The Girl in the Italian Bakery by Tingle Kenneth

Author:Tingle, Kenneth [Tingle, Kenneth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Self
Published: 2011-03-22T23:00:00+00:00

8 The social workers and the Department of Social Services weren’t sure what to do. They had given me the option of returning home some time ago, but if they just let me stay then they felt like they were rewarding me for running away. My mother said she would ask my father if I could stay with him until they reached a decision. He came by our house one afternoon wearing his tennis outfit. He had a game scheduled that night at his health club. He sat on the couch across the room from my mother and crossed his legs comfortably. My mother began the conversation, “Tom, you know Kenny has been in foster homes awhile now. Well, he ran away recently and came back home. I want him to stay, but the Department of Social Services wants a few weeks to decide what to do. Instead of him going to another foster home we thought maybe he could stay with you for a short time.”

He looked at my mother and me for a moment and tapped his fingers on his knee. “Well, Frances, you know things didn’t work out with Mary Jane and the divorce is final. I’ve been seeing a woman for awhile now named Nancy. I wouldn’t ask it of her.” I looked at the strands of gray that were mixing in with his black hair, and he looked so smug to me. I sat there silently seething with anger and feeling humiliated at the same time. He wouldn’t even take me for a few weeks—this woman “Nancy” more important than his own son.

I wanted to scream out, “What’s wrong with you? I’m your son. Don’t you give one shit about me? You’re my father; for once can you help me?” But I sat there silently listening to the two of them.

My mother was outraged, her face growing red with anger. “What kind of man are you?” she snapped. “You’re more concerned about this woman you’re seeing than your own son!”

“Listen, Frances, I don’t need this!” He got up from the couch and stormed out of the house. My mother looked at me, at a loss for words, and went quietly into her room, shutting the door behind her.

The next day I was taken to a foster home in Chelsea, a city just outside of Boston that was every bit as tough as Lawrence. It was a two-story house on a street full of similar-looking homes, run by a gruff old woman named Evelyn. She chain smoked all day and looked as though she lost all interest in her appearance long ago. Her hair was dyed red with streaks of white breaking through, her clothes were old and worn, and her face wrinkled and without makeup. She took foster kids in on a temporary basis. The years of kids coming and going hardened her. She didn’t smile often and was very direct when she spoke to you. There were five of us at that particular time—me,

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