End of Innocence
Chapter 4
I can't believe what just happened. Dad's never just tossed someone out of the house like that, even though a few of his drunk buddies have gotten a little rowdy in here at times. Really, I love it that he took up for us. He just made me way more proud of him.
"Wow, you really gave her the what-for, didn't you?"
Dad's breathing heavily, the rage still in his voice as he paces back and forth. "Nobody—nobody is going to tell me that I don't know how to raise my kid. The nerve of that woman to suggest I can't take care of you, or that you can't take care of yourself. Well, you'll be able to soon enough. Who the hell does she think she is? Miz High-and-Mighty coming in here and talking to me like that. Damn!"
There's a timid knock on the door. Surely Mrs. Foster isn't back already. Dad snorts and grumps to himself, "Who the hell is that gonna be?" He jerks the door open. "Oh, Gracie! Hi."
"May I come in, Jack?" she asks quietly. "Is everything okay over here? I heard the door slam, and looked out just in time to see someone hurrying down the stairs."
"Sure, come on in. Sit down, please. I think I need someone to talk to about this." He's really upset.
"I'm not trying to meddle in your business, Jack, I hope you know that." I can imagine her fiddling with the hem of her dress, the way she does when she's nervous. "What's going on? Anything I can do to help?"
"That was the woman from the Lighthouse coming to do an evaluation on me and Matt. She started off wrong by insinuating that since Matt was alone in the house sometimes before the accident, that I'm not taking care of him like I should. You know that isn't so."
"Of course it's not, Jack. Matt's a very well-behaved and conscientious young man, and he's never been in any trouble. Unlike a lot of kids around here. Why would she get such an idea?"
"It was my fault, Aunt Grace," I explain. "None of this would have happened if I'd kept my mouth shut. All I said was that I hadn't needed a babysitter since I was about ten. It just didn't come out right. That set her off."
"Oh, so she thinks you are just a latchkey kid, huh? Didn't you tell her that you always check by my place when you come home? It's not like someone doesn't know where you are. You always come straight home from school, or call me to let me know where you are if you're going to be late."
"No, I didn't get a chance. She started going off about Child Protective Services and foster homes and that stuff. That got Dad mad and he threw her out of here."
Aunt Grace inhales sharply. "No! That's terrible! They need to know that I help look after you, even though you're about grown. We've got to straighten this out for you."
"Maybe we can call the Lighthouse and talk to someone else about this before she sics the authorities on us. I don't really know how to handle this. But they are not taking my son! No way, no how!"
His tone is beginning to worry me. "Would they really think about taking me away from you, Dad? I mean—how is that even possible? We've been doing just fine all these years. What's so different now? Besides the obvious, that is."
Dad is pacing the floor again, and I can imagine him flailing his arms, giving an unseen foe the one-two punch. "That dried-up old biddy better not turn me in for neglect. Why, I'll—I'll..."
"Simmer down, Jack," Aunt Grace says in her familiar peace-keeping tone. "We'll figure this out. We just have to tell the truth to the authorities, and they'll see that everything is fine here. Don't worry." She turns to me and asks, "Matt, are you doing okay? Is there anything I can help you with right now? Have you two thought about lunch yet?"
"No, ma'am, we're good. We didn't eat until late. But, thanks." I'm determined that no one is going to baby me. It might take me longer to do things, but I'm damn sure going to do for myself.
"We'll be fine, Grace. Really do appreciate your concern. I'll let you know if we need for you to talk to someone." He's stopped pacing, and his breathing has calmed down. That's good.
"Call me if you need anything, then, boys. I'll be home. Just knock." With that, she leaves us to wonder what's next.
"Hey, Dave, come on in!"
"Thanks, Jack. Hey, Matt, how's it going?" He claps me on the shoulder, and I reach out to shake his hand. He's not a really big guy like Dad, judging from the size of his hands, but he's taller than I am, with a firm, sincere handshake.
"Not bad. Feels good to be home, you know?" Hope I get to stay here.
"No place like home, yeah. Say, Jack, word got back to me that things didn't go too well with Mrs. Foster this morning. What happened?"
News travels fast, especially the bad kind. "It was my fault. She wanted to know who I stayed with after school when Dad wasn't home, and I let it out that I haven't needed a babysitter since I was ten. She jumped all over that. Didn't even let us explain that if Dad's not here, I check in with Aunt Grace down the hall." The words just tumble out of me, I'm so exasperated. "Well, she's not really my aunt, but that's what everybody around here calls her. She lives down the hall, and I always let her know where I am if I'm not home by a certain time."
"Yeah, it's not like the boy ever ran the streets, or nothin'," Dad interjects. "That old biddy was all over me about having to call Child Services or whatever it's called, to turn me in because Matt didn't have a mother here during the day. We can't help that. But Matty here is a good kid, studies hard. If he's not straight home, he's at the library studying. He's never been in trouble a day in his life."
Not that Dad ever found out about, anyway. There was that time I swiped that nightstick from that fat beat cop the summer I was ten, but I didn't get caught. Almost, though, and it was enough to keep me from pulling that sort of stunt again. Just the fear of Dad getting pissed was enough. He's only slapped me once, but I'll never cross him again on purpose, that's for sure. Never fuck with a guy who's a pro boxer.
"I know from what I've got in my notes that Matt isn't the type to prowl the streets. You can't do that and make his kind of grades." Dave opens some sort of case and shuffles some papers.
"You wanna put that stuff over here on the table, Dave? It's to your left by the window. Uh—about six feet, sorry."
"I've still got some light perception, Jack, so I can make out the window, thanks. Spreading this out on the table will make this a lot easier." Dad pulls out a chair for Dave, and I follow them over and sit opposite him. More shuffling and it dawns on me that it's probably brailled stuff. I keep forgetting that Dave's blind, too. That must be the sound of his fingers running across the pages. How long will it take me to learn that?
"Okay, Matt. I need to make sure I have several things correct before we head out for our first lesson. I have your address, of course, or I couldn't have found you, and your phone number because I called you yesterday to set this up today. Let's see—your primary doctor is Samuel Pruitt at St. Vincent's, and I have his number in case of emergency. Now I need a contact person besides your dad. Who would that be?"
"I suppose Aunt Grace, huh, Dad?" She's the closest thing we have to relatives in town.
"What's her last name?" Dave asks, and I hear him slide something else out of his case. He starts making some weird kind of pecking noise, like the pigeons out on the ledge. "And her phone number?"
"Uh—Grace Brown, 555-1602. What is that sound?"
Dave laughs at me. "Get used to it, Matt. I'm taking notes on a braille slate. You use a stylus—here, hold out your hand—and you punch the dots into the paper from the back so when you turn it over you can read it."
He puts the small object in my hand and I examine it. It feels like it has a wooden handle, shaped like a flattened cylinder that has a blunt metal point on it. Bigger than a needle, but smaller than a nail. "How does it work?"
Dave hands me a metal bar that has a hinge on one end. "You open this up—this is the slate—and line your note card or paper up in here like this." He guides my hands as he talks. "The side with the square holes goes on the top; feel that? Then you clamp the paper in the slate—it's got little grip things to hold it in place—and then you start brailling from the right side to the left. It's backwards from how you read it."
"Geez, how do you remember where you're putting the holes?" This is total Greek to me.
"I'm not a braille teacher, so I'm not going to try to explain it a lot, okay? But there are six dots possible in a braille cell—that's one grouping of dots. The holes in the top of the slate have slight indentations so that when you run the stylus along the edge of that squared hole—like this"; he puts the slate on the table and places my right hand on a hole in it, "—you can tell what spot you're poking the dot into. Feel those little dents? The dots are numbered from top to bottom from right to left on a slate. Dot one is "a", dots one and two make "b", and so on." I must look confused, because I am.
"Maybe I'm not quite ready for this?"
"Like I said, I'm no braille teacher. So, let me have that stuff back, and we'll get done with the paperwork part." I gladly relinquish the stylus and slate, and he resumes the questions.
"Do you guys have a family pastor or priest?"
"Father Everett is the priest at St. Michael's where Matt used to be an altar boy when he was younger, and we still go to mass there once in a while. Why?"
"It might be a good idea if you called him while we're out, so that you can line up support if this thing with Child Protective Services gets nasty. That's good that he's known you for a while, because that'll count a lot toward proving that you have Matt's best interests at heart, you know?"
"Yeah, I s'pose it would. Good idea. I'll do that. What else do you need to know?"
Dave gathers up his papers and begins packing up. "That's about it for now, Jack. I do have a consent form here for you to sign that gives me permission to take Matt out for his orientation and mobility lessons. There should be an "x" there on the bottom, and please date it for me."
"'Scuse me for being blunt, Dave, but how the hell did you know which one of those papers was the thing I needed to sign?"
"Simple! It was the flat one with the paper clip on the corner and a sticky note on it."
"Oh." Sometimes my old man can be a little dense. Gotta admit that was sorta funny.
Dad scribbles his signature, and Dave zips up his bag. "You ready to rock 'n' roll, Matthew?" Dave chides. "Go grab your cane, and let's head out."
I retrieve my cane from my room, check that I have my watch and my wallet—not that I have any money in it—and come back into the living room as Dave tells Dad, "I'll do what I can to get another case worker here for the occupational therapy stuff. That Estelle is so old and grumpy that she makes Methuselah look like a frat boy. Don't worry, okay? Matt and I will be gone a couple of hours on our excursion around the neighborhood, and if we run into any problems, we've got a quarter to call you. See ya!"
With that, we're out the door and down the stairs to the street.
