In loco parentis
by Edward H. Seksay
I’d only been with the Department for two weeks when Jeffrey Clark Smithers called for an appointment.
The fact that Smithers called first made him stand out from the crowd. The Cuyahoga County office of the Ohio Public Welfare Department wasn’t much accustomed to polite scheduling. Ecstasy addicts and teenaged mothers usually just wandered in to see me.
I assigned Smithers a case number and dragged his social security number through state records. When I retrieved the search results Smithers seemed even more unusuaclass="underline" he had a steady job maintaining the servos at Cuyahoga Steel, no criminal record, and no prior history of state assistance. There was no apparent reason why he needed me. Smithers seemed so unlikely a client that I suspected my supervisor, Carter McGowan, had devised him as some sort of test for me.
Smithers entered my office late on a Friday afternoon dressed in union standard issue: charcoal gray khaki work pants, matching shirt and baseball cap, and black steel-toed boots. There was dirt under his fingernails. He removed his baseball cap and offered to shake hands. My remote—the urban, Caucasian, Cuyahoga County model—gave him a firm grip in response.
“What can the state of Ohio do for you, Mr. Smithers?”
“I’m not here about me.” He squirmed in his chair. “It’s my son.”
My remote pretended to look at a piece of paper on the desk as I retrieved the name.
“That would be Michael?”
“Yeah, Mickey.”
“What is it that Mickey needs?”
“I’m sick.” Smithers looked at the floor. “Real sick.”
After checking to ensure that Smithers had signed the standard confidentiality waiver outside, I scanned his med file. It disclosed growing lumps beneath each of his arms. The cancer treatments allotted by his health plan had run out before his lymphoma did.
My remote nodded its head and said nothing.
“Mickey. He’s special, you see. Needs looking after.”
Michael Joseph Smithers had, according to the family med record, been born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. Oxygen had been cut off from his brain for a crucial few minutes during delivery. Although an otherwise healthy twenty-three, he functioned at the level of a three-year-old.
“He’s a bit slow is all. But he’s a good boy. I want to be sure he’ll be taken care of when I’m gone.”
My remote nodded solemnly as I considered the situation. Census records indicated that Mickey’s mother, Carol Clark Smithers, had died six years ago and left no surviving relatives. Smithers himself was an only child—his father had died before he was born, and his mother was a bedridden stroke victim who had been under the Department’s care for a decade. With no family to look after him, Mickey would become a ward of the state as soon as Smithers died.
Having determined that public assistance was warranted, I defined the search: Living Assistance. Mentally Retarded Adults. Cuyahoga County. City of Cleveland. Near West Side. I processed the request and came up with the answer easily. McGowan would have to do better than this if he wanted to test me.
“The state operates group homes for people like Mickey. The one at 28th and Clark is closest to you.”
“No!” Although the word came out forcefully, Smithers sagged into his chair like a deflated balloon, shaking his head in protest. “I don’t want my boy in no home.”
My remote pursed its lips thoughtfully as I tried to decide what to do. The shout had triggered a call for security, but I countermanded the order. Smithers was upset, but posed no immediate threat to my remote or any other state property.
That decision was easy, but I remained in a quandary otherwise. No one had ever rejected an answer within defined parameters before. McGowan would surely examine how I handled this situation.
Smithers took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure your group home is all well and good, but a boy needs a family. Mickey’s had to do with just me for too long as it is.”
He pulled out a piece of paper and offered it to my remote. “I’m not looking for charity, mind you. The union has a good plan and there’ll be money for Mickey so long as he’s alive.”
My remote pretended to glance at the summary of benefits as I went through the decision tree again. While the union benefits would provide Mickey with a monthly stipend after his father’s death, they wouldn’t come close to covering the cost of private care for the rest of his life. All of my protocols still called for the same answer: a state operated group home. But that response clearly wouldn’t satisfy Smithers, whose silent stare was full of pain and frustration.
“I’ll speak with my supervisor Mr. McGowan. Perhaps there’s something else we can do.”
“Thank you.” A glint of hope brightened Smithers’s eyes. “Thank you so very much.”
“So, tin man. How did you do this week?”
My remote smiled blandly. The tin man comment was inaccurate—my prototype remote didn’t contain an ounce of tin and was outwardly human in every way. As the only person in the Cuyahoga County office who knew me for who I really was, Carter McGowan understood that but chose to goad me anyway. I didn’t bother correcting him. The comment was meant to get to me, but experience had taught me not to engage McGowan in banter. I tried to project nonchalance as my remote handed over the databoard containing my case summaries.
I watched McGowan intently as he reviewed the entries, checking them off one at a time, putting stylus to screen without comment, expecting criticism but hoping for approbation. The Automated Welfare System was still on trial then, and McGowan had been skeptical of my abilities from the outset. If the Cuyahoga County pilot program didn’t go well, the whole project—including me and my prototype remote—would probably be scrapped.
I had reason to be concerned because Carter McGowan was a hard yardstick by which to be measured. As a licensed, clinical social worker and board-certified diplomate with over thirty years of experience, he had devoted his life to those on the margins of society, offering compassion to the ones who deserved help and doling out blunt truth when presented with the self-created problems of those who wallowed in pity. My ethical construct was derived from him.
McGowan’s face remained expressionless until he came to my summary of the Smithers interview.
“Why did you set the Smithers case aside for further review?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, and the lack of an immediate response triggered my remote’s simresponse reflex. It took a conscious effort to keep my remote from shrugging. “I thought a special accommodation might be appropriate.”
A hollow answer, devoid of rationale. It seemed to hang in the air naked.
“Hmm.” McGowan stroked his neatly trimmed gray beard, a thoughtful pose I immediately cataloged for future use. “I thought that preprogrammed answers were your only specialty. What are you going to do?”
“Maybe try to arrange an adoption.”
The answer was candid, but I immediately regretted my phrasing.
Maybe? Maybe? The uncertainty I felt was revealed in the very description of my proposed alternative. My remote surely had indecision stamped across its forehead.
McGowan, however, seemed not to notice. Although the consult room was windowless, he looked off into the distance as he concentrated.
“Difficult ordinarily,” he shook his head. “And especially so with a special needs case. What’ll you do if you can’t find someone?”
Nanoseconds stretched endlessly as I considered the question.
“I don’t know.”
McGowan put his stylus down. “What did you say?”
My answer was even less palatable when repeated: “I don’t know what I’ll do then.”