her mother told the judge she would give up the girls so she could join the step-father who had fled to Florida; for Marco, an eight-year-old product of a rape whose mother had committed suicide when she could no longer cope with her family’s shame; for all the others, abandoned, orphaned, deprived of any sense of self-worth. No matter how busy she was, Maddie made time every afternoon to go and sit with the children. Leisa often watched as Maddie sat on the floor, her arms and lap filled with little ones who had crawled up, the older ones gathered around, eager to tell her about their day at school.
“How do you protect yourself?”
“Find someone to build a life with,” Maddie counseled Leisa when she first asked that question. “Thank God for her every day. And leave this place here when you go home to her. Give all you can when you’re here, but let it go when you leave. Or it won’t be long until you have nothing left to give. Believe me, this will still be here waiting for you tomorrow.”
But “find someone to build a life with” sounded easier than it was, Leisa thought back then. She kept telling herself that things with Sarah were really over this time. And mostly she believed it. But she knew how easily Sarah had wormed her way back into Leisa’s heart before. One look from those eyes, one kiss from those lips, and Leisa was hooked again. “Maybe she’ll stay this time,” Leisa would always tell herself. But she never did. And then she met Nan, and Maddie’s advice didn’t seem so impossible anymore.
Leisa’s telephone rang, startling her from her reverie. “Someone from the coroner’s office is here to see you,” Sadie, the receptionist, announced.
“Be right there.”
Leisa stood and stretched. She made her way upstairs from her basement office, climbing the wide marble stairs worn smooth from decades of children’s feet running up and down them. When she got to the main floor, she could see a young man sitting on one of the wooden chairs in Sadie’s office. He was holding an aluminum paint can which he almost dropped as he stood to greet Leisa.
“Miss Yeats?” he asked.
“Yes?” Behind her, Leisa could hear the soft clicks of Sadie’s beaded cornrows and knew she was craning her neck, trying to see, even as her fingers tapped rapidly on the keyboard of her computer.
“I’m David Anderson. I’m interning with the medical examiner’s office. I was asked to bring these to you,” he said, holding out the paint can.
At Leisa’s confused look, he said, “They’re the ashes of the Gonzalez woman. It was pretty straight forward – a heroin overdose, but Dr. Bledsoe, the medical examiner, said it was probably a good thing. She had full-blown AIDS and was already dying. Maybe she even did it on purpose. All her other needle marks looked old, and this overdose was huge.” He handed her the can. “I just need you to sign here,” he added, handing Leisa a form acknowledging receipt of the ashes. “Good-bye,” he said as he pocketed the signed form.
Sadie was watching her and eyeing the can with a repulsed expression. “What are you going to do with that?”
Leisa looked at the plain paint can in her hands, adorned only with a label printed with a name, case number and date of cremation. “I’m going to deliver it.”
Florida Gonzalez’ body had been identified by her fingerprints. She had an extensive police record – prostitution, petty theft, dealing drugs. Leisa had stared transfixed at the mug shots taken at each arrest. She had been a beautiful woman, but her face had transformed, becoming harder and more gaunt with each photo. A few photos showed her with blackened eyes and facial bruises. There was no mention of a child or pregnancy. Evidently, Mariela had been born between incarcerations, perhaps not even in Maryland since there was no record of her birth. The most recent arrest had brought a one-month sentence last year for prostitution. Leisa wondered who
Kurt Vonnegut, Bryan Harnetiaux