As this news was somewhat unexpected, we apologize for the mass mailing — but wanted to be in touch with you before the news breaks in the media.
Our deepest thanks for allowing us into your hearts, homes, and minds.
Sincerely,
John Trevertani CEO,
The Lodge Inc.
I call.
“We tried to reach you about ten days ago,” Rosenblatt says — clearly he’s the designated ‘responder’—“but someone else answered the phone and said you’d gone colonial, and then said he needed to get off the line — something about helping the kittens ‘go.’ He suggested I call back and leave a detailed message on the machine, but in the interest of privacy I thought I’d just give it a week or so and try you again.”
“It was the pet minder — I was out of town, and the cat had kittens.”
“Ahhh,” he says. “Well, anyway, I see you’ve received the letter. We’ve already been in touch with George’s lawyer as well as some folks from the state prosecutor’s office to talk about what the appropriate setting for George might be. Given that the first set of charges was dismissed and that he remains pretrial on the murder charge, you could move him to another ‘hospital’-type setting. My sense from his lawyer is that they’d like to keep him out of a traditional prison setting as long as possible — perhaps try something ‘nontraditional.’ But I must also add that I’ve spoken with George and I think, quite honestly, he’s bored with the inpatient setting, and I worry that his resistance to participating in activities like group therapy, occupational therapy, crafting, and so on could end up reflected as noncompliance in the reports — and that won’t fare well when the case goes to trial.”
“You mean he’s going to flunk pot-holder weaving?”
“Something like that — he doesn’t play well with others.”
“Never did. You mentioned a nontraditional program.”
“Yes,” he says, “I’m talking with some people at the state level about whether they might consider him for a pilot program they’re running — it’s rather unusual, and I’m hesitant to say more until I have a better sense of things. Perhaps we can talk again soon.”
“I’m here,” I say.
“As am I, until August,” the man says. “Then all bets are off.”
All bets are off — an understatement.
I find myself craving the normal, the repetitious, the everyday, the banal. I crave the comfort of what might seem to others to be exceedingly boring. For years, every Monday through Friday, I ate the same thing for breakfast — two slices of rye toast, one with butter, the other with orange marmalade; the same brand of bread, the same jam, the same butter. On Saturdays I had an egg along with the bread, and on Sundays either pancakes or French toast.
Dutiful regularity was something Claire and I actually found exciting. We took pleasure in going out to dinner on Friday, staying home on Saturday, making a habit of a matinee movie and Chinese carry-out on Sunday. If we added something new or different, it was discussed, regarding what it meant to the routine, the schedule.
But now it’s like I’m in an endless free fall, the plummeting slowed only by the interruption of being summoned to do something for someone else. If it weren’t for the children, the dog, the cat, the kittens, the plants, I would come completely undone.
Out of curiosity, I call the County Department of Social Services and ask what’s involved in being a foster parent. Among my questions: Do you have to take whatever kid they give you, or can you pick?
“We’re very careful where we place all the children,” the woman says.
“Of course you are. …” That’s why the coverage on TV about foster parents is so uplifting. “I guess what I’m asking is, what if the relative of a child needs a break and wants me to take the child for a while — is there a way to officially do that, to get certified or whatever it would be?”
“To accept what we call a directed placement, you would need to be an approved foster parent.”
“And what does that entail?”
“A letter of intent, an application, a legal clearance, letters of recommendation, a home study, a medical form, proof of immunization, a letter from a lawyer, financials that would make clear you’re not doing this for personal gain.”
“All the foster parents in your system have passed these requirements?”
“Yes, sir, they have.”
I go on to describe myself as a retired professor and author who does consulting work for the family of former President Nixon.
She cuts me off. “Do you have children?”
“I am the guardian for my brother’s two children — my brother is disabled.”
“You should see a psychiatrist,” she says.
“Pardon?”
“Fancy people like you, that’s what they do. Part of the application is a mental-health evaluation. It will move more quickly if you don’t resist.”
I am tempted to ask if the lousy foster parents I see on the evening news all have psychiatrists; but I restrain myself. “It’s certainly something to think on,” I say. “Can you send me more information?”
“Oh, we don’t send anything anymore — always a budget crunch around here. It’s all online.”
“Right,” I say. “I’ll look online. Thank you.”
Fuck it.
I call Ricardo’s aunt and ask if she’d like me to take the boy out on Sunday.
“Can you pick him up early?” she asks.
“Is eight-thirty too early?”
“Eight-thirty is good,” she says.
Part of building my relationship with the kids is talking with them more often and more honestly, as though they’re real people.
Nate has been distant since the Williamsburg trip, I’m not sure why, but it seems smarter not to draw attention to it and simply to wait it out. I ask for his advice about what to do with Ricardo on Sunday.
“Well, there’s an indoor rock-climbing place, or bowling, or the video arcade.” Nate pauses. “You could just take him out and play catch. I didn’t get the sense that anyone plays with him. My glove is in my bedroom closet. And if you want to give it to him, that’s okay — it’s my old glove, I’ve got a newer one.”
“Very generous of you, Nate.”
“What made you call him?”
“The truth, I missed the kid, and I miss you and Ash even more. I had a really good time on our trip.” There’s an awkward silence, but I don’t mind, I’m glad I said what I did. “What about you, how’s it going there?”
“Going,” Nate says, and then goes quiet. “I wrote memoirs in our English class.”
“I can imagine that would be difficult.”
“I wrote about Dad — about something I remembered.”
A long pause. “Maybe I could read it sometime?”
“I don’t know,” he says. It’s as though what happened with George and Jane is just beginning to dawn on Nate; the initial trauma has now quieted, and he’s beginning to put it all together. “I’ve been having trouble sleeping, and so I went to the school counselor, who suggested I join some kind of meditation group two nights a week.”
“Might just give it a try,” I say. “It’s been a pretty difficult few months.”
“We’ll see,” he says.
After talking with Nate, I call Ashley. “I just want to thank you for your note,” I say.