The Lost Boys
I help the kid up and wipe a tear from his brown cheek with a tissue. His skin is smooth, his closely cropped hair soft. A jagged scab puckers his left eyebrow. “Are you hurt?” I ask.
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“I’m dumping these motherfuckers here right now,” she says. “I’m done with the foster-parent shit. I don’t care where they go. I’m done with them. Took the poleece just to get them into the car. Animals is what they are. Animals.” She’s crying fat tears now.
“I tried to do what he wanted. I love my son, my only baby, and I did try to do what he wanted. So help me Jesus, I tried. But they’re bad, just bad. That first one is evil. Pure evil. Breaking up my furniture like that was just pure evil. He turned Tony so bad that I don’t want him.”
The oldest announces, “I work for the man. That bitch ain’t shit. See this?” He pulls a fat roll of bills from his pocket. Even if they’re all ones, he must have $50. “I carry for the man. This is his money. She ain’t nothin’. Her furniture ain’t nothin’ now.” He grins through half-grown permanent teeth, still jagged like tiny shark’s teeth.
“So we broke it all up.”
I close the door and turn to the foster mother. “You can’t leave these children here. Their worker isn’t here. We don’t accept children here. Just at the shelters. You’ll have to take them–”
