"I wonder if Martha called yesterday. I spent so much time on the phone talking to the Calvias she wouldn't have gotten through," Cynthia said the next morning, after breakfast was cleared, the wash loaded, and domestic matters reasonably settled-a momentary break. Dean looked up from squeezing honey from a plastic bear onto a piece of whole wheat toast smeared with peanut butter.
"I imagine she'd have kept trying if the line was busy," Dean answered. Cynthia didn't respond but both shared the disappointment that she hadn't called.
Monday was cleaning day, but since smiling Maria had joined the staff, the Deans' chores were reduced considerably. Together they dusted and vacuumed the downstairs areas. Fred, a casual helper, was off to the courthouse, but even without him they finished early.
"Maybe I'll call the state and see if I can get a number where we can reach Martha," Dean said as they put away the tools of their trade.
Cynthia knew he was concerned. The last item on Dean's list of pleasurable activities was punching one if you want this and two if you want that buttons, then sitting on hold while listening to elevator music from some bureaucratic office. But he did it, thrice before success came, if you could call the response a victory. It came in the form of a drone who told him in her second language that information of that kind was not available.
"Look," Dean said, "I don't want to violate any rules, but this little girl was in our care up until a couple of days ago and we're very interested in her welfare. Can we at least convey a message that we'd like to hear from her?"
Promises, promises. But as Dean hung up the phone he had no illusions about the pledges ever coming to fruition.
"I was going to ask to speak to her supervisor," he said, pouring a cup of coffee, "but I figured she'd say 'I are one.'"
"Isn't there someone we can talk to?" Cynthia asked.
"We burned our bridges trying to get custody of Martha last winter. We talked to half the state of Colorado and got nowhere."
"We haven't heard from Mr. Fitzgerald either," Cynthia sighed.
"He'll let us stew until he's damn good and ready. I'm beginning to despise public officials. None of them seem to feel the slightest obligation to be responsive."
"And now you're going to be one," she answered as they finished cleaning the dining room and moved on to the hall.
"Yeah," he answered. "Sheriff Dean. I'd better get cracking on that, knock on doors or something. I have to meet with the Women's Club for an inquisition on Friday." Fred O'Connor had arranged the affair and Dean had reluctantly agreed to subject himself to the scrutiny of the cream of the town's lady folk. While the entire program was new to him, Dean realized that if he was running for public office, certain obligations were mandatory.