Unrevealed

wall” and his disturbing nursery rhymes that suggested severe trauma, he just stared out the window. He was much more interested in making sounds like a car gearing up and down. I gotta tell you, I was regretting my decision to play the Good Samaritan, but I couldn’t shake that damned feeling in my gut.
    We rolled up to his foster family’s home. It was in an extremely nice neighborhood. The two-story white house with green trim was beautiful, with a neatly mowed lawn, swept brick pathway and manicured hedges that framed the two front windows. Fletcher looked at the house and then stared out the front window of the Mustang.
    “What is it?” I asked him.
    He looked quite pensive and said nothing for a bit. “There was an old woman who lived in a shoe…she had way too many children and she didn’t know what to do…” He turned to me and his eyes pierced me. “Time to go to sleep, baby. Bulls-eye marks the spot.”
    The front door of Fletcher’s foster home opened. A large-framed woman wearing denim jeans and a white tunic
trimmed in red walked out, holding a toddler in her arms. “Fletcher? Is that you?” she called.
    Fletcher bowed his head and picked at my passenger seat. He made a strange grunting sound like a pig sourcing out food. The woman approached the car and I got out. Here was the “saint” I’d heard about from the principal. She had a cherubic face, blond hair cut to precision around her cheeks, and she wore a splash of soft blue eye shadow that accentuated her hazel eyes. A dainty gold cross adorned the outside of her white tunic and a simple gold wedding band graced her chubby ring finger. The toddler in her arms obviously suffered from Down syndrome.
    “The school called and told me you’d be bringing Fletcher home,” she said, smiling. “You’re sweet to do that! Thank you!”
    Nobody has ever called me “sweet.” Ever .
    “I’m Christy! We’re just about to sit down to some milk and cookies! Want to join us?”
    Nobody has ever invited me in for milk and cookies. Ever .
    I looked inside the car and saw Fletcher rocking back and forth. While I wasn’t certain, I’d heard that might be a sign of a child reliving trauma. I didn’t want to leave the kid like that, so I accepted the cheerful broad’s invitation. Besides, my curiosity was piqued. I wanted inside that house.
    The mêlée that erupted there was jarring. A long table was set up in the large living room, and it was covered with a heavy plastic cloth that had been permanently stapled to the table. Ten children, ranging in age from around three to twelve years, sat at the table. Well, I say “sat,” but I really mean hovered. Nobody was seated. Some were lying halfway on the table, some were under the table and one was on top of the table. Christy introduced me to her two
“angels” — teenage girls from her church who were in training to work with special-needs children. “They were sent from heaven!” Christy gushed. The two pasty-faced girls, who had only been with Christy for about a month, were earning credits toward their college degrees by volunteering and assisting with the children. Boy, that Christy really was a saint. She wasn’t just helping out the eleven special-needs kids; she was also giving the gift of hands-on education to these innocent high school girls. When I told her she must have a busy schedule, she shook her head. “I’m just doing our Lord’s work,” she said earnestly. “He spoke to me several years ago and told me that I was to be his beacon of light in the darkness of these poor children’s lives. And when the Lord speaks to me, I have no choice but to follow His word.”
    I wondered if the Lord also told her to wrap her table in that hideous plastic cover, but I held back. The noise in the place was starting to grate on my last good nerve. I could feel the urge for a cigarette rearing up, so I knew I had to make this visit a short one. Christy handed off the Down syndrome child to one of the helpers and told the kids, including Fletcher, to take a seat at the table and be quiet. That took another ten minutes because one of the toddlers blew lunch on the carpet. Once they were all settled, they were instructed to hold hands and Christy led a prayer over the milk and cookies. She didn’t realize it, but I was saying my own prayer simultaneously. It went something like, “Dear God, get me the fuck out of this hellhole.” I no sooner said, “Amen,” than Fletcher let