Steeled for Murder (15 page)

“Police officers are your friends.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “They’re here to help you. They have a difficult, dangerous job, and I don’t want to hear you using a disrespectful term like that when you talk about them.” Jeez, where did that come from?

Mrs. Coleman, of course. Foster mother. I’d been with the Colemans longer than I’d been in any other home. I could almost see her standing there, her hands clenched in fists, resting on her sturdy hips, glaring at me through the thick lenses of her black plastic-framed glasses. She’d add, “And don’t you forget it.”

“That’s what Mitch called them,” Sam said to me in a small voice.

I wouldn’t wish my relationship with law enforcement personnel on anybody, much less an unhappy little kid like Sam. He might very well need their help. I toned my voice down. “I don’t care what Mitch called them; that’s disrespectful.”

Sam looked miserable. “He said they were stuck-up pigs and just liked to cause trouble wherever they went.”

“Maybe sometimes that’s true.” I thought about Belkins. “There are good police officers and bad police officers, just like anything else. As long as you’re not doing anything wrong, most of the time, you can count on a police officer to help you when you need help.”

I wished.

I heard boot steps cross the waiting room toward us. A metallic rattle that might be keys and handcuffs from somewhere behind me. Now would be time for Simmons to prove to us all that police officers are not my friends. Right in front of the kids. I closed my eyes and waited for the command to interlace my fingers on top of my head.

Across the room, someone said, “Simmons. We got a call.”

I heard radio static. The boot steps retreated.

“He’s gone back over by the other police officer,” Sam said. “But he’s still looking at you funny.”

With an effort, I didn’t turn to look. “People can look wherever they want.”

Could I get up and just leave? Maybe tell Sam I was going to the restroom and find another way out of the hospital? Or say I was going to get something out of the van? I could just walk home and pretend I’d had no part in this whole thing.

Like that would really work.

I looked at the kids. The feelings of anguish and despair that I’d felt when I realized I had been abandoned yet again came flooding back. My gut cramped up. Yet, when I was a kid, every time someone else showed any interest, seemed like they might care, I was ready to trust again. Even when the old man got out of prison and took me back again. I’d been ready to believe he really wanted me, not just the monthly check that came with me. Kids’ basic nature, I guess. Raise up hopes just to be crushed again.

Could I do that to these kids?

Of course, if Simmons were to follow up on his well-founded suspicions, I wouldn’t be the one making the decisions about where any of us went. Emergency foster care for the kids, a jail cell for me. I resolutely didn’t glance around to see what the cops were doing.

A short, plump man dressed in green scrubs came through the interior doors, glanced around, and headed over to us.

He scowled as he consulted a clipboard.

“Are you with Tiffany Robinson?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

Sam stood the bottle on the blanket next to the twins and scrambled to his feet to stand next to me.

“She’s one very sick lady,” the man in scrubs said. “You should have brought her in sooner. Much sooner.”

“We couldn’t,” Sam said, a catch in his voice.

I looked down at him. Tears streaked his grimy face. I put a hand on his shoulder. He moved close to me, snugging up against my leg.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I realize that. How’s she doing now?”

“Well, we’re going to admit her as soon as we can find a bed,” he said. He reviewed the information on the clipboard. “You’re not her husband?” he asked.

“No, sir.” I was trying hard not to say who I was.

“I’m afraid HIPAA regulations won’t allow me to disclose much information about her condition without her consent,” he said. “Is her husband going to be coming in soon?”

“He’s…” Sam started to say. I squeezed his shoulder. To my relief, he didn’t finish the sentence.

“No. There must be some way to find out how she’s doing. These are her kids. They’re really worried.”

The man shook his head sadly. “I know. Our hands are tied. I can tell you that she’s in serious but stable condition and resting comfortably. We are actively treating her. But that’s about it. When she wakes up, she can give us permission to share information with someone else.”

At least he expected her to wake up. “Like a brother?” I asked, thinking of Uncle Carl when he showed up. If he showed up.

“A brother would be fine, if she agrees. You can come in tomorrow during visiting hours to see her. If she’s awake, she can tell anybody anything she wants to.”

“Could we see her now?” I asked.

He frowned. “You could go back. But the children can’t. And she hasn’t regained consciousness—she won’t for a while—so I don’t know how much good it would do.” He glanced over his shoulder at the double doors. More people were standing in line at the desk, including a woman holding a child with a blood-soaked towel wrapped around his arm.

“Thank you. Is there anything else we should know?” I asked.

He shook his head. “That’s about what I can tell you. You can always call to check on her condition.” He nodded and hurried away.

I turned to the kids. “No point in staying here,” I said.

“What does ‘serious but stable condition’ mean?” Sam asked.

“It means she’s real sick, but not likely to die,” I said, hoping that was what it meant. “It’ll take her a little while before she can come home, but she will be coming home.”

“Uncle Carl?” the snotty-nosed twin said. “McDonald’s?”

“Mom said Uncle Carl would take us to McDonald’s when he came.” Sam glanced at the twin. “He still thinks you’re Uncle Carl.”

I stole a quick look over my shoulder at Officer Simmons, who was fiddling with his radio. Didn’t they have to go somewhere on that call?

Getting us any place away from here sounded good. McDonald’s would do. There was one right on the corner by the library. And Tiffany’s wallet had some money in it. I hoped she wouldn’t mind if I spent some on the kids.

“Let’s go get some Happy Meals,” I said, starting to gather up all the jackets and stuff.

We straggled out into the parking lot. The snow had changed to small, driving flakes, and the air felt distinctly colder. If I was going to drive back to the house—and it looked like that was what I was going to do—I wanted to make it before darkness set in.

“You could go through the drive-in,” Sam suggested as I pulled into a parking space in McDonald’s parking lot.

I shook my head. “I’m not used to driving, and this van is pretty big. Why don’t you tell me what to get? You can stay with the kids, and I’ll go in and get it.”

I emerged with three Happy Meals, a bag full of pies—they were two for a dollar—and a Big Mac for me. I’d struggled with buying the Big Mac, but I was hungry.

I wolfed down the Big Mac before I started the van. Every bit as tasty as I remembered from almost twenty years ago.

The kids ate their Happy Meals. They were probably making a mess, but I wasn’t too concerned about that right now. I kept glancing in my rearview mirror, expecting to see a flashing light bar following us.

Even though the road conditions were worse, the van felt steadier than it had on my way into town. Maybe I was more at ease driving. We crept up the hill and then turned into the narrow driveway and lurched up to the front of the porch.

Chapter 9

The house was even colder when we got back. I looked around the big main room in dismay. I hadn’t really taken in the mess before. The floor was strewn with clothes and toys. The sink in the kitchen beyond the counter overflowed with dishes.

Stuff everywhere.

Prison inmates have very few possessions. What they’re allowed is spelled out by institution regulations, down to the amount of space paperwork and books can occupy. It all has to fit in a small locker. And foster children can only have what they can carry in a black plastic garbage bag. More than half of mine had been occupied by a large, ragged stuffed dog I had received for Christmas one year. Of course, he hadn’t been ragged when I got him. His name was Delfie, and he was my only reliable companion for years. When I first got locked up, he’d been waiting for me on my top bunk in the apartment I shared with the old man and my brothers. I wondered if he existed any more. Probably out in the trash long ago.

I reminded myself firmly that it, not him, had been a lifeless stuffed toy without feelings. How could I care about something so stupid?

Since I’d been released, I hadn’t accumulated a whole lot. Dealing with this ocean of stuff boggled my mind. Plastic bags. Broken toys. Empty food containers. Beer cans.

I put the baby in a playpen by the window. Sam turned on the TV, and the twins drifted over to the sofa to watch.

“It’s cold in here,” I said, looking at the wood stove. “Is that what you use for heat?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “I’m not supposed to fool with the stove, but I been shoving wood in there to keep it going. You know how to feed a stove?”

“Not really.” I had no idea. “Where’s the firewood?”

“On the back porch, under the tarp,” Sam said. “Want me to get some?”

“Yeah.” I felt the stove. It was still hot to the touch, at least. Building up this fire would be a whole lot easier than starting a new one from scratch. If the firebox wasn’t completely choked with ashes. I took a pot holder and opened the door. A faint glow showed deep inside.

“Got any newspaper to get this thing going better?” I asked Sam, who was carrying in an armful of stove length split logs.

“Mitch stopped the paper. He said he could tell Mom everything she needed to know.”

I kept my thoughts to myself. I hadn’t much cared for Mitch, and so far, nothing I was hearing changed my mind about that. Even if he was dead.

I pulled some bark off the firewood and dredged a few paper towels out of the overflowing trash bin. When I shoved them into the ashes with a heavy metal poker, they started to blaze. I added a few lengths of wood, careful not to pack them too densely. I closed the door and hoped for the best.

“Okay,” I said, looking around at the mess. “Time to get organized. First, Sam, what are the twins’ names and how do you tell them apart?”

“Larry and Peter.” Sam looked doubtfully at the twins. “Larry’s nose is running worse than Peter’s right now.” As Sam said that, Larry wiped his nose again with his sleeve. “And the baby’s Beth. She’s the only girl.”

He didn’t ask my name. Might be best if the kids didn’t know it. “Mister” seemed to be working just fine.

“The twins seem awful quiet for three-year-olds,” I said. “Don’t they run around and play and stuff?”

“They do when they can go outside.” Sam scratched his head.

Had all the kids been scratching their heads? The horrible thought that they might all have lice flitted through my mind.

“But you sure don’t want to make noise inside and wake Mitch up in the middle of the day when he’s sleeping,” Sam continued. “So we’re pretty quiet in the house.”

I could relate to not wanting to wake Mitch up.

I surveyed the mounds of clothes lying around. Also the blankets on the sofa where Tiffany had been lying. A sour smell, or worse, rose from them. “Is there a washer and dryer?” I asked.

“Mitch got Mom a washing machine so she didn’t have to go to the Laundromat.” Sam nodded toward the back of the house. “But no dryer.”

“Where does she hang clothes to dry?”

“Mostly outside, but she’s got two drying racks she puts next to the stove when it’s too wet, like now.”

I started to gather up some of the clothes strewn on the floor. “Where’s the washer?”

“In the bathroom,” Sam said, gesturing toward the middle of the three doors set in the back wall.

I dumped the collection of clothes in the washer, added detergent, and scrutinized the directions on the lid. Why was using washing machines so complicated? Seemed like they should all work pretty much the same way. Following them as best I could, I started the load.

Beth, the baby, was starting to fuss. “Is she hungry again?”

Sam shrugged. “Probably needs a clean diaper.”

An unfortunate thought. “Where are the diapers?” I asked.

“In our bedroom.” He pointed the three doors to the left of the bathroom.

If I’d thought the living room was a mess, this topped it. Two sets of bunk beds lined the side walls. A crib was pushed up against the window. Bedding lay in mounds on the floor. The mattress from one of the bottom bunks was half off. I spotted a few folded diapers on top of the dresser. A foul odor wafted from a tall covered plastic container by the crib. A diaper pail. Undoubtedly full of dirty diapers.

They might end up clogging up our landfills, but didn’t everybody use disposable diapers these days?

Evidently not.