The Stone Boy by Sophie Loubière

suddenly crossed over to the wrong side.
    “From my window, yes. Listen, I know that an old lady who spies on her neighbors from behind the curtains sounds… well. But I wouldn’t have come to bother you if… The life of a child is in danger, do you understand?”
    The social worker rubbed the top of her pen mechanically with her thumb.
    “Madam, may I ask your age?”
    “I use binoculars,” answered Madame Préau weakly.
    “I couldn’t quite hear you.”
    The old woman coughed lightly.
    “I use opera glasses. And I hope that your vision is as good as mine when you’re over seventy.”
    Ms. Polin readjusted her garnet-colored rectangular glasses.
    “I think that ship has sailed.”
    “Pardon?”
    “I’m talking about my prescription,” she said, tapping her frames with a pen before rereading her notes. “So far, we have an initial witness statement based on an observation of a child of about seven or eight years of age living some thirty meters from your home, a child who never leaves his house and who isn’t being educated either. Right. Any other witnesses? Family members? Neighbors?”
    Madame Préau shook her head.
    “I live alone. And the part of the garden where the child stays isn’t visible from any other house because of the weeping birch tree that his little sister put in a drawing for school—under which you can see the outline of a child.”
    “I see. I am going to pass on these details to the CPIO. But I must ask if you would like your name to appear in the file, or if your statement is anonymous.”
    “What is the CPIO?”
    “An office that collects information of concern. It works in conjunction with Child Social Services, based in Neuilly-sur-Marne.”
    Madame Préau refused to let her name and address go on the report on the grounds that she didn’t want the neighbors to know that she was the source of the report.
    “I don’t know them, and I’d be worried about how people might react, you know.”
    “That’s understandable.”
    “How many days will it take for the office you mentioned to process the report?”
    “It shouldn’t be too long, but don’t expect to hear from us any sooner than a month from now if all goes well.”
    “A month? But that’s frightfully long! What if the child is suffering?”
    “We have no choice but to follow procedure. We have to call the parents in with their family record book, and if they don’t respond, that can take more time still.”
    The social worker stood up: the interview was over. She accompanied Madame Préau to the lobby and held out a cold hand.
    “Well, thank you, Madame Préau, for coming in to flag up this child’s case to us.”
    “Could I ring you to find out how things are coming along?” she chanced.
    “Of course. But give it a fortnight.”
    Madame Préau left the social welfare center with a bad feeling. She decided to walk rather than take the bus. She got home at about four. Rain had started to fall, and the garden released the smell of wet earth. She dropped her key twice before sliding it into the lock. She took off her shoes, put the kettle on for tea, and then thought better of it. Exhausted, she went up to her room and fell asleep in her slippers without having bothered to draw the curtains.

    29 September 2009
    For the attention of Roselyne Bachelot
    Minister of Health and Sports
Minister,
     
Please allow me to respond to the scandals erupting in the Church today. I am heartbroken three times over. Heartbroken with shame, to think that priests abused children for whom they were responsible, as I myself was responsible, as headmistress of a school, for the outcomes of thousands of students. I am heartbroken with sorrow for the victims whose childhoods were ruined. I am heartbroken as a retired teacher, as to be a teacher is to devote oneself to the education and future of our children.
     
At some point, the silence becomes unbearable, and people talk. The Church as an institution is confronting it now, but