“The old guy who was here yesterday, the guy with all the tats? Name’s Walter?” I say. “Put him toward the top of your ‘sane’ list.”
“Noted. Thanks again.”
I close my eyes. “Do you think . . .”
“I don’t think on these,” he says, and touches my shoulder, “and you shouldn’t either. There are a lot of possibilities, and not all of them are bad. I promise we’ll do everything we can. Most of the men and women on the force have families; they take this personally.”
“Annie! How long . . .”
“Hey, Mr. Novotny . . .”
“If you don’t want me to call you Miss Boots, you best start using my first name. When you were little the Howards thought they were teaching you manners making you call me that, but you’ve been off my caseload since your mom’s rights were terminated, and—I don’t know a good way to say this—manners have never been your strong suit. So, Wiz, okay?”
“Wiz it izzz.”
“Okay. That’s settled. Frankie. You guys must be going crazy.”
“You can’t go where you already are.”
He snorts, in recognition. “How’s Sheila?”
“If you’ve been watching TV, you know she’s busy rewriting history.”
He grunts. “Annie, did we blow this one?”
“We?”
“The department. What all do you know? Should we have gotten Frankie out of there? I know he’s not an open case, but only because Sheila knows when she’s going off the deep end, she can keep us off her back by getting him someplace safe. Which has been to the Howards’. Have you guys seen anything?”
I don’t know what’s safe to say. Whatever happened to Frankie, it wasn’t Sheila’s intention, and as angry as I am, if he isn’t found or if he’s found—I can’t even say it—I don’t want her living the rest of her life thinking she’s the only reason, even though she kind of is. I hate the way my mind goes back and forth about her. And Nancy.
Wiz must see my reluctance. “This is all off the record, okay? I’m writing nothing down and no one’s in trouble. I’m going to assume Frankie will be found soon, and I need to know where to point my caseworker.”
“Your caseworker?”
He points to the door. “Read the sign. I’m a supervisor now. This is where the buck stops. I’ve got Jeff Humphries from the Review speed-dialing me every fifteen minutes. Far as he’s concerned, child protection services is a euphemism.”
I say, “A supervisor, huh? Wow, what did you do?”
Wiz laughs. “I was in the restroom when they were overhauling our division.”
“You should have held it.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“But you said your caseworker. Frankie didn’t have a caseworker.”
“He will. We had an anonymous call a few weeks back that didn’t make it through Intake—not enough specifics. With his disappearance, it will. I’d like to do a little insider trading so we know which direction to go. What can you tell me?”
“He had this big bruise, really black,” I say. “I should have said something, but I went over and threatened Sheila instead. If Frankie gets removed, the Howards won’t take him full-time, ’cause of Pop, which means he’d lose everyone. And what other foster home is going to take him? Plus, as much of an unconscious bitch as my sister is, two days away from her and Frankie is totally off the wall, trying to get home. You know how that goes.”
“Yeah. A bruise, no matter how black, wouldn’t have gotten him out. Look, I know enough about your family that when something bad happens, drugs or alcohol—or both—are involved. If you carry any weight with your sister, tell her to get into treatment pronto; get off TV and get clean.”
Sometimes I think Mr. Novotny—Wiz—saved my life. I know he couldn’t have spent as much time with all of the kids on his caseload as he did with me, but he could get me to straighten up when my therapists or the school or the Howards were ready to throw in the towel. He’s one of those guys willing to break a rule if it looks like a dumb one. He’d always say, “Annie, let’s look at what we want to make happen, and make it happen.” That’s where Sheila has to get right now.
August 24— Session #Who’s Counting?
ANNIE BOOTS
Came in distraught over the disappearance of her sister’s son. Newspaper account attached. Dressed in shorts and athletic T-shirt, looking tired and drawn.
Annie: I guess you know all about it.
Me: Of course. I’m so sorry, Annie. What have you heard?
Annie: Almost nothing. It’s crazy; everything was right out in the open, people all over the park, and Frankie just disappeared.
Me: That is crazy. So what do you want to talk about?
Annie: (looks at me like I’m an idiot)
Me: My bad. I know what, but what can we do in here to help you?
Annie: It feels like my fault. I mean, I know I didn’t have anything to do with whatever actually happened to him, but all those people were there because of me being in that stupid swim meet and I know how dangerous a life Frankie lives because of my sister and the guys she hangs out with and . . . just with the company she keeps and how she doesn’t pay attention.
Me: Tell me what you think you could have done to keep this from happening, and I mean from what you knew at the time.
Annie: I spend all my time trying to keep my lives apart; you know, the one I come from and the one I live in, and the minute I’m not paying attention, they come together. If that stupid fight had never broken out, none of this would have happened, and the common denominator in that fight was me.
Me: That’s one way to put it together, but it seems like a stretch. Let’s stop and take a breath. Look back at what you and I have gone over so many times. What
