by Roz Nay
“I do. There’s just something I need to check on.” Buster’s family conference is today, though Morris waved me off when I volunteered to attend.
“It’s probably better that you take a rest from this one,” he said. “Take Monday for yourself. The Floyd case seems to have worked their way under your skin.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Just that these meetings are fraught at the best of times. We need diffusers in this room, not … the opposite. We’ve got Frank, Evelyn, their lawyer, the maternal grandmother, and me. That’s plenty.”
Minerva’s missing it, too. She’s off on a three-week trip to Paris.
“Can’t you reschedule it, Morris?” she asked, the day before she was due to fly out. “I really feel it’s important I’m there in the room.”
“It’s been a month, Minerva. That’s long enough,” Morris said. “We won’t get anything sorted anyway. You know how these things go.”
He’s right. Family conferences are an unnecessary emotional stepping-stone on the inevitable road to a day in court. So rarely do birth parents show up to family conferences with an evolved, selfless outlook and agree that their child would do better growing up with a relative. Mostly the meetings just create more turmoil. But still, Morris refuses to sidestep them, and I feel the need to be in the office for this one, just in case.
“Okay,” Chase says now, sipping his newly made coffee. “I can get Ruth.”
“Thank you,” I say. “She’s being discharged at one p.m. I love you. Don’t worry.”
Honestly, though, I should be saying it to myself. With Ruth’s due date looming and Buster’s family conference, I have way more on my plate than he does, way more to worry about. There are moments when I wonder how I’m managing to keep going.
I haven’t seen Buster since the removal, and I haven’t been privy to any of the supervised visits. As lead social worker on the file, Minerva attended them all, but Morris assured me Buster was doing great. Smashing, was how he put it. Don’t worry, Alex, Granny’s got it covered. Buster is thriving.
An hour later, I hurry out of the loft and into the office, timing it perfectly so that I hear Frank’s voice as they enter. Nobody knows I’m here, especially not Morris. I peek through the crack in my door as the key players walk down the hall, toward the conference room. Frank and Evelyn look rough and bedraggled as they enter, as if they’ve spent the month without their son sitting under a leaky drainpipe. The grandmother creeps behind them, her hair cropped close to her head and bright orange like she’s dipped it in paint. She’s bony, spindly old legs in bejeweled jeans, the skin of her face stretched veiny and tight around sharp cheekbones. She must have left Buster with a friend while she attends the meeting—nobody ever brings kids to these things in case the meetings go sideways. I wonder for the hundredth time if Buster’s okay and indeed thriving, but have I to trust Morris’s judgment. I withdraw into my office and listen through the cheap plywood wall to Evelyn’s pleading, her tearful, panicked resolutions. I can hear every word.
“But we’ve done everything you said,” Evelyn sobs. “We’ve done the forms and shit, and the drug tests. Didn’t we, Frank?”
“Yes and they came back clean.” Frank’s voice hides latent rage. “Clean, Mr. Arbuckle. What do you have to say about that?”
“No, that’s great, that’s fantastic.” I can imagine Morris flattening his tie. “And let’s just recap that we all want the same thing here. Granny—how are you getting on?”
“My name is Janeen.” The grandmother’s voice is tight. “And they weren’t on drugs. I could have told you that from the get-go. They’ve fought a very hard fight, Mr. Arbuckle. I think people should be given well-dones for that, not punishments. I love Buster, sir, don’t get me wrong. But he needs to be with his mom and his dad.”
“Yes,” Morris says. “I’m very happy that the tests came back negative, but it’s not quite as simple as that, though. Evelyn, Frank, to be clear, are you saying that you won’t give consent for Buster to be in his grandmother’s care ongoing?”
“No, I fucking won’t,” says Frank. “No offense, Janeen.”
“None taken,” she says.
“I’m afraid it becomes a matter for the court, then,” Morris says. “We’ll let the judge ruminate on the facts.”
Leopards don’t change their spots, my love, I imagine him thinking. I’m so glad I got him on board.
Only once the Floyds have left the building do I emerge from my office. I’m almost to the front door when Morris catches me.
“Alex?” he says. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“Nothing. I just … I left my—”
“You were listening to the whole thing, weren’t you?” He shakes his head in amazement. “You couldn’t help yourself. It’s not normal, you know, to seek out work when you’ve been told to relax at home.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just that—”
“You care too much. That’s what it is. That’s good and everything, but I can’t have you disregarding my instructions. You’re lucky Minerva’s not here.”
“Sorry, Morris.”
“Go home. Take a breather. God knows we all need a little self-care.”
I pause at the security screen and turn.
“Yes, Alex,” he says, rolling his eyes, even though his tone is warm. “The family conference went well. Buster’s set for a court date, just like you wanted.”
“It’s not just me who wants—”
“Go home, or I’m firing you.”
“Okay. Okay, sorry. I’m leaving now.”
When I get back to the apartment, it’s empty. Chase must be at the hospital picking up Ruth. We’ll need to keep a steady vigil on her at home. I’m worried about my sister, about her fitness to be a new mom. Obviously it’s a bad sign that’s she’s fainting and bleeding from stress. She’s not coping, and the baby’s not even on the outside yet. It’s going to take a village to raise her child.
By the sink, I pour water into the coffeepot, relax into the quiet of the hour I have to myself. It’s rare to be in this apartment alone, and the silence feels restorative. But just as I’m unfolding a new filter, there’s a rap on the door. It’s lunchtime. Nobody ever knocks on the door. When I open it, a man is standing against the doorjamb, picking at his molar with a fingernail. He’s long and thin, his jeans baggy around his sneakers. He looks sallow, as if he hasn’t seen sunlight in a while, his blue eyes pale and cold, cropped hair more beige than blond.
“Oh, hi,” he says, smiling. “Is Ruth here?”
I pause, my mouth getting drier. Is this him? Eli Beck, woman beater, drug dealer, father-to-be? So he actually tracked her down. I underestimated him.
“Who are you looking for?” I say, looking him right in the eye, trying to hide that my heart is picking up pace.
“Ruth Van Ness,” he says. “Isn’t this where she lives?” He leans farther in the doorway, overly casual, but with the look of a hungry puppy, a runt, the one that never got fed.
“Sorry. I don’t know anyone by that name. Who are you?”
“You’re her sister.” He smiles. “You’re the clever one.”
We both know he’s not complimenting me. I take a deep breath, try not to let it show that my hands are shaking. I’ve dealt with his type before. I’ve taken away children from degenerates just like him.
I decide to come clean. “Ruth has been staying with me. She’s out right now.”
“Can I come in?” He moves his foot like he’ll barricade the door anyway. You don’t have a choice, sweetheart, he’s saying.
“Sure. I’m making coffee. Would you like one? I don’t know when Ruth will be back, though.” I leave the door open and walk toward the kitchen, my mind racing. I can hear him behind me, the skid of his shoes on the floor. “She’s out with my husband.” Is my voice level? “He shouldn’t be long.”
“You know who I am?” Eli’s looking around, just like Ruth did when she f
irst walked into this place.
“You’re the man my sister left behind,” I say.
“Oh, so you do know me.” He touches his hand to his chest as if flattered.
“She doesn’t want to see you. What are you doing showing up here now?”
He’s wiry but strong. I wonder how many real fights he’s been in, though. By the stove is a heavy china mug. I move it closer to me.
“She told you that?” he asks, and he pulls a stool out from the counter and sits on it, crossing his arms. “Ruth, Ruth, Ruth.”
I wonder, did my sister really leave before he found out she was pregnant? The coffeepot starts to sputter and gag behind us.
“Look, is there something I can help you with?” I keep my eyes on him.
“Funny you should ask. She took something from me. I want it back.”
Fuck. There it is. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
I set my jaw but move my fingers to the handle of the cutlery drawer.
“You’re sisters. You know everything she knows.”
“I do not,” I say. “You couldn’t be more wrong about that.”
“You’re shaking,” he says, and he stands up.
“I am not. I’m not afraid of you.”
“No? You should be.” He rounds the corner of the countertop, moving toward me in a fast, straight line.
The knife I grab is the small paring one, Chase’s favorite for dicing vegetables, the one he keeps extra sharp. Eli thinks he’s quicker than me, but I’ve lived among these lowlife scum who think they have power. He grabs at my shoulder but I bring up the knife and the blade catches him under his chin. Both of his hands go there, and he stops in his tracks, his pale eyes wide.
“What the fuck?” He checks his fingertips for blood. A tiny stream has opened up, changing the neck of his T-shirt to crimson. He starts to back up, his right arm out front of him like a barrier.
“You think you can come in here and terrify me?” I keep pace with him, the knife high and glistening. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” He’s retreated so far now that he slams into the wall by the front door, his elbow splitting the middle of Chase’s ski canvas, ruining it. “I could cut your throat and watch you drown, and nobody would ever question it.” I push my arm into his chest, pin him there, the blade pressing so hard against his Adam’s apple that the skin bulges around the silver. For so long I’ve wanted to push the lowlifes and the wasters down, and finally I get the chance. Blood rages through my body.
“Get out of my house and stay away from my sister.” His eyes show me nothing but fear. He’s all bravado, a sham, just a weak, beaten dog.
When I release him I keep the knife high like I’ll stab, and he scrambles for an escape, runs for the hallway, clatters down the stairs. I hear the door at the front entrance slam behind him.
As soon as he’s gone, I throw the front door closed and bolt it. It’s silent again, and I stagger toward the kitchen and wash off the knife in the sink, frantically clean the drops of blood on the floor, rinsing it all away in the sink. I look at Chase’s ruined picture. Holy shit. That escalated so quickly. I head for the bed at the far end of the loft and sit down with my palms on my cheeks, legs shaking. Will Eli come back? Should I call Sully? I close my eyes for a minute and try to steady my head. At least it was me who was here when he came. If it was Chase, it would have ended differently. If it were Ruth … The thought makes me feel sick. It’s okay, I tell myself. You did it. You did everything that needed to be done.
Along the skirting board to the left of the bed is a large vent, the screws of which I removed ages ago, although Chase never noticed. I bend low and pry off the front cover at one corner, lay it gently to one side on the floor. In the gap behind the vent is the Folgers coffee tin, round and shiny, the tape wrenched from the lid just like it was when I found it under the bathroom sink. Inside is everything Eli was looking for, everything Ruth thinks she’s lost.
If you want to keep something safe, you have to do it yourself. That tin was a time bomb. I peel open the lid and run my hands through the silky little baggies, liking the way they move and yield around my fingertips. The rolls of tight money are all there. Safe and sound. Eli’s gone, and he didn’t hurt anyone. And nobody is the wiser but me.
I tuck the whole thing back into its hole and replace the metal grill in the front. Back in the kitchen, I pull my hair into a topknot, take a breath, then pick up my cell.
“Alex?” Sully answers on the first ring.
“Hi,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I’m off duty.”
“Can we meet? I need to tell you something.”
He pauses. Possibility fizzes down the line. “Sure. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I need to talk to you. It’s about my sister.”
RUTH
It’s Thursday afternoon, and I’ve just woken up from a nap. I haven’t heard from Eli since Monday, the day I got back from the hospital. His silence is almost worse than his threats. Is he waiting to take me by surprise? Around the apartment, I jump every time toast pops up in the toaster, and feel like at any minute I could cry.
When Chase and I got back from the hospital, Alex had prepared a nice spot for me to rest, vacuumed the floors, and polished every surface. But something was different in the apartment; something felt blank. It took me a minute to figure out that the massive ski photo by the front door was missing, the canvas leaning torn and face-in by the coatrack.
“What happened to my picture?” Chase asked. “Did it fall down?”
“I’m so sorry.” Alex moved to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She looked hot, like she’d been running. “I stumbled into it while I was vacuuming. I’m afraid my elbow went right through it.”
Chase swallowed, his brow creased. “That’s too bad. I really loved that picture.”
“I’m so sorry. Maybe I can get another one made?”
“Maybe,” Chase said.
I let them commiserate for a minute, saying I needed the bathroom. For the fiftieth time, I checked in the back of the vanity, but still the tin wasn’t there.
There’s an explanation—there has to be. Somebody knows where the drugs are. But neither Alex nor Chase has spoken of them since I got back. Alex must have told Chase I was lying about the whole thing, that the tin isn’t real, that I’m making everything up. But why would I lie? Recently she seems distracted, or at least so involved with her work that she’s not really here. Other times, I think she sees me as one of her cases, one of the people she has to fix. Just another burden. I know she’s trying to make me feel at home, but I feel weirdly ignored and smothered at the same time.
I hear a noise behind me and turn abruptly to see Chase folding laundry.
“Oh, hi,” I say. “How long was I asleep?”
“An hour or so. You were making weird noises.”
“I was?” I move hair from my face, which feels sweaty.
He pairs socks and doesn’t comment. He’s keeping his distance, staying busy.
“Where’s Alex?” I ask, starting to work toward standing.
“At work. Maybe you should lie back down.”
Complete bed rest is what I’ve been told. He’s right, but I roll my eyes anyway. It’s raining outside, a hard end-of-summer rain, and heat is rising up from the asphalt. I can smell it from the open window. As I settle back onto the couch, my phone buzzes and I dig for it in the cushions. Oh God, is it Eli? My heart is pounding as I open the message.
Give me back the tin, Ruth, and we’re square. I don’t mean any harm. I’m in town for a few more days.
Twice I read it, three times, my heart returning to a steady beat.
I expected him to be even more upset—that’s his way. Short-tempered, gathering speed, his rage driving like an engine until he lashes out, like he did the night before I left him. But this text feels different. It’s
oddly civil. It’s so foreign, it’s unnerving.
I stare at the screen for a while, unsure how to respond.
Can we meet tomorrow? I type. I can explain. I want to sort everything out.
It’s mere seconds before the phone vibrates. Bus depot, 10 a.m., he writes. Don’t bring your sister. She’s a fucking psycho.
One hand goes right to my stomach. What? He met Alex? My head begins to swirl.
You came here? I text.
Again, a response within seconds. Yeah. Your sis is fucking nuts.
I haul myself up, one arm on the back of the couch. For a second or two I watch Chase folding a shirt. Chase. Of course. I have to get him onside. Even if I’m breaking Alex’s rules and speaking of the past, I can’t let her be in charge any longer. She’s met Eli, and she’s hiding the fact. Chase doesn’t even know.
And then, that’s when I think of it. I walk toward him, as if I’m heading over to help him with his chores.
“Steady,” Chase says. “You shouldn’t be moving too fast.” He doesn’t look at me and won’t.
Carefully, Ruth. Tread carefully. I stop just short of him, straighten the angle of the kitchen stool for him until it’s perfect. “Chase, I wanted to say thanks for everything you’ve been doing. You’re really looking out for me and the baby.”
He pauses, his eyes narrow, the T-shirt in his hands. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you noticed.”
“It won’t be long before you get to meet the little one,” I say, patting my belly. “Do you want to feel it move? It feels a bit weird, but I’ve gotten used to it. I kind of look forward to it now.”
He smiles but guardedly. “I’m okay, thank you. But it’ll be good to have a baby around. A couple of weeks to go, right?”
“If it’s on time. They say with first pregnancies it can lag.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve read up on it.”
I ease onto a stool that he isn’t using to pile clothes, my belly facing him. “You’d be a good dad, I think. If you ever choose to have children.” I pause, eye him. “I mean that genuinely.”
He softens. “Thanks, that means a lot, Ruth.”