“She could get married again.”
“What if all the men were like you?” Grace blushed, but she couldn’t bring herself to apologize. “If the girl had an education, she might find a job as a teacher, but most women weren’t allowed the privilege of education back then.” She made a sweeping gesture encompassing Bodie. “How many schoolhouses do you see out here?”
“What about now?”
“Now?” She didn’t know what he was talking about.
“What excuse does a woman have now?”
How could he be so insensitive? “Sometimes people make mistakes they can’t undo. Sometimes people are so beaten down they don’t know how to get back up. And there will always be people who want to keep them in their place.”
“And you know this how? From some textbook?”
Trembling with anger, Grace faced him. “What happens to a fourteen-year-old girl who gets pregnant and her parents kick her out? What if her boyfriend was just using her and doesn’t care what she does? How does she make a living? The people she thought loved her don’t. Where does she go? How does she earn money to buy food or keep a roof over her head? So she sells herself once, just so she can eat. Then she feels so dirty nothing matters after that. People look at her like she’s trash anyway. Now she believes she is. She can’t see any way out.”
All the anger went out of him. “Any of that ever happen to you?”
“No, but it doesn’t mean I can’t have empathy.” Clearly, he didn’t. Feeling sick, Grace walked away.
Roman didn’t follow her, but she felt him watching her. She went to the next corner of the town grid before she looked back. He stood where she’d left him, hands shoved in the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket, looking at the ramshackle house where the prostitute once lived.
They met at the car, both calm. “I’m sorry, Roman. I didn’t mean to get on a soapbox.”
He pushed the ignition button. “I can see why you like psychology. You can make a career of rescuing people for the rest of your life.”
Like Patrick. “No, thanks. Been there, done that, and it ended badly. I’m having enough trouble sorting out my own life to be of any use to others.”
“Sounds like we may have something else in common.”
BOBBY RAY, AGE 10
Bobby Ray reckoned he had been in more than fifteen foster homes by now. He ran away from eight. If he couldn’t get out, he got thrown out. He set fire to one garage. He threw a foster brother’s bicycle into traffic. He kicked dents in the side of a brand-new foster family van. He chucked a bag of dog feces into another foster family’s hot tub. Some foster couples collected monthly checks and let him run wild, until the police found him back on Turk Street.
He was smart. He was shrewd. Every textbook parenting technique was tried on him. None worked. He didn’t get along with other children. He didn’t trust adults. Several families said the boy needed stability and a forever home and tried to adopt him. He said no, hating them for what they were trying to do. Sheila Dean was his mother, and no one was taking her place. Not ever. She was out there in the city someplace, and he was going to find her.
Miss Bushnell, the sad-eyed, weary social worker, had handed his case over to her supervisor, Ellison Whitcomb, a man who had put in twenty-five years in social services. Whatever feelings of hope and purpose he’d had when he started his chosen career had long since died in the heavy caseload of heartache and human tragedy. Bobby Ray was just another rootless, troubled kid with a thick file. Whitcomb talked with another caseworker in the corridor while Bobby Ray sat waiting and listening.
“At least he hasn’t killed anyone.”
Whitcomb gave a bleak laugh. “Give him time.”
Whitcomb took a seat behind the desk. He looked worn-out. He opened a package of Tums and popped a couple into his mouth. A poster of a white, sandy beach with Florida in blazing letters hung on his wall. He asked Bobby Ray how many times he planned to run away.
“As many as it takes.”
“To do what?”
“Find my mother.”
Whitcomb didn’t say a word after that. He didn’t push or pry or even try to make Bobby Ray talk. He just leaned back, folded his hands, and studied him. Bobby Ray stared back, angry. He knew the game and didn’t break eye contact.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, kid.”
Bobby Ray told him what Whitcomb could do to himself. Whitcomb tapped the file on his desk. “I’m going to be gone for five minutes; then I’ll be back.” Bobby Ray got the message. As soon as Whitcomb left the office, he grabbed the file.