Linda gave a furious look and stomped forward, elbowing cameramen and orange bruisers until she reached the little girl’s teacher. She talked behind her hand, pointed discreetly. The teacher’s mouth formed an O. Looking chastened, he turned his attention back to his class.
I counted about six or seven children crying by now, four of them kids I recognized easily because they were in the high-risk group. Linda saw them too. She went over to each of them, bending low, patting heads, talking in their ears. Taking their hands and offering them the choice of leaving.
Four headshakes, three nods. She removed the nodders from the group, herded them past the press clutch, back into the school building.
I followed her. It took me a while to get into the building. Linda was halfway down the main corridor, sitting on the floor in a circle with the three children. Smiling, talking, holding a hand puppet and making it talk in a high-pitched voice. The children were smiling. No distress that I could see.
I took a few steps forward. She looked up.
“Look, kids, it’s Dr. Delaware.”
“Hi,” I said.
Shy waves.
“Anything you guys want to ask Dr. Delaware”
Silence.
“Looks like everything’s under control, Dr. Delaware?”
I said, “Great, Dr. Overstreet,” and went back outside.
Though the music was louder, the stage was uninhabited. Not a musician in sight, not even a synthesizer wizard. I realized this was going to be a lip-sync exhibition. Prefab passion.
Nothing happened for several seconds. Then what appeared to be a huge orange flame burned its way through the black backdrop. Gasps from the audience. As the flame got closer, it turned into an oversized sheet of heavy satin, trailing along the stage. Beneath the satin was movement—a swelling and pulsating as the sheet shimmered forward. Like a gag horse, minus head or tail. Cheap trick, but eerie.
The sheet bumped and grinded its way center stage. Organ crescendo, cymbal crash, and the sheet dropped, revealing six more huge men, bare-chested and wearing orange tights and silver jackboots. Three blacks, on the left, scowling under broom-bristles of straightened yellow hair. On the right, a trio of Nordic types in royal-blue Afros.
The six of them spread their legs and assumed wrist-gripping iron-pumper poses. Between them appeared a very tall, very skinny man in his mid-twenties, with skin the color of India ink, Asian eyes, and orange Jheri-curled past-the-shoulders hair that looked as if it had been braised with axle grease. Wide shoulders, the hips of a prepubescent boy, rubbery limbs, a Modigliani neck, and the terminal-illness cheekbones of a Vogue model.
He wore electric-blue goggles in tiger-hide plastic frames that were wider than his face, a tight silver silk jumpsuit embroidered with orange thread and festooned with costume sapphires in baroque patterns. His hands were encased in fingerless blue satin weight-lifter’s gloves; his feet shod in silver high-tops with orange laces.
He snapped his fingers. The musclemen retreated, satin sheet in hand.
The music picked up pace. Jonson pranced, knees high like a drum majorette, did a Nijinsky leap, shot off a flurry of tap-dance pyrotechnics, and ended with a split that transformed him into an inverted silver T and made my groin hurt vicariously.
Then, sudden quiet topped by a high-pitched hum from the speakers. A few of the older kids were out of their seats, bouncing and clapping and calling out, “DeJon! DeJon! Do ‘Chiller’! ‘Chiller’! DeJon! DeJon!”
The orange-haired man scissored himself upright and smiled feverishly. Went pigeon-toed and knock-kneed, shimmied, squatted, did a backwards double somersault followed by a headstand and some rapid hand-walking, then jumped back to his feet, flexed each bicep, and bared his teeth.
The music resumed: a modified reggae beat supercharged by a string-popping funk riff.
His teeth parted and his mouth opened wide enough for a tonsil display. A very whispery tenor oozed out of the speakers.
When the night moves in,
And creepies crawl,
And thingies creep,
Over castle walls,
Gasp. Hand to mouth. Look of exaggerated fear.
That’s when I’m real.
That’s when I live.
I’m your party man,
Got so much to give.
Cause I’m a chiller. Love your chiller.
Baby I’m your chiller. Got to love your chiller.
Sweet kind of chiller. Got to kiss your chiller.
Seductive leer. Change of tempo to a manic two-four almost drowned out by shouts and applause. Jonson belly-danced, jumped back, raced forward, skidded to a stop at the edge of the stage, rolled his eyes. When he lip-synced again, his whisper had turned into a raspy baritone:
And when the snakes of wrath
Meet the toads of fire,
And scorpions waltz
Across the pyre,
That’s when I breathe.
That makes me whole.
I’m here to love
Your mortal soul.
Cause I’m a chiller. Love your chiller...
Charming.
I searched for signs of anxiety among the children. Many of them were rocking and bopping, singing along, shouting out Jonson’s name. Taking it the way it was meant to be taken—as a sound-wave gestalt, the lyrics irrelevant. It went on for another minute. Then a rain of orange and silver flowers appeared out of nowhere, butterfly-delicate. The musclemen reappeared with the orange sheet and Jonson was whisked offstage. The whole thing had taken less than two minutes.
Latch got back onstage and mouthed inaudible thank-yous over the cheers. The press surged past him, taking off in the direction of the sheet. Latch stood there, abandoned, and I saw something—a spoiled, peevish look—creep onto his face. Just for a second. Then it was gone and he was grinning again and waving, his wife and Ahlward by his side.
Things had gotten wild out in the cheap seats. The kids were pelting each other with flowers; teachers struggled to line them up. I looked back at the front row and saw my mothers standing alone, confused. The Latches and Ahlward stood nearby, surrounded by young-scrubbeds like the ones I’d seen the day of the sniping. Lots of congratulations from the troops. Latch getting what he needed, soaking it up while maintaining a TV face. No one made any attempt to talk to the mothers.
I started making my way over, waiting for whole classes to pass, getting my insteps trampled by tiny feet. Camera crews were pulling up cable, creating tripwires, and I had to watch where I stepped. When I was a few feet away, Latch saw me, grinned, and waved. His wife waved too; Pavlov would have given her an A. Ahlward remained stolid, one hand in his jacket.
Latch said something to him. The redheaded man walked over to me and said, “Dr. Delaware, the councilman would like to speak with you.”
“Gee whiz,” I said.
If he heard me he didn’t let on.
22
I followed him, but at the last moment I veered away and went to the mothers. Latch’s face took on that same deprived-brat look. I wondered how long it had been since he had been told no.
The women looked deprived too. Of their bearings. A few held paper flowers, seemed afraid to throw them away.
I walked up to them and introduced myself. Before they could reply, a voice behind me said, “Dr. Delaware. Alex.”
No choice but to turn. The councilman had regained his camera happy-face. But his wife had gotten tired of wearing hers. She’d put on sunglasses—copper-and-gold de-signer originals with a lavender-blue tint. The two of them were standing together but seemed far apart. Ahlward and the dress-for-success bunch hung back several yards.
Latch held out his hand. “Good to see you again, Alex.”
“Councilman.”
“Please. Gordon.”
The inevitable pressing of flesh. He pumped hard enough to draw water.
I turned back to the mothers, smiled, and said, “One minute, please,” in my basic Spanish.
/> They smiled back, still confused.
Latch said, “Alex, I’d like you to meet my first wife, Miranda.” Chuckling. Her smile was murderous.
“Randy, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, the psychologist I told you about.”
“Pleased to meet you, Doctor.” She gave me four fingertips and retracted them quickly. Her formality seemed defiant. Latch gave her a quick, nervous look, which she ignored. Up close she seemed smaller, brittle of voice and bone. And older. Her husband’s senior by a good five years. Betrayed by her skin. The rich tan and well-applied makeup failed to mask the fine wrinkles and liverish blotches. Her mouth was wide and had a nice, sensual curve to it but had started to pucker. Her nose was skinny and short with large nostrils—probably rhinoplasty. Her chin was marred by a sprinkle of pocks. Her diamonds were flawless but made her look washed-out in contrast.
Latch said, “Randy’s always had an interest in psych. We both have.” He put his arm around her. She tensed and smiled at the same time.
She said, “That’s true, Doctor. I’m a people person. We’re organizing—Gordie and I—a mental health committee for the district. Concerned citizens reaching out to help the mentally ill. I’d be privileged if you’d join our advisory committee.”
I said, “I’m flattered, Mrs. Latch, but my time’s pretty committed right now.”
Her smiled evaporated and her lower lip curled—another spoiled child. A little girl used to guilt-tripping Daddy. But she replaced it almost immediately with an inch of charm-school tooth-flash. “I’m sure it is,” she said airily. “But if you change your mind—”
“Let us know, Alex,” said Latch. He spread his arms over the yard. “Pretty fantastic, wasn’t it? The kids really got into it.”
I said, “He puts on quite a show.”
“It’s more than a show, Alex. He’s a phenomenon. A natural resource, one of a kind. Like the last golden eagle. We were lucky to get him—it was a coup. We owe it all to Randy.” Squeezing his wife’s shoulder again and jostling her. She dredged up yet another smile.
“The healing power of music,” said Latch. “We should have more shows, at other schools. Make it a regular thing. Give the kids a positive message. To raise their self-esteem.”
Snakes of wrath. Toads of fire.
I said, “The show was pretty intense, Gordon. Some of the children were frightened.”
“Frightened? I didn’t notice.”
“A handful, mostly younger ones—all the noise, the stimulation. Dr. Overstreet took them inside.”
“A handful,” he said, as if calculating electoral impact. “Well, that’s not too bad, considering. Put enough kids together anywhere and a few are bound to get uptight, right?”
Before I could answer he said, “Guess that means another lecture on coordination, huh? How about letting me off? Dr. Overstreet already read me the riot act before the concert.”
I looked back at the mothers and said, “It’s been good talking to you, Gordon, but I’ve really got to be going now.”
“Ah, your parents group—yes. I know about it because when I saw how uncomfortable they looked, I went up to them, found out who they were. We made sure to see they felt at home.”
Slightly different from the way Linda had told it.
I said, “Great.”
He stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder. “Listen, I think what you’re doing is great. I didn’t have a chance to tell you that, last time. Looking at the whole family as a unit. Bringing your treatment to the community. We used to do that up at Berkeley. It was called street psychiatry back then and we were constantly being accused by the psychiatric establishment of being subversive. What it boiled down to, of course, was that they were threatened by challenges to the medical model. No doubt you’ve experienced that somewhere along the line, too. Being put down by M.D.’s?”
I said, “I try to stay out of politics, Gordon. Good to meet you, Mrs. Latch.”
I turned to leave. He kept his hand on my shoulder and held me back. A cameraman strolled by. Latch smiled and held it. I saw my reflection in his glasses. Twin reflections. A pair of unfriendly, curly-haired guys eager to be rid of him.
“You know,” he said, “I never did get around to coming back—to talk to the kids.”
“Not necessary,” I said. “I’d say you’ve done enough.”
He tried to read my face, said, “Thanks. It was quite an experience putting it together on such short notice. Dr. Overstreet’s gripes notwithstanding.”
I stared at him. The twins in the glass looked mean, which suited me just fine. I said, “Ah, the tortured life of a modern-day saint. Which network did you call first?”
He paled, and his freckles stood out. His expression was that of a guy with new white bucks who’s just stepped in fresh dog shit. But he kept smiling, looking out for cameras, put his arm around me, and drew me away from his wife. To an observer we might have been buddies sharing a smutty joke.
Over his shoulder I saw Ahlward, motionless, watching.
When we were out of earshot, Latch lowered his voice. “We live in a cold world, Alex. Adding to the cynicism level isn’t a virtue.”
I shrugged out of his grip. “What can I say, Gordon? Sometimes it just comes with the territory.”
I turned my back on him and went to do my job.
I led the mothers into the building, realizing I had no idea where the group session was going to be held. Nothing like a few minutes of wandering the building to engender confidence in the therapist. But just as we approached Linda’s office, she stepped out and took us to the end of the hall and through a set of double doors I’d never been through before. Inside was a wood-floored half-gym. I realized it was the room I’d seen that first day, on TV: children huddled together on the hardwood floor, the cameras moving in with surgical cruelty. In real life the room looked smaller. TV had the ability to do that—inflate reality or crush it to insignificance.
Plastic folding chairs had been arranged in a circle. In the middle was a low table covered with paper and set up with cookies and punch.
“Okay?” said Linda.
“Perfect.”
“Not the coziest environment, but with Jonson’s people taking over all the empty classrooms, it was all we had.”
We seated the women, then ourselves. The mothers still looked frightened. I spent the first few minutes passing out cookies and filling cups. Making the kind of small talk that I hoped would let them know I had a personal interest in their children, wasn’t just another authority figure pulling rank.
After explaining who I was, I talked about their children—what good kids they were, how strong, how well they were coping. Implying, without being patronizing, that children that robust had to have loving, caring parents. For the most part they seemed to understand; when I got blank looks I had Linda translate. Her Spanish was fluent and unaccented.
I called for questions. They had none.
“Of course, sometimes,” I said, “no matter how strong a child is, the memory of something frightening can come back—in bad dreams. Or wanting to hold on to Mama more, not wanting to go to school.”
Nods and looks of comprehension.
“If any of that has happened, it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your child. That kind of thing is normal.”
A couple of sighs of relief.
“But bad memories can be... helped. Cured.” Using the C-word they’d tried to drum out of me in grad school. Linda said, “Mejor. Curado.”
Several of the women leaned forward.
“Mothers,” I said, “are a child’s best helpers—the best teachers of their children. Better than doctors. Better than anyone else. Because a mother knows her child better than anyone. That’s why the best way to cure a bad memory is for the mother to help the child.”
“What can we do?” said a girlish-looking woman with thick black eyebrows and long coarse black hair. She wore a pink dress and sandals. Her English was barely accented.
> “You can let your children know it’s okay to talk about being afraid.”
She said, “Gilberto, when he talks he gets more afraid.”
“Yes, that’s true. In the beginning. Fear is like a wave.”
The long-haired woman translated.
Puzzled looks all around.
I said, “At first, when a child meets something that scares him, the fear grows, like a wave. But when he goes into the water and swims—gets used to the water—the wave grows small. If we pull the child away when the wave is high, he never sees that, never learns how to swim and remains afraid. If he gets a chance to feel strong, in control, that’s called coping. When he copes, he feels better.”
Time Bomb Page 29