Undercover Girl

Chapter One – His New Job 
 
Marcus Whiting shivered as he entered the heavily air-conditioned office of Opportunities, Inc., a social service agency that served troubled families in a city located in America’s Upper Midwest. Fresh out of the State University with a degree in social work, the slight young man was chilled by the cold air and by his own trepidation at starting a new job. Naturally shy and retiring, Marcus doubted that he’d be up to the task his job as a case manager for families that may not be open to his timid ministrations.

“May I help you?” asked a tallish, extremely pretty woman.

“Ah, yes,” Marcus answered hesitatingly. “I’m supposed to work here . . . to see Ms. Dacosta.”

“You must be Marcus, our new caseworker,” she replied cheerfully, holding out her hand in welcome. “I’m Latesha.”

Marcus took her hand and shook it, trying to equal the firmness of the young African-American woman’s grip.

“Well, welcome aboard, Marcus, we’re looking forward to having you with us,” she said. “You’ll be wanting to see Amy, that’s Ms. Dacosta. You’re a few minutes early and Amy’s not in yet. I’ll show you to your cubicle, at least I think the one I think you’ll be using and you can rest there until she comes in.”

“Thank you, but I don’t want to bother you. I can just wait here,” Marcus said, pointing to the client waiting area.

“Nonsense,” she said, beckoning him to follow her. “We’re so excited to have a man in our section. We sorely need the male perspective in this work.”

Marcus was shocked by the pronouncement. He knew men social workers were in the minority in many agencies, but he hardly thought he’d be the only male caseworker in the foster care services section of the agency.

“You mean I’m the only guy here?” he asked.

“No, there are others in some of sections of the agency, but not in our foster care services department. You’re the first.”

*****
Two days later, Marcus’ concentration was interrupted with an invitation: “Come on join us, Marcus.”   
 
It was nearly five o’clock on Wednesday, his third day on the job, and he was deeply involved in completing his daily report. He looked up from his computer screen to see his immediate supervisor, Amy Dacosta, and two co-workers, Mollie Johnson and Latesha, the young woman whom he met on his first day on the job. 
 
“Huh?” he said, puzzled as to why these three were inviting him to join them in some after-work stop. 
 
“Yeah, we’re going to stop at Luke’s . . . y’know . . . that bar down the block,” Amy said. 
 
“Sure, come on, as long as you don’t mind being the only guy,” echoed Latesha, a true beauty with a pleasant smile. 
 
“It’s margarita night,” Mollie added. 
 
“No . . . no . . . it’s fine,” he replied, declining the invitation, but clearly pleased to be invited by three nice-looking young women. 
 
The three persisted, and Marcus, convinced of their desire to have him in their company, relented.  He had nothing else planned, anyway, having been doomed to another lonely evening in his sleeping room. 
 
***** 
“So, how are you liking your first week on the job, Marcus?” Mollie asked, once the four got settled on their high bar stools that encircled a small round table.  The din in Luke’s barroom was so intense the four had to lean forward and put their heads together to hear each other. 
 
“Well, it wasn’t easy following Amy around,” the young man replied, smiling.  He meant it as a compliment to the short, round young woman who had been his mentor on his first week as a case manager at Opportunities, Inc., a large nonprofit agency that worked with families facing all sorts of risks.  Marcus had marveled at the chubby woman’s energy and cheerfulness as they visited home after home, each mired in some unfortunate state of dysfunction.  Neither the stench that greeted them in some places, nor the noisy disorder, nor the danger of violence seemed to stifle Amy’s respect and embrace of the families they were serving. 
 
“I know,” giggled Latesha.  “She mentored me in my first two weeks here.  Taught me all I know.” 
 
“Including all your bad habits?” Mollie piped up, obviously chiding her friend. 
 
“What bad habits?” Latesha replied, mocking her anger. 
 
They all laughed, and Marcus enjoyed watching the interplay between his companions, hoping that he soon would become part of the same friendships and all of the good-natured teasing and affection that seemed to have developed.   
 
“I’m Nancy, your server today.  What can I get for you girls?” the waitress, a tired looking tall woman with straggly blond hair, asked, her voice almost robotic.  She looked more closely at the group, recognizing some of them and her face warmed, quickly adding, “Oh, hi Amy . . . Latesha . . . and Mollie.  And who is the new girl?” 
 
“Nancy, meet Marcus, he’s new at the agency,” Amy said, not losing a beat and seeming to ignore the server’s mistake. 
 
“Oh, I’m sorry, Marcus.  It’s so dark in here and I didn’t look too closely, just thought you were one of the girls,” she said, genuinely concerned over her faux pas.   
 
Marcus reddened.  He said, “No problem.  It’s my long hair I guess.” 
 
As he said it, the young man flicked his hair back out of his face and he immediately reflected that his action might have been a bit feminine. 
 
They all ordered pink margaritas, including Marcus, a rare drinker who had been at a loss as to what to order.  As Nancy hustled off for their drinks, Amy explained that the waitress had just finished her shift as a hospital social worker and worked at Luke’s to supplement her income.  The woman had a disabled husband with two kids at home and was largely the household’s sole wage-earner. 
 
“Yeah, most of us have second jobs,” Mollie said.  “I barmaid weekends at the Fleshpot.” 
 
Marcus looked stunned, realizing that Mollie would be dressed in a scanty, revealing outfit working in a so-called gentlemen’s club that promoted all sorts of unsavory behavior.  At work, Mollie, like most of the case managers, wore little or no makeup, tied her hair in a ponytail and wore long skirts, full blouses and flats.  While she didn’t appear to have a particularly spectacular female body, he could imagine that she might dress up quite enticingly.  Besides, she seemed always to carry a winning smile. 
 
“Don’t be shocked, Marcus,” Amy said.  “She gets great tips, though I’m not sure I could do it.  I don’t dress up as nice as Mollie.” 
 
“Don’t let her kid you, Marcus,” Mollie responded.  “Until she became boss, she worked as a hostess at Maurice’s, you know, that classy restaurant on the river.  And she’s quite a knockout in that black cocktail dress she wears.” 
 
“I hate that dress, but I had to wear it and I looked like a pregnant cow in it,” Amy responded.  Marcus sensed that the young woman was sensitive about her weight; yet she carried it quite well, since she appeared to be unusually strong and firm, not the least bit soft in spite of her above-average weight. 
 
“I hardly think you’d look like a cow, Amy,” Marcus interjected. 
 
“You’re right, Marcus, she’s quite a woman when she’s dressed up,” Latesha volunteered. 
 
“But Latesha puts us all to shame,” Amy replied. 
 
“I doubt that, but the fact is away from work we can all be quite good-looking,” Latesha said.  It turned out that Latesha had modeled since she was fourteen and continued to do so on a part-time basis.  Marcus saw that she easily could be a striking model; she was an inch taller than his own five-foot, nine-inch self and she had long lovely legs.  Her dark skin was smooth and soft-looking. 
 
“Well, I think all of you are beautiful women,” Marcus said sincerely. 
 
“We’re not just dowdy old social workers,” Mollie giggled. 
 
“And, we love you for that observation, Marcus,” Latesha added, leaning in a giving him a playful peck on the cheek.  After a pause, Latesha asked, “By the way, why did your parents name you Marcus? I know a lot of black Marcuses, but you’re the first white guy.”

“I think it was because my mom’s grandpa was a prominent historian and wrote lots about the Roman Empire. He did a history on Marcus Aurelius and admired the guy, I guess. At least that’s the story mom told me, but she also said she liked giving a name that was different.”

“I think it’s cool,” Latesha said.

“Yeah, but now mom never calls me Marcus, except when she’s mad at me. Now she calls me Mark.”
 
The group stayed for about two drinks before breaking up and leaving for their respective homes.  Marcus enjoyed the company of the three girls and the conversation was easy, without tension.  Mostly, they talked about work, particularly the spotty management style of Mrs. Lambert, who supervised all of the agency’s home-visiting programs, giggling over her often-contradictory rules and commands.  Amy, who worked directly under Mrs. Lambert as the foster home program supervisor, defended Mrs. Lambert as woman who served as a buffer between the state bureaucracy and those who did the work in the field. She urged that the others respect the woman for her dogged determination to serve the families properly and for giving most of the longer-term workers the freedom to do their jobs using their own good judgment and common sense and with a minimum of interference. 
 
Several young men stopped by, many of them public employees from the nearby Social Services building.  Marcus noticed there was an absence of flirtatious remarks and he was pleased by this.  His female companions knew the men, apparently having met them in workplace situations, sometimes even as adversaries; yet, the men and the women seemed to share the common role of having to work with families who often were in the lowest ebbs of their lives. 
 
The four left the bar as the early evening sun was setting, its sharp rays nearly blinding them.  They gathered briefly in front of the bar before dispersing, and Amy offered to drive Marcus to his apartment; he demurred, noting that he lived in the opposite direction and that the bus took him directly to his stop. Amy and Marcus walked together, her toward her car and him to the bus stop. 
 
“I hope you three didn’t mind me joining you.  This was fun,” Marcus said. 
 
“Why should we mind?” 
 
“Well, I’m the only guy and I thought maybe I’d get in the way.” 
 
“Don’t be foolish, Marcus.  It’s like you’re one of us,” she assured him. 
 
“I am?” 
 
“Oh, I didn’t mean to say . . .” Amy said, unsure of what to say. 
 
“No, that’s all right, I kinda like being one of you,” he said.  His face grew flush. 
 
“Oh, here comes the bus,” Amy said. 

***** 
It was past rush hour and the bus was only half occupied. Marcus found a window seat near the back, but hardly looked out the window and instead reflecting on how comfortable he was being with the young women and sharing in their conversation even to the point of talking about certain guys.  He never found the same camaraderie in the company of other guys. 
 
Marcus knew his budding career as a social worker would never bring riches or a fancy suburban home, and often wondered why he had drifted into the career, after initially starting in criminal justice at the university.  Probably, he reasoned, it came about largely because he felt out of place in criminal justice studies; too much emphasis had been focused on law enforcement rather than on learning why folks acted as they did, why some people drifted into crime and others didn’t.  There was a macho attitude that permeated the criminal justice classrooms, and it made him uneasy. 
 
He had become close to one of his criminal justice professors, a former police captain who displayed rare empathy with those who had become involved in crime. 
 
“You’re not comfortable in this program, are you Marcus?” Professor Stanley Lowell said after class one afternoon. 
 
“I guess you’re right, professor,” he replied.  He explained that he had hoped for his college classes would follow a more positive theme and not be focused so strongly on the nuts and bolts of law enforcement. 
 
It was Professor Lowell, a tall, broad-shouldered African-American, who suggested that he transfer into the Social Work Studies program in his junior year.  His previously earned credits were transferable into the Social Work program and Marcus agreed it was a good idea.  Thus, he found himself in classes heavily filled with young women in sharp contrast to the criminal justice studies program, which had been largely male.  He quickly felt he belonged in the Social Work Studies program.  As had been shown during his recent after-work drink session, he was comfortable in developing close friendships with women. 

*****
Soon, it became routine that on Wednesday, Marcus joined his co-workers at Luke’s, usually gathering around the same table near the back.  The group sometimes expanded from four to as many as seven, all female except for Marcus whose gender was never discussed.  Just as routinely, the barmaid Nancy began her ritual with “What can I get for you girls?”  
Marcus at first thought he should correct her, but then thought the better of it.  After all, with his long hair and delicate features he was often mistaken and called “miss” by clerks and others.  It was strange none of his companions sought to intervene to correct Nancy. 
 
Six weeks later, it was Nancy herself who brought the matter up. As the group got up to leave, the barmaid pulled Marcus aside and off to a corner of the barroom where they would not be heard. 
 
“I hope you’re not offended Marcus, since I always include you as . . . er . . . shall I say, one of the girls?” she asked a bit sheepishly. 
 
“No, no.  It’s fine.  It’s just the price a guy pays for being in social work, I guess.” 
 
“Well, if it’s OK, then,” she smiled. 
 
“Sure, it’s too awkward to say ‘girls and guy,’” he replied. 
 
He turned to go, but Nancy put a hand on his arm, stopping him. 
 
“I can’t help thinking,” she began.  “In looking at you now, you know you could really be a very pretty young woman.” 
 
“Oh?” Marcus said, blushing. 
 
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she quickly apologized. 
 
“That’s OK.  You’re not the first to tell me that.” 
 
“You’re really a nice guy, Marcus, and the girls at Opportunities, Inc. are happy to have you, I know.” 
 
“Thanks,” he said as Nancy hustled off to serve the next customer. 
 
***** 
“What did Nancy want with you, Marcus?” Amy asked as she waited the arrival of Marcus’ bus, before proceeding to her own car, as had become their usual Wednesday night routine.
 
“She wanted to apologize for always calling us all girls, including me, and I told her that it was OK since it would be to awkward any other way.” 
 
“Oh, and you don’t mind, do you?” 
 
“No, of course not.” 
 
Amy said nothing for a moment, finally asking, “But she must have said more than that.” 
 
“Well . . . ah . . . yes.” 
 
“Well, what did she say?”  
 
“Nothing much.” 
 
“It must have been something,” Amy pressed.  “I saw you blush.” 
 
“How could you, it’s so dark in there?” 
 
“Not where you two were standing.  You were right under that overhead light and I could see you blush.” 
 
Marcus hesitated.  He wanted to relate the conversation to Amy; the two had become close confidants in the few short months he’d been at the agency.  Marcus realized that he was beginning to have warm feelings toward Amy, as unlikely as that might seem. Not only was she his boss, but she was maybe ten years his senior, hardly a situation that would seem to make for a budding romantic relationship.  It was obvious that neither of them had considered the other as a possible boyfriend or girlfriend; their attraction to each other had become merely that of friends who enjoyed each other’s company.
 
“That’s OK, Marcus,” Amy said, recognizing his reluctance. 
 
Fortunately, the bus arrived, sparing Marcus from making a decision as to whether to tell Amy.  He couldn’t forget Nancy’s comment: “You could really be a very pretty young woman.” 
 
***** 
Marcus lived in a single room, one of eight carved out of a rambling 1890s brick mansion.  He was lucky to have found the room, since he had his own bathroom, even though it was tiny and cramped.  The room itself was large (he believed it may have been the master bedroom for its original wealthy owners) with large windows that kept it bright, even though its flimsy curtains hardly blocked the bright morning sun or the windy drafts that came off nearby Lake Michigan. 
 
The other tenants largely kept to themselves, many being single and young; some were obviously partygoers, but all appeared to have jobs.  It wasn’t rare for some of the tenants to have partners spending overnights in the room and Marcus was certain several of them must be gay, judging by who might be staying overnight.   
 
In the few short weeks, he had exchanged a few smiling “Hi’s” with several, but few other words; all appeared to be concentrated on their young careers and their own social lives.  Marcus was OK with that; he was not much of an extrovert, he knew, finding keeping his own company to be comforting. 
 
It was a warm night and Marcus quickly took off his slacks and shirt and stood in front of a large full-length mirror attached to the inside of a closet door.  The mirror was pock-marked with damaged reflective material and imperfect glass and was likely an artifact from a much earlier generation.
 
“. . . a very pretty young woman,” Nancy had said. 
 
Yes, it could be a figure of a girl, Marcus mused as he looked at the figure in the mirror, a slender, pale slip of a human being with skinny arms and a smooth chest that displayed but a few spare light brown hairs.  The legs of the figure were truly lovely, nicely formed but soft and without discernible muscles.  He turned around to look at the figure from different ankles.  As a young boy, he had never been particularly strong and had pretty much avoided sports, particularly after a disastrous time as a Little Leaguer on a team of nine-year-olds. 
 
His face, it was obvious from the reflection in the mirror, could be a that of a girl, maybe a pert face like that of his cousin, Colleen, with whom he was often compared.  Both had the same cute nose that betrayed their Irish heritage, high cheek bones and smallish lips.  His eyebrows of light brown hair were thin and his blue eyes sparkled.  He remembered the visit he and his mother made to his Aunt Margaret’s home when he played with Colleen. It was during the summer when he was nine years old and on a particularly dreary rainy summer day when the two were bored Colleen dressed him up in her clothes.

“You’re so pretty,” Colleen said.

He recalled how he began to act girly, prancing about in her cute baby doll outfit. He never forgot that summer day, and later when he was about fifteen, he snuck into his mother’s bedroom while she was away and tried on her clothes. It was intoxicating, but he felt guilty at the pleasure he felt when he dressed and he did it only rarely. After all, he was a boy being raised in a backwater river town in rural Wisconsin and it was a place where boys had to be boys.
 
Those memories flooded Marcus’ mind as he played with his long hair, flicking it about with exaggerated feminine gestures, enjoying the fantasy.  Suddenly, he wondered how he’d look in pigtails.  Maybe he could get Amy to fix his hair in that style.  His hair color could be described as strawberry blonde, a bit like the hair of Actress Emma Stone. He giggled out loud, though softly. 
 
“. . . a very pretty young woman.”  He smiled at the thought. 
 
His sweet reverie was interrupted by his cell phone and its sing-song tone.  He groaned as he went to pick it up, noticing that the call was from his mother.  It was time for her once-every-other day phone call.
 
*****  
Marcus spent the first two months on the job being mentored by Amy, largely by following her as she visiting her clients. Finally, he was given his own caseload and was only two weeks into being on his own when he joined the girls for the next Wednesday evening gabfest at Luke’s; he had been truly exhausted from the tension of his work, but the evening had rejuvenated him, finding as he did that night a true sense of belonging.  Rarely in his life had he found a circle of friends with whom he felt wanted and felt such enjoyment. 
 
He felt a bit giddy and light-hearted as he made his way home after the night at Luke’s, and he didn’t think it was because of the wine he drank. Marcus felt comfortable and free. As he set in his bus seat, however, he began to wonder about himself.  What was it that made him feel so much “at home” with women?  Was there something wrong with him?   He remembered how he giggled, almost mimicking the same high tones of his friends, at a silly story told by Mollie in which she related the stupid actions of one of her ex-boyfriends.  He recalled his own response of “guys can be so dumb when it comes to girls.” Not one of the young women at the table commented on what he said, except to giggle even louder and nod in agreement. 
 
Despite his exhaustion, his mind was racing as he tried to sleep that night.  Had he discovered his real self that night?  Was he truly one of the girls?  It seemed he was.  The thought consumed him as a he tossed and turned, running his hands across his slender, soft arms and considering that “yes,” they were the arms of a young woman.   He must have gone to sleep in that dream, for he soon was awakened with his room streaming with early morning light and his cell phone’s alarm chiming its lyrical sound.  (As it played away, he wondered briefly how such a lovely tune should be so annoying in a morning wake-up alarm.) 
 
He got up, went to begin his morning ritual in the bathroom and was disappointed when he looked in the mirror to see merely a disheveled young man, not the “very pretty young woman” that he had been picturing in the mirror previously.  He wanted desperately to share his thoughts with someone, perhaps his mother or maybe even more ideally, his friend Amy. 
 
He had hoped to see Amy first thing that morning at work, only to learn she had already begun her house calls that morning and was not in the office.  Marcus knew that his own workload would be demanding and that he might not see her all day; he wanted to tell her of his thoughts soon, while he was motivated to do so.  If he waited too long, he was afraid he’d become wary of unburdening himself with the possibly shameful story of wanting to be a woman. 
 
Marcus’ work as a case manager involved checking in with the foster families that were raising children who had been removed from their families for either abuse or neglect.  The twelve families he monitored had about twenty foster children, ranging in age from infants to eighteen.  He was charged with judging each child to see if he or she was adjusting in the foster family and to assure that they had not been maltreated in the family setting, either by the foster parents or by other children in the household.  Still after two months of shadowing Amy in covering her families, Marcus was not confident that he either wanted to, or was capable of making such a judgment. It was a terrible responsibility, he realized, since a child’s future life fortunes might depend upon his decision; nonetheless, Amy had assured him that his sensitivity and judgment were up to the task.
 
His biggest fear was in failing to see any form of “maltreatment,” the term that had been declared in the child protection circles as preferred to the former “abused” or “neglected” descriptions.  Every case manager or CPS worker faced that concern; what if they overlooked something and the child ended up in the emergency room or the morgue due to “maltreatment?”  
 
“Most foster parents are caring, but there are a few that are in it just to get the money, and they can be crafty in hiding their shortcuts or in beating the kid,” Amy told him during the training. 
 
Perhaps the most galling part of his new job, Marcus soon discovered, was the paperwork; each visit required several forms of documentation; record-keeping was, he quickly learned, “cya” designed to protect the agency from lawsuits or criticisms if something went wrong in the case. 
 
Marcus quickly learned that as a young man in what was seen to be “women’s work” the foster parents and sometimes the children themselves, particularly those in their rebellious teen years, often did not accept him.   
 
“What do you want?” an angry looking overweight woman with disheveled hair and a stained shift said in opening the door and staring at Marcus. 
 
There was a young child clinging to her dress. 
 
Taken aback by the woman’s harsh greeting, Marcus stumbled with his answer, “Ah . . . ah . . . I’m with Opportunities, Inc.  Your . . . ah . . . ah . . . case manager.” 
 
“What? You? Where’s Maryann?” the woman said, her tone still one of confrontation. 
 
“I’m taking over Maryann’s cases,” he replied. 
 
“You? A guy?  What do you know about raising kids?” 
 
“My name is Marcus Whiting,” he said thrusting his credentials at her. 
 
“Well, you might as well come in,” she said.  “Christ, I don’t know why CPS can’t send us a girl.  You look like you’re still a friggin’ virgin.” 
 
Marcus blushed.  At age twenty-three, he was still virgin.   
 
“Aha!” the woman said triumphantly, obviously knowing she had scored points on this young case manager. 
 
Marcus realized that he’d somehow have to regain control of the situation.  Summoning all of his courage, he said directly, “Mrs. Hartley, you know I have to review your three foster children.  Let’s get on with it.” 
 
Just then, the young child who had been clinging to the woman’s dress, said in a soft voice, “Mommy, who?” 
 
The woman sat down on a sofa, her demeanor changing quickly; she picked up the child and put it on her lap, gently brushing her hair.   
 
“This is Marcus.  He’s a friend.  You can say hello to him, OK?” 
 
She let the little girl down off her lap and she approached Marcus shyly holding her hand out.  The girl smiled broadly as Marcus shook her hand. 
 
“You may can me Cecily,” the woman said, smiling.  “I know the routine, so let’s get on with it.” 
 
Two other children entered the room, gathering at the side of Cecily Hartley, all smiling brightly. 
 
“These must be all three of your foster children, Mrs. Hartley, right?” 
 
“It’s Cecily, but yes.  The little one you just met is Maria, who’s two, and these other two can introduce themselves.” 
 
“I’m Orestes and I’m six,” said a bright-eyed African-American boy as he stepped forward, politely holding out his hand, that Marcus took and shook gently. 
 
“Now you, Deborah,” Cecily said to the older girl. 
 
“I’m eight,” the girl said, her voice so low that Marcus hardly could hear her. 
 
“Nice meeting you, Deborah, and I like how pretty your hair is fixed,” Marcus said. 
 
The little girl broke into a broad smile. 
 
“Now children, go and play.  Mr. Marcus and I have to talk,” she said.  The children left, all of them waving at Marcus. 
 
When Marcus finished with the 45-minute visit, Cecily guided him to the door.  “I hope you got everything you need,” she said. 
 
“Yes, you were very helpful and the kids seem truly happy here, Cecily,” he said. 
 
“I hope so, though I’m worried about Deborah,” she said.  “She was badly abused by her stepfather and she normally is afraid of men, but I think she liked you.” 
 
“I hope so.” 
 
“Marcus, see you next time, and, young man,” she said, smiling, “I think you’ll do as well in this work as any woman.” 
 
Marcus walked to his agency-owned car pleased that he had won the approval of a most discerning foster mother. 
 
***** 
It may have been mere coincidence, but the following day he was called into the office of the agency’s executive director.  Hector Ramirez was a handsome man with a full head of graying hair and a full mustache that exuded masculinity.  He had founded the agency twenty years earlier, having left his job as a county investigative worker in child protection.  His philosophy had been to restore families, if possible, rather than to tear them apart by removing their children for maltreatment.  He won great respect in the community for his commitment to seeking to heal families so that they could continue to raise their children to be safe and healthy. 
 
Marcus, of course, worried what the summons might be concerning; he was still in his probation period in his new job and feared he might be getting the sack.  He knew not all of his visits had gone as smoothly as the one he made to Mrs. Hartley’s.  Several of the parents questioned him even more vigorously than she had about the qualifications that young man of such tender years might be able to bring to mothering.  While he felt he had assuaged many of the mothers’ doubts, he wasn’t certain he might have been nearly as successful as he might have been. 
 
“Sit down, Marcus,” Ramirez said, his tone matter-of-fact. 
 
After a few routine-sounding questions as to how Marcus liked the job, his co-workers and other matters, Ramirez apparently got to the reason for his summons. 
 
 “How does it feel to be the only man in a section of our agency that’s all women?” the director asked. 
 
Marcus was momentarily stunned by the question. 
 
“Does it feel strange to you?  Do you feel you should be in one of our areas where there are more men?” Ramirez pressed. 
 
“I don’t know, sir,” he answered. 
 
Ramirez smiled, said nothing, waiting for Marcus to continue. 
 
“Well, sir,” Marcus said, sensing the cue.  “The other ladies are treating me fine.  No one seems to resent me that I know of.  I hope I’m doing fine.” 
 
“From the reports I’ve heard, you’re doing splendidly, Marcus,” he said.  “The reports are that you seem to have an empathy for the families you’re dealing with, and that’s a good thing.” 
 
“Thank you, sir, I hope I am.” 
 
He dismissed Marcus to return to his section and to begin my home visits.  Marcus was frankly puzzled by the reason Ramirez had summoned him. Perhaps, Ramirez had been concerned how the young man might feel uncomfortable or unsuited for a job that typically was handled by a woman.  Marcus smiled as he sat at his desk; he felt right at home in the work. 
(To Be Continued)