Those Bones Are Not My Child by Toni Cade Bambara Page B

an informal agreement to separate?”
    “Informal. And cordial. The courts weren’t involved.”
    “And Mr. Spencer’s a vet? Any problems there?”
    “He contributes what he can, and he visits.” Zala was hoping the footsteps behind her were Spence. But it was the Asian couple getting up. They wandered out into the hall.
    “No trouble there, between the boy and his father? Broken dates, forgotten birthdays? Two tours overseas, you say?”
    Zala emptied her face and nodded.
    “You believe in spanking, Mrs. Spencer?”
    “No, we do not, and we make sure their teachers don’t whip them, either.”
    “There’ve been … situations at school?”
    Can of worms. She had to tread carefully. There’d been a hearing at the district superintendent’s office once. Teachers were too quick withtheir hands to suit Zala. She couldn’t remember who they’d made the complaint about. A substitute throwing an eraser at Kofi, or the vice-principal striking Sonny with a ruler, telling her Sonny had threatened the teacher with the window pole. A cafeteria worker had once swatted Sonny on the behind with a metal tray and Spence had gone up there and let it be known that the Spencers didn’t play that shit and didn’t care what kind of punishment the law allowed.
    “He has no reason to leave home, or to be afraid to come home,” Zala said, sidestepping the question. “That’s why I hope we can get the court warrant, though I don’t know why it is needed. I mean, it’s not like he’s done anything criminal, so I don’t see what a warrant’s got to do with this.”
    “Have you got a family worker, someone who can help you?”
    “A family worker?” Zala took a quick inventory. Had she come across as incompetent somehow? Had she forgotten to button her clothes or comb her hair? “You mean a social worker? What would I need with a social worker? I take care of my kids.”
    “Mrs. Spencer, you list three work numbers, and you’re the only adult in the home.”
    “One of those numbers is my home. I do a lot of work at home.”
    “But the other two jobs keep you out of the home. You’ve lost a child, Mrs. Spencer.”
    Officer Judson’s face was too close, a moon crowding her, blocking out the light. Pride. Zala wrapped her fingers around the sisal straps and squeezed. Pride. So busy showing she was not lazy, unresourceful, or destitute, she’d put down too much and fallen right into the pit.
    “Please.” The straps dug into her shoulder. “I am not a neglectful mother.”
    “I’m not saying you are.” Judson leaned closer, lowering her voice. “I’d simply like to refer you to a family service worker. She’s been very effective in cases like this.”
    “ ‘Cases like this’?”
    Judson leaned back. “I’m trying to be of help here.”
    “Then come help me.” Zala tried to lift her arm to indicate the patrol cars parked outside, but her hands were clamped to the straps. The moon face was kindly, but the hands meanwhile were folding the papers in half and running the crease between the hard, lacquered fingernails.
    “This woman,” Judson was saying, one hand reaching under thecounter, “can get the ball rolling faster than we can.” She slipped the folded papers into an envelope, flattened it out with the heel of her hand, and began writing on it.
    It felt like a brush-off, one of those referrals that turned into a wild goose chase. She should threaten to go directly to the Task Force, or to the newspapers, or to the mayor.
    “Let her speak to Captain Sparks.” The voice came from behind Zala. The woman with the tissues. For a moment, she seemed to be walking over to give Zala some backup. But then she threw the wad on the floor and walked out into the hall, muttering.
    “Yes, I’d like to see this Sparks person,” Zala said.
    “I’m sorry. He’s not in at the moment.” And then Judson raised the hinged panel. But she didn’t come out, as Zala had hoped, or invite her through. She was in