself into.
Seeing that Michael had passed through the bar behind them and was approaching the table, she squeezed Toby’s hand and offered a smile of encouragement. The boy looked up at her, his blue eyes cold, his small, childish mouth hard. Without breaking eye contact, he pulled his hand away, effectively erecting a barrier between them. He was a pro at building barriers, she thought. She and Toby were birds of a feather. She didn’t try to recapture his hand.
“Do you understand what just happened, Toby?” she asked.
He glared at the glossy tabletop. “I ain’t stupid.”
“Why don’t you explain it to me, January?” Michael intervened, easing a hip onto the edge of the table. “I’m a little fuzzy on the details.”
Thanking Michael with her eyes for being sensitive to Toby’s pride, she directed her explanation to Toby.
“Yesterday, after what happened at my office, I contacted Human Services and explained how your cousin has been neglecting you. Today the judge referred to a ‘china’ petition, remember?”
“China?”
“Spelled C-I-N-A, which stands for Child in Need of Assistance. The petition demands immediate action to get any child out of a bad living situation. So, according to the law, your cousin’s neglect required the Department and the court to do something to help you right away. That’s why we were granted a meeting with the judge today.”
Though Toby’s head was still down, she knew he was listening to every word. “Normally Human Services would appoint an attorney to represent your best interests,” she continued, “but because the county attorney’s office is overloaded right now, and because Michael and I requested it, the court agreed to let me represent you.” She paused to give Toby time to absorb what she’d just told him.
“The judge agreed with our and the Department’s contention that you needed to be removed from your cousin’s home. Normally, the next thing to happen would be that you would be placed in an emergency foster home.”
Toby squirmed in his chair. January was quick to reassure him. “I know you’ve had a bad experience in foster care, Toby, and neither Michael nor I wanted that to happen again. The judge agreed, and in light of the fact that there is a shortage of licensed foster homes with vacancies, he decided to place you in Michael’s custody.”
Toby glanced up at her. “I thought he said I couldn’t stay with him.”
She nodded. “You’re right, the judge did say you couldn’t stay with Michael, but he did award Michael temporary legal custody. Because Michael isn’t married, the judge didn’t feel he could provide you with a family home situation. That’s where Michael’s sister and her family come in. Just as soon as a foster care specialist conducts a study of their home this afternoon, you’re going to be moving in with them.”
January watched Toby’s face carefully. She saw both understanding and resignation set in. Everything she’d said added up to temporary, not permanent.
But January knew something Toby didn’t. January knew that Michael Hayward was one determined man. As of yesterday, she also knew Michael’s sister, and that determination was a strong Hayward character trait. All of the Haywards would follow through with this commitment.
Late the previous afternoon, after they’d dutifully but reluctantly seen Toby settled into an emergency shelter as required by Human Services, Michael had taken her to meet his sister.
January had liked Gretchen Lockridge and her husband, David, on sight. Blue-eyed and dark-haired like her brother, Gretchen was a feminine counterpart to Michael, with the same quick smile and inquiring nature. Her husband, David, unlike the Haywards, hadn’t had the cushion of financial security to pave his way. A self-made, successful businessman, he understood both poverty and despair. Though their backgrounds were vastly different, the mutual respect and love the Lockridges felt for each other had been evident as they’d listened to Michael. His explanation of Toby’s situation had been met with compassion and then with enthusiasm for what Michael was proposing.
In the end Toby’s fate had seemed predetermined. Gretchen, in the last two weeks of maternity leave after the birth of their second child, Andrea, had been agonizing over returning to her career in a Boulder advertising agency and leaving both Andrea and their four-year-old son, Kevin, with a child-care provider. Tob
y and his obvious need put an end to her deliberation. Like her brother, she wanted to help. David supported her decision uncategorically, and by the time January and Michael had left the Lockridges’ home that evening, they’d arrived at a plan of action. All they needed was a little luck and a favorable judge’s ruling.
As January looked over Toby’s head to Michael, they each breathed a sigh of relief that they’d gotten both.
“Come on, Toby,” Michael said, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “There are some people I want you to meet.”
Toby shrugged out from under Michael’s hand.
“Toby,” Michael said, hunkering down in front of the frightened boy, “I promise you things are going to be different from now on. I know it’s been rough for you, and I want to change that. You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
He glanced up at January, then went on. “Give me a chance to prove it’s going to be different. What’s happened to you in the past was unfortunate, and I can’t explain why things didn’t work out. There are wonderful foster families out there who want to help and who offer loving homes. You haven’t been lucky enough to get hooked up with one . . . until now. And now your luck’s about to change.”
January watched as Toby struggled to keep a mask of bland indifference pulled over his emotions. Both she and Michael knew by now that Toby felt anything but indifferent. He was scared. He’d also eat dirt before he’d admit it.
At the ripe old age of twelve, Toby Walters was a cynic. Not a born cynic, but a carelessly nurtured one, learning from the school of hard knocks and a gross of broken promises that nothing in this world comes easy . . . and that talk is cheap.
Watching him, January suspected that was exactly what Toby was thinking now. He figured he’d just been paid a little more lip service to satisfy a system that had failed him at every turn. Just because one more judge had made one more ruling, it didn’t mean his life was going to get any better. And just because someone said they cared, it didn’t mean they did.