Family Blessings (42 page)

Shortly after winter vacation ended, the school called Christopher. It was a silver-bright winter day warm enough to raise steam off the melting sidewalks. Inside the police department, where he was filling out an accident report, it smelled of late morning coffee and guncleaning oil. He took the call and heard a woman's voice inform him, "This is Cynthia Hubert, the principal at the junior high. We have a seventh-grade student here, Judd Quincy, who's gotten into some trouble. He says if we call you you'll come over here and bail him out."

Christopher sighed and let his shoulders sag, tilting back in his swivel chair.

"What's he done this time?"

"Stole some money out of a teacher's purse."

Christopher closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Damn that kid. He thought they'd been making progress.

"You sure he did it?"

"She caught him red-handed."

"Is the liaison officer there?"

"Yes, Judd is with him."

"Listen . . . don't do anything with him till I get there, okay?"

The principal's pause sounded strained with indecision. Finally she sighed and said, "All right, we'll wait."

They had Judd in a counselor's office of Fred Moore Junior High when Christopher entered, in uniform. The room held an impacted, high-tension stillness often accompanying proven guilt. Judd sat in an aqua vinyl chair staring at his Air pump tennies. He looked skinny and unkempt. Christopher nodded to the liaison officer, Randy Woodward, from his own department. Behind Chris the principal entered, a stylish, thin, salt-and-pepper-haired woman wearing a straight gray dress and gold-rimmed glasses. He turned around and shook her hand.

"Thanks for calling, Mrs. Hubert." He glanced down at Judd, still staring at his Air pumps, which by now looked as if they'd marched across Prussia on a foot soldier.

"Could I talk to him alone for a minute?" Chris asked.

The others went out and left the two of them alone.

Christopher shuffled over to stand before Judd, looking down on his bent head with its burry hair and birdlike neck, his rumpled, dirty T-shirt under a filthy denim jacket and jeans with tears across both knees. He stood a long time with his hands on his hips, the room quiet while from the outer office came the muted sounds of voices, and someone using a stapler, and a phone ringing persistently.

Finally Christopher asked, "Did you steal some money, Judd?"

The boy said nothing, only hung his head and studied the tongues of his tennies.

"Did you?" Chris repeated softly.

Judd nodded.

Words of rebuke somehow refused to form in Chris's mind. He'd lecNred Judd so many times, had taken the tough-guy stance and made the kid realize the world wasn't fair but he'd just have to live with it, muddle his way through to adulthood, when he could finally make his own decisions. It struck Chris today, however: The kid was only twelve years old. To Judd, muddling his way through to seventeen, eighteen, whenever he might graduate from high school, must seem like asking him to become a Rhodes scholar. He was a scared, mixed-up, unloved little boy who probably hadn't been fed breakfast this morning, never mind kissed goodbye on his way out the door.

Suddenly Christopher found himself doing what he'd never done before: He went down on one knee and took Judd in his arms Judd clung and started crying. Christopher held him firmly, swallowing hard to keep himself from doing the same, his nostrils narrowing at the stale smell coming from Judd's skin and clothing. He and Judd stayed that way, close and silent, while the secretary in the outer office seemingly used up an entire bar of staples, and every absentee in the school population called in sick. When Christopher tried to pull back, Judd clung harder.

"What went wrong?" Christopher asked. "Something at home?"

He felt Judd shrug.

"You want to get out of there? You want to live in a foster home?"

Judd said, "I want to live with you."

He pulled the boy's arms from around his neck and forced him to sit back on his chair. "I'm sorry, Judd, you can't. A person has to be licensed to give emergency foster care, and besides, what would I do with you when I work nights?"

"I'd be okay." Judd dried his eyes with the backs of his wrists.

"I'd just watch TV and go to bed anytime you said I should."

It nearly killed Christopher to reply, "I'm sorry, Judd, it wouldn't work."

Judd looked up with more sincerity in his eyes than Christopher had ever seen there. "I could do stuff for you, maybe vacuum your place or warm up your can of soup for you."

That was Judd's idea of a meal, warming up your can of soup. Chris put his man-sized hand around Judd's boy-sized neck, wondering how much dirt was disguised by his dusky pigment. Then he got up and sat on the aqua-blue chair beside Judd's. He bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"Tell me what happened at home."

"They took my free lunch tickets to buy coke with. Then they tried to give me some of it, said they was gonna turn me out-woo-hoo.

"Turn you out?"

"Yeah, you know--introduce me, sort of, to something new."

"The cocaine, you mean?"

- Judd nodded while Christopher's adrenaline shot a stream of heat through his chest. It wasn't all that uncommon for parents like Judd's to fence their kids' subsidized lunch program tickets, but trying to get their own kid hooked on drugs was a new one on Chris. His innards seized up and he experienced the unholy desire to find Wendy and Ray Quincy and drive his fist into their faces until they needed plastic surgery.

"Now, let me get this straight." He lifted the kid's chin and forced his direct attention with a straight-line gaze. "Your mother and dad bought cocaine with your lunch money, then tried to get you to use it.

You're : sure that's how it was?"

Judd jerked his chin free. "I said that's how it was, and that's how it was."

"So you stole the money to eat lunch with?"

Judd had returned to shoe staring.

"Judd, I've got to have it straight this time, no lies, no half-truths.

Is that why you stole the lunch money?"

The boy mumbled, "Yeah, I guess so."

"You guess so?"

"And cause I knew if I did, they'd call you."

Christopher left his chair and hunkered down facing Judd, sitting on one heel. "Hey, listen to me, okay? Cause this time it's really important.

- I can't put you in foster care without your parents' okay, and I don't think they'll give it. But we've got one other possibility.

I've got the power to get you out of there and put you on a police hold for twenty-four hours. As soon as I do that a social worker will start proceedings with the county attorney, and there'll be a detention hearing before a judge. If we go that far, you'll have to tell the judge what you just told me, about your parents trying to get you to use coke. Will you do that?

When it got that far, children often refused to testify against their parents, fearful at the last minute of losing their parents and home after all.

"Will you do that, Judd?"

Judd stared down at his dirty hands through plump tears that trembled on his lower eyelids.

"Can I live with you then?"

Don't break my heart like this, boy. "No, you can't, Judd. But there's a good chance I can be appointed your guardian during the proceedings."

"My guardian?" Judd looked up.

"It would be my sole purpose to look out for your welfare and make sure the correct decisions were made for you. But you have to understand--if I start this, if I put you on a twenty-four-hour police hold and talk to child protection, once they get in touch with the county attorney we're talking about taking you away from your parents permanently."

Judd thought that over for some time before coming up with one paltry defense of the mother who didn't deserve him. "My ma-sometimes she cooks supper."

Chris felt his throat thicken. When he spoke his voice sounded as if he were trying to swallow and talk simultaneously. "Yeah, I know.

Sometimes they're okay. But most of the time they're not.

They're sick, Judd, but they refuse to get help. Maybe if you don't live with them anymore they'll get it. We'd find you a good foster home where you'd get baths and meals and lunch money every day. But the choice is up to you--you've got to say."

"Could we still play basketball sometimes, you and me? And go to the workout room together?"

"Yes, Judd, we could. I'd make sure we did."

Judd found it impossible to make the final decision, so Christopher made it for him. He rose to his feet and put a hand on the boy's head.

"Tell you what--we're going to get you out of school for today. You wait here, okay?"

In the principal's office he found Randy Woodward, Mrs. Hubert, and the teacher whose money had been stolen, Ms. Prothero. He closed the door and said without preamble, "I want to put him on police hold and get a court hearing."

"You think it'll do any good?" asked Woodward.

, "I'm going after a CHIPS petition."

"A CHIPS petition?" said Woodward. "You're sure?" A CHIPS petition--Children in Need of Placement or Supervision--meant trying to remove a child permanently from his home. No responsible police officer or social worker began such a procedure without questioning himself to make sure it was the right thing to do.

"He stole the money because his parents fenced his subsidized lunch tickets and used the money to buy cocaine, then tried to get Judd to sniff some of it."

Ms. Prothero--a clean-cut all-American-girl type perhaps two years out of collegc visibly blanched and put a hand to her mouth. Mrs. Hubert sat behind her desk looking sober but thoughtful. Randy Woodward said calmly, "I'd like to tie those sonsabitches on about a thirtyfoot cable behind my snowmobile and go for a four-hour ride through the woods."

Christopher replied, "Trouble is, when they came to, they'd only ask for a snort. The boy needs a bath and some food. I don't think he's eaten in a while. He also needs clean clothes, which I don't think you'll find at his home. Will you contact Social Services?" he asked Woodward.

"Right away, if it's all right with Mrs. Hubert."

She nodded and said, "I think that's best."

"Ms. Prothero?"

The young woman came out of her daze, looking ill. "Yes, of course.

Dear God, I had no idea it was that bad at his house."

Christopher said to Woodward, "I'll take him to the foster home myself after you make the call. He knows me. He's going to be scared."

"Sure. Glad to have you do it. These are the ones that break your heart."

. Break your heart--sweet Jesus, this one damn near shredded Christo plier's. He transported the scared little kid to a small, neat house on the southwest side of Anoka and walked him between the snowbanks up the driveway. Judd stared straight ahead, wearing a stoic expression and a denim jacket scarcely warm enough for midwinter. All the while Chris remembered how hard Judd had hugged him in the counselor's office at school A buxom fiftyish woman in a moss-green sweater and slacks opened the door and let them inside.

"This is Mrs. Billings," Christopher told Judd.

She said, "Hello, Judd," with such false brightness it made Christopher feel guilty as hell for leaving the boy with her, though the house appeared clean and had holy pictures on the living room walls.

He said to the woman, "He needs food and a bath. He's on a twenty-four-hour hold pending a detention hearing."

Before leaving, he put a hand on Judd's shoulder. The boy was too tall to be knelt before, yet too short to be hugged chest to chest, so Christopher settled for a squeeze of the shoulder before he could no longer help himself and gathered Judd against him in a mismatched farewell hug. This time, before a stranger, Judd gave no hug in return.

"Hey, listen, you're going to be okay now."

"When will I see you again?"

"There'll be a hearing within twenty-four hours. The law won't allow me to be present at it, but I'll come to get you for it myself, in the squad car."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

"Will I go to school tomorrow?"

"No, probably not tomorrow. The hearing will probably be then."

"What's the hearing for?"

"Well, the legal language says it's a hearing for probable cause.

That means the judge will decide if there's enough reason to keep you out of your home permanently. The county attorney will be coming to talk to you about it beforehand. Just tell the truth.

Tell him what you told me at school."

Judd studied his friend the policeman with a downcast expression.

"Well, now, listen, I've got to go. I'm on duty, you know."

Judd nodded.

He ruffled the boy's hair, thanked Mrs. Billings and left. As he was opening his car door he glanced back at the house to find Judd standing motionlessly in the front window, watching him. Inside the squad, he had to blow his nose and clear his throat before he could pick up the radio and report to the dispatcher.

He realized something as he headed back toward Social Services to find out about when the hearing was scheduled: The kid hadn't lapsed into rap talk once today. Fear had robbed him of all vestiges of bravado.

le called Lee that night and said, "I've got to see you."

"Something's wrong," she said.

"Yeah, it's . .." What was it? His job, his damned thankless job during the training for which he'd learned never to become emotionally involved with the people he served. "It's Judd."

She gave him permission straightaway, without asking a single further question. "Come anytime. I'll be here all night."

He got there at 8:30 feeling heavy-limbed, heavyhearted, and needing .

. . needing something . . . something he couldn't quite put into words. Succor, maybe.

She let him into the shadowed front hall, took one look at his drawn face and said, "Darling, what is it?"

Without even removing his jacket, he took her in his arms and put his face against her hair. She folded her arms up his back and they stood in the dim entry behind a stub wall that left the back of her quite visible through the living room archway. The entry lights had been left off, as had those in the kitchen. One dim lamp cast light onto their ankles from the living room where, for once, no television chattered, no Joey sprawled.