Song of the Shaman (7 page)

“Hmm. And you were?”

He shifted his eyes. “I was an Indian sitting by a fire, singing songs.”

A pained expression came over his face, frightening Sheri. She put her arms around his shoulders, pulled him to her. Jackie’s hand moved swiftly in neat, even lines.

“What about Francesca?”

He was silent again.

“Go on…” Sheri tried to smooth his springy hair.

“She didn’t say anything. At first.”

“No?”

“She just sat there with her eyes closed. Then she started moving like this.” Zig rocked from side to side.

“Did she say anything at all?”

“Well, after a while she was going “Ahhhh…ahhhh…” really low, and then she started getting louder.”

“And what did you do?” Jackie grilled him.

“I said, ‘Francesca, who are you?’ But she kept on moaning. Then she started screaming
Vesuvius! Vesuvius!”

The headmistress put down her pen.

“We tried to stop her but she ran away screaming and swinging her arms and smacking her head and pulling her clothes.” Jackie pushed away from her desk, sat stiffly in her chair.

“Francesca’s face and arms were flushed when she fainted. One of the teachers heard her cry out. She recognized her words as something in Italian.”

Zig pulled on his shirt. “It was Latin. Francesca said, ‘Hercule serva nos,’ which means, “Hercules, save us.”

Jackie raised her eyebrows.

“Do you know Latin?”

Zig looked away. He sunk back into the sofa.
What was this?
Sheri stared at him, trying hard not to show her surprise in front of Jackie.
How did he know that?

“Zig, I’d like to speak to your mother for a moment. Would you please wait outside in the lobby? We’ll be just a few minutes.”

Zig sauntered out of the room, eyes downcast. The heavy door closed like a vault. Sheri prepared herself for Jackie’s reaction. Her son was just a witness to this unfortunate event; he didn’t give rise to it. Zig made up a game and shared it in the playground. He didn’t touch the girl. He didn’t hurt her. It wasn’t his fault.

After a pregnant pause, Jackie spoke.

“Zig has quite an imagination. Does he play that game often at home?”

Sheri thought about the many times Zig talked about his Indian life. She straightened the raincoat on her lap.

“No, I…I’m quite surprised. I don’t know what to say.”

Another pause.

“Sheri, at the last parent-teacher conference Ellie noted that she discussed Zig’s behavior with you.” Jackie’s blue-veined hand removed papers from a folder with Zig’s name written in bold letters.

“Yes, she did. I thought it was under control.” Sheri felt the skin on her chest tighten. Jackie continued, “As you know, Zig is one of our top fifth-grade students. He completes his homework on time, received As on most of his class projects, and scored high on the ERBs. You must be very proud. However, Ellie says she still has trouble getting him to cooperate with class rules. I think he has a problem.”

“What sort of problem?” Sheri crossed her arms; the dead air in the room burned her throat.

“He repeatedly disrupts the class to ask questions, sometimes to the point of harassing Ellie on various subjects but particularly history and social studies. Then at times he is reluctant to participate in class. Some days he sits at the tables with classmates in the dining hall. Other days he sits alone on the floor in a corner, away from everyone.” She slid the papers back into the folder. “How are things at home?”

Sheri thought about the crunch she had been going through preparing for the JetSet presentation—the late nights, the weekend meetings…

“I’ve been working long hours at the office lately, but he hasn’t been acting any differently at home.” Her phone started vibrating in her handbag.

“We’re a bit concerned. That’s why I’d like Zig to see Bruce Schumer, the school psychologist. Bruce will get to the root of what’s going on and help him work on his behavioral skills. Zig is a very bright young man—we want him to reach his full potential at Excelsior.”

“Jackie, we’re talking about a children’s game here. It was clearly make-believe. Maybe Francesca is the one who needs to see a psychologist!” Sheri was defensive even though she was starting to have doubts about what constitutes a fantasy.

“I understand your concern; however, a child is in the hospital and Zig was intrinsically involved. As headmistress I need to be assured that nothing like this will ever occur again. Bruce is quite competent, patient, and caring. Everyone will benefit from the evaluation.”

Sheri dug her heels into the gaudy flower designs on the thick piled Victorian rug. Jackie was not letting up. She had to appease Francesca’s parents with something. Sheri felt trapped.

“It’s the right decision, I assure you.” Jackie picked up the receiver and pressed a button on her phone. “Margaret, would you set up an appointment for Zig Lambert to see Bruce this afternoon? And please tell Bruce to drop by my office when he’s done.” She placed the receiver back on the handset. “I would encourage you to stay, Sheri, but parents are not allowed to sit in on evaluations. It’s school policy.”

Her head was killing her. Sheri’s cell buzzed again. The glow on the screen showed two missed calls—no messages. It was almost 1:00 p.m. Damn! If she left now she might get to Gotham before the entrées arrived. She would deal with the school later.

“I have to leave. Can Zig go back to his class now?”

“It’s been a hectic morning. I so appreciate your taking the time to come in.” Jackie walked over to a tall bulletin board and studied a tacked-up schedule. “They’re in the middle of science lab right now. He can play outside until class is over. Bruce will meet with Zig by three this afternoon.” Jackie held the office door open while Sheri collected her belongings. “I’ll be in touch with the results of the evaluation.”

“I’ll be expecting your call.”

Sheri went out into the stone lobby, glad for the fresh air. Zig was spinning around in the piazzalike open space; his light feet made no sound on the solid floors. At the back of the lobby a foyer led to the courtyard playground. It had stopped drizzling. The playground was empty except for a maintenance worker sweeping up leaves under the swings.

“Honey, I have an important lunch appointment. We’ll talk this whole thing over tonight.”

“She yelled at me, Mom. I hate this school.”

“We’ll discuss that later—”

“Everyone is so stupid. They don’t know shit.” He kicked a soggy soccer ball against the courtyard wall.

“What!” Sheri looked around to see if anyone had overheard him. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him aside.

“Don’t ever talk like that again, you hear me?”

“You say it. I hear you on your cell phone.”

“We’re talking about you right now! You better straighten up and cut the crazy games, okay?”

He kept kicking the ball into the brick wall; it thumped and rolled back to him like a rotten cabbage. Sheri yanked on her coat and shook out her umbrella.

“What is it with you? Why can’t you just play like the other kids?”

“Their games are about nothing but bogus superheroes.”

“You like that Airbender Avatar!”

“It’s a
cartoon.
The story’s okay—a boy with powers—but it’s not a true story. I was trying to show them how to use their own powers.”

Sheri watched him dig up a stone with the tip of his sneaker. The late October wind raked through his wild hair. He looked like a regular ten-year-old, but he spoke like no one she had ever known. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it just yet.

“I’ve gotta go, Zig.”

“You always gotta go.” Zig stomped on the soccer ball until it cracked.

“I promise to be home early tonight.”

“Will you tell me a story then? A true story?”

“I will. Promise.”

“Promise promise?”

“Promise promise. Leatrice will pick you up. I’ll see you at home.”

TUCKED AWAY AT THE END of a long hallway on the second floor was the school psychologist’s office. Bruce Schumer sat reading a typewritten transcript while he sipped his twice-warmed mug of coffee. He looked closely at several paragraphs before turning the page. His office faced the courtyard playground, making it quieter than the offices that overlooked the busy two-way traffic on Adams Street. Between reading the report, he glanced out the window at a boy in an orange shirt kicking a dead soccer ball into the side of the building. The hollow thud was almost rhythmic, the kicker’s movements precise and steady. When the thumping stopped, he looked out the window and the boy had gone. A few minutes later the boy in the orange shirt walked into his office.

“Hey, Zig! That was you out there in the playground smacking that old soccer ball.”

Zig looked at the sun-faded Monet posters on the wall in the narrow office.

“Ms. Dodson told me to play outside until science lab was over. Then she said you wanted to see me.”

Bruce searched the boy’s distant eyes.

“Yes…I’d like to talk to you, Zig. I have just a couple of questions to ask. It’s not a test or anything ugly like that, and you won’t be graded. So you can relax.”

Zig had no reply.

“Okay! Sit anywhere you like. Would you like some water or juice?”

“Just water, thanks.”

Bruce stood up, a tall, lanky man with large hands and feet and a gentle nature. His shoulders were slightly rounded from bending down to meet kids and most adults somewhere midair. He grinned at Zig.

“Water it is. I’ll be right back.”

The pastel walls and landscape prints gave the narrow room a cozy atmosphere. A loveseat sofa was next to the psychologist’s desk, which fit exactly into the tight space under the sole window. A leather director’s chair stood opposite the sofa. Zig sat down in the chair and placed his arms lightly on the armrest, his feet dangling a bit above the bare wood floor. Jackie’s southern accent was heard trailing out in the hallway.
“Francesca’s mother just called. Franny is okay. She came to an hour ago and doesn’t remember anything. She’ll have a CAT scan in the morning. Is Zig in your office now? Good. Let’s get to the bottom of this.
”

In a few moments Bruce walked back to the office looking distracted.

“Here’s your water!”

He handed the cup to Zig and folded his body into the swivel office chair. He shuffled through the pages of the report he had been reading, and said,

“You’re in the fifth grade now, right, Zig?”

“Yes.”

“How’s school this year? You’ve been here since kindergarten.”

“Preschool.”

“Preschool too!”

He turned over a couple more pages.

“Wow! Almost seven years! How do you like your teachers?

“They’re okay.”

“Fifth grade is a different ball game. Most kids complain there’s way too much homework. But you seem to be doing really well in Ms. Herman’s class—all As on the last report card. Think the work is challenging enough for you?”

Zig shrugged. “I dunno. I guess so.”

“The reason I ask is because sometimes if the work is too easy a child gets bored. And when he’s bored he does things he might not ordinarily do just to avoid boredom.”

Zig fell silent again. Bruce turned to his report.

“I have here a copy of the discussion you had with Jackie and your mom today. It says you and four friends were playing a game of ‘real pretend’ during recess, a game that
you—”

“What’s a psychologist?”

Zig was looking at a metal plate on the door with the words BRUCE SCHUMER, CHILD PSYCHOLOGIST engraved on it. Bruce exhaled and leaned back in his chair.

“What’s a psychologist…well, Zig, a psychologist is someone who studies the inner workings of a person’s mind—mostly their emotions and behavior—and tries to understand why they do the things they do.”

Zig thought for a moment. “So if you can understand why a person does what they do, that means you believe the reason why they do the things they do, right? You believe in them.”

“Well, sort of. I guess you could say that, though I’ve never quite put it that way.”

Zig swung his legs. Bruce chewed on the end of a pencil.

“So, tell me about this game, ‘real pretend.’ It sounds very interesting. Can you teach me how to play it?”

Zig eyed him and shook his head. “It’s too hard a game for grown-ups to play.”

“Really? How so?”

“They have way too much stuff going on in their head.”

“What does that have to do with playing the game?”

“In ‘real pretend’ you have to forget everything so you can remember who you are and who you’ve been.”

“Hmm, why do you suppose that’s true?”

Zig mused. “I don’t know.”

Bruce gazed at the bushy-haired little boy with the shirt that was too long in the sleeves. He nodded and spoke aloud, as much for his benefit as for Zig’s.

“Makes a lot of sense. Kids can play ‘real pretend’ because they aren’t so stuck on their thoughts and what people think of them yet. They can easily free their minds and become more…receptive. Yes, I understand completely.” Bruce leaned forward in his chair toward Zig. “Now, be a sport and tell me exactly how the game started.”

Zig relaxed a bit in the chair. “Well, Jacob, Daniel, Francesca, Kwami, and I went behind the basketball court. It’s pretty quiet there. We sat down in a circle and I told them to close their eyes and then cross them.”

“Cross them? Why would they cross them?”

“Because when you cross your eyes you can make both eyes one. It makes the game work faster.”

Make both eyes one
. Bruce pulled up to his desk to jot down some notes. “Go on.”

“Then I said, ‘Picture yourself when you were five years old, then two years old, then the moment you were born, then when you were growing inside your mother’s stomach, back to when you were just a speck, then make the speck disappear. After that I asked, ‘Who are you?’”

The psychologist stroked his chin, wondering if this was some kind of hypnosis. “Jackie’s report said Daniel spoke
first—”

“He was a Viking soldier.”

“Interesting…was he turning red or having trouble breathing?”