A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [106]
A few days following the preliminary hearing a social worker from the Child Welfare Office called to set up an interview for Emma and Claire. It was a factual conversation, about times and dates. She didn’t say why a government agency thought it necessary to talk to my children in the downtown office. My first impulse was to slam down the phone. I cordially told the woman that I’d like the opportunity to speak with my attorney first. “Your attorney has nothing to do with this procedure,” she said.
“I understand,” I replied, in ignorance. But I knew enough about the so-called procedure to envision my children swept out from under my feet in the name of protection.
Rafferty spoke faster than usual when I called him to ask for his expert opinion. “They’ll never let me be present,” he said, “but I’m going to demand that they videotape the sessions. I’ve seen cases where they conduct the interview, mislay the notes, and then remove the children from the home. Don’t worry, don’t worry, we won’t let that happen. This problem is another thorn, nothing larger than a thorn. Another hassle we’ll have to deal with. We can’t say no to them because they’ll take the kids off in a second. Standing in their way implies guilt, and implicates you.”
I remember weakening, seeing the kitchen go fluid and red. The place spread, the trembling walls streaming beyond their own boundaries. I was at first hot, and then suddenly cold, hard. How Alice could have done this to us, I didn’t know.
“We need to be calm, as best we can,” Rafferty said, “and cooperative. It’s an unusual situation, because the children themselves have not come forward. Typically, the kids report and then the whole process kicks in. There’s only a suspicion here. The social workers can’t ask leading questions; they can’t order foster care unless the girls say something very explicit. Your children are going to have to be specific, come up with details, I mean details, in order for this thing to get to court. You know they don’t have that kind of vocabulary.”
Theresa was far more comforting, and also far more enraged. When I told her I had had to make the appointment for the girls she came at me with her talons spread and stopped just short of my chest. After she’d turned away and gone at the wall she said, “Theresa, get a hold of yourself.” She shut her eyes and put her praying hands to her mouth. She began to apologize without changing her stance and without punctuating her sentences. “I’m sorry, Howard, forgive me, this whole thing makes me very angry, extremely angry.” She appeared to be asleep. “But I think,” she said, slowing down, “I think you will be all right. Most of the people I know over there in the department err against children, actually. Myra is one of the more extreme case workers. A child has to be pretty mangled to be removed from their home. There has to be bruises—real wounds, and you have to say in plain English what’s been done to your privates. Claire and Emma will have nothing to tell them. Nothing.” She looked up at me and said, “I marvel at how coolheaded you are. I feel murderous, I honestly do. It’s so good for the girls, that you can be level. They’ll be fine because of your tranquility.”
Just like an old rock, Alice might have said. Solid, hard, dark all the way through. Had the latest thorn been my only worry it would have been aggrieving in an all-consuming way. It was a sorer kind of aggravation than the others: The girls were innocent and should have had nothing to do with the trials of their parents. Removal would permanently damage them. Because the thought of them being taken from me was incomprehensible and untenable, I by and large refused to acknowledge the process. I went out and worked. I worked as if my life depended upon it. I worked as hard as