Beautiful Child (21 page)

I pulled open the lid on the container. Of all the classes I’d had through the years, this one was not a good candidate for a barrel full of small brown sticks and the accompanying green roof slats, which were about the size of a skinny ruler. It was not hard to imagine what I was letting
myself in for. Indeed, because this group was so feisty, I’d long before removed all the small, potentially missilelike toys, such as Lego.

Yet…

I struggled down from the attic with the cumbersome barrel-shaped container holding the Lincoln Logs. I had to decant them into two apple boxes to fit them into my car.

The next day after morning recess, I said, “We’re going to do something special today. But we’re going to have to start by rearranging the room. I want to make a big space in the middle of the room, because guess what we’re going to do? We’re going to build cabins like Abraham Lincoln lived in. Each person is going to get to make his own. But – and an important ‘but’ here, everybody –”

I caught myself saying that and paused, waiting for Billy to leap in with one of his wiseacre literal comments about butts, but he didn’t. He was leaning against the radiator, listening.

“But,” I said, “there are lots of little pieces, lots of things that can be stepped on or slipped on. So I want everyone to be a very careful Chipmunk. If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to be careful.”

We moved the tables back so that there were three along one side of the room and two along the other. I had Jesse and Billy carry the two apple boxes to the center of the room and then carefully empty them into two piles, one on either side of the free area. I showed them how the Lincoln Logs fitted together.

“Hey, cool!” Billy shouted enthusiastically. “You mean we get to build with these things?”

“Each person can make a Lincoln cabin,” I said.

“Wow. We’ll have a town then,” Jesse said.

“Yeah, Springfield, Illinois!” Billy interjected. “That’s where Bart Simpson lives!”

“I don’t think so, Billy,” I replied. “There are lots of towns named Springfield.”

“Well, it might be. You don’t know.”

“Bart Simpson’s famouser than Abraham Lincoln, I bet,” Jesse said.

“I’m gonna make Bart Simpson’s house,” Billy said. “Then it
will
be that Springfield.” He grinned, knowing he was pushing his luck.

“I’m gonna make a grocery store,” Zane chipped in.

“Yeah, me too,” said Shane.

Sitting down crosslegged on the floor, I pulled Venus onto my lap. “Here, I’ll help you.”

There was a certain amount of silliness. Straightaway, Billy had to see how high a structure he could build. “This is gonna be a watchtower. Probably they had a watchtower, huh? ’Cause that was back in the days when they were fighting with Indians. So, this is gonna be a watchtower.”

“Yeah, like one a million feet high,” Jesse replied. “Like they’d have one that big. It’s not going to fit in with anything else.”

“So?” Billy replied, like this was an answer.

Then Zane discovered that you could pull back the end
of the rather springy green roof slats and it made a satisfying smacking sound when it hit something, and, indeed, delivered a satisfying smack. He tried it out on Shane’s behind. Shane let out a yelp and leaped up, fists flying.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I said in a warning voice.

Jesse was quicker. “Guys, don’t, okay? We’re having fun. And we won’t get to keep doing it if you guys start fighting.”

To my surprise, Shane did stop himself. He bared his teeth at his brother, then knelt back down over his cabin, shifting it away from Zane and over closer to Jesse.

I’d intended the activity to last only half an hour, which was pretty much the limit of this group’s attention span, but when the half an hour was up, all four boys were still deeply engrossed in creating their log cabin town on the floor. They were planning together, discussing the layout, helping one another find the right-sized logs to build with. There was even the odd comment about Abraham Lincoln in the conversation. So I let it continue uninterrupted.

I concentrated on getting Venus to add logs to the small building I was constructing. It took about twenty minutes but she finally joined in, cautiously adding the wooden sticks, if I handed them to her.

“Can we leave this up when we’re done?” Jesse asked.

“Yeah, and can we leave the room this way?” Billy added.

I nodded. “If you want. As long as everyone is careful not to trip.”

“We could make more and more,” Shane said.

“Yeah!” Billy cried. “We could make, like, a log cabin
city
. All around the room. Can we? Please, please?”

“I don’t think there are enough logs to make that many buildings,” I said.

“But we can leave it up?” Zane asked. “Can we keep adding to it?”

I nodded.

“
And
leave the room this way?” Jesse added. “Leave our tables side by side like that?”

“Okay.” I was tempted to put provisos on it, as in “Yes, if you can keep from fighting,” but I thought that didn’t sound like I had much faith, so I kept my mouth shut.

The boys went back to building.

“You know what?” Billy said suddenly. “If this was Abraham Lincoln’s time, Jesse and Venus would be slaves. They probably wouldn’t even get to come to school.”

Jesse bristled slightly. “Well, you wouldn’t even be in this country. You’d still be in Mexico. Probably they’d be shooting at you.”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Billy said indignantly.

“Boys,” I said gently, “let’s see if we can keep from arguing.”

“Yeah, but he said –” Jesse replied.

“I
said
if this was Abraham Lincoln’s time, you and Venus would be slaves. I didn’t say I
wanted
you to be slaves,” Billy retorted. “So don’t get so hot and bothered.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t say I
wanted
you to get shot at either.”

There was a long pause. Jesse reached over to sort through the pile of logs for the size he wanted. Billy watched him. Then he went back to building.

A long, busy silence followed.

Billy paused again. He looked at Jesse and then around at the others.

“Know what?” he said to no one in particular. “I didn’t used to like black kids. Before I came in this class. That’s ’cause there’s these black kids over at my brother’s school and they’re always beating people up. They beat me up once. And my brother says that’s ’cause they’re black.”

“Yeah, well, it’s stupid to think like that,” Jesse replied. “What color you are doesn’t mean you’re gonna beat people up.”

Billy nodded. “Yeah. I know. I figured that out. I’m just saying what it was before.”

There was a pause.

Billy watched Jesse as he worked. “You and me are friends, huh?”

Jesse shrugged.

“That’s what I told my brother. The other night I was saying that to him. I said I know a black kid at school and he’s my friend. So don’t go saying anything bad about black kids or I’ll pop you,” Billy said.“ ’Cause that’s what I do, if someone insults my friends.”

Jesse nodded slightly. “Yeah, you’re my friend too. I told my grandma that.”

A pause.

“She said, ‘You don’t got no friends,’” Jesse continued. “She said, ‘That’s ’cause you got Tourette’s and that’s what makes you the way you are. So it makes it so you can’t get friends.’”

“That ain’t true,” Billy said. “That’s the same as being prejudiced, huh, Teacher? Like saying you got no friends ’cause you’re a black kid. That’s what I was talking about. That’s what I meant. Before,
before
I knew Jesse, I didn’t think I could be friends with him, ’cause he was black. But now when I look at Jesse, I don’t
think
about him being black. And it’s the same about Tourette’s. ’Cause when I didn’t know you, Jesse, I thought all your jerking and stuff was weird. But now I don’t see it. You don’t see how people are different, if you know ’em. You just see how you’re alike. Huh, Teacher?”

“That’s what I said to my grandma,” Jesse replied. “I said, in my class, I got friends.”

A moment passed in silence as the boys worked on their buildings.

“You know what?” Billy said. “I think we’re lucky to be in this class. I told my brother that. I said this here was the best class I ever been in. I’m glad I don’t go to any other school.”

“Me too,” Shane said.

“Yeah, me too,” Zane said.

Jesse nodded. “Yeah, me three.”

“That should be ‘me four,’” Billy interjected. “Me,” he pointed to himself. “Me too,” he said, and pointed to Shane.
“Me three.” He pointed to Zane. “And me four.” He pointed to Jesse.

Jesse laughed. “Yeah, me four too, then.”

O
ver the following weekend I went out to garage sales early Saturday morning with a girlfriend, Beckie. This was an activity I did purely in the spirit of friendship, as I have transformed through the years into one of nature’s natural disposers. I could see the point of
having
garage sales – how wonderful to palm off all your old junk on someone else – but the point of
going
to one to acquire what other people were trying to get rid of was lost on me. I went along, mainly because the outings always ended with a leisurely Saturday morning breakfast at one of my favorite restaurants.

Beckie was the sort who could browse through garage sale offerings for hours, particularly for clothes. She bought half her wardrobe from garage sales and was always after me to do the same, showing me all the great stuff she’d
acquired over the years, much of it for only a few dollars an item. Clothes – new or used – didn’t have quite the same appeal for me, so I usually trawled through the bric-a-brac. On this particular Saturday, we hit one garage sale with racks and racks of clothes, much to Beckie’s delight. I went off and checked out the kitchenware, then the boxes of books, then the secondhand toys, then the tools, then the hodgepodge stuff like old florists’ vases and empty Avon bottles. When I’d seen every conceivable thing, I went back to find Beckie
still
looking. I wandered off again.

To while away the time, I struck up a conversation with a young girl who was obviously the owner of the toys being sold. She looked about ten. We talked about outgrowing Barbie dolls and how you might still like the dolls themselves, but you didn’t need that pink plastic camper anymore, and so, what did you do with it? She then told me she was trying to make ten dollars selling her stuff so that she could buy a jewelery-making kit. I told her I regretted not being able to buy anything, as I was looking mainly for boys’ toys.

She was a natural little entrepreneur, this kid. When she found out that I hadn’t seen anything I liked, she wanted to know if I’d like to see some stuff they had kept back to put out the following day. It was just in through the back. Come on, she said. Maybe there was something I’d like.

In among the things waiting to be put out was a cardboard box full of children’s videos. I leaned down and
sorted through them. That’s when I saw it:
She-Ra, Princess of Power
. I picked the video up.

“How much for this?” I asked her.

“Fifty cents.”

So it was a done deal.

When I finished my lunch on Monday, there was still almost half an hour left before the bell rang for the start of the afternoon session. So I packed away my things and went down to the playground to find Venus.

She was over by her wall. She wasn’t up on top of it. She wasn’t allowed up there during school hours, but she leaned against it. She spent most outdoor periods like that, leaning against the wall.

I knew better than to try and call her over, so I crossed the playground to where she was. I knelt down in front of her. “Do you want to come inside? I have something special for you.”

She regarded me.

I smiled.

No response.

“Guess what it is? A She-Ra cartoon. It’s on video. I thought, if you wanted, we could go up to the classroom now and watch it on the VCR there.”

No response.

“Would you like to do that?”

No response.

It was unrealistic to expect an answer here in the noisy,
exposed playground, so I simply rose back up to my feet and held out my hand. “Come on. Let’s go watch it.”

She remained immobile.

I reached down and took her hand. “Come in with me.”

She came willingly enough.

We walked into the dim corridor and up, up, up the long staircase. I opened the door to the classroom, but since we were going to watch the video, I didn’t turn on the lights. Crossing the room to my desk, I took out the video. Removing the tape from the cover, I handed the cover to Venus.

“See? Here it is. Have you seen any She-Ra cartoons before?”

No response.

I pulled out the stand that held the TV monitor and the VCR. “Let’s pull it over here so that we can sit on the cushions in the reading corner.” I shoved the stand ahead of me.

Venus remained by the door, the video case in her hands. She looked at the picture on the front.

“Come on,” I said. I returned to where she was standing and led her over to the reading corner. Turning on the VCR and monitor, I then sat down. I pulled Venus onto my lap and wrapped my arms around her.

It was a rather thin plotline about a pirate who would work for anyone who paid him until he met Adora, who worked for the resistance movement on the planet Etheria. That’s when he realized he really wanted to be a good pirate and work to free Etheria from the evil Horde too. The crowning
moment came when Adora transformed herself into She-Ra accompanied by a very catchy tune and a cascade of glittery light. I could feel Venus’s little body tensing as she watched the transformation. Her fingers gripped the cloth of my jeans and she sat forward, enthralled.

There was a second cartoon on the tape, but we didn’t have time to watch it. Only about seven minutes remained before the afternoon session began, so I rose up and turned the VCR off.

“That was good, wasn’t it? Did you like that?” I asked.

Very cautiously, Venus nodded.

“Here,” I said and handed her the yardstick. “Shall we practice turning into She-Ra? You turn around and do the sword thing. I’ll sing that good tune, okay? I’ll sing the ‘She-Ra! She-Ra!’ part.”

Without any real hesitation, Venus held the yardstick aloft and started to turn around. I did the musical accompaniment.

“Yes, that’s good. But you forgot something. You forgot to say,‘For the honor of Grayskull!’It wouldn’t work without that, I think. Here, try it again. I’ll do the ‘She-Ra! She-Ra!’”

Venus held the yardstick aloft again and turned slowly around. I saw her open her mouth but I couldn’t hear anything.

“Here, try again. I think it needs to be louder. Like this: ‘For the honor of Grayskull!’” I shouted.

Venus’s eyes went wide.

“Can you say that really loud?” I asked. “Let’s hear you try.”

“For the honor of Grayskull,” she mouthed.

“Hey, yeah! Almost got it. Can you try it just a little bit louder?”

“For the honor of Grayskull,” she whispered.

“Almost there. Louder?”

“For the honor of Grayskull,” she said, again in a whisper.

“Louder.”

“For the honor of Grayskull,” she said and it was almost a normal voice.

“Just about there. A little louder.”

“For the honor of Grayskull,” she said and it was at a normal level.

“Great! You are so good! You can do it, can’t you? Now, let’s get all the action too. Here. Hold up the sword. Spin around. And don’t forget the words. Let’s see you transform into the Princess of Power!”

Venus held up the yardstick and turned around. I sang, “She-Ra! She-Ra!”

Venus ventured the yardstick a little higher. There was a pause … the pause started to draw out … it threatened to become a silence. Then suddenly, “For the power of Grayskull!” she said in a clear voice.

“Wow! Wowie!” I clapped my hands to my cheeks. “And there you are! The Princess of Power! Right in front of me!” I reached down and grabbed her to me, hugging her in against my body.

Venus giggled happily.

The two of us spent the next few days watching the video during the lunch hour. Once Venus knew what we were going to do, she came willingly. She still would not risk declaring her allegiance openly by crossing the playground to me, but instead, she started lingering by the door, waiting for me. On the third day I saw a smile touch her lips when she glimpsed me through the glass of the door.

I looked forward to our lunchtime meetings almost as much as she did, I think. Sensing we were on the cusp of a breakthrough, I filled much of my spare time with thoughts of how to get the next response. How much could I ask of her? How much would she do?

I also spent much time pondering what was behind all her extremely unresponsive behavior, because even now, even after all these months of being up close with it, I found it unusual. She was so persistently unresponsive, even when it was apparent that she could, indeed, talk.

I still had never heard spontaneous speech out of her. Venus would now very occasionally talk, after a fashion, when we were alone together. Or rather, she would either grunt out “yes” or “no” or she would repeat something I told her to say. This was not enough speech to clarify in my mind the degree to which she could speak normally. There was still the specter of retardation haunting our activities. Venus was so unresponsive it had been impossible to administer any kind of assessment test, such as
the WISC IQ test. Consequently, we didn’t know. It was possible she did not speak because she simply did not have enough intelligence to do so. Or maybe she had brain damage or aphasia or the countless other things that might lead me to a dead end.

Bob rather sardonically pointed this out to me one lunch hour, as I was finishing up my sandwich in preparation to go down and watch the video with Venus.

“You really are a most amazing person, you know that, don’t you?” he remarked as I packed up my things.

I looked up questioningly.

“The way you get by on so little reward.” He tipped his head, as if gesturing about someone in the room. “I mean with Venus.”

“She’s rewarding,” I answered, perhaps a little defensively.

He raised his eyebrows. “Come on, Tor,” he said in disbelief.

I looked over at him.

“You don’t have to lie to me. I came up through all the liberal idealism too. We’ve both got the swinging sixties in our blood. Love, not war. All that crap. I’ve served my time worshipping at that altar. But we’re also both old enough now to know when the odds aren’t in our favor. And they sure aren’t with this one.”

This remark irritated me. “So what are you saying? That I shouldn’t be doing this?”

“No. I’m just saying you’re putting a lot of effort into what is likely to be very little return.”

“I don’t think that’s a value judgment I should be making, Bob.”

“Perhaps there’s another way to put it. One’s got to pick one’s battles, Torey,” he said. “When I was saying that about the swinging sixties, I was meaning we were both idealistic back then. When you and I started working together, we thought we could save the world. But the truth is, we can’t. And you know that. I know you do. I know you’re not half so idealistic as you come across.”

“I’m realistic,” I said, “more than idealistic.”

“Which is what I’m saying. Realistically, you’ll never accomplish much in this case. And I see you spreading yourself thin. I know you’re taking personal time to work with her.”

“Then get me another aide. Get me enough help in my classroom so that I can adequately attend to all the children I have, because I can’t do it now. I can’t work with this girl during class time, not the way she needs to be worked with, because what would I do with the others?”

“No, what I’m
saying
,” said Bob with a note of exasperation in his voice, “is that –”

“This one isn’t worth saving,” I said.

“No. Let me finish. What I’m saying is that I don’t want to see you overextend yourself. I
can’t
get you another aide. I know as well as you do that you should have one, but tell that to John Q. Public at the next mill levy, because the money just isn’t there. In the meantime, this is all we can do. And yes, sadly, it means we’ve got to pick our battles.”

“I don’t work that way,” I said and picked up my stuff and left.

The conversation with Bob left me disgruntled. I was experienced enough and realistic enough to know that, yes, sadly, one
does
have to make difficult choices. I had no delusions about being able to “save” every kid I encountered. There were not the resources. There wasn’t the time. And in some instances, I simply wasn’t the right person. But I resented very much the implication that Venus should be considered expendable on the basis of an IQ people were only guessing at or her potential for “return” on time invested, which to me was as discriminatory as excluding her based on socioeconomic level or race. I simply did not think this was a judgment I should be making. If Venus was responding, then that was sufficient reason to keep working with her.

And she
was
responding. In the privacy of the unlit classroom, in the shadows of a cartoon princess, we slowly began to build up a relationship.

“Here. Do you want to put the video in?” I asked one afternoon.

Venus stood, her eyes growing wide.

“You don’t know how? Come here. I’ll show you.”

Hesitantly, she came up to the machine.

“Here. Take the tape. Then you push it in here. There. Like that.” I demonstrated. Then I popped the videotape back out. “Now, here. You try it.” I put the tape in her hand.

Venus looked down at the videotape with an amazed expression, as if it were a most unusual thing.