CHAPTER 33

The heart of a human creature is like quicksilver, now here, now there.

Martin Luther

“Hey, Dick, hey, Harry,” said Tom Duck, reaching into his coat pocket, “looky here, what I got.”

It was a bottle of cherry brandy, half gone. Tom slapped it down on the table in the kitchen of the house on Kansas Street.

Dick snickered. “The boss wouldn’t like that. Neither would his wife.”

“They’re out,” said Tom. “So it’s all right. Let’s just finish it up, okay? In honor of Harry’s being here today, right?”

“Hold it,” said Dick. “Harry ain’t supposed to have any. He’s got a two-year AA badge, like he’s working up to three.”

Harold Oates closed his eyes to shut out the sight of the bottle. “What do you think I am, a fool?”

“Well, okay,” said Tom. “You neither, Dick? Well, all right, but I got something else to show you. Come here.” Tom led the way into the hall and opened the door of the coat closet. It was jammed with clothing donated by charitable organizations and churches.

“Back here,” said Tom, “see what I got back here.” He held aside the hanging coats and leaned over a box of blankets. “See this here case of beer? Whole case. Stranger brought it to the house. Never saw him before in my life. Gawd! So any time you want a beer, help yourself. Share and share alike, right?” Tom’s happy generosity was his witness to the kindly nature of the whole world.

They all heard the sound of a key in the front door. “Oh, Gawd,” said Tom. Harry threw a blanket over the case of beer.

But it was only another resident, Dora O’Doyle. “Hello, Harry,” she said. “Sorry I’m late.”

Oates grinned at her. “Go right upstairs, dear. I’ll be right up.”

“Jesus,” said Dick, “the boss ain’t going to like that either.”

The house on Kansas Street was a shelter for homeless people. Actually it was more than a shelter, it was a permanent home for seven chosen lodgers under the ultimate control of the Shelter Resource Unit of the Housing Division of the Massachusetts Public Welfare Department, a tax-supported institution on Tremont Street.

There were many ribs in the vast umbrella of the Commonwealth’s concern with social welfare. Another was the Department of Social Services, in which Marilynne Barker held sway.

This afternoon she was once again holding the fort.

The phone call was from a certain Fortescue Biggs, who claimed to be an employee in another agency, the Office for Children, Region Six. “We’ve had a complaint about a foster family,” he said, “from a neighbor who witnessed the beating of a child.”

“Oh? What foster family was that?”

“That’s just it. The person hung up without giving the relevant information. All we know is the name of the child—”

“Don’t tell me, I know. It’s Charley Hall.”

“That’s right, that’s the name.” Fortescue Biggs’s voice faltered. “I—uh—how did you know?”

Mrs. Barker sighed and told him he was an imposter. “I’m going to call Region Six right now and tell them you’re making false inquiries in their name.”

“Oh, fuck you,” said Fortescue Biggs, and hung up.