This case, as did every one of the others, had a terrible, built in sadness, only it was funny, too, very very funny, fall down laughing funny, sad, yes, a terrible sad, but, still, as funny anything I've heard since. Did I want to laugh? No. Could I help it? Could you? Only by biting down hard enough to draw blood. Did I exploit my client? Did I tell this story without her permission? Show me a writer, and I'll show you a thief. Will I share the proceeds with her? What proceeds? People may throw things, call me names,. cross to the far side of the street. Gimme your best shot. I'll risk it. It's true. It happened. Call me anything, but don't call me late for dinner.
It was probably paperwork that kept me in my cubicle 'til late morning, Normally, I was on the street by nine, often earlier. It was near eleven when I spotted the woman walking back and forth past my door muttering to no one I could see. Her dress was shapeless, worn thin, unwashed. Her hair was knotted, raggedy. She had no shoes. It would have taken a forensics expert to determine the last time she used soap.
.
Finally, I stood up and asked, "Ma'am, did you want something?"
She rocked side to side, one foot, then the other like a metronome.
"Ain't no danger."
"What danger?"
"To my kids. No, sir. Ain't no danger. Uh, uh."
"Who said you were?"
"Some damn liar."
"Why'd you come here?"
"You got my kids."
She was one of hundreds of cases inherited or assigned to me.
"What's your name?"
I don't remember what she said, but I did have her kids. Foster care, probably, although I carry an image of a toddler in diapers with legs already bowed from rickets. I'm seeing him in my mind's eye, not yet two, friendly with a happy smile, unaware of the pain I knew was waiting for him - misshapen body, enlarged head, late teeth, bone fractures, muscle cramps. Not enough calcium. Poor diet. For sweets he chewed on paint chips made with lead. Two years old. Only two. Already consigned to the city dump. The tot had done nothing to bring this on himself. Cute now. Fetching, while each day takes him closer to that day when he will not be fetching at all, a time when, if he wanted, he'd be snapped up by a carny for a side show. Food. Lodging. Tips. That or dance on bar tables or burrow away from everybody and everything. What else? This was 1964.
This bedraggled woman at my office door had been remanded to Spring Grove, the state mental hospital - irrational outbursts, hallucinations, voices - the whole megillah. Remanded by the court to Spring Grove! Only right this minute Spring Grove was a hefty drive in the wrong direction, and this woman who heard voices was standing right smack in front of me. Wasn't it Richard Burton who sang, "How To Handle A Woman" in Camelot? So, I'm standing there wondering how to handle this one.
"How'd you get out?"
"Walked."
"Here?"
"Uh, huh."
"All the way?"
"Uh, huh."
"You could get in trouble."
"Yeah. Right." was the expression on her face.
"The 'lectric chair," she chortled.
"How 'bout I take you back?"
"I know who you are."
"Want some water before we go? Toilet?"
"Maybe some Tasty Cake." A Baltimore staple. "Tasty Cake cakes and pies," went the jingle. "Cherry," she said. "They ain't got none".
Spring Grove was in a part of Maryland I'd never been, quite some distance, pretty much the boonies. My supervisor had written out directions for me in clear, block letters, easy to read and follow. A soft summer day, fine for a drive, even this one. No seat belts. She sat beside me in the shotgun seat, hummed and looked out the window. Nothing but cornfields until I suddenly realized, shit, I was lost, no idea where we were. I drove around for awhile and finally pulled over to read my supervisor's directions.
"You lost," she piped.
"Hold on a minute," I said, eyes peeled on the page.
"Aintcha?"
"Lemme look at this."
"Ain't nothin' to it."
"To what?"
"Just do what I do."
"What?"
"Take off all my clothes 'n' jump up 'n' down on the hood of the car."
Was she serious? She wasn't laughing. She was serious. This was no joke. She really said that. "Took off all my clothes 'n' jump up 'n' down on the hood of the car." Who could make this up? Maybe Larry David, but not me, certainly not then.
This was decades before the era of cell phones and GPS devices. I knew Spring Grove was generally somewhere west of my office. The sun helped. I kept west until I found it. My way, not hers.
I parked in front of the executive building - colonial brick with pillars and a cascade of white steps leading up to the entrance. I walked around to her side of the car while she got out...while she almost got out. An Indian woman with a briefcase, elegant in a traditional sari, was walking down the steps. As soon as my client spotted her, she damn near dove back in the car and refused to budge. Could not talk her out. Uh, uh. No way. That's when she told me, "I don't mind bein' in this place but I ain't gonna be waited on by no gypsy."
She really said that, too.
"...ain't gonna be waited on by no gypsy."
She stared hard at the "gypsy" and slumped down behind the seat until the "gypsy" passed on by. When she was sure it was clear, she crawled out of the car, and we walked up the steps.
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