dead on the concrete patio below the balcony of his room.
TWO
I stared at the crumpled-up piece of paper on the floor. I was strangely off-balance, so much so that I had to face the truth: after five years of recovery, right now I wanted to pick up a drink more than ever before. My legs were shaky as I crouched down, my fingers tingly as I picked the paper up by its edges. I was about to throw it into the wastebasket but something stopped me. I unfolded the note. “If you’re serious about wanting to help, give me a call. 819-050-2301.”
The message was obviously intended for me, so why didn’t he just say it? And what did he mean if I was serious about wanting to help? Hadn’t I already told him I was?
“Well, Mr. Harrell,” I said out loud, as if he were still there, “if you need proof that I care, then I guess I’ll just have to give it to you.”
I sat down at my computer and typed in the password to access the electronic case files for all the foster homes that were my social workers’ responsibility. I typed in Paul and Linda Mellon and the words Record Unavailable came up on the screen. I figured their case record must be among those not yet converted to an e-file. But when I went to the records room for the hard copy, it had already been signed out to our agency attorney. I went back to my office and called Brion Kacey.
“I have to see you,” I said. “I’ll be right up.”
“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” he said. “I’m about to leave for a meeting, but I can see you first thing tomorrow morning.”
“It’ll only take a minute, Brion.”
I hung up and rushed out the door, holding up the hem of my skirt as I took the steps two at a time up to the third-floor administrative suite. I had to see for myself that all agency procedures had been followed with the Mellon case. A life or death need to disprove J. B. Harrell’s allegation that Anthony Little Eagle’s death might not have been an accident threatened to overwhelm me. It was irrational, out of proportion, and somehow out of my control.
The door to Brion Kacey’s huge corner office was open. I leaned against the doorframe to catch my breath. He was huddled at the far end of his highly polished mahogany conference table with Betsy Chambers, the agency administrator and my supervisor. Today, as usual, Brion was wearing a black suit, fresh white shirt, and red bow tie, always at the ready to appear in court. He sat up straight when he saw me. I thought it might just be my imagination until I strode over to the table and saw his eyebrows draw together. He closed the folder he and Betsy had been looking at and crossed his arms on top of it.
“Are you okay, Sylvia?” Betsy asked.
“Is that the Mellon case file?” I asked.
“It’s a terrible thing,” Brion said. “A tragic accident.”
“I want to read it,” I said.
“Your diligence is much appreciated,” he said, “as always.”
I winced. It wasn’t like Brion to patronize me. I decided to ignore it and held my hand out for the folder. He moved it to the side and tapped his index finger on top of it.
“I won’t keep it for long,” I said, leaning toward him and reaching for it again.
Betsy placed her hand on my arm to hold me back, with a sympathetic wince. She was an attractive woman, the lines in her face framed by soft gray curls and her trim figure presented to its best advantage today in a tailored royal blue suit set off by a golden scarf. I liked her and had always admired her. Over the years she’d taken a dozen foster children into her own home, and adopted half of them. She’d never lost her ability to care, in spite of having risen through the ranks of an institution in which colleagues at each level conspired more ferociously than at the previous level to subordinate subjective human relationships to data-driven objectivity.
“With an investigation under way,” Brion said, “I know you appreciate more than anyone the importance of following agency policies and procedures.”
I was well aware of my reputation as a stickler for details. If any of my social workers were to ask for a case file under similar circumstances, I would tell them the same thing.
“Of course,” I said. “I have no intention of interfering with the investigation.”
“I knew you’d want to read it,” Betsy said. “And I understand why.”
“It’s for my own peace of mind, that’s all.”
“I know this has been awfully hard for you,” Betsy went on. “But you have to know that Anthony Little Eagle’s death was not your fault.”
I bit my bottom lip.
“There can be no doubt, Sylvia,” Brion said, “that you made sure everything was done properly with this case.”
He looked out the window at the green turrets on top of the Gothic stone courthouse across the street. Then he turned back to me with a benevolent smile. “Here,” he said as he pulled a thin folder out from under the Mellon file. “You can have a copy of Lynn Winters’s statement. I think your social worker’s report of what she did when she placed the boy will put your mind at ease.” He waved his hand in a gesture that I took as a dismissal, that as far as he was concerned the meeting was over.
I took Lynn’s statement from him and said, “But I’d like the case file, too, please. Just for a few minutes.”
“We need to follow protocol,” Betsy said.
“You know I can’t hold people accountable for their actions if I’m not fully informed, Betsy.” I didn’t mean to sound whiny, but I couldn’t seem to help it.
“After you read Ms. Winters’s statement,” Brion said, “you can talk to her yourself. You have my permission to do that.”
A flame rushed up my neck and burned into my jaw. Brion had just pulled rank on me, as if I needed his permission to talk to one of my own social workers. I didn’t understand what was going on. I knew they considered me to be one of the most highly respected supervisors in the agency. This was the first time they had ever questioned my competence.
“You don’t really care what happened to that boy, do you?”
“Now, Sylvia,” Betsy said. “It’s not Brion’s fault. He’s just doing his job.”
“I see. So since when is it his job to tell me whether I can talk to my own social workers or not?”
“The best way to get to the truth of what happened,” Betsy said, “is to follow our child death protocols.” She paused. “I know you are not responsible for Anthony Little Eagle’s death.”
I fought off the tears unexpectedly filling my eyes. “I wish I did.”
“That boy’s death was no one’s fault.” Brion said. “It was an accident.”
“The reporter from the Monrow City Tribune doesn’t think so,” I shot back at him.
Brion pulled a crisp white handkerchief from the pocket of his suit jacket and wiped his forehead with it. “You are not to meet with him again,” he said.
