Hurry Home

by Roz Nay

  I smile to myself. There it is. I knew it wouldn’t take Morris long. He’s by-the-book and never strays from it. Whenever a child is removed, it’s always his first step to look for a healthy relative to take custody. A grandmother, an aunt, a long-lost cousin—anyone within the child’s bloodline who’s not a complete train wreck. If the birth parents don’t consent to that plan, our office will organize a family conference to try to find a resolution out of court. The meetings are usually tense and rarely successful. In most cases, it takes a judge to decide where the child will end up. But for Buster it’s a good sign Morris is even asking. It means that the wheels are already in motion.

  “There’s a maternal grandmother in Crow’s Pass,” Minerva sniffs. “But we won’t need her.”

  “Good,” says Morris. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  As soon as we’ve parked, it’s clear straightaway that the home has been tidied up, at least a little. No shoes lie straggled along the path, and although the gate still has the Big Dog Bites sign on it, they’ve turned it so it faces inward.

  “It’s funny, isn’t it,” I say, “how different a house looks when they know we’re coming?”

  Minerva says nothing, but marches ahead of Morris and me until she reaches the porch, which has been swept. There are no heaps of cigarette butts in a cat litter tray anymore, but they haven’t replaced the broken door. Minerva gently knocks on the cracked windowpane. After a few seconds, Evelyn comes to the door with a button-up shirt tucked into the waistband of her jeans. She’s holding Buster, whose diaper is entirely concealed in thick flannel pants. Both of them are overdressed for July.

  “What?” she asks, looking from face to face. Does she remember who we are?

  “Mrs. Floyd, hi. It’s good to see you again.” Minerva gestures to me. “And you remember Alex Van Ness. And this man here is Morris Arbuckle. He’s our friendly supervisor.”

  “Why are there three of you? There weren’t three last time.” Mrs. Floyd shifts her grip on Buster. He doesn’t seem to have grown much. His little legs are clamped around his mother’s waist. I can’t tell if his arms are dirty or just tanned.

  “Oh, don’t you worry about me,” Morris says. “I’m just tagging along.”

  “Can we come in?” Minerva leans into Buster’s face like she’s going to boop him on the nose with a forefinger, she’s that fun. “This won’t take long.”

  Evelyn steps to one side, and the three of us file past the pantry shelves, which are conspicuously well stocked now, and into the long, thin body of the house. I notice the smell. It’s changed. It’s citrusy, the kind of acidic tang in cheap cleaning solvents that clings to the back of the throat. It’s masking all the former sourness of neglect. Aside from a couple of dishes in the sink and an open packet of granola that has spilled a little along the countertop, the house appears tidy, but my gut tells me there’s more to the story.

  Evelyn points to the kitchen table, the same one we sat at back at the start of June. This time it’s clean and polished, not a soiled baby wipe in sight. We all sit down, Minerva and Morris on one side of the table, Evelyn and I on the other. Buster wriggles in her arms, and she deposits him onto the linoleum floor, where he sits with his legs stretched out straight. I look around for a toy.

  “My husband’s not here,” Evelyn says. “He’s buying diapers.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. I thought we’d found a time when we could all be here,” I say.

  Morris keeps glancing around the room, just like I am. We’re checking out standards, trying to be covert.

  “Yeah, but something came up. The diapers. He had to step out.”

  “Well, we’ll just chat with you, then.” Minerva says, “Buster’s doing well, isn’t he?”

  Evelyn coughs, long and rattling. “He’s all right. He’s doing good.”

  “He looks healthy!” Minerva smiles at me. I told you, she’s saying, oh ye of little faith.

  “Is he meeting all of his developmental milestones?” I ask.

  “What?” Evelyn replies.

  “He’s approaching them,” Minerva says.

  “While we’re waiting for your husband,” I say, “do you mind if I just use your washroom quickly?” I stand up, and so does Mrs. Floyd.

  Minerva fumes in her seat.

  “No, it’s fine, Mrs. Floyd—you stay here. I know where it is.”

  I slip away from the table as Morris asks Evelyn how’s she feeling, if she’s been sleeping any better, and I walk down the narrow hallway past Buster’s room again. She’s straightened that up, too, and bought him a wooden train set. The engine’s on the window ledge, but the carriages spill downward haphazardly. Instead of heading into the bathroom, I go a little farther along and poke my head into the Floyds’ bedroom. It’s basic: a mattress on the floor, a bedside lamp without a shade. She’s pulled the bedding straight, but it’s filthy and graying at the edges.

  I enter the room. There has to be something here. I just know it. My eyes follow the line of empty beer bottles under the window. So they’re drinking. The place is a mess, clothes everywhere, plastic bags littered across the floor. I look back at the hallway, panicked. I don’t have much time. I search under the bed, thinking that’s surely where they’d hide anything. Yes, that has to be it. Bingo. Morris just needs to look properly. I hurry back past the bathroom, ducking in to flush the toilet, and arrive at the kitchen table. I feel a bit unsteady, as though the linoleum is rippling under me.

  “Have you been using all the supports we set up?” Minerva is asking. “I know you’ve completed the We Can’t All Be Perfect program. Was that very helpful to you?”

  “It was all right.”

  “I’m really so happy to hear that. And the house looks amazing!”

  She has no idea, but before I can say anything, Buster cries out. He’s knocked his head against the leg of the table.

  “You’re all right, Bust. You’re all right, big man.” Evelyn shunts him farther away from the table. He barely cries.

  “He seems very capable of self-soothing, Evelyn. That’s a good sign.” Minerva leans out from her chair, and I take the opportunity to catch Morris’s eye. It’s now or never. I gesture for him to go look around.

  He takes the hint. “I’ll just use the washroom before we head out.”

  Evelyn looks up from Buster as Morris stands and moves down the corridor. “You people don’t have a bathroom at work or what?” She wipes her nose with her sleeve.

  “Where did you say Mr. Floyd was again?” I ask.

  She crosses her arms on her chest. “What does it matter? We’ve done all the shit you told us to.”

  “No, you’re doing fabulously,” Minerva says. “Just like I knew you would.”

  “Minerva…,” I begin, but she’s steamrolling ahead.

  “I don’t think we need to wait for Frank.” Minerva stands up. “I’m entirely satisfied with what I see.”

  Just then, Morris wanders back from the hallway. He’s frantically smoothing his tie flat.

  “We’re just getting ready to leave, Morris,” Minerva says. “I’m assuming you agree that we’ve followed all protocols and our work here is done?”

  Morris shakes his head. “We have a bit of a problem. Can you sit back down, Minerva?”

  “What’s going on?” Evelyn says, grabbing Buster from the floor, yanking him into her lap.

  Morris smears one palm against the other. “I’m afraid I’ve just found evidence of serious drug use.”

  “What evidence?” Minerva rounds the table and stands by Evelyn. “What are you talking about?”

  “These were in the bedroom, sticking out from under the bed.” He has at least four bags of cocaine in his hand, some of them chalky and half-open. He did look properly. I knew I was right.

  Evelyn’s head whips from Morris to me to Minerva. “No, that’s not mine. What the fuck?” She looks at Buster. The panic on her face makes my stomach twist, but there’s nothing I can do. She did this to he
rself.

  “No,” Minerva says. She looks like she’s been personally slapped.

  “It’s not mine,” Evelyn says. “I swear to God I don’t touch that shit no more.”

  “Mrs. Floyd, I’m afraid we’re going to have to remove Buster today.” Morris says it as gently as he can. “This much cocaine, this accessible. I’m very sorry, but we don’t have a choice.”

  “You can’t take him!” she wails, standing up, Buster clamped around her middle. “Don’t take him from me!” Evelyn covers her mouth with one hand as if she might vomit through her fingers. I feel so sad suddenly—as I always do in these moments—but what matters most is what’s best for the child.

  Buster sees his mother’s panic, and his lower lip begins to protrude and tremble.

  “Fucking what?” Frank Floyd crashes through the door and into the kitchen, carrying diapers and a bag of groceries. “Who’s doing what now?”

  “They’re saying there’s coke in our bedroom!” Evelyn cries.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Frank slams the diapers onto the kitchen counter and approaches us as if we’re wild circus animals. “Nobody’s using drugs in my house.”

  The rumble of Frank’s voice frightens Buster even more, and he starts to cry, his little arms clinging to his mother. She grips him to her chest. Meanwhile, Morris looks gray in the face and Minerva is turning red. Someone needs to take control of this situation.

  “Okay, listen, can we all please calm down?” I take a deep breath. “Mr. and Mrs. Floyd, our boss is saying there’s immediate risk here, and I’m afraid it’s enough of a reason to—”

  “Who the fuck is he? I don’t give a fuck about your boss,” Frank says. “Get out of my house.”

  “Listen to me,” Morris says. He’s still pale, but his tone is firm. He holds up the bags of drugs in his hands, and Frank balks.

  “Are those fucking yours, Evelyn? Evelyn! I thought you were— What have you done?”

  “They’re not mine!” Evelyn refuses to relinquish her hold on Buster. “It’s not right! Frank, don’t even say that—”

  “Well, they’re sure as fuck not mine!” he shouts, and Buster buries his face in Evelyn’s shoulder.

  “Look, we all want the same thing here,” Morris says. “Of course we want kids to be with their families. Buster belongs with you. But for now it’s not safe for him. I need you to understand that my goal is to get him back to you as soon as possible. But you need to work with me here.”

  “You’re planning on just walking out with him? You can’t do that! That can’t be legal!” Frank shouts, panic in his eyes now.

  “You need to lower your voices,” I say. “The way you handle this today will impact Buster. You’re frightening him. I know this is horrible for you, but if you can try to stay calm, so will he.”

  “But—where, where would you take him?” Evelyn looks wildly from face to face.

  “We want the least intrusive measure possible,” Morris says. “Minimum disruption to Buster. The best choice would be if family was available to take him while we finish the investigation. Does your mom live nearby still, Mrs. Floyd? Could we get a hold of her?”

  “My mom?” Evelyn is crying.

  “It’s your best option.” Minerva manages a small smile. “Let’s call her, shall we, Frank? While Evelyn packs a bag for Buster? Let’s stay calm. If you can both do that, it’ll form part of our report. It’ll really help you get him back more quickly.”

  Even though she’s still placating them, it’s the first time I’ve seen Minerva do her job properly. She’s taking the problem at hand seriously at last, probably because her reputation is now on the line.

  “Alex, could you help Mrs. Floyd, please?” Morris has his phone out.

  I guide Evelyn through to Buster’s room. She moves as if paper-thin, as if she might blow away in a breeze. Buster watches her face as she moves, nuzzles into her neck with little snuffles.

  “It’s okay, Bust,” she keeps saying. “You’re going to see Nana for a few days. You’re going to have such a fun time.” She swallows hard, packs T-shirts and nothing else. Tries to stuff in the toy train and a blanket, but the grocery bag she’s using won’t stretch.

  “Does he have a favorite stuffy?” I ask, picking up Buster’s grimy blue rabbit from the floor. “Should this go in?”

  Buster reaches out for the toy. I hand it to him as Evelyn suppresses a sob. This is always the worst part of the job and the most necessary.

  When we go back to the living room, Morris nods at me once. The grandmother has been located.

  “Buster is going to visit Granny!” Morris says. “He’ll stay there for a few weeks. Won’t that be fun?”

  “It’s Nana,” Frank corrects. “Just for a little while, big man.” He softly touches Buster’s ear.

  “It’s very clear how much you love your son,” Minerva says, her eyes watery.

  Morris glances at me, and I know what he’s thinking. All damaged people love their children, Minerva. The question is whether they’re looking after them properly.

  “Next steps,” Morris says, his lips dry. “The police are on their way. They’ll have paperwork for you, and they’ll confiscate the drugs. We’ll also be filing papers with the court explaining our actions today. You’ll get a copy of those. And then as part of the court process, we’ll have a family conference at our office. Your mum will be there, and a lawyer if you’d like one. We can talk everything over at that meeting, figure out what’s best for the little guy.”

  “I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” Evelyn says.

  “You’ll see Buster again in a few days,” Minerva says. “We’ll set up a supervised visit. Right, Morris? And we’ll talk all of this over really soon. Next week we’ll meet up. Find the right way forward.”

  “Bring him back where he belongs, you mean?” Evelyn asks.

  “That’s what everyone wants, yes,” Morris says.

  I stay quiet. The best thing is to remain collected. We’re so nearly there.

  Morris motions for us to get ready to leave, and Evelyn passes Buster into my arms. He’s warm and soft to hug. His hair smells like sleep. Immediately he reaches away from me, whimpering.

  “Mama?” he says. It’s the only thing I’ve ever heard him say.

  “You’re going on a vacation!” Evelyn manages. “With Nana! Remember Nana’s cat? He’ll be so happy to play with you!” Her voice cracks, and she smiles although her eyes are doing the opposite.

  “We’re getting a lawyer.” Frank’s jaw is wobbling.

  We wait in the kitchen until we see the police cruiser pull up near the driveway. Morris directs everyone outside, then leaves the drugs on the table and the Floyds walk with us to the car. Evelyn trails her fingertips against Buster’s; she’s trying to smile, trying to hold it together. Morris heads over to debrief the police officers, and I notice that neither of them is Sully, which is a shame. I would have liked to have seen him right now. Instead, I strap Buster into the car seat we brought, his dark brown eyes staring at my face the whole time. He’s still holding the dirt-streaked bunny.

  Evelyn leans into the back seat to kiss him. “We’ll see you soon!”

  Frank has to put his arm around her waist to pull her out. All of it’s heartbreaking, but I just keep thinking, If you care this much, why can’t you try a little harder? Once Morris is done, he walks over and gets into the driver’s seat, takes a deep breath, turns the key in the ignition. The last thing I see of the Floyds, the police are accompanying them into the house.

  We drive in silence straight to Buster’s grandmother, all of us breathing out stress. Even Minerva doesn’t speak. Adrenaline sickens my stomach, but I ride in the back seat, dancing the bunny for Buster and holding his hand.

  “You’re safe,” I whisper to him. “Beautiful boy.”

  * * *

  I walk home to the loft at 4:00 p.m. feeling drained. I couldn’t eat much for the rest of the day—the sick feeling wouldn’t go aw
ay—because as much as the Buster visit was a triumph and a move in the right direction, it’s never uncomplicated. That’s the nature of social work: even the banner days are underscored by tragedy.

  When I let myself into the apartment, it’s unusually quiet. Chase isn’t rattling around by the stove; the television’s not on. Ruth is sitting alone on the couch, the contents of her bag splayed untidily across the coffee table. A familiar-looking purse with an antique clasp, a passport, some loose change.

  “Ruth?” I say. “What’s going on?”

  “He found it,” she says, her eyes dull and flat. “Sorry. I tried to get it back.”

  “Found what?” But she’s lumped there like stone. “Chase?” I call, heading toward the bedroom. He’s sitting on the bed. “Is everything all right?”

  He looks up, his face ash-gray. He’s holding a small square of paper.

  “What’s that?” With a flash of dread, I wonder if Sully’s written me something and Chase has intercepted it. I step toward him and stop. “Chase? Let me see. Is it about Sully?”

  His eyes widen further.

  “If this is about him, I’ve hardly even seen him, Chase. I mean, I saw him today, but only by accident when—”

  “This isn’t about Sully,” he says, “but thanks for the extra kick to the gut.” Then he passes me a creased photograph, bordered in white. It’s faded, and as I squint to make it out, the whole room starts to bend.

  “No,” I say, my voice rough. “Where did you find this?” In my hand is an old photo of my family on the farm, a Horizon summer seventeen years ago, Mom holding a bucket, us kids barefoot, sitting on the gate, smiling. I can almost hear the sound in it, the birds singing, the laughter. I haven’t seen this photo in so long.

  “There are three kids in this picture, Alex,” Chase says. “There’s you. And there’s Ruth. And who is that tanned little boy?”

  I can’t look at him, can’t stay standing for much longer.