<< Go Back

Vyper: A Laynie Portland Sequel

By Vikki Kestell

Order Now!

Prologue
Regina, Saskatchewan
October 1975

“That child is staring at me.” The group home’s foster mother, Maude Northam, pursed her lips. The lines between her brows deepened and drew closer together. “It is unsettling.”

The overtaxed caseworker, a few years past her prime, glanced at the girl standing in the foyer just inside the group home’s doorway. She set the child’s suitcase on the floor before she answered.

“Don’t let it bother you. She is simply sizing you up.”

“Really, Miss Timmons! Her, sizing me up?”

Miss Timmons massaged her tired eyes. “Yes. She does that.” The caseworker’s equally weary smile seemed to blend wry humor with regret. “Such a clever little thing she is. I have known Jenny since she entered the system, and it grieves me that we must place her in yet another new environment.”

The two women studied the child. The girl, her dark hair parted in the middle and plaited into two tidy braids, studied them back. Her pale green eyes did not shift or blink.

Mrs. Northam sniffed. “I hardly think our home an appropriate fit for her. My husband and I care for children ages seven to thirteen. This girl is what? Four or five? Not our age bracket, I’m afraid. No, not a fit at all.”

“She will be six come spring, but is small for her age. However, as I said, she is intelligent and, I am sorry to again impress upon you, no other options are open to us on such short notice.”

“So you say. How long has she been in care?”

“Her mother left her at the entrance to our offices when she was two years old.”

“Why? Was there something wrong with the girl?”

“Nothing wrong with her. More likely the mother was unfit. From the bits and pieces the child told us, we deduced that her mother was a sex worker who, because of her line of work, could no longer care for an active toddler.”

“From what the child told you, you say? Surely a two-year-old couldn’t tell you much. I assume the mother left a note with her?”

Miss Timmons’ chuckle was sardonic. “A note? Not so much as a scrap. What we pieced together was that the mother left Jenny on our steps early on a Monday morning thinking we’d find her as we arrived to work. Regrettably, it was autumn—quite chilly, you know—and the day her mother left her was a holiday. Offices closed. I arrived at work early Tuesday morning and came across her sitting on the steps, just as patient and unruffled as can be.”

“Merciful heavens! Left alone through the cold of night? Why, how did she survive? And did no one notice her?”

“We think not. Rather, the evidence suggests that Jenny took it upon herself to provide for her needs. Next to the office steps we found a package of cookies, half-eaten; a pile of bubblegum wrappers; an empty juice bottle; and a rumpled stadium blanket—new, with the price tag still attached.”

Miss Timmons inclined her head toward the girl. “Evidently, Jenny had spent the night curled up in the flower bed.”

“So her mother left her with a blanket and food.”

“Doubtful. We believe Jenny was left with nothing but the clothes on her back.”

“Then someone did notice her and gave her those things.”

“No.”

“But someone had to have helped her. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Just this: When we asked Jenny where she got the items, she pointed to the little market on the opposite corner. We showed the blanket and trash to the store manager. He verified that the items could have come from his stock—and the tag on the blanket proved that it, at a minimum, had. However, his evening employees swore that they never saw the child, nor did they recall selling those items.”

Miss Timmons shrugged. “It seems that Jenny crossed the street by herself and ‘appropriated’ what she needed.”

“At two years of age? Preposterous!”

Miss Timmons turned and smiled at the girl, who puffed out a tiny, aggrieved breath in response.

“I would not have disagreed with you—that is until Jenny volunteered her full name, her age, even her date of birth, and declared that she was hungry and would like pancakes, if you please. According to the DOB she provided, she was all of two years and five months. However, when we asked her about her mother, her father, or where she’d lived, she would only lift her little shoulders as if she did not know . . . or was, perhaps, unwilling to tell us. That was when I began to realize what a special child we had on our hands.”

“Special?”

“Yes, special. I have come to the conclusion that Jenny is abnormally bright and precocious, a child who, because she was neglected, learned early on to be self-reliant.”

“And yet a child that special has not been adopted since entering care?”

“That is correct. You can see that she is a healthy, comely little mite, and we had no lack of prospective adoptive parents. Nonetheless, out of three adoption attempts, not one worked out.”

“Why is that?”

“My experience tells me that most children in the system long for loving parents, whereas Jenny is content to live in a bubble of her own making. She keeps to herself, does well in school, and requires little help.”

Miss Timmons glanced at the child. “I think it highly regrettable that the majority of prospective adoptive parents these days desire a child who will need and love them. Parents such as I’ve described are less receptive to a child who scarcely notices them, is less than affectionate, prefers her own company, and will not assimilate into the family. For those reasons, Jenny has never stayed long in an adoptive situation—or in a foster home for that matter. Eventually, an uproar ensues, and like today, we’re called in to remove her.”

“Eh? So you have brought me an unruly child, is that it?”

“No. It is not that she’s unruly or difficult; it is more that she is different and, therefore, frequently misunderstood. And as I said, she is intelligent. Frankly, Mrs. Northam, Jenny is probably smarter than the two of us put together.”

Maude Northam grimaced. “Is she, now? I suppose that remains to be seen. So what did she do to lose her place at her most recent foster home?”

“Truth be told, I cannot fault her. I believe the family’s ten-year-old biological son bullied her. According to Jenny, he pulled her hair, teased her about her name, and pinched her. Hit her when he could get her alone.”

“The parents didn’t notice what was happening? Didn’t take steps to stop him?”

Miss Timmons sighed. “Theirs was not the best of foster homes, and you know how overburdened the system is. The girl insists she did try to tell the parents, but they turned a deaf ear to her. My observations told me they doted on their son and barely tolerated little Jenny.”

“Jenny is a common enough name. Why would the boy tease her about her name?”

“According to the child, her full name is Geneviève Zenibaa Simard. We call her Jenny.”

“Simard is a good French Canadian surname, but Zenibaa? That is an indigenous name, isn’t it?”

“It is a First Nations name, yes. However, the child does not look to be even a quarter Native—not with those green eyes of hers. Her cheekbones and the slight cant to those eyes might point to Indian blood but, without the identity of her parents, we could only surmise that she was of Native ancestry. Even with Jenny providing a date of birth, we found nothing. Without proper documentation, her lineage was purely conjecture on our part, and she was classed as Non-Status Indigenous.”

“Huh. So the boy in the family teased her and called her names? Surely that was no reason for his parents to surrender her.”

“Oh, they had reason enough.”

Mrs. Northam folded her ample arms across her chest. “Then it’s like I said! You’ve brought me a budding delinquent—and I do not appreciate it, I really do not. I will not have a willful, troublemaking child disrupting the entire household.”

“She will not be a problem if you handle her fairly.”

“What? If I handle her fairly? Fair or not, I expect obedience, I do.”

Miss Timmons’ mouth tightened as she faced the other woman. “Let me speak frankly, Mrs. Northam. I have received less-than-glowing reports about this house, and I will return frequently to ensure that Jenny is thriving here. I had better not find any reason to remove her from your care.”

“Well, I never. I will not be intimidated by the likes of you!”

Miss Timmons had been a social worker for twenty-five years, and she had seen it all. Her expression did not shift an iota. “Mrs. Northam, you would do well to remember my warning. If you treat Jenny fairly, she will give you no grief.”

“And if the girl feels she isn’t treated fairly? What then?”

“As I said, the older boy in her last home bullied her, and his parents did not believe Jenny when she complained to them. The last straw for Jenny was when she told them the boy had cut off the end of one of her braids and still they disbelieved her.”

“Easy enough to check such a story. Did she lie to them?”

“Jenny is no liar. They found an inch missing from the end of her left braid. However, when they asked their son if he had cut her braid, he denied it. His parents decided Jenny had done it herself to get attention. Instead of believing her, they punished her for defaming their little darling.”

The foster mother’s eyes narrowed. “And then?”

The caseworker tendered a uncharacteristically sardonic grin. “Let us just say that the parents came to regret their choices.”

Maude Northam backed up a step. Her eyes jinked to the child then back to the caseworker. “Y-you cannot leave that girl with me—not if she is given to violence. I won’t stand for it! We have other children in this home, you know, and we must protect them.”

“Oh, I assure you, Mrs. Northam, Jenny hasn’t a violent bone in her body. She is merely what I call . . . a creative problem solver.”

“Nonsense! You must disclose the reason the parents in her last placement surrendered her. I insist that you tell me exactly what the girl did!”

Across the vestibule, the child unwrapped a piece of bubble gum, exhaled a longsuffering sigh, slipped the gum into her mouth, and slowly chewed it.

Miss Timmons quirked a fond smile on her. “I know we have kept you waiting, Jenny, but please be patient a little longer. Thank you; you’re a good girl.”

The girl replied with a small nod.

Mrs. Northam snorted. “My, my, don’t you behave as though the child were an honored guest! Well, she won’t be a guest here.”

Miss Timmons leaned toward the foster mother. “What I do is address Jenny with respect, Mrs. Northam, because when I do, she is docile and biddable.”

Mrs. Northam bristled. “Well, she’ll mind her Ps and Qs for me, she will! And she will show proper respect to her elders—if—if I even allow you to leave her with us in the first place. Now, I insist that you tell me what mischief she got up to for her last foster parents to toss her out.”

Miss Timmons echoed the little girl’s resigned sigh. “All right. I will tell you. And afterward? You would do well to mind my warning and manage Jenny in an equitable manner. If she has a complaint, listen to her. Believe her. And act on her complaint.”

“Yes, yes. So you’ve said.”

Miss Timmons turned her back on the child and began quietly, “When little Jenny encounters a problem or is the recipient of a perceived insult and cannot get an adult to address her grievance, she sets about solving the situations herself. Several of her foster parents have told me the same, and her most recent foster parents, Mr. and Mrs. Placard, confirm it.”

“What can you possibly mean by ‘she sets about solving the situations herself’?”

“Mrs. Northam, really! I am getting to it—and I will get to it quicker if you do not continue to interrupt me.”

The group home mother scowled; her pinched lips thinned further.

Shaking her head, Miss Timmons continued. “The first event occurred one evening after dinner when Mrs. Placard noticed money missing from her purse.”

“What? Now you tell me the child’s a thief? I’ll have you know, I abide no thieves here, Miss Timmons.”

“Mrs. Northam, kindly shut up until I am finished.”

The sneer Mrs. Northam sent Miss Timmons could have frosted window panes in July—but Miss Timmons had seen worse and had stared down the best.

“As I was saying before you interrupted me, Mrs. Northam, that evening, Mrs. Placard discovered that a twenty-dollar bill had gone missing from her purse. She suspected Jenny had taken the money. Mrs. Placard searched Jenny’s room but found nothing. When Mrs. Placard demanded Jenny return the money, Jenny asked if Mrs. Placard had also searched Howard’s room—Howard being the Placards’ ten-year-old son and Jenny harboring a need for equal treatment.

“When Mrs. Placard retorted that her ‘little gentleman’ was no thief, Jenny answered by asking where Howard had gotten the candy. Mrs. Placard wanted to know what candy. Jenny said she’d seen Howard eating a candy bar before dinner.

“Howard was out playing at the time, so Mrs. Placard went into his room. She spied a crumpled candy bar wrapper in Howard’s waste basket and turned on Jenny, accusing her of putting the wrapper in the trash herself. Jenny then asked why Howard had no appetite at dinner.

“Mrs. Placard recalled that Howard had not seemed hungry over dinner, and so, with reluctance, she searched the remainder of Howard’s room. She discovered cash—several small bills and some change—and two candy bars tucked under Howard’s mattress. When she and Mr. Placard confronted Howard, he denied taking the money or buying any candy. What he did admit to was seeing Jenny holding a candy bar before dinner and he confessed to taking the candy bar from Jenny so that she would not ruin her appetite—his reason for taking Jenny’s candy bar delivered in a most pious manner, I’m certain.”

Mrs. Northam’s sneer drained away. “Are you suggesting that little Geneviève took the money, bought some candy, then put the change and candy under Howard’s mattress? But wouldn’t that also mean she intentionally allowed Howard to see the candy bar she had in her hand, knowing he’d steal it from her?”

Miss Timmons did not alter her expression except to raise one eyebrow, so Mrs. Northam finished her line of reasoning. “But what you are insinuating, however implausible, is that Geneviève planned these many details in order to discredit Howard—all because he bullied her and his parents didn’t believe her?”

Miss Timmons’ mouth twitched. “Have I your attention now?”

“But that’s diabolical . . . and she’s just a child!”

“A brilliant child, Mrs. Northam, as I have said more than once. Do you care to hear the rest?”

Mrs. Northam swallowed. “I-I do. Yes. If you please.”

“Very well, since you asked politely. Even though the Placards found money and candy under Howard’s mattress, they did not act. They were unconvinced that Howard had taken the money in the first place but they could not prove Jenny’s guilt, so they let the matter lie—which was a mistake.

“One night, a few days later, after the children were abed, Mr. Placard poured himself his evening libation, only to discover that his bourbon tasted ‘off.’ Watered down. He and Mrs. Placard checked on both children. Jenny was sound asleep with no hint of bourbon about her person. Howard was sleeping also, but the faint odor of bourbon lingered near his mouth. When the Placards awakened him, they discovered that his pillow, rather than he, held the odor . . . as though alcohol had been dribbled on it.”

“Mon Dieu! The child is a demon!”

“Are you daft, Mrs. Northam? I have told you repeatedly that she is intelligent and will not tolerate being treated unfairly. More accurately, from what I have observed and documented, she can hold a sizable grudge if her plight is unjust and nothing is done to amend the unfairness. Case in point, this prank was not the end of her ‘setting things right’ between herself and young Howard and his biased parents.”

Miss Timmons forged ahead. “A week later, Howard’s school principal phoned Mr. Placard at his work. A book report Howard had turned in was found by his teacher to contain a number of profane lines and disturbing phrases. The language was so concerning that the principal required Howard be evaluated by the school psychiatrist. That was when the Placards called me in, because by now they were convinced Jenny was behind this incident as well as the previous two events.

“They rehearsed the first two episodes to me, and then I looked over Howard’s book report. It was written in pencil, you see, and while I was reading it, I detected faint erasure marks. And although the rewritten text bore a striking similitude to Howard’s handwriting, Mr. Placard insisted Jenny had to have taken the report from Howard’s book bag and revised it. I agreed that she likely had. As Howard was known to be rather a poor student, Jenny probably presumed he would decline to reread the report before he turned it in.”

Miss Timmons chuckled. “She was right about that.”

Lifting a hand to forestall additional questions from the disquieted Mrs. Northam, Miss Timmons added, “I set about finding Jenny another placement at once, but a week passed without success. The final incident, which occurred yesterday, is what generated Jenny’s emergency removal to your group home.”

Mrs. Northam grew pale. “What,” she implored in a whisper, “what did she do yesterday?”

Miss Timmons checked over her shoulder to assure herself that the child was paying their murmured conversation no mind. Jenny had her back to the women. As far as Miss Timmons could ascertain, the child was engrossed in tracing the woodgrain on the home’s entrance door—which, in Miss Timmons’ experience, was no assurance at all.

She lowered her voice to a whisper. “A schoolmate of Howard’s, one Jonathan Wexler, came upon a note taped to his locker when he arrived at school yesterday. Jonathan, according to his school records, is intellectually challenged and thus is older—and larger—than his elementary classmates. He also possesses a nasty temper and has been suspended twice for fighting.”

“The note?” Mrs. Northam’s interjection was breathless. “What did it say?”

“The note, Mrs. Northam, contained a stick figure of Jonathan with the word ‘RETARD’ in all caps pointing to the figure.”

Miss Timmons bent a knowing nod on the other woman. “The note was signed with Howard Placard’s name.”

Mrs. Northam gasped; her hand went to her mouth.

“Yes, just so. Jonathan sought out Howard Placard straightaway and thrashed him. Thoroughly, I might add. Jonathan was expelled, of course.”

“Why, this child you’ve brought here is a budding sociopath!”

“Not at all. With proper oversight, she willingly obeys the rules—as long as they are enforced equally and impartially. All she requires is that you treat her justly and leave her, for the most part, to her own devices.”

Multiple misgivings etched themselves across Mrs. Northam’s face and began to work their way out of her mouth, but the foster mother’s objections did not deter Miss Timmons from her mission.

“I have here an order to place Jenny in your care, Mrs. Northam, and you have no choice in the matter. On the other hand, you have the power to ensure that Jenny feels welcome in this home. You also have the power to demonstrate to her that you are willing to protect her from older, less friendly children. If she comes to you with a complaint? Hear her out. Show her you care and are trustworthy. Believe what she asserts, act to help her, and all will be well. If you follow my advice to the letter, I predict that she will give you little to no grief.”

Miss Timmons witnessed the other woman’s struggle. She watched Mrs. Northam glance several times at the waiting child, who now sat cross-legged on the floor, chin supported by one hand, the other hand twirling a braid, the embodiment of boredom.

“I . . . I see,” Mrs. Northam finally breathed.

“Right, then. I am glad we had this conversation.”

Slowly and purposefully, Mrs. Northam straightened and unclenched her arms. She somehow managed to muster a smile and affix it to her face. On a long exhale, she walked toward the little girl, bent down, and held out her hand.

“Jenny? I am Mrs. Northam. I bid you welcome to our home. I hope you will be happy here. Please do, um, come to me right away if you have any problems, yes? Any worries? I assure you that I or my husband, Albert, will take steps to ensure that the other children in our home treat you well. But should they, er, pick on you, you must let me know straightaway, yes? I promise we will handle them.”

Jenny ignored Mrs. Northam’s outstretched hand but nodded in the affirmative.

“Well. Very good. Shall I show you to your room now, Jenny?”

To Miss Timmons’ mind, Mrs. Northam appeared shocked when Jenny answered, “Yes, please.”

“Jenny? Before you go . . .” Miss Timmons knelt on the floor in front of the child and gently placed her palms on Jenny’s shoulders. The girl squirmed some, then settled. “Do you remember me telling you about Jesus?”

Jenny’s chin bobbed once.

“I am glad! I pray you never forget that he loves you. If you need him, do call on his name. Can you remember to do that?”

The girl shifted her gaze aside. An impatient sigh escaped her mouth.

“I understand. You have been alone a long time and things have not always been pleasant, dear child, but please do not forget how much Jesus loves you?” It was more a plea than a reminder.

Another clipped bob of the chin was the only answer Miss Timmons received.

“Come, Jenny,” Mrs. Northam murmured.

The girl waved goodbye to Miss Timmons and followed Mrs. Northam out of the foyer.

Order Now!

<< Go Back