© 2012 Phylicia Joannis
“So what do we do now?” I asked the Congressman as we sat on the bumpy ceiling of the subway car.
“We wait,” he replied. After he’d discovered the drone in the tunnel, the Congressman had gathered us all in the car and told us a rescue team was on its way.
“We’ve been waiting a long time already,” the Complainer grunted.
“But the drode said it was too dangerous!” the Old Woman remarked, pointing to the eerie looking robot.
“It’s drone,” I corrected behind a stifled laugh.
“There’s gotta be something we can do to pass the time,” the Nurse hung her head. “I’m tired of sitting here!”
“Anybody know any good jokes?” the Congressman asked.
I shrugged. So did Dreadlock. The Climber grinned and the Nurse groaned.
“Sure,” the Climber began. “Two guys walked into a bar, and –“
“Please, stop right there!” the Nurse held out her hand. “I refuse to be subjected to whatever lewd or grossly exaggerated anecdote you were about to tell. Besides, we’re in the company of a minor.”
The Nurse glanced at me, and I opened my mouth to protest.
“Don’t bother denying it,” the Complainer stopped me. “We all know you’re just a kid.”
“It’s just a joke!” the Climber defended. “And besides, she probably knows all about the birds and the bees, right?”
He looked at me. I looked away.
“Fine,” the Climber huffed. He frowned at the Nurse. “Let’s see you come up with something PG for the kid.”
“I don’t need to be entertained,” I stated. “And I’m not a little kid. I’m 17… almost.”
“Whatever,” the Climber shrugged.
“What about a story?” the Complainer suggested. “I’m sure between the seven of us we could scrounge up a few lusty affairs and scandalous tales to keep us preoccupied.”
“Why don’t you start us off?” Dreadlock challenged.
The Complainer looked up in thought. “Why not? I consider it a civic duty to educate simpletons.”
The Nurse rolled her eyes. I shifted in my seat. The Congressman shrugged.
“We’ve got nothing else to do,” the Congressman grunted.
The Complainer smiled at his audience.
“I call this one, the Tale of the Widow’s Son.”
***
Mary Wilkes and her son, John Wilkes were a unique case. I walked into my office one Monday morning and there they sat. My secretary had heard their plight and left them to sit in my office.
I should have fired her.
My first reaction, as you can imagine, was gruff.
“Who are these people?” I asked. “And why are they sitting in my office without supervision?”
“Mary Wilkes and her son, John Wilkes,” she replied immediately. “They’ve come here for your help.”
“Tell them to make an appointment,” I replied angrily.
“Well, they have no money and I just thought if you heard their story -”
“I don’t give free consultations.” I stated curtly.
“Just hear them out,” she cried. “You’re required by the bar to do some pro bono work anyway, right? Why not help someone in need?”
“Hmm,” I grumbled. But she was right. I needed to submit a form to the bar by the next quarter listing my pro bono hours.
“Fine.” I replied. “But don’t let people in my office, you half-wit. Let them sit here, by your desk, so you can watch them.”
She nodded and I let myself into my office. I checked my shelves, my gold trophies, my silver plaques, my favorite pens. Everything was in place. Then I checked the two individuals sitting at my desk.
The woman was older, possibly in her forties with dyed blond hair and green eyes. The man was younger; he looked to be in his early twenties with thin cheeks and hands.
“So, what can I do for you?” I asked the two. The woman had obviously been crying. The young man looked distraught.
“Thank you so much for seeing us,” she began. “I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t waste much of your time. My name is Mary Wilkes and this is my son, John Wilkes. My husband died last month in a fire at our home. He was a smoker, and he must have fallen asleep…Anyway, it was dreadful. Everything was lost.”
The woman began to sob, and John reached over to console her.
I rolled my eyes. “That’s all very sad, but why are you here?” I asked.
“It’s alright, Mother, I’ll tell the rest,” he cooed. She nodded in consent, and he looked at me with starry brown eyes.
“My father didn’t leave a will. Everything will go to the state if we can’t prove we’re legally entitled to it.”
“Sounds easy enough,” I replied. “Just show some paperwork. Driver’s license, marriage certificate, birth certificate for you, John.”
John shook his head. “That’s just it. We don’t have anything.”
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.
He continued. “My father was a very private man. He and my mother were common law married, so there was no marriage certificate. She didn’t even change her name.”
“And since I couldn’t have children, we adopted John,” Mary Wilkes added. “It was a private adoption – no paperwork. Back then it was very common. His mother was a young girl…anyway I had his birth certificate, but it was in the name his biological mother gave him and it was destroyed in the fire.”
“What about school records?” I asked. “Hospital visits? Surely there must be something?”
Mary sighed. “He was home schooled, and we kept his medical records in the house.” Her lip quivered and she put her face in her hands.
“Everything was in our father’s name,” John added. “The mortgage, the car note, all the bills. My mother has nothing to prove she was his wife and I was his adopted son. We can’t go back to the house. They’ve taken my mother’s car, because it was in my father’s name. We only had a little money for a hotel, and that’s nearly gone now. We’re desperate.”
“I wish I could help you, I really do,” I sighed. “But without some kind of proof, there’s nothing I can do. What about the police report? From the fire?”
John looked gravely at Mary. “We weren’t there when it happened…”
I waited for an explanation.
“John and I had had a fight,” Mary explained. “It was over something stupid, I don’t even remember what it was about. Anyway, I went away for a couple of days and I took John with me. When we came back, we found out about the fire. The last words I spoke to him were so awful. If I’d known…”
Mary broke into sobs. I handed her a tissue.
“If it were just me, I’d find a way to manage, but I have to take care of my son. He’s never been exposed to the hard life, you understand?”
“Mother, I’d manage,” John spoke to her softly. “I’m not a little child anymore.”
He looked at me. “I’m sorry we took up your time,” John apologized. “We had to try, though.” He helped Mary up from the chair.
I frowned. They were getting to me.
“Wait!” I stopped him. “Maybe there’s something I can do.” He and Mary sat back down.
Be First to Comment