CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The social worker peered into my pristine fridge and nodded her approval at the organic blood oranges, the quart of milk, the cheese and eggs, and the spinach and ricotta quiche that I had made the afternoon before.
She ticked another item off the checklist that was on her clipboard, closed the fridge and looked at the artwork of Billy’s that I had stuck to the fridge door. She opened the kitchen cupboard doors, and the stove nodded at the shelf of cleaning agents that I had moved up high in one cupboard and made more notes on her checklist.
“That’s fine,” she said to me. “I’ll have a coffee, white with two sugars, thanks. Then I want to ask you a few questions.”
There was coffee sitting in the percolator, keeping warm, so I poured us both a mug. I put the coffee on to mask the chlorine smell that filled the house, but drinking it seemed like a good idea too.
They sat in the living room, the social worker a complete anomaly; a middle-class, pantyhose, and pump-wearing, dressed and groomed stranger looking out-of-place sitting on my worn armchair. She sipped her coffee and smiled at me.
“Your house is lovely,” she said. “You go out of your way to keep it tidy. I see many places in this job, and I don’t think I’ve ever done an assessment on a place that was so clean.”
“Thank you,” I said, making a mental note to thank Yolande, Ella, and Jarrod at work that night.
“Now, I need to ask you two questions about your personal life. They will sound intrusive, but these are questions you will be asked over and over, at the hearing. Tell me about your work.”
“I’m an actor, but I haven’t made a movie in over a year. I couldn’t make my child support payments, so I got an ordinary job. I’m a driver and receptionist for a brothel.”
The social worker’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh,” she said. “No wonder you’d got custody and access problems. That will not look good on the report. Had you thought about getting a different job?”
I shrugged. “I’m unskilled. My college degree is twenty-five years old. I’m equipped for the workplace. It was a menial job in the building trade, or this, and I can’t make my child support payments with a minimum wage job.”
The social worker made a note on her clipboard. “Do you have a girlfriend at the moment?”
“No,” I said, wondering what a hostile social worker would be like if this was a tame one. “I have a boyfriend.”
Prim eyes peered at me for a moment. “A boyfriend? Is this a recent development for you? Having a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, making myself stay calm. “I’ve dated men and women all my adult life. Something my ex-wife well knows of, and that has never worried her before.” Now there was an understatement considering how keen Daniela had been to bring home guys she’d picked up for us both.
“Tell me about your boyfriend,” the social worker said.
I paused a moment to steel myself for this bit. “His name is Jarrod, he’s British and is here trying to break into acting. He works as a prostitute at the brothel that’s how we met.”
The social worker’s eyebrows just about hit her hairline at this point and she stared at me. “Would you say it was a serious relationship?” she asked.
“It is for me,” I said. “I’m in love with me.”
The social worker looked like she’d reached her limit of believing the impossible, and she blinked at me, then made another note on her clipboard.
“Well,” she said. “You’ve provided a lovely physical environment here for your son, clean and stimulating and nurturing. If your ex-wife leads a similar lifestyle to you, the judge might decide that your son would be fine with you. I’ll do what I can when I write up my report, but I can’t gloss over the fact you work on the fringes of an illegal industry, and that your boyfriend engages in prostitution.”
“Neither of us does this because we want to,” I said, feeling driven to explain. “Believe me, no one is a prostitute for fun, but people are driven to it by hardship and need, even at the top end of the industry where I work.”
The social worker shook her head. “I know,” she said. “I used to work for Child Services, I’ve seen the most appalling things. You’re a perfect parent compared to a vast section of the population, but I don’t think a judge will see it the same way.” She stood up and said, “I’ll get my report to Francine and Paul as soon as I can. Best of luck with getting your son back.”
When she’d gone, I sat back on the couch and leaned my head back and closed my eyes. I needed to think about sleeping, but I was far too dejected to even consider it at that moment. I’d be a zombie at work, that was all. At least I’d be so exhausted I’d sleep the next day.
Despite the anxiety gnawing away at my gut and the caffeine in my bloodstream, I must have drifted off because my cell phone woke me with a jolt later and I stumbled into the kitchen where my phone was charging.
“Hello?” I said, trying to shake myself awake.
“Hi I, this is Francine Perlman. I’ve got good news for you.”
“Good,” I said, leaning against the counter. “I was having a Paul Cohen moment here, I could do with good news.”
Francine chuckled and said, “I’ve just had a phone call from your ex’s attorney offering supervised access until the hearing.”
“I can see Billy?” I said, hanging onto the counter for support. “When? How soon?”
“I’ll get a letter tomorrow confirming the details. At first, your ex-wanted to use one of the county Child Services facilities designed just for this purpose. I counter-offered with our own social worker at a location of her choice, we were offered back with a social worker of their choice. I pushed a little since you would have to pay the cost of their social worker, citing extreme financial hardship, your ex’s attorney backed down, and we’ve agreed that a family friend will be adequate supervision. One of your son’s friend’s mothers has offered to help out, so you’ll just call her to arrange a time.”
There were tears trickling down my face though I wasn’t aware of crying, I could just taste the salt in my mouth. “Thank you, Francine,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem, hon.”
“Why did she decide I could see Billy? Do you have any idea?” I asked.
“I gather she was in her attorney’s office when I rang me. The wording the attorney used was that it was ‘in the best interests of the child, that he was distressed at being separated from you.’”
my vision had gone blurry from the tears leaking out of my eyes. “Thank you,” was all I could think of to say.
“I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I receive the letter,” Francine said. “And then you can see Billy. And, Sebastian, this is a positive sign. If she’s prepared to put Billy’s feelings above her own, this bodes well for the whole process.”
“You think I have a chance?” I asked, and I sniffed.
“You’ve always had a chance,” Francine said. “The odds just got better though. So, hang in there, and I’ll call you tomorrow as soon as I have news.”
After the call, I wandered into Billy’s bedroom, unfamiliar in its orderliness, and sat down on the bed and hugged the moth-eaten stuffed cat that lived on the bed. I laid down on the narrow bed and let myself cry out my relief at seeing Billy again soon, perhaps even the next day, and fell asleep.