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“What?”
“It wasn’t really hard on me.”
She nodded. “Sometimes the person who’s suffering most doesn’t even realize the trouble she’s got. It’s like being born blind—you don’t know what you’re missing until you can see.”
“But I can see. I can see perfectly—or, at least, I thought I could until this trouble came up.” I couldn’t bring myself to mention Butcher’s name. “I mean, I never knew my father, so I didn’t have any reason to miss him. And Tom’s getting in trouble was hard, but I knew I always had Bunny, we always had each other. We were close, no matter what. So I never felt deprived. It never even occurred to me.”
Mrs. O’Brien smiled weakly. “Shall we turn on a light?” she said. “It’s awfully dark in here, isn’t it?”
I got up and turned on a floor lamp. The shade was made from a copy of the Declaration of Independence, and it threw off a yellowish light that seemed particularly false, given the bright sunlight outside.
When I sat down again, Mrs. O’Brien said, “I keep hearing about this Eddie Boggs fellow.”
“You do?”
“Here and there. You mentioned him. And then the judge.”
“The judge?”
“Sergeant Tony, too. When we were having the bench conference in court. He sounds like trouble—Eddie Boggs, that is.”
“I really don’t know him that well.”
“How serious do you think it is between your mother and him?” Mrs. O’Brien’s face was open and smooth. I couldn’t tell what she expected of me.
“I really don’t know.”
“They’ve been going out for a while now, haven’t they?”
“I guess.”
The social worker let her gaze wander around the room. “It worries me,” she said.
“Worries you?” I caught my breath.
She turned back. “Oh, it’s just me,” she said cheerily. She’d noticed my distress. “Don’t you worry about it. I’m supposed to worry. That’s my job.” She threw her head back and laughed.
I managed to squeeze out a smile.
“I’m paid to worry. That’s what a social worker does.”
“Do you think things will work out for me?” I said. “I mean, do you think things will get settled.”
She shrugged. “Look, at least you’re not pregnant.”
“Oh, no!” I held my stomach.
“That’s irrevocable.” She shook her head. “There’s nothing I can do about that.” She started telling me a long story about another case she was handling. It involved a girl over in Fogarty. She was sixteen, like me, and from a nice family, but she had a habit of hanging around with a bad crowd. She was fascinated by hoods for some reason. After a while, she started going steady with one. He was a rough character. His main preoccupation was fixing up his car, and he liked to steal things to put in it—hubcaps, fancy mirrors, things like that. He looked so ominous, however—long sideburns, slicked-back hair—that salespeople at the auto-supplies stores were always suspicious. So he taught the girl to steal the stuff, and she got quite good at it. When they finally caught her, they found a whole junkyard of auto parts hidden behind her family’s garage. Anyway, she was in trouble, and he was on his way to reform school when they made their next big mistake. They took his car and ran away together. They got as far as Chicago and checked into a crummy hotel. He thought he was going to get a job at a gas station, but he didn’t have a Social Security card. They ended up just hanging out in the hotel room until they ran out of money and the hotel clerk called the police. By that time, they were guilty of both stealing and running away, but worse, the girl had got pregnant.
“Think of it,” Mrs. O’Brien said, her voice rising. “Sixteen years old, on the way to reform school, and about to become a mother. What’s she going to do?”
I shook my head in exasperation and, satisfied, Mrs. O’Brien got up to go to her next appointment.
Afterward, I stayed down in the kitchen while Mrs. Vernon chopped vegetables for a church dinner. I offered to help, but she said no, that it was pleasant enough just having me for company. She poured me a cup of chamomile tea, so mild it was barely more than plain hot water, and I sat at the kitchen table. She’d been at her garden, and neat rows of carrots, beans, cucumbers, and tomatoes were lined up on the counter. She picked up a long knife with a wood handle and a blade that was wavery and bright from many sharpenings. As she pushed the vegetables forward, the knife kept up an even, metronome pace in her right hand. Watching her was a comfort, her work was so steady. All the while, she chattered on about Sissy.
I waited for my chance and finally, at a pause, I said, “Do you remember Elro Judy from our class?”
“Of course I know Elro,” she said softly. Her eyes were downcast; she was hurt. Why had I assumed that she’d want to talk about this, that her daughter was a mystery to her, too? “The spring before Sissy died, Elro used to call on her,” Mrs. Vernon went on. “They went out on dates a few times.” She fumbled with the vegetables. Every knife stroke now was slow and carefully positioned. She’d lost the unconsciousness of it.
