“Now that’s a first.” McGowan rocked back in his chair. “But that’s good.”
Good? My revelation of inadequacy?
My remote’s expression must have disclosed how I felt, because it made McGowan laugh. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” McGowan glanced down at the Smithers’ case summary. “I tell you what. The confidentiality waivers have all been signed, so I want you to study this family closely and report back to me.”
“What information do you want me to gather?”
McGowan shrugged. “I don’t know. Just look into things and let me know what you find.”
Buoyed by McGowan’s unexpected tolerance, I decided to start gathering information as soon as possible. After leaving the consult room I dispatched my remote to its cradle for a systems check and recharge. For the next three hours I waited impatiently, screening incoming emergency calls, before regaining use of my mobile eyes and hands.
The address which Smithers had given me was in the low-rent, downscale portion of the near west side neighborhood known as Ohio City. Smithers and Mickey lived in a drab complex in the long, narrow block between Detroit Avenue and the Shoreway, sandwiched between freight transports crawling along on magnetic cushions and commuters who preferred the speed of acceleration by friction. Although the building overlooked Lake Erie, its view was blocked by an LED billboard which the landlord had erected in the backyard.
The cable port was at the rear of the building. My remote plugged into the unlocked exterior information jack and accessed Smithers’s third floor apartment easily. The place was much too cheap for cybernetic fire-doors or shielded lines.
The apartment was too small for a wallscreen, so I looked out onto the tiny living area from the peekaboo in the television screen—everything was built two ways, even back then—and saw Mickey Smithers curled on the threadbare carpet in front of it. His lean, six foot frame folded in on itself.
Mickey was watching a poorly animated Japanese cartoon about the adventures of a puppy dog and a frog. The colors were faded, as if the video had been bleached by time. Gray horizontal lines cycled from the bottom to the top of the screen every few seconds.
Mickey didn’t seem to mind the low quality resolution.
Smithers sat in the adjacent linoleum-floored dining area, going over an array of bills on a small kitchen table that folded out from the wall. His workshirt hung over the back of his chair, leaving his white, tank top undershirt exposed. I could see the swollen nodes in his armpits.
Smithers tapped the television control inlaid in the table and the time flashed briefly in the upper right-hand portion of the screen. He watched Mickey quietly for a moment and hit the control again to turn the screen off.
“Time for bed.”
Mickey rolled over to face his father. “No go bed now.”
Smithers knelt by his son and rubbed the prickly stubble on Mickey’s face. “You didn’t use your depilatory today, did you? Did you skip your bath?”
Mickey frowned with concentration. “No daddy. Me took a bath. You help me.”
“That was yesterday, Mickey.” Smithers let out an exasperated sigh. “When are you going to learn?”
“Sorry Daddy.” Tears formed at the corners of Mickey’s eyes and he turned to hide them from his father.
Smithers grimaced, cursing himself beneath his breath. Then he began stroking Mickey lightly on the back, making a circular motion with his hand.
Mickey relaxed and yawned. After a quiet moment Smithers pretended to sniff the dirty white socks on Mickey’s feet.
“Stinky feet.” Smithers exaggerated another pretend sniff, rolled his eyes, and tickled the soles of Mickey’s feet. “Whoa, stinky feet!”
Mickey began to giggle, and Smithers kept tickling. Mickey rolled over and his father sniffed at the feet again, feigning light-headedness. “Stinky, stinky ones.” Mickey threw back his head and laughed, the tears on his face forgotten.
Smithers helped Mickey up off the floor and gave him a hug. “We’ll just go night-night now. There’ll be time for a bath tomorrow.”
My remote waited as I watched Smithers helped Mickey brush his teeth and change into pajamas. They began to read a story and Mickey was sound asleep within fifteen minutes. Smithers pulled the blanket up from the foot of Mickey’s bed to his chin, kissed his son on the forehead, and then went to bed himself.
Using my remote and surveillance cams I watched Smithers and Mickey for a week before reporting back. At the next review session my remote described the nature and extent of my observations. Then I displayed three representative excerpts on the monitor.
McGowan was enthralled. He even asked me to replay the ‘stinky feet’ scene that preceded Mickey’s bedtime twice. When the monitor went dark McGowan had a warm look on his face.
“Children,” he said. “There’s nothing quite like them.”
McGowan seemed in a good mood, so I tried for idle conversation: “What do you mean?”
McGowan cocked his head to the side. “Think of it this way—if emotions were the alphabet, prior to being a parent you only get to know the letters A through M. Once you have a child, you get to know N through Z. You feel better than you ever thought you could, and worse than you ever possibly could have imagined.” McGowan glanced at the family pictures on his credenza. “And your children, like no one else in the world, can send you from one extreme to the other in an instant.”
McGowan had never opened up quite so much before, and I wasn’t sure what else to say. The moment didn’t last long.
“So, tin man,” he said. “What’s your assessment of the Smithers family?”
I ignored the gibe and struggled to formulate an answer. Recounting what transpired in the Smithers’s household was far easier than expressing a cogent opinion about it.
“A mix of emotions is present, especially in Mr. Smithers.”
McGowan nodded, so I continued, finding the words as I went along.
“He is angry and sad about his own circumstances, frustrated with Mickey’s shortcomings, and proud when Mickey succeeds at even the simplest of tasks. He worries incessantly that he will die before Mickey’s future is resolved. Above all else, he has an enormous sense of responsibility for Mickey’s well-being.”
McGowan paid close attention to my every word, but I could not read his expression.
“Why did you show me the day when Smithers was interrupted at work?”
“Because it illustrated the wide range of Smithers’s feelings for Mickey and how quickly they change.”
Smithers worked at the Cuyahoga Steel reclamation facility in the industrial end of the Flats, one of the few places which still used nonautomated workers. On the day in question Mickey had sprained his wrist while going down a slide, headfirst, at the playground in the union’s day care center. The staff called Smithers to report the accident just before lunch.
“At first Smithers was irritated and resentful of the interruption. When he learned that Mickey had been hurt, he became concerned. He was relieved only after he skipped lunch and saw for himself that Mickey wasn’t seriously harmed.”
The room was quiet as McGowan appraised my report. When he finally spoke, his words had a begrudging tone.
“Good work,” he said. “Very good work.”
I swallowed the compliment whole.
“How are things going on finding a home for Mickey?”
McGowan’s question wiped away the dumb grin on the face of my remote. Despite my best efforts only one family—a couple with two small girls of their own—had even agreed to meet Smithers and Mickey. Although I was told that the meeting had gone well, the parents later informed me that they did not feel comfortable adding a sexually mature, retarded adult male to their household.