His toenails. How would they get through the interview after seeing those? My God, the nails curled out over the edges of his cheap plastic flip-flops; long, yellowed. He stalked around the trailer, Mr. Host, offering them a stiff drink. He smelled like he’d already had one. Did he think this was a social call? Mr. Pendergast knew this interview was about whether or not he would get his kids back. “No thank you, Mr. Pendergast,” Ellen said, injecting some formality into this visit. She exchanged a glance with her co-worker, Tracy, who had seen the toenails and looked as if she could use a stiff drink.
The rest of him, old jeans, stained t-shirt—typical for around here. But the toenails. How many points do you subtract for those? Let’s be honest, a normal person would clean up for a home visit from Social Services; at least cram those feet into shoes. Maybe he couldn’t fit his feet into shoes with those appendages—which is what those nails really were. Did he have a plan for winter? Maybe some extra long boots? Did he have something against toenail clippers?
His wife padded in bearing a tray of cookies, wearing her bathrobe. Her feet were ensconced in slippers—which really was a disappointment. Now they would never know if the toenail thing was a family trait. Had someone checked the girls’ feet? Maybe he had a thing about not letting anyone clip. Politely, they declined the offer of food, explaining office policy about eating- or drinking- during evaluations.
Tracy began the interview by reviewing the information leading to the temporary removal of the Pendergast daughters. The girls, ages ten and thirteen, were staying with relatives. The school nurse reported signs of distress in both girls- the younger one had begun to wet her pants frequently. The older daughter had begun to stammer when she spoke and had developed a habit of pulling out her hair—producing a bald spot on one area of her scalp. Additionally, there were reports of domestic disturbances from neighbors in the trailer park.
Ellen’s job was the inspection of the home. At work, they called her “the snoop.” Really, that was her job. She snooped. Tracy interviewed, using a form with questions designed to evaluate the home environment. But they worked together, Ellen more than willing to play whatever part got the information they needed. She could be good cop, bad cop, sweet new kid who didn’t know anything- whatever it took. She was 36 years old, but looked a decade younger.
She stood up, clipboard in hand, waving off Mrs. Pendergast’s offer for a tour.
“I’ll find my way around.”
“Holler if you get lost,” Mr. Pendergast quipped, settling himself in his big chair, reclining so a footrest popped up. He tipped his flip-flops off. Ellen moved her eyes from the wide grin on his face to his foot display.
My God, he wants me to see them. He’s playing me. Or showing off, Ellen thought, fishing in her briefcase for her camera. Mr. Relaxed showed a flicker of interest.
“Watcha need that for? Is it digital? Could I see that? Been meaning to get me one.” His hand was out, reaching for it.
“Yes, it’s digital. No, you can’t.” He looked irritated. Good. “Company property, company rules,” she added, ignoring – for now--the low muttered “bitch” she heard.
“Mr. Pendergast, I’ve never seen toenails as long as yours.” She moved in closer, snapping a shot. “What’s the deal?”
“I’m not getting your point Mrs.….”
“Ms. Fernald. Why don’t you cut your nails?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Why don’t you put shoes on?”
He slammed the recliner down and shot out of his chair, not bothering with his flip-flops. “What’s it to you, college girl?”
He was in her face. She held her ground. This was the real reason they were here. To assess this man’s anger “issues.” She hadn’t expected toenails to provide a ready power struggle. Yeah, she was a “college girl.” One who grew up around here. She was pretty sure if she checked, she’d have relatives in common with Mr. Toenails. She definitely had a Dad in the same league-someone who loved to provoke people and scare the shit out of them.
“Princeton. Class of ’93,” she answered, snapping a picture of his expression. She fucking hated bullies. Men like this—common as black flies when she was growing up- incited her to get out-- make something of herself. She studied by flashlight if her Dad was home—or put up with his you-think-you’re -so –smart speeches. Like the day she needed a ride to school for debate practice. The phone was cut off, again. No way she could walk that far in the snow. She’d had to ask him. He drove, reeking of booze, lecturing her about how she thought she was better than everyone else. She wanted to say, not everyone. Just you. But she didn’t want the backhand that would follow. Yeah, she knew this type.
“Your face is getting awful red there, for a high and mighty ‘college girl,’” he smirked. “Maybe, I should be takin’ a picture of your face right now.” He mimed getting out a camera and aiming a shot at her. He was chuckling now. Figured he had the upper hand.
“Your toenails, Mr. Pendergast. That’s what we’re talking about here. I’m curious. Why don’t you cut them? An aversion to nail clippers?”
“Don’t go using your big words on me. What did you say your last name was? Fernald? I know every Fernald up this way.” He sat down, reclined his feet up again. Reached down to pick at a toenail. “Where you from?”
“Around here.”
“You John Fernald’s kid?”
“Nope.”
“Jack? Billy? I know them all. Bet you a hundred dollars I know your Daddy.”
“I don’t take bets. And Fernald is not my father’s last name.”
“You said you were Ms. What, you married?” He laughed. “That proves there’s someone for everyone,” he said, shaking his head, amused.
She wouldn’t tell him Fernald was her mother’s name; she’d officially changed her name the day she turned twenty-one.
Ellen looked evenly at him, letting the room go silent. She moved her eyes to his toes. “Mr. Pendergast, you remind me of my father,” she said, smiling. “Except for these.” She tapped a toenail, hoping to provoke him. “I guess there’s something special about everyone.”
Ellen turned away from him. Conversation closed. She looked around the room, took a few pictures. She heard Tracy asking Toenails easy questions-- ones designed to get people to open up. Mrs. Pendergast sat on the couch nibbling on a cookie. “Won’t you have a little snack, dear?” she asked. Ellen caught her look. Don’t push him too far.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Pendergast, these cookies look so nice, I’m going to take a picture of them. Why don’t you sit close to the table and put your hand on the plate. Like you did when you offered them to me.” Ellen smiled encouragingly, her eyes on the woman’s hand. The nails were medium length. Not recently cut, not outrageously long. Passably clean.
Mrs. Pendergast ducked her head, pleased. Mr. Pendergast grunted. Ellen focused the camera on the bowl next to the cookies and took the picture. The image came out clear. A blue ceramic bowl filled with long nail clippings. Mrs. Pendergast had taken the plunge and cleaned up for the visit. But she wasn’t dressed. And she wore slippers.
“I’ll let you get on with your interview,” Ellen said, walking toward the back of the trailer—snapping pictures as she went. The elder daughter had said two things that stuck in Ellen’s mind. First, she was afraid she would return from school one day and find mom dead. Second, she said, “I won’t let him hurt her,” pointing to her younger sister. Bruises documented in the medical review confirmed her fear.
From the outside, Ellen had already photographed the trailer, noting its age-- not uncommon for this impoverished area. A rusty propane tank. Beige skirting under the trailer dented in some places, missing in others. One window boarded up. Overall a whitish, rusted color. She took pictures of the cinderblock foundation, tilting slightly toward the bedroom where the blocks were misaligned.
Inside now, Ellen took pictures, winding her way through each room. In her camera lay images of the two-bath/shower combos scoured clean, both minus a shower curtain. Toilets that could use cleaning, seats and lids up in both. Man’s rules.
Ellen packed her camera away, watching the end of the interview. Later, she would talk to Tracy about the girls’ room. The room was adequate in the way a cell was adequate —bunk beds made with precision military corners, the sole window boarded up on one side, the lack of toys, books, little girl trappings—the absence of anything that suggested love.
“We just want our girls back,” Mrs. Pendergast pleaded, scratching her head. Did I just see her hair move, Ellen wondered? A wig? Tracy shot Ellen a look. Ellen dug her camera back out. “Mrs. Pendergast,” she called, “one more picture of you.” Mrs. Pendergast looked up, startled; the quick motion of her head sending the wig askew. Ellen shot. Mrs. Pendergast made an attempt to straighten up—but not before Ellen snapped another picture of the protruding bald spot. Did Toenails pull her hair out or just drive her to it?
“Let’s go over the last issue one more time, Mr. and Mrs. Pendergast,” Tracy said, “just so I have the facts straight.” She began with Toenails. “Can you tell me how exactly your dog died?”
“Told you already.”
“Again please, Mr. Pendergast. Take your time. I know this is difficult.” Good move Tracy, thought Ellen. The old goat will bite on that.
“Nothin’ difficult ‘bout it. Like I said, dog was sick. Had to be put down.”
“How did you ‘put down’ your dog, Mr. Pendergast?”
“Told you. I filled up the tub, tied a plastic bag around her head. Held her under til she stopped struggling.”
A mewing sound escaped from Mrs. Pendergast.
“Don’t you start, woman,” he warned his wife. He pointed his finger at Tracy. “See what you done, upsetting her like this? Ain’t no reason to be telling this story. Dog was old. Dog was sick. Dog is dead. Buried out back in the yard. Simple as that.”
“Mr. Pendergast, my concern is your method of, ah, ‘putting down’ the dog.”
“You don’t like how I killed it? You can pay the hundred dollars to the vet next time I got a sick dog. Ain’t everyone got an extra hundred for a dying dog.”
“Where were the girls when you ‘put the dog down?’” Tracy asked.
“Ginger,” Mrs. Pendergast said. “Ginger is her name.”
“Alright, Ginger, then. That’s a pretty name. Where were the girls when your husband ‘put down’ Ginger?”
“They helped him,” Mrs. Pendergast said, rubbing her lower back. “You see, I have a bad back. I couldn’t help.”
“That’s right. She’s telling that right,” said Mr. Pendergast. “That dog was big. Needed help holding her down.”
“So the girls did what, exactly, to help you, Mr. Pendergast?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Whatever I told them to.”
“Elise ran the tub. Janey …”
“That’s enough, Godamnit,” Mr. Pendergast shouted, slamming down his footrest.
Mrs. Pendergast looked down, sniffling.
“Next time I’ll use my gun. That better? That please the sensibilities of you ladies? See, I know a few big words of my own,” he said, winking and mouthing “college girl” to Ellen.
Tracy began to pack up her things. “Thank you for your time,” she said. “Just one last question. Tracy always saved the big one for last. Ellen tensed. She had her phone dialed 9-1, leaving just the one digit to press if things got out of hand.
“Mr. Pendergast, your girls indicated that you use the bathtub, the toilet, even the sink, for discipline. Do you ever submerge your wife’s head under water?” She paused. “Or the girls’?”
Mr. Pendergast reclined, waiting a beat or two. Mr. In Command. Taking his sweet time. “Well now, I’m searchin’ my mind for you. Just so’s we got this clear.” His eyes were on his wife as he said, “Nope, don’t recall anything like that going.”
“Well, Sir, your daughters report that you have held your wife’s head under water. On more than one occasion.”
“And you believe that crap?” he asked. “Those girls ought to know better than telling tales on their Daddy.” Toenails folded his arms against his chest and crossed his bare feet at the ankles. “Ask me, it’s an upside down world when you people believe kids over parents. Shit, everyone knows kids lie, right Luanne?”
Mrs. Pendergast looked down at her hands.
“Do you believe your girls are lying, Mrs. Pendergast?” Tracy asked.
“They’re good girls,” she said, raising her head. Her husband’s eyes were on her. Slowly she turned to look at him; her head nothing more than a ball tethered to a pole. “But I guess, you know, like all kids, they’ve been known to lie.”
He nodded, satisfied. She looked down again, reaching for a cookie - then drawing her hand back.
She would be an easy woman to hate, Ellen thought. If you weren’t from around here.
~
Around Here by Helen Silverstein was read by Steve Wedd at the Liars' League Rebels & Tyrants event at The Wheatsheaf on Tuesday 14 July 2009.
Helen Silverstein weaves her experience as a therapist together with her work with low-income families (frequently African-American in Alabama – where she currently lives – and Maine, her former home) to create stories that take an authentic look at family relationships and societal hardships. She is a student on the Stonecoast MFA Creative Writing program
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