Short story
A Home for Rodney
by David Harlen Brooks
Time is ticking for a boy in social services. He can let go of his fears and find a loving family or shuffle in and out of households.
Sneak Peek
Children & Family Services Department
Nod, Illinois
July 1965
Git on with it.
The tap-tap-katap of Luanne’s typin’ reminded me of false starts, and I’d had enough of those over three years in this room. Sweat rolled down my face, but the heat wasn’t the only thing that had me bothered. The clock read 9:32 a.m. I cracked my knuckles and leaned forward onto the edge of Luanne’s table, which vibrated from her typin’. I wondered what vibes I’d pick up from the people comin’ to look at me.
“Did you tell ’em?”
Luanne stopped. “Tell them what?”
“I’ve been in and out of six places.”
“Now, why on earth would I tell them that?” Her voice stuck in a high pitch.
“So no one’s time gits a-wasted.”
“You sure find your way into enough trouble.”
I shrugged.
She grabbed a bottle of that white stuff.
“And why is that?” She unscrewed it, dabbed the brush over some words, and blew on it.
I sat back and swung my legs. My fingers found a hole in the vinyl seat cover and dug past the sharp edge into soft stuffing, poking around. If only I could make myself small and hide inside.
Eldon, another caseworker, scooted his chair, which scraped the floor. “Like a Coke, Rodney?” His voice always rumbled my ears.
“You buyin’?”
“No, but the State of Illinois is.”
“I’ll take one then.”
The floor groaned under his steps that faded and came back again. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, man.”
I aimed to sip it slow and let the bubbles fizz on my tongue. But once I pressed the dull glass edge against my lips and took a swig of syrup, I lost control and made gulpin’ noises as it burned its way in my throat.
“Don’t swallow the bottle, too!” Luanne honked like a goose and started off typin’ again.
A phone jangled on Eldon’s desk. His fingers drummed the table, soundin’ like a gallopin’ horse. He said, “Yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah,” the way I did when Luanne asked too many questions.
I looked at the clock again. 9:43 a.m.
Eldon’s arms had swept me into his beanbag stomach when I tried to escape the first time they brought me here after my mama died.
I took another gulp of sugar water and belched a rolling thunder. Luanne looked at me over her horn-rimmed glasses—one eyebrow raised.
I leaned toward her.
“Excuse me. Yes, ma’am. Thank you, sir. May I be excused? I’ve got ’em all memorized.”
She shook her head and her lipstick crinkled.
“Good!”
A breeze brushed my face and reminded me of her puffy hands strokin’ my cheek when I got scared and cried the first time they tried givin’ me away.
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