Chapter 5 - What My Hands Used to Do
I met Luis at the diner on Main where we'd met every month for three years. He wasn't my parole officer anymore, not technically. He was the counselor the county made me see after I got out, and then he was just Luis who drank black coffee and never commented on my tattoos.
He slid into the booth across from me and looked at my hands the way he always did. I had them wrapped around my mug.
"So," he said. "You called."
I told him about the children's home. About the girl in the red dress with the big satin bow who'd called me Daddy. About the swab still sitting in some lab and the caseworker who kept saying pending.
He didn't react right away. He stirred his coffee, even though there was nothing in it to stir.
"They're going to pull your record," he said finally. "You know that."
"I know."
"Assault, twenty-seven months. Possession. The neck piece you got inside. They'll see all of it."
I nodded. My throat felt tight. "I've been clean five years. Steady work. Rent paid. You know that too."
"I do," he said. "And I've written that letter four times this week already for other jobs. But a kid is different, Vitari. A judge is going to ask what those hands used to do."
It was quiet between us. The waitress dropped a check on the table and didn't look twice.
"What do you want me to tell them?" Luis asked.
"Tell them the truth," I said. "That I was angry at everything. That I drank and I fought and I went away. And that I haven't done it since."
He studied me for a long second, then pulled out his phone. "I'll send the letter today. Supervised visits, employment verification, negative screens for sixty months. You keep your appointments. You don't miss one."
That afternoon I went back to my apartment and saw it the way a caseworker would.
I'd lived there for two years. One bedroom over the hardware store, clean enough but small. The sink had a chip in it. The couch was secondhand. On the fridge there were takeout magnets and a calendar with my work schedule marked in black ink.
I started cleaning like I was trying to erase myself. I scrubbed the stove until my knuckles ached. I took the half-empty bottle of whiskey I'd kept on top of the fridge for when my brother visited and poured it down the sink and watched it swirl away. I took the ashtray off the balcony and threw it in the dumpster downstairs. I folded laundry I hadn't folded in weeks. I moved the weights from the living room into the closet so there'd be floor space.
In the closet I found a photo of me and Elena from before. We were outside a gas station at night, both laughing, her head on my shoulder. My hair was longer then. No beard. Fewer tattoos. I stared at it and realized I didn't remember the last time I'd actually looked at her face before that morning at the children's home.
I left the photo on the dresser. I wasn't going to hide that I'd known her.
The caseworker met me at the county office at four. She had a folder again, thicker this time, and she didn't smile when I sat down.
"Mr. Vitari, we need to complete your background disclosure before inspection," she said. "Anything not reported now will count against you later. Understood?"
"Yes."
She clicked her pen. "Tell me about the end of your relationship with Elena Ruiz."
I breathed in and out once, slow. My hands were flat on the table so she could see them. So I wouldn't hide them.
"We were together about a year," I said. "I was twenty-three. I was drinking a lot. I had a temper. I never hit her, but I yelled. I punched walls. I punched a guy outside a bar and that's why I went inside. She told me she was scared. She was right to be."
The pen didn't move.
"Did you know she was pregnant when you separated?" she asked.
"No. I left. Or she left, I don't really know which. I got locked up two months later and we had no contact after that. I didn't call. She didn't call. I told myself it was cleaner that way."
"Why didn't you reach out after release?"
"Shame," I said. The word felt too small. "And I figured she'd moved on. I was trying to stay out. I didn't think I had any right to come find her."
She wrote for a while. The clock ticked.
"Thank you for being honest," she said, not looking up. "That helps. Judges see a lot of men who minimize. They notice when someone doesn't."
She closed the folder halfway, then opened it again.
"Your counselor sent his letter. Your employer confirmed steady work. That's good. But I have to be clear with you. Texas family code gives a judge wide discretion on kinship placement when there's a criminal history, especially with a violent offense. Even with stability, even with DNA pending, he will weigh the risk."
"I understand."
"He'll want character references. Two or three people who've known you consistently since release and can speak to your home environment. Not family."
I thought of Luis. My boss at the shop. Mrs. Chen downstairs who watched me bring in groceries and asked about my day.
"I can get them."
She slid a paper across the table. Home inspection checklist. Smoke detector, window locks, bedding, food in pantry, no loose firearms, no alcohol in reach.
"Inspection is Thursday at ten," she said. "Your daughter will remain at the home until the court hears temporary placement. Don't bring gifts that violate policy. Don't make promises we haven't approved."
I folded the paper and put it in my pocket. My hand shook a little and I didn't try to hide it.
May you like
Outside, the parking lot was hot and bright. I sat in my truck for a minute before I started it, looking at that checklist, at my name printed next to the word proposed kinship.
I hadn't earned that word yet.
