Chapter Five – A Day for Miranda

The two girls (and Marcus by now had fully accepted that he was Miranda for the day) went to a local coffee shop that featured truly scrumptious pastries; it was a popular hangout for twenty-somethings and Marcus was fearful they would meet up with someone they knew.

The place was fashioned in a backwoods style; picnic tables had been set up throughout the shop and in its outdoor patio. It was expected that customers would share the tables, so that if there were empty spaces you were forced to join others. This was done purposely to create an atmosphere of friendliness among the coffee-drinkers.

Amy pointed to a spot where she and Marcus could sit together along one side of a long picnic table, sharing it with two other young ladies and one young man, who sat at the other end of the table. Placing his coffee and a plate with a cranberry date bar on the table, Marcus lifted one leg over the bench to sit down, and noticed the young man look at his inner thigh that was exposed and might have excited his sexual fantasies. Marcus quickly sat down, growing red with embarrassment. He noticed the man (he was hardly more than a boy) smile in apparent appreciation of his smooth milk-white inner thigh.

"You folks weren't saving these seats, were you?" Amy asked as she sat down next to Miranda.

"No, they're all yours," one of the young ladies said.

"Thanks," Amy said, acknowledging the welcome.

Marcus felt the boy's eyes were still upon him, but he refused to look up, concentrating on the date bar he purchased as a snack. He turned toward Amy, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy was still staring at him and he became worried that he must have figured out Marcus may not have been a girl after all. Despite Amy's assurances that no one could have mistaken him as anything but female, Marcus had no such confidence. He wanted to escape as soon as possible.

"Let us introduce ourselves. My name is Jonathan," the young man said, directing his comment directly at Marcus. "And this is my sister, Meredith, and her friend, Laurinda."

"Hi, nice meeting you," Amy said cheerfully. "I'm Amy and this is my friend, Miranda. You guys doing shopping today?"

"Nah, we 're going to the arts festival along the riverfront," Jonathan said. "What are you girls doing today? I wouldn't mind having two more girls coming along with us."

The young man laughed, as if the invitation was just a way of flirting. It was obvious that he didn't take it too seriously himself, Marcus thought. Yet, he couldn't escape the feeling that the boy was apparently enthralled with the person called Miranda. He wondered if Jonathan’s brief glance at his inner thigh may have stirred his male emotions and the thought threw a fright into him. Where was this heading, he worried? Yet, Marcus felt pleasantly flattered at having been again thought to be a fetching, lovely young lady.

"No, we have plans," Marcus said quickly, hoping to fend off any ideas the young man might have had.

"Normally, we might have loved to join you, but we have a picnic to go to this afternoon," Amy said, surprising Marcus since it was the first he'd heard about a picnic. It appeared Amy was full of surprises.

"Such is life," Jonathan said, shaking his head.

Marcus was seated directly across from Jonathan, and when Amy got up to get a refill on her coffee, the young man asked him, "I've never seen you here before, Miranda."

"My first time," she replied. "It seems like a nice place and I love the pastry."

"Don't eat too much of it or you'll ruin your figure, Miranda," he teased.

"My tummy's too big already, but this date bar is too yummy to put down," he said.

"You look pretty good to me." He smiled at Marcus; his comment sounded sincere.

Marcus blushed, unsure of how to proceed. He was grateful when Amy returned to the table, and asked a question. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was hoping you'd join me this afternoon at a picnic. You'll like everyone there, I think."

"A picnic?" Marcus asked. "I suppose that's OK."

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Jonathan and the two girls get up to leave. "Hope I see you here again, Miranda," the boy said. “I'm usually here on Saturday mornings and sometimes Sunday, too. Love to buy you a coffee and two date bars."

Amy overhead the exchange and injected. "My friend is already attached, young man," she said sternly.

"Sorry," Jonathan fumbled. "Just being friendly. Didn't mean no harm."

The young man reddened, obviously feeling embarrassed by his too obvious advances toward the person he perceived as Miranda. Marcus felt pangs of regret about how he and Amy had rejected the boy’s advances; the boy seemed nice, he thought.

"Nice meeting you, Jonathan," Marcus said. "Maybe someday you can buy me that coffee."

"Wow. You made my day," he said. He left giving a gentle wave.

"What was that about? You're with me, darling," Amy said in an angry tone.

"I just felt sorry for him, Amy. I won't ever see him again, but I wanted him to feel good."

*****
"You didn't tell me you were planning on taking me to a picnic," Marcus said. They had left the coffee house and begun to wander through several of the boutique and specialty shops that dotted a main street that ran parallel to the river. Amy held Marcus’ hand as they walked, appearing to be two same-sex lovers and he felt strangely excited. Marcus became comfortable in the realization that he was indeed accepted as a female and that no one would identify him as a young man. He was becoming attached to the idea. It seemed normal.

"Don't you want to go?" Amy asked as they paused in front of a store window advertising odd selections of clothing.

"You'll know everyone there, won't you? How will you explain me? As your boyfriend in drag?"

"This is my 'Sisters Strong' group picnic and you'll go as my girlfriend for the day," she said smiling.

"Your girlfriend? Like I'd be your date?"

"Yes," she laughed. "My date for the day. Is that OK with you?"

"You're a . . ."

"Lesbian," Amy finished the sentence.

"It's a lesbian group?" Marcus asked.

"Yes, but it’s more than that. They advocate for LGBT rights and other causes. But we also have fun and I know some of the girls will get all gaga over you, you luscious thing."

"But what will I wear?"

"Just like a girl. Worrying about clothes. You can go pretty much as you are now, but maybe we can see if we can find you a hat of some sort to ward off some of the sun."

*****
It turned out the picnic was a fund-raiser for a campaign that the Sisters Strong group was conducting to oppose some regressive anti-gay legislation being proposed at the State Capitol. Amy had purchased two pricey tickets for the event as part of her contribution to the cause.

Marcus was pleased to see the picnic had attracted a heavily diverse crowd, including many straight-appearing men and women and a smattering of children. She recognized several prominent Democratic leaders among the attendees, plus several key liberals in the community. All apparently supported LGBT rights and Marcus felt comforted to be in such a friendly crowd.

Dry weather in the 70s, with a light breeze and sparkling blue skies made a perfectly lovely day for the picnic which was held on the last Saturday in August, a time when weather in this northern city was chancy.

Amy led Marcus to a picnic table occupied by a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman and a handsome man whose muscular upper body seemed to stretch the limits of his tight-fitting tee-shirt that proclaimed “Gay Pride.”

“I was hoping I’d see you here, Amy,” the woman said. “Peter and I were saving you a seat.”

“And you brought a friend. Great,” the man said, waving his hand as if to welcome the pair to the bench opposite them.

“Yes, this is my new friend, Miranda,” Amy said, who then proceeded to give a warm hug and kiss to the woman and a short peck on the cheek to the man.

“Nice to meet you,” Marcus said. He was confused about the relationship of everyone involved. Amy and the woman seemed strangely passionate toward one another. Miranda at first thought the handsome couple across the table were boyfriend and girlfriend or perhaps even married; yet they seemed not to have any emotional relationship.

“I’m Ellen Rodriguez and this is a soldier in the cause of gay rights, Peter Brockton,” the woman said holding out her hand.

Amy joined Marcus on the bench after her hug with Ellen, placing her body close to him so that their thighs touched. Marcus felt Amy’s hand wander to his bare thigh and begin gentle caresses; he tried to ignore her provocative touches and instead concentrate on the group conversation, which was mainly small talk. Amy explained that she met “Miranda” at a social workers meeting.

“We just hit it off,” Amy said.

“She’s a darling girl,” Ellen commented. “Have you known each other long?”

“No, just a couple of months,” Marcus said.

“And we only really met over the last few days, right dear?” Amy asked, directing the question toward Marcus, accompanied by a discreet wink.

He blushed, finally realizing that Amy was serious about becoming her lover; it was a prospect that Marcus had never before considered. He knew that as a male he had always hoped for a sexual relationship with a woman, though none had happened thus far in his life. At first, as Marcus, he had thought Amy had a true romantic interest in him as a man; now it was Miranda that Amy loved, not Marcus.

“You better keep an eye on her, Amy,” Peter said, laughing. “I know lots of the girls around here might like to get their hands on Miranda.”

Amy giggled. “I’ll do that Peter.” As she spoke, Marcus felt Amy’s hand begin to caress his thigh more actively and lovingly. Marcus felt his small penis grow hard and he worried that Amy might soon begin playing with it causing it to erupt. Amy appeared to judiciously avoid that sensitive organ.

After two beers, fetched obligingly by Peter, Marcus felt comfortable and became more talkative, sharing conversation with the many friends that Amy introduced him to as the picnic progressed. While they waited for the brat and burger feed to begin, a pickup volleyball game was organized and the athletic Amy was urged to join in.

“Only if my friend Miranda will play, too,” Amy replied to the person organizing the game.

“No way,” Marcus said, knowing how inept he was at such athletic endeavors.

“Come on, Miranda,” Amy pleaded. “It’s just for fun.”

“But, I’m no good and I’ll just slow the game down.”

“Don’t be silly. Come on,” Amy said, dragging him by the arm onto the volleyball field. “You’ll be on my team.”

There were six girls on each side and when the game started it was clear that Amy may have been the best player on the field. Despite her husky, short frame, Amy was quick on her feet and showed unusual jumping ability, several times getting up high enough to spike the ball sharply into the other side to score points.

Marcus was predictably pathetic, as he feared he’d be. When the balls came his way, he muffed them repeatedly, seemingly too weak to hit the ball hard enough to get it over the net. Several times his feeble hits were recovered by Amy before they hit the ground, keeping the play alive. When it came his time to serve the ball, he failed miserably, unable to get the ball across.

Marcus was pleased that none of the girls laughed at him or were disgusted. Instead they were encouraging and tried to show him how to best hit the ball. When he was to serve for the third time, Amy and one of the other girls instructed him how the hit the ball; Marcus listened closely to their instructions and then delivered a serve that shot over the net, surprising the other team which had been expecting another fluff. It scored a point for Marcus’ team. It meant he had to continue serving, and he surprised himself with another successful shot over the net. This time the other team was ready and returned the serve easily, heading it right toward Marcus’ space; he responded instinctively hitting the ball high in the air short of the net where Amy was stationed. She raised up and spiked the ball for still another point. It was the winning point.

Marcus was giddy with excitement and he jumped up and down, giggling loudly and flailing his hands in a girlish manner. The tall girl standing nearby hugged him in triumph as the other girls gathered around. Marcus could smell the sweat on each of them as they jumped together, their hot moist flesh slippery and sticky. Amy wound her way into the crowd pulling Marcus from the other girl and grasping him into a tight hug. It was heavenly, Marcus felt, to become a part of the group.

*****
“Let’s shower together,” Amy suggested when the two returned to her apartment from the picnic.

Marcus was aghast at the suggestion. It just seemed like a smutty idea, something for sexual adventurers. It just wasn’t civilized.

“Come on,” Amy pleaded. “Girls do it together all the time. So do guys. It’s fun to lather each other up.”

“I’m not a girl,” Marcus replied.

“You are today. And what a girl!”

“I’m shy.”

“Posh. Just get those sweaty clothes off and let’s get in that shower. You’ll love it,” Amy continued.

Marcus finally agreed, even being persuaded to completely disrobe himself and become nude; he had always hated exposing his puny body and smallish penis among boys for fear of being laughed at. Boys always seemed to equate the size of one’s male organ as some sort of mark of manhood.

Though Amy had a chunky body, she felt solid and Marcus loved the feel of the woman’s smooth skin. He knelt down before Amy as the hot water cascaded down on them and lathered up Amy’s husky thighs. He began to work the soap into Amy’s hairy triangle, and he felt Amy caress his slender shoulders. She opened up her legs a bit and bid Marcus, “Go ahead, you can kiss it.”

Marcus looked up at his friend who smiled broadly. Water from the shower dripped from her wet hair and from the nipples on Amy’s ample breasts, falling onto Marcus as he grew hard. Marcus placed his lips deep into Amy’s soft under belly and bristly hair, and tasted the mixture of soap and musky moistness. It was intoxicating and he felt his penis grow harder. Amy began panting heavily and finally cried out “Oh yes” as she moved her body forward and backward rhythmically.

“Go girl,” Amy yelled at her friend.

*****
Marcus and Amy were exhausted by the time their joint shower was over. It had been a long and active day; the two dried each other off, hugging and kissing intermittently as they did so. Still without wearing any clothes, they dried and brushed each other’s hair. They moved to the bedroom and still nude Amy sat down on the bed, pulling Marcus down beside her.

“Wasn’t that marvelous darling?” Amy asked.

“Yes, but . . .”

“But nothing. You liked it. There’s nothing wrong. It’s natural for people to want to be together intimately.”

“It just seems wrong to me, like we’re doing something evil. Like it’s a sin.”

“That’s just your Catholic Church talking at you.”

Marcus nodded, realizing that whether his religious upbringing caused it or not, he was something of a prude. He had always hated it when she heard boys talking about the size of a girl’s breasts or when they bragged about “scoring” on a girl by getting into her pussy. The word “pussy” seemed so crude.

“It’s just natural for us, darling,” Amy said.

“I guess. Shouldn’t we get dressed?”

“Why? I love looking at your sweet body, darling. You know, you look so totally female in the nude, I can’t believe you’re a guy, except for that little thingy,” the older woman said. She tweaked Marcus’ penis with a finger as she spoke.

“I don’t like my body. Look how strong and firm you are, Amy. And, I’m so weak,” he said.

“You’re perfect, dear. I like my girls to be dainty and fragile like you.” Amy put and arm around Marcus, hugging him tightly, her fingers playing with the soft flesh of the younger person.

“But, I’m not a girl,” Marcus said, pulling away from Amy and standing up.

“Come on back, Miranda,” Amy pleaded.

“No, Amy, I better get dressed and go home.”

*****
“I wished you had stayed another night with me darling,” Amy said as she drove Marcus home.

“I wanted to, Amy, but something tells me it’s just not right,” he said. “What would the agency say if they knew we slept together and showered together and if they knew I did it as a woman?”

“It’s common knowledge that I’m a lesbian,” she said. “They can’t discriminate against us, you know.”

“But as far as I know there’s no law against discriminating against a tranny, if that’s what I am.”

“No one needs to know, my darling girl,” Amy said, continuing the fiction that Marcus was truly Miranda.

They both agreed that their weekend fling would be a secret between the two; it was the best. In the office, they both also understood there’d be no favoritism shown toward Marcus. They’d still hang out with the others at Luke’s or anywhere else the group decided upon. It was to be business as usual, but Marcus remained doubtful, wondering what the future held. After all, he knew he’d never forget the joy of being Miranda for a day.

*****
True to her word, Amy treated Marcus just as she always had, as one of the small group of social workers in her team. If any of them, including their close friends Mollie Johnson and Latesha White, suspected anything intimate had transpired between Amy and Marcus, they didn’t indicate it. While at work, it was as if Marcus’ weekend fling as Miranda had never happened.

Just as they did every Monday, the foster care staff met for two hours to review each worker’s cases, to discuss particularly troubling ones and to consider various directives from top state bureaucrats. Marcus looked forward to the staff meetings since he found a general spirit of cooperation among the workers. He had heard that not all such staff get-togethers were as congenial, since many turned into a showcase for some of the underlings to seek to curry favor with their superiors or to undercut comments of their co-workers.

The foster care staff, however, seemed to concentrate solely on seeking to do what was best for each child. All of the women – and he was the only male at the meetings – apparently realized that there was no one good answer to many of the issues involving families and children and that invariably every social worker would at some time or other make a judgment that turned out to be a bad one.

“The hope is that in these meetings is that we will be able to find out how to achieve the best possible solution to your case problems, not to criticize the worker for what she . . . ah . . . or he . . . might have done,” Amy Dacosta told the group

The only case that Marcus had brought up for discussion involved Jefferson Turner, the 14-year-old who had suicidal tendencies. Marcus had mentioned that it had appeared that the boy might be transgendered. “He got into a fight with one of the other foster kids, a girl about his age who caught him in her dress. He likes to think he’s really a girl, I think,” he told the group in a previous session.

“Lots of boys like to experiment with panties and such just for a lark,” said Geri Hapness, one of the more experienced workers and a mother.

“Yes, you don’t want to stir him into the idea that he is transgendered unless he really feels he’s a girl, Marcus,” warned Latesha.

“I know, but I wonder if any of you have had experience with kids like Jefferson,” Marcus asked.

Only one other worker had and she agreed that Marcus had done the right thing by referring the case to the behavioral health clinic and various professionals. “Most of all, I think the boy will benefit from whatever attention you’re able to give to him, since it sounds like he needs an understanding friend,” the worker said.

Marcus nodded. “I sensed that. He doesn’t seem to have any friends.”

The group then turned to discuss one of Mollie’s cases – that of a 16-year-old boy who was accused of trying to kiss and fondle the 14-year-old daughter of his foster parents. It was a particular troubling case, since there was no proof of the accusation and the boy had no history of such behavior.

“Do you think we should place the boy elsewhere, Mollie?” Amy asked.

“It might be necessary, but you know how hard it is to place 16-year-old boys . . .”

Mollie’s comment was interrupted when the door opened and Maria Lopez, the group’s clerical assistance, entered and announced: “I have an emergency message for Marcus.”

“Here, I’ll take it,” he said, raising his hand.

The note was on one of those pink slips that were once omnipresent in offices, signifying that someone called. It read: “URGENT! Call Officer Jelacic cell ph 555-2650 Re: J. Turner.”

“I better take this. Excuse me,” Marcus said. He left the room.

*****
“Glad you got the message, Marcus,” Heddy Jelacic said when he called.

“What’s up with Jefferson?” he asked.

“You better get down to Community General. The boy’s in emergency right now. He was severely beaten and he’s been asking for you. You and he seemed to get along pretty good.”

“Thank you for the message, Officer Jelacic.”

“Call me Heddy, please. I’m really worried about the boy, Marcus,” she said. He was surprised to hear how friendly and warm the police officer was; at their first meeting, she had been cold and seemingly uncaring for the welfare of the young boy.

“I am too. I’m on my way. Will you be there?”

“I’m here right now. I need to interview him, but he’s scared to give any details. He’s such a fragile kid and so easy to bully.”

“I understand. See you soon,” he said, hanging up.

*****
When Marcus was fourteen years old, he lived in constant fear of being assaulted, harassed and beaten up; he lived with his single mother in a roomy apartment above an insurance agent’s office along the Main Street of their small Wisconsin town. He rarely left the apartment to play with other kids his age. The boys all liked to act tough and many of them relished in teasing and sometimes even physically assaulting the smaller or weaker kids of the community. Marcus was nearly always greeted with “Hi faggot” or “Hey, little girl” possibly because he was a bit shorter than most boys but more likely because of his physical weakness. His mother was able to engage Penny Emerson, an African-American teen girl who lived with her single mother above the bakery shop across the street, to walk Marcus to school when he was in grade school; she also watched over him after school until his mother got home from work. Her mother, Emma Emerson, was one of the few black persons in Riverview and was a large commanding woman who had gained great popularity in the otherwise all-white rural community. The more typically racist of Riverview residents called her “a good n------.”

Mrs. Emerson was known as Mama Edith in the area and was well-known, having lived in the area longer than just about anyone else. A local politician once said of Mama Edith that she was the true “Mayor of Riverview,” who was known to throw the fear of election losses into the hearts of local leaders.

Marcus had grown close to her, having spent much time in her apartment. She had no problem shooing away any would-be bullies from the fragile child. Her daughter, Penny was about six years older than Marcus. The two often played together, since there were few other children living along the city’s Main Street, and Penny was not readily accepted by the white kids of the area. They both like to make up stories with Penny’s dolls, dressing them in a collection of clothes that her mother had saved from her own childhood.

Not all the boys in Riverview were rough and tumble bullies, though, and Marcus befriended several other boys, either through school or through Penny, who shared many of his own sensitive qualities. His life in the neighborhood opened his eyes to harm that racism could cause, based largely on the experiences of Penny, who in spite of her own natural beauty, seemed to be excluded from the groups of teens that gathered around the school.

Perhaps it was Marcus’ childhood memories that helped him to understand young Jefferson Turner. While he had had Mama Emerson and her daughter Penny as his friends, it appeared Jefferson may have not yet found anyone with whom he could find comfort. When Marcus entered the cubicle in the Emergency Department at Community General, he was shocked to see how fragile the boy had become.

Jefferson was curled up on the hospital bed, his tiny form almost buried under the thin white cloth that hospitals consider blankets. The boy was shaking, seemingly uncontrollably, and soft whimpers could be heard. His head was buried into his pillow, as if he was in hiding. His back was turned against Officer Jelacic, who sat patiently on the only chair in the room.

Marcus squeezed through the narrow space on the other side of the bed and stood next to the boy. He carefully avoided the two tubes that led from the stand with its bags of fluid. He put his hand gently on Jefferson’s slender shoulder.

“Jefferson, I’m here,” he said softly. “It’s Marcus.”

“Marcus,” the boy said, raising his head. He burst into a full-blown cry, and with one small hand reached up and grabbed Marcus’ hand. Marcus could feel the desperation in the grip, a “life-or-death” hold.

“Oh, my God,” Marcus said. Jefferson’s face was covered with several bandages, and one eye was totally covered. Marcus also saw that one ear was also heavily bandaged.

Marcus leaned down, as if to hug the boy, but stopped when a nurse walked in and said in a soft, but commanding voice. “I wouldn’t do that, sir. He’s get several fractured ribs. He’s hurting all over. The poor boy.”

“I’m happy Marcus is here,” Jefferson said, his voice so soft and low it was difficult to hear his words.

“I know, but you need your sleep, Jefferson,” the nurse said. “You’re pretty well doped up.”

“Can you stay, Marcus?” the boy asked through his tears. He held on to Marcus’ hand and whispered, “Come closer, Marcus.” Weakly, the boy drew Marcus close to him.

“I need to tell you something,” he said. “But, not now.”

“OK. Just get your rest now. I’ll be back later,” Marcus said. He patted the boy gently and got up.

*****
“Something’s not right here, Marcus,” Officer Jelacic said after the two had left Jefferson’s hospital room. The injured boy had fallen asleep.

“What happened, Heddy? I’m still not clear who beat him up and why? Was he bullied?” Marcus asked.

“All he’ll tell me he was beaten up by some bullies, but he can’t tell me anything about it. He said he didn’t see them coming. He didn’t know how many or anything. Officers responded to an anonymous 911 call about a girl being down and injured at 7th and Polk.”

“A girl?”

“Yes, Jefferson was found in a mini-skirt and blouse and heavily made-up, like one of the prostitutes that populate that area. I must say he looked plenty convincing,” the officer said.

“Do you think he was working the streets? I can’t imagine that, since his foster parents seem to be keeping a pretty good eye on their kids,” Marcus said.

Heddy shook her head. “It’s hard to say, but officers from vice did a pretty good canvass of the girls who worked that street and they claimed to have never seen her . . . ah . . . him . . . before, if you can believe them. Vice said even their snitches hadn’t seen the boy.”

“He looks scared, Heddy.”

“Yes, I know and I think he’s hiding something,” the officer said.

A woman who identified herself as Jefferson’s doctor approached, interrupting their conversation. She asked to speak to the police officer alone, but Heddy Jelacic suggested Marcus join them since he was the boy’s social worker.

“Something else you should know, officer,” said the doctor whose badge identified her as Elizabeth McCoy. “Jefferson was badly bruised in and about the anus, as if he’d been raped.”

“Oh my God,” Marcus gasped. “The poor boy.”

“We’re not sure, but he’ll be given a more complete exam shortly,” Dr. McCoy said. “We’re going to be calming him down with more meds and I think he needs support.”

“Marcus here seems to have established good rapport with the boy,” the police officer said. “I’ve got to get back to the office for a bit. I’ll see if I can get some help from the precinct to find out what happened. I feel like crying when something happens to a defenseless child. Jefferson is so weak and fragile.”

“Yes, he’s a beautiful child,” the doctor said. “I’ve got to get on here, but rest assured we’ll take good care of the boy.”

Officer Jelacic said that Mrs. Harrison was expected soon; she said they were also trying to determine if Jefferson had any blood relatives in the area. The boy had said only that his mother had died and that he had loved her. The boy had no idea who his father was and his birth certificate only listed the father as “unknown.” About all that was certain was that the father was Caucasian, based on Jefferson’s light bronze skin color.

Marcus returned to the room and sat next to the boy, musing that he truly was beautiful and thought the boy must have made a perfectly lovely teen girl. A few minutes into his vigil, the boy’s foster mother, Mrs. Harrison, arrived. She hurried in and approached Jefferson’s bed, stopping short at the sight of the injured boy.

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

“Hard to tell,” Marcus replied. “I guess his wounds will heal and the ribs will hurt for a while, but he’s a scared child.”

“He was always so fragile. Oh, my God, who could do this? He was always my sweetest child and he so liked to help me in the kitchen,” the woman said.

“He was found on 7th and Grove dressed as a girl just as if he was a prostitute like the other girls that hang out there. Can you tell me what he was doing down there?” Marcus asked.

“I don’t have the faintest,” Mrs. Harrison said, adopting a defensive tone.

Marcus didn’t say anything. He looked at the woman waiting for her to explain further.

“I had to take one of the other boys, Melvin Potter, to the doctor for his asthma,” she said sharply. “Jefferson’s fourteen and I’ve left him home alone before. He’s a responsible kid.”

“I’m not accusing you, Mrs. Harrison,” Marcus said. “It’s just that we have to know that you as a foster parent are doing all that is reasonable to care for the boys.”

“You’ve seen the house,” she said angrily. “It’s always clean as a whistle. The boys are well-fed and get to school every day. Not every foster parent does as well.”

“Yes, Mrs. Harrison, you and your husband have always had high marks from us, but we’re as responsible for the well-being of these kids as you and your husband are. Legally, we’re probably more responsible and my job is on the line if I miss something. I have to ask.”

“You’re right. Sorry I blew up.”