Father to Be

by Marilyn Pappano

  “It has strings attached.”

  “What strings?”

  “Just one, actually. Shut off your computer and come out here.”

  She hesitated, then obeyed. By the time she’d circled her desk, he’d retreated to the outer office. By the time she got to the door, he was out of sight. So was the bag, but a piece of fuzzy twine tied in a bow swayed gently from the knob. She got her keys, locked up, then tugged the end of the string. It led her into the hall and down the stairs, across the lobby and out the door. Gathering it loosely in one hand, she followed it across the grass, into the square, and to a park bench, where the other end was attached to the brown paper bag. A matching bag, along with two sodas, sat alongside, and J.D. was waiting.

  She seated herself primly at the other end of the bench and removed the sandwich from the bag before giving him a sidelong look. “Not a bad apology.”

  “It’s not an apology. It’s a bribe. I always make apologies in person.”

  “Always,” she repeated. “Do you make a lot of them?”

  “Actually, no. I generally try not to say or do anything that requires one. If you use the words too often, they become meaningless, then when you really, really need them, they’re not worth much.”

  “Do you ever really, really need them?” she asked, then immediately raised one hand. “I’m sor—Don’t answer that.” After all, weren’t her prying questions what had brought them to this point?

  He took a bite of his own sandwich before glancing her way. His features were carefully schooled to show no emotion. Still, she caught a hint of deep regret in his eyes. “It’s okay. Yes, sometimes I have a lot to apologize for.”

  “But Sunday’s not one of those times.”

  “I brought up the subject of my marriage,” he disagreed. “I can’t blame you for asking a question about it.”

  “And you can’t blame yourself for not wanting to answer it.” Some things—certain dreams, certain disappointments—were best kept to oneself. Others were meant to be shared with only the dearest of friends. She certainly couldn’t claim that status with J.D. Even the simple title of friend was stretching it, considering that she hardly knew the man.

  No matter how much she would like to know him better.

  “No one else in town even knows I was married,” he remarked as he tossed a piece of bread to the birds gathered under a nearby tree.

  Kelsey wasn’t sure whether his trusting her with his personal history made her feel honored or frightened. Before she decided, she asked, “So why did you tell me?”

  “Because you asked.”

  She smiled. So much for honored or frightened. Truth was, she was just plain nosy. “How are the kids?”

  “Fine.”

  “Are they adjusting?”

  “Gracie and Noah actually called me by my name this morning. That was a first. And when Noah needed help tying his shoe, he came to me instead of to Caleb.”

  “Foster parenting is made up of small victories.” She took a bite of salad, savoring the sweet tang of the dressing. “How is Caleb?”

  J.D.’s expression took on a troubled edge. “Caleb is Caleb. He’s still angry, still hostile, still insisting his father’s coming back.”

  The older the child, the more difficult the situation. She’d learned that early in her career. It wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule, but it held true often enough. “Are you able to talk to him?”

  “I’ve got nothing to say that he wants to hear.”

  “Do you say it anyway?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I just let him be.”

  She stabbed the last bite of potato with her fork but didn’t lift it to her mouth. “Maybe he should see the family counselor over in Howland.”

  “No.”

  “I’m not questioning your ability to deal with him. It’s just—”

  “Caleb and I will handle our problems.”

  Our problems. Meaning there was more to the situation than simply a twelve-year-old child acting out because of his parents’ abandonment. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she said, “I understand Caleb’s problem with you. What is your problem with him?”

  He pinched off pieces of sandwich to throw to the birds. She thought he was planning to ignore her question, but when the food was gone, he dusted his hands, then faced her. “He reminds me of someone … someone I wasn’t able to help. Someone I did more harm than good.”

  “I find that difficult to imagine,” she said. “You were the best psychiatrist in Chicago.”

  “How would you classify yourself as a social worker?”

  “I’m good.”

  “Just good? Or very good? Dedicated. Committed.” She shrugged.

  “But you’ve had failures, haven’t you? You’ve determined that a child has lied, or that a home is safe. You’ve left a child in the custody of a parent who swore on her own life that she wasn’t the one abusing him. You’ve investigated and weighed the evidence and made decisions that are generally for the best, but once in a while they’ve been horribly, painfully wrong and some child has paid for it. You’ve made a few mistakes.”

  “Yes,” she admitted in a whisper. She’d made some mistakes, and she had paid for them. She’d been taken in by some of the best liars in the business, had gone with evidence that supported one conclusion when in reality the other was correct.

  “Trey was my mistake,” J.D. said quietly.

  “Only one?” Her voice was shaky. She took a deep breath to steady it. “You should count yourself lucky.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “And well?”

  “Relatively. Considering.”

  “And he’s the only one. You’re very lucky.”

  They fell silent, and she wondered how they could engage in such bleak conversation on such a gorgeous summer day. The sky was pure blue, with hardly a cloud to be seen. The air was warm and heavy with the perfume of flowers growing nearby. Even the buzz of bees working around the flowers couldn’t detract from the sweet perfection of the afternoon, and yet there they sat, talking about failures and mistakes.

  But maybe this was the best time to discuss such things, under a bright warm sun, with no shadows to hide in, no darkness to lie in.

  “How do you deal with it?”

  She tidied up, stuffing all the trash into one bag, depositing it into a can near the sidewalk. When she returned, she didn’t sit down but instead leaned against the closest tree. “The first time, I turned in my resignation. How could I continue to make life-and-death decisions when a child lay in the hospital because of me?”

  “But it wasn’t because of you.”

  “That’s what my supervisor said. I wasn’t the mother who worked out her anger and frustration by punching her child. I wasn’t the father who lied to protect his wife. I wasn’t the grandmother who supported the lies because she didn’t want the authorities coming around.”

  “But?”

  Of course there was a but. There always was. “I was the one who chose not to remove that child from his home. Who chose to leave him in the care of the mother who hit him and the father who let her.”

  “Obviously, you didn’t quit. How did you deal with it the next time?”

  “I wrote it off.” Her laughter was harsh and painful. “God, that sounds so cold. I looked at all the times I’d done good and the two times I’d screwed up, and I decided that one outweighed the other and I rationalized the screwup away. I’m not perfect. I’m only human. I’m bound to make mistakes. I’ll try harder and be smarter and maybe, please, God, it won’t happen again.” After a moment she finally asked, “How did you deal with failing Trey?”

  His smile was thin and mocking. “I came to Bethlehem.”

  “And did it help?”

  “It saved my life.”

  “So … if you fix things with Caleb, then somehow that’ll make up for not being able to fix things with Trey.”

  J.D. gazed past h
er to Main Street. There was the usual midday traffic. People were going about their business— shopping, running errands, going to lunch. Their lives were, for the most part, normal, well-adjusted. They knew everything about their neighbors, and their neighbors knew everything about them. They had no secrets, and their troubles were the usual sort—unruly children, financial binds, difficulties at work, or a rough spot in the marriage.

  He envied them.

  Kelsey was waiting for an answer, and he gave the one she expected. “Yeah. Dealing with Caleb could help with Trey.” But it was a lie. All the successes in the world could never make up for failing Trey. He would take that burden to his grave.

  “Well,” he said, inhaling, then exhaling loudly. “Isn’t this captivating lunchtime conversation?”

  “Now you know why I don’t date people in similar professions. Over dinner we’d wind up talking about how the court system protects the criminals and punishes the victims, we could spend the evening debating mandatory sentences and the death penalty, and before bed we could compare war stories from the trenches.”

  He gave her a long, slow look, from her hair, which had been semi-tamed in an intricate braid, to the bold floral print of her dress, down to bare legs and sandals, then murmured, “Honey, if we were going to bed together, war stories would be the last thing on my mind.”

  She started to speak but thought better of it, then turned away. When she turned back, her fingers were working nervously together. “Do you feel—” She coughed, cleared her throat. “Do you think you’ve made any progress at all with … with …”

  “Caleb,” he supplied, and she nodded. “It’s hard to say. Why don’t you come over for dinner this evening and see for yourself?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Do you have other plans?”

  “N-no, but …”

  But she didn’t think going to his house was a good idea, even when they were chaperoned by four kids. Her unstated objection said that she was at least aware of the possibilities. That he wasn’t the only one who saw some potential or felt some interest. Now, if he could just figure out why she was so determined to ignore the potential …

  “You could call it a home visit,” he said evenly.

  “Home visits aren’t scheduled in advance. If you’re expecting me, then you’ll be prepared. I can’t observe you in your usual routine.”

  “Then surprise me sometime. You know where to find me.”

  She nodded, then glanced at her watch. “I guess I’d better get back to the office. I’ve got an appointment at the nursing home this afternoon, and I need to finish that report before I go.”

  “What a coincidence. I’ll be over there this afternoon too. Page me when you get there and I’ll give you the nickel tour. Trust me. It’s worth it.”

  She started back to the courthouse. At the park entrance she turned again. “Hey, J.D.? Thanks for the lunch. I enjoyed it.”

  For a time he remained where he was, seeking the energy, the desire, to get up and cross the street to his truck. But all he really wanted to do was sit there and absorb everything around him. He wanted to soak up the sun, breathe, relax, recoup. He wanted to stay until he became a part of the bench, a part of the park, unnoticed by the people passing by.

  But he had obligations. They were expecting him at the nursing home. He had few truly troubled patients there but saw mostly people who wanted to talk, who were grateful that he was willing to listen. They would be disappointed if anything less than a bona fide emergency kept him away. J.D.-doesn’t-feel-like-it-today didn’t qualify.

  He had to make a stop at the McKinney house first. As he pulled up out front, he noticed one of the Winchester sisters with a half dozen kids in their front yard. Seeing Maggie McKinney’s dog, Buddy, over there too, he pulled across the intersection and parked.

  Miss Agatha and Caleb were weeding the flower bed while Jacob, Josie, and the older Walker kids tossed a Frisbee back and forth. J.D. ducked an errant toss as he crossed the grass. “Afternoon, Miss Agatha, kids.”

  Miss Agatha shaded her eyes underneath the brim of an enormous straw hat. “Why, J.D., what brings you by so early? Ah, you’re here for Buddy, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He watched the kids for a minute, then asked, “Is Noah inside with Miss Corinna?”

  “Yes. They’re making lemonade, I believe. Just go on in.”

  J.D. did just that, ignoring Caleb’s glare as he climbed the steps to the door. The house was darker, cooler, and filled with sweet fragrances that whispered home even though he’d never lived in a home that smelled quite the same way. His mother had been a notoriously bad cook, so the only food aromas that lingered around his childhood home had been scorched and bitter. Because of Carol Ann’s myriad allergies, the house they’d shared had smelled antiseptically clean. Even his own place, with the fresh flowers Mrs. Larrabee provided every few days, lacked the combination of aromas that he found so welcoming.

  He wondered if he would find them in Kelsey’s place.

  At the rate things were going, he might never get invited into Kelsey’s place to find out.

  Miss Corinna was in the kitchen with Noah and Gracie. The older woman greeted him with a smile, then said, “You can pour the sugar in a little faster than that, Noah.”

  Noah sat on the counter, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth, balancing a cup of sugar on the rim of a pitcher. Gracie was stirring the lemonade inside with a long wooden spoon.

  “How are you, J.D.?”

  He accepted Miss Corinna’s hug and kissed her cheek. “I’m fine.” It was his standard answer. Sometimes it was even true. “I came to pick up Buddy and to see if I could borrow Noah for a while.”

  Startled, the boy dropped the sugar, cup, and all into the lemonade, making it splash. He looked wide-eyed from J.D. to the pitcher to Miss Corinna, then his lower lip began to tremble.

  “It’s ruined!” Gracie said.

  “Of course it’s not,” Miss Corinna disagreed.

  “But he dropped the cup inside.”

  “And the cup was clean, wasn’t it?”

  “But he touched it.”

  “And his hands are clean, aren’t they? Remember? You both washed up before we started. It’s not ruined at all, children.” Miss Corinna fished out the cup, scraped the remaining sugar into the pitcher, then laid the cup in the sink.

  “What for do you want Noah?” Gracie asked.

  “Buddy and I are going over to the nursing home. I thought Noah might like to keep Buddy company.”

  “Why?” she asked, her gaze narrowing. Though there was a strong family resemblance between all four kids, when she frowned, she looked uncannily—uncomfortably, for J.D.—like Caleb.

  “Because Buddy needs someone to hold on to his leash and make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.”

  “I can do that,” she said boldly. “Buddy likes me.”

  “I’m sure he does. But I think Noah can do it too. What do you say, Noah?”

  The boy looked from him to Miss Corinna, who nodded. Turning back to J.D., he mimicked the solemn nod, then held out his arms to be lifted from the counter.

  Gracie jumped to the floor and ran to the front door, flinging it open. “Caleb, Caleb, the man’s takin’ Noah to the home!”

  J.D. rolled his eyes. He and Noah were in the dining room, when abruptly the boy wheeled around and headed back to the kitchen. “Miss C’rinna, will you save some lemonade for me? Please?”

  “I will, Noah. Have a good time.”

  J.D. made it as far as the top porch step before Caleb blocked his path. “Where’re you takin’ him?”

  “To the nursing home.”

  “Why? He don’t need nursin’.”

  “He’s going to visit some patients with Buddy and me.”

  “Will you bring him back?” Gracie asked.

  “Oh, puh-leeze,” Josie said with dramatic gestures. “Of course he’ll come back! Don’t you know nothin’? A nursing home is a pla
ce for old people who can’t live by theirselves anymore. Little boys don’t stay there. My Sunday-school class goes and visits every month, and no one’s ever tried to keep any of us.”

  “So why’re you takin’ him?” Caleb demanded. “Why not Jacob? Or Gracie?”

  “Or, hey, I could take you,” J.D. said, not proud of the faint sarcasm in his voice. “But today I want to take Noah.

  I’m the guardian, Caleb. That means I’m the boss. And that means I don’t have to answer to you. Come on, Noah.”

  He slowly moved ahead, forcing Caleb to step aside. Noah eased past quickly, then went to claim Buddy’s leash from Miss Agatha. The Lab was almost as tall as Noah and was probably double his weight, but he was well trained. He walked sedately at the boy’s side to the truck, jumped into the backseat, then sat down, head regally high, and gazed out the window.

  As they circled the block, Noah stared silently out the side window. He was the quietest, the shyest of the four kids. He did what Caleb told him to do and played with his siblings or kept to himself. He rarely voiced an opinion or made any requests. He was a timid little shadow, devoting his energy to going unnoticed.

  “You like lemonade, Noah?” J.D. asked.

  His response was the merest bob of his head.

  “You like Buddy?”

  Another nod, this one slightly more emphatic.

  “Have you ever had a pet?”

  He was silent for more than a block before murmuring, “Once. His name was Blackie. He was a stray. He didn’t stay ’cause we couldn’t feed him, so he found another little boy to live with. Do you think our mama and daddy found some other little kids to live with?”

  J.D. swallowed hard. “I don’t know, Noah.”

  “Caleb says our mama didn’t like kids so she wouldn’t live with no other kids. But our daddy loved us. He singed us songs at night.” He hummed a few bars. “Maybe he’s singin’ to some other little boy right now.”

  “I don’t think so, Noah. I think your daddy—” Where did he draw the line between reassurance and well-intentioned lies? How much harm could he do if he promised Noah that his daddy was trying to make a home for him, that he was coming back for him as soon as he could, and it never happened? Who was at fault if he promised Noah that his father hadn’t made a new family or a new life for himself someplace else and in reality he had? “I think your daddy will try very hard to keep the promises he made you.”