Weapons. Don’t fight back if somebody has a knife, a gun, a razor blade, a broken bottle. They’re not thinking straight. Keep quiet and give them whatever you can. Try not to walk alone.
Alone. That was going to be the hardest thing. Brian would be alone. Most of our kids were always alone outside of school. It was not that they were true loners; they would have loved to play with the neighbourhood kids, but no matter how they improved they were still a little ‘different’, and the neighbourhood kids, in good, all-American style, shunned what was different.
It was time to go down to the school now, to P.S. 24. I’d given out my tiny store of advice. I’d cheated and demanded that Brian catch me at it. I’d served him helpings that were too small, cheated him out of his turn, and made him insist on his rights. I had conned him, deceived him, challenged him – and he’d survived. Now I’d better go and see the school itself.
The March winds whipped scraps of trash and newspaper across the streets as I drove in early in the morning. The city was bigger than I had imagined it, most of it old, some of it beautiful. Delicately proportioned church spires rose unexpectedly beside dirty tenements and tacky department stores.
The junior high school was on the far side of the business district in a flat, open area, opposite an empty warehouse. I parked my car in the warehouse lot and picked my way across the street over beer cans and broken bottles. The school looked as if it had been decorated for a holiday with bright cloth at every window. But as I approached I realised that this was no decoration, these were live kids hanging out of the windows, whistling and hooting, analysing each inch of my anatomy and commenting on every step I took. I looked up, waved at them, and the hoots died down a little. Suddenly a long, loud, insistent bell rang and immediately the bodies withdrew, windows slammed shut, and there was absolute silence as I walked up the chipped concrete steps.
There was a sign by the front door: VISITORS MUST REPORT DIRECTLY TO THE OFFICE. PASSES ARE REQUIRED FOR ENTRANCE.
Depression crept around my heart and curdled in my stomach. This was a school? It seemed more like a prison.
In the office a dry, acid-looking woman refused to speak to me, pointing to a pad and paper. I filled out the form. She read it reluctantly, checked by phone, and issued me a pass for Room 342.
There were guards at the head and foot of each stairway. The halls were windowless and the doors to the rooms were tightly shut. Boy, I thought, you got a long way to go yourself, Bernie.
This was unfair. I couldn’t hold Bernie Sorrino accountable for the whole city school system; his job was special education. The class I had come to visit was labelled SGI, a term I had never heard before. It translated to Special Grade Instruction.
‘What it means is,’ Bernie had told me, ‘that these kids don’t fit anyplace else. But they don’t fit together either, so there’s no name for ’em. Can’t put ’em in a retarded class, can’t put ’em in a regular transient class, going from room to room for different subjects, so we put ’em together, teach ’em everything in one room, and hope they survive. What’s the matter, sweetheart? You don’t like it? It’s one helluva lot better than anything else we got to offer.’
Bernie’s words went round in my head as I hesitated outside Room 342 while the stairway guard eyed me suspiciously, I couldn’t retreat now. I took a deep breath and pulled open the heavy door, prepared for the worst. I couldn’t have been more surprised.
The room was filled with sunshine and perhaps a dozen kids. Some desks were pushed together, others not. The kids were all crowded in the back of the room in front of a makeshift grocery store. They barely glanced at me; busily making out orders, consulting shopping lists, compiling items, wrapping, paying, giving, getting money.
A young woman with a wide smile and round glasses sat on the back windowsill refereeing. ‘Come on in. You must be Mary MacCracken. Bernie told me you were coming. I’m Katie Moresco. Think you can stand the noise?’
I could have stood anything, I felt so good about having her in the room. I stayed all morning, impressed by the way she handled the kids, by her warmth and her competence. The books and teaching materials were worn and shabby, but at least this meant they were used, and there was a lot more variety than we had. The kids themselves were twelve to fourteen years old; about half were black. Some of their young faces reflected anger and almost a bone weariness; their clothes were torn and their hands grimy, but there was no look of retardation – and on that morning, anyway, no bizarre acting out.
At lunchtime the kids lined up at the door and then filed out to the lunchroom.
I turned to Katie Moresco. ‘Brian’s lucky. This will be good for him.’
She barely heard me. The mortality rate is high in that lunchroom. Good thing you came in the morning; in the afternoon we have the walking wounded. Somebody always comes back bleeding: bloody nose, cut lip, broken arm. And you know whose fault they say it is? My kids!
‘They blame everything on the “specials” – not just the kids, the teachers too. Sometimes I could kill them, I really could. If they’re not blaming it on my kids, they’re looking the other way while the rest of the school beats up on them. Last year I got so mad I ate with them every day down there. This year I figure they got to learn to live in a jungle sometime.’
She took her own sandwich from her desk drawer. ‘Come on down to the teachers’ room and have a cup of coffee with your lunch.’
I hadn’t brought lunch, hadn’t even thought about it. I was so used to eating franks and beans with the kids. But I liked Katie Moresco and wanted to keep talking. ‘Can I buy you a hamburger?’
Katie dropped her sandwich in the wastebasket without hesitation. ‘Fantastic. Let’s go.’
Relish, mustard, ketchup; Katie poured them all on top of her hamburger and grinned at me over the bun. ‘Thanks. That school has all the charm of the Tombs. I love the kids, but the rest of the place gives me the creeps,’ she said, ‘Listen, what’s this Brian like? Think he’ll fit in okay?’
I described our school and Brian as thoroughly as I could. Katie listened carefully, interrupting from time to time to ask a question or explore a point more explicitly.
‘Well,’ she said finally, ‘from what you say, it should work out. Sounds like he’s about on the same reading level as Joe; maths he can do with Trixie; socially – well, we’ll just have to see.’
I dropped Katie back at school when we’d finished lunch. ‘Thanks again. I’ll bring Brian down to visit in another few weeks, if that’s all right with you. You’ll be back next fall?’ I wanted the assurance, realising how important she would be in a successful transition for Brian.
Katie ducked her head so she could look in the car window. ‘Yeah. Sure. Unless I get lucky and start growing a kid. But don’t hold your breath. I’ve been trying to get pregnant five years steady, so it’s not likely to happen this summer. See you.’
She straightened, hesitated; then bent back down.
‘Listen, about this social thing. I mean about Brian’s getting along with the other kids. I was thinking maybe I could arrange something … Where does he live, which section? I mean, which bus will he be riding?’
Her question felt like a clout. Bus? I forced my voice out. ‘Pine Street. One-eighty-seven Pine. I don’t know, I’m not sure about the section.’
The school bell jangled and Katie backed up waving as I stepped on the accelerator. I had to get back.
Brian. My God, of course, he’d be riding buses. No more the isolated splendour of the taxi. Brian would have to learn to ride a bus.
The next day the four kids and I sat in the small three-sided bus shelter in the middle of our town. We took up the rear bench and the children sat silently, looking at the wide expanse of grass and trees in the park across from us. I knew they’d much rather be over there, away from the curious, sometimes hostile eyes that stared at us. For that matter, so would I.
‘Now look,’ I said, as quietly as I could. ‘There’s noth
ing to this. We’ve been all over it at school. We’ve drawn it on the blackboard and talked about it. We get on here, take the bus to Glendale, get off, walk around the town and take the bus back.
‘I’m going to pay for Hannah, Jamie, Rufus, and myself. Brian, you’ve got your money; you’ll buy your own ticket.’
Brian nodded and the silence continued. Rufus was the only one who’d ever been on a bus. That was over a year ago and his sister had been carsick.
I looked at my watch. The bus was five minutes late and the station was beginning to get crowded. The tension got to Jamie and he stood up in front of the bench and planted one foot before the other and began to rock back and forth. A dozen pairs of adult eyes stared at him. I stood up, not so much to block his rocking as to give him some protection from the curious stares.
But as the bus pulled in the people forgot Jamie and rushed outside, trying to be the first on line, although the bus was almost empty. I shepherded Rufus, Hannah, and Jamie in front of me – Brian was so close behind that he stepped on me twice. I paid our fares and moved down the aisle; Brian panicked and kept following.
‘Here, Mary, you pay, you pay.’ He thrust the quarter into my hand.
The driver yelled, ‘Get back here, sonny. I saw you sneak by.’
I turned Brian around and walked back with him, thankful at least that I’d given him the exact fare.
‘Give the man the money, Bri.’
Gingerly Brian dropped the quarter into the driver’s outstretched hand, careful not to let his fingers touch.
The driver glared at me. ‘What’s the matter, lady? Can’t you handle your kids? They get worse every year. You gotta watch ’em all the time, otherwise they steal you blind.’
There wasn’t time to answer. Jamie was rocking up and down the aisle. Hannah had twisted her cropped hair into little clumps as she waited for the bus, and now she pulled at them and moaned as she knelt on one of the seats, head buried against the cushion. Rufus sat loyally, miserably, beside her.
I ushered Brian and Jamie in front of me, gathered up Rufus and Hannah on the way, and finally got us all seated. Two women moved away and we sat like pariahs in the rear of the bus.
The ride itself was uneventful but joyless. Even the walk down Glendale’s streets was glum. Ordinarily, the children loved to window-shop, but now they stared blankly at the displays. There wasn’t any point in buying the ice cream cones I’d planned.
We walked down one side of the main street, back the other, and took the next bus back. It had taken the whole afternoon, that one miserable bus ride. In some ways it didn’t really seem worth it.
But we rode the bus twice the next week. Things were getting better. The driver and some of the passengers began to recognise us – and sometimes even smile.
The next week I gave Brian a dollar. When he waited for his change, the driver said, ‘Atta boy. Better count it. Make sure I didn’t cheat you. Ha-ha.’
Brian, of course, counted the change right then and there: fifty, seventy-five, eighty-five, ninety, one dollar. Both the driver and the passengers behind him waited patiently while he did it.
The first sunny day in April I put Brian on the bus alone. We all drove to the station, we all waited for the bus, but only Brian would ride.
My heart sank when the bus pulled in and I saw an unfamiliar driver.
‘I don’t want to go, Mary,’ Brian said. ‘Not today. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘Hurry up,’ I said. ‘There’s not much time.’
Brian paid his quarter and sat down next to the window, pressing his sad, pointed face as close to us as he could. Rufus, Hannah, and Jamie all waved cheerfully, they were so glad not to be there themselves.
As soon as the bus left, I got the other three children into the car and drove to Glendale, hurrying so we’d be there when the bus drove in. We arrived in plenty of time to see Brian get off with tears running down his cheeks.
‘What’s the matter, Brian?’
‘She was scary. That lady next to me was mean and scary – and she had a black umbrella. It isn’t even raining. That could have been a broom. A folded-up broom.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Brian. If she’s scary, ignore her or move. You’re doing fine.’
And the next day I put him back on the bus.
At night, before I slept, his pale, worried face peered at me from the window of the bus, and I’d think, I want him back, riding in the car with us, safe and happy. But the next day I’d drive him to the bus station and pick him up at the other end. At least we were getting speedier; if we ate lunch fast, we could get down and back with almost no study time lost.
The next week Rufus wanted to ride with Brian. Why not? Brian even paid Rufus’s fare. They sat together, smiling, as the bus pulled out.
The following week Hannah wanted to go too. I was less sure about this. Rufus was hardly a sophisticate, but he had ten times more social know-how than Hannah did. But Brian was enthusiastic, and after all, that was what the whole thing was about, getting Brian to like bus riding. I finally agreed and the two boys and Hannah planned their trip carefully, setting it up for the coming Friday.
This time we really would celebrate. We wouldn’t just have cones. We’d sit down in the store and have real ice cream sodas.
All three dressed up that Friday. Brian wore his blue plaid shirt and sweater, Rufus had on his oxford-cloth button-down shirt, and Hannah wore her sailor dress and shiny black shoes and carried a large black purse, just like her mother’s. Evidently travelling meant pocketbooks in the Rosnic household.
Jamie and I watched them board and find seats together in the back and then we went back to the car, feeling a little lonesome. ‘Never mind, Jamie, we’ll go out by the dump and you can drive the car, okay?’
The dump was actually a deserted marsh with an unpaved road running around the edge. When we got there I lifted Jamie on to my lap and let him hold the wheel and honk the horn while we drove twice around.
The bus arrived at the Glendale stop just as we did. Obviously, something was wrong. The driver turned off the motor, put on his red blinkers, and climbed down out of the bus. Hannah, Brian, and Rufus followed. Hannah’s face was tear-stained; Brian was hopping around, hands flapping against his sides; Rufus was grinning.
The bus driver was our familiar one, and he came up to me without ado. ‘Well, missus, you can be real proud of this young fella here,’ he pointed at Brian. ‘Captured a criminal, that’s what.’
‘A criminal?’ I said. Maybe I was getting a little punchy myself.
‘Yes, ma’am, a thief. We got him on the bus now, got two fellas watching him for me. Would’ve taken him straight to the police station, but I knew you’d be waiting and I didn’t want you worried. But we’re going there right now, turn him over to the law.’
The story was taking too long for Rufus. ‘He got Hannah’s purse –’
‘That’s right,’ the driver continued. ‘These here children of yours were just sitting there, riding like regular ladies and gentlemen. Then I pull in to make my first stop back there on South Road. You know the spot?’
‘That’s when he grabbed Hannah’s purse!’ shouted Rufus. ‘And then Brian –’
‘Yup. Then this young fella’ – the driver’s big hand came down on Brian’s shoulder – ‘was up like a streak and down the aisle ahead of the hoodlum. Blocked him right off there by my station until –’
‘And Brian shoved too, Mary, and he yelled,’ Rufus went on. ‘Brian yelled at the guy “Give it back,” and then the guy tried to get by Brian, but Brian didn’t let him. I mean he really gave it to that guy. Brian stuck out his foot and tripped him and the guy fell down and the driver got up and grabbed him.’
Hannah smiled around her tears, holding up the black pocketbook. ‘Driver hold him and then Brian grab my purse. Get it back for me. Had real money.’
When I looked at the cold facts I could see that all that Brian had actually done was to chase the purse-snatcher down the
aisle, trip him, and then reclaim Hannah’s purse after the bus driver had pinned the thief. Still, this would have been an achievement for any twelve-year-old boy, and for Brian it was a four-star event. The marvellous thing was that the other kids knew it. They built Brian up, exaggerated his courage, and, most of all, recognised what it had meant to him.
Brian stood quietly now, his hands in his pockets. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. He had the confidence of a hero.
Chapter 18
On Saturday morning, along with the bills, a letter arrived from the Board. I propped it against the bowl of daffodils and studied it while I drank my orange juice. I was getting less and less eager to read these missives from the Board.
I finally opened it with my second cup of coffee. It was typed, impersonal, addressed to ‘All members of the staff,’ signed by Jean Huntington, Board President.
The letter was only two paragraphs long. The first paragraph asked each teaching member of the staff to send two photostatic copies of his teaching certificate and undergraduate and master degrees. The second paragraph stated that it was necessary to file one copy with the state; the Board would keep the other. Jean Huntington thanked each of us for our co-operation.
I had no degree, undergraduate or otherwise, and no teaching certificate. I did have a list of the credits I’d gotten during my two years at Wellesley years before, and another list of the journalism and psychology courses I’d taken later, although not for credit. And I had my twelve education credits. I typed these up carefully and mailed them to the Board.
A week later I received a two-paragraph letter stating that they found it ‘regrettable’ but my present credentials were ‘inadequate’. The final paragraph asked me to advise them of my plans.
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