The Children of Main Street

by Merilyn Howton Marriott

  “You only live once. Let’s pretend it’s your birthday.” Waving my hands into a magic wand, I said, “Go for it.”

  “I wish you were a normal therapist. I wish you cared about your clients a normal amount. I wish this could be a job you do for money like everyone else. And that you could walk away at the end of the day and come home and not ruminate to the point that you don’t sleep. There’s not another therapist I know—and I know many—who come home from work with injuries.” He held up his hands in resignation. “I wish you just worked a career.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I teach students about the eclectic approach,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Katie-Girl, your approach is not eclectic; it’s suicidal.” He scooted his chair closer to the swing. “I wish you did a job, instead of carrying out a mission. Most of all I wish you didn’t act like these kids belonged to you.”

  That hurt. “It’s a job.” I heard the defensive tone in my voice. “But it’s not just something I do. It’s who I am.”

  He arched his brows, rested his fingers on his chest, and asked, “Are you talking to me? Girlfriend, you are preaching to the choir.” He left his chair and joined me on the swing.

  Pain shot through my legs when I adjusted them to make room for him.

  “I just worry. You’ve looked pale lately. You’re overworked and spend too many late nights on your swing praying for kids who aren’t ours.”

  He pulled me into his arms, caressed my hair like always, but with more tension in his body than normal. He hated what’d happened to me.

  “You took your practice on as a ministry—as a way to be around kids.” Jordan sounded sad. “And we both know it.”

  “Shhhh …” I rested my finger on my lips. “We can’t let the insurance companies hear us.”

  “Shhh …” he said back to me. “We can’t let it kill you.”

  Resting in his arms filled deep places inside me. I didn’t tell him how washed out I felt. He knew I hurt from the beating and kicking I had taken that day. But again, I felt something more than worry. I feared he’d started to feel … I don’t know … resigned.

  The last thing on earth I wanted would be to hurt Jordan. “Baby?”

  Without response, I waited, feeling a request coming. Nearby, the middle-of-the-night grounds crew crept toward the seventeenth hole. Headlights from their tractors winked like over-sized June bugs.

  “I’ve watched you evolve into an I’ll-do-anything-I-have-to-do-to-save-someone-even-if-it-kills-me therapist. Well, Katie, it’s about to kill us both.” He released me, sat up straight. His hazel eyes stared straight into my tired face. “It’s time you stopped seeing children.”

  I didn’t hear a request. I heard an order. And I stiffened.

  He pushed his hands toward me, signaling me to let him finish. “I don’t want to lose you. I know you won’t die from one kid knocking you around. But Katie, this little boy hurt you bad. I’m not sure how long I can sit here while you give your heart to other people’s kids—kids that we can’t have—and watch them mistreat you.”

  I laid my head back on his shoulder. “Okay. I’ll stop.”

  “Don’t lie to me. This is serious. I’m trying to let you know that I love you beyond words, but I’m running out of patience with your career—especially the kid thing.”

  His words scared me. But I knew him inside out. He would have his say, and then everything would be okay. It had to be.

  “I’ll give it serious thought. I’ll pray about it.”

  He shook his head. This conversation was not new.

  “Giving up kids is easy,” I said. “I’m like a smoker. Quitting is easy. I know because I’ve done it a hundred times.”

  “And like a smoker …” he said sadly, “you’ll start back in the morning.”

  “I’ll quit soon.” I shifted on the swing, away from him. “Let’s go to bed.”

  We walked inside, arm in arm. The old exhaustion dug in deeper.

  Lord Jesus, I thought you called me to this.

  I chewed on my conversation with Jordan while driving to work. He wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t. I knew I tested his patience, but I also knew God had called me to counsel people. Whether or not He called me to love them all wasn’t as clear. I was a therapist and should know such things, but I didn’t know why I had such a tendency to give too much of myself to my profession. I did know it had to do with not having my own child. And I hardly needed my degree for that diagnosis.

  Father, why can’t I get pregnant?

  I loved Jordan so much. And God knew we would make good parents. Was He punishing me for some sin I committed? Some sin I forgot about? Surely not. I confessed my sins regularly to the Lord of my life. Pastor Brett had reminded us the past Sunday that if we repent of our sins, God is faithful to forgive.

  I. Just. Want. A. Baby. Was that too much to ask?

  I drove into my parking space beneath the carport, then laid my head on the steering wheel. Lord, in Your mercy, hear my cries. I’ll return Jordan’s calls. I’ll do better … make him happier by laughing more. My marriage isn’t negotiable.

  I lifted my head and put on my work face. There was nothing like work to put my own life into perspective.

  And there would always be work.

  Before Billy arrived for his next visit, Alicia called Cindy to let her know not to come in with him. She explained she would meet Billy at the car, then bring him to me.

  When I knew the call had been placed, I walked up front and asked Alicia, “What did Cindy say?”

  “She was a little huffy at first. She wanted to talk to you again.”

  “When she was here with Billy last time, I asked her to make her own appointment.”

  “Well, I calmed her down. I reminded her that she’d have an hour without Billy to play on the computer. She appeared excited after that. Oh, and she did schedule for later in the week.”

  “Good.”

  Later, when Cindy’s rusted-out vehicle pulled into the front parking space, she bolted out the door. I peered through the small window in the door, watching as she opened the side of the van, brushed aside trash. She helped him up the front steps and released him as I stepped onto the porch.

  I had removed all my jewelry and pulled my high-heeled self to a menacing six foot. I wielded the switch I’d made on his previous visit.

  Billy wore the exact same outfit—soiled orange jacket, dilapidated boots and faded shorts. His hair was disheveled; it appeared unwashed.

  He stared at me. His feet appeared weighted. He crept toward me, flinching. “You gots a stick?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  His eyes never left mine. “I wanna come in.”

  “Come on in.” I feigned indifference, but Billy didn’t budge from his spot on the porch.

  “Why you gots a stick?”

  “Why do you think I have it?”

  “To hit me wiv. You gonna hit me?”

  “Why don’t you want me to hit you, Billy?”

  “Cuz it hurts.” He rubbed the side of his right leg.

  Glancing down where Billy’s right knee peeked between his cowboy boots and his shorts I spied ugly marks from someone’s belt or switch. Tears swam in my eyes. “I know. Do you know how I know?”

  “No.”

  “Because it hurt when you hit me.”

  “Don’t hit me wiv that.” He eyed the stick while peering with longing inside the building. I imagined he wanted nothing more than to stick his hand in the peppermint jar … to watch a movie where all turned out well in the end. But I knew—in spite of how awful I felt holding that switch—that this method of reaching him would work. Billy didn’t understand hugs and kisses. But he did understand survival. Even at four tender years of age.

  “Billy, what if we make a deal?”

  He looked up and our eyes locked. “What?”

  “You don’t hit me, and I won’t hit you.”

  He stared at me a full two minutes,
shifted foot to foot then dragged his toe along a crack in the porch’s concrete.

  “You gots anymore peppermints?”

  “Bags full.”

  “Can I have some for me?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  “I won’t hitcha no more.”

  “Thank you.” I believed he meant it. He wanted to come in. And I believed I could teach him to control his temper.

  Of course, I would have never hit Billy. I don’t believe in hitting children. I would never hit period. But as we walked into the Main Street Clinic, my secret weapon remained: Billy didn’t know I wouldn’t hit him. He had been spanked by so many people; he assumed any adult would spank him on a whim.

  I despised the whole charade. But I desperately needed to help him. He was living a life any child would hate. To effectively intervene, I had to get his attention in the one way he understood.

  Inside, I opened the door, and we entered the playroom. “So, Young Mr. Martin, come on in.”

  Within minutes, I knew I’d hypothesized correctly. Billy was a great kid who simply wanted attention. He knew how to get it, but his way would never serve him well day-to-day. I had to redirect his behavior, and I needed to do it quick. Allowing Billy to start kindergarten without intervention would be cruel. The kids wouldn’t like him, and his future would be sealed in the teachers’ lounge.

  He looked up from a puzzle I’d given him to complete. His grin was mischievous but adorable. During his session, he’d shown proficiency at multiple tasks. Most noteworthy, he stayed with each assignment until completion … never losing interest. Near impossible for attention deficit sufferers.

  “What you thinking about, Bub?” I asked.

  “I finking I like you.”

  “I’m thinking I like you, too.”

  “I dent hitcha.”

  “You sure did not.”

  “So, can I come back?” he asked.

  “How about every Friday?”

  He grinned and, without another word, finished his puzzle.

  Before Billy left, I swept him into the bathroom and settled him on the vanity where I washed his face, arms, and legs. I finished by wiping through his hair the best I could. He wasn’t crazy about the process but remained calm and sweet.

  “Why’d ya did that?”

  “Why’d I do that? Because you’re a special boy, Billy, and I wanted you to look special.”

  He grinned again.

  “You fink I special?”

  “More than Santa and the Easter bunny all rolled into one.”

  “Nuh uh,” but he nuzzled into me.

  Sometimes I loved my job.

  But as I sent Billy back to his mother, another broken kid waited.

  Chapter 5

  Iended my eleven o’clock session on schedule. I hoped for a quick lunch across the street at Seafood on Main.

  I rushed from my treatment room to see if Alicia could abandon her duties to grab a bite with me. My nearly-six-foot frame almost collided with her five-foot frame in the hallway.

  Righting herself from our near mishap, she leaned her tiny self against the coffee bar, attempting a casual crossing of her legs and arms. But her face signaled that there’d been a development. “Kat?”

  “What’s up, Miss Priss?” The pungent aroma of shrimp creole grew faint. Before I heard her explanation, I knew something had happened that troubled her deeply.

  “We got an urgent call.”

  “Who from?” Now I knew we weren’t having lunch across the street.

  Alicia wore her favorite set of scrubs—the pants lavender and white; the v-neck top sprinkled with lavender and purple pansies. She slid the tiny silver cross on her necklace back and forth on its chain while I stepped around her to pour a cup of herbal tea.

  I squeezed in an extra dollop of honey, waiting. “Who called?”

  “Do you remember Jillian Reynolds?” Her face pinched like she was in pain.

  I did a mental search. “Yeah. Jillian, like … Jillian, Jacy, and Justin?”

  “Yeah. Only now it’s Jillian, Jacy, Justin, and Thomas.”

  The knight from Jillian’s note. “Okay,” I said. My fist tightened around my cup—reflex. Years of experience and reflex—while Alicia compulsively squeezed her crossed arms. “Did you see the morning news? The local news?”

  I have, more or less. “What about it?”

  “Just something I thought would wound you.”

  “Why?”

  “Just ’cause.”

  “I heard it as I dressed.” It had all been pretty much the same kind of stuff we always heard except for … my neck hairs crawled all over each other.

  “The murder-suicide in a local apartment complex?” she prompted.

  “Josiah someone murdered his girlfriend then killed himself?”

  Alicia gripped her forearms. “The dead girlfriend’s six-year-old daughter watched as he shot her mother then himself.”

  God help us. “Talk to me, Ali. How do you know? I heard nothing like that from the news.” I placed my cup of tea back on the bar.

  “We got a phone call from Jillian Reynolds … uh … now Jillian Russell.”

  “Okay.”

  “The six-year-old girl’s name is Bailey. Bailey Russell. She’s Thomas Russell’s daughter.” Alicia hesitated for a second, making it feel like two days.

  “Jillian … Reynolds … Russell’s … step-daughter.”

  And just like that, nothing in my life would ever be the same.

  Okay. I’ve seen a lot. I’m therapist to many. Without campaigning for the position, I “shrinked” Port Arthur’s rich and famous—clients who pay by the month and enter and exit the back door. I know who’s sleeping with whom, who’s suing whom, and who’s praying for whom. I feel compassion for millionaire mistresses and welfare moms. But little girls and murders struck a new chord. This poor baby. What she had to be feeling made my stomach churn.

  “How do they want me to help?” I whispered.

  “The kid’s at the police station. Cops picked her up from a neighbor who heard the gunfire. They called Thomas and Jillian at their lake house. The police want Thomas to pick up Bailey immediately and take her home with him.” She swallowed hard. “There’s only the next of kinship or foster care.”

  “Of course, he’s her father, right?” My mouth struggled for words as my brain plowed through hard clay. “If her mother is dead, the police would want to contact her father. Is he … are they … are the Reynolds’s … uh, the Russells on their way home now? Are they here in Port Arthur already?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “It sounds incredibly complicated. What did Jillian say?”

  “You won’t like it.”

  “What?”

  “I think the Jillian Reynolds who came to see you before bears little resemblance to the Jillian Russell who called here today.”

  “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “It went something like this.” Alicia took a deep breath. “Jillian told me she married Thomas with the understanding he’d have nothing to do with Bailey. Even though they live about three miles apart, he hasn’t seen Bailey since she was eighteen months old.”

  I flinched as though bullets battered my flesh.

  “Jillian has never met Bailey and had no intentions of ever meeting her. She can’t understand why the cops would bother her on her vacation over the murder of Thomas’s ex-wife and a child she doesn’t know. She sounded ‘put upon.”’ Alicia crooked her fingers into quotation marks. “And said, she’s ‘sorry the child is traumatized.’ However, she wants to come here and talk to you. She expects you to explain to Thomas why she will not take responsibility for his child, and why he shouldn’t either.”

  She swallowed. “Jillian asked if you’d help place the child.” The face she’d trained for all the years she’d worked here to withhold judgment, failed her.

  “If I,” I tapped my chest, “will help place Thomas’s child with someone else?” I
hadn’t even seen this kid, and I could place her. I could take her home with me.

  “I told ya you wouldn’t like it.”

  Like it? I could not believe it. The Jillian Reynolds who—only a couple of years ago—sat in my office understandably indignant that her children’s father left for another woman. She’d called my office and wanted me to convince her new husband to abandon his child?

  More to the point, if he was not seeing her, she wanted Thomas to abandon his child again.

  “I’ll deal with Jillian later. Where’s the child? Where’s Bailey?” I slammed my cup on the sink counter, then I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, and took a long chilling swig.

  “Still at the police station. They won’t release her until her father arrives. They’re driving from Rayburn. She called en route.”

  “With Thomas listening?” I asked.

  “Sounded like.”

  “Sounds like human beings create children and walk away. Some loaf through life and pursue an unworthy passion and marry selfish, crazy women. Then call a shrink when the selfish crazy-women start saying selfish crazy-women things.” Could that be Jillian? What on earth had happened to her?

  I searched frantically for my nothing-surprises-me-anymore therapist face. Last year, one of my favorite sixty-something clients brought a sign she knew would make me smile every time I looked at it.

  Therapy: five dollars.

  Dumb nods: fifty cents.

  Blank stares: free.

  I need another look at that sign. I shook a chill that didn’t come from a bottle of water and grabbed Alicia’s hand.

  “A six-year-old girl needs help immediately. Is she … are they coming here? Did Jillian make an appointment?”

  “She said she’d get back to us as soon as Thomas decides what he wants to do.”

  “About?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t make the news …”

  “I just report it,” we chorused together.

  I smiled as she walked away. All the while thinking, what were the chances I could take this child home with me?

  I watched the news the next few nights, figuring that surely by the weekend there’d be information about the deaths and maybe something about the child who’d witnessed her mother’s murder. Channel 11 reported a few updates but said nothing about the child. They did provide a smattering of details about where services would be held for the victim. Even details about services for her killer. And, of course, there were the neighbors who said, “I can’t believe this. Such a lovely couple.” And the one frazzled-looking woman who had called the police after the shooting. “I knew he meant trouble,” she said, speaking into the microphone a reporter held under her chin. “I kept telling the little girl’s mama that he was gonna hurt her real bad someday.”