“And I like sea bass but I don’t wear it on my head. There are other ways of expressing your bad taste,” he said.
“My wife gave me this cap,” I said.
“And my cousin Robert wanted to give me an introduction to a predatory friend at a gay bar,” he said. “I made the mistake of accepting that introduction. You could at least clean that abomination on your head.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“Lewis, ’tis better to be cleanly bald than tastelessly chapeaued.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“No, you won’t, but I feel as compelled as a priestly exorcist to remind you.”
“Sally in?” I asked.
“All in,” he said folding his hands on the desk.
“How is your writing coming?”
“You remembered,” he said with mock joy. “Well, thank you for asking. My writing career is at a halt while several online and one honest-to-God publisher decide whether it’s worth continuing.”
“Ronnie Gerall,” I said.
He looked up. I had struck home.
“He… I can’t discuss clients,” he said, measuring his words careful. “Lawsuits. Things like that. You know.”
“You’ve talked to me about lots of clients.”
“Have I? Shouldn’t have. She’s in. I assume you didn’t come to see me.”
“You have a favorite first line of a novel?” I asked.
He pulled open a drawer of his desk and came up with a thin paperback with ragged pages. He opened the book and read: “ ‘Where’s Papa going with that ax? said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.’ ”
“Stephen King?” I guessed.
He held up the book to show me its cover. Charlotte’s Web, by E. B. White. Then he said, “Where’s Lewis going with that ax?”
“No ax,” I said.
“Liar,” said Gutcheon.
“No,” I said.
“Always a pleasure to talk to you,” he said as I headed for the elevator.
The elevator rocked to the hum of a weary motor. I wasn’t fully certain what I was doing here or what I expected when I talked to Sally. I had a lead. I was following it. At least that’s what I told myself.
The elevator door opened slowly to a Wall Street stage, only the people in front of me in two lines of cubicles were dealing in human misery, not stocks and bonds and millions of dollars. It was a busy day for the caseworkers at Children and Families. There was no shortage of abuse, anger, and neglect.
A few of the dozen cubicles were empty, but most were occupied by a caseworker and at least one client. Almost all the clients were black. Sometimes the client was a tired parent or two. Some were sullen or indifferent, others were frightened. Some were children. The mornings were generally for taking in clients at the office. The afternoons and evenings were for home visits throughout the county. Sometimes the day was interrupted by a court appearance. Sometimes it was interrupted by something personal-personal to the life of the harried caseworker, something like Lew Fonesca.
Sally’s back was to me. In the chair next to her desk sat an erect black man in a dark suit and red tie. In the man’s lap was a neatly folded lightweight coat. He was about fifty and lean, with graying temples. He looked at me through rimless glasses. He reminded me of a sociology professor I had at the University of Illinois, a professor who, when he looked at me, seemed to be in wonder that such a mirthless silent specimen should have made it to his small classroom.
I stood silently while Sally went over a form in front of her. When she spoke, she had to raise her voice above the hubbub of voices around her.
“He’s in school now?” she asked.
I stood back, knowing that she would eventually turn and see me, or her client would gaze at me again and catch her eye.
“Yes, he is. At least he is supposed to be.”
His voice was deep, even.
“Thurgood is a good student?” Sally said, looking up from the form.
“When he goes to school, and if you should meet him, he will not answer to the name ‘Thurgood.’ His middle name is Marshall. Thurgood Marshall Montieth.”
“He is,” said Sally, “twelve years old.”
“Soon to be thirteen,” said Montieth. “And, if I may, I will encapsulate the data you have in front of you in the hope of speeding the process so I can get back to work. My name is Marcus Montieth. I’m forty-seven years of age. I am a salesman and floor manager at Joseph Bank clothing store in the Sarasota Mall. My wife is dead. Thurgood is my only child. He is a truant, a problem. He has run away four times. I do not beat him. I do not slap him. I do not deprive him of food. I do not try to instill in him a fear of God because I do not believe in a god or gods. My health is good, though there is a history of heart attack in my family.”
“Thurgood is an only child?” asked Sally.
“And for that I would thank God were I to believe in one. May I ask you two questions?”
“Yes,” said Sally.
“What can be done for my son, and why is that man hovering over our conversation?”
Sally turned enough in her desk chair to look over her right shoulder at me.
“Lewis, could you…” she began.
Something in the way I looked told her this was not one of my usual visits. Usually, I called before I came. Usually, I waited downstairs and listened to John Gutcheon while I waited for her to be free. Usually, there was no sense of urgency in my appearance. Usually, I did not hover near her cubicle.
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” she said.
I thought it unlikely she would ever be with me. I had let Sally Porovsky move into my life-no, to be fair, I had moved into hers-and let the ghost of Catherine begin to fade a little, but just a little.
“Mr. Montieth, when would it be possible for you to come back with Thurgood?”
“Please remember to call him Marshall. During the day he is supposedly in school. In the evenings I work. He comes home to my sister Mae’s apartment after school. I do get Wednesdays off.”
“Wednesday after school?”
“Yes,” he said. “Time?”
“Four-thirty,” said Sally, reaching over to write in her desktop calendar.
“We will be here,” he said rising.
He was tall, six-four or six-five, and when he passed me I expected a look of disapproval at my intrusion. He smiled in understanding, assuming What? A fellow parent with a troubled child? A homeless creature in a baseball cap, some scratches on his face?
“I’ve got a client coming in ten minutes, Lewis,” she said.
I stepped forward but I didn’t sit. She looked up at me.
“What is it?”
“Ronnie Gerall,” I said. “When he supposedly transferred from San Antonio to Pine View, you vouched for him, signed papers of guardianship, found him a family to live with.”
“Yes,” she said. “Lewis, please sit.”
Her full, round face was smooth, just a little pink, and definitely pretty. She was tired. Sally was tired much of the time.
I sat.
“What’s your question?” she asked with a smile that made it clear that she did not expect me to ask if she would run away with me to Genoa.
“Two questions to start,” I said. “How did Ronnie Gerall get in touch with you? How old was he when he entered Pine View School for the Gifted?”
