Hush (12 page)

counseling from the therapists, ate lunch, played during recess, and met as a

group twice— at the start of the day to set goals, and at the end of the day to

talk about whether they'd achieved them. Then they boarded the van for their

return trip home.
It was just a four-and-a-half-hour day for the children, but all of them

suffered from short attention spans, and keeping them in class any longer had

always proved self-defeating.
On a typical day, one or two of them would whirl out of control and have to be

restrained. Celia disliked doing this because it meant that the various peaceful

means of working with the child had failed and the Center was resorting to

muscle to operate in a timely manner.
The staff rarely hurt a child during a restraint, and when they did it was

usually a minor bruise and was always— to Celia's knowledge— an accident. More

often it was the adults who were were injured during these confrontations. They

had to take hold of a rampaging child, carry him or her downstairs to

containment— a small room with padded walls, floors, ceiling, and one-way glass—

and wrap their arms and legs around the boy or girl to immobilize what was most

often a thrashing body. That's when it could get really tough on Celia and her

co-workers: lips were split, genitals were kicked or squeezed, muscles wrenched,

and eyes blackened, as one of hers had once been. In general, when an angry

child had to be restrained, the therapists could undergo a wide range of

physical abuse.
Celia prided herself on holding her own during these rough-and-tumble sessions.

Although short, she was strong, with clearly defined arm muscles, and legs that

had been firmed up from all the hiking she enjoyed up on the ridge. Only the

children who had used their teeth to attack had made her hesitate; but never for

long, and never enough to get in the way of her work. Now another biter was on

board, though Davy's behavior so far had been much better than she'd expected.
She found his cooperation encouraging, and in sharp contrast to the boy who

initially had refused even to shake her hand.
When he finished he pushed the paper to the side and looked at her.
Ordinarily, she asked children about their art: What's going on here? Can you

tell me a story about this picture? But she had to admit that Tony was right

when he said that she wouldn't get any help from Davy. There would be none of

the verbal give-and-take that characterized her sessions with other clients.
She picked up his drawing and thanked him. They had about forty-five minutes

before his stepfather was due to return, so she decided to give Davy his tour of

the Center. He might also be hungry, so she would offer him a snack when they

reached the kitchen. It pleased her when he walked along without hesitation, and

she soon forgot that he was the ferocious little biter depicted in the file.
16
Chet watched the waitress fill his cup. Ugly old bitch. Just looking at her made

him sick, and he had plenty to be sick about without her.
PICTURES! He was still shaking his head over that one. You get a kid that

doesn't talk, hell, that's as good as it gets, and then she turns around and

says she's going to have him draw some pictures so he can communicate. Her and

her smooth words.
I'm sorry, Mr. Boyce, but Davy and me need this time for us.
Or whatever the hell she said.
Chet felt his mood grow as dark as his coffee. He stirred in three packets of

sugar and took a sip. Tasted like syrup. Good. He drank some more, then picked

up his fork and played with his cinnamon roll, what was left of it. Not much

more than a piece of crust. He couldn't finish it. A raisin had lost its sticky

grip and fallen off. That spoiled everything. It lay on his plate like a ball of

fucking rat shit. Goddamn, he hated rats. He wanted to take that raisin and mash

it, smear it across his plate, stab it with his fucking fork.
But there were people around, so he just played with the fucker. He rolled it

back and forth. It couldn't do shit. He was waiting for the right moment. It

would come. It always did. He'd know it too, just when to stab it. Back and

forth, back and forth, looking at how black it was, and wrinkled like that old

bitch, like it would just as soon be dead. Be better off dead, wouldn't she?

Well, wouldn't she?
He angled his fork carefully. An outer tine rested on the raisin. This was it.

He started pressing down real slowly. He saw the way the skin sagged, but

there's a point— it's a fact, like the sun going down— when it just can't sag

anymore and has to give. He watched the skin break and the tine cut right in.

The raisin's belly juices oozed up along the metal, and that's when the fucker

died, when he had it on the tip of his fork, stuck there like some shriveled-up

old thing. Like her with the coffeepot. He wanted to dump it on her. Scald her

good!
She smiled and topped off his coffee.
"Can I get you anything else?"
He shook his head.
"Well, you have yourself a nice day, you hear?"
She put the check down.
Chet watched her walk away. He saw the fork sticking out from the side of her

neck. He blinked, and it was gone. But the blood, he could still see the blood.

Red holes running.
17
Celia quickly gathered up several file folders and checked her watch. She didn't

want to be late for Dr. Punctual. Tony had asked to see her at three to find out

what she'd learned, "if anything," about Davy.
"Plenty," she'd replied impulsively during their brief hallway conversation. But

now she wished she'd been more reserved because Davy's artwork was actually

quite puzzling.
As she walked upstairs she noticed how quiet the Center had become since the van

departed with the children half an hour ago.
Mr. Boyce had picked up Davy promptly at noon. She had spoken to him just long

enough to let him know that his stepson had cooperated with the first phase of

the evaluation, but that it was still likely to take at least a week. She'd

wanted to explain that you just couldn't rush these things, but had refrained

because he'd seemed so withdrawn, maybe even sullen. She'd found that surprising

after the energy and enthusiasm he'd displayed that morning. Quite the mood

swing. Perhaps he was just tired or having a bad day.
She tapped on Tony's door, and he waved her in without looking up from the note

he was writing.
He'd arranged his office with the kind of precision that she could only admire.

Unlike her home, Celia's work space always ended up a complete mishmash. Captain

Chaos, that's what Jack called her. Like he should talk. But Tony had placed

everything— pens, files, books, journals, staff assignments, reports— neatly in

place; and nothing appeared the least bit ruffled from use, which Celia also

regarded as amazing. In her own office every pad, book, and folder seemed to

sprout dog-ears after a few days of occupancy, and coffee stains sprang up like

mushrooms overnight.
Tony finished his note and folded it crisply before inserting it into a file,

which he placed in the cabinet beside his desk.
Only after swiveling back around did he offer Celia his attention, and then only

with a "Well?"
Well what? she wanted to reply, which is how she thought Ethan would have

handled it; but Celia stifled this response because she wanted to establish a

positive mood with Tony. She had an unusual request for a man as rigid as he

appeared to be, and she wanted him to be as receptive as possible.
"Well, we got off to a good-enough start." She handed him the drawing, which he

looked at for no more than two seconds.
"Okay, so it looks like he drew a picture of a woman. At least I can see what it

is. Most of these kids, you can't tell what they're drawing."
"Sure you can," Celia said with as much encouragement as she could muster, "you

just have to look closely. Now this one"— she pointed to Davy's drawing—"I find

interesting. Ninety-nine kids out of a hundred, you ask them to draw a picture

of a person, they draw themselves."
"Really?" Tony glanced back at the picture. "So what does an art therapist make

of this?"
"I'm not sure exactly, except that in and of itself it's...well... peculiar."
Tony picked up the picture and studied it. "Maybe the boy misses his mother.

During my talk with Mr. Boyce he mentioned that business about the boy no longer

talking after she passed away."
"I know, he's told all of us about that, the school too. But I think Davy wants

to talk."
Tony pushed away from his desk, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.
"That's putting a positive spin on it. The young man has been in school for over

a week and hasn't said word one to anybody."
"But when I gave him a pencil and asked him to draw, he did give us this, even

if it is a little...perplexing."
"I thought you said that he'd given you 'plenty.' "
"In a lot of ways he did," Celia insisted gamely. She walked around his desk so

she could point out details in Davy's work. "Look at the nose."
Tony rolled back up and studied the drawing again.
"What nose?"
"Exactly," she said softly. "Davy didn't even bother with one. Just like those

Japanese children who come from perfectly controlled families that never show

emotion, those kids never draw noses either. Here"— she reached for the files

she'd brought with her—"I want you to take a look at some other pictures so you

can see what I mean."
She spread out five drawings.
"Look at these and find me a single American kid who draws a picture without a

nose, and these aren't unusual, not a bit. And you know why? American families

show emotion. Look at this one." She pointed to an oversized drawing of a woman.

"She's snorting like a bull, breathing hard just like people really do when

they're angry and emotional. And let's face it, the kids who drew these pictures

are not the products of the healthest homes— they're our clients. But with Davy

it's like he doesn't want to let go of any emotion at all."
Celia ran her fingers over the neck of the woman Davy had drawn.
"See how the lines don't even connect. There's a definite separation between the

mind and body."
"You're sure you're not stretching this a bit?" Tony covered his mouth as he

yawned.
"No, not at all. You say it could be his mom, right?"
"That seems likely enough to me."
"But a child who's lost a parent generally draws them with little feet, or no

feet at all, and that's because they've taken flight. This woman has huge feet,

exactly what a person draws when they feel tied down and can't escape."
Celia tapped the mouth of the woman. "And look at that, a single line, sealed up

like a bank vault."
"That is interesting, given his mutism. I'll grant you that much."
"It makes me wonder if this is a self-portrait, and if it is, what are those

clues saying—"
"Clues?" Tony interrupted. "Are you the Inspector Clouseau of the

paint-and-crayon set?" He smiled when he said this and she wasn't sure if he was

being pleasant and playful, or sarcastic. Celia decided that he'd made a weak

stab at humor and let it pass.
"The question"— she began to pace—"is why would he see himself as a woman? None

of it adds up."
She stopped to peer out the window at the empty play area. "Davy seems to have a

good-enough stepfather. Mr. Boyce is a breath of fresh air compared to some of

the parents we get in here. At least he's interested. He sure asks a lot of

questions."
"But I didn't find him terribly open"— Tony pulled on his lower lip—"other than

saying that Davy's mom died, which he'd already told the school."
"But that's not all that unusual, is it?" Celia turned away from the window. "I

mean, it was the first time you talked to him, and you weren't with him that

long. How open could he be?"
"No, that's true."
Celia quickly straddled a chair with the back facing forward.
"I don't exactly have Davy talking either, and I never will working with him

just twice a week." She paused, wondering how to make her plea, then decided to

just go for it: "How about if I get him for an hour a day? It's not like you or

anyone else around here can spend time interviewing him."
"No, but I've already got him scheduled for other types of therapy, and—"
"An hour, Tony! Please, just an hour a day with him. This is a kid who doesn't

even talk. It'll be his best chance every day to say something, maybe something

important."
Tony frowned at the drawings spread out in front of him. Celia couldn't tell if

he was irritated over her request or the fact that his desk now resembled her

own. But when he looked up he agreed.
"All right, you can have an hour a day. I'll rework the schedule, but I want to

remind you that I see this as a real acid test of your technique. You're not

going to get any shortcuts with this kid. He's not going to be able to tell you

about his drawings. It's just going to be you, the kid, and the crayons."
"I know," Celia said as she stuffed the pictures back in the folders, "you said

something like that earlier."
"Yes, and you shook your head when I said it."
He looked at her intently, though she wasn't sure if it was with anger or

understanding.
"Sorry, it's just that—"
"Forget about it," he said abruptly, "just think about wearing long sleeves when

you work with him. The thicker, the better."
18
Jack waved good-bye to Ruth and locked the front door behind her. It was five

o'clock, and he was glad to see her go. She often joked that she'd been "born