by Torey Hayden
“Just a minute. I want to fix this.”
I stood, waiting. I had to lock up, because by this time Bill would have already gone.
Ladbrooke, still on her stomach, slid her hand through the cardboard doors. I knelt to see what was going on.
Up, down, up, down went the portcullis. Ladbrooke’s forehead puckered with concentration.
“This could probably wait until tomorrow,” I said.
“I want to get it done tonight. I told Shamie I would.”
“I’m sure he’ll understand.” I stood up again. Raising my arm, I glanced at my watch.
“I won’t be that much longer,” she said.
I stood, waiting.
Finally, Ladbrooke took her hand out of the castle entranceway and held it up, without taking her attention from the fiddly portcullis she was holding with the other.
“What do you want?” I asked, thinking she needed scissors or something.
“The keys. Just give me your keys. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I left then, not finding out until weeks later that Ladbrooke had stayed until almost ten o’clock at night, making Shamie a cardboard and floral-wire portcullis that could be raised and lowered.
“I had a letter from my mam yesterday,” Shamie said. It was approaching morning recess and we were all sitting around the table together. “She said that they killed a policeman in our street last Saturday. Right out in front of Curran Maris’s house. He was laying on the pavement right by the Marises’ flower bed, where Mrs. Maris grows her gladioli.”
I looked up.
“You know,” he said, “I think it’s wrong. I think it’s wrong for them to keep killing everybody like they’re doing. I don’t care whose side anyone’s on. I don’t think there’s anything worth killing someone over.”
“It was revenge,” Geraldine said, her voice soft. “For Ireland’s sorrow.”
“Aye, revenge. But I still think it’s wrong, Geraldine. That man didn’t do anything except walk down the street.”
“He did. He was a Prod. And a policeman.”
A small silence came. Shamie lifted his left hand and examined the fingers. Thoughtfully, he bit off a hangnail.
“There’s nothing worth killing someone for, Geraldine. I think maybe Uncle Paddy was right. I think he should have told the police about things. There’s got to be some way to stop what’s happening, because pretty soon there won’t be anybody left. They will’ve all killed one another.”
Geraldine’s eyes narrowed. She regarded Shamie intently. “Are you saying our daddy was a tout, Shamie?”
“What I was saying is that I think maybe it wouldn’t have been so wrong if Uncle Paddy did tell them. I think what’s going on is terrible and it has to end.”
“Our daddy was no tout!” Geraldine shouted suddenly. Dirkie, next to me, started violently at the unexpected volume, his pencil flying out of his fingers and across the table.
“Geraldine, I was saying—”
“You take that back! Our daddy was no tout! Our daddy would’ve never told!”
Seeing the need to intervene hastily, I rose and went around the table to Geraldine’s chair. “Okay, everybody. I think it’s nearly recess. Put away your things now and get your coats.” I had my hands on Geraldine’s shoulders.
“He was no tout!”
Geraldine began to cry. I knelt down next to her and put my arm around her, but she didn’t want my comfort. Pushing me away roughly, she escaped out the other side of the chair and then shot off into the safety of the library.
“I didn’t mean Uncle Paddy was a tout, Geraldine,” Shamie shouted. “I know he wasn’t. I wasn’t saying that.”
“Bloody, rotten liar! I hope you die. I hope you fall down the stairs and get killed and go to hell!” Geraldine shouted back.
I put an arm around Shamie. “Let’s just leave it. She’s upset, and it’s not a good time to try to reason with her.”
“But I didn’t say—” he protested.
“I know you didn’t. But this isn’t the time to pursue it. Get your things and go on out for your break.”
“I’m sorry, Geraldine,” he hollered.
“I hope you die!”
Ladbrooke took the children out, and I stayed there in the room with Geraldine, who refused to come out of the library. Once everyone was gone, I entered the long, narrow aisle where she was hiding. She was sitting at the far end, huddled against the wall. Her face was awash with tears.
I knelt down near her. “I don’t think Shamie meant to say your father was an informer, sweetheart. I think he was just talking in general terms.”
“He wasn’t. He said our daddy told the police. And Daddy didn’t!”
“No, I don’t think that’s what Shamie said. Besides, he wouldn’t know anyway, would he? He wasn’t there.”
She wiped her tears with the sleeve of her blouse. “Go away,” she muttered.
“I know it’s a difficult issue, Geraldine.”
“What do you know about it? You weren’t there either.”
“But I know it’s difficult.”
“You’re a Prod too. Go away. I don’t want to talk to you.”
Rising back to my feet, I stood over her a moment. I pushed my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
Geraldine mopped furiously at her tears.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go out and join the others.”
She bared her teeth. “I said go away. No, go away.”
During the lunch hour, Ladbrooke and I sat together at the table and munched our sandwiches.
“What do you think Shemona thinks about all this?” Ladbrooke asked.
“You mean the Irish issue? Or about what was going on between Shamie and Geraldine?”
Ladbrooke shrugged. “Either.” She studied her sandwich. “I mean, when I was five, I didn’t even know what state I lived in, much less people’s politics.”
“I don’t expect she understands much about all that.”
“No, I don’t either.”
“In fact, I can’t imagine she understands about this business with her father being an informer. Or what he was informing on.”
Ladbrooke put down her sandwich and struggled to open her carton of milk. “I can’t think Geraldine understands that much about all this either. What’s this crap about Ireland’s sorrow? For pity’s sake, the girl is eight years old. Ireland’s sorrow. She’s Ireland’s sorrow. She and Shamie and Shemona and the likes of them. They’re Ireland’s shame.”
I nodded.
Ladbrooke fell silent for a moment.
“But what about Shemona?” she said at last. “She’s the one I’m always thinking about. I keep wondering how all this must seem to her. She never talks about it, but I know she must be thinking about it.”
I nodded. “Oh, yes, I’m sure she thinks about it.”
By afternoon, Geraldine appeared to have forgotten her earlier upset. The time until recess passed quickly, with all the children hard at work. During our free break that afternoon Lad and I went down to the teachers’ lounge for the fifteen minutes. Lad needed to make a phone call, so she excused herself after ten minutes or so. I stayed on and talked with two of the school psychologists, who were also in the lounge.
“Torey?” Frank stuck his head in through the door.
I looked over.
“I think Ladbrooke wants you. I can hear her calling from the stairwell.”
Baffled, I rose and emptied the dregs of my coffee into the sink before going out. I could hear the commotion then.
“I’m right here, Lad. I’m on my way up,” I called, as I reached the stairs and bounded up them two at a time.
Ladbrooke had Shemona by the back of the neck. As soon as she saw me on the stairs, she shoved Shemona ahead of her back toward the classroom.
“Just wait till you see this,” Ladbrooke said, as I came abreast of her.
The room was a catastrophe. Things had been knocked off the table, off the shelves
, off the windowsill. More pointedly, Shamie’s castle had been totally destroyed. It had been systematically walked on, all its careful details ruined beyond recognition. Most disgustingly, a generous amount of dog feces had been smeared over the remains of the castle’s cardboard walls and along the radiator.
“I came up to get money to make the phone call,” Ladbrooke said, “and I found Shemona in here.”
“Alone?”
Lad nodded.
I looked down at the child. She had begun to cry, her face covered with her hands. I glanced around the room again. What puzzled me was how she had gotten back into the building unnoticed, particularly as she had to be transporting a fair amount of dog shit. This wasn’t consistent with my experience of typical five-year-old wiles. Moreover, I was amazed by the extent of the damage. Shemona was given to frequent tantrums and occasionally destroyed things in a fit of rage, but they’d always been small, impulsive acts. This was calculated.
“Did you do all this?” I asked Shemona.
Hands still over her face, she just cried.
I knelt and pulled her hands down. “Shemona, did you do all this by yourself?”
She kept her eyes tightly shut and her chin down against her chest. The tears dripped down onto her blouse, making dark spots on the material.
“This was a very, very unkind thing to do. Everyone has worked hard on that castle, even you. It belonged to all of us. Everyone is going to feel very badly when they see what’s happened to it.”
Just then, the other children burst through the door. “Pooey!” Mariana cried from the doorway. “Leslie’s gone poopy in her pants. It stinks in here.” Then she rounded the corner of the shelves. An audible gasp escaped her. “Oh, Shamie, don’t come in,” she warned.
The moment he saw the castle, Shamie burst into tears. If hurting him had been the intention, as I supposed it had, it was successful. He let out a long, low wail and went running over. Down on his hands and knees, he began picking up the pieces and pressing them to him, oblivious of the dog shit. He sobbed wordlessly.
Geraldine appeared beside Ladbrooke. “Shemona!” she cried in an indignant voice. “You naughty girl! Look at what you’ve done. You naughty, naughty girl. Miss will be very cross with you now. Look how you’ve upset Shamie.” Geraldine looked over at me. “Shemona’s like this, Miss. She does these things. Our Auntie Bet says, must be the Devil gets in her.”
I cast a long, sideways glance at Geraldine.
“You’re a very, very naughty girl, Shemona.” And Geraldine bounced on by and over to her place at the table.
I pulled Shemona around the corner of the shelves for a little privacy. She was crying so hard at that point that her body shuddered with sobs. Tears and snot and saliva were running everywhere. I’d intended for Ladbrooke to keep order with the others, but her initial anger dissipated, she seemed concerned for the child’s distress. Bringing over the box of tissues, Ladbrooke knelt and very gently wiped Shemona’s nose and mouth.
“You want to take her in the rocking chair and give her a little cuddle?”
Finishing with the tissue, Ladbrooke rose. “No. Go ahead. I’ll get the others settled.”
Lifting Shemona up, I carried her to the rocker and sat down. She remained tense in my arms, never relaxing against me. I began to rock. Several minutes passed with Shemona perched on my knee.
I rocked and rocked. Slowly, the tears subsided, leaving the child quivery. With a handful of tissues, I helped her clean up.
“I’m having a hard time believing you did that,” I said as I wiped her face. “That doesn’t seem like something you’d do.”
She lowered her head.
“Did you really do it?”
She nodded.
“I see.”
I rocked a few more moments.
“We’re going to have to do something about it, aren’t we?” I said.
Head still down, she nodded again.
“If you did it, I think you’re going to have to clean it up. Does that seem fair?”
Another nod.
I leaned forward in the rocking chair. “Ladbrooke?”
Lad appeared around the corner of the shelves.
“Would you please take Shemona down to Bill’s closet to get a bucket and some rags? I want her to wash the mess off the radiator and straighten things back up as best she can.”
“Okay.” Ladbrooke held out her hand for Shemona. Slipping off my lap, Shemona accepted Lad’s hand and they headed for the door.
Geraldine appeared at my side when I returned to the other children in the main part of the classroom. “I got my project,” she said cheerfully, and put her arm around me. She held up a small bag of yarn with the other hand. We’d been given a very small loom meant for weaving hot pads and the like, and Geraldine was desperate to try it. “You said you were going to show me how to do it this afternoon, remember?”
I regarded her. There was a long moment’s silence between us, as we sized one another up. I was almost positive she was behind this whole episode. Even if she had not actually come up to the classroom to do it with Shemona, I still reckoned she had orchestrated the destruction. But I knew if I confronted her, she would only deny it, and I had no cold, hard proof.
I think Geraldine knew I knew. Our whole five months’ relationship could be summed up in this one moment’s exchange of glances.
“I’m afraid I can’t work on your project with you today, Geraldine. Ladbrooke has gone to help Shemona get things to clean up this mess that’s been caused, and without Ladbrooke, I’m afraid I haven’t got the time to help you with your project.”
Geraldine’s forehead wrinkled as she eyed me.
“That’s really too bad, isn’t it? This was such a thoughtless, unkind thing to have happened. And it’s not only gotten back at Shamie. It’s ruined the time you and I meant to spend together as well.”
Geraldine turned and, without saying anything more, threw down the bag of yarn and disappeared around the corner of the shelves into the blackboard area. When I stuck my head around, I saw she had gotten into the rocking chair by herself and was rocking quietly. I felt it was best to leave her as she was.
Not until I was putting things away after school in preparation to go home myself did I notice words etched into the pine seat of the rocker. I came closer and leaned down to see them.
“I hope you die, Prod bitch,” they said.
Chapter 18
The episode over the castle left me deeply troubled. I was having to face the fact that, as with Leslie, my initial assessment of Shemona and Geraldine was way off the mark. These two girls’ relationship with one another was radically different than I had first perceived it. This was no simple matter of symbiosis, where a strong-willed elective mute controlled her weaker, more ineffective sister by manipulative silence. Despite her apparent cool self-possession, Shemona was not in control at all. Geraldine was the real mastermind. With what bordered on sociopathic detachment, she used Shemona to express her own hatreds, while staying clear and clean and cool herself. I’d seen this happen on previous occasions to a lesser extent and with the same result; however, it was this incident that drove home the seriousness of the matter. The other incident had been minor; this was not. Most chilling was the fact that Geraldine showed absolutely no concern that her sister, as well as being set up, was going to bear the punishment for something not her fault.
Shemona herself didn’t help matters much. Her silence and her persistent dislike of physical closeness kept her isolated from the rest of us. It slowly dawned on me that Shemona probably didn’t actually know what was going on most of the time. She was a pawn and nothing more. This shouldn’t have surprised me so much, I suppose, since she was, after all, only a five-year-old child; but her silent self-possession had made it easy to project onto her knowledge and understanding that she probably never had.
Considering these things threw Shemona’s mutism into a very different light. Elective mutism involving a symb
iotic relationship had been very common in my research of the problem. The vast majority of children displaying such behavior used their silence as a method of manipulating a weaker personality, usually a parent, although I had experienced several cases involving sibling relationships. So it had been easy for me to assume that I knew what was going on. Ruefully, I realized that it was probably precisely the amount of expertise I had in the area that tripped me up. Less experienced, I might have accepted what I saw rather than reading into it what I didn’t see.
Reassessing the matter, I realized there wasn’t a symbiotic relationship at all. I was becoming increasingly convinced that it was Geraldine, not Shemona, who kept Shemona from talking, I felt there must have been some sort of mental thuggery being carried out, and I wondered what kinds of things Geraldine might be telling Shemona when they were alone. I worried about how she kept control.
As I drew these conclusions, I was confronted with the need to radically alter my approach. Ideally, I would have liked to separate the two sisters into different classrooms. But where? Both of them clearly needed a specialized environment. Shemona, with no speech, few academic skills and nonexistent social behavior, would drown in the hubbub of a normal classroom. She’d already proven that with her kindergarten experience at the beginning of the year. Geraldine, whom I was starting to suspect could, like a rat, survive anywhere, needed the confinement of my kind of room. She was the one showing the genuinely pathological behavior, and I didn’t think it would have been to anyone’s benefit to ignore that. Unfortunately, in this small, rural district there just weren’t two classes available for the girls to go into. This left me with the need to create something within our own environment.
“You know, I’ve finally had an idea regarding Shemona,” I said. Ladbrooke and I were together at the table after school. We’d finished the next day’s plans, and I was correcting papers. Ladbrooke had a mimeograph stencil in front of her and was transferring a math game onto it.
“Oh? What’s that?” she asked, not looking up from her work.