Genes that Wear on You

I maintained a social work appointment in the home of a divorced father, who lived in temporary housing in a studio apartment above a dank storefront. Admirably, the father was single handedly caring for a multiply handicapped, behaviorally involved teenager. The father presented to me as being overwhelmed in the caregiving but his love for his son could not be questioned. A new addition on my caseload, I knew very little about my client. I began to document as much family history as possible from my only informant, the father.

Early on, I asked a simple enough question. “How many children do you have?”

He rested his cigarette in a foil ashtray. “I have four children but only one is in my custody.”

His statement seemed rehearsed. Perhaps, a stock answer buffered the pain and suffering. I looked over to his son, who rolled a police cruiser on broken wheels. Before he moved to return his cigarette back to his lips, I tried to invite more information with a more open-ended follow-up question.

“Where exactly are your other three children?” I asked.

“My kids are kind of scattered all about, Mr. Tornatore.” His fingers nervously raked his hair.

“You see, although I’ve been married only once, I have fathered four children with four different women.” He gritted his teeth before resuming. “So I got one child in a group home somewhere in North Jersey, and I got another just like the one you see living with his mom some place, and I had another child so handicapped that he died in a hospital right before his thirteenth birthday.”

I heard him sigh. My pen stopped documenting the family tree on a notepad that had seen better days as a social worker. I did the exponential math and drew the obvious conclusion. Four handicapped children born from four different women with the same father. I tried not to let my facial expression change as I looked up at him. The silence, which served as a welcomed truce, could only give way to inevitable discussion.

I will never forget the despair in his voice when he took the floor for opening arguments. “I know you aren’t no doctor but do ya think I got me some messed up genes?”