okay.”
“It was good that you called right away. Who did you talk to?”
“Mrs. Mellon. She said everything was fine. She said Tony, that’s what she called him, she said he ate a good dinner but that she would have to fatten him up, that he was too skinny. She said he was quiet but that was to be expected and he did respond when she asked him questions. She said he wanted his eggs scrambled that morning. Everything was okay.”
“Did you talk to Anthony?”
“No, but I called again the next day,” she said, looking at me as if seeking my approval. “Mr. Mellon said Anthony was taking a walk with his wife and that he thought the boy was adjusting as well as could be expected.”
“Did you visit the home on Monday then,” I asked, “so you could see Anthony yourself?”
“I...was planning to...but...all my other cases...it was so busy that day...I thought he was okay.”
Okay, I thought. I might have assumed the same thing myself after calling the Mellon home twice to check on him.
“Tell me,” I said, “about your consultation with the Indian Child Welfare Act compliance officer. It seems to have been left out of your statement.”
“Who?”
“We’re required to confer with Peter Minter, the Indian Child Welfare compliance officer, before removing or placing American Indian children in non–American Indian homes.”
“I’m sorry, I...I guess I...”
I bit my tongue and waited for her to say more. We’d spent a whole day during orientation discussing the ICWA requirements, but my social workers didn’t always absorb it or understand how important it was to follow all the proper procedures. I worried about the unacceptably high number of American Indian kids that were still being removed and placed in white foster homes.
“I guess...,” Lynn went on. “The poor boy just looked so scared...I’m sorry. I guess I was too anxious about that to think about anything else.”
A rush of heat radiated up into my chest. The image of Anthony Little Eagle’s fear-filled eyes rose before me once again, the uniformed police officer’s gigantic hand crushing his bony shoulder.
“I saw him that day,” I said. “I saw how frightened the boy looked.”
I wondered if I expected too much of Lynn. She was so young and fresh, one of those social workers who had gone directly from a bachelor’s degree program into an advanced standing graduate program without any work experience in between. And then, after only two weeks of training, I had given her too many cases. I knew it was essential because of our agency’s heavy workload, but I should have monitored her more closely. Maybe she was so intimidated by my emphasis on policy and procedure, by my high standards, that she’d been afraid to ask any questions. Maybe she’d been unable to exercise common sense out of fear of making a mistake. Maybe she’d been so anxious to protect Anthony Little Eagle that she convinced herself she was keeping him safe. Yet the question remained: had she ignored the warning signs, had she not seen them, or hadn’t there been any?
“Let’s go back to the other child who was injured in the Mellon home. I understand it was about five years ago.” I said. “Tell me what you know about that.”
Lynn’s shoulders sagged and she stared at her lap for a long time. She finally raised her head and I saw a shadow—was it fear? guilt?—cross her face.
“I’m sorry. I know...I know...”
“What is it? What do you know?”
I leaned forward and my chair squeaked. Lynn jumped. She looked as guilty as if she herself had killed Anthony Little Eagle. I knew then that she was hiding something. Did she know a child had been hurt in the Mellon home before? Did she know and place another child there anyway?
Lynn choked on a sob and started crying loud enough to be heard by the other social workers in the row of cubicles outside my door. She said something, but her words came out garbled.
“What?” I asked. “I didn’t understand what you said.”
“I...it’s just that...well...I don’t know why the Mellon home was on our emergency list...if...if...It’s just that...that...I think someone should have known if that home was safe or not.”
“That’s true. Did you see anything in the case file about the five-year-old girl that was injured in that home?”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia. I’m so sorry, but...I didn’t...I didn’t...”
“You didn’t what?” I heard the impatience in my voice.
“I didn’t...read the case file.”
I sat back in my chair and pushed my hands into my stomach. I was stunned. So that’s it. That’s her secret. It was one thing for her to make a conscious decision to do what was best to protect the child by keeping him out of the emergency shelter, but it was quite another thing to not think things through—and Lynn Winters clearly did not think things through. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. It was unacceptable to not read about a foster home before placing a vulnerable child there.
I looked down at my hands, clasped tightly in my lap, and tried to talk myself down. Calm down. Be professional. The poor girl is devastated.
When I was finally able to look at Lynn, she jumped up and ran out of my office. I didn’t try to stop her. Maybe I was being too hard on her, but damn it, there had to be consequences for not following procedures, and especially for not even bothering to read the case file.
I rested my head on the back of my chair. I hadn’t gotten the reassurance that I’d hoped for from talking to Lynn. I still didn’t know if a girl had been injured in the Mellon home, as J. B. Harrell had said, and not only that, I was left with more questions than before. Was it possible that the Mellons had lost their license to be foster parents but their home had not been removed from the emergency list, through some administrative error? Was that why Brion and Betsy had glanced at each other when I mentioned the injured girl? Or did they know something else? I was sure something was going on that I was not being told about, and I didn’t know how to find out what that was. I leaned forward and reached for my cup of coffee. It was cold and tasted bitter on my tongue and when I swallowed it my stomach howled in protest.
FIVE
I gave the Budai statue at the entrance to the Laughing Buddha Lounge a wide berth. Its gold belly was all shiny from being rubbed by innumerable patrons seeking protection for their children. Inside the lounge my senses were assaulted by the smell of booze and the tantalizing glow of liquor bottles reflecting the yellow and red paper lanterns on the ceiling. I considered leaving. Just because someone recommends meeting somewhere doesn’t mean it’s mandatory. But I hadn’t suggested somewhere else, had I, and so here I was, for better or for worse.
I hurried through the bar to the restaurant area and made my way to the back. As I walked between booths with Formica tabletops and cranberry-red suede benches a forty-something couple glanced up at me with illicit-affair guilt in their eyes. On the back wall, the soft glow cast by five rows of glass-enclosed candles barely punctuated the darkness. I sank into a soft red crushed-velvet sofa, propped my feet up on a gold vinyl footstool, and closed my eyes. I wondered what
