Beautiful Child (11 page)

It wasn’t as straightforward as doing the Kobold’s Box. Indeed, all this “secret agent” business was rather complex, but that, I suspect, was what appealed to the boys. They were of the age to want to be in gangs and clubs, but they didn’t have the social skills to smooth the way. So, activities that involved lots of rules to be learned and challenges to master were very popular.

“What about Gwennie?” Jesse suddenly asked.

“What about Gwennie?” I replied.

“Is she going to get included?”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“Well, she’s not going to do it. If she’s someone’s secret agent, they won’t get no nice things done for them.”

“But she’s part of the group,” I said.

“Just in the afternoons,” Shane said. “So she ain’t a Chipmunk. Not really. We never said nothing about no girl Chipmunks.”

“What about Venus? She was a girl,” I said. “She was a Chipmunk.”

“Venus ain’t here no more. She don’t count,” Shane said.

“Besides,” Billy added, “if we counted Gwennie, it’d be an odd number. This is only going to work if there’s an even number of us.”

“But it would be Friday afternoon when we do the box and have treats. Gwennie is here on Friday afternoons,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair not to include her.”

“But she won’t do it,” Zane said. “She’d forget. That person wouldn’t get no secret stuff done to them.”

I raised my eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of perplexity. “Perhaps we better not do it, if we can’t include Gwennie. Perhaps it was a bad idea.”

“No, no, wait,” Billy cried. “We want to do it.”

“What do you think we should do then?” I asked.

The boys looked at one another. Billy shrugged. Jesse shrugged. This made the twins shrug in unison.

I stood, silent, and waited.

“Just leave her out,” Shane said finally.

“I can’t do that. We have to come up with something that includes everybody.”

Shane shrugged again. Again, there was a complete round of shrugs.

“Maybe you could do Gwennie’s part,” Jesse said at last.

“Yeah!” Billy cried. “Good idea, Jesse! Teacher can do Gwennie’s part.”

“Would that work?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Shane said. Zane nodded.

“Okay,” I said. “Whoever Gwennie’s person is, I’ll give her a hand.”

“Oooh, cool!” Billy cried. “A secret agent teacher!”

T
he week before Halloween, we had a visit from Ben Avery, the school psychologist. As part of a districtwide assessment and placement program, he was giving achievement tests, plus the WISC IQ test to all special education students in restricted placements, which included the children in my class. So this meant Ben was with us for four days.

For the most part, I wasn’t in favor of all this testing. The accuracy was affected by so many things, such as cultural differences or socioeconomic factors, that they seemed a waste of time. I would have much preferred someone of Ben’s caliber contributing to the classroom environment for four days rather than closeting himself away with standardized tests. But it wasn’t my choice. So, one by one, he took the kids away.

The first two days were spent on Shane and Zane and the results were, sadly, pretty much what I expected. Shane scored an IQ of 71 and Zane a score of 69 – both right on the borderline of mental retardation. Both had severe reading problems. Indeed, Zane was still at the “prereading” stage of identifying shapes and letters. Shane was only just beginning to recognize the alphabet and a few simple words. Their math was a little better, but only just. Ben spent a lot of time with me afterward, discussing the wisdom of changing them over to a class for mildly mentally handicapped children, because he thought this might meet their needs better. Except for their difficult behavior.

In the end I felt they were better staying with me. Jesse and Billy, who both came out of seriously deprived socioeconomic backgrounds, were not doing much better academically, so Shane and Zane were not dragging down what I could do in the class.

The next day was Jesse’s turn and he, in fact, did better than I’d expected. He scored a full-scale IQ of 109, which was average. This was in contrast to his reading skills. The reading achievement test put him at a low first-grade level, which was close to where he was working in class. Ben’s other tests revealed serious weaknesses in auditory processing and visual integration, so Ben and I talked a long time that afternoon about learning disabilities and about how Jesse’s Tourette’s syndrome might be affecting his academic skills. I thought I would try to concentrate more on finding ways to make
learning easier for Jesse. I’d done quite a lot of work with learning disabilities early in my career, so I decided to go home and check what materials I might have to help me assess what kind of learner he was and which of his senses were stronger. That way I hoped to bring his academic skills up closer to his ability level.

As usual, Billy turned out to be the goat among the sheep.

“You’re not going to believe this,” Ben said when he came into my room after school the next day.

Julie and I were sitting at one of the tables, making lesson plans. We both looked up.

Ben pitched Billy’s WISC test, Frisbee-style, toward us. It spun in smooth circles the six or more feet until I caught it between my hands. I turned the paper over and lay it on the table.

Verbal score: 145

Performance score: 142

Full scale IQ: 142

“You’re kidding,” I said when I saw it.

“Knowing Billy, he probably cheated,” Julie said.

“Well, I didn’t see any crib notes up his sleeve,” Ben replied. “Nothing written on his palm saying ‘The definition of
catacomb
is…’”

“
Catacomb
?” both Julie and I said in unison.

“This
can’t
be our Billy,” Julie said. “I don’t think he’s ever completed a worksheet since he arrived.”

Ben said, “This kid has definitely hidden his talents.”

I was thinking more along the lines of alien abduction.

Pulling the WISC score sheet over in front of me, I read it. A big surprise, certainly. Especially from a boy who was behind in everything and had never shown any academic inclinations whatsoever. But … the more I thought about it … it
did
explain a lot. We just hadn’t noticed it, because that wasn’t what we were looking for.

The days passed. Then the weeks. Halloween came and it was celebrated with gusto in our room. Everyone wore their costumes, except for Gwennie, who hated it all. Shane came as Spiderman and Zane came as what I suppose one would call Spiderman II, as he had exactly the same costume. Jesse’s grandmother had made him a rather sweet black-and-white dog costume, and he arrived with long, floppy black ears attached to a headband and a shiny black nose painted over his own nose. I thought he was supposed to be the cartoon character Snoopy and praised his idea only to be told indignantly, no, he was “just a dog.” Billy opted for typecasting and came dressed as a red devil.

Wild as the kids still were, I didn’t dare have a proper Halloween party, like other classes were having. Instead, I made up little goody bags of candy and we had cookies and punch right after the afternoon recess. Even so, it was more chaos than fun. Because the kids were overexcited by the change in routine, there were lots of fights, crying, shouting, screaming, and “quiet chair” time, and Gwennie threw up on the rug in the reading corner because she ate too much
candy. Nonetheless, I was glad we did it. We would have felt we’d missed out, if we hadn’t.

Then came November with its long, gray, overcast days and cold, gusty winds.

Venus never really left my mind during all this time. I kept checking the wall along the playground, half expecting to see her there. And half hoping. But I didn’t. She had vanished as completely as if she’d been nothing more than a mirage I’d seen, when I’d arrived at school that first day.

Two of her brothers continued to attend the school. They were both in upper grades and both receiving extensive learning support, so I’d dawdled a bit in the teachers’ lounge when the learning support teacher, Mary McKenna, was there. I didn’t know Mary very well. She hadn’t been part of the district team when I’d been an itinerant learning support teacher. She was an older woman who gave the impression of being competent and efficient and she was friendly enough, but not openly so. Consequently, I found it hard to drop questions about Venus naturally into conversation with her. Moreover, I was self-conscious when Bob was in the room, because Bob knew immediately what I was doing.

“Mary doesn’t have Venus,” Bob said to me out in the hallway after overhearing me one afternoon.

“No, I know, I was just –”

“Venus has a special homebound teacher. Someone from district eight. Homebound is all she does.”

I nodded.

There was a pause.

“I was just wondering how she was doing. Wondering if her brothers had maybe said anything … I was just … I mean, have you heard any news?”

Bob shook his head.

“Nothing about how she’s getting on? If she’s talking? Or … anything?”

Bob shook his head again.

Then he clapped my shoulder in a reassuring, almost fatherly way. “Well, we weren’t ever going to get very far with her anyway.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Too slow. Too many family problems. You know.”

“Life’s crapped on her, so we really shouldn’t worry about her?”

“No, I mean we win some, we lose some. You have to take that attitude with some kids. Some things you can’t change; so, when it goes out of your hands, you just have to believe it was for the best.”

I smiled faintly at the irony. “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we – you and I – from where we started.”

Bob knew instantly I was referring back to those heady, idealistic days together early in our careers when there were no hopeless kids.

“Are you saying, ‘Have I grown up?’” he asked. “Because if so, Torey, yes. I have. I’ve been around long enough now to know – to really comprehend – that you
do
win some and
you lose some. And you have to go with those you win and, sadly, let go of those you lose.”

I nodded.

“It’s sad, I know. But it’s also life.”

I couldn’t refute him on that. There had been kids I couldn’t help; ones I’d had to give up on. There’d been plenty of them. And I, too, had had to reconcile the better world I wanted with the real world I had. Nonetheless, I still didn’t like being forced to give up on ones I hadn’t yet given up on myself.

Another pause wandered into the conversation and stayed. Bob started to turn away to go back to his office.

“Beautiful child,” I murmured.

“Huh?” Bob turned back toward me.

“I said, ‘beautiful child.’ Thinking of the irony of it. That’s what Wanda always calls her. ‘Beautiful child.’ When, in fact, Venus is one of the least beautiful children I’ve ever seen. Nothing. That kid has nothing beautiful going for her. But all the time, Wanda calls her ‘beautiful child.’”

“Well, to Wanda, she probably is,” Bob replied.

He hesitated a moment.

“You know the truth about them, don’t you?” he said.

I looked up.

“It’s off the record, but it’s true. At least that’s what Social Services say.”

“What?”

“Teri isn’t Venus’s mother. It’s actually Wanda. Teri’s last
partner, the one before the greasy character she’s got now, he knocked Wanda up.”

“Oh geez.” It made horrible sense.

Bob pursed his lips. “This guy didn’t even get done for it. Knocked up a retarded thirteen-year-old and then he just waltzed off.”

“Oh geez.”

Bob made a small, defeated sound. “Beautiful child, indeed.”

My head was going off like a popcorn popper by the time I got back to my classroom. Suddenly many other things were making sense. If Venus
was
Wanda’s child, what if Wanda had been left with primary care of Venus in her infancy and early childhood? Even if Venus’s IQ was not affected, what kind of environment would she have been brought up in? It would be very questionable that someone of Wanda’s limited abilities could provide adequate stimulation for a baby and certainly not adequate care. I remembered Wanda with her baby doll, held carelessly, loved one moment, then forgotten and left behind the next, when something else distracted her. What if Venus had spent her early years treated like this? There may have been very little stimulation – especially verbal stimulation. Perhaps she was left alone in a crib or playpen until Wanda remembered her. Perhaps she had cried so long that it finally occurred to her that crying did no good, that one simply waited, immobile, like the babies in Third World
orphanages with their blank faces and still bodies. What if the only time the other family members interacted with her was to clout her into silence, hence she learned that defense was the best offense? So she attacked before anyone could attack her.

All supposition on my part, but it fell into place like some horrible jigsaw puzzle.

The Chipmunk Spy idea wasn’t what one would call successful.

The first problem was that Shane and Zane had such poor reading skills that they could do none of this by themselves. They had to have Julie help them read who their “victims” were, which made it hard to keep things secret, and they needed help writing out notes to put in the spy box.

Then there was the small matter of the boys liking the
idea
of being a spy and, even more, liking the idea of treats on Friday afternoon, but no one actually liking the idea of doing good deeds.

I could tell things weren’t working out on the very first day. I kept saying, “Have you done your good deed today?” And everybody nodded and said, “Yes.” So I reminded them that they had to get Julie or me to confirm it and the only one who had was Jesse. He was secret spy to Zane, and his good deed had been to pick up Zane’s worksheet paper, which he found on the floor, and put it back on Zane’s table. Not exactly a gold-hearted act, but it was a start.

On Tuesday, Jesse again came to me. This time he said he’d lent Zane the colored markers during art. I hesitated to point out that I had
told
him to share the markers because he had hogged the whole box on his desk, and when I did, all the boys had taken some, not just Zane.

I also saw Billy put a note in the box. “Billy,” I said, “be sure to confirm your good deed with Julie or me, so we know you did it.”

“I did it,” he replied indignantly. “Don’t you trust me? Fucking place, we got no trust here. How do you expect us to do anything if you never trust us?”

I put a finger to my lip. “Watch your words, please.”

“See? You don’t even trust me to talk.”

Given his brilliant mood, I didn’t persist with interrogating him about good deeds.

Friday came. The evening before I’d made gingerbread men – great big ones with each child’s name on them – and I brought them in for the spy box treat. I also made a very snazzy “spy badge” for the winner.

Everyone got extremely excited when they saw the gingerbread men. All morning the boys drooled over them, identifying which one had their name on it. Indeed, the gingerbread men proved so much of a distraction in the morning that I had to hide them in the cupboard.

When the end of the day arrived, I had everyone sit down at their tables. I put the gingerbread men on my desk and then made a big deal of bringing the spy box over to the
middle table and opening it up. “What do you think we’re going to find?” I asked with overexaggerated anticipation. Billy was getting into a fervor already. He wanted to short-circuit all this talk and go straight for the gingerbread men.