We didn't have long to wait for the dreaded visit from the social worker. It was the next day, on Friday, near the end of fourth hour, when
the intercom came on, and Mrs. Wilson called both Guthrie and I to the school front office.
We met up in the hallway, coming out of our respective classrooms, and I was not encouraged my Guthrie's grim demeanor.
I wished he would crack a joke or something, but he was silent as we walked down the quiet hall.
I wished for a minute that I was little again, so I could reach out and take his hand for comfort.
The only thing said was when I asked him, really low, "Are you going to keep your promise to Adam? Are you going to be
nice?"
Guthrie gave me a look that would have silenced even the most inquisitive of people. At first I thought he wasn't going to answer me at all,
but as he held the office door open so that I could walk in ahead of him, he said, equally low, "I'll be civil. That's it."
I paused beside him, talking so low so that Mrs. Wilson couldn't overhear. "Please, Guthrie. If we act rude, they might think we weren't
raised properly, or something. It could hurt the custody case. They might think that we're bad kids. I don't want to do anything that might
make me have to go live with her!"
As I looked up into his face, I saw Guthrie's expression go thru a range of emotions. When he answered me, his voice was clipped.
"I told you I'd be civil, didn't I?"
"You told me," I agreed, still giving him an imploring look.
Guthrie heaved a sigh, and rolled his eyes heavenward. "I'll be polite," he told me.
And, though that's all he said, I could see more in his eyes, and I knew he would hang onto his temper.
"Okay," I told him, and we went on into the office.
Mrs. Wilson nodded to both of us. A woman sitting there in one of the chairs along the wall, stood up as we came in. She looked to be
in her early thirties or so. She had her hair pulled back in a severe looking knot, and was wearing a corduroy skirt and blazer. While she was
attractive enough, she looked older from the way she was dressed.
"You're Harlie?" she asked me. "And Guthrie?"
"Yes," I said, feeling nervous.
"Hello. I'm Mrs. Barber. I'm from the Stockton social service office."
I nodded at her.
"Well, I just want to visit with you both a little bit," she went on. "Where would be a good place for us to talk?"
I had no desire to stay where we might be overheard. It was already embarrassing enough for her to be here at all.
"We could go outside," I said. "To the lunch tables."
"Fine," she said. "I'll let you two lead the way."
When we'd gone outside, and found a table to sit down, I was wishing that I'd brought my jacket out. The wind was picking up.
The woman sat down on one side of the table, and Guthrie and I sat down next to each other on the other side.
"Isn't it a beautiful day out?" she asked us, in conversation.
Guthrie showed no signs of answering her, so I gave a minimal response. "Uh huh."
"Were you told that I'd be coming by to talk to you?" she asked.
"Yes. Somebody called yesterday," I offered. "And our brother told us."
"You have quite a large family, don't you?" she asked.
"Uh huh," I said, again.
"There's how many? In the family?" she asked.
"Eleven, with all of us," I said.
"A family that large is rare these days," she said, and I decided not to answer that. I thought it was a dumb thing to say, and besides,
it was none of her business.
"I understand that some of your brothers are married?" she continued.
"Two of them," I said.
"So, there were nine of you, before the marriages?" she asked.
"Eight. Isaac's our baby. He makes eleven," I said.
"A baby. How nice. You say, 'our baby'?" she asked questioningly.
"He's Adam and Hannah's baby," I clarified. "But we all feel like he's ours."
Ms. Barber gave me a look that I couldn't quite decipher.
"How nice," she said again.
"We think so," Guthrie said, speaking for the first time. I could hear the defensive tone to his voice, and I reached under the table
to give his leg a pinch.
"So, to begin with, it was you and seven brothers, Harlie?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I imagine that made for quite some interesting growing up experiences, didn't it?" she asked, and I thought to myself that she wasn't
going to trick me into saying anything detrimental of my brothers raising of me.
"I had a good childhood," I said, sounding a little prim.
"Tell me about it. About your childhood," she told me.
I hesitated, looking towards Guthrie, and then I said, slowly, "We have a ranch, so we always had a lot of animals."
She nodded, and waited, obviously wanting me to continue to talk.
"We spent a lot of time together," I added, not certain what else to say.
"Doing what?" she asked, scribbling things in a notebook.
"Swimming in the summer, fishing, horseback riding, all of that," I said.
"Camping," Guthrie added, and I sent him a grateful look for his contribution to the conversation.
"Yeah. Camping up in the mountains," I verified.
"And how old were you when your brothers married?" she asked then.
"We were eleven and twelve when Adam married Hannah. Brian and Clare got married last summer."
"And how is that? Having some sister-in-laws? I imagine that makes a difference, having some other females in the house, doesn't it?"
I looked at her, thinking cautiously. I couldn't help the feeling that she was trying to trick me into saying something negative.
"We were glad when Hannah came," I said carefully, "and we love Clare, too. But my brothers did fine with us before that."
"You're very diplomatic, Harlie," Ms. Barber said.
It was at that moment that I decided I did not like this woman. Not one bit.
"Who took care of the two of you when you were much younger?" she asked.
Guthrie and I exchanged a look.
"Everybody took care of everybody," Guthrie answered, and Ms. Barber frowned a little, and then wrote again in her
notebook.
"They took turns," I added. "We were always with someone. We weren't left alone or anything like that."
"Let's move on to more recently," she said, and I felt myself tense up even tighter.
"How do you feel, Harlie, about living with your aunt?"
For a long, long moment, I was stunned into silence. What kind of a question was that? She made it sound as though
it was a definite thing.
"I don't want to live anywhere but at home, with my family," I said, hoping I sounded firm and confident, but not rude.
"I see," she said.
I didn't think that she did see, not at all, but I forced myself to keep still. Waiting.
"How do things work in your home?" she asked then. "Who does what household duty, and those type of things?"
Another stupid question, I thought. I felt my jaw begin to ache from clenching it so tightly.
I was relieved when Guthrie answered. "We take turns. On the dishes and the cooking. Everybody does their part."
"It all sounds quite well-managed," she said.
Guthrie shrugged a little. "It works pretty well."
"But your sister-in-law, Hannah? She does quite a bit for the running of the household, I'm sure?"
"She does," Guthrie agreed. "She does most of the grocery shopping."
"Tell me about the discipline? Who's in charge of that?"
I looked at Guthrie, unsure of what to say, or what not to say.
"Any of the older guys, really," Guthrie said. He added tersely, "We don't get in much trouble. Harlie and me, I mean."
Ms. Barber scribbled in her notebook again.
"It's a rather unorthodox type of family situation, for certain," she said, and I felt Guthrie stiffen beside me.
"Ma'm?" he asked, and I knew he was offended by her comment.
"Well, just the size of your family for one thing, is uncommon. And then, the fact that you were raised by brothers, and not
your parents, well, it makes for an unusual situation. It's very interesting."
I thought that it sounded as though she thought of us as a science experiment, or something.
I sighed. My lower back was beginning to ache, from trying to sit up so straight for so long.
"It might be sort of out of the ordinary," Guthrie said, slowly, "but it's our family, and it works."
Ms. Barber focused her eyes, which I now saw were a strange shade of brown, almost black, on Guthrie, and then turned her
focus to me.
"You have diabetes, I understand?"
"Yes."
"How long since you were diagnosed?"
"Last fall," I told her.
"And how do you do with that?"
"I do as well as I can," I said, feeling my temper rise up.
"I'm sure it's difficult, though, being a teen with something as serious as diabetes?" she asked.
"It's not something I would have chosen to have," I said, my tone a little clipped.
"You were in the hospital recently?"
I blinked at her. That had only been a week ago. How had she come by that information?
"Yeah," I said, forgetting to say only 'yes' and not 'yeah'.
"And how are you feeling now? Better?"
"I feel fine," I said, determined to keep my answers close to the vest, as the old saying goes.
"What was the problem that had placed you in the hospital?" she asked then.
"It was-" I hesitated, "just a low blood sugar thing. It happens to lots of people with diabetes. It was only overnight."
More scribbling in her stupid notebook.
"How are issues resolved in the home?" she asked, but she looked only at me.
"What issues?" I asked her.
"Arguments. Disagreements."
I hesitated. I looked at Guthrie for help.
"We talk things out," Guthrie said.
"That's fine," Ms. Barber said, and then focused her attentions on me again. "Would you agree with that, Harlie?"
Did she think I would contradict Guthrie? If she thought that, then she was a special kind of stupid. I raged inwardly, but forced
myself to respond politely. "Yes. I agree with it."
"There must be situations, though, when it takes some time to work things out?" she asked then.
I hesitated, not sure what to say.
"Can you explain that a little better?" Guthrie spoke up.
There seemed to be a flicker of annoyance in the woman's eyes when she glanced at Guthrie.
"Certainly. I apologize if I'm not being clear enough."
In that moment, she succeeded in making me feel pretty darn dumb. Like a country hick who had to have things made simple for her to understand.
"When there is a disagreement," she went on, "is there sometimes yelling? Swearing?"
"We don't swear at each other," Guthrie denied, and I could feel the tension radiating from him.
"I wasn't specifically talking about you, Guthrie," Ms. Barber said. "I meant your older brothers."
"Our brothers don't swear at us," Guthrie said, speaking slowly and distinctly, as though Ms. Barber was now the stupid one.
Ms. Barber changed her tactic. "I think we're getting off the track here a bit," she said, smiling at both of us. "I'm just asking
some general questions."
"Pardon me, ma'm," Guthrie responded, "but they don't seem as though they're general questions. They feel fairly pointed, to me."
Since Guthrie had gone on ahead and seemed near to dropping his promise to stay civil, I backed him up.
"They feel that way to me, too," I told her.
A high spot of color appeared on Ms. Barber's cheeks. "I assure you, they are very basic questions. Your cooperation is all I need."
"Ma'm, we've done our darndest to be cooperative with you," Guthrie said.
I pressed my knuckles into his leg under the table, to deter him from going too far in his anger.
Guthrie gave a sigh. "We'll answer your questions. But if we could move it along, it would be great."
"My goodness, I think that's the first time that a young person told me when to end my interview," Ms. Barber said, looking a little
startled.
"Guthrie didn't mean it that way-" I began, in defense. I was getting scared by this whole thing. What if this woman went back to her
office, and made a report that said that Guthrie and I were hateful, and disrespectful? It would look as though the family hadn't taught
us manners, or correct behavior.
"I did mean it that way," Guthrie spoke over me. His voice level was calm enough, but I recognized the anger near the surface. Very near
to the surface. "We'll answer anything you want to ask us, ma'm. But not if it drags out, for no good reason."
"Understood," she said. "I do need to ask a question that's particularly difficult."
"What is it?" I asked, feeling my stomach clench. There was no way this was going to be good.
"Is there anger in your house that's sufficient enough to frighten you, Harlie?"
I thought she must be able to hear my heart pounding.
"No," I said, "Our home's not scary."
"Even when your brothers are angry with you about something?" she persisted.
I tried to dig down deep into myself, to find some poise, and grace. I knew I had to answer her somehow. Otherwise, she
would think it suspicious.
"I don't like it when they're mad at me," I said slowly, and honestly. "But I'm not afraid of them. They wouldn't hurt me."
"What about you, Guthrie?" she asked then.
Guthrie gave a huffing sort of sound, and said, "The only times I've been afraid of my brothers were when I had a reason to be."
"Meaning?" she asked.
"Meanin' that I'd done something wrong, and I was in trouble for it," Guthrie said.
"Do you feel that you've ever been abused by any of them?" she asked Guthrie.
"No, ma'm," Guthrie said firmly. "I do not."
"Harlie? The same question for you."
"They've never abused me," I said, feeling as though I was going to choke. "They wouldn't."
"Well," Ms. Barber said, and then hesitated. "Let me see. I think I've asked almost everything that I needed to."
She flipped thru her paperwork, and then put it into a tidy stack.
"Is there anything that either of you would like to ask me?" she asked.
Guthrie was silent, and I tried to meet her eye, to show her that I wasn't afraid.
"I just want you to know, our brothers, our whole family, takes good care of Guthrie and I. We have everything that we need, and-" I hesitated.
"We have a good home. It's safe, and-full of love-" I said.
"That's very nice," she said.
"Yes," I said.
And then we sat there for a couple of moments, nobody saying anything.
"Well, alright then," Ms. Barber said. "I'd like to give you each one of my cards." She reached into the pocket of her blazer, and then
held out two cards. "In case there's anything that you need, or that you decide that you want to talk to me about."
Guthrie was pressing on my leg under the table with his hand. A signal, I knew, that he was fed up, and done, and for me to stand up.
"I don't think we really need a card," I said, getting obediently to my feet.
"I wish you'd take it, just in case," she said.
In case of what? I wondered.
"No, ma'm," Guthrie said, on his feet by now, as well. "I don't think we'll need anything from you."
Mrs. Barber gave a small sigh, and stood up, too.
"I'm not the enemy. I'm really not. I just want to help you, in any way that I can," she said.
"We're fine," I said. "We really are."
"Would you like to talk a few more minutes, Harlie?" she asked me. "That way Guthrie can get back to class."
I opened my mouth to tell her no, that I was done talking, but before I could get the words out, Guthrie
said, "I'll stay with Har." His voice wasn't exactly rude, but it was definitely on the cusp of rudeness.
"Alright, Guthrie," Ms. Barber said. She looked at me again. "Is there anything else, Harlie?"
"No," I said. "There's nothing else."
She said goodbye, and walked towards the parking lot. Guthrie and I stood there for a couple of minutes, not saying anything.
"We better get back to class," he said then.
"Yeah," I said, and we walked towards the steps to go inside.
"What a bitch," Guthrie said, under his breath.
"She was, pretty much of a bitch," I agreed.
"That better be the last time we have to talk to her. Or anybody else from family services," Guthrie said.
I could hear the anger in his voice. I stopped walking down the hall and pulled at his shirt sleeve, to make him stop, too.
"Wait a minute," I said.
"What?" he asked, sounding exasperated.
"Do you blame me for all of this?"
Guthrie looked at me, and then let his gaze drift away, back towards the office doorway. "Come on, Har," he said, with a sigh.
"I want to know. Do you?" I persisted.
"Let's just forget it," Guthrie said.
"Are you going to forget it?" I countered, stressing the word 'you'.
Guthrie looked at me. "Har," he said.
"It's okay," I said, feeling emotional. "I know it's my fault, how everything came about with all of this. I understand if you
blame me for having to talk to that woman."
"I didn't say that-" Guthrie began to protest.
"Never mind. It's okay," I said, and twisted away from him, and half-ran down the hallway to the girl's bathroom. I let the heavy wooden
door go shut behind me, and made a quick investigation to see if there was anyone else besides me in there.
There wasn't. I was alone, and I wasted no time before bursting into tears. I sank down against the cold, concrete wall beside the sinks, drawing my knees
up to my chest, and wrapping my arms around them.
I was well onto the way of soaking my sleeves and the knees of my jeans with tears, when there was a light tap on the door of the bathroom.
"Har? Come on out."
When I didn't answer, Guthrie began to knock harder. "Come out, so I can talk to you, okay?" he said, thru the door.
"Go on back to class, Guthrie!" I called out to him.
"No!" I could hear him hiss. I knew he was trying not to get very loud in the hallway, so he wouldn't be overheard. "I wanna talk to you. Come
out here."
"No. I'm fine. Just leave me alone," I told him.
"I'm not gonna leave you in there, all upset. You're cryin', aren't you?"
"So what if I am?" I challenged him.
The door squeaked a little, and opened just the tiniest crack. I glared toward him, seeing just a part of his face thru the opening.
"Close the door!" I ordered.
"Not until you come out."
"I'll see you later at home," I told him.
"Maybe I'll go up to the office, and call home. I'll tell Adam what you're doin', and then you can deal with him. Or Brian," Guthrie threatened, knowing
that was likely to scare me.
"Good luck with that," I told him, and laid my head back down onto my knees.
It was quiet then, and I thought maybe Guthrie had left, and gone back to class. He would be disgusted with me, I thought, and
likely, really mad, too. It would make for an interesting ride home after school.
That's when I heard more squeaking. Then silence. Then, if I raised my head just the slightest bit, from where
I had my face buried on my knees, I could see a familiar pair of boots, and denim-clad legs. Standing right in front of me.
I raised my face in a hurry. Looking up, up, up. Into Guthrie's blue eyes.
"Are you crazy or something?" I demanded of him, having trouble believing his nerve. "Coming into the girl's bathroom!"
"Crazy. That's me," Guthrie said, and sank down to the floor, to sit beside me.
"You can't be in here!" I protested, shocked.
"Seems like I am in here," he contradicted.
"What if another girl had been in here?" I persisted.
Guthrie shrugged, and then gave me a half-grin. "You wouldn't come out. So I came in."
Still somewhat shocked, I said, "You're the only person I know who would do something so crazy!"
"Well, I couldn't leave as long as you were so upset," Guthrie said simply, as if were stating a fact.
I looked at his face, the freckles across his nose, and sighed, nearly overcome with feeling for him. He truly was a good
person. A great brother. Then I did what I'd wanted to do earlier. I reached over and took his hand in mine.
"You're crazy, Guth," I said, one more time.
7
