The Hokey Pokey

The Hokey Pokey



Chapter 1



What a day to be on call! Windy, rainy, 40 degrees—the sort of weather that makes you cold even when you’re inside a warm building looking out. But there I was sitting in my car, looking at a trailer as shabby as most of the others in the Shady Park Trailer Court. Don’t you just love the names of trailer parks—Pine Grove, Rolling Hills Estates, Bayou Oaks, Starlight Village, Southern Oaks—and many of them looked like this one—no grass, junky cars with no tires, trash piled high, and rusty mobile homes. The time had come to leave my dry, warm car and walk from the nice solid asphalt street through an inch or two of water and mud to get to Trailer #8.

As I hesitantly stepped off the pavement, I felt the rain water seep into my shoes and again wished it wasn’t Wednesday. There were five female workers and a supervisor at the Spring Parish Child Protection Agency, so each was assigned one day a week on which she remained in the office, available to take new cases and emergency calls. My day was Wednesday. On some of those days, I was lucky enough to sit at my desk catching up on paper work, answering an occasional call from my own caseload or from a potential foster parent—a call usually welcomed because of the shortage of foster homes. Sometimes, a person might call inquiring about adoption; but they usually hung up disappointed and discouraged because of the lack of infants available for adoption. Few people wanted to adopt older children. On those welcome Wednesdays, I didn’t have to unwind when I got home. Those were easy days. Other days, however, were ones like this Wednesday in the rain and mud.

I received a call late this morning from Mrs. Morrow, the owner of Mamie’s Restaurant, a drive-through restaurant serving tacos, burritos, barbeque, and other assorted greasy foods that was close to the Shady Park Trailer Court. For the past few days, a boy or girl or both had been digging in her garbage cans for food. She had followed them to Trailer #8. A lady in Trailer #10 told her the mother and father had been gone a couple of days. Mrs. Morrow said there were several children there and thought we should check on them.

Sometimes calls came from a grouchy neighbor who was mad at kids who were digging up her flowers. Occasionally, a permissive mother called shocked by another mother’s strict discipline. Too often, however, the calls were sincere pleas from caring people, concerned about innocent, victimized children--victims of mothers, fathers, stepparents, other relatives, or poor foster parents and society. Calls had to be followed up because we dared not miss a serious situation. So I got wet feet going to a trailer, not knowing what to expect but certainly not expecting what I found.

In answer to my knocking, a slightly-built boy about nine, dressed in an over-sized, grubby T-shirt and faded jeans, opened the door a crack.

“Hi, I’m Miss Cannon,” I said. “Could I speak to your mother, please?”

“She ain’t home,” he muttered.

“When will she be back?”

“Dunno.”

“Is there someone else here, older than you I could talk to?”

“Nope.” Wordy kid.

“Well, could I come in and talk to you then? What is your name?”

No response. This kid was not handing out any free information. I hoped I’d have better luck when I got inside—if I got inside! He was looking me over pretty good. I guess I passed inspection because he finally opened the door wider for me to enter.

What faced me in that trailer is one of the most appalling scenes I have ever had to face as a social worker—and I thought I had seen it all! The word filth alone does not describe it. Other words, like shocking, nauseating, unbelievable, pathetic, and shabby, help in the description, but only partially. Shocking was the sight of a floor almost as dirty as the mud outside, the sink full of unwashed, roach-covered dishes, counter tops covered with leftovers—probably the food fished out of Mrs. Morrow’s garbage cans—and a stench I had never smelled, thus unidentifiable.

Nauseating was the appearance of a baby, approximately ten months old, crawling on the cold, filthy floor, wearing a diaper obviously put on by a child and hanging loosely, full of urine and feces and nearly black from the dirt. The baby, on the cold floor in the cold trailer, was dressed only in a much too large button-up-the-front sweater and the diaper—which I realized was the source of the unidentifiable stench.

Unbelievable was the bottle that the baby was carrying, a bottle a quarter-full of curdled milk. Pathetic was the frail body of a sleeping little girl who looked about six, laying curled up and half-covered by a worn blanket on the lumpy, threadbare couch. Sitting close to her was a runny-nosed, chapped-cheeked boy about five years old. There were two small boys, who both appeared to be three or four, sitting on the floor, staring at me out of weary, dirty, freckled faces, neither of which was dressed any warmer than the other children. All but the sleeping girl looked at me with curious eyes.

Shabby was the condition of the trailer as I looked about for clean diapers, more clothes, and a washcloth with which I hoped to clean the baby as soon as possible. I saw nothing that looked clean!

While taking all of this information in, trying to remain calm outwardly, and trying to keep from heaving, I began to talk to the 9-year-old boy who finally told me his name was Robby. He seemed suspicious and was still not very forthcoming. When I asked him if it would be OK with him if I changed the baby’s diaper, he seemed relieved but said, “We ain’t got no clean diapers.”

I looked around and saw a pile of ammonia-scented diapers in the tub. I found the cleanest towel available and began cleaning and changing the baby girl. Robby watched me carefully, and I continued to ask questions, “Where is your mother? Your daddy?” “Did they take a little trip?” “When did you eat last?” No answers.

The little girl on the couch slept the entire time. With four brothers and a baby sister around maybe she had learned to sleep through the noise. When I finished changing the baby, cleaning a bottle and filling it with water (no milk in the fridge), I laid her in an over-stuffed chair (Over-stuffed is overstating the condition since the stuffing was coming out.) Then, I began to think about what I needed to do.

I knew I was going to need more help with the children because I was not about to leave them in that trailer any longer. After my chilly and one-sided chat with Robby, I also had my concerns about how he would react when it became apparent that I would be taking all of them away from the trailer. Before calling for help, however, I wanted to talk with the 6-year-old girl to see if I could get any more information from her than I did from her brother. As I stepped toward her and reached out to touch her, I received a very strong reaction from the erstwhile uncommunicative Robby.

“Don’t you bother her. She’s sick and needs to sleep.”

While reassuring him I would not hurt her, I touched her forehead. It was hot and dry. Shaking her gently caused her to moan and whine. I couldn’t wake her, and she only squirmed and whimpered when I tried. I knew I needed help—an ambulance, the police, and another worker. The police had to be present any time a child was removed from a home. I was definitely removing the children! I wanted the police to make a report on the condition of the children and the trailer in case this incident ever got to court as a child abandonment, neglect, or endangerment case.

After covering the little girl with my coat, I said, “Robby, I’m going to go call a doctor because your sister is very sick. I’ll be right back.”

“No!” he yelled. “She’ll be just fine. She just needs to rest.”

“Robby, listen, she’s very, very sick. She needs help.”

I could tell Robby was struggling with wanting help for his sister but not wanting anyone to interfere with his family. After staring into my eyes, he nodded, and turned toward his sister.

In my car I called my supervisor. Though an old fogey in many ways, Ms. Storm trusted the judgment of her workers when they were in the field; and she quickly perceived the severity of the problem. She agreed to call the police and the paramedics and send another worker,. While I took care of the problems at the scene, she said she would begin calling a list of foster homes to find places for the children. This would be a difficult task, I knew. To find one foster home for a child at a moment’s notice was never an easy job, but to find enough foster homes to take in six children might be impossible. I gave her the approximate age, sex, and race of each childr, but I could not give her any idea of what the foster parents could expect from any of the children. As they did most of the time, the foster parents would have to feel their way through the dark corridor of each child’s fear and trauma—evidenced by crying, bedwetting, anger, and insatiable appetites for food and attention.

With limp hair, damp clothes, and a heart full of sorrow for these poor, pitiful, little lambs, I returned to the trailer to try to gather any articles of clothing that might allow me to dress the children warmer for the trip to the shelter. The more difficult task would be explaining the events that were about to take place to these already frightened children. They would be wrenched from their home; as inadequate and insecure as it might seem to an onlooker, it was still their home—and probably one of the only securities they had experienced. Their parents might go away, the food might cease to enter their mouths, and the heater might cease to warm their bodies, but that dirty trailer was their home. They had each other, but I was about to mess that up for a time.

Robby seemed to consider himself in charge of his younger siblings; and the younger children obviously counted upon him to protect them. Now, they would not only be removed from their home, but they would probably also be separated from one another. Younger children have no understanding of what is happening and why. Robby would understand what was happening but would probably fight it with all his might.

Only children who have been abandoned by their parents, physically or emotionally, can know the emptiness and helplessness that is felt when a total stranger comes in to take over and make decisions about what will happen to them. When the decision is made to remove children from their home, their whole world crashes in on them. They have no idea where they are going, when they’ll see their parents again, if at all, or when or if they’ll return home. It must feel as if they are being removed from earth and placed on a strange and hostile planet. Some children cry and scream. Some are very angry. Some are disturbingly quiet and withdrawn. Whatever the situation, it is a highly emotional time, and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

As I returned to the trailer, I knew it was time to tell Robby what was about to happen. I did not relish the idea of seeing that pitiful but proud face crumble. I wasn’t so sure that watching his face crumble wouldn’t also cause my face to crumble. I knew that, regardless of his “big-brother-protector” bearing, underneath was a small, frightened, 9-year-old child, desperately needing his absent parents and reassurance.

How can I approach him? I thought. How could I possibly prepare him and his siblings? What words? I knew whatever I did would be inadequate, but I had to forge ahead.

Entering the trailer, I saw Robby anxiously watching his sister. “Robby, I’ve called an ambulance to take your sister to the hospital. They’ll know what to do for her at the hospital to make her well again.”

At first, it looked as if he would resist, but he straightened his shoulders up and said very firmly, “I’ll go with her.”

“Listen, Robby, I need you to help me. She’ll be all right. The doctors and nurses will be helping her. You wouldn’t be able to go into the room with her while they’re examining and treating her. I promise I’ll go to the hospital later, and I’ll let you know how she is.” I could tell he was confused about what he should do.

I took a deep breath and said, “Robby, your sister is going to be taken care of, but you, your little brothers, and little baby sister need care, too. I heard that your parents have been gone a couple of days. You don’t seem to know when they’ll be coming home. I can’t just leave you here. I’ve called someone for help.

“No,” he said fiercely.

“She is going to find homes for you and the others where you can all be warm and have plenty of food to eat and someone to watch over you.”

“We don’t need nobody to take care of us!” With bravado, he continued, “My Mama’ll be back soon. Tonight . . . tonight she and Papa’ll be back. I can take care of them ‘til then.” I could see the panic in his face and, fearing he would run out the door, I placed my hands on his shoulders. He slapped my arms away and backed away from me.

“Robby, the baby--? What’s your baby sister’s name?”

“Julie,” he replied hesitantly.

“OK. Julie needs someone to feed her, give her good milk, and keep her clean and warm or she’s going to become sick like—what is her name?” I asked, looking at the sleeping child.

“Rachel.”

“Rachel. Julie can become sick like Rachel. I can tell you’re a good big brother, and I know you’ve been doing the best you can for everyone; but they need an adult to care for them. You don’t have milk or food, clean clothes, or heat. It’s so cold in here. You all need care until your parents return. You must know your brothers and sisters need more help than you are able to give them. It’s not your fault. It’s just such a big job—even for an adult.”

He was fidgety and struggling to keep from crying, but he was listening.

Finally, he said, “OK, you can take care of Julie, Caleb, Danny, and Donny until Mama and Papa get back, but I can take care of myself. I’ll do awright.” Well, I had all the names. “Besides, I need to stay here so Mama and Papa’ll know where they are.”

I sat down on the arm of the chair where Caleb (I guessed) was still sitting, staring at us. “Oh, Robby, you’re so brave; but I can’t leave you alone in this cold trailer. I’d worry about you. All of you need to be taken care of. I’m really sorry; but it’s necessary.”

At that time, the paramedics arrived. I gave them what information I had, and they began to examine Rachel. I watched Robby, hoping he would not run, but he seemed to be occupied, making sure the paramedics were taking care of Rachel. The paramedics began an IV on her, wrapped her in a blanket, picked her up, and took her out to the stretcher. Robby followed them out, and I sent up a prayer that he would be as concerned about what happened to the others to stick around.

As the ambulance pulled away, the police and my co-worker, Pam Markham, arrived. I spoke Robby’s name and introduced him to Pam, explaining that Mrs. Markham was a friend of mine who had come to help. “Would you help Mrs. Markham get coats or sweaters or any clothes together for your brothers and the baby?”

Dejected and reluctant, he looked over his shoulder at the policeman and headed for the trailer. He hadn’t run away—yet. I quickly filled Pam in and told her that the baby was asleep, but she’d have to make friends with the boys. As she walked away toward the trailer, I warned her, “Be prepared. It’s pretty skanky in there.”

I had worked cases before with Bob Granger, the policeman. He had handled more neglect and abuse cases than anyone should and knew the procedure.

“Hey, Bob.”

“What’s up?”

“Parents abandoned six kids, no food, no heat, bad scene.” I told him what I knew, who had made the complaint, and the children’s names. While we were talking, the manager of the trailer park came home and told us the family’s name was Hughes. I explained to him that I would need to talk to him later but that I had to take care of the children first.

“Those excuses for parents have been gone for a few days—no-count people,” the manager called after me as I walked back to the trailer. I left it to Bob to question him. My first responsibility was getting the children to a safe place.

As I headed for the trailer, my cell phone rang. I saw the number and answered, “Hi, Thomas.”

“Hi, gorgeous,” Thomas said. “Just wanted to see if you want me to pick you up or meet you at the restaurant.”

“The restaurant?”

“Yeah, Kate, remember the dinner with my parents at Rosetti’s?”

“Oh, Thomas, I forgot. I’m in the middle of something. Look, I’ll try to make it. I’ve got an emergency here. I have to see that five kids get into foster homes this afternoon.”

“Not again, Kate! You know how important this is to me. I need you there.”

“Thomas, I will try to get there. I may be late, but I’ll do my best. Let me go so I can do my job. I’ll call you if I can’t make it.” He didn’t hear my last statement—he hung up on “I’ll call . . . .”

Thanks, buddy boy, I’ll worry about you later. Exasperated, I returned to the trailer. Pam and Robby had done well. The little boys were in odd-sized shirts, one in a ragged jacket, and the baby was covered snuggly in a sheet. It felt good to know that Rachel would be well taken care of for the next few days. I had no idea where the rest of these kids would be this evening. I only knew it was time to take them from their home.

Bob had come in and was going from room to room, taking pictures of the place and snapping a few of the children, too. They looked bedraggled, weary, and frightened—not exactly a Kodak moment. I wrote a note to leave on the counter top:

Your children are being taken care of by the Spring Parish Child

Protection Agency. Please call Ms. Storm (555-6843) at the Agency

when you return.

Pam and I were ready. She picked up the baby, and I gathered Danny and Donny. The twins were ready for a ride. “Go bye-bye,” Danny said and “Go bye-bye” was quickly repeated by Donny.

I turned to tell Robby to grab Caleb’s hand. We were all ready, but, from the look of Robby’s face, he was getting ready to fight or flee.

“Robby?”

“I ain’t going! I told you I can take care of myself!”

“Robby, I need your help. Your brothers and little sister need you right now. Please take Caleb’s hand for me.” Poor kid, he wanted to be tough. The range of emotions that showed in his face ranged from bravado to fear and anger.

Surprisingly, he reached for Caleb’s hand, pulled him from the chair, and began walking out the door. Pam and I looked at each other with relief. Evidently, Robby would follow through to see that his younger siblings would be cared for. I told Pam to meet me at the shelter where we would find out what placements were available. She had a child’s car seat, so she took the baby and Caleb; and I strapped the twins into my backseat. Robby rode up front with me.

After getting on our way, I looked over at Robby. His jaw muscles were clenched tightly. His hands were formed into fists. It looked as if he was making a strong effort to keep from crying. I wasn’t sure he could listen or talk without crying, but decided, What the heck, it might be better if he cried and released some tension.

“Hey, I know you must be scared, not knowing exactly what’s going to happen; but nobody’s going to hurt you. You’re going to be in a warm place, have good food to eat, and be with people who care about you. Try to relax and not worry about Rachel or the others.”

He looked straight ahead. After a few minutes of silence, he asked, “Are we going to your house?”

“No. I can’t take you home with me; you’ll be going to a foster home. That’s a home where other parents take care of you when your own parents can’t. I won’t know until we get to the shelter where you’ll be going; but I’ll tell you about it as soon as I know.”

“I don’t need some other parents. I have parents.”

“I know, but they are unable to care for you now. We’ll try to get you back with your parents when they return, but for now you’ll have to stay with someone else.”

“I . . . I . . . I can help those people take care of my sister and brothers!” he blurted out. “I take care of them all the time at home.”

I didn’t want to tell him at this time that he might not be in the same home with his siblings. I’d handle that obstacle when I found out where they’d be going.