water?” She looked around her office. There was no water cooler, no bottles. I planted my fists on the table and made hands of them again, laying them flat. I inhaled and meditated upon calico cats.
“He at least knows about me, though, right? There’s been some kind of communication. That’s what you said, right?”
She reached over and laid a hand atop one of my own.
“It has all been explained to him,” she assured me. “The old-fashioned way. With letters. We’ve received a response. It’s all set.”
I shook my head. “This just sounds like a bad idea.”
Her hand slid away from mine. She bit her lip, as if she were holding back words suitable only for more mature clients. This had not been an easy case for her, I knew that. There had been thrilling surprises and unexpected setbacks, far more than she had bargained for when she took the job, which, from the looks of her, couldn’t have been more than a few months ago.
“We are out of options, Joey,” she said. “Unless you’ve remembered another blood relative.”
“Blood,” I said, thinking of Janelle and Thaddeus, Boris, and his three shrieking sisters. “Why is that so important?”
She shrugged. “It just is. In the eyes of the law, it is. In the eyes of a lot of people, actually.”
I took back my hands and left parallel smears. We both regarded the moisture. She would have to wipe it up later, before the next sad sack took his seat at this table. Without looking at her, I got the impression of shoulders slumping. I heard her chair creak, a file cabinet squeak, and papers shuffle.
“Ken Harnett,” she recited from the page. “He has been told that his son Joey Crouch will be arriving via Amtrak train on August twenty-fourth. On August twenty-fifth Joey will begin eleventh grade at Bloughton High School. By no later than August twentieth, Joey’s textbooks will need to be picked up at the school and all arrangements made for the transfer of credits. Mr. Harnett has been advised to establish a relationship with a local physician for Joey, as well as a grief counselor if a need presents itself. Contact information for Joey’s present general practitioner and dentist has been forwarded.”
“Through the mail,” I added gloomily.
“Mr. Harnett has been advised that Joey has not been diagnosed with any health conditions that require immediate attention. Mr. Harnett has been advised that Joey’s health insurance under his mother’s plan will extend to his eighteenth birthday. As is standard procedure, social services of Lomax County has been contacted to ensure that Mr. Harnett’s dwelling meets acceptable standards. Mr. Harnett works as a garbageman.”
“Wait. What?”
Claire flipped back a page. “Mr. Harnett works as a garbageman.” She raised her eyebrows at me, waiting for a follow-up. I said nothing. Again she lowered her head and turned the page.
“As specified by Ms. Crouch’s will, her liquid assets transfer to a savings account for Joey accessible to him on his eighteenth birthday. Her physical assets, aside from those claimed by Joey by August twentieth, will be put up for public auction, the resulting funds of which will be placed into the aforementioned account.”
Claire paused on the last page. A purple nail tapped the last paragraph. I didn’t like the look of it.
“It is the explicit wish of Ms. Crouch, as specified in her will, that Joey be placed into the sole custody of his biological father, Ken Harnett,” she said, with a tone approaching regret. Claire stopped reading and looked at me. “Not that there are any other options,” she said softly.
I looked past the piles of papers that I had become so accustomed to during our twice-weekly visits and peered out the window. In the distance, I could see the Hancock Center and Tribune Tower, almost perfectly aligned. We had never gone to the observation deck of the Hancock, my mother and I, though we must have talked about doing it a thousand times. It’s easier to do those things as a tourist; you sweep into town with a bulleted to-do list and you get it done because the clock is working against you. It had worked against my mother and me, too; we just hadn’t felt it.
There was packing to do.
“There are always options,” I said.
3.
ON AUGUST 24 JANELLE and Thaddeus paid for a cab and with Boris accompanied me to Union Station. As Janelle practiced her Arabic with the driver, I stepped onto the curb like a newborn, into the shadows of giants,