One Good Hustle

FIVE




IN SOME SOCIAL worker’s office, Ruby, Jill and I each sit in one of those moulded plastic chairs. Lou dropped us off. He had to get some gas, he said. He’d just wait in the parking lot for us. Who could blame him? What normal person would want to visit the Department of Child Welfare?

We’ve been here maybe ten minutes and we haven’t said a thing. All you can hear is the turning of pages. Ruby is reading a pamphlet on fetal alcohol syndrome and Jill is flipping through an issue of People she brought with her. I’m staring at the floor thinking, where the f*ck is my dad anyway? Everyone wants to blame Marlene but, really, if you think about it, this whole thing is Sam’s fault. If he hadn’t screwed up, he wouldn’t have landed in jail and he and Marlene never would have split up. And if my parents hadn’t split up, we wouldn’t have been so broke and if we hadn’t been broke, Marlene never would have tried the bullshit hustle that sent her off the rails in the first place. That’s the origin of the problem. That’s the forensic explanation.

The door opens and Jill and Ruby put their reading down. The social worker says hello and introduces herself. I don’t hear her name.

She sits down and sets a file on her desk. The tab says Bell. Our family file. It’s thicker than I would have thought. What the hell could they have in there? Marlene and I have probably been on their radar for six years now. That’s what happens when you go on welfare. Tabs.

I stare at that file while the social worker asks me what’s been going on at home. I guess I don’t answer the first time she asks, because she repeats it clearly. Everything is quiet for another few seconds. I feel like a stuffed animal. White cotton in my eyes and mouth, clogging my whole skull, spilling out of me. I can’t remember how to talk. If I could make words right now, I’d say, Who are you again? And who am I?

I glance at Ruby and Jill.

“Go ahead, Sammie,” Ruby says. “Tell her what’s been happening at home.”

I’m floating in white, white clouds. Nothing but white, white noise.

Someone needs to bang me on the side of the head, the way you do with a TV that’s on the fritz.

“Samantha,” the social worker says, her tone stern. “Can you tell me what’s going on with your mother, Marlene?”

Marlene’s name is a rap in the mouth. Marlene. Marlene’s in big trouble. Me too.

“She wants to kill herself …” Should I say about the drinking? Ruby will tell anyway. Big mouth. “She’s drinking. She’s very … um … she’s sad right now. Depressed. For the last few months, she can’t even … I write out the cheques for the bills and the rent and—” I curl one hand into a writing position, then cradle it in my other hand to illustrate. “I hold her hand on the pen so she can sign.”

My fake Marlene signatures flash to mind and my head aches. They can see it all, the film of my sick thoughts projected on the wall behind me. I am the dirty floor. I am the filthy dishes. No one says Poor Marlene.

The social worker asks about my father. Samuel Bell, she says. Is that correct? Where is he?

“I don’t know.”

The day after I got to Jill’s place, I had called Sam again and given him the phone number. He said, “So, you got a place to stay. That’s good. Okey-doke. Real good. I can’t stay on the phone, cuz I’m drivin’ to Montreal this afternoon for a game. I’ll give you a buzz in the next couple days.”

I’m not telling this chick anything. He’ll call. Eventually.

The social worker makes a note.

Ruby begins to talk now about her and Lou, their former status as group home operators. The department is well acquainted with them, Ruby says, and their work with disadvantaged youth. They decided to close down their home five years ago, but under the circumstances they would like to take Sammie in.

Her. She. Sammie. I’m like the stray dog in the room. The mongrel. Someone should put me to sleep and be done with it.

Sammie’s mother is in desperate need of a wake-up call, Ruby says. Ruby suggests that the department appoint Ruby and Lou as temporary guardians and begin sending support cheques for Sammie to them. They could deduct the amount from Marlene’s welfare.

Is she f*cking serious? How is Marlene supposed to live? She couldn’t run a decent hustle on a retarded priest these days.

“No.”

All eyes turn to me, the talking dog. “She’s barely making it as it is,” I whisper.

The social worker eyes me. She must see a thousand jerks like me every week. She must wash her hands all day.

“I’m inclined to leave Mrs. Bell’s support as it is. The red tape involved to adjust support—We can appoint you guardians for short-term placement. That sounds prudent. And we’ll just send an additional cheque for Samantha while she’s with you. For a maximum of three months, at which point we can re-evaluate the situation.”

Ruby’s mouth tightens. She makes a cranky growling noise. “Why should that woman receive financial support for a child she can’t take care of? Seems like rewarding bad behaviour, if you ask me.”

Jesus. What’s it to her?

“That’s not fair,” I mutter.

“It’s not fair at all,” Ruby says.

“I’ll take it under advisement.” The social worker’s lips blow out as she exhales. She gives a curt nod to Ruby and says, “You can pick up the cheque here on Monday or we can mail it to you if you prefer.”

She hands me her card and tells me to contact her anytime if I should feel the need to talk. She wishes us good luck.

I could punch Ruby in her tubby little kisser right now.