He’s tiny and fast asleep, his face pressed dangerously against the cheap sponge of the couch cushion. He has nothing on but a diaper, the bulge of it round and tight like a soccer ball. The coloring of him, the tan and the sandy skin tones, the way his hair sticks up at the crown, the bumpy little muscles in his shoulders—it all grips me like a fist. He’s a carbon copy. I have to rescue this child, just like I had to rescue another one before him.
“My wife’s tired,” Frank says, tracking my gaze. “She banged her head.” He’s sweaty around the hairline, jerky in his movements.
“Should we call for an ambulance or bring her into the hospital?” I ask. Why isn’t Minerva rushing toward the baby? He’s clearly not safe. I take a step toward the couch but tread on something that skids under my shoe. A cooked pasta tube squelches into the peeling floor tile.
“No! She didn’t bang it that hard.” Frank runs a mitt of fingers through greasy strands of his hair. “Look, everything’s fine and shit. We’re just tired. It’s fucking difficult.”
“Can we sit down, Frank?” Minerva asks. She pulls out a seat before he’s responded and sits.
“What’s difficult?” I say. “Is it something we can help you with?”
“Having a baby.”
“Oh, steepest learning curve in the world!” Minerva says cheerfully. “I have a ten-year-old son, and I couldn’t tell you a thing about the first year of his life, Frank. It’s literally a blur. You probably won’t believe me, but I’ve been thinking lately that I wish I could do it all over again.”
“Yeah,” Frank says uncertainly.
“Is Mrs. Floyd finding it really hard, too?” I ask.
“Yeah. I suppose. Yeah, yes. Look, okay, my wife didn’t really bump her head.”
“No? Then can we wake her up, do you think? It’s really important that we speak with you both.” I wait, still standing, while Minerva sits tidily amid the carnage that surrounds her.
“Yes, let’s figure this all out together.” Minerva’s arms rest on the table as if she’s waiting for a Sunday roast. Has she seen the state of the house? Does she really think this is a safe environment for a child?
Frank lumbers toward the sofa and pushes hard at his wife’s shoulder. On the second attempt, she sits up, rubbing her eyes. Immediately she grabs Buster and he awakens, his face reddening, his arms sticking out straight, but he doesn’t cry.
“The fuck are you two?” Evelyn looks from my face to Minerva’s. “Who’s this?”
“They’re Family Services,” Frank says, handing her a baggy pair of track pants he’s found on the floor. “Put those on, and don’t say shit.”
Deep inside my stomach, I feel the grit of pitted stone, the same gnawing that hits me every time I meet liars with a brand-new child.
Frank’s sweating harder now, round circles visible in the armpits of his T-shirt. While Evelyn struggles to put on the pants without letting go of her son, Buster dips and flails.
“Mrs. Floyd, good morning.” Minerva half rises from her seat at the table, holding out a Family Services card that wavers pointlessly in the gap. “Do you remember me? I’m Minerva Cummins, and this is Alex Van Ness.”
Evelyn doesn’t look at either of us.
“We’ve had a report we need to follow up on.”
“About what?” Evelyn sits, shifting Buster, who raises one little hand to hold on to the strap of her shirt.
Frank and I also take a seat at the table, and the four of us face each other like opponents in a quiz show, Family Services versus the Floyds. Buster starts to wriggle.
“He needs a diaper change,” I say quietly. “That one looks full.”
“I’ll get to it,” Evelyn replies. “What do you want?”
Buster makes strange little just-awake noises, a snuffling, more animal than infant. It’s all I can do not to reach across and take him to my chest.
“We had a phone call,” Minerva says.
“Who from?”
“It was anonymous. A woman called to say that you left little Buster unattended in a vehicle outside a public building.”
Evelyn reaches back to the kitchen counter for a packet of cigarettes, tipping sideways on her chair so that the soft curve of Buster’s forehead becomes visible. That beautiful skin, olive and smooth. Evelyn pulls out a cigarette from the pack and lights it, jiggling the little boy in her lap as she smokes. She’s bitten every fingernail she has, just like Ruth used to. I’m flooded again by all the lies, all the nervous little tremors and tics. They’re universal among people hiding things.
“What do you mean unattended? What public building?”
“Well, a bystander noticed that Buster was in your car on his own with the engine running. You were in the post office. Does that ring a bell, Evelyn? It would have been yesterday, or possibly the day before.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“I’m afraid the bystander wrote down your vehicle license number,” Minerva says.
We wait. Frank’s shoulders slump. Thoughts flicker across Evelyn’s face like she’s assessing a poker hand.
“If it was me, I was only in the post office for two minutes.”
“Two?” I say. “Are you sure?”
Frank elbows his wife suddenly, his voice cracked. “You fucking idiot. What the fuck were you thinking?”
“He was asleep!” Evelyn drags deeply on her cigarette and billows a long, straight plume of smoke over Buster’s head.
Minerva turns to me with a look that says, I’ve got this. But she doesn’t. Meanwhile, Buster keeps reaching up to his mother’s face, but each time she jerks her chin out of his way.
He wants you to look at him, I think. Why won’t you?
“He was fucking sleeping when I pulled up. All right? I didn’t want to wake him. I left the car running because otherwise, the air-conditioning would shut off and it was the afternoon and hot. I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“Totally. No. I get that.” Minerva takes out a notebook, writes something and underlines it. “I’m a mother, too, Evelyn.”
Evelyn rolls her eyes, but Minerva continues as though she hasn’t seen. “I know how hard it can be to get things done with a little one in tow. But you can’t leave Buster unattended. What if something happened? What if someone jumped in the car and just took off with him? You can’t…” She searches for the most diplomatic phrasing. “Just don’t do that again, okay?”
“She won’t,” Frank mutters.
Evelyn lowers her head. I watch as ash droops on the end of her cigarette, then falls to the floor. “Are you taking Buster away?” she asks flatly.
Oh, God, if only we could. The rules of procedure make it hard to remove a child. We need more evidence to present to court, but the second home visits are scheduled and never the same. The Floyds would have time to hide the drugs they’re probably using. Minerva knows this, too, so why isn’t she being more proactive?
She snaps her notebook shut. “We’re not taking Buster anywhere. Absolutely not. Do you know what I see?”
Abuse! I want to scream. Neglect! A boy being thrown to the wolves!