Those Bones Are Not My Child by Toni Cade Bambara

responding to her. There were hinges in the counter. She thought about lifting the panel and walking through. There were plants on some desks; on others, mugs with curdled coffee. There were, in fact, throwable objects everywhere. She was picturing herself hurling a staple gun through the window when the redhead lumbered up out of nowhere.
    “Done?” She whisked up the forms, her red-lacquered nails scraping the counter. She brushed muffin crumbs from her shirt and leaned over, beckoning Zala closer so they could talk over the noise. Zala inhaled the spinachy smell of fresh henna.
    “Has he run away before?” Officer Judson crimped her mouth, perusing the form.
    “He hasn’t run away,” Zala said. “He went to find his friends on a camping trip and lost his way. At least that’s what we think happened. We hope it’s nothing worse than that, not … anything worse than that.”
    “ ‘We’?” The officer looked around at the invisible others, then detached the papers and spread them out on the counter, a gesture that set Zala to boil. She had not strolled into the gas company about a discrepancy in the bill. She wanted to be seated somewhere—in that office at the far end of the room, for instance—not serviced at the counter, where the people behind her could hear her better than Judson, who stood shifting her weight back and forth.
    “Good … excellent.” Judson slapped at the marginal notes with the back of her hand. “This is what we like to see,” she said, like a teacher examining homework.
    “Is there some place we could talk?”
    “I’m afraid not.” She invited Zala to look and made a face: you see how things are.
    “Then could we get going, maybe talk on the way?”
    “One sec,” the big-boned sister said, turning the form over.
    The woman with the tissues scraped her feet. Zala felt the prodding,knew she wasn’t handling things well, and was tempted to pick up the pen and goad Judson with it. She was taking a long time to read.
    “Has he been in trouble before? Truant from school, shoplifting, vandalism—things that might have brought him to our attention before this?”
    “He’s never been in any kind of trouble. That’s why we’re so worried. And why we’re so anxious to get going.” Zala motioned toward the door, but Judson only flipped the form over.
    “No history of wandering off? Staying out late without permission? Visiting friends, relatives, neighbors without your knowledge? Spending the night with a friend?… No? Sounds like a model child,” Judson said, not unkindly, but Zala fine-tuned her ears while the woman looked at the map and crimped her lips.
    “So.” She looked up. “No history of any kind with juvenile authorities, is that right?”
    “Yes, none. I always know where he is. That’s why we think something happened.”
    “ ‘Happened.’ ” The woman was studying her. It struck Zala that this was the moment to work in something about the STOP committee, as Mr. Lewis had advised. But Judson cut her off. “You listed three work numbers. You have three jobs and can keep track of three children? We need you down here conducting workshops, Mrs. Spencer.”
    It might have been a crack; several heads turned. Someone slamming a file drawer seemed to be doing it to say “Score.”
    “I was wondering, Officer Judson, if the special Task Force will conduct the investigation, or does it begin here?” Zala slipped with the “I.” A woman with no “we” didn’t even get served by waiters. But she’d been loud enough. Someone typing by a buzzing phone stopped, reached around, picked the receiver up, and dropped it back in the cradle.
    “The officers who came to my house yesterday suggested I take the case to the Task Force. The mothers at STOP suggested that too.” The double lie got a response from Sergeant B. J. Greaves, who looked over. Zala thought she saw her exchange a look with Judson before she stuck her nose back in the folder she was