Lovey

by Mary MacCracken

  I didn’t, to be honest. What I really wanted was some time to myself to go through the files again, to look at what the children had been doing, to acquaint myself with the nooks and crannies of the classroom and generally suss out my little queendom. However, not knowing him, I didn’t think I’d better say that, so I smiled, nodded, and said it would be very nice, if he wanted to stay.

  There were only four children in this class, making it the smallest I’d ever had outside an institution. Given this, the beautifully appointed classroom, the friendly principal, and the chance to live away from the city, I congratulated myself. Impulsive as the decision had been, it was a good move.

  At quarter of nine, the first child arrived, tugged into the classroom by his mother. Reuben was a beautiful kid. At nine he was tall and slim, with an exquisitely well-formed body. His hair was dark and glossy, cut in a Dutch-boy style, which gave him a quaint, not-quite-real appearance, rather as if he were an actor preparing for a period part. His eyes, large and dark, looked everywhere but at me.

  The diagnosis in the file said autism, and it took only a few minutes with him to realize it was accurate. Reuben functioned well, however, within the confines of his handicap. He could speak, use the toilet, and perform a number of academic feats with considerable skill.

  Only child of a middle-aged professional couple, Reu­ben had had many advantages and a great deal of time spent in an effort to assuage the effects of the autism. He’d been to California, Pennsylvania, and South Carolina to participate in programs designed to modify the more difficult behaviors. At home he had two “nannies” em­ployed specifically to see that Reuben got through his daily exercises and programming, had his vitamins, and was otherwise encouraged to follow various professional recommendations to ameliorate his handicap. And he had swimming lessons and piano lessons, not only for the experiences they provided but also to give Reuben a chance to mix with ordinary children. Despite both working in Falls River, his parents had specifically chosen to build their new home on a twenty-acre tract outside Pecking in the belief that a rural environment with its more varied seasons, clear-cut cycles, and numerous hands-on expe­riences would be better for Reuben than life in town. And it was they, Mr. Tinbergen pointed out, who had sought to have a special education program available locally for their son. Previously, all special education students had been bussed into Falls River, but Dr. and Mrs. Adams had been persistent and were influential enough in their own right to have seen the formation of this small class four years earlier. Unspoken but unmistakable was Mr. Tinbergen’s intimation that we all had to kowtow a bit to the Adamses, as without them, none of this would have been.

  After getting Reuben settled with a toy at one of the tables, I turned to see a small face peering through the window of the classroom door. “Hello,” I said. “Is this your room?”

  The door cracked open to reveal a small girl with thin, matchstick legs and pinched features dwarfed further by what could only be described as a Pre-Raphaelite hair style – a great wodge of dark, curly hair parted unevenly down the middle and descending over her back in a sheet. She was attractive in a pale, overwhelmed sort of way.

  I knew immediately who this was – Jade Ekdahl – simply because she was the only girl in the class. What had caught my eye immediately in reading Jade’s file was the fact that she was an elective mute. Although reportedly she talked at home, at school she had never uttered a word to anyone. Indeed, not only did she not talk, she also did not laugh, cry, cough, burp, hiccup or even sniffle, which, tales had it, left snot to drip inelegantly down from her nose into her lap. She had been retained an extra year in kindergarten in hopes that time might help her overcome her speaking difficulties, but nothing had changed. She’d been promoted on to first grade, where she seemed com­petent enough at her schoolwork, but she was dismally isolated. Still not speaking at the end of that year and by now almost eight, she was moved down the hall to this room.

  The reason that Jade’s case had caught my eye was that for the better part of the previous ten years, from college right through my work at the Sandry Clinic, my special research interest had been elective mutism. Fascinated by this disturbance, in which an individual is physically and intellectually capable of speaking normally but refuses to do so for psychological reasons, I had worked with these children extensively. Now I found it quirky that on finally deciding to end all that, who should turn up in my class but another elective mute. You’re blessed with them, Mr. Tinbergen had remarked when I pointed out this coincidence. I’d replied something along the lines of not so much being blessed with them as haunted by them.

  “Good morning, Jadie,” Mr. Tinbergen said. “Come on in. This is your new teacher. Your real teacher, not just another substitute.”

  Jadie – as everyone called her – glanced up at me briefly and then scuttled by to hang up her coat in the cloakroom. What I noticed immediately was her posture, quite unlike anything I’d previously encountered while treating elective mutes. Hunched over almost double, she had her arms crossed and tucked up under her, as if she were clutching an unwieldy load of books. I made a mental note to inquire about scoliosis.

  The two final pupils arrived by bus and so came into the classroom together. Six-year-old Philip was a small skinny black kid with a horsey-looking face. His hair was cut very short and his two front teeth stuck out, emphasizing the equine likeness. Born in Chicago to a mother addicted to hard drugs, Philip had had a very unpromising start to life. He’d been premature, addicted himself, and had failed to thrive throughout much of his first year of life. As he passed through a series of foster homes during the times his mother felt unable to cope with him, his development had been slow, erratic, and often unreported so that when, at age three, he was finally taken permanently from his mother’s care, no one had any realistic idea what Philip was capable of. When he was five, he was placed in a long-term foster home with a local couple who had taken several other “hard-to-place” children and were raising them successfully. Without a doubt, the newfound warmth and stability were good for Philip, but he had made dishearteningly little progress. Although he grunted and gestured, he still had virtually no speech. He urinated in the toilet but would only open his bowels when wearing a special diaper, which had resulted in horrific bouts of constipation and frequently soiled pants. And he had made almost no academic progress in two years at school. A class for mildly mentally handicapped children probably would have been a more appropriate placement for his educa­tional needs; however, Philip’s behavior made him un­welcome. Racked with fears, he was withdrawn and unwilling to approach new situations, and when frus­trated, he responded with panicky violence.

  The final student was Jeremiah, eight. A native Amer­ican of Sioux descent, he was the oldest of five children in a family eking out a living doing God-knows-what on a five-acre tract of land littered with rusting car bodies and old stoves. Jeremiah was a fighter. His pugnacious behav­ior was so extreme, his mouth so foul that the parents in his previous school had banded together to keep him from returning, even with resource help. So he’d ended up here in a last-ditch attempt to save him from custodial detention. I had an irrational love for this sort of kid, for the loud, feisty, streetwise ones who never knew quite how to quit, and the moment I saw him with his black hair stuck straight up, as if it had never seen a comb, and his cocky little rooster strut, I knew I’d found another one.

  “Well, children,” Mr. Tinbergen said cheerfully, when everyone had arrived, “guess what? This is your new teacher. Your new teacher. Not just another substitute, but your own teacher. Miss Hayden. Miss Torey Hayden. And she says you may call her Torey. That’s what her other boys and girls have called her. So let’s say hello to Torey.”

  All four children stared at me. No one spoke.

  “Well, come on, now. Let’s make Torey feel welcome. Reuben? Can you say good morning?”

  “Good morning,” Reuben echoed in a singsong falsetto.

  “Philip?”
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br />   Philip grunted and hid his head in his arms.

  “Jeremiah?”

  His grunt was not much more intelligible than Philip’s.

  “And Jadie says hello, too, don’t you, Jadie?” Then Mr. Tinbergen turned to me. “Welcome to P.S. 168. Welcome to our school.”

  I smiled self-consciously.

  “And now, I’ll let you go. I’m sure you’re anxious to get on with things.” With that, Mr. Tinbergen finally went out the door.

  Pressing it gently shut behind him, I turned back to the class, to the four of them sitting around the table. “Well,” I said, “good morning. Good morning to you, Philip. And to you, Reuben. And to you, Jeremiah. And good morning to you. Jade – Jadie? Is that what you like people to call you?”

  “She don’t talk, so you might as well not make a point of it,” Jeremiah said.

  “I can still talk to her,” I replied.

  “Oh Jesus,” Jeremiah replied and rolled his eyes. “You’re not going to be one of them teachers, are you? Not one of them always wanting her own way.”

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” I asked.

  “Is that what you’re worried about?” he mimicked per­fectly. “Oh Jesus, you guys, listen to her. Listen to that boogy old broad.”

  I grinned. Back in the saddle again.

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  Copyright

  This book recounts the essence of my experience and in that sense is a true story. However, it is not intended as a literal account and it is not to be taken as a portrayal of any living person. All names of individuals, places or institutions are fictitious.

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  First published in Great Britain by Andre Deutsch Ltd, 1977

  This updated edition published by HarperElement 2014

  Copyright © 1976, 2014 by Mary Burnham MacCracken

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  Cover photographs © Diane Kerpan/arcangel-images.com

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