At Risk of Being a Fool Page 5

  “Yes, ma’am, can I help you?” The girl bowed her head, presenting a view of perfectly clean hair and nothing much else. The blondish hair was dull and dry, separated into two exactly symmetrical portions, like a stick of butter sliced with a hot knife.

  “I’m Jeanie McCoy. I teach at the GED school. I’m here for Sorrel Quintana. Mrs. Mahoney said she’d been delayed, and I offered to come get her.” Last week Jeanie had offered to transport Rosalie from Esperanza. Esperanza’s wide, bright halls and relaxed atmosphere had warmed her. Rosalie had responded to the sharp-eyed housemothers with mingled irritation and affection, just as Jeanie’s sons had spoken to her in their youth.

  The girl’s fleeting glance lit on her face. “I’m afraid she’s with Mrs. Torrez right now,” she said, with the air of reciting a hard-learned lesson. “Would you care to wait in the rec room?”

  “I haven’t met Mrs. Torrez yet,” Jeanie said cheerfully. “Why don’t I join them?”

  The girl’s instant recoil took her two steps back into the hallway. Jeanie followed. This poor, nervous child was a juvenile offender? Still, perhaps Mrs. Torrez’s extreme control was necessary, particularly if Brynna and Sorrel were a representative sample. The girls always took every inch offered and several miles that weren’t.

  The girl scuttled ahead of her, pausing at the end of a side hallway. “Mrs. Torrez’s office is the last door on the right.” She snatched up a basket of cleaning supplies and vanished, removing herself from any possible blame for Jeanie’s actions.

  The inexorable march of a single voice sounded from the office. Jeanie frowned after the girl and then at the closed door. With sudden decision, she knocked on the door and turned the handle without waiting for an answer.

  Mrs. Torrez sat enthroned behind a massive desk of black metal. Her excruciatingly perfect black-and-white hair formed a helmet around the commanding face. Steel-gray eyes matched the metallic sheen of the tailored business suit. The curtains on the only window blocked outside light and roaming eyes. Sorrel sat across from her, peculiarly colorless under the fluorescent lights.

  Jeanie might have been invisible, a speck on the floor to be mopped up later.

  “...Unfortunate behavior, Miss Quintana, especially following yesterday’s expedition to the police station to make your statement regarding the courthouse incident. I hoped we had come to an end of this intolerable rebellion. But clearly not.” The verbal dagger pricked with every word.

  Sorrel looked fixedly at a knot in the floorboard between her shoes. “I didn’t do nothing.” She clasped her hands in her lap, the knuckles white.

  “Ah. And yet the girls were full of your little stories.”

  “We was just talking. It was rec time, we’re supposed to talk.”

  “And I suppose,” the soft voice went on, “you forgot our rule about war stories? About egging others on to acts of violence?”

  “I didn’t. It was just, you know, we was talking about our families, that’s all.”

  The scene of debasement tore at Jeanie’s gut. Without knowing the rights or wrongs of the matter, she ranged herself beside Sorrel. Mrs. Torrez’s eyes never flickered in her direction.

  “Your ‘family’? Oh yes. Your disgusting story about a family riot. Perhaps you don’t understand civilized behavior, Miss Quintana, but disrupting a wedding is hardly a usual topic in girls’ recreation, at least at this facility, no matter what you may brag of at home. Of course, I suppose I can hardly expect true comprehension from one of your family background. Your grandmother, actually stomping—”

  Sorrel boiled out of her seat. “You keep your fuckin’ mouth off my grandmother.”

  Jeanie stepped in front of Sorrel with a warning look. Sorrel flinched, closed her eyes, and sank into the chair.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the voice, detached, mocking. “Did you speak to me?”

  Jeanie turned, her mouth agape. Mrs. Torrez reached towards a set of forms squared neatly on her desk.

  “Because if you did—”

  “No,” said Sorrel. The words jerked out in spurts. “I mean, I’m sorry. I forgot, like, that we’re not supposed to talk about before we ...I mean, before.”

  “Estelle,” said Jeanie, with determined good-humor. She’d be damned if she’d call her Mrs. Torrez. “I’m Jeanie McCoy. I’m Sorrel’s teacher. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “Ah yes,” said Estelle Torrez. Her glance flicked the doorway and sliced across Jeanie’s cheek. A slight rearrangement of her swivel chair brought Sorrel back into view.

  “I’m afraid,” Jeanie said firmly, “this misunderstanding is my fault. Sorrel and I were discussing essay topics, working on brainstorming techniques so she doesn’t freeze come test time. The story of the prank at the wedding came up then.”

  “Prank.”

  “Yes, a prank. Some families pull pranks on each other at weddings. It’s traditional. My own father carried a whip and shotgun to my wedding reception.”

  “Really. Well, Mrs. McCoy, I can’t answer for what may be traditional in your family, but that’s not overly important. You don’t appear to be quite with the program, and that is important. By glorifying disorderly behavior, Miss Quintana is undermining the structure of this facility. She must adapt, because if this facility doesn’t suit her, she will need to await placement elsewhere. Won’t you, Miss Quintana? I believe you’ve been down this road once before?”

  The naked pain in Sorrel’s face shook Jeanie to the core.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Torrez,” Sorrel managed to say. “I didn’t mean to undermine the facility. I . . .” Sorrel paused, peering at the desk as if hunting for an apology written there. “I think the things I’m learning here are important. I’m really sorry.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your concern. This little matter will be noted in your file.”

  “Yeah.” Sorrel said, almost inaudibly. “Can I go now?”

  “Perhaps you—”

  “Yes,” said Jeanie shortly. “Here are the keys, Sorrel. Go get in the car.”

  “She will not—”

  “Sorrel is late for class, which began ten minutes ago at a place several miles from here. Move it, Sorrel, the class is waiting on you.” Sorrel escaped with the keys.

  Estelle Torrez remarked, “She is to be supervised constantly. The police indicated as much yesterday, during that unsavory little ordeal. It quite threw our schedule to the winds. Letting her out with your keys is unwise.”

  “Sorrel was under my authority as of ten minutes ago. Humiliating young people is unproductive. Moreover,” Jeanie added with malice aforethought and careful emphasis, “it’s unprofessional.” There! She’d thrown the gauntlet, with the ultimate insult of Jeanie’s world. Brynna’s pithy obscenities weren’t even in the same league.

  Estelle Torrez read the challenge instantly. “Mrs. McCoy, I don’t require lectures on professionalism from a woman reduced to teaching juvenile offenders.”

  “Reduced? Oh Estelle, how utterly petty.” Now that Sorrel had escaped the woman’s clutches, Jeanie’s anger drained away. “It’s impossible to be ‘reduced’ to teaching.” Prodded by an unnamable instinct, she added, “You must be a lonely woman. I’m sorry.”

  Estelle rose. “How dare you?”

  Jeanie met her eyes with pity. “I’ll be going now. If you ever need to talk, Estelle, just call me. Jeanie McCoy. I’m in the book.”

  She stood there for a moment. Estelle Torrez said nothing.

  Jeanie left, closing the door gently.

  ~*~

  Quinto drew a man’s face, all angles and ill temper. Sorrel recovered her dignity with the help of a hand mirror. Dillon listened to his headphones, his eyes at half-mast. Brynna studied a lipstick ad in a fashion magazine. Tonio wrestled with a math problem. Rosalie wandered around the room. Jeanie perched on a table, talking quietly with Mackie Sandoval.

  They were waiting, all of them.

  “I’m afraid there’s not, Jeanie.” Mackie looked at Sorr
el, who examined her fingernails with complete absorption. “She had a different placement, the same place Rosalie’s at now, Esperanza, wonderful people. But she loused it up good and bounced herself back to Corrections. Esperanza agreed to take her again after six months, if they had an opening, but they rarely do. The voluntaries all go there, like Rosalie, so there’s not much room for the detainees. Torrez’s place is rarely booked up, so she takes the overflow. I have to say she does stick to procedure mostly.”

  “She enjoys the power. Her little tantrum was sadistic.”

  Mackie nodded. “Yep, she’s on a power trip. But it’s rough finding people to do that kind of work. The supervisors have to live there, you know, at least part of the time. Randy told Sorrel to wait for Esperanza, but she couldn’t stand it, never getting to see her kid. It’s the last step, before parole. She said she’d tough it out with Torrez. She figures it’s worth it.”

  Jeanie looked at Sorrel with new respect.

  “There’s a good side to all this, Jeanie. We do have successes, like Natalie and Maria. The girls respect survivors like that, who’ve been through the gutters and come out with a real life.”

  “Especially Rosalie.”

  “Yeah, that bit with the baby really got her. Did you know the foster Mom’s trying to have Rosalie’s rights suspended?”

  “Can she do that?”

  “Not easily. She’s new at it, got all wound up about little Dominic. She’s making a heck of a fuss. I guess Child Services will have to pull him out, place him in a different home, and that’s a shame. It’s hard on Rosalie. She’s a lousy mother, but she adores Dominic.”

  “That’s going to throw Rosalie right off the deep end.” Not that Rosalie’s needs outweighed Dominic’s. But the decision reminded Jeanie too strongly of the old question posed to many heartbroken men. Which should we save, the mother or the child?

  Mackie’s mouth twisted, acknowledging the truth of the remark. “But we do have successes, Jeanie, that’s the big thing. I’m so glad Ricardo Cervantes agreed to come. He used to be really big in the gang, high up in the pecking order. Same gang as Quinto and Tonio, up in Portland. He’s Quinto’s brother, you know. He got the rug pulled out from under him and turned himself around. He’s at a big retail operation now, on the junior management track. They just love him to death. Works long hours, conscientious—all that and bilingual, it’s hard to beat.”

  The door sprang open, and a young man strode in the room. Han Solo, thought Jeanie, only Hispanic. He wore that same engaging grin, the sense of adventure, as he coursed through the life on his own cock-eyed mission.

  Quinto and Tonio sprang up. “Hey man, good to see you, homeboy,” Tonio said, his eyes shining.

  “Right on, looking good. How about you, Flaco, hanging in there? You still fit your nickname! You’re as skinny as ever. How’s the artist? Whoa, is that your latest? Old Maldonado’s face, right there on the paper. Want to hang it up? We can throw darts at it, huh, whatcha think?” Ricardo caught Quinto’s head under his arm, and knuckled it. Quinto yelped in happy protest. Laughing, Ricardo shoved him away.

  Brynna and Rosalie orbited the trio. Brynna actually looked attractive, as a brief animation lit her discontented face. Quinto and Tonio cleared tables out of the way. Dillon watched with detached interest, as though it were a television show. Sorrel’s glance recorded the presence of each of the young men -- Ricardo, Dillon, Tonio, and Quinto -- and slid back to Ricardo. Her shoulders tensed. She seemed to be waiting for something.

  Ricardo grinned at Mackie. “It’s like coming home again,” he said. Mackie threw a hand into the air. Ricardo grabbed it and swatted her on the shoulder. “Hey lady, you do good work.”

  “Did good work with you anyway. This is Jeanie. She replaced Sarah.”

  “Good to see you.” Ricardo didn’t offer to shake hands, but his open grin and sharp nod served the same purpose. “How’s my bro doing?”

  “Quinto’s doing great,” said Jeanie warmly. “It’s a long way,” she added, “through all five tests, but he’s plugging away at it. One down, four to go.”

  “Cool.” Ricardo raised an eyebrow at Quinto. “Which one?”

  “Social Studies,” said Quinto proudly. “Executive, Legislative, and Judicial.”

  “Right on, way to go. So Mackie, what’s the drill? Haven’t done none of these motivational speeches before. Listened to plenty of them though.” Ricardo glanced around the room, spotted Dillon sitting in his corner, and ambled towards him. He turned a chair backwards and sat down, resting his elbows on the back. Ricardo noted the cell phone in Dillon’s pocket. His gaze dropped to Dillon’s ankle. “House arrest?”

  “Nope. Off it, a month ago.”

  “Lost your jewelry, huh?” The wry comment referred to the locator bracelet, worn on the ankle, which pinpointed an offender’s location on a twenty-four hour basis. “Congrats,” he said. “Been there, done that. All of it.”

  The two regarded each other as the others dragged up chairs. Dillon dropped the headphones on the table, angled his chair towards Ricardo, and sat back, arms crossed over his chest.

  Ricardo seemed to withdraw. “The gang was good to me,” he said in a low voice. “Home wasn’t so good. Quinto can tell you if he wants, I won’t. You can guess, usual stuff: Mom on the stuff, no Dad that I could see. But the gang, that was good. I had a place to belong, people to back me up.” His voice dropped further. “Guys I really cared about, you know.” He glanced around, meeting one look after another. “Only, the gang, it’s a dead end.”

  Ricardo slipped into a natural cadence, the swing in his speech like Tonio’s, but with higher hills and lower valleys. “You got to get out of there, to have a good life. You don’t got to leave your friends. What you gotta do, you gotta drag ‘em along with you. That’s what I’m trying to do here.” He nodded at Tonio, and cuffed Quinto on the shoulder. “Detention facility is the pits. You know, you’ve been there, right? Prison’s worse. The older you get, the more they shove you into the adult courts. And no matter how much I love my homeboys, I ain’t going to spend the rest of my life in an eight-by-ten cell staring at ‘em. ‘Sides, they don’t stick you with your homeboy, you know what I’m saying?”

  Dillon snorted. “That’s the fuckin’ truth,” he said. “Talk to my Dad, he’ll tell you.”

  Ricardo nodded. “Once I was in the Dandridge craphouse, like my bro here, I got to thinking it through. I seen it, then. It’s one side or the other. Me, I want a nice car, a nice house, and money enough to go party when I feel like it. I don’t want to be watching the door, keeping my head down, wondering who’s coming through next. Get it? Maldonado, the son-of-a-bitch—”

  Quinto let out a laugh and stifled it, with a guilty look at Mackie. Mackie flipped her hand, dismissing it. He relaxed.

  “He done a good thing along with all the shit. He hooked me up with Mackie there. Mackie got me a couple jobs, and when I got my GED, she called a buddy or two in retail, and got me in with a national department store. I do promotional stuff, community relations, advertising layout, like that.”

  “They’re real happy with him,” Mackie confirmed. “Speaking Spanish, especially. Of course, he had to clean it up first, and drop the cuss words.” Mackie and Ricardo grinned at each other, old friends.

  The door swung open, and a burly man put his head through the door, wearing a hesitant smile. He was a homely-looking guy, his coarse black hair sticking out from under a baseball cap. His big, broad face wore the familiar crumple of the outdoorsman, with a sag around the eyes from squinting in sunlight.

  Quinto jumped out of his seat, his face alight. “Mr. Rivera! You come to get me? Let me go back to work now! Huh?”

  “Hi, Quinto.” Laughter shot through the booming voice. “Hey, who’s that I see?” At Mackie’s welcoming wave, Danny strode into the room, exuding energy.

  Ricardo grinned and held out his hand. “Danny Rivera, hey, like old times. Good to see you, bud. Quinto told me you got s
tuck with him. Still into the mentorship deal, huh?”

  Danny Rivera pumped his hand. “I see Mackie pulled in our favorite success story. Quinto tells me you’re hot stuff these days, Ricky.” He glanced at the others, nodding to each. His smile faded a little. “Hey, Dillon, doing okay, are you?” Dillon examined him, cold-faced.

  Quinto romped around them, an eager puppy with muddy paws. “So, am I back on the crew? Huh, huh? God, I’m sick of the House, let me come back, okay? I do good there, you know I do, I’m a good worker.”

  “You’re a good worker, Quinto. Even Bryce said so.” Danny’s face sagged. “God, what a thing.”

  “Mr. Wogan?” said Quinto respectfully. “How’s he doing, huh?”

  “Yeah,” said Mackie. “Sit down, Danny, tell us how Bryce is getting along. Ricardo, Bryce Wogan’s the foreman at Danny’s site. He got hurt, pipe bomb left at the site last Saturday. Touch and go, there, for a while, but last I heard, they thought he’d make a comeback.”

  “Well, he’s a tough bugger,” Danny said. “If anyone can, he will. It’ll be tough, though. He lost three fingers on his right hand, and his right eye too. Gonna be a lot of scars, mess up his good looks. It could have been a hell of a lot worse. You know pipe bombs, the blast goes every which way. The worst of it went the other way, took a chunk out of the truck. Bryce was damned lucky. Old Bryce, I still can’t believe it. He says he’ll be back on the job, but I don’t know.” Danny looked bleak. Jeanie followed his thought without effort. Construction work with half a hand, and one eye. “He’ll be in rehab for a long time.”

  “Rehab?” said Rosalie, frowning. “Like, for drugs?”

  “Physical therapy, and like that. He’s got to learn to do stuff all over again, because his hand won’t work right.”

  “Oh,” said Rosalie, uncomprehending.

  “But you’re still working, right?” said Quinto. “So I can come back!”

  “Well, that’s why I came. I’m having a little trouble, going to have to work on the new foreman a little. After the pipe bomb, he’s a little nervous about mentorship.”

  “But I wouldn’t. Hurt a guy? I never, you just ask anybody.”