To Ashley, the epitome of perseverance.
The Square Shoulder of a Man Named Butch
I
In a dim bedroom, in an overcrowded house, filthy with the stench of dirty clothes and overflowing trash cans, there was a baby crying. Mrs. Rhodes found him in his crib, soiled and hungry. In her niece’s home—if you could call it a home—she picked up his small body and cradled him. She walked through the slender old house, past his parents’ vacant eyes, and walked out into a moldering neighborhood far south of downtown, close to the train yard. They hadn’t even noticed Mrs. Rhodes as she passed between the broken television and the coffee table littered with blackened pieces of foil and empty lighters. They seemed empty, as if there was no life left in them. But there they were, too fucked up on drugs and alcohol, having forgotten to respond to the screaming child, or even buy the necessities. What was the woman to do? A nurse and mother herself, she took the child and made it her own.
Mrs. Rhodes always waited for the day when her niece might get sober enough to remember that she’d had another child. But a year passed without any contact whatsoever. She nurtured the boy, and soon he was smiling and laughing just like any other baby. She could never have imagined what is left after such abusive abandonment. Deep within the boy was a tiny little smudge, somewhere, where it counted, was the smallest little flaw. As he grew, so did the smudge, growing like an impalpable cancer of the soul. The years that passed, while filled with love, could never be enough to erase the damage that his biological parents had inflicted during his infancy. Sometimes Mrs. Rhodes would watch him, playing quietly by himself, amongst the piles of toys in his play area.
In the Rhodes’ household, adjustments were made, of course. In their small home the two girls’ bedrooms were shared, one for the boy, one for the girls, and were eventually painted to suit. He had to have all the things that children needed; food and clothes, always more and more. Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes picked up extra shifts at work. They hired the retiree turned neighborhood care-giver, to keep the boy while the girls were at school. The eldest girl, being almost seventeen, was old enough to watch the others after school. Mrs. Rhodes liked to come home and have dinner with her family, even if she had to go back to work afterward. It was nauseatingly normal. The family was happy, just as dysfunctional as every other, siblings and parents all conflicting in different ways at different times.
Carl grew up happy with his family. No one ever told him what truly happened that he came to live with them. Mrs. Rhodes had told her daughters, when they asked, that he was adopted by them because he didn’t have a family. Carl never asked; he never thought himself as anything but a member of the family.
II
The social worker’s eyes were almost warm, and though her soft mouth managed a phony smile, there was always just a sliver of that glinting coldness showing through. The piles of case files clotting her desktop were beginning to carve lines in her face. What had begun as a passion had slowly worn into tedious obligation; and worst of all she felt the cold indifference coming. Like a delayed reaction, the whole reality of the world slowly became opaque to her. At first, when the tears abated, she thought it was good. She tried to remember every person that she helped, tried to help, and ended up feeling uncertain and stoic. The wall behind her desk was covered in cork; its rough painted-over texture peeked through swathes of photographs, blue. Claire hadn’t realized, until too late, that when the tears were gone, so too were genuine smiles and spontaneous laughter.
She looked up from the folder lying open in front of her, “Do you understand, Roxanne?”
“No. I don’t understand,” she looked at her, pouting inside, with the only tell, a sadness in her green eyes that made them look like lake water pooling in her face, “I just want to be free. Why you can’t just let me file for emancipation?”
Claire’s face showed thinly masked exasperation, “Wait just a minute here, let’s be perfectly clear about this. I am not telling you that you can’t file for emancipation, but, honestly, the court is not very likely to grant emancipation to a fourteen-year-old. You are totally unprepared for living on your own. Where would you live? What would you eat? How would you provide for yourself?” She paused for a moment, pursed her lips. “I think that it would be perfectly fine for you to be emancipated in a couple of years.” Sighing, she narrowed those tepid eyes, “Until then, I suggest that you be on your best behavior.”
“But I can’t take it anymore!” Roxanne’s quiet voice grated through clenched teeth. Her pale face began to redden with frustration. “They won’t let me do anything except take care of their kids. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not—you’re the one that doesn’t understand.”
“It can’t be that bad. I’ve been there; I have written up every ‘incident,’” she said sardonically, “that you’ve told me about—but there’s nothing there. Making you sit in your room all day for a few weekends does not constitute abuse. Neither does asking you to help out with the kids. Mrs. Trenton has her hands full with all of you. You have the necessities—a lot better than nothing, might I remind you, and a lot better than so many unfortunate souls. They have every right to penalize you any way they see fit as long as it is within acceptable parameters, and that is just what they seem to be doing,” she removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose.
“You don’t understand. I haven’t done anything to be punished for,” Roxanne replied, her jaw set, her hands clinching the strap of her backpack. She started to stand, her chest heaving with a sigh.
“Okay, okay. Hold on a minute. Let’s give it a couple of years. You’ll need some time to prepare for living on your own. You need to take some classes, after your GED, of course, and I will follow your progress and we’ll meet again next month to see how you are progressing.” She met Roxanne’s gaze, and forced some warmth into her own grey eyes, “You know, Roxanne, if you just stuck it out for a while, and your mother gets probation, all this foster family business could be over for you in less than a year.” She rolled her chair backward and toward a file cabinet. She slid out a drawer and fingered the folder tops until she found what she was looking for, and handing Roxanne the papers said, “Here, you should enroll in this practical living course. It meets once a week for an hour. You could start looking for an after school job, open a savings account. This pamphlet is a step by step guide to getting your first job; child labor laws, safety guidelines, and how to fill out tax forms. If you need help setting up a savings account, or anything else, just call me.”
Roxanne looked overwhelmed, “Do you have a pen I could use?” she said, flipping through the pages.
“Of course, take a couple,” she pulled some new pens out of the box in her drawer, “Let me know how all of this goes, especially your practical living class. It meets after school, so you shouldn’t have any trouble with curfew.” Claire smiled, pushed her chair back, straightening herself and smoothing her clothes. She crossed the room while Roxanne stuffed the pens and papers into her backpack and opened the door.
“Mrs. Trenton, Roxanne and I have agreed that she should start taking a practical living course at the school once a week. That shouldn’t be any problem, right?” she said smiling.
Mrs. Trenton pulled a toddler up onto her hip as she stood and lifted her old denim handbag, saying, “That would be good, then maybe she could start helpin’ me more around the house.”
“All right then, I will see you next month,” smile. “Shelby will make you an appointment,” she gestured to her assistant at her desk just outside the door and then retreated into her office.
[tune in next week for the next chapters...]
Makes me want to read more...
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