Rico told him, “There’s nothing worse than delivering the news.”
Joseph watched Rico’s career take its toll on his face. His friend had switched from beer to whiskey shots. “How much weight have you lost? You’re starting to look haunted. If it’s this hard on you, I bet it’s affecting your kids and Fidela.”
“Their little bodies,” Rico said. “It’s like they’re saying, ‘Why didn’t you find me sooner, before he did this to me?’ ”
“You’re human, Rico. A person can only take so much before he has to look away. Maybe it’s time to ask for a transfer.”
Albuquerque was laid out like a Scottish-clan plaid, busy streets crossing each other, pausing to erupt in strip malls and newly gentrified neighborhoods such as Nob Hill, where old storefronts were going condo. The city had turned into a business hub, not just because of the new hospitals or the undeveloped land or even the arts for which the state was famous. Casinos were the draw. Tourism went steadily up. Chain hotels quickly moved in, Doubletree, Marriott, and the Hilton. But look up and the blue sky still went on forever. Every day, cloud formations called up Peter Hurd’s paintings. From Bosque del Apache’s annual bird migration to the Bandelier ruins to the sold-out, ten-days-long balloon fiesta, the state had as much beauty as it did grittiness.
One of New Mexico’s abundant natural resources was the year-round wind that traveled at face height filled with grit and prairie dust. The wind covered tracks, ruined crime scenes, and scratched camera lenses. It made winter colder. In spring, it tossed juniper pollen like confetti and provoked bad behavior in a city full of allergy sufferers. Recovering alcoholics fell off the wagon. Rehabilitated burglars found other people’s wide-screen televisions and iPods irresistible. Auto smash-and-grabs tripled. Graduates of anger-management class relapsed and domestic calls rocketed. Registered sex offenders kept a lookout for the solitary kid taking a shortcut, and though such acts were unacceptable in every way, to work in law enforcement you had to be realistic. Rico Torres had never broken down on a crime scene that Joseph knew of. He could not say the same for himself. Their business had plenty of happy endings, but the losses were devastating.
Suddenly the cars in front of Joseph began to make U-turns, heading south. When Joseph reached the orange cones, he saw why. Just over the bridge Jack Kerouac had made famous, and around a steep curve, a quarter of the highway had tumbled down the cliffside into the ocean.
When he reached the DOT worker, he said, “What happened?”
“Same thing that happens every year,” the man in the fluorescent vest said. “Too many vehicles on a road that wasn’t designed for heavy traffic. Rain plus hillside equals landslide equals road closure. You’ll have to turn around and go the other way.”
“But I’m trying to get back to Jolon.”
“Look for the turnoff to G18. It’s kind of a twisty road. Dumps you out near the mission. Go slowly and you’ll be fine.”
Joseph stopped in Big Sur to gas up. Finding some minute area of coverage, his cell phone bleated. While he filled his car, he listened to the voice mail from Lorna Candelaria, inviting him to the upcoming Christmas party at the store. “I won’t take no for an answer,” she said, and coughed. “I know where you live, buster,” she said when the coughing fit ended. “It’s potluck, so bring something, even if it’s just crackers.”
WINTER HOLIDAYS
ENGLISH 100
BY JUNIPER McGUIRE
December twenty-first is Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year. On Solstice, the Earth’s tilt decides how much sun we’ll get. Various cultures across the world celebrate Solstice with songs, poetry, and religion. So it’s easy to see where Christmas came from. Even in the years before Christ was born, or before there were trade routes or even the wheel, people marked the day when the season turned to winter.
Why is because when the sun set so early farmers couldn’t grow crops or feed animals, and people and animals starved. So they would have done anything to lure the sun back. Once people figured out that they could plan ahead and save enough food by paying attention to the calendar, Solstice became a reason to par-tay. The shaman or chief or priest decided that day was for praying, drinking alcohol, reciting stories, dancing, and sacrificing animals (total genius move for hungry people if you ask me) and the best way to make the sun feel welcome. Like the sun cares? The sun is a dying star! In five billion years it will turn into a red giant triggering stellar winds and sucking Earth into its core and then it will go white dwarf, and who knows after that because we won’t be here, duh. Solstice? Probably enough people believed that if they didn’t throw the party, then the sun would get all offended and shine on some other planet.
Juniper—while I applaud your idea here, this is not a freshman-level essay. What exactly is your thesis statement? Your diction is uneven. Surely there is more to say about the Christmas season than two paragraphs! Regarding the “scientific” information included, there are more effective sources than the Internet. C+
Chapter 6
GLORY
On Friday, December 19, Glory sat in a psychologist’s office for the first time in her life. A couple of their foster sons had needed counseling. Glory drove them and sat in the waiting room. Whatever went on behind the closed door had been between the therapist and the boy. This was the first time Glory had been invited into the inner sanctum, and frankly, she missed her weekly dose of People magazine. It was nothing like what she’d imagined—no hypnosis, no ink blots, no lying on a couch free-associating. No. It was three people trying to force each other to say things they did not want to say. For every minute that ticked by without a solution, Glory felt worse.
“This is about telling the truth, not punishment,” Lois Anthony, MFCC, explained for the fourth time since the counseling session had begun. Glory had called her ahead of time to fill her in on Juniper’s lies and the petty theft. Ms. Anthony was a redhead with the kind of freckles that from far away made her look tan. Up close, Glory had never seen so many all in one place. If she could count how many there were on the woman’s right cheek, she might be able to leave the office feeling as if the three of them had accomplished something instead of circling the same subject for forty-five minutes of their state-paid hour.
“Your mom wants to work with you on this,” Ms. Anthony said. “Can you try to meet her halfway?”
Mom—was it a mistake to let her call her that? Three weeks ago, Juniper was suspended, and in her three days at home, she had again and again said how grateful she was to Glory for not sending her back to the group home. “I love it here,” Juniper said. “I love the animals and I love you, too, Mom. Is it okay if I call you Mom?”
What could Glory say besides yes? The foster boys called her that, and they called Dan “Dad.” It touched Glory’s heart. She thought it meant things were going well. Maybe in some alternate universe they were, but here on earth, Glory knew things were not going well. She had no idea how to fix the situation. Juniper’s behavior was like a virus. Glory’s attempts to steer her back to the right path were like antibiotics. As soon as she found a medication that worked, the virus mutated into something else.
Juniper continued braiding the fringe on a throw pillow. They sat a foot apart from each other on the couch, but Juniper leaned so far away from Glory that an ocean might as well have been between them.
“Time to put that pillow down,” Lois said. “Your mother has something to tell you. Glory?”
“I’d like to talk about the Percocet,” Glory said, and waited.
She was going for shock on Lois’s advice. Even though she’d found the missing bottle, all six pills accounted for, she hadn’t confronted Juniper until this moment. Juniper was turning out to be such an accomplished liar that Glory wanted to call Monica Phelps and apologize for doubting her description of the fight. Instead, she enlisted Lois’s help, hoping that with nowhere to hide, the girl would confess. Then Lois could take over, guide them to the truth, and change things for the bet
ter from this moment on.
Silence.
“Glory,” Lois said, “why don’t you tell me how this all came about.”
“I was on a dusting rampage.” When faced with not enough money coming in during the holiday season, Glory cleaned house. She batted cobwebs out of corners and carried spiders out to the barn. “I took the shades off lamps and dusted the lightbulbs. I picked up the lamp in Juniper’s room to dust underneath and that’s when I found it.”
“Found what?” Lois prompted.
“My missing bottle of Percocet. Wrapped inside a tissue. Under Juniper’s desk lamp. A long time ago the bottom came off the lamp, so it’s hollow inside.”
Which meant Juniper had probably stolen the bottle the first day she came to Solomon’s Oak, and knowing that she’d had it all along just shredded Glory’s heart.
“Juniper, every story has two sides,” Lois said. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Juniper looked up from the pillow. As she always did when Glory caught her in a lie, she blushed and went stony. “Drop me off at the Monterey detention center.”
Lois didn’t flinch. “Were you planning to take the pills so you could get high?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. The medicine was prescribed for your mom, not you. Not only is that dangerous, it’s substance abuse, kiddo. I’m supposed to report it to the county.”
“What if I don’t know how it got there?”
“What if I don’t believe you?” Glory said.
“What if I don’t want to talk about it anymore? Is this session over? If not, I’d like a bathroom break.”
“You can wait five minutes for the bathroom,” Lois said, looking at her clock. “What else, Mom?”
Glory sighed. How had Dan decided what was important and what was trivial? Did she start with the cash on her dresser being $40 short the day she sent Juniper in to check Edsel’s water dish? The broken cereal bowl—a chipped piece of Franciscan pottery, you could find one just like it at a thrift store—that Juniper had hidden in her dresser rather than just throw out in the trash? Why hide it? No matter what Glory found or said, Juniper had “no idea” how it had happened. Glory had lost it. “You’re telling me that a broken cereal bowl walked out of the kitchen, made its way down the hall, opened the door to your room, opened your dresser, and then wrapped itself in your black T-shirt?”
“Maybe.”
“If you won’t talk about the Percocet, then let’s talk about the money you took off my dresser,” Glory said.
Juniper jumped up from the couch and flung the pillow to the floor. “It’s not my fault I’m this damaged,” she screamed. “This proves you hate me, just like every other foster parent in the world. Fine, then. Call Caroline and tell her to come get me. Then you can go back to your regular life and your stupid dishes.” Juniper picked up the pillow again, sat down, and hugged it to her chest.
How one girl could create such drama was mind-boggling. “Four years from now you’ll be eighteen,” Glory said. “Do you want to go to jail over six stupid pills or forty dollars? I never said I wanted to send you away. I just want us to get through this and move past it. I want you to learn to tell the truth.”
Silence.
“Juniper, go on to the restroom,” Lois said. “Your mom will meet you in the waiting room. We won’t be long.”
Juniper was out the door so fast her hair whipped behind her.
“She has all the hallmarks of a liar, Lois. Constant face touching, changing the subject, a tonal shift in voice, high-pitched and defensive, overt attempts at humor dripping with sarcasm.”
Lois chuckled. “Darn that Internet.”
“What’s so funny? Do you think I’m making this up?”
“I think you’re a concerned parent who’s trying her best. Glory, forget what you’ve read online. This is not as bad as you think. She’s trying to figure out who she is. That simply comes with being a teenager. Remember, in addition to hormones, she’s experienced monstrous losses. It’s not surprising that she takes things. Creating a stash probably makes her feel secure. Look at what she’s taken. Painkillers. Money. Maybe she thinks she’d better prepare for the day all this stability comes crashing down on her like it has in the past, so when she’s back on the streets, she’s got provisions.”
“How does a broken cereal bowl fit into that scenario?”
“It’s part of a set, right? She probably thought it was worth a lot of money. She’s used to guardians caring more for their personal property than her. But consider this. Notice she didn’t ingest the pills or spend the money. She stockpiled everything. Like a raven decorates his nest. Ravens are smarter than people give them credit for.”
“Well, bully for ravens. I still don’t see how this applies to Juniper.”
“She’s using denial as a tool, so she can feel powerful. This week, be casual. Don’t pretend the money wasn’t taken. We all know it was. If you want to take things away as a consequence, make sure you give the period a finite, fair time frame. Go about your normal week and give her extra chores. Let her live with her actions for a while. Let her make up fables. Sooner or later, she’ll be caught in a lie and humiliate herself. Embarrassment can be a powerful motivator for change.”
INCLUDING YOUR FOSTER CHILD IN HOLIDAY TRADITIONS!
ENGLISH 100
EXTRA CREDIT
BY JUNIPER McGUIRE
Too often foster parents expect the foster child will automatically feel the same joy that they do about Christmas. Shrinks say that a foster child’s stress “expresses itself in swearing, striking out, crying jags, isolating, and even stealing.”
People! Do you really think all it takes is a couple of candy canes, ornaments, and a plastic Nativity scene to make your Christmas feel like the kid’s Christmas? Look, the kid is trying. Christmas isn’t some game like Monopoly where you stand a chance of winning if you follow the rules, though. The foster parents think, “What is wrong with her? Doesn’t she appreciate all the trouble we’ve gone to with the tree, lights, and the stockings?” They introduce her to their relatives and say, “It’s Juniper’s first Christmas with us!” and everyone is thinking, “The poor thing. Did you hear what her biological parents did to her? Honestly, some people should have to get a license to reproduce. How can she miss her family when we are taking so much better care of her? She has a bed, three meals a day, nice clothes, and we let her watch our big screen TV. Now it’s Christmas and all we want is a nice holiday and she is off crying for no good reason.”
It’s like telling the Indians to be grateful for reservations.
Ask the child about her past Christmases. Don’t worry, she isn’t going to tell you the story of how her mom got drunk before breakfast or her dad smacked her when she woke him up to give him the tie or shaving cream or wallet for Christmas because what else do you get a dad?
She wants to remember the good stuff, and the tradition of putting an orange into her gym sock because that meant Christmas once and it still could if you’d let it. She could be afraid that if she tells you it will make her sound like white trash. She might not know the Jesus and Wise Men story and to her frankincense sounds like the name of a really bad rash.
Ask her what her favorite Christmas song is and if it’s the one of the dogs barking “Jingle Bells,” then would it kill you to play it a couple of times?
Also, the kid might not know how to say thank you for an iPod or a bubble bath assortment because when she leaves your home for another one they might not let her take that with her. Usually they take it away because if the other kids don’t have it they could get in fights.
If you ask a shrink they will say by age seven a child knows 90% of the coping skills that will get her through life. A foster kid just wants things to feel stable.
1. Don’t get in fights with your extended family.
2. Don’t get all hammered on alcohol.
3. Don’t let people ask questions like “What happened to her?”
because the kid already feels like a bug with a pin stuck in it, waving her arms and legs and going nowhere.
Psychologists like to use analogies instead of just saying things straight out, like “When you go to plant your garden don’t drop in a kernel of corn and expect roses to come up.” Now I’m not saying every foster kid is corn but sometimes when you get all ready for corn it might not come up either. You just have to wait and see what grows.
Juniper—I can see the effort you put into this essay, but you missed the deadline I gave for makeup work by two days. No credit allowed. Grade for the semester: C-. Happy Holidays!
A Winter Solstice Wedding
Lily Grant/Chris Reston
December 21st, 2003
5:00 P.M.
Menu
Champagne
Mulled cider
Solomon's Oak Page 13