Saturday’s Child by JT Hume 03 - BARBIE DOLLS I get lost in two minutes, dammit. A new personal record, dammit. To be fair, these stinking subdivisions all look alike, with identical hedges, fences, trees, and sidewalks. Every house has the same freaking floorplan and facade. I take a deep breath and turn on the Caddy’s GPS. It was designed with me in mind, and it points me in the right direction for the three seconds I pay attention to it. (I should have turned to the left out of the parking lot, it reminds me.) The damn tablet keeps pinging. God, I hate twenty-first century. Fortune favors the inept. No one answers at the first five foster homes on the list, about average for home visits. Families are busy people with work, school, and a dozen extracurricular activities. The chances of finding someone home on a Monday are pretty remote. The odds get shorter with the flu epidemic sweeping through town. No one is going to answer, because no one wants to spend a week on the john. As I navigate the suburbs, the lawns get bigger and the streets get wider. In a way, I’ve come home. This is the type of neighborhood I grew up in before I was sent to boarding school. It’s not quite the famous “one percent” Barb referred to earlier, but these people don’t live paycheck to paycheck, or worry if their car will start on a freezing morning, or wonder if their neighbors are drug dealers or pedophiles. Grandmother Heston would call this “Americana,” whatever that means. Speaking of her, I pull over for a moment to check my personal cell and, yes, two new texts from my mother invoking her mother’s name. I sigh and delete them, making a mental note to respond later. It’s a good thought. It doesn’t happen. The sixth family on the list may be home. I forget them as I go to red alert. A cop car is parked on the street, the first law enforcement I’ve seen today. I would have seen five or six
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume cars back in the MSU service area by this time of the day. It contains the usual LEO bells and whistles, including the shotgun muzzle through the windshield, jarring in this neighborhood. I recognize the cop as he steps from the driver’s seat, and breathe a sigh of relief. I wave as I exit my Caddy. “Hey, Willie.” He doesn’t respond, and his forehead furrows as he tries to remember me. “How you doing…” “Emma Parks, CPS. I work for Barb Walsh.” He snaps his fingers as a big smile breaks out. “Of course. Where’s your windbreaker, sweetheart?” I’m usually irritated when big men talk down to smaller women. Willie gets away with it anytime he wants because his heart beats pure—well, as pure as a street cop’s heart can beat. He’s seen it all in twenty-something years, if the shiny medals on his chest mean anything. “In the backseat.” “Put it on, girl. I’ll wait.” He’s right, of course. I was lazy this morning and was carrying it with me. I should have had it on. CPS workers go to bad places at bad times, and cops on the scene can identify the wearer of a CPS windbreaker as a good guy. It prevents misunderstandings of the dramatic, life-changing kind. As I dig it out and put it on, he mentions Jenny and Sammy Allen. Willie, Barb, and I rescued them from a meth house on my first day. Their mother was slaughtered by their stepdad in front of them, and the kids are still dealing with the shock (I am, too), and their new foster parents are doing what they can. When we get to the end of the gossip, I point at the house. “I’m doing a Health-andWelfare check.” He laughs. “I don’t think so, girlfriend.” “You sure?” “Yeah, look at your address book.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume I open my tablet and feel my cheeks turn red. “You’re right. I’m going next door. Who lives here?” He smiles again. “Get out. Everyone’s been here.” “Not me.” He waves at the house. “This is the taxpayer-funded home of His Honor, the Honorable Mayor Edgar Hart, the chief executive and grand poohbah of our fine city, and his exalted wife. They got some big party going on tonight, and I drew the short straw on security.” I suppress a shudder. His Honor and I have history, and it’s not the good kind. In fact, I know Mayor Edgar Hart’s dirtiest secrets, and I want as little to do with him as possible. I give Willie the full smile. “Try to stay out of trouble, okay?” He gives me a look. “You ain’t going to this wing-ding?” Dammit. Willie understands Devon and I are a couple, so everyone in Metro has heard. I play it cool. “Nah, got a chance to earn some serious overtime.” He laughs. “Sign me up for some, too. Take care of yourself.” He says it as a joke, yet the eyes give him away. He means what he’s saying. I’ve picked up a bunch of habits since joining CPS, one being casing a home and checking for obvious problem spots before knocking. To the good, the house is large and in good shape. It’s older than some in the neighborhood and would be called a “faux Craftsman.” It reminds me of the homes back home (my guts twitch a little when I remember the deleted texts). Thick drapes cover all the windows in front, and the door is solid, with a pane of glass at eye level. The downside is the grass needs to be mowed and weeded, which is odd considering the neighborhood, and the hedges are out of control. I pause to get my collapsible baton from my bag. Willie would take care of most problems if I yelled for help, but he’s built for wrestling, not track, and he’s watching me from down the street. I realize my mistake as my finger pushes the doorbell. Willie knocked me off my routine, which is to check DACS upon arrival and have their names memorized before crossing the
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume property line. The knob is turning before I can get to my tablet. At least I have my business card ready. And I almost drop it when this tall, blond Valkyrie princess towers over me, wearing a thin black bikini and a smile. “Yes?” Her smile is dazzling, and she’s six feet tall, most of it in her legs. Her skin is pristine white, and the material of her swimsuit emphasizes her curves. As I crane my neck up, my mind is reliving an embarrassing episode from my first day in boarding school long ago. I feel much like an underdeveloped girl standing near my older and more-beautiful classmates. “Uh, Emma Parks.” My voice cracks! “Excuse me?” I try to gather my thoughts and not wonder if her red lips are full of collagen. “Hi, I’m Emma Parks from Child Protective Services. This is an unannounced Health-and-Welfare visit.” “On Staci?” She has an accent. “The entire house. It’s a safety check, too.” I look past her to the interior, and she takes the hint, moving to one side. I have to tilt my head away so as not to collide with her boobs (silicone, without a doubt), and I get my first close-up look at her face. Parts of her may be brand new, but the eyes and hands give her away. She’ll see forty soon. Inside is the perfect image from a Sears catalog on interior design. Big couches in a big room facing a brick fireplace. The modern kitchen off to the side with the usual steel-gray appliances on white tile. The stereotypical swimming pool with benches is on the other side of the tall glass windows to the backyard. I fumble my tablet open and verify, yes, Staci Baker is a long-term foster-child placement with Mick and Inga McCann. He’s some sort of equities broker downtown, and she’s a stay-athome mom. Staci is sixteen years old and has been in foster care for eight years.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume The length of the foster stay rings a small bell in the back of my mind. Children in this situation for years are adopted over time, most times, and not stuck in limbo as a foster child. I make a note to dig into her file when I can. Mrs. McCann clears her throat, and I look up, chagrined at my bad manners. “Sorry. I’m usually better prepared. May I speak to Staci?” She nods and smiles again. While she was waiting, she’s put on a short robe, and her legs seem longer. “Yes, out by the pool.” Another bell goes off. “Shouldn’t she be in class?” “Homeschooled. This way.” As we pass through the living room, I tap through the DACS screens and find the digital copy from the school district giving permission for Staci Baker to be schooled at home. I note it’s signed by a district psychologist. This doesn’t bother me right away. It should. Outside, we walk up to a girl in a lounge chair who’s a miniature of her foster mom, down to the bikini and long legs, though this teenager does not have, nor does she need, the benefits of modern plastic surgery. She’s a brunette. Her eyes are covered by large sunglasses, and she’s focused on a large hardcover book in her lap, small earphones plugged into her ears. I stand on my tiptoes and make out the words: it’s a science book on genetics. I make a silent bet that dear old Dad hides a shotgun in the umbrella stand. “Staci.” Inga says to the teenager. No response. “Staci!” The girl doesn’t move or change expression. “I can hear you.” The tone of classic teenage contempt for the older and clueless generation. Inga tries to keep her composure for their guest (me), though it’s obvious I’ve walked into the middle of a war of some kind. Their expressions remind me of how my sisters went through puberty before they were shipped off to boarding school. Neither side asked for or gave mercy.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume I use the tone of voice that worked for my dad back in the day. “Eyes up here, Staci. Now, please.” It works. She pulls the plugs from her ears and looks up at me, sunglasses still in place. “You are?” Same tone of voice. “CPS. You doing okay?” I can almost see the hamster spinning the wheels in her brain, and her hands twitch. Fear? Nervousness? The acronym raised her blood pressure, for certain. To her credit, she doesn’t reveal her thoughts in her expression. In a flat, sarcastic voice, she says, “I’m being abused. Horribly abused. Somebody help me.” I jump when Inga laughs in my ear. I hadn’t realized she was standing close. “Oh, Staci, don’t joke. This is serious.” The teenager turns back to her book. “I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” The tiny bells become alarm bells, and I can’t put my finger on the reason. This appears to be the ideal foster case: the nice house, an attentive parental figure, and no physical harm to the child from what I can see (and her bikini reveals a lot). Kids don’t read complex science books as a hobby. I need information, but as there seems to be no immediate danger, my options are limited. I hold out a second business card, pulled from a side pocket on my bag. “If you want to talk, call my work cell or personal cell anytime.” I don’t give my personal cell to just anyone. Something is tickling my curiosity, and I feel I need to show some sort of commitment. She takes it and slides it between the pages of her book as she backhand waves me off. Inga takes the hint, and the tap of her high heels recedes. I follow. “Nice house. Nice neighborhood.” “Yes, thank you.” German accent. “We love it. It doesn’t hurt to have the mayor nearby. No one bothers us.” Didn’t take you long to name-drop old Mayor Ed, I grouse. “You’re very lucky.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “We are. He’s a nice man. Good neighbor. We’re going to his barbeque tonight.” Great. The Thunder God’s big sister gets to go. I realize I’d better leave and finish up my calls before I say something snotty, as my sisters do when they feel slighted. We shake (she’s all muscle), and I thank her for her time. I turn to see two men standing by the cop car, Willie and a sharp-dressed dude who’s a touch smaller. My heart thumps. He has the tight-blue-jeans-and-cowboy-boots thing going, and the jerk doesn’t need to comb his thick black hair, because it knows how to curl down his neck the same way every day. He’s got his sleeves on his button-down rolled up to his elbows, and his Rolex seems to highlight the muscles in his tanned forearms, and if he twisted the wrong way, I swear his wide shoulders would burst through his shirt. I lick my lips, thinking I could eat him with a spoon, as I walk up to them. I choose to act like the wholesome professional. “Detective Walsh, how are you on this fine day?” The asshole gives me no warning as he sweeps me into his arms and gives me a long, slow kiss. I struggle for a second then give in. Why the hell not? He’s a great kisser. He gives it his all, from the arms holding me tight against his muscular chest, to the playful tongue inside my mouth, taking the time to count my teeth and tonsils. And…and…and… Oh, hell, I could talk about his kisses all day. I’m on the clock, dammit. He lets me push him back. “Devon, stop it.” “Do I have to?” His eyes are twinkling with evil, and he’s making suggestions with his body, including a big one against my slacks. “Put me down. Control yourself.” He obeys, looking downcast. “What the hell are you doing?” “Apologizing.” “For what?” He points to the mayor’s house. “I have to go the barbeque, and someone said I’m a major screw-up for not inviting you.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume Do I let him off easy or play with him a little, a big fish on my hook? Nah, he respects me and treats me right, and I hate girl games. “If you did, I would have said no.” He avoids looking at Willie, thinking we’re crossing a privacy line. The uniformed officer lets us off the hook by slapping him on the back with a chuckle. “Dude, the lady is being nice. Say you’re sorry.” “Sorry, Emma.” “Forgiven.” He’s a good guy. “Is that the real reason you’re here?” Devon raises his right hand and puts the other on his heart. “Swear to God.” “Your mom call?” He nods. “Was the phrase ‘idiot son’ dropped into the conversation?” He smiles. “Once or twice.” “You’re double forgiven. Barb took her mood out on you. We’ve all been there.” Both cops grimace and nod. “Can I meet you for lunch? To make it up to you. Got my wheels.” His Mustang is parked across the street. I’m thankful and chagrined at the same time. I’m down to my last dollar and was planning to skip lunch, and Devon wants to save me from utter starvation. The added embarrassment is the “meet somewhere” thing. I’ll have no idea how to find it, and I’ll get lost coming back (again). Devon is watching me and, for the thousandth time since we met, reads my mood. “We can leave your car someplace and you ride with me.” “Yeah, girl, park the Caddy by my black-and-white. No problem.” Willie is watching my reactions, too, and damn if he doesn’t figure me out. Is mind reading taught at the police academy or something? The guys fist-bump, and my favorite uniform gets a kiss on the cheek (he has to bend way over), and we’re gone. Devon’s Mustang is a work of art and his baby, and we spent one Saturday in his dad’s garage tuning it up (I was all over his chassis). I luxuriate in the smell of
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume his aftershave (a kind of musk) and the feel of the leather seats before putting my hand on his leg. “Thanks. You didn’t have to apologize.” He shrugs. “You don’t like the mayor. I get it. He’s why I didn’t ask.” I pick up on his tone and decide it’s time to take the plunge. Otherwise, he’ll think I don’t trust him. “I’ll tell you.” Devon looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “Do you want to?” “No. It’s not good. I don’t want him to have power over us.” “He doesn’t. No one does except you and me.” “And your mom.” He laughs. “Her right as my mother and your supervisor.” A pause. “You could transfer.” “I’m learning so much from her. She’s a good boss, and I might not get lucky again.” I’ve seen in the short time I’ve been in CPS how a bad boss can break a caseworker’s spirit in a matter of days. I hit the lottery with Barb, and I am going to stick with her for as long as possible. “Yeah. Figures. She’s a good mom.” “You told her this?” He laughs again. “I will. Tonight.” “You’re going?” “I have to.” We come to a stop sign, and he turns to me. “I’ll miss you.” He kisses my cheek. My guts melt into a puddle. “Okay, asshole, I’ll go with you.” “You sure?” I roll my eyes. “Can’t turn down free food and booze. Girl’s gotta eat.” He puts his lips to mine, his stubble tickling my lower lip. “I’ll bring dessert.” “You better.” “This is gonna cost me, isn’t it?”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume A car honks behind us and saves me from answering. We drive for a minute before I talk. “I’ll tell you everything if you want.” “Would it help either of us?” “No.” “Then not now. I trust you. Anytime you want to talk…” I squeeze his shoulder. “Thanks.” He parks us in front of what is maybe the lone Thai diner in ten square miles and opens my door with a flourish. He’s apologizing again, except this time through actions. I adore Thai food (all ethnicities and flavors of food, to be certain). Devon hates it because his digestive system can’t handle the spices, and the squad room back at his precinct will suffer for it. I grab his arm (his bicep, and it flexes, and I’m gooey inside again) and steer him to a Mexican restaurant at the other end of the strip mall. His look of gratitude is all I need. He sits beside me in the booth. I point to the other side. “Lots of space over there, flatfoot.” “You’re right,” he says as he strokes my thigh near my knee. If he goes two inches higher, we’ll be testing the strength of this table with our bodies. The waitress arrives to take our order, and she smiles big when Devon talks to her in perfect Spanish. I start to simmer when her cheeks flush and she touches his shoulder. When she leaves, I can’t stop the green-eyed bitch from speaking. “Does that happen a lot?” He sips his water and replies a touch too innocently. “Not much.” I’m ready to pin his ears back with some serious flame power, when he takes my face again and kisses me slowly. The green-eyed bitch disappears in a puddle of yum in my tummy. An hour later (or maybe a minute), he backs up. “Am I going to have to apologize when a strange woman talks to me?” “Oh, yeah, if it means you keep doing that.”
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume “Emma.” He drops his hands into his lap. I blink a couple of times from the loss of tactile contact. “Okay, truth time. The last guy…” “The one you stood up at the altar in front of hundreds of important Washington, DC, power brokers and movers?” He says it as a joke, and while I laugh a little, it stings because it’s the truth. “Yeah, him.” Deep breath. “He was the biggest flirt, all the while swearing he was mine and mine alone.” “Not true?” “Not even close.” I get to share another tawdry Emma Parks secret. During wedding preparations, my fiancé and sorority sister (and best friend) were overly friendly toward each other, and I thought nothing of it until the morning of the wedding. His mother told me a couple of weeks ago the two of them were getting married. “You didn’t know,” Devon asks. My mouth opens and shuts. Truth time. “I didn’t want to. Willful ignorance. They weren’t subtle. I mean, dear God, they were flirting at our rehearsal dinner.” “Was it the last straw?” “One of them.” He takes a long drink of water. “I’ll tone it down. The flirting.” I shake my head. “Don’t.” “If it reminds you of your fiancé…” I laugh. “Oh no, you’re different from Jason. You’re…” I struggle for words. “Yes?” He smiles big. “You own up and take responsibility. It was always someone else’s fault with Jason.” I decide to keep it simple. “You’re a man. He’s not. End of story.” “Thanks.” He blushes, and I fall deeper in love with Devon Walsh. Oh wow. The first time I use the big “L” word with him, even in my thoughts. Am I setting myself up for something bad? I’m not ready.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume My thoughts are interrupted by a ringtone. It’s his work cell, and reality crashes down on me. This guy is a special-operations cop, a homicide detective. From the conversation, I can tell he is about to leave me, because someone died with violence. It haunts him, these murders. Maybe someday he’ll grow a thick skin. It could take a while. He’s not much older than me and deals with the human element at its worst. He thrashes in his sleep. I hug him tight and whisper his name until he relaxes. I use a tissue to wipe his eyes and cheeks. He never wakes up. I never tell him what happened. I can’t help myself. I pull his arm toward me, and he lets me hug him while he finishes his conversation. He hangs up and looks down at me with regret. “I gotta go. My mom or someone will take you back to your car.” “Okay, I’ll call her.” He gives me a smart-ass grin and points out the window. The WSU building is right across the street with our MSU POS out front. He’s picking on me, and I give him a mean glare before I kiss his cheek. “You be careful.” He drops a couple of twenties on the table. “Give Mom my lunch, would you? She hasn’t eaten, knowing her.” A quick peck, and he’s gone. I can’t help myself as I put my palm on the warm spot on his side on the booth, and I breathe in his musk. In such a short time, I’ve become intoxicated by Devon’s presence, his smell, his arms, his…everything. The weight of my emotions is evolving from a crush to something terrifying. He’s the first thing I think of when I wake up and the last thing when I fall asleep. My other hand falls to my lower stomach, and I think the big “B” word: baby. I’m twentyfive years old and starting a career. Most of my sorority sisters are married and dropping kids, and my real sisters are married and have been working for years. One is even divorced and remarried. The whole scenario is alien to me because I lived in the here and now for ten years,
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume looking for the next party where I could get wasted and take home the cutest guy with the smoothest moves. When Daddy cut me off, I had to grow up and do adult things. Was a baby inevitable? The logical part of my brain is pointing and laughing at me. We met three weeks ago! Get a grip! A second after I get myself under control, a couple walks by the window, and she’s leading a toddler as he toddles. The kid is a perfect amalgamation of his parents, red cheeks and all. Tears come unbidden to my eyes, and I cover my face with a napkin. Shit! The waitress comes up with our plates, and my green-eyed bitch gloats at her tiny look of disappointment when she sees the empty space beside me. I push the twenties to her and ask for her to put the meals in to-go boxes. Five minutes later, I’m walking across the parking lot to the WSU. A bright-red Porsche whizzes by and pulls into a coffee kiosk across the parking lot. It’s Inga the German bomber, and she’s ordering two large lattes, one with a double pump and the other without caffeine. She doesn’t notice me, and I slow down to get a good look at her. She’s wearing her short robe with plenty of leg showing, and I can imagine what the guy barista is thinking as he reaches over to get her order. She’s not wearing sunglasses, which is odd, because they’re a mandatory accessory for a hot chick like her (mine are in the bottom of my bag). If she’d worn them, nobody would have seen her red eyes, and I wouldn’t see her tears from crying.
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Saturday’s Child by JT Hume
This serial and book are solely owned by its creator, JT Hume (a pseudonym). Copyright © 2016. All rights reserved in all countries and languages. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Third-party vendors providing electronic means to create, edit, and/or publish/post this serial and book have no literary and/or financial claim (including wi-fi network owners and operators). For more information and permission requests, the author may be contacted via email only: jthumebooks at gmail dot com. Twitter: @JT_Hume Website: http://www.jthumebooks.com
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