Plenty Good Room Read online

  These irresponsible parents often seemed truly unaware of their shortcomings. Tamara knew in theory that they should ultimately be held responsible for these children they’d brought into the world. But the sad reality was, these parents were not unlike children themselves—selfishly absorbed by their own desires and often trying to fill an empty space inside themselves with little thought of the consequences of their actions. Far too many times when Tamara looked into their eyes, these parents were as confused and lost as the kids that they were supposed to be caring for.

  Tamara took a deep breath and looked at her watch quickly. She had to get to work before time ran out. She needed to focus; this was no time to ruminate over these difficult questions that she had no real answers for. Glancing at her watch again, she sighed, realizing Jayson would probably be back in just a few minutes, and that there was no way she would have time to read all the information in front of her before then.

  Scouring the unfamiliar keyboard, Tamara located the Start button for the printer and pressed it once, twice, then three times. Holding her breath while swinging her crossed leg nervously, she watched the silent metal box furtively, willing the pages to quickly begin their transit through the machine. Tamara exhaled gratefully when she finally heard the whir of the motor, indicating that the first pages were being printed. Then her eyes were drawn back to the words in front of her on the computer screen, and again she read silently:

  Witnesses say that the girls were often running through the neighborhood asking for money from people they barely knew. They were disheveled and unkempt, and their behavior unruly and rude. Although, as mentioned before, the mother had many boyfriends, there is no knowledge as to whether there was any sexual abuse of the girls.

  Tamara’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped a bit when she read the next shocking statement. Even though Tamara had a good inkling by now that Sissie Bailey had led a wild life, this was even more than she expected:

  All of the girls were taken into final custody by the state in 1965, when Sissie Bailey was arrested for involuntary manslaughter.

  Involuntary manslaughter? What was that about? Tamara knew that it meant Sissie had more than likely spent time in the correctional system. And so it may not have been her neglect of her girls that caused her to lose them in the end. Instead, her criminal behavior may have been what finally separated the family for good.

  Quickly she scanned the rest of the text. Where is she . . . where is she now? she thought while nervously tapping her nails on the desk. Quickly checking her watch one more time, she used her finger as a guide on the computer screen while scanning the words. But there was nothing, not one more word about Sissie.

  The distant thud of a closing door in the outer room brought her back into the present. Tamara knew it signaled the ending of the lunch hour, since people were filtering back into the outer office area, and that meant Jayson would be here very soon. Carefully she closed off the document window and gathered her papers from the printer area.

  As Tamara was stuffing the last of the papers into the manila folder, the door was flung opened behind her, and she spun around, startled yet readying herself to invent a quick excuse for her presence in the area if necessary.

  “Tam, do you know what time it is? I’ve been looking all over for you,” Jayson said.

  To her dismay, for an extraordinarily long moment Tamara was unable to utter a word. Instead, she stared mutely at Jayson with her eyes wide open, willing her brain to function again so that she could speak.

  Jayson gazed at Tamara, waiting for her reply, when it dawned on him that something was a little off balance with her. “Tam? Are you all right?” He peered into her eyes closely. “You look funny . . . Did you eat lunch or sit in here and work? Where is that friend of yours, anyway? I wanted to meet her . . . I thought you was going to hook a brotha up!”

  Of course, Tamara knew there was no friend for him to meet, and she had to think quickly to come up with something, anything, to distract him from that whole subject.

  Finally finding her voice, she replied, “Okay, Jay-Jay. I’m on the way now,” as she hurriedly stuffed the manila folder inside her briefcase.

  Keeping her eyes averted, Tamara sensed him giving her another long, searching look. “So you okay, then, huh? But, where’s baby girl?” he added, flashing his dimpled smile at her.

  “Jay, I did not say my friend would be here. You misunderstood me. I said I needed to do a favor for a friend,” she said as she smiled back at him. Then on impulse she added, “And besides, she wouldn’t be interested in you, because she has a boyfriend, and they are in loooove.”

  Jayson said in a whining voice, “Awww, see, why are all the good girls already taken?” Then he turned his cap backward and held the door open for her as he added mournfully, “I bet she’s fine, too.”

  “C’mon, Jayson, you can’t win ’em all,” Tamara replied with a nervous giggle, relieved that the tense moment had passed as she followed him out of the computer area.

  8.

  Running, Again

  “Don’t go to sleep; don’t go to sleep . . . ” the girl kept repeating to herself over and over in a whispered voice that only she could hear. Finally, after she had lain there for what seemed hours, she moved her head to the left slowly, careful not to make a sound as she turned toward her roommate.

  She noticed with relief that Latisha Mayfield was sleeping soundly in the next bed. The large girl’s mouth was open a bit, and she could hear the air softly move in and out as she breathed.

  Now that it was safe for her to get up, she yanked back the coverings with one hand and, with another swift, silent movement, planted her feet on the floor before stooping to reach under her bed for her green duffel bag. Sadly, she would have to leave many of her belongings behind because, as usual, she could only carry a small amount with her. Pulling the already packed bag from beneath the bed, she placed it over one shoulder and stepped lightly toward the window.

  From the back pocket of her overalls she took out an old baseball cap and with both hands pulled it down low over her face. After pushing errant hairs under the old cap, the girl pulled her hood up until only the frayed bill of the cap could be seen.

  Swiftly she moved over to the window and then gripped it with both hands, hoping hard that the old wood would not creak noisily when she opened it. Magically, the window slid upward smoothly. After hoisting the bag through the window first, she put one foot over the ledge, then the other, and, with a small leap, landed quietly on the soft ground. Once safely outside, she spun around quickly and, using an old hanger she’d thrown outside earlier, closed the window without a sound and crouched there in the bushes outside the window, with her heart beating a mile a minute.

  While she was standing there, all sorts of thoughts were running through her mind. Flashbacks of the just past Fourth of July holiday made her smile when she thought about how they’d all sat around the table together and eaten barbecue, baked beans, and potato salad that the house mom and dad cooked for them. The girl emitted a small giggle remembering how she and Latisha had gobbled down the feast and then how they couldn’t stop laughing whenever they looked at each other, lips shiny from the food that they had eaten so quickly.

  Yes, she would miss them all. She’d even miss Rosemary with her odd mood swings and dark stare. Some of the others called Rosemary crazy, but not her, ’cause she wasn’t even sure what that word meant anymore. Sometimes, living as she did, she felt a little crazy herself. Fondly she thought about her roommate, Latisha, once more, with her raucously loud laugh and bright smile. And then there were Mr. and Mrs. Cooley, who seemed almost like parents to them, even though they were in state care.

  “I can’t stay, though,” she whispered to herself. “I just can’t.” And then, after a furtive glance left and then right, the girl did the one thing she knew how to do the very best.

  The girl ran.

  9.

  Cold Feet

  Tamara finished making
up the full-size bed with the thick multicolored comforter that she’d bought yesterday after work, at the T.J. Maxx store out by the Riverton Mall. When she was done, Tamara crossed her arms and surveyed her work critically. The beautiful down-filled printed comforter looked warm, and it was a perfect match to the pale peach walls of the room.

  In the far corner was a wooden rocker that Tamara had purchased years ago. She’d thrown an ethnic-patterned blanket on the rocker’s back, painted in shades of corals, greens, and peaches similar to the comforter, and had placed a matching peach cushion on the seat. Woven baskets decorated the walls, as well as colorful framed posters of African-American children of various ages.

  Nestled against the largest wall was a natural wicker mirrored dresser covered with colorful bottles of assorted lotions and shower gels that Tamara had begun picking up days ago, for Sienna’s impending arrival at her home. A small color television sat on the matching wicker bookshelf, and the other shelves held magazines like Vibe and Young Teen that Tamara thought might appeal to the girl.

  Sienna’s gamine face suddenly flashed through Tamara’s mind, pushing thoughts of the beautiful room into the background, and she stared with glazed eyes out the window in front of her. Adrift in her thoughts of the teen, Tamara didn’t even notice that the swirling colors in the new curtains hanging from the window completed the colorful decor of the room and helped give the space a pleasant air.

  During the past week, each time Tamara had thought of the uncomfortable weekend she’d spent with Sienna, she’d felt anxious and had pushed the discomfort away, mindlessly shopping and decorating while not allowing herself to think of the girl at all. Gazing at the completed room now, though, she could no longer deny the inevitable, and her heart suddenly beat wildly; she felt panicky at the immensity of what she’d agreed to do.

  “I can’t believe it . . . I’ve opened my home to a stranger . . . ,” she said aloud. “Oh, God, what was I even thinking? I can’t do this.”

  I really need to talk with somebody, she thought. Rushing into her bedroom and finding her purse, she reached into her wallet and retrieved her Black Day Planner from her nightstand. With a pale, pink-nailed finger she turned the pages quickly until she found the number that she was looking for. Gingerly she sat down on the edge of the bed, picked up the telephone, dialed the number, and listened hopefully for a familiar voice to answer.

  “Hello,” said a male voice at the other end of the line.

  “Mr. Jackson?” she asked tentatively. “This is Tamara Britton. How are you?”

  “Oh, Tamara . . . hello. I am just fine, baby. How ’bout you?”

  Tamara’s heart rate slowed a bit, just that easily lulled into relaxation by the rich, deep timbre of Leonard Jackson’s warm tone. He was a tall, thin man with a thick crop of silver and black curly hair. As he spoke, she instantly pictured his face in her mind, his deep brown skin; and she remembered how his thin cheeks creased into long dimples whenever he showed his easy, white smile.

  “I’m okay, Mr. Jackson. I was just wondering if I could speak with Mrs. Jackson for a minute or two—if she’s not busy or anything,” she said. Her shoulders fell, a sure sign that her confidence also was failing, as once again she thought of the impending arrival of her new roommate.

  “Hold on, Tam, baby. You hold on, now. I’ll get Denise for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Tamara, and she held the phone under her ear with her shoulder while staring at her hands, lying tensely balled into two fists on her lap. Anxiously she waited to hear the voice of the foster parent she’d worked with so many times.

  She was thankful at this moment to know Denise Jackson, the parent member of their foster parent training team. In the classes they taught together, the woman shared practical knowledge with potential foster parents based on years of experience, and Tamara was continually amazed at the generosity of these two special individuals who had opened their home to so many children. Suddenly, her own concern about one little girl moving in seemed quite selfish, especially in comparison to these two, who had parented hundreds of children over the years.

  While waiting for the man’s wife to pick up the telephone, she wondered incredulously, How do they do it? How do they just open their homes and their hearts to strangers? “I just hope you can help me, Mrs. Jackson,” she whispered to herself.

  “Tamara? . . . Tamara?” the woman repeated when she did not answer the first time.

  Denise Jackson was a couple of years younger than her fifty-eight-year-old husband, and the two of them had been foster parents for almost twenty years now. Between their own two kids and the hordes of others that they had kept on a temporary or permanent basis, their home was full of life with the constant commotion and the daily drama that colored the lives of the young people living there. Well known in placement care, Denise and Leonard Jackson had been chosen foster parents of the year time after time because of their huge hearts and their constant commitment to kids.

  The woman’s demeanor was always upbeat. Her smooth skin was light brown, and her thick hair was long and most often worn pulled back into a bun or pinned up in a French roll. More than a little overweight, she was always on the verge of starting an exercise program that she never quite seemed to have the time to actually fit into her busy life.

  “Mrs. Jackson . . . hello,” Tamara replied. “I’m sorry . . . I was daydreaming a bit, I guess.”

  “Tamara! Baby girl, I was beginning to wonder if you was on the phone or what,” said Denise Jackson with her trademark hearty laugh. “Are you okay?”

  “Mrs. Jackson, I am fine,” said Tamara, and her voice sounded calm and professional as usual. “Do you remember I told you that I would be having a houseguest for a while?”

  “Houseguest? Baby, do you mean the little girl that’s moving in with you—the one with the real bad mouth that you told me about the other week when you was by the house?”

  Tamara smiled at the apt description she’d given her of the girl, and said, “Yes, Mrs. Jackson.” Then, struggling to keep composed, she added, “She’s moving in tonight.”

  Years of experience with emotionally damaged youth had taught Denise Jackson well, and Tamara’s efforts to disguise her feelings did not go unnoticed. Waiting for a new placement produced some level of anxiety in even the most experienced foster parent, since any new persons moving in were still strangers even though they were children.

  “Tamara,” she said knowingly.

  “Yes?”

  “Now, baby, I know you’re nervous ’cause the little girl’s gettin’ ready to move in over there, and it’s natural that you’d feel that way, ’cause somebody new is coming into your house. Right now here’s what I want you to do. I want you take a deep, deep breath, and then I want you to say aloud, ‘everything is going to be just fine.’”

  Dropping her facade completely, Tamara, rather than follow the woman’s request, instead interrupted in a voice that was rushed and shaky: “But what if it’s not? What if I’ve made a big mistake? What if she hates it here? Mrs. Jackson, the girl didn’t even like me during that weekend she stayed with me. She was cursing and argumentative, and most of the time she even looked at me as if I was dirt.”

  “Tamara! Stop it, now!” said Mrs. Jackson, her voice strident. “Now, girl, don’t you ever forget that the enemy Satan is the master of what-ifs. He loves to put just those type of doubts in our minds, and he hopes that when we are focusing on our fears, he will keep us from doing God’s work.”

  Tamara nodded as if the woman could see her, but said nothing. Was this God’s work that she was doing? What did she know about God, really? To be honest, much of the time Tamara wondered if God even knew she existed.

  The woman continued, “This is a good thing you are doing, baby. You are opening your home to a young person who doesn’t have one. Only a person with a heart would do that. You’ve worked at Care Agency for a long time now and you’ve stood on the outside watching others open their homes to these chil
dren, and now God has put something inside you that’s made you become a joiner and not just a watcher.”

  As Tamara listened, she silently wiped away teardrops that were threatening to spill from her eyes. Retrieving a tissue from her nightstand, she wiped her nose, careful not to sniffle, because she didn’t want Mrs. Jackson to know that she was crying. Not only anxious about Sienna’s arrival, now Tamara was also filled with guilt that Mrs. Jackson was crediting her with a much more noble motivation than she deserved regarding her decision to allow the girl to live with her.

  She doesn’t know that I’m a coward, Tamara thought morosely. She doesn’t know that the only reason I said yes is really because I was tricked into it, or maybe I just was too scared to say no.

  Unaware of the younger woman’s inner notions, Denise Jackson continued, “Never, ever doubt that you can do this, baby girl. God would not put it into your heart to do something that you cannot do.”

  “Mrs. Jackson . . . do y-y-you think I can?”

  “I know you can,” said Denise Jackson firmly. “You have everything it takes to do this and do it well. You have the training and the skills, and most importantly, you have the heart to do it—that’s why you agreed to it!”

  “I can do this,” said Tamara, more to herself than aloud.

  Denise Jackson heard her, though, and said, “Say it again, girl!”

  “I can do this,” said Tamara more firmly.

  “One more time, baby girl—say it like you mean it!” said Denise Jackson as fervently as a pep rally leader to a lifeless crowd.