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| In her housecoat. |
Chapter Thirty-Three
Janet was getting ready for the shower…
Janet was getting ready for the shower, much needed after the last day or so. The pounding on her door was distinctly unwelcome. She shuffled to the front hallway, binding her housecoat around her hips, the slippers silent in the late-morning living-room clutter.
Earlier that morning, Jean had gone home to meet the manager of a local auction house, to try and get some initial idea of what he could sell quickly of the house’s contents. Many of them were valuable antiques, no matter how slow the market was. With Jason not due home for lunch for forty-five minutes, and Ashley having a nap, it seemed like the perfect time. Her hair hung in stringy locks, and she could distinctly smell herself. Pounding and more pounding. A white splash of sunlight, enough to show the lint on the dingy rug, temporarily blinded her.
She peered out the glazed portal in the front door to see two women standing there.
With a sigh, assuming it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses or somebody like that, she withdrew the bolt and opened up for them. Predictably enough, the woman on the right handed her some paper as the other’s mouth opened to speak. This woman was quite stout. As Janet blinked in confusion, the big one pressed forcefully into the hall.
“We’re with the Children’s Aid Society.”
Over the women’s shoulders a police cruiser was rolling to a stop in front of her place.
Doors then opened and two big cops got out.
“What?” Janet gasped. “What’s this all about?”
Her heart thudded deep in her chest in a kind of terror. What was happening?
“It’s best if you cheerfully obey this directive.” The slender blonde woman on the right had a grim look.
She clutched a black leatherette dispatch case to her bosom, casually inspecting the room in faint disapproval. Laundry and toys dotted the landscape. The stout one, with a highly-unnatural maroon page-boy bobbed haircut with black highlights framing eyes heavy with mascara, was explaining in a firm tone.
“We have some concerns about your association with a Mister Jean Gagnon.” Her hugely-rounded black eyes bored into hers. “We must have a system to protect the children.”
Those eyes bulged at her. Janet felt unaccountably guilty for something.
“What?” Janet stared in anger. “What? Who are you people?”
The slender one, about forty-five years old, spoke up.
“This is Sofia Gates, and I’m Tanya Waxman. We’re social workers.”
She opened up the case and began rummaging around for business cards.
“The system has a reason for everything it does.” Sofia had always been non-judgmental, and now the two cops were hulking in her doorway, but holding back and keeping silent.
They stood there intently watching her reactions. Janet’s left hand was up on her chest, her right hand convulsively holding the belt tight on her tatty old bathrobe.
“Who the hell are you people?”
“The system has a reason for everything it does.” There was this horrid fat woman, standing in her living room.
She was wearing high-heeled black shoes, this on a day with four inches of fresh snow, black nylon stockings. Acres of pigskin had gone into the making of that warmly-toned trench coat. The wash of the woman’s scent rolled out and onwards into her house.
“We don’t always agree with it.” The woman ground on, inexorably, as Janet stood there dumbfounded.
“In a sense the system is never wrong.”
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| The system is never wrong. |
Janet shook her head in anger and awe.
What nerve. What arrogance.
“We must always err on the side of caution.” Tanya now, as if that somehow justified everything.
Janet was frowning uncontrollably, lips quivering. To be polite to these people was almost more than she could bear. Face taut, she simply couldn’t manage to put on a polite expression.
“And what do you want from me?” Janet asked with as much dignity as she could muster, her voice cracking with tense inner emotions.
This was unbelievable.
“In an undesirable context where children of minor age are considered to be at-risk, we simply can’t take any unnecessary chances, as I’m sure you will agree.” The biggest one, the one with triangular port-wine bangs hanging down her forehead.
The nerve.
“What are you talking about?” Her guts were churning as a dim kind of understanding began to sink in. “What the hell are you saying?”
“Well. We have no choice but to place Ashley and Jason into foster care, pending the outcome of our investigation.” This was the slender one. “We have to think of what’s best for the children. We can’t afford to give anyone the benefit of the doubt.”
“What kind of context?” Janet had a deep and abiding anger evident in her tone and the hardening of her features.
She stood there very tense and still now, glaring at them.
“You’re not going to give us any trouble.” One of the cops in the background.
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| One of the cops in the background... |
“Where are your children right now? Where is Mister Gagnon at this exact moment?” The other officer asked.
Janet was speechless. This couldn’t be real…but it was. It was real.
“Is Jason still attending Queen Elizabeth Elementary on Maple Street?” Sofia asked. “Your children are now wards of the Family Court of Ontario, and it is an offence to try and contact them without express written permission.”
“From who? Permission from who?” Janet shouted at the bitch in raw disbelief.
The cops stepped forward to head off any violence, which wasn’t unusual in a case like this. The social workers headed for the bedroom area of the house. Jason was at school, but the slender case worker came out holding Ashley in her arms. Janet lost it. She slumped to the floor, tears flooding out like a geyser.
“Oh, God, no. Ashley.” She shrieked, as the cops tried to pick her limp body off the floor, convulsing in fear and shame and loss.
“Oh, God, no.” She cried. “Oh, God, no.”
She cried, as the two cops grabbed her under the shoulders, and lifted her onto the couch.
“We’re not judging you, Missus Herbert.” Janet’s rush of tears intensified with this reminder of dear Don.
None of this should have happened, she thought insanely, Don’s face hovering in her mid-brain, a dim shape that faltered and diminished as soon as she became aware of it.
“No one is saying you’re a bad mother.” Tanya said it, like she was talking to a three-year old who wouldn’t go to the potty.
Then what are you saying? Janet raged inwardly, smacking her fists on the sides of her head in anger and hysteria.
“Where is Mister Gagnon?” The cop asked heavily. “We need to talk to him.”
“Oh, Jesus, oh, God.” Janet moaned in her grief, the raw, naked fear for her kids.
Would it never end? Would it never end?
“Please try to get a grip on your emotions, Missus Herbert. Your children will be going to a very good home. They’re a nice couple. I selected them myself, because I know how hard this must be for you.” The one known as Sofia told her as gently as she possibly could, given her husky, baritone voice.
Nicotine-stained fingers patted Janet on the shoulder. Janet leapt out of the chair.
“I want to call a lawyer.”
That’s when Janet assaulted the lady, as she rushed at them all with both fists flying.
It seemed everyone was ready for it but her. The cops quickly pinned her arms to her sides. Then the cuffs were going on. She watched in disbelief as Ashley was carried out by Tanya.
“If you simmer down, right now, I won’t charge you.” Someone really big said that from just behind her right ear.
END
Images. Louis.
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