“Maybe one . . . kind of a general one. My sister had this asshole boyfriend—a guy named Butch—carbon copy of the last ten. I saw a pretty nasty bruise on Frankie’s arm that I think he put there, like he punched him. He’s supposedly gone now, but my sister gets into relationships with these weak, angry guys who are usually afraid of her.”
Officer Graham says, “That’s interesting. . . .”
“Yeah. Most of them, except for this last guy, Butch, would be afraid to fight her, like, physically, but I’ve never seen her with a guy she wasn’t trying to humiliate. Maybe one of them decided to get even.”
“That’s a stretch,” he says, “but worth looking into. We didn’t think to ask her specifically about past boyfriends. Maybe we can get some names.”
“If she can remember them.”
“Can you help us with any?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve always stayed away; I get way too mad. Of course, if you have a list of small-time drug dealers who live with their mothers . . .”
“Look, Annie, we’re trying to move fast on this. We know timetables. If you think of anything else, call. Except for the librarian and your foster parents, you’re the sanest person I’ve talked to.” He hands me his card.
“The old guy who was here yesterday, the guy with all the tats? Name’s Walter?” I say. “Put him toward the top of your ‘sane’ list.”
“Noted. Thanks again.”
I close my eyes. “Do you think . . .”
“I don’t think on these,” he says, and touches my shoulder, “and you shouldn’t either. There are a lot of possibilities, and not all of them are bad. I promise we’ll do everything we can. Most of the men and women on the force have families; they take this personally.”
“Annie! How long . . .”
“Hey, Mr. Novotny . . .”
“If you don’t want me to call you Miss Boots, you best start using my first name. When you were little the Howards thought they were teaching you manners making you call me that, but you’ve been off my caseload since your mom’s rights were terminated, and—I don’t know a good way to say this—manners have never been your strong suit. So, Wiz, okay?”
“Wiz it izzz.”
“Okay. That’s settled. Frankie. You guys must be going crazy.”
“You can’t go where you already are.”
He snorts, in recognition. “How’s Sheila?”
“If you’ve been watching TV, you know she’s busy rewriting history.”
He grunts. “Annie, did we blow this one?”
“We?”
“The department. What all do you know? Should we have gotten Frankie out of there? I know he’s not an open case, but only because Sheila knows when she’s going off the deep end, she can keep us off her back by getting him someplace safe. Which has been to the Howards’. Have you guys seen anything?”
I don’t know what’s safe to say. Whatever happened to Frankie, it wasn’t Sheila’s intention, and as angry as I am, if he isn’t found or if he’s found—I can’t even say it—I don’t want her living the rest of her life thinking she’s the only reason, even though she kind of is. I hate the way my mind goes back and forth about her. And Nancy.
Wiz must see my reluctance. “This is all off the record, okay? I’m writing nothing down and no one’s in trouble. I’m going to assume Frankie will be found soon, and I need to know where to point my caseworker.”
“Your caseworker?”
He points to the door. “Read the sign. I’m a supervisor now. This is where the buck stops. I’ve got Jeff Humphries from the Review speed-dialing me every fifteen minutes. Far as he’s concerned, child protection services is a euphemism.”
I say, “A supervisor, huh? Wow, what did you do?”
Wiz laughs. “I was in the restroom when they were overhauling our division.”
“You should have held it.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“But you said your caseworker. Frankie didn’t have a caseworker.”
“He will. We had an anonymous call a few weeks back that didn’t make it through Intake—not enough specifics. With his disappearance, it will. I’d like to do a little insider trading so we know which direction to go. What can you tell me?”
“He had this big bruise, really black,” I say. “I should have said something, but I went over and threatened Sheila instead. If Frankie gets removed, the Howards won’t take him full-time, ’cause of Pop, which means he’d lose everyone. And what other foster home is going to take him? Plus, as much of an unconscious bitch as my sister is, two days away from her and Frankie is totally off the wall, trying to get home. You know how that goes.”
“Yeah. A bruise, no matter how black, wouldn’t have gotten him out. Look, I know enough about your family that when something bad happens, drugs or alcohol—or both—are involved. If you carry any weight with your sister, tell her to get into treatment pronto; get off TV and get clean.”
Sometimes I think Mr. Novotny—Wiz—saved my life. I know he couldn’t have spent as much time with all of the kids on his caseload as he did with me, but he could get me to straighten up when my therapists or the school or the Howards were ready to throw in the towel. He’s one of those guys willing to break a rule if it looks like a dumb one. He’d always say, “Annie, let’s look at what we want to make happen, and make it happen.” That’s where Sheila has to get right now.
August 24— Session #Who’s Counting?
ANNIE BOOTS
Came in distraught over the disappearance of her sister’s son. Newspaper account attached. Dressed in shorts and athletic T-shirt, looking tired and drawn.
Annie: I guess you know all about it.
Me: Of course. I’m so sorry, Annie. What have you heard?
Annie: Almost nothing. It’s crazy; everything was right out in the open, people all over the park, and Frankie just disappeared.
Me: That is crazy. So what do you want to talk about?
Annie: (looks at me like I’m an idiot)
Me: My bad. I know what, but what can we do in here to help you?
Annie: It feels like my fault. I mean, I know I didn’t have anything to do with whatever actually happened to him, but all those people were there because of me being in that stupid swim meet and I know how dangerous a life Frankie lives because of my sister and the guys she hangs out with and . . . just with the company she keeps and how she doesn’t pay attention.
Me: Tell me what you think you could have done to keep this from happening, and I mean from what you knew at the time.
Annie: I spend all my time trying to keep my lives apart; you know, the one I come from and the one I live in, and the minute I’m not paying attention, they come together. If that stupid fight had never broken out, none of this would have happened, and the common denominator in that fight was me.
Me: That’s one way to put it together, but it seems like a stretch. Let’s stop and take a breath. Look back at what you and I have gone over so many times. What is the one thing you do that gives you the most grief?
Annie: (sighs and falls back in the chair) Try to control everything. Spend too much energy trying to make people believe something that isn’t true.
Me: About . . .
Annie: About what I’m doing as opposed to how I’m feeling.
Me: And . . .
Annie: It feels good when it’s working, and really really shitty when it isn’t.
Me: And . . .
Annie: It always ends up feeling really really shitty.
Me: So, you’re really mad, and feeling awful, about not controlling something you had no idea was going to happen, even after you knew you had no business trying to control it in the first place. Let’s talk about what’s really going on.
Annie: (choking) What if he’s dead? Or what if he’s somewhere awful wondering why nobody’s coming to save him. I’m supposed to be the one who saves him. (falls into my arms and lays there for the rest of the session.)
Impression: Obvious
Emily Palmer, M.A.
Chapter
Eleven
Time supposedly heals all wounds, but I think the saying should be time heals clean wounds. Frankie’s disappearance is jagged. He’s been gone three weeks and there’s been nothing. If he isn’t alive—if we knew he isn’t alive—we could know how to feel. But no matter how long he’s gone, it just sneaks up on you that he might be somewhere in big trouble wondering why nobody who loves him will come. You see this stuff on TV all the time, but when it’s someone you know, it attacks your imagination.
That’s where Frankie is for me, and my imagination can be a horrifying place.
But whether time heals wounds or not, it does march on. (There are so many clichés about time it makes me want to throw up, but I don’t have time.) And now school has started, and on the surface I’m just another hotshot jock cranking up my volleyball season where I can win some games, do my schoolwork, and appear to responsible adults like I’m making good choices. Basketball is my sport of choice but volleyball is a good warm-up.
There’s no manipulating games during the season. You can take the other team out in three games or stretch it to five, but there’s no time in between for socializing, and these days all bets are off with Pop and the Boots anyway, because as far as he’s concerned their presence on the planet is a curse, and with Frankie gone the whole Boots unit, such as it is, is more fractured. Nancy showed up with Walter for our first exhibition game, but I only waved toward the stands when I caught her eye.
Officer Graham makes contact every week just to say there’s been no progress, so the whole ugly mess sits as far back in my mind as I can push it, filed under “Shit You Can’t Do Anything About.”
And because my life seems only to progress on the wings of conflict, Pop and I stay locked in unpleasantness.
I came in after the match tonight—which we won in straight games—chucked my duffel into the corner, and plopped onto the couch. Momma had the TV on one of those reality shows that is anything but real. In this one the contestants are all wannabe singers getting judged by real singers so they, too, can become real singers. By real singers I mean those who make a lot of money. To my untrained ear, it sounds like some of the contestants are already better than the real ones, only no big bucks. I hate this show because every time someone gets picked, someone else doesn’t. Whoever doesn’t acts like they’re really grateful for the opportunity to have worked with one of their true heroes and to have had the chance to perform on the national stage. Hey, statistically there’s no way one of those four superstars is the one the losing contestant grew up wanting to be just like, so that part’s a crock; and there’s no way the person is that grateful right after not being picked. I mean, I don’t care how far up the ladder I’ve made it, if you have the chance to pick me and you don’t, I hate your guts.
“So how do you grade yourself on tonight’s match?” Pop got straight As all the way through high school and college. He’s a big fan of the alphabet.
This is an irritating conversation we have after every one of my sporting events, excluding swimming, of course, where we both happily give me an F. It’s easier when we get into it over school grades, because I can fall back on whatever the teacher gave me. The problem with this conversation is, if I give myself an A he points out the physical errors or lapses in judgment he believes should put at least a minus after that, and if I give myself something lower than an A, he wants to know what I could have done to bring it up. That’s the long way of saying Pop likes to tell me what I did wrong. After all, Michael Jordan was never satisfied, right?
“I don’t know, Pop,” I say, hoping beyond all experience that for once I could hit the letter on the head, “a B maybe? B plus?”
“You know there was a scout there from Eastern, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I sat with her.”
“Was she cute?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Momma smile. If this gets too hairy, she’ll take my side.
Pop says, “I see. You’re not going to take this seriously.”
I take a deep breath. “C’mon, that was funny. If I get recruited, it’ll be for basketball anyway.” Then I bite. “So what grade did the Eastern scout give me?”
“She was more interested in Hannah,” he says. “They’re looking for a good setter. Seemed like she set up Mariah more than you tonight.”
“Well, she’s got no shot at Hannah,” I tell him. “She’s WSU all the way. Her parents and older sister were all Cougs.”
“You might want to get on her good side.”
“C’mon Pop, Mariah was on fire tonight.”
“But everyone knows she’s shooting for the Naval Academy.”
“We play to win, not to get recruited.” I mumble it.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. There will be plenty of chances for scouts. None of them would have even been here if it weren’t for Hannah and Mariah. I’m basketball, Pop.”
Pop crosses his arms and I’m about to hear how excellence is excellence no matter the endeavor when Momma steps in. “Could you two table this?” She nods toward the monster flat screen mounted above the fireplace.
“Yeah,” I say, pointing at that same screen, “these people are all about excellence.”
Most of what I hear about the Boots comes from Walter, who tells of Nancy’s mood swings and rantings about Sheila’s motherly failings, and Sheila’s creative name-calling.
Walter and I have been meeting at Revel 77 about once a week. He seems kind of worn down, but he always shows and either Leah or I always pay, and it’s always interesting.
“You good for another cup?”
Leah and I are both reading, and I gaze up out of the fog. “You’re still following me.”
“Guilty.”
I squint. “You reporting to anyone?”
“Like your mother? Lord no,” he says. “If she knew we were getting together, she’d accuse me of hitting on you.”
I wish that were a surprise.
Leah says, “Tell her you’re hitting on me. I have a thing for older bikers.”
Walter laughs. “There’s a difference between older bikers and old bikers,” he says. “Before you act on that thing, you’d do well to learn that difference.”
I’m between practice and dinner, reading Grayson, the crazy cold water swimmer lady’s follow-up to Swimming to Antarctica. Walter glances at the cover. “Good book?”
“Leah’s recommendation.”
She smiles and waves without looking up from her book.
He nods toward me. “Have you seen Sheila?”
“Not for a while. Now that there’s no Frankie, we don’t cross paths much. She’s gotta know I’m mad enough to skin her alive. Why?”
“I don’t know; for a minute there with all the TV attention, I thought she’d actually try to pull things together, but I only see her at your mom’s place these days, and she’s dropping weight fast. . . .”
I say, “Like a meth user?”
“Exactly like that.”
“She still got teeth?”
“Don’t be mean,” he says.
I watch him across the table. Leather vest over a raggedy T-shirt, Levi’s but no boots—Converse All-Stars—clean, gray shoulder-length hair, a book peeking over the top of his saddle bag on the floor next to his helmet, coffee steaming in the cup. I have to ask again. “Walter, what are you doing mixed up with my family? You’re way better than that. I mean, you’re a good-looking guy. Smart. You’re so kind it scares me. How do you put up with the craziness, my sister’s nastiness?”
He looks over at our reflection in the window. “I am a pretty good-lookin’ fella, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are.”
He looks a little longer. “What I am is a pretty good-lookin’ old fella,” he says. Then back at me. “Old enough to know your sister never got enough time to take a breath, step back, and see what was ha
ppenin’ to her so she could stop herself from making it happen to the next one down. I know how she got bounced around, how she was treated in some of those places, and how it was no better most times when she came home. That girl’s lucky to be alive, if that passes for luck. Point is, if I was Sheila, I’d be lookin’ around for someone I could vent my rage on, too. Rather see her like that than hopeless; when she gets like that, she could do damage to herself.”
I say, “Maybe, but when she makes her crazy accusations and calls you old and irrelevant, and Nancy every name in the book, it has to get old.”
He smiles. “That’s the good news about old age and hearing.”
Leah closes her binder over her book and rises. “Gotta do it, you guys. Tonight’s family night and I missed the last two.”
Walter watches her go. “I checked that girl out on the sports page. She as quick in the water as everyone says?”
“Quicker,” I say. “Works out ten thousand meters a day, minimum.”
“Whew! Wish I still had that kind of energy.”
“You might if you weren’t wasting so much of it on Nancy.”
“Your mom’s life looks different to me than to you.”
“Walter, I’ve seen Nancy from about every angle there is, and it just can’t be easy. I know she has her days, but she can be meaner than a snake.”
“And how do you think she got so mean?”
“Probably the same way most people get mean,” I say. “From getting treated bad.”
“Bad treatment’s a soul killer,” he says, and squints, breathes deep. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this.”
I nod toward his empty cup. “Buy you another cup of coffee if you do.”
“Deal,” he says slowly, “but you got to swear to secrecy. I mean swear. You knowin’ this would kill your mother. Anybody knowin’ it would kill her.”
I get his refill.
“I’ve known Nancy even longer than you think,” he says. “Long time ago I was in treatment with her.”
“You’re an addict?”
“Naw, drugs never did much for me. Smoked some weed in ’Nam, but pretty much anything else made me feel out of control, and that’s not my thing.”