They Cage the Animals at Night

by Jennings Michael Burch

  A sharp click brought me back to the room, and the kids to their feet. The next series of clicks took us from the dining room, down a few more hallways to some sort of playroom with a green-and-white-tiled floor. As the line entered the room, the kids broke ranks. They ran for the things they most wanted to play with. I stayed by the door.

  One whole wall of the room was made up of glass doors. A few of the panes were cracked, while others were missing altogether. They had been replaced by panels of wood. The doors opened out onto a gray-stone courtyard with a high wire-mesh fence. There were shelves along two of the walls, with all sorts of playthings: games, puzzles, toys, blocks, and balls. A number of tables, with painted checkerboard tops, and chairs were scattered about the room.

  I took a seat at the table nearest the door. I ran my fingernail along the edge of one of the painted checkerboards to see if it would move. It didn’t. I watched the kids playing and fighting. I felt terribly alone. Maybe Mom was mad at me for something. If I had done something bad, it must have been terrible. I couldn’t remember what it was.

  “Who are you?” A voice jolted me. There were four boys standing around me. “Who are you?” one of them repeated in a tough manner.

  “Twenty-seven,” I said without thinking. They roared with laughter before I had a chance to correct myself. “Jennings. My name is Jennings,” I said over their laughter.

  “What’s your first name?” the same boy asked in an equally tough manner.

  “That is my first name.”

  They laughed even louder. The boy who spoke was bigger and older than nearly every kid in the room. He had black curly hair and a few pimples around his chin and near his temples. He announced to everyone in the room that my name was Jenny. I tried correcting him, but I got tongue-tied. They laughed more. The embarrassment made my tears come easily. I clenched my fists and tried to stand, but he grabbed my wrist and flung me back into the chair.

  “Look! He’s not a boy, he’s a girl.” He pointed his finger at me. “His name is Jenny and he cries!”

  I tried wiping my tears with every dry thing I had, my sleeves, my fingers, the palms of my hands. I insisted I wasn’t crying, and wasn’t a girl, but nobody heard me. I covered my face with my hands as the laughter and the boys faded away.

  “I don’t think you’re a girl.”

  I removed my hands and saw a boy about my age sitting across from me.

  “I’m not a girl. I’m a boy!”

  “My name is Mark and my number is nine,” he said rather proudly. He was short and chubby and wore a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses. His hair was dark and lay flat on his head, except for a few cowlicks that stuck up from the back. He sort of looked like an owl.

  “That’s a nice number,” I said. “My name is Jennings and I’m twenty-seven.”

  “Twenty-seven!” he exclaimed with a jolt of his head. “Years old?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Twenty-seven is my number. I’m only eight and a half years old.”

  It was the first time I had laughed since I’d arrived.

  “Don’t pay no attention to those jerks,” he said as he flipped his thumb in their direction. “They pick on everybody. All the time!”

  I wasn’t really listening to what he was saying. I asked, “Where are we?”

  “The day room.” He looked somewhat surprised at my question.

  “No. I mean this whole place.”

  “Oh! It’s the Home of the Angels.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly. My face told him I still didn’t know where I was.

  “It’s a home. Ya know, a home…for orphan and foster kids.”

  “A home?” I was numb. “For orphans?”

  He shook his head. “Uh-hum.”

  “Am I am orphan?”

  “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “I don’t know. My mother brought me here. She said she’d be right back…”

  “Well, then, you’re a foster kid,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I am? I’m a foster kid?”

  “U-hum.”

  “What’s a foster kid?”

  “Oh, boy!” He pushed his index finger at his glasses as though they were about to fall off his face. “A foster kid is…uh…he’s a kid who’s got parents. But! They don’t want him no more.”

  “My mother wants me!” I snapped.

  Mark sat calmly where he was. Slowly he spoke. “Then why are you here?”

  I couldn’t answer that question. My lower lip began to quiver.

  “Oh, boy! Ya know,” he said, “it’s better to be a foster kid than an orphan.”

  “Why’s that?” I squeaked out. The tears were edging toward my eyelids. I was trying to fight them off.

  “Well, a foster kid gets to leave this place.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I blinked. I quickly wiped a runaway tear. “Will Mom come for me? Will I go home soon?”

  “Well…I don’t know about that, but foster kids sometimes go and live in people’s houses.”

  “People’s houses? What people’s houses?”

  “I don’t know, just people. They come and take one kid or another. Just people.”

  “I don’t wanna live in people’s houses.”

  “Oh, boy,” he said with a huff.

  I guess I got him mad at me, because he stopped talking.

  “Are they nice people?” I asked. I wanted him to talk to me again.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m an orphan.”

  “You mean an orphan don’t get to live in people’s houses?”

  Again he pushed back his glasses. “Most don’t. Some do, the little ones. But most don’t.”

  “Did you ever—?”

  “No!” He cut me off quickly. “Nobody wants a fat ugly four-eyes.”

  His response startled me.

  “It ain’t so bad.” He looked around, almost talking to himself. “Once you get to learn all the rules…it ain’t so bad.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “I’ve always been here! Nobody wanted me when I was little, so I’ve always been here. You want to play checkers?”

  I nodded my head. He slipped away to get the playing pieces. I couldn’t believe Mom didn’t want me anymore. I tried to remember what bad thing I did for Mom to leave me here.

  Mark returned. We played two games of checkers. Neither of us spoke very much. I lost both games.

  “You don’t play very well, do you?”

  “I guess I’m just not paying too much attention. I want to go home.”

  “Now, that’s rule number one!” he shot back sternly. “Don’t ever think about going home!”

  “But I want to.”

  “I know you want to. We all do. Well, maybe not home, but someplace.” He pushed back his glasses. “But you can’t go around all day thinking about it. You’ll go nuts!” He shook his head as he began setting up the pieces for the next game.

  “It’s hard not to think about it,” I murmured.

  “I know. But you’ll get used to it. You have to.”

  We began another game. I tried to obey rule number one, but it was just too hard. I didn’t like this place and I wanted to go home.

  A click stopped us in mid-move. The next click sent everyone scurrying around the room forming lines. I stood behind Mark to wait for the next click. I hoped it was for lunch. I was starving.

  We shuffled our way back through the same maze of hallways to the dining room. As we snaked around the rows of tables, I tried to pick up a hint of what we might be having. Only rolls and butter could be seen. We stopped on a click and turned on the next. I was standing in front of chair number ten. Instantly I was pushed aside by the boy who owned the number. Lost and in trouble again, I closed my eyes and covered my ears as I caught sight of Sister Frances’ angry face heading toward me. She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me to chair twenty-seven. She clicked the others to sit. Her free hand was digging straight into my shoulder. All I could do was scrinch up my head
and neck and wait. Needless to say, again I did not sit or eat.

  Lunch seemed so much longer than breakfast. I paid no attention to the snickers of the other kids. Instead, I studied the kid in chair twenty-six. He had dirty blond hair and large funny ears. I didn’t see the front of his face. But I only cared about the back of his head.

  Lunch ended with my eyes still glued to the back of twenty-six’s head. I thought about Mark saying once you learn the rules, it ain’t so bad. If I didn’t learn the rules, I was going to starve to death.

  The snake slid into a school-type playroom. There were rows of desks toward the front, with play tables and chairs in the rear. There were three large blackboards in the front part of the room, with chalk scribbles all over them. A little old nun, about a hundred years old maybe, sat in one corner of the room half-reading and half-sleeping.

  The kids got right into drawing and coloring and painting. I sat with my back against one of the blackboards. The light rain suddenly turned heavy, very heavy. It slapped against the wall of glass doors. A clap of lightning followed by a roll of thunder caused a number of oohs and aahs. I kept my eyes on number twenty-six.

  “What are you looking at?” Mark asked as he took a seat next to me.

  “It’s not a what, it’s a who. Twenty-six!”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t realize you were behind me.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Well, I shoulda watched.” He stuck his hand under his shirt and pulled out a roll.

  “It’s the best I could do,” he said as he handed it to me. “I ate everything else.”

  I snatched up the roll and ate it. It disappeared in about two bites. It would have gone in one if my mouth had been a little bigger.

  “I’ll make sure you’re in the right spot for dinner.”

  “I’ll make sure I’m in the right spot from now on,” I said, with my eyes wide and my tongue hanging out. “If I don’t…” I mimicked my last words by making believe I hung myself.

  We were playing tic-tac-toe on the blackboard and laughing about the little nun sleeping in the corner when we were interrupted.

  “What are you laughing at, fatso?”

  It was the same four boys who had picked on me earlier. The curly-headed pimple-faced kid again did the talking. He was obviously addressing Mark.

  “I asked you something, fatso. You deaf or something?”

  Mark ignored him and drew another set of lines for our game. I was nervous, but I followed Mark’s lead. I placed an X in one of the squares.

  “Hey, everybody! We got a deaf dumbo and a little girl over here. They’re writing their names in boxes.” He managed to get everyone laughing.

  Mark seemed to be very natural at ignoring him. I had to work hard at it. They leveled a few more remarks, mostly at Mark but some at me, before they moved off to bother someone else.

  “Doesn’t he bother you?” I asked.

  “Sure he does. But I’m not gonna let him know it. He just wants someone to fight with. That’s all. He says lots of things to get you mad. And when you do…Wham! He lets you have it. He thinks he’s the toughest kid in here.”

  “Is he?”

  “Yeah. I guess so. But one of these days…” He made a gesture in the air with his fist. “Butch…is gonna get it.”

  “Is that his name? Butch!”

  “Yeah.” He placed an O in a box.

  “Did you ever notice how all the tough kids are named Butch?” I asked.

  He laughed. “I guess they wouldn’t be so tough if their names were Felix or Elmer or something.”

  “Maybe they’d be tougher.”

  We laughed. We stopped at the same time to look around for Butch. He wasn’t there. We laughed harder.

  “I got two tough brothers. Well, maybe more mean than tough.”

  “Are their names Butch?” He laughed.

  “No. George and Walter.”

  “And they’re mean? Why do you say they’re mean?”

  “Ah! They’re always picking on Larry and me.” I mimicked them, “Do this and do that.”

  “Who’s Larry?”

  “Oh! He’s another brother.”

  “Another one! How many you got?”

  “Five.”

  “Five!” He leaned back as though he were about to faint. “I never heard of anybody with five brothers. Do you have any sisters?”

  “No. Not no more. I had one, Mary Ann, but she died a little while after she was born.”

  “Did she just die?”

  “Oh, no. She died a long time ago. She would’ve been six just two weeks ago. October 5. I know her birthday ’cause Mom always cries a lot on her birthday. When’s your birthday?”

  “Uh…” I surprised him with the question. “I don’t got no birthday. At least I don’t know when it is.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe eight or nine. Something like that. Are all your brothers older than you?” He seemed to want to change the subject away from himself.

  “No. I got four older and one younger.” I made a face when I said the word “younger.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Oh, nothing. Gene’s just a pest, that’s all. He’s four.” I curled the corners of my mouth. “What a pest!”

  “Is he in a home too?”

  I was stunned by the thought. Tears began to well up in my eyes. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Oh, boy. I’m sorry I asked. We won’t talk about your brothers no more.” He went about drawing another set of lines on the board.

  “It’s all right,” I said weakly. I blinked away the thought of Gene being in a place like this.

  “Naa. I don’t want you to start bawling on me.”

  “I’m not bawling!” I insisted. “We can talk about my brothers if you want to.”

  “I like to hear about brothers and things like that.”

  “Well, George’s my oldest brother,” I said as I marked an X in the upper-right-hand corner. “He’s real good at stickball. He can hit three sewers!”

  “What’s three sewers?”

  “Oh! That’s like hitting the ball a whole block.”

  “Wow!” His eyes widened. “That’s far.”

  “Yeah. He’s pretty strong. He’d be a real good brother if he didn’t drink and get real mean and argue with Mom.”

  “He drinks? How old is he?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen! And he drinks!”

  I nodded my head.

  “Don’t your father hit him or nothing?”

  “I ain’t got no father. He died in the war a long time ago.”

  “Well, what about your mother? Don’t she hit him?”

  “No. She’s afraid of him. We’re all afraid of him, except maybe Walter. He’s not afraid of him. He fights with him all the time.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fourteen. He’s real smart.” I raised my eyebrows. “He’s always studying and thinking.”

  Click!

  I froze, but nobody else did.

  “What’s happening?”

  “I gotta go to class,” Mark said as he wiped the chalk from his hands on the back of his pants. “All lifers go to class now. I’ll see you later.”

  “Don’t I go?”

  “No. You’re not a lifer, you’re a part-timer.”

  “A part-timer?”

  “Yeah. I don’t got time to explain it to you now, but I will later.” He left to join a line that was leaving the room.

  I shot a quick glance around the room. Luckily, twenty-six was still there.

  The room was quieter now. Butch was gone and so were his friends. Most of the kids who were left were drawing or coloring, or just sitting and thinking. They were probably all breaking rule number one, but then again, so was I. The rain continued to fall heavily against the glass doors. I wondered where all my brothers were. Could they be in places like this? I was hungry. I found myself really hoping the clicker w
ould sound. I was sure the next one would be for dinner.

  Sharp stabs of lightning and the roll of thunder frightened some of the kids. Finally the clicker sounded.

  As I and the snake weaved its way around the tables, I smelled the food. I had no idea what it was, but I didn’t care. I stopped on the click and turned. I waited years for the one that would let me sit and eat.

  Click!

  About a foot from me was a large stack of white bread, just standing there. I wanted to grab a piece, but I was afraid. I waited for someone else to grab first. Nobody did. One of the kids took a drink of his milk. I did the same. I never realized how good milk tasted.

  I saw a few nuns wearing aprons tied around their necks and waists. They were carrying large bowls of something. One of them reached my table. I watched her serve stew to every kid at the table. By the time she got to me, I had already dreamed of eating everyone’s stew. It was great. She scooped up a large ladle of stew and dumped it into my bowl. It smelled wonderful. I rechecked what everyone else was doing. They were eating. I lifted my spoon and dived in. I ate everything in the bowl and about three pieces of bread. It wasn’t until the kid next to me slid his unfinished bowl in front of me that I realized the stew really didn’t have much of a taste. I smiled at him and ate his too.

  Click!

  It was over. I grabbed up a slice of bread and stuffed it into my shirt. The clicks took me and the line from the dining room. We entered the playroom.

  Mark and I sat on the curb. We lifted our legs each time a cycle came too close, and placed them back down again in unison.

  “What’s a part-timer?” I asked. “And why don’t they go to school?”

  “They got no room for everybody. A part-timer ain’t gonna be here all that long. You’ll either go home or be lent out to live with somebody.” He added quickly, “Don’t go bawling on me, now. It don’t mean you will be lent out. I was just using that as a for-instance.”

  “I’m not going to bawl.”

  “Good! Lifers are here all the time. So we go to school. See?”

  “Yeah. I see.”

  “So tell me about your other two brothers. Larry and the other one. What’s his name?”

  “Jerome.”

  “Yeah. Tell me about Larry and Jerome.”

  “Well, I can’t tell you too much about Jerome. I never met him.”