by Sean Boling
A Charter To That Other Place
By Sean Boling
Copyright 2015 Sean Boling
Chapter One: Dale
People used to smile at them when he took his son out to lunch, back when Jonathan was a child. Some still smiled, but only to cover the tension or sadness that looking at the two of them now seemed to inspire.
He watched Jonathan line up packets of hot sauce on the tabletop and scan his freshly laid-out collection with his face hovering inches above it, rearranging the order every few seconds and blurting out “That a baby” each time he did.
Their number had yet to be called. This was the part where they would talk, if that was possible, where they would exchange stories while they waited for their food, slight moments about something they had heard or done. But Jonathan always heard too much, could hear everything around him. So while his son found relief in shrinking the world down to a tabletop, Dale glanced around the restaurant and marked time by observing the expressions of the others, whether they were looking at the two of them or not, marking not only the minutes until Jonathan’s cheese nachos were ready, but the years since people regarded their relationship as something endearing rather than pitiable. The thought bubbles that clouded every space they entered had gone from “You sweet man” to “You poor man”.
He was pleased with how close Jonathan had come to placing his own order. They had brought a takeout menu with them so he could point at what he wanted, and technically he had done so, but with a substantial amount of guidance from Dale before they had arrived. The goal he and his wife had set for Jonathan was independence, or something bordering on it, and they were confident in their ability to get him there. For the past decade, Dale had supervised the Special Education programs in the local school district following a previous decade in the classroom. His first years of teaching were in general education, until he started his degree in Special Education not long after Jonathan’s birth. And while his wife had no formal training, Alma had been their son’s primary caregiver all twenty years of his life, and as far as Dale was concerned, she was far more skilled in most areas compared to himself.
They had planned on a big family, the birth of their daughter inspiring them even more so, but after Jonathan arrived, they lost their nerve. Their daughter had been a very good sport about the attention her brother required, but Dale and Alma were determined that she wouldn’t have to take care of him when they no longer could, and beyond.
They also wanted to make sure he didn’t become a ward of the state, so while they felt they could teach him to function, they needed to set him up in a place of his own. It would be small, easy to maintain, a home base for simple routines that required little communication, and it would be paid for. And if they were going to pay cash for a house, even the modest one of their dreams for their son, they needed to make more money.
The nachos were ready. Their number was called. Jonathan had memorized it on the receipt, so he punctuated the announcement with a “That a baby.”
Dale chuckled and fetched the order. Any embarrassment he experienced over his son had evaporated within days of Jonathan making his public debut as a toddler. It was the way life was going to be from then on. Shame required too much energy.
Today he was feeling especially light, though, as he had received good news concerning his interview to be the principal of the new charter school opening in their community. It would not only be an opportunity to apply some innovations he had learned about and speculated on over the years, but if it worked, he imagined serving as a consultant on subsequent charter projects, as their district was the first one to grant approval within a fifty-mile radius. Theirs was still a predominantly rural county, trapped between respect for tradition and suspicion of public programs. During the school board meeting devoted to voting on the charter, several local leaders of private industries stated how much they would appreciate a chance to help finance an effort to beat the state at its own game.
Dale already knew this. He had spoken with many of them over the years, had grown up with some of them, and if he could deliver them a victory, his earning power would become more than he had ever imagined up until last year, when the charter committee first formed.
He kept his distance while they chose the founding board members, scouted locations, and compiled their case. He didn’t want to appear too eager. The founders were mainly parents and retired educators. Hardly any people who worked for the district were associated with the project, as many considered it a threat, and any sympathetic coworkers as mutinous. So avoiding the founding committee was hardly conspicuous. The trickier part was navigating the frequent bashing of the project by his colleagues. He couldn’t very well join in, all the while planning his application and coming out as a turncoat when he finally submitted it. Nor could he defend the effort too vocally and invite suspicion. He wanted to come into the interview as fresh as possible, and not give the committee too much time to form opinions of his candidacy before he arrived. He had no major enemies that he knew of, but he also knew that the fears of those who resist change are often turned into anger against those who embrace it. And even though the charter members wouldn’t likely seek opinions from resentful members of the status quo, words traveled quickly in a community where so few were spoken. He sought recommendations from those he safely assumed were sympathetic and able to keep a secret, kept track of the committee’s progress through their website and articles in the free local monthly so he could tailor his pitch to their needs, and by the time the interview was over, left them no choice but to hire him.
He playfully stole a chip from Jonathan’s plate. When he didn’t seem to notice, Dale slowly moved his hand toward the dish again. Jonathan grunted and flapped his hands this time.
“Aw, come on, son,” Dale pulled back. “I’ve earned it.”
He had told him about the good news right after receiving the call in the parking lot, and what this could mean for them, but he would have to wait until they arrived home to get any sort of read on Jonathan’s feelings. In the meantime he just shook his head at his Dad, and Dale enjoyed thinking that his son was teasing him right back.
On the drive home, Dale celebrated by taking the back roads and treating himself to some scenery. It was yet another room-temperature sunny day in a line of them that had grown far too long, the spring of the second year of drought conditions. It was late March and the hills were tan. The oak trees offered some scattered green, but very dusty shades of it. Sparse herds of cattle were visible on some of the slopes. The only crops allowed to flourish were those that could be dry farmed. The almond orchards were filled with pink buds and some of the vineyards were shiny with leaves, but in between such showcases were fallow fields shriveling with cracks. The only things rising from some of the parched lots were extra-large real estate signs nailed between wooden stakes as thick as telephone poles. The air kept still most of the time, as still as the dormant parcels, the occasional breeze coming across as a dry cough. It had been a while since anyone was able to truly enjoy weather that would be spectacular if it had not been so relentless. Sunshine had become a source of melancholy. Even in the afterglow of the phone call, Dale could only soak up the warmth for so long, as it dawned on him that his opportunity only existed due to the conditions he was driving through. The loss of income from the loss of crops led to lower property values, which led to less money for the schools, which led to frustration with the district, which led to a willingness to experiment.
By the time he crossed back into the city limits and pulled onto their street, he was once again humbled by the sun, and feeling more grateful than triumphant.
“So what do you think about Dad’s new job?” Alma asked J
onathan as she slid the letter board across the kitchen table between them. She had developed the device herself, a wooden board with raised puzzle pieces glued to it that she rearranged for months until settling on the layout that seemed to work best for Jonathan. He took to calling it “the instrument”. Dale watched in admiration as Alma maneuvered the board and confirmed each letter out loud as their son ran his hands over the bumps and tapped on one every few seconds, as though the spirit of Jonathan was contacting them, the part of their son that wasn’t visible to the material world. She was much faster with the system than Dale, thanks to her greater familiarity, so if they were both talking to Jonathan, he let her handle it.
“C…” Alma announced. “O…”
She and Dale glanced at each other, already able to predict the word. She helped him complete it, anyway.
“O…L…Cool?”
Jonathan nodded.
“Anything else?” Dale asked.
Jonathan shook his head.
“Is anything not cool to you?” he followed up.
The sharp look Alma gave him seemed in part to keep herself from laughing as much as it was an admonishment.
Jonathan started to run his hands over the board again. This time he spelled “room”.
“Sure,” Alma sighed. “Go ahead. We’ll celebrate without you.”
He got up and walked down the hall, the sound of his door shutting serving as a cue for Dale.
“Those books and articles that inspired you to create that system,” he said, “do you ever get the sense maybe they were embellishing a little bit?”
“It works,” she answered.
“I mean the results,” he explained. “Maybe their kids aren’t the poets they’re made out to be.”
“They took liberties with the transcribing?”
“It would be tempting.”
“Maybe Jonathan is just the strong, silent type,” she smiled. “Destined to be a great athlete had his mind and body been able to play well together.”
“You’re an optimist, and I love you.”
He leaned over and kissed her.
“Kind of,” she said.
“I kind of love you?”
“I’m kind of an optimist. How many great poets would have bothered if they had to rake their hands over a Ouija board instead of just writing or typing?”
“Not many, I imagine.”
He sat down next to her and kissed her again.
“But a few. So maybe there is an author in there somewhere. Now,” he whispered. “are you going to give me a proper congratulations?”
Alma accepted his kisses but still had things on her mind.
“Did you ever feel like calling him John, or Johnny?” she asked. “Even once?”
He sat back and thought about it.
“No,” he realized. “Not once.”
“Me neither.”
“It just doesn’t fit.”
“It’s too informal,” she proposed. “You have to get to know someone better to shorten their name.”
She was approaching a familiar conversation from a new angle. Of course they knew him, but on occasion they allowed each other to fret over just how well. Some personal emotional precedent was always possible with their daughter. They could re-visit relatable degrees of heartbreak when she did not get invited to a certain birthday in third grade, or to a prom by a certain somebody in high school. Her frustration with Math was familiar to Dale, with History to Alma. Sometimes it seemed her victories were sweeter to them than to her. But raising Jonathan could often feel like a spectator sport.
They knew everything about him, as the member of a fan club knows everything about their hero, their likes and dislikes and achievements and schedule. But just as a fan can never really know their idol, Dale and Alma worried that a similar gulf separated them from their son. Instead of security gates and bodyguards keeping them away, it was a daunting swirl of unfiltered stimuli. They read the literature, quite possibly every article published on the subject, and in theory comprehended what it was like to be him. Only that’s as far as they could go. They understood the need to adjust expectations, to revel in small moments of accomplishment: completing a lap rather than winning a swim meet, solving a problem rather than acing a test. But even as they learned to do so, and enjoyed the feeling, they were still so often left to wonder if Jonathan was enjoying it, too. According to the research, he was.
At times Dale felt as though worrying about how close he could get to his son was the closest he could come to understanding him, so very overwhelming were the thoughts.
“You’re thinking too much,” he said to her.
“I’m my son’s mother.”
She smiled at him and at last kissed him back.
Minutes later as they made their way through the hall toward their bedroom, Dale peeked into Jonathan’s room to make sure all was well.
He was lying on his side on the floor, his cheek pressed onto the carpet, running a comb through the bristles, watching each tooth of the comb bend back at random moments and then flick forward, perhaps looking for a pattern, listening to the disjointed tinkling of the plastic spikes snapping into place, feeling the vibrations in the carpet make its way past his skin and onward to a place where they would finally disappear.