A Safe Place for Joey

by Mary MacCracken

  “Please understand. It’s not that I don’t love him. I do. You have to ask yourself what kind of a life it is for Charlie, too. Always behind. Always at the bottom of everything. In sports, too. He’ll never make a team – you try to throw him a ball, it hits him in the head. I tell you, he’ll be better off away.”

  “Away?” I could hardly get the word out.

  “Yes, away at school. I’ve been looking into it. At one of the football games this fall I ran into an old friend from college, and he told me how he’d gotten his son into this new school, boarding school, that’s just opened in Pennsylvania. It’s not cheap, but he says it’s worth it – it’s made all the difference in their lives.”

  “But –”

  “No. Let me finish. Please. I wanted June to be here when I brought this up because I thought she could be less emotional about it here than at home. But since she’s not here, I’m going to put it to you bluntly.

  “I think she’s covering up – doing Charlie’s work for him. I think you’re covering up – trying to make both of them feel better. I think the school is probably in on it, too, somehow. Anyway, I’ve had enough. It’s time to face facts. Charlie isn’t right. He’s never been right, and he’s never going to be. I don’t understand all the ins and outs of it and I’m not saying he’s retarded, but he is defective, and he’ll be better off with his own kind.”

  I sat silently. Something terrible was going on, and I had no idea how to stop it.

  “We lost one boy, you know. I’m sure June told you. And something happened to Charlie, too. Some people just aren’t meant to have children. You have to face up to it.”

  “You don’t think you’re meant to have children?” I repeated.

  “It seems that way,” he said in a measured voice. “I tried as hard as I knew how to hold on to Jason. I’ve tried with Charlie. I never got through to either of them. The only way I can figure it is, it wasn’t meant to be.

  “Look now, I’m not talking about putting him in some institution. Just a school. Lots of kids go away to school. Nothing wrong with that.”

  “He’s only eight. Nine, I mean. What’s the name of the school?”

  He took a card from his wallet. “High Mountains. High Mountains Boys’ School.”

  “It must be very expensive if it’s as good as your friend says.”

  “It is. But June has just closed a fantastic deal. She’s lived here all her life, you know, so she has many contacts, and now she’s sold a five-hundred-thousand-dollar estate up on the hill, and the commission from that will go a good ways and I’m sure there will be more to come. So the picture’s changed as far as money goes. That’s not the issue now.”

  I wanted to say, “But you didn’t earn the money and June doesn’t even know your plan,” but I had made enough mistakes for one hour.

  “You obviously have done a great deal of thinking about this.” I wasn’t going to be able to change his mind in the next few minutes, and yet I knew it was the wrong thing to do. Wrong for Charlie – but also wrong for his father. I needed time to think.

  “Well,” I said, glancing at my watch, “let me copy these test scores for you so you can share them with June.”

  The old copy machine whirred noisily for a minute or two as I copied the papers in the small adjoining room. I expected Mr. Hammond to be up and waiting by the door, but he still sat opposite the desk.

  I suddenly felt very tired. The rain pelted against the windows, and I leaned against the side of the desk, holding the copies out to him, not trusting myself to speak.

  Finally, he reached for the papers but made no motion of rising.

  But I was the one now who couldn’t stand it any longer. I forced the words up out of my throat. “I’ll get your coat and meet you at the door.”

  Monday morning, the phone rang at seven o’clock.

  “This is Jim Hammond, Mrs. MacCracken. I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m just on my way into the office now, and I wanted to be sure to get you before you saw Charlie this afternoon. I … uh … haven’t had a chance to talk to June – or Charlie either, as a matter of fact – about the school as yet, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to him just yet.”

  A reprieve.

  I heard nothing further from Mr. Hammond for the next three weeks. My talks with Charlie’s mother and teacher were the same as always – brief, specific. We all felt that Charlie was continuing to make progress.

  Then just before Christmas vacation I had another seven o’clock phone call from Mr. Hammond, asking if I was going away over the Christmas holiday and, if not, if he could “come by.” Cal and I were to be away for only a week, and so we arranged a time to meet three days after Christmas.

  Mr. Hammond opened the conversation as soon as he had settled himself in the chair across from the desk. “June doesn’t know I’m here. Neither does Charlie. And I’d like to keep it that way, at least for now.”

  I nodded and waited for him to continue, but he was silent, studying his hands for several minutes. Then he said slowly, “I’m not a humble man, Mrs. MacCracken, nor can I put my feelings into words easily. I’m an engineer and have much more faith and knowledge in how things work than how people work. It’s very difficult for me to come here. I tell you this not because I want your sympathy, but so you will understand how important this is to me.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since I was last here, and I’ve been observing Charlie very closely. And I’m not sure this makes any sense, but I think that I may not have been fair to Charlie. Somehow he’s all muddled together in my mind with Jason – it’s as though they’re this one person, my son. And when I told you I’d tried as hard as I could with Charlie, I meant it. I honestly felt I had.

  “But now, I don’t know, I’ve been thinking maybe I’ve been a little confused, and all the work and effort was for Jason. He was so sick – you couldn’t believe how hurt and little and frightened he was. Anyway, I’ve been asking myself to be specific. It seems as though I’m always asking other people to be specific, so I thought perhaps I should ask the same of myself. What specifically have I done for Charlie?

  “I couldn’t think of very many things. Do you know what I mean? It felt like I’d worked tremendously hard with him, but now I can’t think of what, if anything, I’ve done.

  “So that’s why I’m here. I want to know if there are things I can do and if there are, what they are.

  “I’m not giving up on that school. I don’t want you to think that. It’s just … well, to be truthful about it, I want to send Charlie off with a clear conscience. I want to be sure I’ve done everything that could possibly be done.”

  I watched the sun shimmering on the snow in the woods behind the office windows. I wasn’t sure I liked what I’d heard; it almost sounded as though Mr. Hammond were doing it for himself rather than for Charlie. A clear conscience. Did I want to get into the business of helping Mr. Hammond clear his conscience?

  “Well,” he said, “are there things I can do?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Who was I to judge anybody else’s conscience? Charlie needed his father. Sometimes the way things begin doesn’t matter. If Charlie and his dad could get to know each other, trust each other, what difference did the reason behind it make?

  “To begin with,” I said, “you can listen to Charlie, and let him know that what he says and thinks are important to you.

  “Get to know his room. What kind of posters does he have on his wall? What kind of music does he listen to? Make it a point to get to know his turf and meet him there a lot of the time. You don’t have to stay forever, but have it get so it’s comfortable for both of you. Whatever rules you have about making beds and picking up, discuss at some other time in some neutral place. When you stop in to visit, don’t harp.

  “Take over some of those things June does. Lighten her load, and also show Charlie you want to be involved. You said or implied that she babies Charlie by doing things for him that he ought
to be able to do for himself. I think that’s probably true, but if you’re involved in helping him then you can gradually show him how to do things for himself.

  “Gradually is the operative word here. If he has to do a report on Alexander Graham Bell, don’t just tell him to get busy and do it. He can’t. He doesn’t know how, and he’s more confused and frightened by having to produce quantities of words than most kids are. Go with him to the library. Show him how to use the card catalog. Talk to the librarian. Ask which of the reference books are the clearest, the easiest. Help Charlie find the book. Help him copy the pages of pertinent information so he can take them home. He writes much too slowly to try to do it in the library. Help him organize. Help him when he gets stuck with the writing. Help him rewrite. Let his teacher know you’re helping.

  “Don’t expect too much. Even with a rewrite, there will be lots of mistakes. But praise him. Praise him for the effort that he’s put in, not just for the result. And he will get better at it gradually. And, as he does, you can cut back on the amount of help you give. Don’t ever do the work for him, but also don’t let him flounder.

  “Teach him as much as you can. Get him to watch the news with you. Talk about it later. Get a world map and a US map. Put them up in the kitchen or hall and use pushpins to locate the places you talk about.

  “Read to him from the books that interest him and from magazines, books, and newspapers that interest you. If someone develops a new vaccine, tell him about it. If the stock market drops, explain. Keep it short, and don’t put him on the spot or criticize or get impatient if he forgets what you’ve told him. Be polite. Tell him again. The main thing is that you interact and expose Charlie to as much of the world as possible.”

  Mr. Hammond was taking notes, his black eyebrows knit tightly together.

  “Look. You don’t need to write this down. It’s all stuff you know, anyway. I’m just sort of pointing it out again.”

  “Mrs. MacCracken, as I told you before, I am an engineer, a chemical engineer, and I work in the research department of a chemical company. I’m good at my job, but I’ll never go further because I can’t, or don’t know how to, get along with people. I accept that. I don’t particularly like most people, anyway.

  “But please don’t presume what it is I know or don’t know. Charlie is the first and probably the last nine-year-old boy other than myself that I’ll ever know. Where do you think I would have learned? Certainly not from my father. He believed bringing up children was women’s work. Now, please keep on.”

  He waited, pencil poised. My head was blank. Suddenly it seemed too awesome a task, and too presumptuous of me to assume to know.

  “I don’t know. A lot of it will just come naturally once you start. But you can never go wrong telling him you love him and that you don’t care whether he bats zero or a thousand. Tell him about some of the things you couldn’t do when you were nine.

  “And you could get him an electric typewriter and get someone to teach him to type. The keyboard is practically the same as a word processor’s. Word processors and computers are going to be big in education. Charlie could use a head start. And maybe you could make a list” – I was off and running again, embarrassed but too excited to care – “of all the things you like about him. You don’t have to show it to Charlie, but you could just remind yourself. And you could make a list of every good or decent or intelligent thing he does.

  “Try to find something that he’s good at – a place where he can excel easily. This will convince him more than any words that he really is a bright, capable person.

  “And have fun with him. Go fishing, or swimming, or watch a ball game or a movie, or eat a hot dog, or tell a few jokes.

  “See, other than June, Charlie is the most wonderful thing that will ever happen to you. You belong to each other. He’s yours, you’re his, and you hold an excitement for each other that can’t be duplicated.

  “I’d probably be saying this even if Charlie were blind, deaf, and dumb, because children, including other people’s children, give me enormous pleasure.

  “But Charlie is attractive, and he’s bright and loving; he’s a lot like you in lots of ways – and he’s yours. You’re going to have a wonderful time.”

  Finally I stopped.

  Mr. Hammond was smiling at me. I had never seen him smile before. “I think you like your work as much as I like mine,” he said. “Good-bye, and thank you.”

  He turned to go and then turned back.

  “About that school, the one my classmate’s boy attends. I think that in all probability its enrollment is full, considering that it’s already the middle of the year. Probably no openings. I doubt that there is any point in even applying.”

  “No point at all,” I agreed, and returned Mr. Hammond’s smile in spite of myself.

  During the winter months Charlie and I continued our attack on spelling and decoding skills. He had mastered the basics of sound-symbol relationships – the sounds of consonants, blends, vowels. Now I included digraphs and reviewed the meanings of closed, open, and silent e syllables. I taught him how to recognize and read and spell the four other types of syllables: the vowel team, such as pail or day, tea or see, pie, toe; the r controller syllable; the diphthong syllable, like oi or au in oil and August; and the consonant le syllable, like bubble, crackle.

  The seven syllables made sense to Charlie. They gave organization to a previously mysterious mass. He learned to locate the vowels in the word, mark them, decide which type of syllable they formed, and then read it – or sometimes write it. Words that did not follow the rules were still designated red words and written on cards and memorized, but Charlie was amazed at how few he had to memorize now that he had the tools to break words into syllables, figure them out, and put them back together.

  At school Charlie was holding his own. His grades for the second trimester were up to “Satisfactory” in all subjects except spelling and written expression. Even more important, Mrs. Yager felt that Charlie was really trying hard and that he deserved a lot of praise.

  The school’s biggest concern about Charlie was that he still hadn’t established any close relationships or made a group of friends. His poor physical coordination was a handicap, and his lack of social awareness was embarrassing.

  Somehow Charlie clapped too loudly or in the wrong places during plays in the auditorium. He laughed at things that didn’t seem funny to the other children. He interrupted during class or forgot where he was supposed to stand when he lined up at gym. He tripped on his way to the stage when it was time for his class to sing at the March concert. Fourth graders are self-conscious anyway, and being around Charlie made them more so. But Mrs. Yager tried to help Charlie learn the social amenities, and so did his mom.

  I also tried to help Charlie understand the meaning of gestures, facial expressions, and various tones of voice, and how to get along with people. Once in a while I made up open-ended stories for Charlie to complete or did a little role playing.

  “All right, Charlie,” I said, “let’s say you’re giving a birthday party. My name’s George. I just moved here, but you invited me anyway ’cause I’m in your class and you’re a nice guy. Now say this is your living room, this is the front door, you’re inside with a couple of other kids. Here I come.” I crashed through the door past Charlie and the other kids, looked around, and yelled, “Where’s the cake? I thought you said it was your birthday?”

  “Nobody’s that dumb,” Charlie said in disgust.

  “Dumb? Whadda you mean?” I said, still being George.

  “Come on, Mary. Nobody just yells for cake.”

  “Oh. What should George have done?”

  “Just have waited. The cake comes at the end.”

  I smiled at him. “You’re right,” I replied, thinking but not saying anything about his mother’s complaint about Charlie asking the salesman for a drink when they went shopping. “When you’re at somebody else’s place, you wait for them to offer the cake or
whatever.

  “Also, I think George could have said hello, at least to you, before he did anything else.”

  And all the while I was working with Charlie and talking to the school and his mother, I waited silently but impatiently for a sign that there were changes at home. Was Mr. Hammond studying his lists or was he actually doing something?

  The first hint came not from Mr. Hammond or Charlie’s mother or teacher, but from Charlie himself. All of a sudden, Charlie was doing things. He told me that he had gotten out all his old Lego sets and was making all sorts of things. He had to take money out of his savings account to buy more complicated designs. From Lego he moved to mobiles; he had half a dozen swaying from his ceiling.

  As winter gave way to spring, Charlie’s building erupted into the outdoors. Charlie and his friend Sam were building a clubhouse on weekends – a two-story clubhouse in Charlie’s backyard. Charlie drew me a floor plan, and I was amazed at his understanding of space. I was even more amazed when he brought me a photograph, for now Charlie was involved in photography. He said he had gotten a small camera, and now he was walking the neighbor’s dog to earn enough money to keep him in film. Charlie certainly seemed to be expanding his world, but whether this was because of Mr. Hammond or not was hard to tell. I could have asked, but some reticence held me back. Whatever was happening in Charlie’s world was good and did not include me. I wanted to be careful not to interrupt the chemistry of whatever it was that was evolving. But still, all that wood for the clubhouse and that camera had to come from somewhere.

  April slipped into May, and now all Charlie could talk about was the upcoming class trip. The two small fourth grades were going to the Museum of Natural History. The big excitement was not the museum, however, but the fact that they were going by regular public transportation instead of by chartered bus. Many of these girls and boys had never been on a bus or subway. Their mothers spent hours each day carpooling their children to school, piano lessons, guitar lessons, karate class, dancing class, hockey games, and swim meets. After much discussion, parents agreed that travel by bus and subway would be a “learning experience” and signed letters of permission.