One Door Away From Heaven

Chapter 35

THE RECEPTION AREA made no concessions to comfort, and in fact the bleakness of the Department of Motor Vehicles would have seemed cheerful by comparison. Only five people waited to see caseworkers, but the lounge offered just four chairs. Because the other four women present were either older than Micky or pregnant, she remained on her feet. In recognition of the power crisis, the air was cooled only to seventy-eight degrees. Except for the smell, which included no trace of vomit, she felt as though she were in a holding pen at a jail.

With a faint note of disapproval, the receptionist explained to Micky that complaints were usually initiated over the telephone and that it was particularly unwise to arrive without an appointment, as this would necessitate a long wait. Micky assured the woman that she was prepared to wait — and reassured her twice again when, during the next forty minutes, the receptionist returned to the subject.

Unlike doctors' offices, this place offered no turn-of-the-century magazines. Reading material consisted of government pamphlets as engagingly written as computer manuals composed in Latin.

When she came out to greet Micky, the first available caseworker introduced herself as F. Bronson. The use of an initial seemed odd, and in F's office, the plaque on her desk proved only slightly more revealing: F. W. BRONSON.

In her late thirties, attractive, F wore black slacks and a black blouse, as though in denial of the season and the heat. She'd hastily pinned up her long brown hair to get it off her neck, and from this impromptu do, a few stray locks dangled limp and damp.

The posters in her oven-warm office made the small room seem even warmer: pictures of cats and kittens, black and calico, Siamese and Angora and cute whiskery specimens of no clear breed, scampering and lounging languorously. These furry images lent a claustrophobic feeling to the space and seemed to pour feline warmth into the air.

Seeing her visitor's interest in the posters, F said, "In this work, I deal with so many ignorant, cruel, stupid people. sometimes I need to be reminded the world is full of creatures better than us."

"I certainly understand that," said Micky, although she didn't half understand. "I guess for me it would be dog posters."

"My father liked dogs," said F, indicating that Micky should sit in one of the two client chairs in front of the desk. "He was a loudmouthed, self-centered skirt-chaser. I'll go with cats every time."

If dogs as an entire species earned F's undying distrust because her old man liked them, how easy would it be to get on her wrong side with even an innocent remark? Micky counseled herself to adopt the deferent demeanor she'd learned — not easily — to use with authorities.

Settling into the chair behind her desk, F said, "If you'd made an appointment, you wouldn't have had to wait so long."

Pretending she'd heard courteous concern in the woman's remark, Micky said, "No problem. I have a job interview at three, nothing till then, so I have plenty of time."

"What kind of work do you do?"

"Customizing software applications."

"Computers are ruining the world," said F, not contentiously, but with a note of resignation. "People spend more time interacting with machines, less time with other people, and year by year we're losing what little humanity we have left."

Sensing that it was always best to agree with F, which would require Micky to explain her work with demon machines, she sighed, feigned regret, and nodded. "But it's where the jobs are."

F's face pinched with disapproval, but instantly cleared. Although the expression had been subtle and brief, Micky read into it the opinion that defendants at the Nuremberg trials had similar excuses for working the gas chambers at Dachau and Auschwitz.

"You're concerned about a child?" F asked.

"Yeah. Yes. The little girl who lives next door to my aunt. She's in a terrible situation. She—"

"Why isn't your aunt making the complaint?"

"Well, I'm here for both of us. Aunt Gen isn't—"

"I can't approve an inquiry on hearsay," F said, not harshly, almost regretfully. "If your aunt has seen things that cause her to be concerned about this girl, she'll need to speak to me directly."

"Sure, of course, I understand. But, see, I live with my aunt. I know the girl, too."

"You've seen her being abused — struck or shaken?" * "No. I haven't seen any physical abuse taking place. I've—" ii; "But you've seen evidence? Bruises, that sort of thing?"

"No, no. It isn't like that. No one's beating her. It's—"

"Sexual abuse?"

"No, thank God, Leilani says that's not the case."

"Leilani?"

"That's her name. The girl."

"They usually say it's not the case. They're ashamed. The truth comes out only through counseling."

"I know that's often the way it goes. But she's different, this kid. She's tough, very smart. She speaks her mind. She'd tell me if there were sexual abuse. She says there isn't. and I believe her."

"Do you see her regularly? Do you speak to her?"

"She came to our place for dinner last night. She was—"

"So she's not being confined? We're not talking about abuse by cruel restraint?"

"Restraint? Well, maybe we are, in a way."

"In what way?"

The room was insufferably warm. As in many modern high-rises, for reasons of efficient ventilation and energy conservation, windows did not open. The system fan was on, but it produced more noise than air circulation. "She doesn't want to be in that family. No one would."

"None of us gets to choose our family, Ms. Bellsong. If that alone constituted child abuse, my caseload would quadruple. By cruel restraint, I mean has she been shackled, locked in a room, locked in a closet, tied to a bed?"

"No, nothing like that. But—"

"Criminal neglect? For instance, is the girl suffering from an untreated chronic illness? Is she underweight, starved?"

"She's not starved, no, but I doubt her nutrition's the best. Her mother's apparently not much of a cook."

Leaning back, raising her eyebrows, F said, "Not much of a cook? What am I missing here, Ms. Bellsong?"

Having slid forward on her chair, Micky sat in a supplicatory posture that felt wrong, that made it seem as though she were trying to sell her story to the caseworker. She straightened up, eased back. "Look, Ms. Bronson, I'm sorry, I'm not going about this at all well, but I'm really not wasting your time. This is a unique case, and the standard questions just don't get to the heart of it."

Disconcertingly, while Micky was still talking, F turned to the computer on her desk, as if impatient, and began to type. Judging by the speed at which her fingers flew over the keys, she was familiar with this satanic technology. "All right, let's open a case file, get the basic facts. Then you can tell me the story in your own words, if that'll be easier, and I'll condense it for the report. Your name is Bell-song, Micky?"

"Bellsong, Michelina Teresa." Micky spelled all three names.

F asked for an address and telephone. "We don't disclose any information about the complainant — that's you — to the family we're investigating, but we've got to have it for our records."

When the caseworker requested it, Micky also presented her social-security card.

After entering the number from the card, F worked with the computer for a few minutes, pausing repeatedly to study the screen, entirely involved with the data she summoned, as if she'd forgotten that she had company.

Here was the dehumanizing influence of technology, which she'd so recently decried.

Micky couldn't see the screen. Consequently, she was surprised when F, still focused on the computer, said, "So you were convicted of the possession of stolen property, aiding and abetting document forgery, and possession of forged documents with the intention to sell — including phony driver's licenses, social-security cards. "

F's words did what too much lemon vodka and chocolate doughnuts had failed to accomplish: caused a tremor of nausea to slide through Micky's stomach. "I'm… I mean. I'm sorry, but I don't think you have a right to ask me about this."

Still gazing at the screen, F said, "I didn't ask. Just ran an ID check. Says you were sentenced to eighteen months."

"None of that has anything to do with Leilani."

F didn't reply. Her slender fingers stroked the keys, no longer hammering, as though she were finessing information from the system.

"I didn't do anything," Micky said, despising the defensiveness in her voice, and the meekness. "The guy I was with at the time, he was into stuff I didn't know about."

F remained more interested in what the computer told her about Micky than what Micky had to say about herself.

The less that F asked, the more Micky felt obliged to explain. "I just happened to be in the car when the cops took him down. I didn't know what was in the trunk — not the phony paper, the stolen coin collection, not any of it."

As though she hadn't heard a word of Micky's reply, F said, "You were sent to the Northern California Women's Facility. That's south of Stockton, isn't it? I went to the asparagus festival in Stockton once. One of the booths offered dishes created by Women's Facility inmates involved in a culinary vocational program. Far as I remember, none of them was particularly tasty. This says you're still there."

"Yeah, well, that's so wrong. I've never been to the asparagus festival." When Micky saw F's face tighten, she bit the tartness out of her voice, tried to sound contrite: "I was released last week. I came to live with my aunt until I get on my feet."

"Says here you're still at NCWF. Two more months."

"I was granted early release."

"Doesn't mention parole here."

"I'm not a parolee. I served my time, minus good behavior."

"Be right back." F rose from her desk and, without making eye contact, went to the door.