Case #48 by Lisa Short

It was never easy for Ména Williams to find a parking space when she came to do her job. Parking three blocks away, she forced herself to jog through the streets of Clifton Lows to reach her clients over on Frontman Ave. She hurried not because she was late, but because it killed her to weekly endure the neighborhood where she lived her entire childhood. She hated it there, the smoking men patronizing strangers’ stoops, malt liquor decorated with stout, paper bags tucked behind their Nikes. The aroma of Philly Blunts choked children as they played jump rope, temporarily locating their game in the street as residents pushed and back onto the sidewalk as the drivers accelerated. When she was younger, she watched this while inside the house. She peered out her front window while other kids were allowed to sit on her own step; she never could smell the smoke or dodge the cars. Though she hated this exclusion, Ména came back to work in the streets anyway. Peering from her window when younger gave her this sense of speculation; not like watching the Eagles fight, but like watching animals twirling around in cages at the SPCA. Watching became her interest so deeply; she studied to become a social worker.

It didn’t take long for Ména to arrive at her first fishbowl of the day. She opened the screen door and knocked hard on the wooden door of the 2956^th house, located smack-dab in the middle of the rowhome-laced street, and waited for a response. Ména turned behind her and watched as three seven-year-olds argued over who would turn the rope and who would jump, a crowd of other children gathered around them, watching, but not really caring to intervene. Just as one girl slammed the rope down, and shoved another, the door creaked open a bit.

“Are you that lady who be trying to keep my damn kids?” the annoyed voice inside asked.

Ména grew annoyed once more. “Miss Jenkins, it’s 4:30, the same time I always come. Please do not get difficult with me.”

“A’ight, a’ight. Imma pull off the latch.” The door closed for a minute as the latch on the door was removed. The door then opened completely, a loud groan exerted from the door. The woman still hesitated to let Ména in; using an awkward moment to stare Ména up and down followed by sucking her teeth. After being bored with toying with her, she finally moved a couple inches to let Ména squeeze her way inside, but the woman rolled her eyes at her timid approach of letting her do the first move.

“Damn. You know we both thick. Could have said ‘‘scuse me;’ I would have moved!” They both knew that the woman never would have moved even if Ména were unprofessional and brave enough to shove her. The client in no way was weak about her feelings toward “infiltrators” of her house and neighborhood. Ména knew that Temira, like most of the residents of this neighborhood, considered Jehovah’s witnesses, the Police, and the Child Welfare persons to be people who were “only up to no good.” If a resident grew up and chose one of those three careers, like Ména, they would forever be branded a traitor.

Ména greeted the client and sat down on the couch closest to the door, a gesture that is careful enough to be comfortable for the client but not to give the feel of intruding. She pulled out of her bag a folder labeled “Case #48” and reviewed it. Case #48 for Ména was Tamira Jenkins, a woman of 24 years, the same age as Ména. There were big differences in their personalities, however. Ména was much too shy to look at boys in a fond way during high school, as she did not have a chance to know them and judge their behavior outside of class. Tamira was the opposite, and by her 15^th birthday she was carrying her first child, a girl she would name Marnique. Keith Jr. and Modra, a son and another daughter, would come in the following years by another father.

Ména knew that Tamira did love her children. However Tamira could only maintain the tough love mentality that most single mothers in Clifton Lows could only afford and sometimes left her children home alone to fend for themselves while she worked as a cashier at Chicken of Clifton. Usually the children would just do petty, non-homework things to pass the time, Temira told Ména. Apparently, they missed lunch at school this time and were “a little hungry.” Her children fended for food by ordering a large order of chicken wings and attempting to steal it from the deliveryman once he arrived. That plan went awry as the deliveryman called the police on his cell phone. He showed no mercy as he yelled at the cops to “throw away the key” once they started taking the children away. The delivery man along with the Police wanted to know where the mother was, but the delivery Man seemingly more so, as “bad-ass kids need to get the taste slapped out of their mouth” and he wanted to take care of that right in front of her face.

It was Ména’s job to visit here ever since. Before Temira could reclaim her kids from Child Protection Services, she had to make her house presentable to Ména, along with herself. Food had to be stocked in the refrigerator, the beds had to be free of bugs. The electric had to be functional, the water had to run from the faucet. Most importantly, Ména had to have a job with respectable hours, not one that would have her providing the money that she desperately needed, but spending time with her children that the state so desperately wanted.

Ména glanced around the room diving into the weekly routine of questions. Pictures of the children and Tamira decorated the room: Christmases, Easter Sundays at the church, days with their maternal grandma. Ména always felt a little different while looking at these pictures. It felt to her that she stared a little too hard for the sake of her job; it was also evident to Tamira. They brought back memories that were never there for her, feelings of cozyness that she never had. Rooms where she lived stayed bare and cold and white. Ména tried hard to stop thinking about it as Tamira tried to snap her back in reality.

“Yo!” Tamira, yelled to her. “Don’t you got a job to do? Wasting my damn day off while you in La-La world.”

“Excuse me,” Ména said, “but I was just recalling your photos.” She hated when something precious to her caused her to accidentally reminisce on the job.

Temira sucked her teeth at awkward use of the word. “Recall? Can’t you say ‘looking at’ like everybody else? You gotta rub it in that you went to college, like we give a rat’s ass.”

“Please refrain from using profanity in my face,” said Ména, avoiding the accusation. “Remember that you still have the to prove to me that you are a fit mother.”

“Look, if y’all came to every place on this block for people who left they kids alone, this block wouldn’t have nobody but the Pimps dressed up for Halloween.”

Ména let out a smirk during that comment and quickly hid it. “Well, you were the one who got caught, so the others are not my responsibility.”

Temira became annoyed with this treatment. Ména found out about Temira’s foot in hot water before. Ména looked at the Case folder to remind Temira of her previous encounter with the state. Temira’s ex-boyfriend, Keith, was in the picture. “Kee” had sent Marnique as a four-year-old to the corner store. They all knew about the frequency of a child being used for buying goods when a parent did not want to do it himself. This time, directions became a problem with Marnique confusing her left and her right. Blambee Street became Koryan Street, and Marnique became lost. But the first social workers who came to her house never stayed long. They didn’t warm up to pictures on the walls, ask about her relatives and their interactions, tell her about the little things that her children has done while away. This one, she realized, was odd. For the past six weeks, Ména told her about the projects at school Tamira’s children had, the new friends they made at their foster home, the funny things that they had said. It should have been just a job.

“Lemme ask you something,” Tamira began, “you ain’t got no kids, do you?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“‘Cause you actin’ like a damn chicken-head who don’t. Rubbin’ it in my face that you can see what my kids are doing.”

Ména let her guard down quickly without realizing; a part of her real self etching its way on the outside. “Whatchu mean by that?”

Tamira avoided answering and thought of another way to make her mad. “I’m just sayin’: You wanna act all bougie like you ain’t from around here. You grew up around 46^th and Lindmore, didn’t you?”

Like a toddler caught in the cookie jar, she pointed her head to the ground, refraining from eye contact. “Yeah, I did.”

“And you gonna come in my house and say yo’ momma never left you alone when you was a kid?”

Ména avoided the question. “I understand that you are sad, Ms. Jenkins.” Ména pointed her head to the ground and cleared her throat. She felt weird knowing that she was the one who’s breaking up a family, like her mom broke up theirs. Her mom chose parties and drugs over her own flesh and blood, and 15 years later she was punishing someone who was doing the complete opposite. Ména knew that Temira was a clean woman, and basically lived for her kids. “We have to go through these proceedings professionally, however. I have to see over a long period of time that your housing and your hours are stable enough to care for young children.”

That question struck a chord in Ména and vibrated. In her younger years it felt like there was never a time when she wasn’t alone, staring out the window, wondering when and if her mother would come back that day. Even now she could feel how cold the glass was as she pressed her trembling hands against it, her hot breath sticking to the glass, an invitation for her to write “Save Me!” on the glass. The feelings of loneliness still lingered, she had never gotten over it. I forgot my momma even lived with me there, Ména thought to herself.

“I could have got my kids back three weeks ago. The judge said I could. He was like: I gotta wait on you though; that it was yo’ decision.”

Ména cleared her throat, in a way to swallow the vernacular and hide her vulnerability. “I just don’t know if you are ready yet.” She said, using a tired excuse. “I mean, the heat’s still off, and the children cannot be forced to take cold showers . . .”

“They never took cold showers in they life and they ain’t gonna start now!” Tamira screamed at Ména, lividly. “This is about you, you know it is; how you gonna break up a family over your sorry ass?” Tamira’s raised voice pounded against Ména’s eardrum. “You need a fuckin’ life, this is just a job for you, not them stories that come on after the news! I want my kids! They ain’t yours, they ain’t the state’s, they mine! And just because you never had a man or a mom or a cat or a dog don’t give you the right to take my shit!”

Ména tried to take all of this in with a professional manner, but it was getting harder and harder by the minute. She wanted so hard to destroy this woman, this innocent woman who has done nothing wrong to her psychically, but everything wrong to her mentally. Why couldn’t this woman have something incredibly wrong with her? Why couldn’t she have some horrible police record, or a constant array of guys leaving her house? She thought. There was nothing that Ména can hold over Tamira can hold over head, expect her willingness and determination to get back the people she loves. Ména knew that Tamira was winning the battle, and pushing all the right buttons to do so. All Ména could do was try to evade.

The pressure against her eardrum, along with feelings of guilt, caused her to relax enough to explode. “I’M SORRY!” Ména admitted but changed her mind about coming clean. “I’m sorry. But this is my job and this is what I have to do. I know that you love your children, but . . .” she trailed off and stared at a picture of Keith Jr. holding a big toy truck. Tamira was in the picture as well, grinning eagerly at her baby boy’s delight. Ména shook her head. “But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“You know what, Ms. Williams?” Tamira started, “Fuck you. Fuck people like you!”

“I’m going to have to record that on in your file, Ms. Jenkins. I demand to be talked to in a better manner.”

“I don’t give a fuck anymore. I want my kids, bitch! This house is so damn quiet!”

Ména looked at Tamira and saw the mistiness soaking the pain in her eyes. Ména was furious with how she was treated and furious that she knew that feeling of quiet all too well. Ména guessed that she had a reason, though. So this is how a mother is supposed to love her kids, she thought. With all the training Ména had, she didn’t know what to do about this. She felt too connected to Tamira, too close to know what was right. If only my mother were like this.

Tamira stared back, hard. “I may not have my kids, but I’ll never be lonely. As long as they is breathin’ and eatin’ and livin’ I know that parts of my flesh are out there. Unlike your lonely ass.”

“Excuse me?”

“The one time in your life you have somebody asking you shit instead of the other way around and you wanna act all clueless. I’m listening. I ain’t got nothing else to do. WHY? What is the real reason for you not giving me my kids? Let’s be real here. You know I don’t bullshit.”

Ména decided at that moment she just wanted to be heard. “’Cause I’m jealous as hell of you! I know it sounds crazy, but I am! For real!”

“Finally you admitted that shit. You is crazy, I ain’t gonna deny that. But why me, though? I ain’t got nothing that you can’t have.”

“Is you kidding me? You had everything growing up! You was the one with the Momma and the Daddy and the Grandma that took you to church every Sunday, and the siblings, and all the boys and all the friends you could ever want and you was popular than er’rybody and–”

Temira interrupted her cry for help with a burst of laughter. “You jealous ‘cause I got to go to church with my grandma? Ain’t that a trip,” she mustered between chuckles. “Look at me now. Look what companionship got my ass: not a damn thing but mouths to feed and bills cutting off left and right. ”

“So? You still got your family!” Ména added while sobbing.

“What the hell you mean by ‘So’? Life with family ain’t no damn Brady Bunch. Life with friends ain’t no Leave It To Beaver, either. And life with boys . . . girl, you don’t even want to know. Chillin’ with yo’ peeps is love I guess but it’s more than that too; more people cost more money. And I aint even got my kids anymore, talking ‘bout ‘I got my family.’ I don’t see my parents anymore, when I come over they wanna start fussing about how I escaped the Lord and got all this brought against me.”

“But it was so damn lonely for me,” Ména started to ache, reflecting.

“Is you a damn white girl or something?” Tamira inquired. “Actin’ like that shit really affected you. Talking ‘bout ‘I’m so lonely’ and shit like you on Montel. That ain’t screw you up. You ain’t in jail now like some white boy who blew up a school. You up here actin’ like there wasn’t like 58 people outside on any given day. There wasn’t nothing outside that you couldn’t have joined in, joined us. Don’t tell me you was obedient when your Momma wasn’t even there.

“I was,” Ména countered.

“So you had to stay when your mom was all over the place?”

“Yup.”

“Look, Imma take a guess and say your Momma ain’t care about nobody but herself, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then let go of her. Let go of your childhood. Move on, cuz they aint nothing here you should be holding you to.”

“But I—”

“Do me a favor and look around this house. But remove all the pictures in your mind. I know that’s hard, ‘cause my kids are so cute, but still do it. Now tell me if you is really jealous of this?” Tamira spun around as she showcased her home.

Tamira had a point, Ména thought. Behind the pictures, behind the touches of love were cracked, dry white walls, desperate for painting. Cobwebs hanging about, with spiders wrapping roaches for dinner. The carpet on the steps leading to the second floors was full of mats and sickly gleaming a different color then when purchased. When Ména saw the deep intrusion in the center of the ceiling, she shook her head. “No, I don’t think I am anymore.”

“Good,” Tamira answered, “you do have some sense after all. Now, can I have my kids back?”

Ména sighed. “I’ll consider it. You are going to work on the bills, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The condition is so-far livable. And you do have a job and obviously you’re doing everything you can for these kids. You’re going to teach those kids that stealing is not okay?”

“Don’t worry, I sho’ nuff am,” Tamira grinned while pointing to her belt. Ména pretended not to notice the promise Tamira had of whooping them.

“Well I’ll get in the paperwork.” Ména wiped her eyes. “I’ll contact you on if you can retrieve you children in the next week, Ms. Jenkins.”

“Thanks. Good lookin’ out,” Tamira said, careful not to show emotion other than annoyance.

“You’re welcome.” Ména nodded her head at her.

Ména had secretly written the word “closed” with permanent marker on the folder of case #48, and placed the folder inside of her bag, telling Tamira that she will see her again next week. When Ména began to rise from the couch, Tamira noticed how early this session was ending. With curiosity suddenly bugging her for some caring reason, she wondered about Ména’s new-found free time.

“You going to another client early or something? Gonna get all Oprah on them too?” Tamira questioned as she opened the door for Ména.

“Naw, I’m an hour early. I was actually thinking of playin’ a little jump-rope with the kids out there.” Ména stepped out of the open door and walked down the steps.

“You hardheaded. Didn’t I tell you that you should let go your damn past?”

“I know I’m hardheaded. It’s ‘bout time I should be.”

Tamira shook her head and closed the door as Ména ran to her car to change her shoes. The older sisters of the girls who were jump roping earlier shook their heads as they watched her.

“That weird lady stay be running somewhere,” one girl said.

The other girl agreed but later noticed something. “Yeah, but hold up! Why is she walking back toward us?”