Free Necessary Lies by Diane Chamberlain Page B

certainly helps, but Paula—”
    “A degree in English,” I said. “She told me.”
    Charlotte laughed. “However,” she said, “Paula’s been a caseworker now for six years, so she certainly knows the ropes. And she certainly knows how to manipulate them.”
    “Manipulate them?”
    She brushed away my question. “So,” she said, turning the key in the ignition and pressing lightly on the gas, “this week you just observe and next week you can take a more active role with me supervising. It will work out.”
    I was relieved to have air blowing into the car once more. We skirted the tobacco field and drove up the dirt lane till we reached the dilapidated house. It looked even smaller close-up. We parked on the hard-packed dirt that was the front yard. “In the office, I’m Charlotte and you’re Jane,” Charlotte said. “When we’re in the field, though, I’m Mrs. Werkman and you are Mrs. Mackie.”
    “Forrester now.”
    “Yes. Forrester.”
    As we got out of the car, a woman appeared in the open doorway of the house.
    “Hello, Mrs. Jordan!” Charlotte called, her voice cheerful.
    “Hey, Miz Werkman. Who’s this you got with you?” She was holding one hand above her eyes to block the sun and eyeing me up and down. A little boy stood at her side, hanging on to her dress.
    “This is Mrs. Forrester,” Charlotte said. “She’s going to be taking my place. I’m moving into an administrative position.”
    “You don’t say.” Mrs. Jordan frowned, and I could tell she was none too happy about the change.
    “Can we come in for a chat?” Charlotte asked. Gayle had told me it was important to see inside the house. She said she recently found a fancy television and new furniture in a client’s living room and she cut off that family’s welfare check.
    “I ain’t got nothin’ to offer you,” Mrs. Jordan said, adjusting the blue kerchief that covered her hair, “but you’re welcome to come in.”
    She stepped aside while Charlotte and I walked through the doorway. I was carrying my new briefcase, which now contained both my notepad and the manual Charlotte had given me. I loved feeling the weight of it in my hand.
    Charlotte bent down to greet the little boy. “Hello, Rodney,” she said. “I think you’ve grown two inches in the last two weeks.”
    “Ain’t that true,” Mrs. Jordan said. “All my boys is like that. Growing too big too fast.”
    I could see the whole house from inside the front door. We stood in a small, dark living room. Beyond that, I could see a kitchen, a pot of something savory on the two-burner stove. Whatever was in that pot made my mouth water. I saw the edge of a table and the corner of a cot. Someone slept in the kitchen. Through an open door on my right, I saw a cast-iron bed. I couldn’t imagine how five children and their mother ever fit into a house the size of a postage stamp. No wonder she sent one of them away.
    “I was afraid you’d be at the barn and we’d miss you,” Charlotte said, as we followed Mrs. Jordan and the little boy into the kitchen.
    “Getting dinner ready for the boys,” she said.
    We sat down at the table that took up half the room and I got a good look at Mrs. Jordan. A bit of her coarse black hair poked out of the dusty kerchief, and her dark eyes slanted up at the outer corners as though she had Oriental blood. Those eyes gave her a pretty, exotic look.
    I tried to be observant and study everything I could see. The cot was made up with sheets that hung to the floor. Rodney climbed onto it and bounced up and down until his mother grabbed his arm and told him to go outside. There was a hand pump above the sink. No faucet. I’d never seen that before. A narrow icebox stood next to the back door. Open shelves stretched across the wall above the counter, sagging beneath the weight of Mason jars filled with vegetables and tomatoes.
    “We have some clothes for the boys in the car,” Charlotte said. Then to me, “Don’t let me forget