A Family To Share. Arlene James
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on back. He’s been in conference with Miss Dabney for some time now. Surely, they are just about finished.”
Connie slipped past Carlita’s desk and moved toward the hallway off of which several offices opened, saying “If they’re still talking, I’ll wait outside the door.”
“If you like, I’ll bring you a chair,” Carlita offered.
Connie shook her head. “Not necessary. Thanks.”
“De nada.”
Carlita went back to her typing, her long, black braid swinging between her plump shoulder blades as she turned her head toward the computer screen.
When Marcus had hired the single mother of four, she had spoken little English, but her need had been great and corresponded precisely with her efforts. Little more than a year later, Carlita was a model of cheerful, dependable efficiency and another of Marcus’s success stories.
Stepping into the hallway, Connie saw that the door to her brother’s office was only partially closed. She paused a moment, bending her head in an effort to discern whether or not the meeting was coming to an end. She hoped that it was. She had made a decision this morning, and she wanted to speak to Marcus about it before she lost her resolve. Just then, a familiar voice spoke with unexpected sharpness.
“But the child is simply unmanageable.”
“When she’s frustrated,” Marcus replied calmly. “That’s what you said a moment ago—that she’s unmanageable when she’s frustrated and that she dislikes men. I’m not sure that’s cause for dismissal.”
“It wouldn’t be if she wasn’t frustrated so much of the time!” Miss Dabney argued.
“All children get easily frustrated. You’ve told me so often.”
“But they don’t all throw thirty-minute temper tantrums on a routine basis!”
“Is she a danger or an impediment to the other children?” Marcus asked, the very model of patience.
Miss Dabney’s answer sounded grudging. “I suppose not, but she demands a lot of time and attention from the staff.”
“I know it’s difficult,” Marcus said soothingly, “but I’m sorry, Miss Dabney I’m not comfortable dismissing Larissa Oakes. Please, can’t you be patient a little longer? Her father is trying to help her.”
“If you ask me, he’s half the problem,” the day care director retorted.
“I’m sure he’s doing the best he can under the circumstances.”
“She ought to be sent home for the day at the very least,” Miss Dabney grumbled, sounding fairly frustrated herself. “She’s simply out of control, and I’m afraid she’s going to make herself sick if she keeps on the way she is right now. In fact, we have her in the nurse’s room.”
Marcus sighed. “All right.” From the sound of it, he picked up the telephone. A moment later, he dialed a number and only seconds later began speaking.
Connie bowed her head while the call was being made. She’d heard a commotion coming from the infirmary when she’d dropped off Russell a few minutes earlier, but she’d assumed that a child had scraped a knee or something equally innocuous. Probably distance and a closed door had muffled the sounds.
Remembering how distraught little Larissa had been the previous times that she’d dealt with the girl, Connie felt an immediate, almost visceral, impulse to go to her, but it was not her place to do so.
What, she wondered, would Kendal Oakes do if the church didn’t provide day care for his daughter?
Poor child.
Poor father.
Suddenly, the door swung wide open and Marcus halted in mid-step, jerking his head up.
“Sis! Oh, hi. Did you want to speak to me?”
“It can wait,” she told him, backing up.
He held up a finger, almost in supplication.
“One moment.”
Stepping into the hallway, he addressed the secretary. “Carlita, would you call down to the nurse’s station on the intercom and have Larissa Oakes brought up here, please?”
“Sure thing, boss. Pronto.”
“Thank you.” He turned back to Connie. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Why would you think something was wrong?”
“Well, you usually wait to talk to me at home, that’s all.” He smiled and patted her shoulder. “Let me rephrase that. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”
She shook her head, now oddly reluctant to broach the subject of returning to school.
“Uh, nothing actually. We can discuss it later.”
“But—”
“Excuse me if I was eavesdropping just now,” she hurried on, “but is there a problem with Larissa Oakes?”
Before Marcus could answer, Miss Dabney appeared in the doorway, arms folded.
“You’ve seen how she reacts,” the day care director said.
“Yes,” Connie replied, “it’s very sad.”
“Sadder than either of you even know,” Marcus added.
“I know she’s experienced trauma in the past,” Miss Dabney stated, “and I’m not unsympathetic to the child’s situation, but it’s very tiring dealing with these scenes day after day.”
Connie felt sure that causing those scenes was equally exhausting for Larissa, but she didn’t say so out of respect for the director. The whole thing was very puzzling. Connie didn’t know if Larissa was hypersensitive, frightened or just spoiled. Perhaps all three.
“Do you know what set her off this time?” she asked Miss Dabney pensively.
“Davy Brocha’s dad came at naptime and Larissa had picked up this stuffed tiger of Davy’s that he had dropped. Well, Mr. Brocha was in a hurry and maybe he was a little abrupt, but he wanted to take the tiger with him, so he let himself into the classroom, went over and plucked it out of her grasp.” Miss Dabney lifted both hands in puzzlement. “She screamed and fell over backward. You’d have thought he’d shot her. Of course, he wasn’t even supposed to be in there, but with any other child it wouldn’t have mattered. With Larissa, it means at least half an hour of uncontrollable screaming. He tried to comfort her and that just made it worse.”
Concern furrowed Connie’s brow. So Larissa really was averse to men in general, she mused, not just her father.
“I see.”
She didn’t really. What could cause such a reaction in a child so young? Whatever it was, Miss Dabney was right about one thing: Larissa clearly was out of control. Connie could hear her shrieks long before the staff nurse carried her into the office.
“Oh, my,” Marcus murmured, and he hurried forward to comfort the child. “Why are you crying, sweetie? Don’t you know that no one here will hurt you?”
He reached out a hand to pat her back, but Connie stopped him.
“Marcus, don’t.”
He never touched the child, but she twisted out of reach anyway, nearly throwing herself out of the nurse’s arms.
For a moment, it was pandemonium as everyone rushed to contain the thrashing child before she could hurt herself. Then suddenly, a sharp clap brought everyone to a freezing halt.
“Stop that!” Carlita ordered, her hand still on the book she’d slapped down on the desktop.
The sudden silence felt deafening in its