The Center of Everything - By Laura Moriarty Page 0,51

we could get some child support mandated, that would help you out more than food stamps.”

My mother looks around the room, at the people at the other desks. “It was a bad situation,” she says, her voice low now, almost a whisper. “I’d really rather not say. I sort of made a mistake, and I’d rather not make that mistake go any further. You know?” She nods in my direction, the way she might do with Eileen to say, Let’s not talk about this in front of her.

I get up and go to the other side of the room and look at the pictures on the wall, at a map of Kerrville stuck up with tacks. A little red circle is drawn on the map, and next to it, YOU ARE HERE in red letters. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.

My mother is smiling now, trying to look at Barbara Bell as if they are friends, in cahoots. Barbara Bell does not smile back.

“I’m afraid you’re going to need to be candid with me if I’m going to help you, Ms. Bucknow.”

My mother shakes her head. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t get too particular. Given the situation, I think this could make things pretty awkward for him and…”

“His comfort level isn’t really my concern.”

“He’s gone anyway.”

“He’s left town?”

“Yes.”

“No forwarding address? No number?”

“No.”

“Surely you must know someone who…”

“No.”

Barbara Bell looks back down at the booklet, her glasses down on her nose, her fingers drumming on the desk. “If you could give me a first and last name, I could enter that in a search.”

“He’s married, okay?” my mother says.

“But it’s a different man than the father of your first child, correct?”

“Yes. That was ten years ago. Jesus.”

“I’m just trying to get the information I need, okay? No one is judging you. But given that you can’t give me the name of the father, I have to ask you if there is some confusion on your part.”

“What?” She says this so loud and sharp that everyone else in the room stops talking. “Look,” she says, leaning over Barbara Bell’s desk, knocking over her nameplate, maybe on purpose, maybe not. “Let’s get something straight here. I’m not confused. I know who the father is. I just don’t want to tell you. It’s not your business, okay?” She leans in closer. “It’s not your business.”

I would be scared, if my mother were that close to my face and yelling like that. But I don’t think Barbara Bell is. She looks bored. “Ms. Bucknow,” she says, her voice still calm, bored even, setting her nameplate straight again. “I couldn’t care less what you want to tell me. In fact, I can assure you my interest in your personal life is negligible at best. But if you want money from the government, you’re going to have to answer these questions to the best of your ability. They’re cutting back our programs; they’re upping our eligibility requirements. We have to be careful.”

My mother stands up and tells Barbara Bell she doesn’t give a fuck about eligibility requirements. She says she won’t be talked to this way; she would rather starve. Barbara Bell says that is her prerogative, but she will be glad to speak with her again when she is feeling calmer.

And then it’s like Wichita all over again. She takes my hand and pulls me back out into the long green hallway, past the room full of different people listening to the same scratchy tape, past the receptionist’s desk with the orange-haired lady and the fan, out the door, out of the air-conditioning, into the sharp, stinging heat. I have to run to keep up with her, her hand tight around my arm, and the white sidewalk is like fire under my feet.

“My feet! Mom! My feet!” I twist my arm out of her grip. She stops so quickly that her head goes forward even after her body has stopped moving.

“Wh—Oh! Oh God, I’m sorry. I forgot. I forgot you had no shoes. How could I forget that?”

She looks weird, even for her. Her eyebrows are pushed down behind her sunglasses, and she looks as if she is concentrating very hard on something, her forehead wrinkled, her mouth open. I can hear her breathing.

She bends down and puts her hands under my arms. “Hmmph,” she says. But this time, she can’t get me past her knees. She sets me back on the grass, stumbling backwards. “I’m sorry, Evelyn,” she says.

readonlinefreenovel.com Copyright 2016 - 2024