“The worker who gave me these reports, she remembered your brother.”
“Really?” Amanda looked up.
“She told me about a custodian who worked there. Said he wanted to adopt him.”
20
Ralph stopped the social worker outside. He had been waiting weeks for her to come. The social workers were supposed to visit their charges once a month—twelve times a year—but Ralph knew with weather and illness and turnover, it was more like three or four times a year. Sometimes even less.
“Ma’am,” he said.
“Yes?” The woman looked tired. She carried a stack of files, and her eyes were red from the road.
“Are you the caseworker for Dennis Owen?”
“Dennis?” She checked the files in her hand. “Yes, I am.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She looked ready to move on.
“He’s a good boy, ma’am.”
“I’ll take your word for it. The last time I came, he wouldn’t speak to me.”
“You know how it is. The boys stop trusting the system.”
“I can’t change that.”
“I want to talk to you about him.”
She took in his battered boots, his dirty jeans. The stubble on his unshaved chin and the veins in his eyes.
“And you are?”
“I’m the custodian here. But I know the boys, ma’am. Dennis needs help.”
“He’s in the right place for it, then.”
“She— He needs a different kind of help, ma’am.”
“Martha King knows what she’s doing.”
There was a small edge of annoyance in her voice.
“I know that I’m just the custodian here, ma’am. But maybe... maybe you could look into what Martha is doing here. The treatment.”
The annoyance in her face turned to disbelief.
Ralph stopped. He knew talking to her wouldn’t do any good. He had tried talking to his caseworkers as a boy too. They did nothing.
She turned away.
“I want to adopt him,” he said.
“You’d like to what?”
“Adopt Dennis. Please.”
