“You’re doing a great job.”
“I know.” She smacked her gum. Blew another bubble. When she glanced at me, however, her eyes were sad. “I really want to help her, Flora. I’m the one who made contact. I’m the one who brought her to the group. And now I can’t help but feel this is all my fault.”
? ? ?
A WOMAN APPROACHED MIKE DAVIS. Definitely not a student. Sarah and I had been talking and didn’t see where she’d come from. But she was older, curly salt-and-pepper hair, wardrobe by Chico’s—brown slacks, deep green sweater, light brown quilted jacket topped with green-and-gold silk scarf. A little high-end for athletic fields.
A teacher? An administrator of some sort? She stopped directly in front of Mike. He was doing his bounce-bounce thing, but as she spoke, he stilled.
Slowly, he removed one earbud. Studied the woman. Then spoke. Whatever he said made her cock her head to the side. Tried again. He shook his head.
Something about the exchange bothered me. Then I got it. She was the older, more authoritative figure. And yet, to go by body language, she wasn’t talking down to the high schooler. She was pleading with him.
Whatever she wanted, he wasn’t giving it up. Back to bounce bounce bounce. From this distance I couldn’t see him well enough to know for sure, but I imagined his fingertips drumming against the top of his leg.
After another minute or two, the older woman stepped back. She looked around, studying the sea of teens. Given the hour, school sports seemed to be winding down, more and more kids breaking away from their assorted groups and heading off the grounds. Sarah already had her hand on the car door. It was time.
“Want me to continue following him?” she asked.
“If you think you can.”
“I can.”
“All right.” I watched the line the older woman followed off the school grounds. Then I headed in that direction, keeping my target in sight.
? ? ?
THE WOMAN HAD PARKED ONE block over. She had just reached her vehicle, her hand on the door of a red Subaru, when I caught up. She turned sharply, met me head-on.
“Yes?” she said, voice crisp, eyes direct.
I couldn’t help myself. I fell back a step, felt my fingers automatically beginning to fidget. She had to be a teacher because I immediately felt like I was back in school.
“Umm . . . I’m a friend of Roxanna Baez.”
She stared at me. “What kind of friend? You’re too old to be a student.”
I thought fast. “We met in a kickboxing class. Roxy was interested in self-defense. I was teaching her. I could tell . . . I could tell she was worried about something. I hoped I could help. Then, this morning, turning on the news . . .” I shrugged miserably.
“Your name?”
Belatedly I stuck out my hand. “Flora Dane.”
A frown. “Do I know you?”
I didn’t say anything. Just waited. After another moment, she took my hand. “Susan Howe,” she said.
“Are you a teacher?”
“Used to be. Taught seventh-grade English for thirty years before retiring.”
I believed it. But used to be? Which meant now she was simply a woman who knew both Roxy Baez and Mike Davis? In the next minute I got it. “Are you with social services?” I asked. “That’s why you can’t say anything directly? You don’t want to violate Roxy’s privacy? If it helps, I know about the year she spent at Mother Del’s. With her sister and Mike Davis. I spoke with Mike earlier today.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Never get caught alone at Mother Del’s.”
Susan Howe grimaced. Her shoulders came down. Abruptly, she looked tired. “If only either had told me that sooner,” she murmured. “Teaching kids was hard. Turns out, trying to save them is near impossible. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
It occurred to me I hadn’t eaten lunch, never mind that it was almost time for dinner. “How about a snack? There’s a deli across from the school.”
“How about one not so close? I know an Italian place up the street.”
I nodded. She locked her car, headed north. Susan had a brisk walk. Everything about her radiated competence. I wondered if Roxy had liked her. Or at least trusted her enough to confide in her.
Sure enough, two blocks up, an Italian deli. Suddenly starving, I ordered a meatball sub with extra provolone. Susan went with coffee, black. I paid for mine, she paid for hers, we took a seat in a little brown booth that could’ve used a thorough cleaning. Susan Howe spread out a napkin in front of her, placed her coffee on that.
I used my sandwich wrappings to do the same.
“I’m not with child services,” she said abruptly. “I’m a CASA volunteer. Do you know CASA?”
A jingle from a radio commercial ran through my head. “Who will speak for me? . . . Will you speak for me? . . .” Something like that. I nodded.
“A CASA volunteer works on behalf of a child in the court system. For example, if a child is removed from her parents and placed in foster care, then someone such as me would be assigned to work with the juvenile, helping him or her understand the process, while also making observations and submitting independent reports to the court on how the child is doing in the foster home environment, during meetings with the biological parent, et cetera. If the child has any requests—say, a desire to see a sibling placed in a different home—she could ask me and I’d direct the request up the chain of command. I don’t have power. I can’t give the child anything or make any promises. Mostly, I’m there to listen, explain, and shepherd a child through a very stressful transition.”
“If you’re doing all this,” I asked, “what’s the social worker doing?”
“The DCF worker represents the state’s interests. Given that it’s a DCF agent who takes the kids away from their parents and places them in foster care, many youths view the worker as the enemy, though in fact, a case agent is only trying to do what’s best for the child. Let me put it to you this way: In court, the DCF case worker sits to one side with the state’s lawyer. The biological parent sits to the other side with his or her lawyer. I sit in the middle with the kid. Does that help understand my role in the madness?”
“How long are you involved?”
“It’s complicated to terminate parental rights. Takes at least a year, plus half a dozen hearings. The first hearing involves building the case for negligence or abuse. The second hearing spells out exactly what steps the parent must take to get her child back—attend substance abuse counseling, get a job, establish stable housing, et cetera. Then there are subsequent hearings to check up on the parent’s progress. My job is to explain all this to the kids. Help them understand that, yes, their parent loves them, but he or she must complete these steps before the child can return home. I’ve been doing this for the past five years. In cases involving addiction, the requirements facing the parents seem nearly Herculean. How do they get a job when they already have a record for stealing to support their drug habit? How do they get stable housing if they don’t have a job? And around and around they go. The system is meant to protect kids, not break up families. But in our current drug crisis . . .”
“Most parents don’t get their kids back,” I filled in.
She nodded.
“And this is volunteer work?”
“As I said earlier, I taught seventh graders for thirty years. Clearly I’m a glutton for punishment.”
I’d devoured the first half of my meatball sub. After a moment’s consideration—when would I have a chance to eat again?—I took on the second. “Juanita Baez got her kids back,” I said around a mouthful.
“Every now and then, the system works.”