I think Mom is nuts.
When the lady from Children and Family Services stops talking to Mrs. Trent, she gets in her car and drives away. Then Mom has this frantic phone conversation with Aunt Ethel, and the second she hangs up, she starts barking orders at me: “Robert, clean up your room. Put all your clothes away. Put all your books back on the shelves. Pack up your trumpet and put it on your closet shelf. Get your toothbrush out of the bathroom and put it…put it with the cleaning supplies under the sink. And toss your towel from this morning down the back stairs. Make your bed and be sure your electric blanket is turned off. Make your room look like no one has been there for days. Now, move it!”
And then she runs into the kitchen and starts washing the breakfast and lunch dishes like a maniac, doing them by hand and stacking them away instead of putting them into the dishwasher.
I’m halfway done with my room when Mom yells up the back stairs at me, “Bobby? Think carefully—did you send any e-mails or AOL messages since Wednesday?”
I think, then holler back, “Nope. I talked to Alicia on the phone a couple of times, but that’s it.”
“Good. As soon as you’re done, I want you to run down to the laundry room and get all the rest of your clothes. Fold the dirty ones neatly and put them away in your drawers too. Hurry!”
“Hey, Mom, really, lighten up a little.”
“Bobby, I don’t want any discussion. If I’m wrong about this, then that’ll be wonderful. But for now, keep working!”
I think Mom is crazy—until forty minutes later when the lady comes back. Her blue sedan stops at the curb, and then two Chicago cop cars pull up behind her. Three officers get out, two men and a woman.
Ms. Pagett is at the door with the officers, and after Mom reads the search warrant, she walks into the den and calls Dad and then our lawyer, Charles Clarke. Mr. Clarke arrives in five minutes, but he doesn’t do anything except read the warrant and tell Mom that everything’s in order.
“What’s this all about, Emily?”
Ms. Pagett is standing right there, so Mom says, “Nothing, Charlie. It’s about nothing, and I’ll call you later, okay? Thanks a lot for coming so quickly.” And the lawyer shakes his head, smiles, and leaves.
Ms. Pagett is enjoying herself. This is round two, and Mom is getting beat up good. The three police officers fan out. Two go up, and one stays down with the social worker.
I follow the man and woman who go upstairs. They open the doors to all the rooms, figure out right away which one is mine, and then go in.
And I’m glad Mom is so smart. She called this one right. My room looks empty, cleared out. They open the closet, they open every drawer. They look under the bed.
I’m out in the hall, watching. They’re being careful, not trashing the place, not making a mess. Which is good. My room’s neater than it’s been in about three years, and I don’t want to have to clean it up again.
They go to the hall bathroom. No toothbrush, no wet towels. There’s a comb by the sink, but they don’t focus on it.
They check every room, every closet, every cabinet. They open every drawer. They shine their long black flashlights into every space big enough to hide a kid about my size. They trudge up the attic stairs, poke around, and then track dark dust onto the hall carpet when they come down again.
When they’re done, I follow them down the back stairs to the kitchen, but I don’t go on down to the basement with them. In the den, Mom is sitting at the desk, doing her best to ignore the suit woman. But the lady is pushing.
“Mrs. Phillips, I must insist that you tell me where in Florida you have sent your son. Failure to freely offer information will not be viewed favorably.”
Mom isn’t even trying to smile now. “The terms of your search warrant are quite clear. You have permission to make a superficial survey of the premises in order to see if my son is here, which, as I had already told you, he is not. It is you, in collusion with some other misguided souls, who have chosen to make this a formal matter, and create this legal situation. As far as I am concerned, however, this is still a family matter over which you and the state of Illinois have no jurisdiction whatsoever. I am not under any obligation to tell you one thing more. I already told you that he has gone to Florida to stay with a relative while he recovers from a recent illness. We are withdrawing him from school, which we have every right to do. And I have nothing more to say.”
“Maybe you can comment on this. Your neighbor, Mrs. Trent, tells us that while you and your husband were in the hospital, a person referred to as Aunt Ethel was here taking care of Bobby. Is this true?”
Mom’s annoyed about Mrs. Trent getting involved, but she says, “Yes. That is correct.”
“And is this the same aunt Ethel whose telephone number is on the list on the wall by your kitchen telephone?”
After a pause Mom says, “Yes.” She’s mad at herself for not taking that list off the wall.
I can see where Ms. Pagett is going, and so can Mom.
“Since I notice that this aunt Ethel is the only person on your list with a south Florida area code, I know you won’t mind if we give her a call, just to see if Bobby is there. And if he does happen to be there, then my agency will exercise our reciprocal child protection agreements with the state of Florida. All that means is that an officer will stop by your relative’s home to confirm that Bobby is indeed there, and that he is all right. Remember, that is our only aim here, Mrs. Phillips. We are only interested in answering one basic question: Is Bobby getting proper care, and is he well.”
Mom is done talking. She stands up and looks out the tall window. Then she picks up the remote control for the shelf radio, punches it, and the room fills up with graceful music, Mozart or something. Ms. Pagett starts to say something else, but Mom is pushing the volume button. The small radio has a big voice.
The woman police officer comes to the door of the den and talks into Ms. Pagett’s ear. Ms. Pagett turns to Mom. She has to shout above the sound of a dozen violins and a harpsichord. “We’ve concluded our search. Just for the record, Mrs. Phillips, if Bobby is not located and talked to by someone associated with my department within the next five days, then this becomes a police matter. Bobby will be classified as a missing juvenile under suspicious circumstances. You and your husband may be held liable, and in that case you will both face criminal charges. Thank you.” Then she turns and leaves.
I know my mom swears once in a while. Like if she burns her hand on a pan, or if her computer freezes when she’s trying to print something. But when that social worker and the cops leave the house, Mom cuts loose. The A word? She shouts it. The B word? Mom shakes her fist and hisses that one. She stomps around the first floor of the house, legs stiff, face red, and she works her way through the entire alphabet of swear words, including some stuff I’ve never heard anyone say before.
Deep down, I guess I always suspected Mom was a real human being. But I didn’t know she was this real. And I didn’t know anyone could get this angry. And I’m glad she’s on my side.
When she quiets down, she slumps onto the couch in the TV room and puts her face in her hands, breathing hard. I sit down too, and she feels the couch move. She drops her hands and looks in my direction. She smiles weakly and says, “Sorry I lost my temper. Not very ladylike.”
I don’t know what to say. I wish she could see me, because then all I’d need to do is nod and smile a little. But I have to say something, so I say, “They deserve it.”
Mom shakes her head, “No, they don’t, not really, and that’s what’s so frustrating. These aren’t bad people. They’re just doing their job, and they sincerely believe that a boy is missing, that something is wrong.”
“Well, something is wrong—it’s just not what they think.”
Mom nods. “Right.”
“So, what happens now?”
Mom shrugs. “You heard the lady. She said we have five days to show them that our son is alive and well.”
“But what if I stay this way and we can’t figure it out—I mean, we’ve already had three weeks! What if five more days isn’t enough?”
“Then your dad and I will have to deal with the law.”
“Can they arrest you?”
“If they can stomp in here with three police officers and paw through our house, what do you think?”
Before I can answer, Dad comes in the side door and calls, “Em? Bobby?”
“In here, Dad.”
First thing, Dad gives Mom a hug, and then takes a long look into her face. “So it was that bad, eh?”
Mom nods. “Yes, it’s not good. The case officer’s building up evidence that Bobby is missing, and she plans to send someone to Florida to bang on Aunt Ethel’s door, and they’ll no doubt have a search warrant.”
I cut in, “Guys, you know, it might be time to just tell them what’s really going on. You haven’t done anything wrong. This is my problem, and they’re trying to stick the blame on you.”
Dad turns his head toward my voice and says, “I know what you’re saying, Bobby, and your mom and I appreciate it, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. If we invite the state to step in, they’ll jump in with both feet. The health authorities would have a field day with this. They’d get hold of you, and they’d never let go. They’d categorize your condition, and then just take over—probably treat it as a contagious disease…or maybe a disability.”
That stops me cold. I have a disability. The way I am, it’s like being paralyzed or—or blind.
Dad continues. “They’d take you to a hospital or a research facility, and God knows how we’d ever get you back. And I’m not going to let them break up our family.”
“But if they arrest my mom and dad, that’s breaking up the family too. And I bet I’d like a research facility a lot more than you’d like the Cook County Jail.”
And right away I see I shouldn’t have said that, about the Cook County Jail. Because this jolt of fear shoots across their faces, both of them. And it’s not like when I was at home alone, feeling afraid of the dark. This is a real threat. The Cook County Jail is a bad place, and I see the fear settle into Dad’s eyes, watch it pull at the corners of Mom’s mouth.
Looking at their faces, I know I’m not going to let them get arrested and dragged off to jail. That’s not going to happen, no matter what. Not to my mom and dad.
The lady said we have five whole days. A lot can happen in five days.
It’ll have to.