Immoral Certainty (15 page)

“So one of the staff could be a creep?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely. This place is first cabin—the staff ratios are right up there. But who knows? It’s New York, right? Look, here’s the director’s name and their phone number. You can go check it out yourself.” Loesser pulled out a card and scribbled on a piece of paper, which she handed to Marlene. The phone rang again. Loesser smiled and shrugged helplessly. Marlene smiled and made for the door. As she left, a court officer was delivering two weeping, fatherless little boys to Suzie Loser.

The name of the place was on a black iron plate in raised letters: St. Michael Archangel Child Development Center. The building was a five-story brownstone, one of three biscuit-colored aristocrats set in a row in the middle of a Riverside Drive block dominated by towering apartment houses. Marlene didn’t even want to think about what such a building might cost. She climbed the front steps and pushed the buzzer on the side of an ornate wrought-iron and glass door.

A fresh-faced young woman opened the door. Marlene said she had an appointment with the director. The woman smiled pleasantly and ushered Marlene into a paneled hallway floored with parquet. The place smelled of furniture polish and leather. As the woman led her down the hall, Marlene asked, “Where are the kids?”

“Oh, they’ll be in the back now. It’s nice out today and there’s a little yard. Actually, the center occupies only the rear of this floor and the basement floor. The rest of the house is the director’s residence.”

“It sure doesn’t look like a day-care center. Where’s the pink vinyl couch? Where’s the green linoleum?”

The woman laughed. “Oh, we have linoleum. A tasteful beige though, of course.”

“Of course. Have you worked here long?”

“No, just six months, and I’m only part time. I’m getting my masters in child development at Hunter.”

“Very good. And what do you think of this place?”

“St. Michael’s? It’s paradise. It’s probably the best day-care center in New York, maybe the world.”

“That’s great,” said Marlene uncomfortably. She was starting to think she was on a fool’s errand. This had happened before. Marlene’s dirty secret was that she was not tough at all, at least not all the way through, a kind of stainless steel Twinkie. Snarling and cursing all day at Centre Street eroded something inside her, and on occasion she would either break down, as she had with Karp, or fling herself thoughtlessly into some kind of Good Deed, as now. She had lent money she didn’t have to people who would never pay her back. She did favors for people she hardly knew, like Dana Woodley. Now she started thinking about ways to keep from making a complete ass of herself.

Her guide opened a walnut-paneled door and let Marlene into a small reception room, furnished in quiet good taste, like the office of an expensive internist. The secretary, a grandmotherly woman, took her name and went through another door. In a moment, she was back. “Please go in,” she said. “Mrs. Dean will see you now.”

The room beyond was large, high-ceilinged, toast colored, and carpeted in pale green. Tall windows gave on the green trees of Riverside Park. Soft light entered through pale curtains. In front of the windows a woman sat in a high leather chair behind a Sheraton writing desk. She looked up as Marlene approached and held out her hand. “I’m Irma Dean,” the woman said. The voice was measured and cultivated, and the hand that Marlene shook was firm and dry. “Please sit down,” Mrs. Dean said, indicating a red leather armchair.

Marlene noticed herself being careful to keep her back straight and her knees together. This is just like my interview with the Mesdames, she thought. A Proustian experience, and I never got through
Swann’s Way.
It’s the furniture polish, the smell, and the dust falling through shafts of sunlight in the still air. She kept her hands folded carefully on her lap, with the bad one, the one with the black kid glove, concealed.

Into her mind came an image of the well-brought-up parochial schoolgirl she had been at thirteen, before sex exploded into her life. She was a sweet kid, Marlene thought. Why did I dump her? What if I went back to the nuns and tried to explain my life, my moral life. What would I say? This lady even looks like Sister Marie Augustine. The heavy eyebrows are what does it. And the sharp nose. And the confidence in those big dark eyes. No habit, but the heavy dark hair did as well. It was impossible to tell the woman’s age—it could be anywhere from forty-five to sixty. A no-nonsense lady. And Marlene was here to find out whether they did
sexual abuse
?

“You have a beautiful location … the building, Mrs. Dean,” Marlene began lamely.

“Thank you, Miss Ciampi. We’ve been very fortunate. The building was left to me by my late husband. My own boys are grown now and I was about to sell it, when Reverend Pinder suggested that I start a day-care center. And here we are.”

The woman paused and looked expectantly at Marlene. Marlene said, “Yes, well, the reason I came down to see you, Mrs. Dean, that I asked for an appointment was, um, I’m interested in your center. I mean, I’ve heard it’s very good. The best.”

“Interested? In what way? Are you seeking employment?”

“No, no! I have a job … I mean, I’m an assistant district attorney.”

The polite smile faded a fraction. “The district attorney? Are we being investigated?” Mrs. Dean asked lightly.

“Oh, no! Of course not. I’m interested for a child, I mean I’d like to put my child in St. Michael’s.”

“How old is the child?”

“Seven. I think. I mean, actually, I haven’t got the child yet, but I’m in the process of adopting one. Thinking of it, actually.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Dean, her face taking on the expression Marlene imagined she must use with her little charges, especially those who were brain damaged. I have to get out of here, she thought.

This woman is going to start hitting me on the hand with a ruler.

“So, I thought, I could sort of check out the place, look around …”

“Of course. Visitors are always welcome. But, you should understand that St. Michael’s is a charitable institution. All our children come from lower-income families. So in your case….”

“I see. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Um, but as long I’m here, could I … ?”

Mrs. Dean nodded and pushed a button on her intercom and told her secretary that Miss Ciampi would be touring the center. Marlene scuttled out from under Mrs. Dean’s imperturbable gaze, blushing uncontrollably, sweat pouring down from her armpits and dotting her upper lip. She knew I was bullshitting her, she thought. Just like Sister Marie Augustine. I’m such a shitty liar, why the hell did I ever become a lawyer?

The tour was uneventful, conducted with enthusiasm by Penny, the young woman who had let Marlene into the center. The place was spotless, the children were playing what Marlene took to be educational games, the littlest ones were napping peacefully. The caretakers appeared to be like Penny—bright, enthusiastic student-teachers. Nobody was reading pornographic magazines or yanking down tiny cotton panties.

There was a whole room full of athletic equipment suitable for all ages from toddlers to pre-teens. “We take them to the park every day in the summer,” Penny said. “They play ball and jump rope and we roller-skate a lot. They love it.”

Marlene nodded absently and spun the wheels on a pair of roller skates. She hadn’t skated in years; she wondered if she’d forgotten how. She sensed this was not the time to suggest a romp through the park.

The tour was telling her nothing, since there was obviously nothing to tell. When they returned to the main playroom, Marlene asked her guide to point out Carol Anne Woodley. Penny indicated a thin child in a blue Snoopy T-shirt and red corduroys chatting away with two girlfriends around a large dollhouse. “Is she a friend of yours?” Penny asked.

“Daughter of one. That’s how I knew about the place. Is she doing OK?”

“Far as I know, but I only see her for about an hour. I’m with the pre-schoolers on the morning shift. The older kids get bussed over from their elementary schools and the parents pick them up after they get off work. Carol Anne’s on half-day kindergarten so she gets here about twelve.”

“Uh-huh. And who takes over then? Students, like you?”

Penny frowned. “No, most of the kids I know are on mornings, so we can go to class in the afternoon. The P.M. shift is mostly older. And there’s an evening shift, too, because some of the parents can’t pick up until eight. I’ve never met any of them. Why do you ask?”

“No reason, just curious. It seems like a well-run operation.” Marlene looked around, trying to interest herself in cute doings. Penny’s bright smile was wearing thin. Feeling more a fool than ever, Marlene glanced at her watch, made her excuses, and left.

Once outside, she strode rapidly up the incline of Seventy-ninth Street to the subway station on Broadway, thinking bad thoughts about herself and about Dana Woodley. The rest of the day was no bargain either. She was late for a calendar court at one-thirty and got yelled at by a judge. A witness in the case of an armed robber with about fifty priors failed to appear for the third time and the P.D. got the judge to can the case. The mutt blew Marlene a kiss as he jive-walked out of the courtroom. This can’t get worse, she thought as she slumped against the courtroom rail, forgetting for a moment that she was in the New York City criminal justice system, where it always can.

Carol Anne Woodley watched the shadows creep across the day-care center floor. She was arranging plastic blocks, some squares of fabric, and various wooden toys in a special way in order to make her mother pick her up early, before the regular people went away and the witch people came. It had only worked once, but Carol Anne tried it every evening just in case. Nearby, her best friend, Stephanie, and her other best friend Alice were talking to a new kid, a boy named Otis. Otis was dumb. He was only a five-year-old baby.

“You got to take off your pants, if they say, Otis,” said Stephanie. “They’re uncles!”

“My uncle’s in Virginia,” said Otis, confused. Both girls broke into a fit of giggles. “Stupid! Stupid!” they both cried. Alice added, “They’re not real uncles, they’re special uncles. They tickle you and they breathe on you …”

“Yeah, like this, ‘A-hungh, a-HUNGH, a-HUUU-UNGH!’” said Stephanie.

“… and then they give you candy.”

“What kind of candy?”

“Any kind. Any kind what you like. And money.”

“Real?”

“Yeah,” said Stephanie, “even dollars.”

“You lying,” said Otis.

“Am not. They really do. Right, Alice?”

“It’s true, Otis,” Alice confirmed. “And,” she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper, “you not allowed to tell nobody, not even your Mommy. ’Cause, ’cause, if you do, they kill you!”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” cried Otis, getting to his feet. He wished his Mommy was here right now.

“You better not tell, Otis,” said Alice sternly. “They get the Bogeyman to kill you. They showed us. Tell him, Carol Anne!”

Carol Anne looked up from her construction. “It’s true. They take you down cellar with no clothes on and all the witch people stand around with no clothes on and the bad kid gets stabbed with blood and then the Bogeyman takes them away. And they sing funny songs. About the devil.”

She added a little yellow plastic lion, the last touch, and looked up towards the door of the playroom. Her mother wasn’t coming. Instead, the witch people were coming in, and talking to the regular ladies as they left. They were all smiling and laughing. Carol Anne smashed the construction, kicking it with both feet, making the blocks and animals skitter across the floor.

Otis looked up in alarm. Stephanie said, “She always does that.” Carol Anne hunched in the corner with her head on her knees. She wished Otis would go away with his dumb questions. In a few minutes, she knew, one of the witch people would come around with glasses of chocolate milk. You had to drink it, or if you were allergic, you could have orange juice, but you had to have a nice drink. After the drink you would sit around and watch television. Then you started to feel sleepy and warm, and your face felt like it was under a blanket. Then the uncles came.

Otis was still asking dumb questions. “But, but,” he stammered hopefully, “they just
pretend
kill you. Right, Alice?”

“No, dum-dum, they kill you for
real,”
answered Alice with contempt. “Really real. Just like on TV.”

Otis started to whimper and one of the witch people came over and led him away. Then they gave out the drinks and it became very quiet in the day-care center. Nobody wanted to play any more. Carol Anne started to feel dreamy, like she did on weekends, lying in bed and thinking about flying around the rainbow with her special pony. After a while, she found herself in a bedroom. She didn’t remember how she got there. There was an uncle in the room. She closed her eyes and tried to go back into the dreamy place. The uncle got onto the bed and took her pants and underpants off.

The uncle’s face was pressed against hers and she could hear his funny breathing and smell his sweat and his perfume. He was making her hurt down there. She squeezed her eyes shut and didn’t cry, like they told her. They told her they would hurt her worse than this if she cried or told. They said her Mommy knew all about it already anyway, and it was OK, and you weren’t supposed to talk about it, because it was nasty, like talking about poop at the dinner table.

The uncle finished his business and went out and a witch lady came in and took Carol Anne out. There were some other children in the hallway. Some of them were new and were still crybabies. Carol Anne hoped they would go back to the day room, but no, they were being led downstairs.

Now you weren’t supposed to close your eyes. You had to watch or the witch people would pinch you. Down the stairs and across the playground and down the stairs again to the red door.

Carol Anne hated this worse than the uncles. Past the red door all of the witch people and the children were standing around a long black table, built with a thick candlestick at each corner. Jesus Upside-Down was on the wall. Sometimes they took Jesus down and made you spit or pee on him, but they weren’t doing that today. That meant something worse. A lighted fat black candle stood in each of the table’s holders and the air smelled of perfumed smoke.