At Risk of Being a Fool

by Jeanette Cottrell

  “Estelle’s not stupid. She’ll come to terms with it on her own time.”

  “Probably. But it would be easier on her if she had a friend, someone to discuss the matter. Don’t look so horrified. I’m not asking you to break the news to her. She knows. All I’m asking is, if she gives you any opening at all, encourage her to talk about it. But first, move any portable items out of arm’s reach. I don’t want to treat you for head injuries.”

  Jeanie had visited Estelle five days in a row, since the first visit last Thursday. Estelle never gave her the slightest opening, or even an indication that there were personal problems to discuss. Perhaps this was an opening.

  “I’d think it’ll be longer than a couple of weeks,” Jeanie said. “Mackie indicated closer to six weeks.”

  “Miss Sandoval is not apprised of my medical situation. Informing total strangers of one’s most intimate problems has always seemed to me the height of crassness.”

  It was hard to envision a statement that said more clearly: “Keep Out.” Jeanie gasped melodramatically and threw a hand to her heart. “Oh my God.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t believe it, can it be true? We actually agree on a subject?”

  Estelle wore the look of someone who had opened a can of tuna fish and found a live mouse inside.

  “Well,” said Jeanie, “let’s get off this dismal topic, and talk about something really important.”

  “And that would be?” Estelle’s tone was less confident than it had been.

  “The death penalty. Now there’s a real life application of the justice model versus rehabilitation.”

  “Capital punishment is the ultimate response of society for ensuring the safety of its members. Naturally, the softhearted are unable to appreciate the true deterrent effect on criminals. I assure you, Jeanie, measured consequences are the cornerstone of society’s foundation.”

  “Hardly, Estelle. Capital punishment is an outmoded, barbaric exercise in futility. In fact, it is reminiscent of the child-sacrifices to the ancient god Baal . . .”

  Jeanie’s courage failed her. Tackling the amputation issue would only set her dodging vases of flowers, at this point. However, Estelle had called her Jeanie instead of Mrs. McCoy.

  A teacher measures progress by inches.

  ~*~

  A small bundle of gray fur squirmed in Dillon’s lap. The beat of his music escaped the headphones and punched its way into the room. Dillon scored his paper with black wedges. As Jeanie watched covertly, the pencil slowed, curving into arches and swirls.

  Rita had attached herself to a favorite lap. The hands belonging to it were untrained, but she had hopes. Rita stood and set one paw on the edge of the table. She peered over the book, and spotted the moving hand. She wriggled her rear end, and pounced. Jeanie ducked her head and pretended great concentration on Rosalie’s essay. She felt Dillon’s eyes on her.

  “Much better, Rosalie,” she said, lying her head off. “Complete sentences, on topic, nice.” Complete sentences, yes. Strung together haphazardly, rather like the pencil marks on Dillon’s paper. “TV with vilance is no good. This kid took a gun to schol. Poor kid, nobdy took care. If his Daddy took care him guns locked up . . .” No matter what the topic of the GED test, Jeanie suspected the examiners would be reading a story about Rosalie’s Dad.

  Jeanie snuck a look at Dillon. He cupped the small cat against his chest, one large hand engulfing her with each stroke. A small glow of satisfaction kindled in her chest. At last, she’d done something right for Dillon.

  Reluctantly, she checked her watch. “Well, sorry, guys. I’m sure you’d be happy to go for another hour, but we’ve got to quit. Corrigan wants his dinner.”

  Without a word, Dillon penned the cat in Mackie’s office before grabbing his coat and radio. Tonio followed.

  “Bye, Jeanie,” said Quinto, crouching by Corrigan.

  “Bye, Quinto. You need to leave now, Quinto. Mr. Matthews will be upset if you’re late.” She’d spoken to Mr. Matthews twice, in her abortive attempts at gathering alibi information. Perhaps he was an android, incapable of independent thought. He counted heads, drove, dropped off, picked up, counted heads, and went back to Dandridge. If the “heads” had faces and personalities attached, it was news to him.

  “Gotta go to the bus stop, now,” Rosalie cooed to Corrigan. “Bye, baby. Bye, Jeanie.”

  “Rosalie, do you want a ride home? You’re not looking good.”

  “Nah, I’m fine.”

  Rosalie moved towards the door. Jeanie spotted the deep purplish circles under her eyes, now that fluorescent light didn’t wash out the contrasts.

  “Rosalie, are you sleeping all right?”

  “Huh? Oh sure.”

  Rosalie’s mouth quivered. Still fretting about her father, no doubt. “Look, Rosalie, do you want me to call your father? Maybe if he knows you’re studying every day, he’ll realize you’re changing yourself.” Jeanie had left several messages for Mr. Perea. She’d never told Rosalie. No one ever answered Mr. Perea’s phone. The message machine always picked up, and no one ever responded.

  Rosalie’s eyes clung to her. “Yeah, maybe, would you?”

  “Sure, no problem.” She’d call his workplace this time. Mackie must have the number.

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Jeanie waited for one of Rosalie’s blinding smiles, but it didn’t come. She’d lost more weight. Her head looked too big for that scrawny neck; the emaciated body too heavy for the tired feet. “Rosalie, just wait for me. I’ve got a little work to do here, and then I’ll run you home, okay?”

  “No, no,” said Rosalie, vaguely. “I’ll just . . .” The words faded as she walked through the door.

  “...Lucky bitch—”

  Jeanie swiveled. “Good-bye, Brynna, see you tomorrow.”

  Brynna gave Sorrel a dirty look. “Community service, my fuckin’ ass. How come she gets so lucky, get out from under Cuthbert’s thumb every goddamn night . . .”

  “Did you want a ride back to Bright Futures, Brynna?” Of course she didn’t. Like Sorrel, she prized the luxury of taking the bus, but the mild threat got Brynna out of the door. Jeanie sighed with relief.

  While Sorrel plugged away at fractions, Jeanie spent half an hour on paperwork, generating the paper trail demanded by the feds and the charitable organizations that funded the program. At last, she stuffed it all in a folder, and set it in Mackie Sandoval’s inbox. With Sorrel, a boxed cat, and a harnessed dog, she set the car on the road towards Oriole’s Nest. She’d gone barely three blocks when Sorrel grabbed her arm.

  “Hey, stop the car,” Sorrel commanded. She jumped to the sidewalk, and raced between two dilapidated houses.

  “Sorrel,” yelled Jeanie, belatedly climbing out of the car. “What the—”

  Sorrel came back, talking a blue streak, shoving a girl in front of her. “What the hell you think you’re doing? Damned lucky we were coming this way. Get in the car, you.” She yanked the back door open, and shoved Rosalie inside. Long tangled black hair hid her face. “Sorry, puppy,” Sorrel said to Corrigan. “Jeanie, he’s going to have to sit on the floor.”

  “No,” said the girl. She clutched the dog to her chest, and with the motion, Jeanie’s mind slipped back into gear.

  “Rosalie? Why—”

  “Shut up a minute,” Sorrel said. “Look, girl, you’re not gonna jump out of this car, you hear me? You do, and Jeanie’s calling the cops, got it? God, you got no more fuckin’ sense than Donald Duck.” She slammed the back door, and got in the front.

  Jeanie got back in the car. “Why—”

  “This ain’t a good place to park,” Sorrel said, her eyes snapping with anger. “You gotta stop somewhere, go find a Wal-Mart parking lot or something, huh? Our stupid little Rosalie decided to buy herself something, didn’t you, dumbass?”

  Jeanie drove obediently, casting the occasional glance in the mirror. She saw Rosalie nod, tears streaking her face. Corrigan licked her face. Ro
salie clutched him tighter, and her sobs filled the car.

  “God, of all the dipshit things to pull. Who’d you go to? Oh God, who was it? Couldn’t have been Silvio, he’s in jail, and I know he can’t raise the bail, not this time. His Mama’s sick of bailing him out. Talk! Who was it?”

  “Corky,” whispered Rosalie.

  “That shit? What the hell’s he doing down here? Isn’t he one of Silvio’s men, up in Portland? God, everybody in the world’s gotta move to Salem.”

  “Must be because you’re here,” Jeanie suggested, trying to inject a lighter note into the proceedings.

  Sorrel gave her a sharp look, and grimaced. “Feels like it. Don’t say it.”

  “Don’t say what?”

  “‘Let’s all calm down,’ stuff like that. I’m so sick of calming down.”

  “I agree, it’s never been your strong point. Nevertheless, I think Rosalie could talk better if she weren’t crying, and that’s hard to do when you’re yelling at her.”

  Sorrel rolled her eyes and bit her lip, gouging the lipstick. She faced forward, leaving Rosalie a measure of privacy. “Right.”

  “Right?” said Jeanie, involuntarily.

  “Don’t rub it in. Okay, Rosalie, listen up. You may have bought the stuff—”

  “—What stuff?” Jeanie interjected.

  “Crack. It’s about all Corky does, fast and cheap. Rotten stuff, too. Good way to kill yourself, Rosalie.” She looked over her shoulder. “Or was that the plan? It’s a nasty way to go, girl.” She waited a moment. “Anyway, you may have bought it, but you didn’t use it yet. Give it to Jeanie. She’ll get rid of it. No one’s gotta know nothing. Not the cops, not Esperanza, nobody, okay? Like it never happened. You don’t want to do it, Rosalie. You’ll never get your kid back.”

  “She filed the papers,” said Rosalie, tear-choked, “She did this morning.”

  “Who filed what papers?” Jeanie said.

  “Her. Her and that social worker. So’s I don’t get Dominic no more.”

  The foster mother, Jeanie realized, had pressured social services into filing for termination of parental rights. She pulled into a grocery store parking lot, parking in an unused section under a tree. She lifted the cat carrier into the front seat, and got into the back next to Rosalie. “Honey, listen to me. Mackie told me that she didn’t have a case. You didn’t abuse him, or abandon him. You’re under treatment, and doing well. The fact that she filed them doesn’t mean she’ll win.”

  “The judge, he don’t like me.” She curled over Corrigan, rocking him up and down. “Never no more. My baby, my little doll, I’ll never get him back.”

  “Rosalie—” Rosalie wasn’t listening. She tilted sideways, as if accidentally. After a moment, Jeanie opened her arms, and Rosalie fell into them, Corrigan and all. Jeanie tucked Rosalie’s head under her chin, and rocked her back and forth, murmuring nonsense words, as she had with her small sons, countless times. She opened her eyes and found Sorrel staring at her, expressionless.

  ~*~

  Jeanie dropped Rosalie off at Esperanza, with a brief explanation to Linda. The crack, in an innocuous prescription bottle, rested in her glove compartment. Kherra would know what to do with it.

  Sorrel, who’d been silent for the last half hour, finally spoke. “Don’t speed or nothing. If the cops catch you with that, we’re gonna be in deep shit.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t explain that no police officer would ask if Jeanie had crack in her glove compartment, much less search her car. Jeanie had gotten half a dozen traffic warnings in the last ten years, but never a single ticket.

  “Where we going? You gotta go south on Commercial, don’t you?”

  “Not yet. We’re doubling back to the school.” She checked her watch. Four thirty. “I hope we get there before he leaves.”

  “Who? If you’re going looking for Corky, that’s a shitty idea.”

  “Not Corky. But you said he was Silvio’s man, down from Portland, right? Rosalie’s local. She’s the only one of you who’s lived here most of her life. How would she know to find a newly-arrived drug dealer unless someone told her? And if he happened to be right here in this neighborhood, that sort of narrows down our likely informants, doesn’t it? Especially since I saw Silvio’s phone number on a certain business card. Oh good, he’s still here.”

  “Who—” Sorrel saw the motorcycle, and her eyes flamed. She jumped out of the car and ran after Jeanie. She caught up to her on the stairs. “That son-of-a-bitch—”

  Jeanie held up one finger. Sorrel glanced at her. “What—”

  Jeanie opened the office door, and shoved it back with a bang. “Mr. Kemmerich,” she sang. “Oh there you are, how opportune.”

  Oscar Kemmerich looked up from his computer keyboard, leaving two fingers poised in the air. His jaw dropped. His office was a one-room affair. Sorrel figured he’d gotten the furniture at thrift shops. It had that look about it, surface pretty, but wedged up with cardboard. Framed certificates lined the wall. Sorrel squinted her eyes at one. “Future Farmers of America gratefully acknowledges your gift of $25.” Probably had his third-grade citizenship award up here somewhere.

  Jeanie smiled as she leaned on the edge of his desk.

  “I believe you have an acquaintance with a gentleman by the name of Corky. A recent transplant from Portland. Perhaps you represent him. Is that so? No, no, forgive me; he’s still out and about. You must represent his Salem partner. Now who could he be, I wonder? Possibly someone named Silvio, whose phone number I coincidentally managed to acquire. Now, I have a small legal question for you, Mr. Kemmerich. Let us suppose that a lawyer with a drug dealer as a client was in the habit of passing the names of alternate suppliers to young girls. Do you suppose that might be inappropriate? Possibly even illegal?”

  Mr. Kemmerich shut his mouth and rose to his feet, facing Jeanie across the table. A vein stood out in his forehead, pulsing rapidly. With a visible effort, he leaned over the desk, nearly nose to nose with Jeanie. Sorrel bristled at the aggression, and stepped forward, only to find Jeanie’s outstretched arm blocking her. She stopped, mesmerized by Jeanie’s fixed smile.

  “Let the man talk, dear. It’s not polite of me to hog the conversation.”

  “You, madam, are committing slander—”

  “Hardly. This is a private conversation. I suggest you refer to your law books.”

  “The young lady in question is a liar. I did no such thing. I merely offered her a little private advice, since she obviously needs guidance.”

  “Which young lady is that? How do you know who I’m talking about?”

  He flushed. “My client records are confidential. I’m sure you know that much from Court TV,” he sneered. “You have no evidence—”

  “Imitating Bill Clinton, are you?”

  “You,” he snarled, pointing his finger at her chest, “had damn well better watch your tongue. I don’t appreciate your aspersions on my character, and neither, let me tell you, will my clients. You try sharing these little opinions, and it will be slander. Publish them, and it’s libel, too. Won’t be much of your retirement savings left then, will there? So watch yourself.”

  Jeanie sighed. To Sorrel’s amazement, her anger seemed to have evaporated, replaced with a vast exasperation. She raised her hand, put the palm of her hand on Mr. Kemmerich’s forehead, and shoved him back.

  “Sit down, you dimwit. Now listen to me. If you tell Silvio what I said, odds are high that his first rage will be with you. No doubt, he’d get around to me, but you’d be first on his list for involving him in a situation that is larger than you know. My little Rosalie has a wide range of affectionate supporters, and some of them likely resemble, in character, your mythical Silvio. While Rosalie is easily tempted, the results of her temptation may be considerably more than you are willing to live with. Certainly, it would give your client headaches he doesn’t need. Do you understand me?”

  Mr. Kemmerich sank into his seat.

  Jeanie’s f
ace softened. “You’re young, Mr. Kemmerich. You need to find an experienced lawyer to take you under his wing, and teach you wisdom. I doubt you’ll do it, because you’re not the type to heed advice. I want you to realize one thing. I am the perfect enraged protective mother, and the fact that Rosalie is not my daughter is irrelevant. I’ve no doubt I could interest the press, and publish my story on the Internet well before you could get a court date. You will keep your hands, mouth, eyes, actions, and influence well away from my students. Every single one of them.”

  Jeanie straightened. “Do we understand each other?” Silence. “I’ll take that as an affirmative. Good day to you, Mr. Kemmerich.”

  Sorrel followed her out to the car. She watched Jeanie as she put the car in motion. “Are you okay?” she asked, finally.

  “I guess so. I don’t know that I accomplished anything. If he was more experienced, I’d never have gotten away with that. On the other hand, if he was more experienced, he’d never have contacted Rosalie directly. It was stupid. I just hope he knows it, now.”

  “You’re not going to tell anybody on him?”

  “Of course I am. If he’d do that to Rosalie, he would to anyone else who looked susceptible. I suspect Silvio has a considerable client list. I’ll tell the police about Corky, too, but they probably already know. They’re a lot sharper than you think.”

  “I won’t talk to the cops,” said Sorrel.

  Jeanie smiled. “Did you think I’d involve you?”

  “No. What’s going to happen to the lawyer when you tell on him?”

  “Nothing at all. There’s no evidence. He’ll know that when he recovers. Mackie might be able to shame him into giving free legal services, but actually, I don’t think he’d mind that. It would give him access to a wider client base.”

  “Could he really put you in jail for writing stuff about him on the Internet?”

  Jeanie cocked her head. “I don’t know. That’s an interesting question.”