And sometimes J felt like he could see even more than the unflattering details of his body. Sometimes it felt like he could see motivations in the Check-Up room, fast fleeting glimpses of the truth, whatever that might be.
“J,” D.A.D. repeated. His voice was impatience. As loving as he was to his twenty-four boys, D.A.D. was without question the most impatient man within the Turret walls. “Come now. Out with it. You have a theory for what prompted this dream.”
J recoiled at the sudden volume of his voice, as if the man had silently transported across the cold floor, his lips less than an inch from J’s ear. “Tell me.”
It was true; J indeed had a theory for D.A.D. It’s what the Alphabet Boys were raised to do.
Think.
But J was thinking of A or Z, impossibly mobile, crouched and unmoving.
Tell him, J thought. But a deeper voice argued. One that sounded like it belonged to a wise brother.
A dead one?
“I’m thinking,” J said. “I want to articulate this the right way.”
He should’ve woken Q last night is what he should have done. He’d considered doing it, of course. The boys on Floor 8 had long crept into one another’s rooms when a particularly powerful storm came through. Or a nightmare of equal measure. J had knocked on Q’s door as recently as a month ago, feeling sick and hoping Q had some soup remaining from dinner. But last night, despite wanting confirmation, he remained by his large window overlooking the Yard, a window almost as wide as the wall. He knew Q would have something intelligent to say, would perhaps even be able to prove the form as an unfortunate combination of branches, leaves, and moonlight. Because it was probable that what J had seen was no more than a combination of inert, non-sentient pieces. And yet…J felt knowledge coming from those woods.
J felt life. Or something like it.
Felt like you were being watched is what it was.
“I think it’s because of the coming floor shift,” J said. “I’ve grown up with D and L and Q. To be moved, in the shuffle…I don’t know. I agree that it’s a good thing for the Parenthood to do, to promote fresh experiences, to forge new bonds, but it’s also a little…”
J felt cold leather upon his shoulder.
“A little like being lost?” D.A.D. asked. Gently, D.A.D. turned J to face him. The bulb hung directly over the man’s head, and parts of his face were obscured by shadow. J thought how D.A.D.’s entire face looked to be covered in hair, as if the shadows cast were actually his beard growing, rising up to his shining eyes, climbing higher yet to his thick, fur-like pompadour.
“Yes.” J swallowed. “A lot like being lost.” He glanced past D.A.D., to the notepaper upon the steel desk. There was a lot of activity on the page. Many notes.
The Inspection begins, J thought again, the moment you walk through the door.
D.A.D. did not nod. He did not smile. He simply stared. It felt, to J, as if the man were using those shovels indeed, searching J’s mind for a better dream-prompt than the coming floor shift.
Then D.A.D.’s face changed, a little bit. Both eyes squinted and the right side of his mouth lifted. Just enough to suggest warmth.
“I get it,” D.A.D. said. “And I’m sure I’ll run into more stories like yours today, as we make our morning Inspections.” He did not pat J on the shoulder and then walk back to his desk. He did not say anything else on the topic at all. Instead, he remained, staring. “I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” he said. “How about if I manufacture a means by which you can tell me your thoughts, your feelings, directly. Something we can share, just you and I. A notebook perhaps. You take notes and…deliver them to me. Why, we could be pen pals in that way.”
There was never a feeling so bright as being singled out by D.A.D.
“That would be…really nice,” J said.
“It would, yes. Excellent.”
Yet, as D.A.D. continued to stare, continued to study, the usual list of horrifying diseases crossed J’s mind. The reason, the boys had long been told, for the Inspections in the first place.
Vees. Rotts. Placasores.
Was D.A.D. looking for these? And could he spot them in J’s eyes? Could he spot them in a notebook, too?
“Gentlemen,” D.A.D. said. He snapped his gloved fingers. A sound that was almost as familiar as the word Inspection itself, as it came shrill through the floor’s one steel-meshed speaker in the hall.
Collins and Jeffrey removed their magnifying glasses and advanced. D.A.D. retreated, but not all the way to his desk. J, turning back to face the Inspectors, could feel D.A.D. crowding him still, standing close behind with his arms crossed, his leather gloves gripping the sleeves of his red jacket. Both Collins and Jeffrey looked to D.A.D. with the same expression J imagined himself to be wearing. A tick past confusion. A few ticks shy of fear.
D.A.D. had never watched an Inspection from so close.
Why this one?
Hysteria, J thought, and decided it was the last time he was going to think it. It was only Mister Tree’s low-hanging branches. Natural as cherries in the Orchard. And a dead brother crouching at midnight was…was…hysterical.
No. He was hiding nothing because there was nothing to hide.
“Go on,” D.A.D. said, his voice like flowing water over J’s shoulder. That water became a wave, and in that wave J imagined a figure crouched behind Mister Tree. “I want to make sure J understands that, in light of his bad dream, he is in the care of the Parenthood and that the Parenthood will always be here to protect him. By way of Inspection.” The Inspectors held their magnifying glasses up to J’s naked body. D.A.D. continued to talk. Close. Too close. “I want you to know, J, that if something like what happened in your dream should ever occur in waking life…impossible as that scenario is…you needn’t worry about finding your way back to the Turret.”
“Lift,” Collins said. J lifted both arms and the Inspectors brought the magnifying glasses to his armpits.
“If ever you stray so far, J, my J,” D.A.D. said, “the Parenthood will find you.”
THE BURT REPORT: NOVEMBER 1, 2019
To Be Read upon Waking
I’ll cut right to it: If it’s order Richard cherishes most in what he himself has dubbed “the Delicate Years,” then this is simply not the time to shuffle the boys’ bedrooms. The simple take is this: Richard’s right—at age twelve the boys are treading very close to experiencing a degree of sexuality unparalleled thus far in their lives. It’s a phase that each of us adults knows well. And do we remember how vivid everything became a year or two past twelve? How frightening and exciting at once? Most important, how emotional? (NOTE: Richard, I realize you loathe when I address you directly in my reports, but I cannot underscore this point enough: You must try to recall your own blossoming, for there is nothing quite as potent as male sexuality in bloom. Now multiply that by 24.) I would not be surprised to discover, reading today’s Inspection reports, that many of the boys are already expressing anxiety with the shuffle. Some might express anger. Some might even lie. My rationale for including the latter is not to instill fear into Richard and it is certainly not with a mind to belittle him, but rather…I think it’s true. Teenagers lie because teenagers aren’t yet aware that their warring emotions are natural. The Alphabet Boys are knocking on teenage’s door. And in an environment like the Parenthood, they don’t even have the example, usually set a year or two prior…by girls.
One of the many difficulties in keeping the knowledge of the existence of women from them. But, admittedly, one we have been prepared for.
Now, Richard’s logic for instituting the room shuffle at this time is sound. Rather than wander the halls of the Parenthood confused and restless, the boys might blame their growing anxiety on the move itself, therefore supplying them with an easily avoided focal point, by which they can carry on with their studies as Richard contends they wil
l. This logic makes sense, yes, but only stands as a placeholder and eventually will fade out. And when the uneasiness with the shuffle does fade out…what then will the boys blame their sudden emotions on? I know Richard well enough to believe he has a second distraction planned…and a third…and what must be an entire deck of cards, already arranged, to be flipped, out into the light, new worries, new concerns, until the boys become visibly comfortable with the fresh feelings within them.
The Inspection reports will reveal when that day comes. These are the Delicate Years, indeed.
But if I’m going to admonish Richard for his use of distractions in what must be a futile effort in the end, I must be able to contribute to the conversation. I must be able to provide an alternate solution to how we, the Parenthood, deal with this sexual revolution (make no mistake, Richard; there will be a revolution waging in each and every one of our boys. Bloodshed on their own private battlefields). Here, then, are my five solutions:
1) Encourage the boys further in the arts. Of course we cannot reveal to them the nature of procreation. That’s fine; as the Constitution of the Parenthood clearly states, we are not in the business of creating biologists, and while genius can wear many coats, the Alphabet Boys are being raised to become the world’s greatest engineers, scientists, and mathematicians. ARTICLE ONE of the CONSTITUTION OF THE PARENTHOOD: GENIUS IS DISTRACTED BY THE OPPOSITE SEX. Richard’s entire experiment balances upon this initial article, the fountainhead of the Parenthood at large. So while other boys their age, or a couple of years older, spend two-thirds of their waking life attempting to court women (and/or simply impress them), the Alphabet Boys will be working three times as hard on the aforementioned subjects. And yet…there must be an outlet. The arts could provide this. I do not think the leisure books penned by Lawrence Luxley are capable of satisfying this need. The arts, good arts, encouraging arts, can act as a more refined placeholder, a bucket, if you will, to catch the boys’ wayward sexuality as it comes pouring out their ears and eyes. Make no mistake, the boys will be changing, in paramount ways, to degrees not experienced in the Parenthood thus far.
X is a fine artist. G has shown signs. To me, Voices is simply not enough. As magnificent as that choir has become.
Painting an abstract picture, singing a non sequitur song…these may placate the unfathomable, focal-pointless feelings they will experience.
As always, more to come on this at a later date.
2) Attempt to influence their dreams. Subliminal hints throughout the Parenthood might cause the boys to dream of specific things, calming things, visions and images that could take the place of a sexuality they intentionally (on our part) know nothing about. I’ll provide one example (but we can certainly discuss this in a much bigger way in person): Hang color photos of rolling hills or desert landscapes outside the door of the bedroom belonging to the most popular boy on each floor of the Turret. That is to say: Whichever room the boys have a tendency to congregate in most often, hang a landscape that resembles something of a naked body. Perhaps this tiny gift (on our part) will assuage (momentarily) the growing need each of them will be experiencing.
As is the case with all these posits: More on this at a later date.
3) Encourage the boys to increase their athletic endeavors. We do this already, but perhaps not to the degree we will need to. It is well understood (and well documented, of course) that Richard would prefer the boys to spend no more than 10 percent of their days in physical pursuit, but the Delicate Years not only announce the coming of an emotional deluge; the boys will need a physical outlet. Why not order a new athletic decree: ONE LAP OF THE CHERRY ORCHARD, which constitutes a 3.1-mile experience, the exact distance of the fabled 5K, which boys their age are no doubt running in other parts of the world. If this idea doesn’t suit Richard’s tastes, then I suggest purchasing treadmills and installing them in each of the boys’ bedrooms; who knows at what time of night they’ll feel the need to burn off some steam. My professional guess is ANY. ANY time of night. And any time of day.
4) Limit the physical portion of the Inspection and increase the emotional query. As I’ve stated above, the boys have much to gain through addressing the abstract feelings they will be (already are!) experiencing, and whether they make complete sense of their “new selves” doesn’t matter. As we adults already know: There is no such thing as “knowing yourself,” not wholly, but the attempts to do so along the way certainly ease the pain.
5) Reconsider Article Sixteen of the Constitution of the Parenthood in which Richard (forcibly, this is true) included the rule that states that, under no circumstances, no matter how trying the Delicate Years prove to be, will the Alphabet Boys undergo any form of castration. And yet…we’ve already lost A and Z to much more gruesome ends. Might it be time to consider removing the sexuality Richard so dreads is coming? NOTE: It’s a year or two away. Plan now.
In summation, Richard and the Parenthood would be well served to either nurture the coming barrage of sexuality through abstraction or to (pardon) nip it off at the bud. It is my professional opinion that a series of distractions (i.e., the floor shift) will only compress the issue, increasing the boys’ curiosity, their thirst for answers, until their behavior resembles nothing like we’ve seen before, or until they break the cardinal rules of the Parenthood and all of Richard’s dalliance and jurisprudence is lost.
Genius may be distracted by the opposite sex, but sexuality itself is not so easily distracted.
(Thank you for your time, Richard, and I look forward to speaking with you directly when next we meet in the Glasgow Tunnel.)
The Body Hall before Breakfast
Just before breakfast, the boys were informed D.A.D. was going to make a speech. This, of course, would take place in the Body Hall, named so, J assumed, because of how many bodies they fit into the high-ceilinged, echoey, wood-paneled concert hall whenever D.A.D. had something important to say.
All of them. All of the bodies. From the Alphabet Boys to the Inspectors, Professor Gulch to the cooks. Even Lawrence Luxley himself, always a highlight for J and the others to see in person. The nurses, the cleaners, the health aides, and the plumbers.
The Parenthood.
Speech, the word, like Inspection, had changed over the years. It invoked a much different feeling now than it had when the boys were just children and would, presumably, spark something else years from now. When the boys were kids, D.A.D.’s speeches meant hardly anything at all; J mostly recalled the back of other boys’ heads, the back of their benches, and the dark sonorous syllables of D.A.D.’s words echoing off the walls that seemed to reach the sky. In those days, it took a simple glance across the hall to D or F and it was all J could do to stifle a bout of uncontrollable laughter.
But things had changed.
* * *
—
RICHARD UNDERSTOOD THIS more than anyone. He had planned for it.
It matters not, an early Burt Report stated, whether the boys take in what Richard says. The point is to instill a sense of wonder, a plan that is no doubt working, based upon the sincerely awed visages observing him as he delivers his speeches.
The Alphabet Boys had not been taught God. For Richard, obedience trumped religion.
This morning, the Inspections over, Richard held the day’s Burt Report in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other. He read half of the first sentence his personal psychiatrist had penned one more time:
I’ll cut right to it: If it’s order Richard cherishes most in what he himself has dubbed “the Delicate Years”—
He set the papers upon his desk. Despite the light snowfall outside his first-floor window, he felt warm. He rose from his desk and stepped to the full-sized mirror on the back of his front door.
“You look good,” he said. “Hardly the parent of twenty-four twelve-year-old boys.”
The number was once twenty-six and, hav
ing flipped through the report, he’d seen Burt had mentioned A and Z, despite Richard’s personal orders not to.
…we’ve already lost A and Z to much more gruesome ends…
He removed his red coat, exposing a simple tank top beneath. The muscles in his shoulders and arms looked strong beneath the soft overhead light. His beard as dark as misinformation.
In the beginning, following the successful launch of the Parenthood, Richard was very aware that he had to fill the tower with a profound sense of character. It was his duty to deliver the philosophy of the Parenthood. His duty to make good on all that he claimed the place could be. In those days, it wasn’t uncommon for him to feel the pressure of the Inspectors he’d hired, simple convicts only a year prior, to feel them and the cooks and the teachers and the academic-book writers, ex-cons all, watching him as he gave his speeches to the (then) twenty-six toddlers in the Body Hall. The Alphabet Boys, Burt had come to call them (a name Richard, as their D.A.D., was rather fond of). A name for each letter of the alphabet.
A
B
C…
Yes, in those days Richard gave his speeches for the benefit of the staff, whether he directed his voice at them or not. It was exciting indeed when, five years into the experiment, Richard first spotted comprehension in the eyes of his boys, knowledge transferred, from the pulpit to P, from the speech to each.
And now…The Delicate Years were close. No longer could Richard come at the boys subconsciously, through feel, a vague but powerful sense of rules and why not to break them. With the Delicate Years came the full attention of discerning boys. Intelligent boys. Boys who could, and would, now analyze each and every word Richard used.
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