A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [90]
“Emma, go upstairs and get a clean shirt on,” I said. She stood at the head of the table, fixed on Theresa.
“And Myra Flint, the child protection worker—they put Myra Flint on Robbie? This whole thing is like a bad joke, like a caricature of the system. I mean Myra, if you haven’t been abused in this life she’ll sniff it out in past lives or future lives. Robbie has a lot of symptoms of a character-disturbed child, and you know what? Myra Flint isn’t going to see that! Robbie is going to wrap that woman around his little finger, I’ll bet you. I’ll bet you money on that one. And Mrs. Mackessy will do the same. I get so frustrated trying to treat people like the Mackessys because they don’t want help. Some people actually work to make changes, once in a rare while. But Carol had no interest in figuring herself out. None. She wanted what she wanted. She’d go off on weekends to—”
“I don’t want to talk about this right now,” I said, moving Emma into the living room. Theresa was laughing, saying, “And anyway, I just can’t believe that anyone could possibly think that Robbie would make a reliable witness. I’m not sure he hasn’t been abused, judging from the family, but to think that he’s going to testify and be coherent. I can just see it, Howard! I can see Robbie telling his mother that something dreadful has happened and Carol, all of a sudden, and finally, tuning into that kid. What do you expect? Robbie has at last figured out that he has to get hurt, really hurt—not just fall off his bike and skin his knee—for his mother to give him the time of day, for his mother to be outraged. What did the paper say about three more boys filing charges?”
“Please,” I said, “I don’t like talking about it—” I cocked my head toward Emma in about as exaggerated a way as I could.
“Oh God,” she cried, “I’m out of my mind, Howard. I really am. I’m so sorry. What can I be thinking?” She had Emma’s offending shirt in her hand and she twisted it around and around and then thwacked the wall with it.
“What are you doing to my shirt?” Emma whimpered.
“What, honey?” Theresa asked.
“What are you doing to my shirt?”
“Oh, Emma, oh for goodness sakes. I’m just so darn mad, I don’t know what I’m doing. We’ll get this stain out, you’ll see. Howard, I’ll go, I’ll—”
“Why don’t you run upstairs and get your pajamas on, Emma?” I said. “By the time you’re back down the water will be boiling. We’ll watch Theresa do her heat-and-distance trick.” I was moving toward the porch, hoping that Emma would do as she was told.
“When’s the preliminary hearing?” Theresa whispered at my back as I led the way. “They usually put the hearings off forever.”
“It’s been,” I said, sitting down on a bench I’d made from a slab of walnut. “Monday. Yesterday. Rafferty made an effort not to have it continued indefinitely.”
Emma came to the door and stood watching us. “Please, Emma,” I pleaded. “I need to talk to Theresa and when we’re done we’ll get us some—” We didn’t have anything good to eat. “When we’re done we’ll do the shirt.” She turned slowly and disappeared around the corner.
“What happened? Tell me.” Theresa was sitting on the edge of her chair across from me. She must have sat right there any number of times, asking with the same urgency. She and Alice often had some big secret. They were always cackling in disbelief.
The dark was moving in and the few crickets were striking a note here and there. I peered through the door and I could just make out Claire, curled up in front of the television. She