Signs of Pain, page 2
Cherry quieted. Among the day-care group, a middle-age Latina with closely shorn hair came into her focus. Looks like me! she thought immediately. Sedentary on a church courtyard bench, the woman did not have Down Syndrome characteristics, but her utter stillness pointed to some other reason for supervision. On the same bench a dark-complected female client crammed index fingers into her ears, knees tightly hugged up against her chin, lower extremities encased within an ample orange-and-ochre-floral Kaftan.
Like a giant Russian nesting doll.
With the exception of one energetic young African American man twirling and dancing, the other clients were eerily motionless.
It’s like the sea-anemone habitat at the aquarium. Staring at the tableau of inertia made Cherry’s eyelids grow heavy.
She was suddenly startled out of her hypnotic state by an auto motor erupting from the alley, compounded by screeching wheels. The screech muted as Cherry saw the red Lexus park in the carport across the driveway.
Cherry fiercely concentrated on the church courtyard, to avoid meeting eyes with her old boss. Unfortunately, Dr. Sorin Robstone did not go directly to his VetBody office, instead crunching his fancy tassel-bouncing loafers across the untended gravelly asphalt. Robstone stooped down to peer with suspicion into Cherry’s open car window, phone adhered to the side of his head, into which he spoke loud pompous dude-isms.
Cherry silently gave him the finger, the contempt of which helped Sorin recognize her and back away, his face screwing up.
He pointedly shouted into the phone that he was checking out a “bum living in his car.”
“One fugly motherfucker,” Dr. Sorin said, strutting to his office building. “No doubt trash looking for a church handout.”
Cherry bit her tongue, mustering an air of coolness, though she stewed about the mutual hate between her and Dr. Sorin. It started when she held the job at his pet hospital right after she earned a BS in Animal Science. Cherry slapped the steering wheel, lamenting the loss of her youthful optimism, angrily recalling how the vet’s toxic work environment halted her career ambitions.
Back then, Cherry toiled in the exam rooms and tended to recovering pets, rotating as groomer, receptionist, and data entry/file clerk. Seeing that Cherry was strong, Dr. Sorin would carelessly instruct her to move boxes of files and old office furniture upstairs. Cherry would silently call him “Shitstone” and other names while fulfilling this risky task, as the rickety second floor of the 1900s-era structure was never renovated to code with electric lights. The only other exit in the dim room was a padlocked door supposedly closing off a separate storage-space business occupying the remainder of the building.
Conventionally handsome Sorin Robstone could have escaped from a hospital soap opera or The Love Boat TV series of yore with his beige hair and Palm Springs tan. He smiled through whitened teeth at clients he habitually kept waiting, dashing into the building carport in his Lexus LC, “the LC,” vanity license plate VBODYLC.
“Gonzo, clean the rims of the LC!” he would order another worker, whose name was really Gonzalo, to step well outside of his job description. Dr. Sorin, a title he insisted upon, did not bother to pronounce employee names beyond two syllables.
“Berry,” he would intentionally misaddress her in front of coworkers, “at home, do you have a brave or a squaw?” The vet would “wait” for an answer, flashing his pen light into Cherry’s eyes.
On Cherry’s last day of work, a sleazy male client named Sherm, decked out in tacky bling and a Morrisey pompadour, brought a chocolate brindle, unneutered male pit bull into the clinic. The dog had signs of fighting with scars and wounds around its face and neck. When Cherry went into the examination room to help hold the dog, the creature looked at her with a needy expression, to which Cherry reacted by getting in the dog owner’s face.
“You will relinquish this animal,” she said, sharply enunciating the words.
Maintaining his machismo in the confrontation, the dude laid $100 on the stainless-steel table. The dog sniffed at the bill. Cherry got even closer to the man, stepping on his feet, causing Sherm to lose balance and fall back slapstick-style onto the trash can.
It was then that Dr. Sorin finally entered the office, settling his scrutiny on the money. “Berry, help Sherm up now! What is going on?”
Cherry bellowed about the obvious signs of abuse on the pit, pointing at the bribe, fully expecting the vet to be on the side of the dog.
“Get out,” Dr. Sorin said, his hand resting on the $100 and slipping it into his lab-coat pocket. “Wait in my office.”
Clenching her fists, Cherry kicked the foot of the dog fighter, and stomped out. She did not go to Dr. Sorin’s office. Cherry noticed the dog’s chart still hanging on the door. She grabbed it, hustled to the employee locker room, gathered her things and left with the vet file, which had the dog fighter’s address.
Driving urgently, Cherry found Sherm’s house near the dead end of Mott Street. She went directly to the gate, devoid of BEWARE OF DOG sign. Nonetheless cautious, Cherry hopped up on the cinderblock wall, using it as a balance beam. Edging along, the backyard unfolded before her eyes while stressed-dog barking rang out. Against the opposite wall were a dozen crates and cages, about half containing dogs agitated by Cherry’s presence. In a corner were two stiff dog carcasses. Removing her phone from the scrubs pocket, Cherry took pictures of the morbid scene, including a concentration of dried-blood paw prints on the concrete patio, and a deep sink and hose hookup normally found in pet grooming facilities. Gymnastically, Cherry pivoted back to the front yard, onward into her car, racing to the animal control shelter.
At the shelter, Cherry showed the counter clerks the photos and made a report, even confessing to absconding with the client file. Eventually the animal welfare task force, with city police department backup, descended upon the house, cuffing Sherm at his front door.
The surviving canines were fostered with a rescue group. Sherm got the book thrown at him.
Cherry was officially terminated because she removed the file from VetBody. Dr. Sorin was certainly pissed that the animal cops investigated him about the matter, including the bribe.
“I have no recollection of any money,” was his statement to investigating task force officers. Dr. Sorin maintained that Cherry made a physical chaos in the room with Sherm, and he walked in later.
Sitting in her car a few yards from the place that doomed her work record and career aspirations, Cherry’s back muscles tensed. She sighed, relaxing slightly. Life’s not over. Cherry pondered the mutual dependency with Ida, how she transitioned to the role of her mother’s caregiver, resettling permanently into her childhood home. Despite the financial setback of the VetBody fiasco, Cherry was truly content and thankful her relationship with Ida was solid and everlasting.
Her irritation and bad recollections subsided. Taking a swig of cold coffee, Cherry refocused her eyes on the courtyard.
Paula! Cherry straightened to attention quick.
Hands holding a couple of fence pickets, the pregnant woman gaped into the car at Cherry, her face woebegone, needing something.
Soon a white Buick Regal sedan pulled into the church lot, parallel to Cherry’s car.
The driver was a white woman of middle age, red hair with white roots needing a touch-up. The casually work-attired lady exited her car with fatigued body language. She made her way to a steel door at the end of a building opposite the Errant Sheep bingo hall.
A doorbell was pressed. The door opened and a church attendant, not Helen, conferred with the red-haired woman, handing her a pen-chained clipboard.
“You know where to sign, Mrs. Frieberg.” Reclosing the door, the attendant left the woman outside.
“Who is she picking up?” Cherry said to herself, turning back to the courtyard, where the church attendant coaxed Paula away. The parking lot door reopened, Paula emerging and joining the red-haired guardian, Mrs. Frieberg.
Paula’s mom, Cherry thought. The hair sort of matches.
Mrs. Frieberg propelled her daughter by the hand into the sedan. The Buick pulled around and exited onto Shutter Street.
It’s getting late, Cherry thought.
Cherry pulled her Honda to the Tabernacle passenger loading zone. Jogging up to the hall entrance, Cherry motioned to her mom, taking another glance up to the front of the room.
She saw a Dutch door—Was that there before, or just installed?—the top half open. This partial opening revealed a day-care client being scolded by Helen, who shook a no-no finger in front of the small man’s elfin, bewildered face.
Cherry cringed at the sight, but swallowed the urge to protest. I’ll get Ida and Esther home first, then fantasize about cussing out that bitch.
5
Going through the motions of preparing dinner, Cherry’s midsection burned with torment. As the oven heated leftover chilaquiles with olives, she stared at the robin-egg-blue kitchen wall, unable to put Paula’s pregnancy out of her mind. Her brain also replayed the scene of icy Helen scolding the disabled man, the whole kettle of fish putting Cherry into an official restless funk. For years, she was prone to these kinds of doldrums, her sensitivity to others a detriment to her own mental health. At least I can admit that.
Her thoughts waded into a painful memory of a terrible episode, deflating her soul for months. While riding the city bus to high school, a mother and daughter came onboard; the girl had a tiny head. Microcephaly was her condition. A couple neighborhood homies, drunk and stupid, caused a scene, using a slur. Pinhead. Cherry sighed, remembering how enraged she became, how her friends Jill and Zinnia pulled her to exit the bus to avoid the police.
Stop thinking about that day! Cherry fanned her face with both hands.
6
Cherry glimpsed her blue-tinged reflection in the kitchen window while washing the supper dishes, thinking about old pals Jill and...
“Zinnia!” she said, perking up.
Ida called out to Cherry from the living room. “Is she here at the side door?”
“Sorry, Ida, she’s not. Just thinking out loud.”
“I’d love to see her—and Jill—anytime,” Ida said. “Her county job must keep her busy.”
“Technically Zinnia’s a social worker at the Department of Children and Family Services. And yes she is busy, but the hard work is paying off. She keeps getting honored. Plus, she and her fiancé Angie have their hands full with home improvement.”
“Is Angie black too?” Ida said.
“No. Angie’s white, and her family raises horses in Kentucky,” Cherry said. “Remember, Zinnia is also Choctaw and her mom is Mexican.”
“Well, tell her to visit! Jill too. Hope Jill’s staying out of trouble.”
Cherry waited for Zinnia in a deli near the county government building. Zinnia, tall and lanky, short natural hair, walked in, lifted a long arm up high, waving to Cherry.
“My treat!” Zinnia called across the eatery. “Gorgonzola Walnut Salad?”
Cherry gave two thumbs up, and Zinnia commandeered the lunch counter. In a blink, she was serving their mutual meals and settling into a booth seat.
Zinnia wasted no time. “Tell me.”
“How do support services work for developmentally disabled adults?”
“Oversight by state agency, with regional centers, where all sorts of services are coordinated. Why?”
“You know Ida plays bingo...”
“How is your mom?”
“She’d love you to visit,” Cherry said. “At one church where she plays bingo, there’s an adult day-care center for...”
“Dementia sufferers?”
“No, special ed...pardon. Special needs grownups.”
“Correction: grownups with special needs,” Zinnia said. “If it’s adults only, the organization, the church in this case, would be the vendor that offers the service, approved by the regional center, paid for by state funds.” Zinnia’s hand counted off each detail. “There’s a huge demand for more facilities. You have concerns?”
“One woman, with Down Syndrome, is pregnant.”
Zinnia chewed her salad, downed some water. “Do you know if she has family? Like they work while she’s at day care.”
“Yep, saw a motherly-looking woman pick her up.”
“How about a dad, or brother?”
Cherry shook her head. “The pregnancy situation is new to me,” she said. “I only noticed the day care last week.” Cherry scratched her head. “Something’s not right, obviously.”
“Give me the church info,” Zinnia said, providing Cherry a pen and index card from her crossbody bag, “and the pregnant woman’s name if you know it. I’ll make some calls.”
Cherry printed Errant Sheep Tabernacle’s address and PAULA on the card. “Thank you.” She pushed it over the table to Zinnia, who pocketed it.
7
Ida and Esther took a break from bingo, waiting on Social Security deposits, and in Ida’s case her Veteran Pension.
Cherry was feeding clothes into the Maytag when Zinnia called.
“The day-care service is in current standing with the regional office,” she said. “Participants have mild to moderate disabilities.”
“What about Paula?”
“Paula’s case is handled by Adult Services. All I can legally tell you,” Zinnia paused, “is they are aware she is pregnant and there is a plan.”
“Wow, so everyone, even Paula, will be okay?” Cherry said. “I hope she’s okay. Still it’s weird, the mysterious circumstances. What the fuck happened?”
“Even though it seems sad, Paula is on the radar, in the system. She’s got her mom.”
Cherry stayed quiet for a few moments. “Thanks, my friend, for investigating.”
“We’re overdue to chill out at Eve’s,” Zinnia said. “Let’s have some brews!”
“You got it,” said Cherry, trying to be enthusiastic, though a nugget of dread stayed lodged in her craw.
8
Cherry placed an appetizing dish of soft-boiled eggs and toast in front of her mother, a mug of java following suit. She joined Ida with her own identical breakfast at the dinette.
“Recently I noticed Errant Sheep operates an adult day care alongside the bingo games,” Cherry said.
Her mother waved a napkin open. “Poor babies. Honestly I don’t see much beyond my good-luck owls.”
“One chick is pregnant.”
“What?! No, are you sure?” Ida said. “Expecting? How could...? That’s, well, odd. But it’s none of our business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
Ida ate some egg, washed down with coffee. “Cherry, that is a delicate matter, very personal.”
“At this point it’s not very delicate,” Cherry said. “The woman’s swollen with child. No mystery there.”
“I’m uncomfortable with this topic.”
“Well, when I take you to bingo this afternoon, you can see for yourself how uncomfortable the pregnant woman with Down Syndrome seems,” Cherry said. “Something bad happened. We shouldn’t look the other way.”
Ida harrumphed into her mug.
From the Errant Sheep parking spot, Cherry walked her mother into the bingo games. Ida signed up and chose a seat, owl family arrayed on the table in size order.
Cherry sauntered to the window nearest Ida.
“She’s over there, napping on the bench,” Cherry said, staring at Paula in the courtyard, a few playground balls rolling near her feet. “Her name is Paula, if you are interested.”
Ida curtly nodded at her daughter, steadfastly preparing for the game ritual.
Cherry blew frustration out her lips, coming out like a raspberry.
“Okay,” Cherry said. “Enjoy your games.”
About three hours later, Cherry returned to the hall. Trudging through the threshold, she was despondent about being powerless in helping pregnant Paula, a mere few yards away. Furthermore, Cherry was prickly about her mom disregarding the issue...
Where’s Ida?
Cherry first saw only owls and an empty chair, her mother absent. A thorough scan of the hall found Ida at a window gazing into the courtyard, deep in a hushed conversation with a bingo volunteer. Cherry approached them.
“It’s been arranged to put the baby up for adoption,” the volunteer said. Suddenly aware of Cherry, the woman clammed up fast with an audible inhale, backing away defensively.
“You want me to collect the owls?” Cherry asked her mother.
“Please,” Ida said. “No wins. Too distracted.”
Cherry swept the flock into her camouflage cargo pant pocket, and the two left the building.
Ida flopped into the car seat, fogged with sadness.
“I’m sorry for being dismissive, Cherry,” Ida said. “You’re right to be concerned about the young woman.”
“I appreciate that, makes things better between you and me.” Cherry navigated the car in the direction of home. “Still, Paula being with child screws with my head.”
“The bingo volunteer offered some gossip,” Ida said.
“I heard ‘adoption’ for Paula’s baby.”
“Probably because the infant doesn’t have Down Syndrome,” Ida said, sighing. “I’d hate to think what would happen if it had impairment, what kind of future the baby would have in store. And what’s in store for Paula?”
“Exactly.”
“Father of the child is unknown.”
Back at their Meadowlark Lane house, Cherry dumped out the lucky owls on the teal-and-gold Formica dinette.
Dashing to the haven of her room, Cherry dove under her bed where she kept a stack of partially used spiral notebooks. She grabbed the top one with Peppermint Patty on the cover, then a pen and glasses from her desktop.
Sitting at the dinette, round-frame readers on her nose, Cherry jotted down the various details surrounding Paula, including what Ida revealed and Zinnia’s professional summary.
