City Kid

by Mary MacCracken

  On the drive back, textbook phrases echoed in my head. “Socially maladjusted … character disorder … sociopathic behavior; destructive, immature, impulsive, manipulative – with a disregard for the needs and feelings of others. A deficit of conscience and judgment; inability to feel guilt and shame.” I knew the words; I’d read all the descriptive phrases at night school years before.

  Luke would be considered a classic case, who, as he grew older, would continue to steal, destroy and even perhaps sometime to kill. He was a product of his society, and even I knew I couldn’t change a society.

  I forced my thoughts away from Luke, back to the road.

  Where was the place I’d parked? Everything looked different from this direction. There was the water tower. I strained to see if I could see a figure beneath the tank, but none was visible.

  Panic never arrives slowly for me. Now it hit – wham! Suppose I couldn’t find the place, the path. Suppose Luke waited and then decided that I wasn’t coming back, that I had let him down again?

  I’d gone too far. I was sure of it. I was getting much too close to Falls City now. Damn, damn! Turn the car around. You’ll recognize the spot from this side.

  I drove back up the hill slowly, slowly searching the side of the road for the same place I’d pulled off with Luke. If I could find that spot, I thought I could cut back to the path. Things are easier to remember on foot.

  Luke! I’d almost missed him. I slammed on the brakes and backed up. Luke stood up and came out from behind a small bush. I jammed the car into some low evergreens and took the paper bag of sandwiches and soda back to where Luke waited. Luke cared! He’d even come to help. Remember the days in school, the doughnuts, the lipstick tube. Don’t sell him short.

  “That path’s hard to see when you don’t know it,” Luke said, forgiving me.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Four-thirty now. Time was running out. The sun turned molten red and began to descend into the city. The sky above the sunset changed from blue to gray.

  Luke ate two sandwiches without speaking, washing down mouthfuls with gulps of soda. Then unexpectedly, he said, “Sometimes, after my dad was finished … underneath, he’d put out the fire and then come up on the platform and sit with me. And sometimes he would stay awake awhile and when the stars came out, he’d tell me their names.” Luke had his arms wrapped around his knees so he had to turn his whole body to look at me. “He knew all the names. Big Dipper. Little Dipper. Orion. Cassy Pee’s Chair.” There was pride in Luke’s small voice.

  I concentrated on the sky, trying to remain objective, to remember the textbook, to realize what a small percentage of success socially maladjusted kids had, but my heart was thump-thumping for some undefined reason. I watched a small cloud form above the sun, an odd shape, reminiscent of something.

  “Luke, look,” I said. “See that cloud? It looks like an amoeba.”

  “What’s an amoeba?”

  “It’s the simplest of all animals. It’s really very, very small – only about a hundredth of an inch around. I saw one first when I was in college. I saw it through a microscope and it looked sort of like a starfish made out of gray jelly.”

  “Where’s it come from?” Luke asked, leaning toward me.

  “They said in college that you could find them, amoebas, in mud or in weeds in ponds. But I don’t think we could see them. Not with just our eyes.”

  Luke’s own eyes were close to mine. He was on his knees, listening hard. I realized suddenly that our eyes were almost identical in color – brown, almost black, so that unless you looked closely, the pupil was indistinguishable from the rest. I studied his whole face now, searching for answers. Where was cruelty? Not in his eyes or short, straight nose. Where was destructiveness? Not in his wide mouth or small chin.

  All of a sudden I knew what to do to help Luke. It was so simple. I would teach him. He wasn’t, after all, a segment of society. We’d leave society to someone else and just be what we were. I would teach him about amoebas and plants and animals – and numbers and how words could be used to communicate thoughts and feelings. I felt such a rush of energy that it almost propelled me off the ledge. I forgot the college textbook predictions, even the mountain, the day, Luke and myself, totally immersed in my idea.

  Luke nudged my arm and pulled me back to earth.

  “Hey, look, Mary. Your meba’s gone.”

  I stood up. The sky was hardly any color at all now. It was time to go home, but Luke didn’t seem to know it. He had become inordinately cheerful and was hopping about on the rock. Now he tugged at my hand as I bent over to pick up our empty soda cans.

  “Ifs turned into a kite,” Luke said. “The meba’s turned into a kite.”

  Luke was right. The shape that had hung amorphously amoebalike above the sun had shifted, somehow changed itself into the pattern of a kite so that now it sailed across the sky, a beribboned tail bobbing just above the dark horizon.

  There was the evidence that change could and did occur.

  “Okay,” I said, recognizing confirmation. No matter what the textbooks said, Luke and I were going to have to give it a try. “You’re right. It does look like a kite. But right now, Luke Brauer, I’m going to take you back to Falls City and then I’m going home and tomorrow we’re going down to the police station and you’re going to tell them about the fire at the factory.” I couldn’t go back too far. Forget the mountain fire. Concentrate on now.

  “I’m not gonna tell on Wendell,” Luke muttered.

  “Okay. But you’re going to tell about your special place and how you left before the fire started.”

  Luke stalled.

  “Can’t go to the police tomorrow,” he said. “I gotta go to school.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I reminded him. “We can go.”

  Luke inspected me. “You comin’?”

  “Looks that way,” I replied.

  We walked down the hill together carrying the paper bag and soda cans.

  Chapter 10

  It was raining when I picked Luke up in the park the next morning. It looked to me as though he had been home. His pants were dry and he had on a clean shirt. But I didn’t ask. He had wanted to be dropped off at the park last night and I’d agreed. We had been through a lot yesterday – it was enough that he had been willing to come down off his mountain. Now we needed our strength for the police.

  I was worried. The only time I’d been in a police station in the last ten years was to renew a dog’s license and I was far from sure of procedure. Cal’s advice had been to find a top officer and state who we were and why we were there. Why were we there? Because the police had been hunting for Luke. What would they do to him? Probably not much. The jails weren’t set up for seven-year-old kids who set fires and ran away. Nonetheless, I was perspiring slightly as Luke and I walked into the police station.

  A wooden rail and gate divided the space in the front office. Behind it two men in dark blue pants and lighter blue shirts sat in front of a switchboard.

  The larger of the two looked at us without getting up. “Help you?” he said, although it didn’t sound as though help was what he had in mind.

  “Yes,” I answered. “I’m Mary MacCracken. This is Luke Brauer.”

  “Luke Brauer? Oh, yeah. The truant kid at Twenty-three who’s always setting fires. That you, kid?”

  Luke nodded silently.

  “All right. Come on over here.”

  The big man opened the wooden gate and motioned Luke inside. I started to follow.

  “Who’re you, lady? His mother?”

  “No. I’m Mary MacCracken. I’m –”

  “Mary MacCracken,” he mimicked me. “Come on, lady. Don’t play games. I asked who you are.”

  Anger snapped inside my head like a rubber band. I wanted to stand up close to this fat bully and answer. Who am I? I am a teacher and a lover of children.

  But I had learned from Luke. In Falls City the less said the better. “I
work with Luke over at School Twenty-three. I’m associated with the Mental Health Clinic.”

  “Oh,” he said. “A social worker.”

  “Sort of,” I said under my breath, nodding. Then,

  “What is your name, officer?” I’d be quiet, but I wouldn’t be pushed around.

  “Snow,” he answered, obviously annoyed. “All right, come in here, the both of youse.”

  He pointed to two metal chairs and Luke and I sat down.

  Officer Snow stood over us, clipboard in hand.

  “All right. How do you spell your name, kid?”

  “L-u-k-e.” Luke’s voice was so quiet you could hardly hear him.

  Officer Snow slammed the clipboard against the metal chair next to Luke. I sucked in my breath quickly and then immediately hated myself for reacting. Luke never moved a muscle.

  “What’re you? A wise guy? Acting like I wouldn’t know how to spell a little word like Luke. Just watch it, kid. Now spell your last name.”

  “B-r-a-u-e-r.”

  Officer Snow wrote the letters on his clipboard.

  Luke sat silently. I forced myself to keep still.

  “Now what about these fires? Why’d you try to burn up the lipstick factory?”

  Still Luke said nothing.

  Officer Snow kicked the legs of the metal chair. This time neither Luke or I stirred. “All right now, Brauer, you better start cooperating or you’re gonna be sorry. Did you set that fire up at the factory?”

  Luke sat without moving.

  “Damn it. Were you there?”

  Luke nodded.

  “Speak up! Answer yes or no.”

  “Yes,” Luke said.

  “That’s better. Who was with you?”

  Silence.

  “All right. I’ve had it. Get up. Stand over here.” He pushed Luke into the middle of the room under the overhead light. “I said who was with you?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Nobody, huh? You just ran around setting fires all by yourself, is that it?”

  Luke shrugged.

  Officer Snow walked back and forth, back and forth. He turned suddenly and snapped, “Where’s your father?”

  Luke shrugged again. “New York, I guess.”

  “You got an address for him?”

  Luke shook his head.

  “I told you. Speak up.”

  “No,” Luke replied.

  “How about your mother? Where’s she?”

  Luke studied his sneakers. “She doesn’t feel too good.”

  Now Officer Snow left Luke in the center of the room and descended upon me. “What the hell is going on? How can we put any pressure on him, let alone get any fine, if he doesn’t even know where his father is and his mother’s sick? What’s he doing here, anyway?”

  I stood up. “I told him to come.”

  “You did. How come you did that?”

  “Because it was his responsibility.”

  He stared at me. “Responsibility. Re-spon-si-bil-i-tee! You hear that, Bill? Responsibility. You ever hear a big word like that in this here little station before?”

  The policeman at the switchboard shrugged. “Let ’em go. What’s the use giving them a hard time? At least we don’t have to look for the kid anymore.”

  Officer Snow walked to the files. He leafed through a folder and then came back. “All right. I’m gonna let youse go. But you better be at School Twenty-three every day, kid, when I come looking for you. Because if you’re not, when I find you, you’re gonna think those fires you set are cool as ice water compared to what I’m gonna do. Now wail outside.”

  The station house door clanked shut behind Luke and Officer Snow said, “What’s the matter with the kid’s father? Where is he, anyway?”

  “All I know is that Luke’s parents are divorced.”

  “All right. All right. A lotta men leave a lotta women and the other way around. But you don’t never let a kid not know how to find you. I got six of my own. I oughta know. Now you tell that kid to come down here and ask for me if he’s got some kind of problem.”

  I knew Luke would never do it. Still, in spite of Officer Snow’s lack of sensitivity, he was one more person on Luke’s team. “I’ll tell him,” I said. “Thank you.”

  When I got outside it was still raining and Luke was huddled against the side of the building trying to keep dry. “Let’s go,” I shouted and Luke and I raced across the street to the car.

  We drove in silence for a while and then I said, “You were strong, Luke.” I wasn’t going to quibble about leaving out Wendell. “I can see it doesn’t pay to argue. Officer Snow was impressed too. He said to tell you from now on to come down and ask for him if you need help.”

  All the time things were becoming clearer to me. By actually being in Luke’s world, I could see why he didn’t talk in school or at the clinic, why he couldn’t express either his anger or his feelings in words.

  Luke lived in a world where words were used against him. No wonder he belly-flopped through fire, ran from cops, refused to answer questions from Miss Eckhardt. When you live in the city and live mostly alone at seven years of age, you have to devise ways of coping.

  Luke’s way was to escape – evasion rather than confrontation. Who could blame him? The faster you ran, the less chance life had to catch you.

  “Luke,” I said, “I’m going over to the clinic now. Do you want to come?”

  “Nope.” Luke was clear.

  “Okay, then. I’m going to take you home.”

  “You gonna tell?” he asked.

  “Your mother? No. That’s up to you. I want to meet her and talk to her sometime soon. But not today. I hope you’ll stay home, though, and not hang around the park or mountain.”

  Luke nodded agreement, evidently relieved that another showdown was not coming up.

  Was he telling the truth? I couldn’t tell. I could also see now why he had much less respect for the truth than I did. I must remember to give him time to answer, to give second chances, never to force a lie.

  I stopped the car in front of the project, a rundown conglomeration of two-story square apartment buildings.

  Luke hopped out, then stood by the door waiting. Waiting for what? I couldn’t think how to say good-bye. I searched for good advice. “Stay away from Wendell Higgins now, hear?”

  Still Luke lingered. What? What was it? Suddenly I knew. A promise. That was all.

  I leaned as far as I could across the car and called through the open window. “I’ll see you Monday. I’ll be there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday next week.”

  Luke nodded and trotted toward the project. He stopped partway and raised his hand. “See you,” he called, sealing the promise.

  Chapter 11

  On my way home from dropping Luke off, I stopped at the Mental Health Clinic. Jerry Cotter was in the middle of his sandwich, but he nodded encouragingly between bites as I talked. I apologized for not calling him sooner and asking his advice. The truth was I hadn’t even thought of it, and now I was aware of how wrong this had been.

  “Yes,” Jerry agreed. “You should have called sooner. But no harm done. Everything you did was all right, positive in effect. What are you going to do now?”

  I sat without saying anything. That was what I was going to ask him.

  I called Professor Foster’s home late that afternoon, expecting a roar of disapproval. Instead, he was benign and I found myself telling him about the mountain and Officer Snow and my visit to the Mental Health Clinic.

  “What’d Jerry say?”

  “He asked me what I was going to do now.”

  Norm Foster let out a bark of laughter. “Sounds like he’s laying it right on you, baby. Well, they are busy as hell over at the clinic right now. Incidentally, now that you mention it, what are you planning to do?”

  “First of all, do you have some kind of reading and math tests that I can give Luke so I can see just how much he knows and what grade level he’s on? Jerry says the intelligence test
shows he’s smart but he’s been out of school so much, I think we should find out if he’s learned all the first-grade and beginning second-grade material and just refuses to use it, or whether he’s missed some basic stuff because of all his absences.”

  “Stop by my office Monday before you go over to the school. I’ll dig up something for you. A space, a rat, or something.”

  Maybe he drinks too much, I thought. It was only four o’clock, but when I asked about reading and math tests he responded with rats and spaces.

  I stopped by his office rather cautiously on Monday, not at all certain he would remember our conversation.

  “Okay, Mary, here you go,” he called to me through his office door. “Here’s the rat.” He handed me a gray manual and a couple of white test blanks.

  I couldn’t help it. I had to ask, “Why do you call it a rat?”

  Norm tilted back in his chair. “Ho! The Wide Range Achievement Test. W-R-A-T. Get it? That’s a good one. Didn’t they use the WRAT over at Doris’s school? Well, maybe she’s one of those that think testing emotionally disturbed kids is a waste of time. Can’t say I can altogether blame her.

  “Anyway, the WRAT is a quickie. Won’t take you more than fifteen minutes and will give you a pretty good idea of Luke’s word recognition and spelling. You’ll have to add an informal test of your own to round out the math. And natch, there’s nothing on reading comprehension or phonetic skills. Try the Spache for that.” Another manual – more test blanks. I looked at the cover. Spache Diagnostic Test. Not space, Spache. Well, I’d keep that one to myself. I had something a lot more important on my mind.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said, urgency underlining my voice. “You’ve been out to Doris’s school. You know where I’m coming from – the kind of child I’m used to working with.

  “I can’t understand why we’re losing kids like Luke. It keeps going around in my head – they just don’t seem that bad. In spite of the fire, I still feel the same way.”

  Foster locked his hands behind his neck and then stretched them above his head. “You’re right, Mary, Luke’s not as disturbed as the children you’ve known, but in some ways that makes it more difficult. Some people figure that if kids aren’t sick, they gotta be ‘bad’ – and who wants to bother with troublemakers?