Adoption Series: The check
Heading home from my first day of second grade.
The Alder and Maple are turning, but most leaves haven’t fallen.
Reaching the wooded lot I push my way into a thicket, where I can’t be seen.
Following my plan, I pull the crumpled check from deep in my pocket and glance around making doubly sure I’m secluded before tearing off the first small piece.
I’d arrived at the plan after lunch. After the shame –– almost tears –– of standing in the milk line and having the monitor reject my check. I was sure that would happen but knew I had to at least try to pay with the check. Everyone else paid with the coins they’d been given. The milk monitor, a sixth grader, had no idea what to do with a check.
Walking home certain I had a way out of this nightmare, I’m more at ease than I’d been all day, even though I still had to dispose of the check. I’d know the moment Dad had written it –– after carefully calculating what the total should be for a full year of lunch milk –– that this was not going to end well. But with my plan in mind, my world seemed right, and the relief allowed me the pure pleasure of tromping through a couple of the better puddles the morning rain had left.
Deep in the thicket, I tear up the check into the tiniest of pieces I can manage, scattering them in the undergrowth.
***
Months passed. I’d forgotten all about the check, when…
“Teddy, did you hand in the milk check?”
I felt a chill, and the whole thing came rushing back. I don’t want to answer. Know I must.
It’s Saturday morning, bright and sunny, Dad had been happy, humming in the kitchen as he made breakfast of bacon and eggs with toast while mom slept in. I set the table.
After breakfast with Mom chatting away about the parks we could visit, I play with my sailing ships and pirate men on the gray-green carpet that fills the living room. Dad is sitting at the dining room table as he does when doing paperwork when he asks what I did with the check.
And to Mom, “Betty, this is the second month that milk check hasn’t shown up.”
I was about to get a lesson on bank statements.
My old fear rising now. Ears on full alert.
And Dad follows up with, “don’t you think the school would have cashed that check by now?”
Mom doesn’t answer.
I want to leave. To go. To run, anything to be out of there. For the day to be over. Anything.
Dad rising from the table, repeats his question to me. “What did you do with the check.”
Mom comes out of the kitchen. She’s wearing her apron and still holding the dish towel.
“Ted there could be a logical answer.”
“I knew he couldn’t be trusted to pay the milk money. He’d spend it at the candy store or lose it. Damn kid. No sense of responsibility.”
Raising his voice now, “What’d ya do with the check? Don’t lie to me, now? We know you didn’t hand it in.”
He grabs me by the arm and pulls me up. Shouting, “where’s the check?”
I can’t think of anything to say. Anything that’ll get me out of this. So, I tell the truth. “I tore it up and scattered it in the woods.”
“Put your coat on we’re gona find it.”
Mom tries to come to the rescue with, “Teddy, why did you tear up the check?”
Tears now, hoping tears might save me. Knowing it’s unlikely, through sobs I blurt, “I tried to hand it in but they wouldn’t take it.”
“Who wouldn’t take it?”
“The monitor. The milk monitor.”
“Why didn’t you take it to Mrs. Hayes?”
I was afraid of Mrs. Hayes, so I said she wasn’t there.
Now Dad, griping my arm, half drags me out the door with Mom behind urging him to calm down and think of the neighbors.
Across the street, up the bank into St. George’s school yard, across the asphalted playground, up the far bank and across to the wooded vacant lot where I’d torn the check to bits we go. Dad’s hand squeezing my arm the whole way.
We do find a few soggy bits. But nothing close to the full check.
Returning home, he’s calmer. Not saying much. No longer holding my arm. I’m hopping against all reason that he’ll leave me alone.
To Mom, “he’s so irresponsible. I don’t know what to do with him he’s got to learn there are consequences.”
I look to Mom hoping she’ll intervene.
She doesn’t.
