by Torey Hayden
This left me with Dirkie, Geraldine and Leslie. All three would need continuing full-time self-contained special education. Frank had already contacted Mrs. Samuelson, the woman who was to take my place in this classroom. I’d talked to her on the phone, and we’d made arrangements for her to come spend more time in the class during early May to acquaint herself with her future students. Frank and I explored other possibilities for these three, but as things stood, all of them were due to return to this same room.
Dirkie had remained forever Dirkie throughout the school year. He had made some academic progress, but otherwise, there had been almost no change in his condition. He was squirrelly as ever, still obsessed by his cats and long hair, still spending much of his day hooting happily to himself from under the table. It was unfair to both Dirkie and ourselves to say we were no more than a holding pen for him, because he clearly got a lot out of the classroom experience and thoroughly enjoyed himself in the process. And of course, he gave a lot too. He had a cheerful, engaging personality, and I would have been genuinely sorry to have missed this time with him. But in realistic terms, he was unlikely ever to find himself in a normal classroom in a regular school, just as he was unlikely to find a future outside the sheltered caring of his foster parents.
Geraldine had proved to be my most enigmatic child that year. When she’d first come, I’d badly misjudged her. I’d had no idea she was as disturbed a girl as she eventually showed herself to be. Assessing her now, from several months’ vantage point, I knew she was and undoubtedly always had been, the most unbalanced child in the group. Nothing gave me the feeling there was anything organic or intrinsic about Geraldine’s problems. Hers was a genuine psychopathology, which, fortunately, was a fairly rare phenomenon in a class such as mine.
On numerous occasions I pondered what might have been responsible for the extent of Geraldine’s disturbance. Could she have tolerated life in what was essentially an emotionally disturbed city if it hadn’t meant the death of her parents? Could she have tolerated the death of her parents if it hadn’t meant disruption and separation from everything she knew? Or would she have been a problem child in any setting? The whole matter was academic anyway, a passel of what-ifs that no one, not even Geraldine, had the answer to. But I couldn’t help wondering anyway. What Geraldine’s future would be like was equally unknown. In my opinion, she certainly needed to be confined to a self-contained room. Deep in my gut I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was potentially dangerous. We knew so little about her, about what she felt, or even if she did feel, that it seemed wiser to keep her in a restricted setting until we understood better.
Of all the children, it had been Leslie who’d made the greatest gains over the course of the year. By April she was functioning at a surprisingly high level, considering how she’d entered the class in the autumn. There was still loads of room for improvement, and she was still what could only be called a severely handicapped child, but she had made heartening progress. Her academic skills, which I’d only worked on since the turn of the new year, were galloping ahead. She could read the same primer as Mariana, albeit in a lilting sing-song voice that gave no sense to the words, but she had mastered the concept of reading. By the same token, she could perform basic arithmetic. Socially, her gains had been slower, but still remarkable. She talked now, virtually nonstop. The majority was straightforward echoing, either of what had just been said to her or else regurgitated from earlier conversations. She also took to reciting things she’d read. I often heard her, while playing alone, reeling off lists of ingredients, such as one finds on the sides of cereal boxes. I loved this new-found noisiness in Leslie. It made her charming and alive, unlike the silent ghost we’d had earlier. Leslie remained toilet trained in class but made only very slow progress toward it at home. Even with us, it wasn’t very reliable and was the first thing to go if Leslie was under stress. So I mentioned in my notes to the new teacher not to be surprised if Leslie wasn’t dry at the beginning of the new school year. She could be and she would be, with persistence. And insistence.
Of course, in spite of all this progress, there was still a lot of work to be done. Leslie was now given to explosive tantrums when really frustrated. She could be sulky and uncooperative, and she had Neanderthal views on sharing, of the walk-softly-and-carry-a-big-stick variety. On the whole, she had the emotional finesse of an average two-year-old and was going to require an enormous amount of kind, but very firm and consistent handling on the part of her next-year’s teacher. But all in all, I felt Leslie had done phenomenally well over the course of the eight months in the class.
Throughout the third week of April, I held parent conferences in an effort to discuss the future placements I had in mind for each individual child. It took two full after-school afternoons to get through with the Lonrhos alone. Then on Wednesday afternoon, I saw Mariana’s mother. Dirkie’s foster parents came on Thursday, and Friday afternoon I allocated to Tom and Ladbrooke.
Tom and Ladbrooke’s conference was scheduled fairly late in the day because Tom had prior commitments that Friday. Consequently, he wasn’t due at school until 4:30. Ladbrooke appeared to find the hour between the time the children went home and Tom’s arrival a trial. She couldn’t settle at her work, couldn’t even stay seated at the table. Up and down from her chair, back and forth across the room, first putting away the toys, then straightening up the cupboard under the sink, then back to the toys, over to water the plants, out to the toilet, back to feed the gerbils, over to the filing cabinet. It was distracting me, as I sat at the table and tried to sort through Leslie’s work. Then, hands in pockets, Lad paused a moment in front of the window and stared out. It was a sunny day, breezy and brisk for the time of year, hut brilliantly clear.
“I hate these conferences,” she muttered.
“I can tell.”
She turned around and came over to the table, but instead of sitting down, she remained standing. I was trying to organize all the materials regarding Leslie I had collected over the course of the year and had little piles growing up around me of anecdotal records, charts, graphs, worksheets. Lad watched me.
“I thought, as the year went on,” she said, “these conferences would get easier.”
“I’m not springing anything new on you, kiddo. I suspect I’m not even springing anything new on Tom. This is all more or less a formality.”
“I know it.”
“Then it’s probably better just to relax. Nothing’s going to happen.”
She nodded. Hands still stuffed deep in her pockets, she continued to stand over me. “Torey?”
“Yes?”
“Would you do me a favor?”
“What’s that?”
She didn’t reply. I continued what I was doing for a few moments longer, but when she still didn’t speak, I looked up.
“I’m trying to think what I want to say,” she muttered.
“Oh, okay.” I went back to my work.
“I need you to talk to Tom for me,” she said finally.
“How so?”
“I need to … I need you to … well, I don’t mean you to talk to Tom. I need to talk to Tom. But I need you here.”
“You want me with you while you talk to Tom?”
She nodded. “When I need to say something to him, it never gets said. He bullies me out of it. But I need to talk to him.” A pause. “Things really aren’t very good at home at the moment.”
“I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable getting between you and Tom. I’m not a marriage counselor, Lad.”
“I’m not asking you to be. I just want to talk to him. Things have got to change between him and me, Torey, and I need to say that to him. He won’t listen to me if I say it at home. He won’t take me seriously, but he will here, with you. You don’t need to say anything yourself. Just be here. For me.” She smiled self-consciously. “For moral support.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this, Lad.”
Her brow puckered with c
oncern. “Please?”
Tom arrived a few minutes after the appointed time and seated himself beside me at the table. Nerves had gotten the better of Ladbrooke again in the interim, and she’d been up and around the room, so when she sat down again, it was away from both of us at the far end of the table.
This conference was indeed just a formality. Ladbrooke had ferried home most of the news of Leslie’s progress as it happened, so Tom knew most of what I had to say. He and Ladbrooke had already discussed Leslie’s return to this class in the autumn. However, I preferred the chance to talk to Tom and show him Leslie’s work myself.
As always, Tom showed intense interest in what Leslie was doing. He went over each individual chart, each note I’d made. He examined her folder. He studied her worksheets. At one point I noticed him giving particular attention to one paper. Silence had come to us while Tom was looking through the materials, and now he seemed absorbed in this one item. Very gently, he touched Leslie’s name. It had been written in red crayon in bold, childish letters. He traced the beginning L with one finger.
“When did she learn to write?” he asked.
“She’s been making letters for some time now, but she’s just mastered her name in the last three or four weeks.”
He smiled in a soft, enigmatic way.
Since all the material to be covered was more or less a foregone conclusion, everything was said and done in about half an hour. When I closed the folder, Tom reached for his coat.
“Tom?” Ladbrooke said.
He had already risen and was turning to push the chair in when she spoke. He looked over at her.
“Tom, I’ve got to talk to you.”
A questioning expression came to his face. He glanced quickly to me and then back to her. “What do you want?” he asked, perplexed.
“I want to talk to you.”
“Here? Now? What about?”
Ladbrooke nodded. “Sit down, okay?”
Another glance to me. “What does she want?” he asked, bewilderment clear in his voice.
“For you to sit down, I think,” I said.
He sat, his coat still on.
“I want things to change,” Ladbrooke said.
“What is this?” Irritation was creeping into his tone.
“I want things to change, Tom.”
“What’s going on here? I came in to talk about Leslie. What is this? Some kind of ambush?”
“You did come to talk about Leslie. Now we’re done, so you’re going to talk about me.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“I want things to change, Tom.”
“I want things to change, Tom,” he mimicked. “You’ve said that about six times now, sweetheart. I’m not deaf yet. I’ve heard you. Now come on. Get your coat and let’s go.”
Lad’s brow furrowed. She had her hands clasped together in front of her, the thumbs pressed against her lips. She didn’t move a muscle.
Tom turned to me. “Is this your idea? Have you put her up to this?”
“No,” interjected Ladbrooke quickly. “I put me up to it. Because I need to talk to you, Tom. I never can do it at home. You never let me get a word in edgewise.”
Shaking his head wearily, Tom ran a hand over his face. “You want to haul all the dirty laundry out again in front of strangers, Ladbrooke? What is this thing you’ve got about discussing our private lives in public places? It’s a perversion of yours.”
“I just want to talk.”
Tom sighed.
“Things are changing, Tom. You don’t seem to be able to realize that. They’re changing, and you’re going to have to change too.”
“Things haven’t changed, Ladbrooke. Nothing’s changed.”
“Everything’s changed!”
“Oh? Like what, for instance? Name one thing that’s changed.”
Dead silence.
“Like what, Ladbrooke?”
Still silence.
I glanced over at her and suspected by her expression that she’d gone tongue-tied. What a hell of a time for it, I was thinking, because there wasn’t much to be done to get her started again.
“Like what?” Tom asked a third time.
“Lay off me, Tom. I’m thinking.”
“Oh, God help us.”
Silence.
Again I glanced at Ladbrooke, who was bent forward, regarding her bitten nails. I tried to send her ESP messages. Tell him you’re not drinking anymore. Tell him how well you’re doing with Leslie. Tell him about going down to the teachers’ lounge on your own. But she said nothing.
The tension, which had momentarily grown acute, eased off, and boredom set in. I could appreciate where this kind of behavior wouldn’t be very conducive to difficult, much-needed conversations.
“Me,” Ladbrooke said at long last. “I’ve changed.”
“How?” Tom’s tone had lost its acerbity. He sounded only tired.
“I don’t know how. But I have.”
Once again the silence. No one seemed to know quite what to say.
“So, what do you want out of me?” he asked.
Ladbrooke brought up a finger and nibbled at the nail. Then she took it out, examined it, bit it again. Finally she looked over. “I want another baby.”
This was about the last thing in the world I had expected to hear. By the look on Tom’s face, it had hit him that way as well. He looked stunned.
“Before I’m too old to have one, I want another baby.”
“Good God, you’re only thirty-three. That’s hardly menopausal, Ladbrooke.”
She didn’t reply.
“What the hell would you do with another baby anyway?” he asked.
Ladbrooke looked over at me. “This is why I wanted to talk here with you. So you can see this. He treats me like I’m six years old. He never lets me say anything, anything I feel. And if I do, he just puts me down for it.”
“I’m letting you say it, aren’t I? I’m just asking you what the hell you’ve said it for? The last thing in the world you need, Ladbrooke, is another baby. Look at your last one.”
“That was just something that happened. The next one isn’t going to have Leslie’s problems. It isn’t going to happen twice.”
“It wasn’t something that ‘just happened,’ Ladbrooke. Nothing ‘just happens.’ Don’t delude yourself. You’re no mother. You never took care of Leslie. Don’t try and pretend you did. You don’t know hell’s bells about loving a child.”
“I could do better this time.”
Tom rolled his eyes.
“I could. If you didn’t keep telling me how lousy I am at it, maybe I’d be a better mother. I didn’t know how last time, that’s all. But I can learn, can’t I? Maybe I could do it.”
“And maybe you couldn’t. What then? ‘I’m too old to be Mommy again? My nursing days are over?’ So let’s not hear such drivel.”
“I’m changing. I am. Whether you like it or not.”
Snorting, Tom looked away. “Oh shit, Ladbrooke, you haven’t changed and you’re never going to.”
“You talk to me like I’m a child and I’m sick of it. I want to be treated like an adult. Because I am an adult.”
Tom sighed.
“I mean it. I’m not going to put up with it anymore. That’s what we need to talk about. I’m an adult and not a child, and you’re going to have to start treating me like one.”
“Is this your handiwork?” he asked, turning suddenly to me.
“No!” shouted Ladbrooke, leaning forward across the table toward him. “Fuck it all, Tom, I’m right here! Talk to me.”
There was a sudden, piercing silence. Tom rotated very slowly in his chair until he was facing Ladbrooke with his entire body, and for a long moment, he did nothing but regard her. Ladbrooke shrank back. She’d come way forward, her hands on the table, but now she pulled back, pulled her arms back and finally wrapped them around herself.
“I love you,” Tom said, his voice unexpectedly tender. “I love you and Leslie. What
more do you want out of me, Ladbrooke?” He continued to regard her.
Lad lowered her head. I realized instantly that she was going to cry, and it was the last thing I wanted her to do just then. I didn’t know if this was a regular tactic that Tom used, but it was astonishingly effective. And it made me hate him.
Without saying another word, Ladbrooke rose and left the room. Dead silence followed the quiet snick of the latch as the classroom door closed behind her. Tom, in the next chair, still had his back to me.
I toyed with a pencil on the table. “She’s been working hard to change,” I said softly. “After all this trouble, she seems to have finally gotten a good grip on the drinking problem. She’s been very conscientious about attempting to control her other problems. I can appreciate the fact that she’s still a very long ways from perfect, but she is trying, Tom. It’s going to be fairly hard on her self-esteem if you don’t give her credit for the ability to change.”