Chapter 7 - The Reconstruction
They did not go to the courthouse first. They went to the office on Third Street.
Janice Vance looked at the three of them—Walter, Caroline, and the child in the carrier—with a expression that was thirty percent irritation and seventy percent relief.
"This is highly irregular, Walter," she said, tapping her pen against the desk. "You’ve got a mother who abandoned her child, and a man who’s basically harboring them both."
"She didn't abandon her," Walter said. "She left her under my care. In my alley. That’s a private easement. Legally, it’s no different than leaving her on my porch."
"It’s a misdemeanor," Janice said.
"Then charge her," Walter said. "I’ll pay the fine. But then we’re going to file for temporary guardianship with the mother’s consent. Caroline stays at the house as a resident caretaker. Margaret is the supervisor. I’m the guarantor."
Janice looked at Caroline. "Is this what you want, Caroline?"
Caroline looked at Walter. His hands were on his knees—large, scarred, and steady. For the first time in five years, she felt like she was standing on something that wasn't going to rot under her feet.
"Yes," she said. "I want to learn how to keep the house."
The judge was an old man named Harrison who had known Walter’s father. He looked at the agreement for six minutes, his glasses perched on the end of his nose, then signed his name with a gold pen that made a loud scratching sound in the quiet courtroom.
"Six months," Harrison said. "Then you come back here, and we see if the child has gained weight and the mother has a bank account. If not, we start over."
"Thank you, Your Honor," Walter said.
The walk back to Front Street was the first time they had walked together in the daylight.
The town was quiet. The shops along Front Street were putting out their autumn displays—pumpkins on the steps, dried corn on the doors.
When they reached the house, Margaret was standing on the porch. She had a basket of clean laundry under her arm, and her face was as stern as ever, but she had left the front door wide open.
"The baby's room is ready," Margaret said to Caroline. "The one upstairs. The one with the half-painted wall."
Caroline stopped at the bottom of the steps. She looked up at the white clapboard, at the two chimneys, at the pine tree that had stood through a hundred years of wind.
May you like
"I don't know how to paint," she said.
"I'll teach you," Walter said.
