At the Center. Dorothy Van Soest

Paul and Linda Mellon, right? So, was Anthony Little Eagle the first foster child ever placed in their home, Ms. Jensen?”

      “No.”

      “How many other children have been placed with them?”

      “The Mellons have been foster parents for quite some time.”

      “How long, exactly? How many children?”

      “Since the late 1990s, I think. I don’t know how many children they’ve fostered. I’d have to look that up.”

      “And do you know if any other children have been injured or died while in their care?”

      I clenched my fists. Now he had gone too far. Yes, I felt responsible. Yes, I felt guilty. Yes, I was asking myself if there was something I could have done to prevent Anthony’s death. But to insinuate that other children had been injured, let alone died, in the same home? That was plain unfair. And was he actually accusing the Mellons of murder? I sat up in my chair and looked straight at him, daring him to look at me, to just this once for God’s sake look at me. But he didn’t. I was beginning to suspect that the man wasn’t as principled as I’d thought. That he might in fact just be full of himself, like so many men I’d known in my life.

      “I can assure you, Mr. Harrell, that if any child had been harmed while in the Mellon home before, our agency would not have placed any other children with them.”

      “I see.” He flipped through the pages of his legal pad until he found what he was looking for. “Then perhaps you can explain,” he said, running his finger down the page, “the incident that occurred in that home in 2000.”

      A bead of sweat was making its way down my left temple. What incident was he referring to? Was it possible he already knew I’d been on leave in 2000, that I’d been arrested for driving with a blood alcohol level of .2 and would have lost my job if I hadn’t checked myself into a treatment center? Surely he didn’t know about the mornings I’d come to work late and hungover, about the bottle of wine I’d kept in the bottom left-hand drawer of my desk. I reached for a tissue, blew my nose, and wiped the perspiration from my upper lip. Harrell was studying his notes. I wondered if he was going to use my history against the agency, if he planned to make my drinking part of a series about the failings of the foster care system. Well, it wasn’t too late to stop him. I looked at the clock on my desk and feigned surprise.

      “I have another appointment,” I said, with a smile I intended to appear apologetic. “I’m afraid our time is up.”

      “Here it is,” he said. “A foster child, a five-year-old girl, was injured and taken by the Mellons to the hospital on June 8, 2000.”

      “I’m sorry,” I said, no longer able to keep my voice from trembling. “I wasn’t here then, but if there was any suspicion that foster parents were responsible for a child’s injury, I can assure you that there would have been an investigation.”

      “So you assure me that no child ever came to any harm at the hands of Mr. or Mrs. Mellon in the past but you provide me with no evidence, is that what you’re saying, Ms. Jensen?”

      “I can assure you...I mean, I’m not aware of any other accident.”

      “Incident,” he said. “Any other incident.”

      “Mr. Harrell, I want to find out what happened to Anthony Little Eagle as much as you do, believe me.” I found myself experiencing a disturbing need for him to understand that I wasn’t the enemy, that I wasn’t your typical bureaucrat who didn’t understand issues of privilege and oppression. Couldn’t he tell that I was different?

      “And you, of course, can assure me of that, too.” He tore a page from his legal pad and scribbled something, crumpled it up, and dropped it on the floor. Then he put his pen and legal pad away and closed his briefcase with a loud click.

      His quiet hostility left a bitter taste on my tongue. I watched him glance around my office one more time. My head grew heavy. I rested my elbows on the desk and held my chin in the palms of my hands. Then I saw him looking at the picture on my desk of me sitting on a big rock.

      “That was taken in Machu Picchu in the 1980s,” I said, glad to have something to say. “It was an incredible experience to be there and imagine the beauty of the city built on those rocks.”

      “The city where they sacrificed small, perfect children to gain the favor of the gods,” he said.

      His words jolted me back to my trip to Peru. I heard the voice of the Spanish tour guide describing the beauty of a ten-year-old child whose father had offered her to the Inca emperor as a Capacocha sacrifice, telling us that there were skull fractures on the backs of the heads of most of the sacrificial mummies.

      I looked at Harrell. “I’m devastated about what happened,” I said. “I’ll do everything I can to find out what happened.”

      “I’m glad to hear it, Ms. Jensen,” he said, standing. Then he turned and walked out of my office.

      I slammed the photograph facedown on my desk, and all I could see was Anthony Little Eagle, his skull fractured, lying dead on the concrete patio below the balcony of his room.

      TWO

      I stared at the crumpled-up piece of paper on the floor. I was strangely off-balance, so much so that I had to face the truth: after five years of recovery, right now I wanted to pick up a drink more than ever before. My legs were shaky as I crouched down, my fingers tingly as I picked the paper up by its edges. I was about to throw it into the wastebasket but something stopped me. I unfolded the note. “If you’re serious about wanting to help, give me a call. 819-050-2301.”

      The message was obviously intended for me, so why didn’t he just say it? And what did he mean if I was serious about wanting to help? Hadn’t I already told him I was?

      “Well, Mr. Harrell,” I said out loud, as if he were still there, “if you need proof that I care, then I guess I’ll just have to give it to you.”

      I sat down at my computer and typed in the password to access the electronic case files for all the foster homes that were my social workers’ responsibility. I typed in Paul and Linda Mellon and the words Record Unavailable came up on the screen. I figured their case record must be among those not yet converted to an e-file. But when I went to the records room for the hard copy, it had already been signed out to our agency attorney. I went back to my office and called Brion Kacey.

      “I have to see you,” I said. “I’ll be right up.”

      “I’m sorry, Sylvia,” he said. “I’m about to leave for a meeting, but I can see you first thing tomorrow morning.”

      “It’ll only take a minute, Brion.”

      I hung up and rushed out the door, holding up the hem of my skirt as I took the steps two at a time up to the third-floor administrative suite. I had to see for myself that all agency procedures had been followed with the Mellon case. A life or death need to disprove J. B. Harrell’s allegation that Anthony Little Eagle’s death might not have been an accident threatened to overwhelm me. It was irrational, out of proportion, and somehow out of my control.

      The door to Brion Kacey’s huge corner office was open. I leaned against the doorframe to catch my breath. He was huddled at the far end of his highly polished mahogany conference table with Betsy Chambers, the agency administrator and my supervisor. Today, as usual, Brion was wearing a black suit, fresh white shirt, and red bow tie, always at the ready to appear in court. He sat up straight when he saw me. I thought it might just be my imagination until I strode over to the table and saw his eyebrows draw together. He closed the folder he and Betsy had been looking at and crossed his arms on top of it.

      “Are you okay, Sylvia?” Betsy asked.

      “Is that the Mellon case file?” I asked.

      “It’s a terrible thing,” Brion said. “A tragic accident.”

      “I want to read it,”