A “Whistful” Memory

I work in a cesspool.  Not literally because I work with wonderful people in a rather wonderful office.  No, when I say I work in a cesspool, I mean I work in a field that involves dealing with the seamier side of life.  My job involves protecting kids from being injured by those they depend on the most-their parents.  Every day I hear stories of children being abused and mistreated by the people responsible for giving them life.  I try to leave those horror tales at work, but sometimes there just isn’t enough hot water to rinse the feeling from my skin.

Yesterday was no different.  After listening to tale after tale of pain told by the children and then the lamentable excuses given by the parents, the day seemed as if it was never going to end.  After the stories, I had to document each interview.  Finally it was time for my daily commute home and I boarded the bus,  The radio weather station reported that a severe storm system was passing the area.  Torrential rain with tornado strength winds was expected. I looked out of the window, hoping that I would make it home before the storm hit.  But I saw the dark clouds thickening, following the bus as it made its way across the city streets.  I knew I was cutting it close.

My mind kept going back to the last interview of the day. It concerned a young girl, seven years old, sitting in the chair in my office that enveloped her.  Her name was Haley.  She looked scared, unsure.  Her soft brown eyes searched the room for a friendly face and her eyes met mine.  I introduced myself and explained that she was safe at my office and no one was going to hurt her anymore.  She eyed me warily, saying nothing.  She learned not to trust words, especially those from adults and I knew I had to do more to gain her trust.  I sat down on the floor, slightly lower than her chair.  Haley tilted her head slightly; I piqued her interest.  The position seemed to give her a sense of power; for as I sat on the floor, cross legged, she leaned forward in her chair.  The more I asked her about ordinary things such as her favorite food, her animals, and her day at school, I could see her slight frame relax.  The worry lines which formed on her forehead when she first came into my office disappeared.  I introduced crayons and construction paper into the interview and she sat down next to me and began to draw with me.  I smiled at her and when she smiled in response, it reached her eyes.  As we sat there drawing, she opened up and told me the horror story I knew was hiding in her heart.  She relayed the agony with her childish lisp and though I sat and colored, on the inside, my heart was breaking.

After an hour, I ended the interview and Haley left with a stuffed bear, her drawings and a little faith in a kind adult.  She held her grandmother’s hand and she turned and gave me another shy smile.  I went to my desk and put my head down for a moment before memorializing the interview on the computer. After another hour, I decided it was time to go home.
After the bus ride, I put on my IPod and played some music to make the walk home seem faster.  As I stepped off of the bus, I felt the first raindrops.  Two steps later, and I knew I wasn’t going make it without getting wet.  The perfect ending to a “perfect” day.

Thinking I could walk between the raindrops, I increased the volume and the song that came on made me stop for a moment.  Curtis Mayfield’s “Move On Up” started and the introduction of trumpets and drums brought back a memory I hadn’t thought about for many years.  When I was not much older than Haley, my parents would occasionally have Whist card parties at the house.  My mother would spend the day cleaning and cooking and the house would smell of spaghetti and meatballs, mingled with chocolate cake.  When their friends would come over, my dad would put on the Curtis Mayfield album (yes this was the days of vinyl) and I would sit on the staircase, listening to the talk and the laugher filling the dining room, wistfully wishing I was an adult.

The rain and wind was coming down in buckets now, but I didn’t notice.  I began walking down the avenue, humming the tune until Mr. Mayfield’s falsetto began and I sang with him.  I didn’t notice the tree branches swaying or even the thunder and lightning. I paid no attention to the other people on the street, watching me.  I stepped in puddles, splashing like a child, as the years literally fell away from me and I was nine years old! I was wet to my skin, and I took my shoes off and danced the three blocks to my house.  The rain and the music washed away all the bitter memories from earlier in the day, better than any soap and hot water.  I never imagined that a song from the 1970’s could erase the horror of abuse I vicariously experience on a daily basis.  The song faded away as I put my key in the door.  When I got inside and began to dry myself, I compared my childhood memory with Haley’s and prayed that there was a song in her memory somewhere so when she became my age, she would briefly forget the pain and dance like no one was watching.