crying for Jesus, Ms. Holmes raised her hands to her mouth, muffling her woeful cries.
“What’s wrong with Miz Holmes?” Tariq wanted to know. “What did she want to talk to you about?”
“You know how holy and sanctified she can get. She said she was scared I was heading for trouble. She thinks I’m hanging with the wrong crowd.”
“She’s right!” Tariq said with a snicker.
“Anyway, man. She started reading me the Bible and started getting all worked up when she got to the part about the blood of Jesus. I think she got the Holy Ghost or something. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s trippin’,” Shane explained with devilish laughter.
“Aw, don’t say that. Miz Holmes is nice. You’re the one who wants to call her Mom, so why you making fun of her?”
Shane shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m tired. And you know I don’t like nobody trying to force all that Bible stuff down my throat.”
By the next morning, fifty-seven-year-old Dolores Holmes looked like she’d aged twenty years. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying throughout the night. The worrying about being accused of child abuse had her heart racing out of control.
What would her pastor think? What would the members think? They’d call her a sinner and sinners such as herself had no business sitting with the saints. She swallowed hard and rose as she envisioned being escorted out of the Holy House. Joining the church after years of sinning and drinking had been her salvation. She shook her head bitterly. Lord, she was sorry she had ever taken in these two boys.
“’Morning, Mom,” Shane said and bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
Ms. Holmes’s body stiffened like a rail. “Where’s Tariq?” she asked nervously.
“Still ’sleep,” Shane responded. His voice was normal and no longer held the threatening tone of the night before.
Ms. Holmes turned her back to Shane and started pouring water in the coffeepot. “What do you want for breakfast?” she asked in a dull voice, her shoulders slumped from the strain of her transgressions.
Shane crept up behind her. He wrapped both arms around her thick waist. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry. Somebody spiked the punch at the party me and Tariq was at. He didn’t drink none but I think I had the rams.”
Ms. Holmes spun around. She knew firsthand what alcohol could do to a person. It could make you happy one minute and mean as a snake the next.
“You were drinking last night?”
“Not on purpose. Somebody put something in the punch,” he lied.
A terrible weight was instantly lifted. She hoped Shane didn’t remember much of what he’d said. “Baby, you gotta be careful out there in them streets. The devil’s always busy.”
“I know,” he replied apologetically again and hugged her tight.
“Shane, you listen to me. All I want to do is be a good foster mother to you and Tariq. All that ol’ other mess we been accidentally doing has to stop right here and now. Do you understand me?”
Shane nodded his head in contrition. He looked up with pain in his eyes. “Do you love me, Mom?”
An uneasy feeling tiptoed across her mind. “I love both of you,” she said cautiously.
Wearing a satisfied smile, Shane rattled off what seemed like a dozen different items he wanted to have for breakfast. She started peeking in cabinets, moving things around in the refrigerator, but in truth, she didn’t have all the ingredients and would most likely have to make a run to the grocery store to fulfill Shane’s requests.
On the eighteenth, the social worker arrived at three o’clock. The visit was scheduled to last an hour. It was a common practice of the Youth Services agency to require private visits with minor children who were wards of the court. Ms. Holmes greeted the young woman, cutting a nervous eye at Shane.
“I have some grocery shopping to do, so I guess I’d better get going,” Ms. Holmes said. With thoughts of
“What’s wrong with Miz Holmes?” Tariq wanted to know. “What did she want to talk to you about?”
“You know how holy and sanctified she can get. She said she was scared I was heading for trouble. She thinks I’m hanging with the wrong crowd.”
“She’s right!” Tariq said with a snicker.
“Anyway, man. She started reading me the Bible and started getting all worked up when she got to the part about the blood of Jesus. I think she got the Holy Ghost or something. I don’t know what’s wrong with her. She’s trippin’,” Shane explained with devilish laughter.
“Aw, don’t say that. Miz Holmes is nice. You’re the one who wants to call her Mom, so why you making fun of her?”
Shane shrugged. “I don’t know, I’m tired. And you know I don’t like nobody trying to force all that Bible stuff down my throat.”
By the next morning, fifty-seven-year-old Dolores Holmes looked like she’d aged twenty years. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying throughout the night. The worrying about being accused of child abuse had her heart racing out of control.
What would her pastor think? What would the members think? They’d call her a sinner and sinners such as herself had no business sitting with the saints. She swallowed hard and rose as she envisioned being escorted out of the Holy House. Joining the church after years of sinning and drinking had been her salvation. She shook her head bitterly. Lord, she was sorry she had ever taken in these two boys.
“’Morning, Mom,” Shane said and bent down and kissed her on the cheek.
Ms. Holmes’s body stiffened like a rail. “Where’s Tariq?” she asked nervously.
“Still ’sleep,” Shane responded. His voice was normal and no longer held the threatening tone of the night before.
Ms. Holmes turned her back to Shane and started pouring water in the coffeepot. “What do you want for breakfast?” she asked in a dull voice, her shoulders slumped from the strain of her transgressions.
Shane crept up behind her. He wrapped both arms around her thick waist. “I’m sorry, Mom,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry. Somebody spiked the punch at the party me and Tariq was at. He didn’t drink none but I think I had the rams.”
Ms. Holmes spun around. She knew firsthand what alcohol could do to a person. It could make you happy one minute and mean as a snake the next.
“You were drinking last night?”
“Not on purpose. Somebody put something in the punch,” he lied.
A terrible weight was instantly lifted. She hoped Shane didn’t remember much of what he’d said. “Baby, you gotta be careful out there in them streets. The devil’s always busy.”
“I know,” he replied apologetically again and hugged her tight.
“Shane, you listen to me. All I want to do is be a good foster mother to you and Tariq. All that ol’ other mess we been accidentally doing has to stop right here and now. Do you understand me?”
Shane nodded his head in contrition. He looked up with pain in his eyes. “Do you love me, Mom?”
An uneasy feeling tiptoed across her mind. “I love both of you,” she said cautiously.
Wearing a satisfied smile, Shane rattled off what seemed like a dozen different items he wanted to have for breakfast. She started peeking in cabinets, moving things around in the refrigerator, but in truth, she didn’t have all the ingredients and would most likely have to make a run to the grocery store to fulfill Shane’s requests.
On the eighteenth, the social worker arrived at three o’clock. The visit was scheduled to last an hour. It was a common practice of the Youth Services agency to require private visits with minor children who were wards of the court. Ms. Holmes greeted the young woman, cutting a nervous eye at Shane.
“I have some grocery shopping to do, so I guess I’d better get going,” Ms. Holmes said. With thoughts of
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