Plenty Good Room Page 6

  “I can do this!” Tamara said quite loudly.

  “That’s what I want to hear! You can do this and you will! Now, Tamara, be prepared; this girl is gonna act up. You know this, or if you didn’t, you know it now! These kids are displaced into a whole new environment, and actin’ up is often how they let off steam, so expect it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Mrs. Jackson continued, “Baby, teenagers can be moody and difficult to handle anyway, just cause their hormones are raging. Lots of these kids are strong-willed, too; because they’ve lived through such craziness in their early lives, they have to be full of spirit to survive the hardships.”

  Her voice tentative again, Tamara asked, “Mrs. Jackson, do your kids act up at your house?”

  “Oh, baby . . . Yes, they do! But when they get to clownin’ ’round here, I just get on ’em and love ’em anyway,” she finished with a hearty laugh.

  Immediately Tamara tensed when she heard the word “love.” Love? Love was something she wasn’t even ready to think about, let alone give to anyone. She might grow to like the girl, but she wasn’t really planning on loving anyone. In fact, as far as she was concerned, love had nothing to do with any of this!

  “You have to be firm. Set your rules and boundaries about what is acceptable behavior and what is not, and stand tough on those expectations. She may try you at first, but the girl will come around, take my word for it. Now, Tamara . . .”

  “Huh?” she said.

  “I gotta go, ’cause Leonard and I are heading out to Bible study in a minute. Remember, baby girl. Don’t forget what I told you—stand firm with your expectations, and she will come around. Remember, God loves you and so do I!”

  “Okay . . . Thank you, Mrs. Jackson; I really needed someone to talk to,” said Tamara gratefully.

  “Baby girl, once that little girl moves in, you might need to talk to someone even more. ’Specially if she’s sassy as you say she is! Anyway, you call on me anytime you need me, now—anytime, Tamara,” replied Mrs. Jackson encouragingly.

  Softly she put down the receiver as she thought to herself, I am so thankful for Mrs. Jackson’s help. I feel so much better now . . . She really knows what she is talking about, I can tell. Tamara pursed her lips, and her brows furrowed as she thought how Mrs. Jackson was wrong about one thing: love had nothing to do with this at all!

  10.

  Sharing Space

  “Sienna!” Tamara said as she let herself through her front door and wrinkled her nose at the odors of burnt food. Worriedly she hurried into the kitchen area and was greeted by scattered dirty dishes on the counter. Crumbs covered the area around the open loaf of bread, and a spoon filled with peanut butter and jelly lay next to it, while a once-cold gallon of milk with no cap was warming on the counter by the refrigerator.

  “Look at this mess!” Tamara said aloud. While she in no way considered herself a neatnik who insisted that everything be “just so” in her home at all times, she found this chaotic scene in the kitchen definitely unacceptable!

  “Sienna!” Tamara shouted, and stood waiting for the young girl to appear around the corner . . . but she did not.

  Irritated and still mumbling under her breath about the disarray she’d just seen, Tamara turned her back disgustedly on the messy kitchen. She made a quick stop in the living room to drop off her briefcase and, once there, heard the thumping low notes of the compact CD player she had bought for the teen, which only added to her aggravation.

  Single-mindedly Tamara stalked down the hallway and threw open Sienna’s bedroom door, and there was Sienna in the middle of the floor, dancing suggestively to the booming bass of the rap song. The tiny girl was moving in a seductive manner, looking like one of the writhing girls on some of the latest music videos that Tamara had happened upon on TV late at night. Taken aback at the explicitness of the young women’s provocative moves, Tamara would stare at them openmouthed before hurriedly switching channels, quickly surfing to a station less shocking to her.

  In a similar state of surprise, Tamara just stood there several moments with her eyes glued on the teen, who did not even know she was there. Sienna’s almond eyes were closed tightly as she rapped along loudly with the male voice on the CD, “. . . girl, yo’ butt is so fine; that’s why every day I can’t help but wish that you was mine!”

  “Sienna!” she said again, but the girl kept right on undulating to the music as if she had not heard her. “Sienna!” she called, loudly enough this time that her voice could be heard over the music.

  Sienna’s eyes flew wide open, and she immediately stopped her X-rated dance moves, obviously shocked to see Tamara standing there. In only moments, though, Sienna’s look of shock disappeared, replaced by the tough, streetwise persona she affected most of the time.

  Sienna rolled her eyes and said dramatically in a voice filled with attitude, “Cain’t you knock? Last time I looked, this was my room, right?”

  Tamara purposely ignored the girl’s disrespectful tone and replied, “If I had knocked, you would not have been able to hear me anyway,” and the coolness in her tone belied the simmering heat she was feeling inside.

  “What?” said Sienna.

  “Sienna, turn the music off.”

  “Uh?”

  “Sienna, turn the music off!” Tamara shouted. “Now!”

  To her surprise, the girl flinched noticeably, evidently frightened at the sound of her raised voice. Almost running, she quickly cut the stereo down. Determined not to appear weak, though, Sienna replied with feigned bravado, “Okay, okay, you don’t have to holla like that!”

  “Sorry, but you could not hear me for that music.”

  With a plop the teenager sat down hard on her bed, pretending to ignore Tamara as she began to thumb through one of the teen magazines lying there. Sullen now, she asked, “What you want anyway?”

  Expectantly Tamara looked at Sienna and waited for the girl to meet her gaze, but the teen, obstinately defiant now, stared steadily at the magazine, refusing to make eye contact with her.

  “What kind of music is that you are listening to, Sienna? Those lyrics that I heard when I came in this room did not sound appropriate for a young lady.”

  The girl looked at her now and popped her small lips loudly. “I don’t know what no appropriate means, but I know that music sounds good to me.” She smiled dreamily. “I love Lil’ BigDog; he the bomb!”

  “Well, I don’t care if he is ‘the bomb.’ I simply cannot allow that type of music to be listened to in this house. From what I heard just now, it has cursing in it, and that is not acceptable.”

  Sienna gave Tamara a quick angry glance; then without comment she began to turn the flimsy pages of the magazine loudly. “Oh, so I don’t have no choice about what I even listens to in your house, huh?”

  “You may listen to whatever you like, just as long as it does not contain language that is lewd or vulgar,” she replied.

  “Oh, I guess just ’cause you don’t listen to no music or nothin’, you don’t want nobody else to have no fun,” she mumbled.

  “Excuse me, what did you say?” asked Tamara.

  Sienna clicked her tongue again, even more loudly this time. “You is excused.” Then she continued, “I said, just cause you don’t like music or nothin’, that doesn’t mean other people don’t like it.”

  “And just what makes you think that I don’t like music? Is it because I don’t like that vulgar stuff you were listening to?”

  The girl looked up at her. “You don’t even have no music! You got a big ol’ nice stereo CD player with no CDs in there.”

  Tamara was silenced for a moment. It had been her intention when she purchased the CD player to buy some CDs. She was especially partial to the contemporary jazz music she heard on the radio sometimes, and she would hum along with many of the melodies since she knew them by heart, although she didn’t really know any of the artists by name.

  Confidently she replied to the girl, “I’ve just not
gotten around to purchasing the music yet. I am going to buy some soon, though.”

  With a skeptical grunt, the girl said in a voice laden with sarcasm and doubt, “Right. And just how long have you had that stereo anyway?”

  Tamara’s lips tightened. Sienna had no right to question her this way. In fact, it was none of her business when she’d bought the stereo.

  Pushing her irritation away, Tamara replied nonchalantly, “I’ve had it for a few years.”

  “Years? Years? See what I mean? You’ve just got it sitting in there going to waste, but when I use mine to listen to some slammin’ sounds, you wants to get mad at me, like I’m wrong.”

  Tamara grew reflective for a moment, thinking how quickly time had passed since she’d moved into this place, and suddenly wondering why so many of her plans, especially those having to do with her personal relaxation, never came to fruition. Suddenly she caught herself, and became irritated again. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about this—it is not like me, she thought as she turned her focus back to the girl.

  Noisily Tamara cleared her throat. “Sienna, whether or not I use my CD player is not your concern. Your choice of music does concern me, though. It is not acceptable, and I will not allow it in this house.”

  “B-b-but—”

  “No buts,” she said crisply.

  Sienna gave her a lengthy stare and then turned away and, with a voice that was sullen and hard, asked, “Anything else?”

  Tamara thought about the disorder in the kitchen that had brought her into Sienna’s room in the first place. Mrs. Jackson had advised her to set the rules early. The girl had made the mess, and it was her responsibility to clean it, but then Tamara recalled Sienna’s overreaction when she raised her voice a few minutes ago.

  She slowly surveyed Sienna’s room, noticing how everything was carefully in its place and that the room looked much like it had on the day she moved in. Then she glanced again at Sienna, who now sat upright on the bed, turning the magazine pages with one small freckled hand. The teen’s posture was stiffly erect, and she was sitting so still that it almost seemed to Tamara that she was holding her breath while waiting for Tamara’s next response.

  With a sigh, Tamara said in a soft, quiet voice, “Good night, Sienna.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Tamara saw the teen exhale through her nostrils as her stiffened stance immediately relaxed. Then, with another small sigh, Tamara closed the door to Sienna’s bedroom and headed into the kitchen to clean up the mess that the girl had made.

  11.

  Making Connections

  Tamara closed the car door before glancing furtively around the barren neighborhood. Her work in child welfare brought her into public housing many times, so she was well aware that these “project” areas were often dismal and depressing, and this one was certainly no different.

  In fact, with only one look around, anyone would know that life was rough here. Shoot, Tamara thought, looking down at the hard, bare, cracked soil, even the dirt here is too dry and stony to let any blades of grass squeeze through. The graying brick buildings were small and squat, and the unpleasant combination of bug spray, cigarettes, marijuana, and urine permeated the late fall air.

  It was a cold afternoon for early October, and Tamara could see her breath as she made her way toward the sidewalk. She scanned the numbers on the row houses, searching for Sissie Bailey’s address. While Tamara had been elated to find the woman’s address in the pages she’d hurriedly printed that day in Springfield, at the same time, after searching so long for Sissie Bailey, she was finding this moment strangely anticlimactic.

  Tamara had read so much about the woman that she felt as though she already knew her in a way, and now she was only minutes from meeting Sissie Bailey face-to-face. Despite the coldness of the day, anticipatory warmth was spreading quickly throughout her inner core, and this interior heat was a familiar, telltale sign of nervousness for her. Tamara breathed deeply, forcing her anxiety aside, well aware that after all this time these uneasy feelings were to be expected.

  “Hey, pretty lady, watch yourself, now!” a man said in a husky voice that broke into her thoughts.

  Startled, Tamara glanced into the dark eyes of a deep-brown, muscular young man who seemed to appear from nowhere and now was standing in front of her. The dark hood of his sweatshirt was pulled up tightly over his head so that she could not see his face clearly, and he wore his pants loose and low-hanging, as many young men did these days.

  “Hello,” Tamara replied in a voice tight with tension. His unexpected appearance frightened her, and with another darting glance into his dancing eyes, she pulled the belt on her soft lambskin black leather coat tighter and stepped around him. The heels of Tamara’s short boots clicked dully on the concrete sidewalk as she walked even faster. Finally spying the woman’s address, she headed toward her destination with her head down, bracing herself against the frigid wind.

  “Nice to meet you, too,” said the young man, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, as she rushed by him.

  With one last glance back toward the young man who was disappearing into the dusky darkness, she walked up to the door and knocked loudly.

  Seconds later, Tamara was looking down into the small, round face of a butternut-brown little boy. The boy gave her a long, curious look with his large hazel eyes, as he rubbed his runny nose with the back of his hand. Wiping his wet hand on his pant leg without speaking to her once, he turned and yelled loudly in a voice that seemed strangely deep for one so small, “Granny Sissie, somebody at the door!”

  The boy then turned his unwavering wide-eyed stare back to Tamara. She searched his small face for a long moment, then nervously began to pull at her belt as she looked away from him.

  An old woman appeared, barely visible in the dimness behind the boy. “Who is it?” she said gruffly as she moved the boy out of the way with a heavy hand and gave Tamara the once-over.

  Despite the fluttering in her stomach, Tamara reached out her hand in a professional gesture and said loudly, “I’m Tamara Britton from Children’s Protective Services, and I’d like to speak with you a moment if I could.”

  The woman turned up her nose, ignoring Tamara’s outstretched hand, and complained loudly, “CPS? Oh, shoot!, what now? Them doggone kids of mine gonna drive me crazy. I ain’t even heard from three of them girls in years. Now what? I am just one old lady, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do if they messin’ up again!”

  Tamara dropped her hand and replied contritely, “I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I just have a question or two. I won’t take but a few minutes of your time.”

  The older woman studied Tamara closely for a moment or two through her faded brown eyes and then, opening the door wide, said resignedly, “C’mon in, gal.” She furtively glanced around outside and then shut the metal door loudly, obviously annoyed, and added, “I cain’t have folks like you standin’ ’round on my porch—folks’ll get to talkin’. They nosy ’round here.”

  Tamara stood uneasily in the square front room and with one glance quickly took in all of her surroundings. Oversize black and chrome furniture crowded the modest living room area, and one whole wall was covered by the large TV that sat on a huge, shiny black entertainment center in front of the couch and love seat.

  Gesturing toward the couch with one hand, the woman said harshly, “Well, sit down, gal; you in here now! Don’t just stand in the floor looking crazy.”

  “Sorry,” said Tamara as she perched uncomfortably on the edge of the soft-cushioned couch. Pushing herself back awkwardly on the overly cushy sofa, she cleared her suddenly dry throat and said, “Well, Mrs. Bailey, I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here.”

  Sissie Bailey gave Tamara a hard-eyed stare. “That’s a stupid question. Of course I wanna know why you here, gal—even though I know it can’t be nothin’ good.”

  Tamara swallowed hard again. For some reason, the woman’s toughness was not what she’d expected, and this brusquen
ess made her uncomfortable, but she continued, although haltingly at first, “The th-thing is, for years I’ve been sorta m-moonlighting on a c-case. You see, I met a girl a long time ago—actually, we went to school together—she was in state care and she never knew her mother and father.”

  “Hmph!” said Sissie Bailey flatly as she continued to stare at her, hard-eyed.

  “Well, anyway she—my friend, that is—was always so sad because she did not know where she came from.” Tamara went on, glancing surreptitiously at Sissie Bailey, trying to gauge the woman’s reaction to her friend’s situation.

  The woman’s lined face was unreadable, though, and Tamara forged ahead hopefully. “Well, one day my friend abruptly disappeared. I found out later that she’d been removed from her foster home and sent away to another city. I never saw her again, and I really want to find her, and I also would like to surprise her with information about her parents.”

  “And just what does that have to do with me, gal?” said Sissie as she slapped at the little boy’s hands. Lying sideways in the woman’s ample lap, the boy was chuckling while using his dirty hands to play with errant gray strands of the woman’s hair.

  “Boy, stop! Dontay, you see I’m tryin’ to talk. Get yourself up, boy, and get out of here,” Sissie said roughly before slapping him hard on his small behind.

  Tamara stared silently at the two of them for a moment before turning her head to gaze at the television set.

  The woman gave her a defiant glare. “I suppose you gonna report me for that, uh? Well, you go ’head if you want to, and you just see who’ll be there to take his bad tail. Just me, that’s all who wants ’im . . . just me.”

  Tamara watched the boy run from the room and answered, “I would not report you for that, Ms. Bailey. That is not considered child abuse.” Even though Tamara thought the woman hard and mean-spirited, and knew all about her rough past, she was witnessing no abusiveness now. Yet she did wonder how Sissie had gotten custody of the boy, with her criminal background and all.