Abuse or neglect. Suddenly I can’t touch my latte. “How old is Buster?”
“Oh, a year at the most, I think.” Minerva looks at me quizzically. “Are you okay?”
No, Minerva, I’m not okay, I want to say. As many cases as we resolve in child protection—kids living in horrible circumstances who we rescue and give a chance at a better life—new cases pop up at double the rate. I feel like Mickey Mouse in that old cartoon, the one we had to watch as kids after school was out. Mickey’s in the sorcerer’s workshop, and it’s flooding, and the mops are out of control, and yet no matter how hard he tries, the water keeps pouring in, backing Mickey up the stairs. I hated that cartoon the first time I saw it, but it was always Ruth’s favorite.
“Can we get going?” I stand up.
“Oh, all right then,” she says, exhaling. “Although it wouldn’t hurt to relaxez-vous for a minute. You’ll be on stress leave in no time, just like everyone else, if you keep trying to save the world.”
I ignore her and head for the door.
The Floyd property is on dilapidated farmland off Highway 4. Minerva drives too fast out of town in our government vehicle. She has music playing on Sirius like it’s high summer and we’re heading to the beach.
“Hey,” she says, adjusting the rearview mirror, which has been nowhere near her line of vision the entire journey. “Have you seen Sully recently?”
“What?” I stare at her. Hooked around the front of me, my satchel feels like a shield.
“You know, Sully Mills? Handsome cop with the piercing eyes. Aren’t you two buddies?”
I hate how she says the word buddies, the way she separates the two syllables. Sully and I met a year ago through work. I guess you could say that we connected. I meet him for coffee at the Oven a couple of times a week. We’re friends, not buddies. We’re just friends.
“I don’t see him that much.” I tug at the seat belt cutting into my neck.
Minerva’s eyebrows shift up for a second, but she doesn’t say a word. I want to push her face with the full force of my hand.
A minute or two later, she says, “He’s single, right?”
What does it matter to her? “Do you want me to get you his number?” I ask in a monotone.
“Get me his number?” She bats at her bangs, fluffs and repositions them in the rearview mirror. “You mean give me his number. Because you have it already. And you text him all the time.”
I shift in my seat. “I have a boyfriend, you know. Remember? The guy I live with?”
“Exactly! So share the wealth, sister.” She smiles at me, then moves her eyes back to the road after swerving a little. The house is up ahead. She slows down, pulls into the driveway, and jams the car into park. When we get out, we have to maneuver our way through clusters of shiny green goose shit that lead up a dirt track to the Floyd place. There’s a fence and gate about three hundred feet from the house.
“Mr. and Mrs. Floyd were a gong show when I knew them,” she says, turning. “But just so you know, they’re the good gong show, not the bad one. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” How the hell can Minerva think drug addicts make good parents? We reach the gate, which has a sign on the front: Big Dog Bites.
“That sign’s been there since I was in Addictions. There was never a dog.” She pulls at the gate, creating enough of a gap to squeeze through. A long stripe of mildew transfers to the front of her sweater. We walk up the potholed driveway together, past a bucket on its side and a couple of mismatched flip-flops.
“Oh, the house looks better,” she says.
The home itself is squat and peeling, the deck ragged with rusted nails. On the porch outside the door is a cat litter tray full of crooked cigarette stubs. Next to that, a Hot Wheels car, blue, abandoned. If this is “better,” then what on earth was the place like before?
She pauses on the top step of the deck. “Let’s remember: even if Buster was left alone for a minute or two, when you’re a mother, shit happens. You might not know that, but mothers do. Those of us with kids have all been there.”
There’s that card again, her favorite in the stack of superiority. I could retaliate, especially because I know about her son, know he’s estranged and won’t talk to her, but my heart’s begun to race and my palms are sweating. The Hot Wheels car is faded and forlorn and reminds me of misery. Nothing good will come from this house. I wipe my hands on the back of my jeans.
“Okay, ready?” Minerva has her knuckles poised to knock, but the door is open. We walk into a tiny linoleum-floored vestibule that serves as some kind of pantry. Three shelves face us, empty apart from a couple of tins of baked beans, one of them opened with the ragged metal sticking up. The glass of the main door itself is busted as if someone has put an elbow through it. Duct tape crisscrosses the pane.
“Let’s get on with it,” I say.
“Okay. If Frank Floyd comes at us, stay calm. In the old days, he was something of a charging bull.”
I nod, wipe my palms once more on my pants. Nobody answers Minerva’s knock, or the second one.
“Hello?” she calls out. “Anyone home?”
The vestibule smells musty, grainy, with the pungency that always comes with poverty. It’s sour, hoppy, horrific. I cover my mouth with my sleeve. From inside we hear a crash and a shout, the sound of a plate clattering in a circle as it settles. Minerva pushes the rickety door open. She steps inside as Frank Floyd rounds the kitchen counter, leading with the top half of his body.
“I’m coming,” he growls. He wears track pants, rolled at the waist, and a T-shirt that swamps him despite the fact that he’s a huge guy. “Can’t a man take a nap in his own house?” He spots Minerva, clearly recognizing her. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Here we go again. Send in the clowns.”
“Mr. Floyd,” Minerva says cheerily. “I hope you don’t mind the intrusion.”
“I do fucking mind, and I don’t remember inviting you in.”
I peep around Minerva, taking in Frank Floyd’s bare feet, the ashtray on the floor, the dishes stacked up in the sink.
“We wanted to make sure everyone was okay in here. How are you doing today? I’m Minerva Cummins—do you remember me? We met years ago, but I’ve changed jobs since then: I’m here with Family Services. This is my coworker Alexandra Van Ness.” Minerva sounds like she’s gritting out a smile.
I still have one hand on the door handle.
“No, no, no,” Frank says, bashing his fist against his own hip with each syllable like a toddler in a tantrum. “You’re not coming in. You’re trespassing. Nobody’s fucking asked you to come here.”
“It’s okay, Frank. It’s all right.” She moves into the kitchen, both palms up. “Listen, I know you don’t want us here. Is your wife around? Evelyn? Can we have a chat with her? We’ve just had a tiny little report, and we need to check up on it.”
I edge into the kitchen and stand close to Minerva. The house is as long and straight as a shipping container, the kitchen sprawling into the living room, where, at the far end on a sofa with a missing cushion, a woman is sleeping facedown, wearing only an undershirt and panties. She sleeps as if dropped from a height, her limbs splayed. And it’s then, only then, that I see the baby.