“I don’t think we can stay for coffee, but thank you anyway,” I said, getting to my feet. “And, Thurlow, don’t worry about Ronnie. He’s well settled for the time being. He misses you, I’m sure, but he’s enjoying his vacation with us.”
Then, as quickly as we could, LuAnne and I said our farewells and got out of there—down the stairs and out the door without disturbing Helen’s floor selection process.
“Julia,” LuAnne said as we neared our cars, “he scared me to death. What do you think is going on in that house?”
“I don’t know, but it worries me, too. Either he’s being thoroughly taken advantage of or he’s feeding us a bunch of wild stories. Whichever it is, though, it looks as if I’m stuck with Ronnie for the duration.”
Chapter 16
When Sam called that afternoon, it was all I could do to keep from begging him to come home. With his fine legal mind and his ability to calmly assess a situation, he could both explain our options to foil the plans for the Cochran house and tell us how to carry them out as well.
Instead, though, I said not one word of the turmoil we were dealing with, in spite of recalling the old saying that you can’t fight city hall and thinking that Sam could if he’d come home. That’s what I felt we were up against, and not only city hall but the city churches as well. Every person in town—except those it directly affected—seemed to think that the specific house chosen for homeless teenage boys was a marvelous thing. And those who were affected were expected to just accept it without a murmur—in fact, to smile about it and keep their mouths shut. In other words, the overriding attitude toward those who were unhappy seemed to be: Be quiet and stop spoiling our delight in how wonderful and selfless and Christian we are!
So I asked Sam about his travels and what he was seeing on his tours, and he told me in great detail about arches, Gothic windows with tracery, buttresses both flying and non, westworks, and ambulatories. He was having a fine time, so I encouraged him to bring home lots of pictures so he could show me exactly what he was talking about.
Lord, I missed him, but at the same time I was glad that he was doing something he’d long wanted to do. So, hanging up the phone without mentioning the plight we were in, I took up my lonely concerns again.
When Binkie’s secretary called and asked if I could come down to the office that afternoon, my spirits immediately soared. At least Binkie was working for us, and a meeting implied that she had news.
—
“Binkie,” I said, sitting forward in the chair in front of her desk, “tell me something good. I badly need some good news.”
“Sorry, Miss Julia, this is just an update—letting you know where we are at this point. Nothing’s settled yet. But I’ve discussed the problem with Janet Bradley, the zoning board administrator, and she tells me that the board of the Homes for Teens applied for a permit several times, each time under a different designation. They’ve called themselves a ‘residential care home,’ a ‘family group home,’ neither of which is permitted, and now they’re trying as a ‘foster care home,’ with the subheading of a ‘single-family dwelling.’ That, of course, is permitted as far as the zoning regulations are concerned.”
“But . . .” I started to protest.
“I know,” she said, holding up her hand. “But here’s the final word as far as the zoning goes: Any type of residential care facility in that area is not permitted. Foster homes are not specifically mentioned, but if the board of adjustments interprets foster homes as a type of residential care facility, then clearly the use of that property in that way is not permitted. Now, they may get away with calling themselves a single-family dwelling, although psuedoparents with six unrelated minors is hardly what the term ‘single family’ implies. So the Homes for Teens board may, when faced with that, change their plan or classification of operation to a conditional- or special-use designation and apply for a waiver. If that happens, as I’ve warned you, we will have a fight on our hands, and it becomes expensive.”
“I don’t care what it costs,” I said. “Especially if all they do is change the name but keep on doing what they’ve wanted to do all along. That would be defying the law, Binkie, while holding themselves up as the great philanthropists of Abbot County. I’ll tell you the truth, I’ve about come to the point of despair over this—their bleeding hearts have drained their brains, and they’re driving me to distraction with their determination to do what they want to do, regardless.”
“Well, don’t let it do that,” Binkie said as she shuffled a few papers. “We’re not done yet. If their plan is to have foster parents in the house—which seems to have been the plan from the beginning—they will have to have a license from the state. The foster parents will have to apply, be checked out thoroughly, and take a thirty-hour course in how to foster children. All of that comes from the Department of Social Services, and . . .”
“Yes, that’s what they’re doing. The DSS has been mentioned several times in the newspaper articles. But what I’m wondering is who will be the foster parents and who is going to pay them.”
“That’s another big question,” Binkie agreed. “The statutes governing foster homes require that at least one foster parent have a stable job. But then, of course, the state will pay a certain amount—some four hundred dollars a month, I think, but probably a little more for a teenager. I’ve tried to find out exactly how much, but it seems if anyone asks what foster parents are paid, they’re assumed to be in it for the money. But whatever the amount is, it means that the board of the
