Little Lies

The boy holds the hat away from him as if trying to locate its ear. He presses his lips into one of the ear flaps and says softly, “Mason.”

I look with surprise at Joe. It worked. Just knowing the boy’s first name is crucial in being able to find out who the woman in the park was, to finding Mason’s next of kin. Joe smiles smugly.

An hour later Mason has eaten breakfast, Joe has left and Martha Renner has arrived. I do my best to explain that Martha is there to help him and that he gets to go to her house and play with some other nice children. Mason looks heartbroken. These transitions are never easy, even for me, a seasoned social worker who has made these handoffs time after time.

“How’s Jonah doing these days?” I ask Martha as she straps Mason into the car seat of her SUV.

She shakes her head sadly. “Not great. Didn’t end up graduating from high school last year, though I’m constantly telling him to go and get his GED. He works on and off for a construction company. Lives with a group of guys over on Laurel Street.”

“Will you tell him I said hi?” I poke my head into the backseat of the car. “See you later, Mason. I promise.”

He nods gravely and grasps Cujo.

Once they drive away I realize that I left my car back at Singer Park, having ridden with Mason in the ambulance to the hospital. Adam’s in class teaching by now, but I send him a text telling him all is well and I’ll be able to pick up the kids from school and day care. I consider my options for getting back to the park. Singer is three miles away—I can walk or I can call Joe and see if he is able to come and pick me up. Walking the three miles in the brutal cold sounds too daunting, so a little reluctantly I call Joe. Though I consider Joe one of my best friends, sometimes I think he wishes we could be more. His divorce came as a blow, his wife of ten years leaving him for their accountant, and he’s never quite recovered. I know he’s lonely and he often tells me that Adam and I have it all: a strong marriage, beautiful kids, a home, a perfect life. I encourage him to get out more often, have even tried to set him up with another social worker from the department and an algebra teacher from Adam’s high school, but it doesn’t seem to work out.

“Hey,” I say when he answers, “I’m stranded at the hospital and was hoping you could give me a ride back to the park so I can get my car.”

“I think I can manage that,” he says, “but you’re going to owe me.”

I laugh. “Okay, I’ll run into the café across the street and get you a coffee.”

“Thanks, but not what I had in mind. I’ll explain when I see you. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

I thank him, puzzled at what I could possibly do to help him out. I zip up my coat and pull my hat over my ears and step outside. The sky is gray and the morning air is cold and pricks sharply at my lungs when I inhale. I cross a busy intersection and dash into a café and order a large black coffee for Joe, a hot chocolate for myself and two blueberry muffins. By the time my order is ready, Joe has pulled up to the curb. I pick my way across the icy street, carefully balancing the two steaming cups and bag of muffins, and climb in the passenger side of his car.

“Did Mason get off okay?” Joe asks, relieving me of the coffee and bag of muffins.

“Yeah, he’s pretty dazed, but Martha is a pro. She’ll get him settled in. No one has come forward about a missing woman and child?”

“No, but I got a guy working on digging into local birth records trying to find documentation of a little boy born four years ago with the first name of Mason.”