Somebody Else's Kids (39 page)

“I
hate
butter brickle!”

“Lori! For crying out loud.”

There was a long, long pause and then suddenly she giggled. The tension shattered around us and both of us broke out laughing. “I’m being hard to get along with, aren’t I?” she said.

“You definitely are!”

“Well, I sure don’t want any butter brickle ice-cream. That’s almost worse than flunking.”

We smiled at each other. Then she sucked her lower lip between her teeth and looked at me expectantly. “So, what we gonna celebrate?”

“You tell me. I’m out of ideas.”

She shrugged. “I dunno. Just us, I guess. You and me. Let’s just celebrate us.”

“And what do you want to do?” I asked.

“I dunno. What do you want to do? You choose?”

I pushed myself up from the floor. “Let me see how much money I have.”

“No, Tor, wait.” Lori jumped up. “Let’s get Libby too.”

I hesitated. I thought about the humiliation awaiting her when she faced Libby, and I didn’t want to spoil things again. “I was thinking maybe you would prefer just us, I mean …”

“Yeah, but Libby always feels so bad when school gets out. She likes it a whole lot better than we do.”

“I see.”

“And I got an idea.” Lori dug into a pocket. “I got seven cents here. I could buy us all bubble gum. We could go to the park and roll down the Indian mound. And on the way we could stop at the Safeway store and I could buy us bubble gum.” Her smile broadened. “See here, how much I got?”

“Yes, but I was thinking … I mean, I know how bad you feel about … I mean, I’m sorry I couldn’t fix things and I thought maybe …” The words died inadvertently. We gazed at each other. Lori jingled the seven cents in her hand.

Finally she gave a little shrug. She opened her palm to look at the change, looked back at me and smiled. It was a quiet smile. “Don’t worry so much, Tor. You always worry. It isn’t that important. Now come on.”

I came.

I
stayed at the school and saw Lori through another year of first grade. Her family has since moved back East, and she attends a private school for the learning disabled. She never has learned how to read. Fortunately, for all of us, it has not been that important.

Boo remains in his parochial program for autistic children. We in this world have not yet succeeded in bringing him out of his. However, he has made small gains. He does speak now in a moderately coherent manner. And he does say mama.

Claudia returned to her former school. She went on to graduate valedictorian of her class. None of us, of course, knows where Jenny is. However, as the years passed I continued to search the faces of my students. Not one of the little girls has looked like Claudia.

Not long ago I read a story in the newspaper about a young boy who managed to lead four children to safety from a burning building, then ran back to get an infant. Along with the article was an AP photo showing the mayor presenting the boy with a hero’s award for his valor and what the mayor deemed “his selfless love for others.” The boy was Tomaso.

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Z
oo-boy. The legs of the table were his cage. With arms up protectively over his head, he rocked. Back and forth, back and forth. An aide tried to prod him into moving out from under the table but she had no luck. Back and forth, back and forth the boy rocked.

I watched from behind the one-way mirror. ‘How old is he?’ I asked the woman on my right.

‘Fifteen.’

Hardly a boy anymore. I leaned close to the glass to see him. ‘How long has he been here?’ I asked.

‘Four years.’

‘Without ever speaking?’

‘Without ever speaking.’ She looked over at me in the eerie gloom of the room behind the mirror. ‘Without ever making a noise at all.’

I continued to watch a little longer. Then I picked up my box of materials and went out into the room on the other side of the mirror. The aide backed off and, when I entered, she willingly left. I could hear the click of a door in the outer corridor and I knew she had gone behind the mirror to watch too. Only Zoo-boy and I were left in the room.

Carefully, I set down my box of materials. I waited a moment to see if he would react to a new person in the room, but he didn’t. So I came closer. I sat down on the floor an arm’s length away from where he had barricaded himself under the table. Still he rocked, his arms and legs curled up around him. I could get no idea of his stature.

‘Kevin?’

No response.

Not sure what to do, I looked around. I was acutely aware of the audience beyond the mirror. They were talking in there, their voices indistinct, no more than an undulating murmur, like wind through cattails on a summer’s afternoon. But I knew the sound for what it was.

The boy didn’t look fifteen. Even wrapped up in a ball like that where I couldn’t get much of a look at him, he didn’t appear that old. Nine, maybe. Or eleven. Not nearly sixteen.

‘Kevin,’ I said again, ‘my name is Torey. Do you remember Miss Wendolowski telling you someone was coming out to work with you? That’s me. I’m Torey and I work with people who have a hard time talking.’

Still he rocked. I wasn’t given even the slightest acknowledgment. All around us hung a heavy, cloying silence embroidered with the rhythmic sound of his body hitting against the linoleum.

I started to talk to him, keeping my voice soft and welcoming, the way one talks to timid puppies. I talked of why I had come, of what I was going to be doing with him, of other children whom I had worked with and had success. I told him about myself. What I said wasn’t important, only the tone was.

No response. He only rocked.

The minutes slipped away. I was running dry of things to say. Such a one-sided conversation was not easy to maintain, but what made it more difficult was not Zoo-boy so much as the ghostly presence of those beyond the mirror. It was too easy to feel stupid talking to oneself when half a dozen people one couldn’t see were watching. Finally, I pulled over my box of materials and sorted out a paperback book, a mystery story about a teenager and his girl friend. I’ll read to you, I told Zoo-boy, until we feel a little more relaxed with one another.

‘Chapter One:The Long Road.’

I read.

And read.

The minutes kept moving around the face of the clock. Occasionally there was the muffled noise of a door opening and closing beyond our little room. They were leaving, one by one. Nothing in here was worth wasting an afternoon to see. I was not a spectacular reader. The story wasn’t riveting. And Zoo-boy only rocked.

I kept on reading. And counting the openings and closings. How many people had been in the room behind the mirror? I couldn’t recall exactly. Six? Or was it seven? And how many had gone out already? Five?

I read on.

Click-click. Another gone.

Click-click. That was seven.

I continued to read. My voice became the only sound in the room. I looked over. Zoo-boy had stopped rocking. Slowly he brought his arms down to see me better. He smiled. He was nobody’s fool. He had been counting too.

He gestured at me, a small movement within the confines of the table and chairs.

‘What?’ I asked, because I couldn’t understand what he was trying to communicate.

He gestured again, more widely this time. Only it wasn’t just a simple motion. Rather, it was a sentence, a paragraph almost, of gestures.

I still couldn’t understand. I moved a chair aside to see him better but I had to ask him to repeat it.

There was something he wanted me to know. The motions were poetic in their gyrating, wreathing urgency. A hand ballet. But they were no sign language I understood, not Ameslan, not the hand alphabet. I couldn’t comprehend at all.

From under the table came a deep sigh. He grimaced at me. Then patiently he repeated his gestures again, more slowly this time, more emphatically, like someone speaking to a rather stupid child. He became frustrated when he could not make me understand.

Finally, he gave up. We sat in silence, staring at one another. The book was still in my hands, so in desperation to fill the time, I asked him if he’d like me to read a little more. Zoo-boy nodded.

I settled back against the wall. ‘Chapter Five: Out of the Cave.’

Zoo-boy pushed the other chair slightly out from the table and reached to touch the cloth of my jeans. I looked up.

He had his mouth open, one hand pulling the lower jaw down. He pointed down his throat. Then dismally, he shook his head.

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Torey Hayden

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