IMPROVEMENTS VOTED FOR QUARRY ROAD
by Diana Tang
Observer reporter
Responding to a deadly accident that occurred after years of concern over pedestrian safety on Quarry Road, the Meigs County Council has approved the expenditure of $1.4 million on a stretch of that thoroughfare that runs through the Franklin Grove neighborhood. The vote, taken last week on December 2, was 5–2 in favor of improvements recommended by safety experts, including sidewalks, streetlights, crosswalks, and a crossing signal. The projects will be undertaken in cooperation with the State Highway Administration.
Last July, five-year-old Humphrey T. Danker was struck and killed by a minivan when he ran into the street while walking home with his teenage babysitter. Since then, residents of the leafy neighborhood have ramped up efforts to convince the county and the State Highway Administration to take action on a package of road improvements.
Construction is expected to start next March.
Let there be light. Light and sidewalks and all the rest.
I hear my cell phone vibrating, rattling on the kitchen counter. I’m at the kitchen table, reading the Observer and waiting for Adrian. He’s picking me up, and then we’re getting Becca and Justin and driving to the capital, about an hour away. We’ll be part of a group of US-2 members and friends delivering a petition and demonstrating against anti-immigration proposals the state legislature is considering. On the way home, we’re going to swing by Adrian’s restaurant—where they’re not quite done with the renovations—to see what a hot-spot-in-the-making looks like. We might even help with a little painting.
And yes, Justin is coming to the demonstration at the state assembly. He’s showing his face.
“It’s not like you’ll be wearing a sign saying ‘Hi, I’m an undocumented immigrant,’” I said when we talked about it.
“True,” he said.
“Like when you helped your mother at the hearing. Nothing happened to you because of that.”
“True.”
We talked after the meeting, though, about how exposed he felt there. He didn’t like that feeling. Justin didn’t want me to tell Becca about his status; I told him there was no way Becca wouldn’t connect the dots after his mother introduced herself as Gloria Padilla Folgar at the county council hearing. She knew him as Justin Folgar, and she just wouldn’t miss the connection. So he told Becca. Becca told Justin that although silence did not come to her naturally, she was capable of it and promised not to breathe a word to anybody. She swore on her future Pulitzer Prize, a vow she does not take lightly. Justin also said I could tell Adrian. I’m sure Adrian, with his great intuition, has figured out the link already as well. I’ll talk to him about it after today.
Justin still doesn’t know what he’ll be doing—leaving when his parents leave, staying behind and below the radar, staying behind and appealing to the immigration authorities. He went to an immigration law clinic, like I suggested, and they were nice—but super-busy. He doesn’t think they’ll have time for him anytime soon. He’s afraid he’ll just fall through the cracks there. Funny how when you want to be visible, that’s exactly when you become invisible.
The number on my phone’s display: it’s the Dankers’.
Oh, no.
“Hello, Danielle. This is Tom Danker.”
I don’t say anything.
“Danielle?”
“Yes—um, hi. Hi, Mr. Danker.”
This can’t be anything good.
“I heard you at the county council hearing,” he says.
Oh.
“You said some interesting things there,” he says.
Yes.
“Yes, you made some highly interesting comments,” he says.
This would be a little bit funny and little bit cute, hearing shades of Humphrey in Mr. Danker’s voice, only it isn’t because, after all, it’s Mr. Danker.
And if he heard me speak at the council hearing, then he now knows for sure what he always suspected: that I really am to blame for what happened to Humphrey. Excuse me; I’m trying to get away from the blame game. That I really am the cause of what happened to Humphrey.
“I’m sure you’ve heard about the vote on the safety improvements to Quarry Road,” Mr. Danker says.
I tell him I have.
“So now they have that out of their system—the neighbors. The Franklin Grove Board. The council.”
“Yes,” I say. “I guess that’s a good thing.”
“It’s what happens in these situations,” Mr. Danker says. “I don’t know if it’s good or bad.”
“No. I guess I don’t really know, either.”
“I wanted to tell you, though, that I was impressed by your testimony, Danielle. It took guts to accept responsibility.”
I’m waiting for him to tell me that thanks to my guts, thanks to my confession in front of two hundred people, I should look for a lawsuit against me in the mail. Only I don’t know—do you get a lawsuit in the mail? No, you get served with a lawsuit, right? Someone comes to your door, hands you a bunch of papers, and says something like, “You’ve been served!”
Mr. Danker has paused and seems to be waiting for me to say something.
“Oh—well—uh—”
“A ‘thank you’ will suffice,” he says. “I am paying you a compliment.”
“But I’m just so sorry, Mr. Danker. I feel—I just feel—”
“I know,” he says. “I know. But, Danielle, there’s one thing on which I don’t agree with you, and that is when you said that sometimes accidents just happen but Humphrey’s wasn’t one of them. In fact, it was indeed such an accident. You’re linking the terrible outcome to a chain of events for which you acknowledge responsibility—but still, you didn’t cause the accident. There were too many elements of causation for you to consider yourself truly at fault.”
He speaks like such a lawyer. It’s actually a little bit hard for me to follow him. But I do catch his drift.
“But what also impressed me about your testimony last month was your effort to call out attempts by others to turn our tragedy into something that they can use—especially the anti-immigration forces.”
Our tragedy. He called it our tragedy. Because he recognizes that it was mine, too, that I loved Humphrey, too? Or because he’s making clear that it’s his and Mrs. Danker’s only, and not mine to claim?
“Well—thank you,” I say.
We’re both quiet. This goes on for what feels like a long time.
“I know you cared for Humphrey very, very much,” Mr. Danker says finally.
“I loved Humphrey,” I say. “I really did.”
More silence.
“I also know that during your summer of babysitting for Humphrey, I may have occasionally been less than—gracious.”
I nod, as if nodding makes sense over the phone. He doesn’t continue right away. This man is not afraid of a pause.
“I was—distracted, to say the least. Of course you know about Clarice’s cancer.”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
“She contracted cancer at a young age—she was thirty-four the first time.”
“I didn’t know,” I say. “I didn’t know there were first and second times.”
“Yes. And a third time, this recent bout.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. She’s doing well. My point is, this was a difficult summer. I was distracted, and I fear I was not as kind as I could have been to you—”
“No, Mr. Danker, you were—”
“—or to my boy. Or to Humphrey.”
When Mrs. Danker became pregnant with Humphrey, he tells me, she was so happy. Mr. Danker had children from his previous marriage, but Mrs. Danker had no other children. She was just so happy. She’d already had cancer once. Getting pregnant was such a happy thing. Such a bonus.
They learned, though, that pregnancy would increase the risk of Mrs. Danker’s cancer coming back. Apparently, being pregnant can give you breast cancer. That’s overstating it. It’s more like, some types of cancers can be made worse, or triggered, by the tons of hormones you produce when you’re pregnant. According to Mr. Danker, Mrs. Danker’s doctors warned them of this. According to Mr. Danker, Mrs. Danker didn’t care. She wanted to have Humphrey. I suppose it’s more accurate to say she wanted to have a baby, and Humphrey turned out to be her baby. And then, during her pregnancy, they found that Mrs. Danker had breast cancer again.
“We could have had—we could have done something about the pregnancy. It was early enough. But my wife wanted this baby. She couldn’t have treatments for the cancer during the pregnancy; they’re too harmful to the baby. She knew the risks to herself, and she decided that the benefits outweighed them.”
And now the benefits are dead.
Mr. Danker doesn’t say that. But it’s true.
“After Humphrey was born, Clarice went through a whole battery of treatments, tough treatments. Then she was clear for five years. This latest cancer occurrence—her third—wasn’t shocking, because she had such a serious case. Still, we were surprised. And I felt very—very angry, for want of a better word.”
I think of the times that nosy old Doris Raskin hinted at all that Mr. and Mrs. Danker lost, risked, suffered, or otherwise went through relating to Humphrey. I didn’t get it. Now I do. But I still hate the way Mrs. Raskin made it sound like Humphrey was some terrible burden the Dankers took on.
“So, Danielle, this is all by way of background to say that I’m sure you were a fine babysitter to Humphrey, even if I wasn’t in any sort of condition to acknowledge it at the time. Moreover, as I said, you impressed me at the council meeting with your insistence on speaking truthfully and, I might even say, your passion for justice. I couldn’t help but notice that the young man who helped Mrs. Padilla Folgar out appeared to be a friend of yours.”
I don’t say anything.
“I saw him come up and hug you afterward. From the family resemblance, I would venture a guess that he is Mrs. Padilla Folgar’s son.”
I still don’t say anything. It is my turn to be comfortable with pauses.
“Perhaps you might communicate to him that I would like to offer my assistance, in terms of legal services. This would be on a pro bono basis, of course.”
Pro bono?
Before I can show my ignorance and ask what he means, Mr. Danker explains. “At no charge. Immigration law isn’t exactly my bread and butter, but I did argue a significant asylum case before the Supreme Court a couple of years ago. I think I could help.”
“Danny-girl? You in the kitchen?” It’s Adrian.
“Yeah,” I call out.
Adrian pokes his head in the kitchen and points at the watch on his wrist. “Sorry I’m late,” he mouths.
“Yeah?” Mr. Danker repeats.
“Oh, no, not ‘yeah’ to you!” I say. I would never express the affirmative that way to Thomas R. Danker.
“Danielle?” Mr. Danker says. “If I’m wrong about your friendship with this young man, or if you’re not comfortable getting involved, then forgive—”
“No, no, no. You’re not wrong. I’m comfortable. This is—I really appreciate—my brother just came, though, and we have to go if we want to be on time—”
I stammer for a few more half sentences. Somehow Mr. Danker deciphers what I’m saying, I agree that I’ll happily talk to Justin about his offer, I click off the call, I dance my brother around the kitchen, and we fly out the door.