He came for one last visit before summer vacation and we picked out some books and workbooks that would review the skills he’d learned in second grade. He promised to keep the study sheet I gave him that would show how he spent his twenty minutes of work each day while he was at the lake.
“How does it feel, Joey?” I asked. “Do you feel good about this year?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. I guess so. I mean, I know I’m pretty good at reading now, and I can add and even subtract pretty good. I don’t fall out of my chair or get in as much trouble. But multiplication’s hard and you got to be able to do two digits in third. I’ll never get that.”
He shook his head and stood up. “See, Mary. It’s like this with me. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
I laughed. “You’ll get it in the fall, Joey,” I said.
Joey’s taxi was late, but Joey was my last appointment for the day and I was glad to have a few extra minutes with him before he left for vacation. We munched on nuts and raisins and the popcorn I always kept in the office as we chatted and waited for the taxi.
A horn beeped and Joey picked up his books, workbooks, and papers. He grabbed an extra handful of popcorn and ran through the door and down the steps.
Halfway to the cab he turned back to wave, and as he did, his feet somehow slid out from under him and he fell flat, face down in the driveway, surrounded by books, papers, and popcorn.
“Oh, Joey …” I started toward him, but before I was down the steps, Joey was back on his feet, shrugging his shoulders in my direction, grinning, waving one last time.
By the next day the squirrels had eaten the popcorn, and I’ll never be quite sure whether Joey’s fall was an accident or his idea of a perfect exit.
Second grade had gone so well that Joey and I both took the whole summer off. Joey was at his cottage at Lake Champlain; I was at our summer house in Connecticut. We were also both late getting back in gear, so Joey had been in school for over a week before I saw him for the first time.
Obviously, something had happened since I’d last seen Joey, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Joey was a wreck. He sat behind my office desk opening drawers, shuffling papers, bending paper clips. His nails were bitten down to the quick. His old-time nervous restlessness was running high, but there was also a new listless quality that bothered me even more.
“What’s wrong, Joey?”
He hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“Do you like your teacher?”
“Not much. She’s new.”
“It’s okay to be new. Everybody’s new sometime. What don’t you like?”
“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. She gets me all mixed up.”
I didn’t press further. If Joey was forced to continue to struggle, trying to put emotions he didn’t understand into words, it would only make him more anxious.
I switched to something more concrete. “Did you bring your notebook?”
Joey dragged his book bag onto the desk. One look confirmed that things were not going well. Already, covers were coming off books and scraps of papers and pencils mingled with gum wrappers and an odd sock in the bottom of the bag.
I lifted out the notebook. There was no assignment pad in the front; in fact, there was nothing at all in the notebook except blank paper.
“Do you have homework for tomorrow?” I asked.
Again Joey shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Joe …” I began.
But Joey interrupted. “I mean it,” he said. “I don’t know what’s going on. She reads out the homework so fast I can’t even hear it, and I sure can’t write it down. She never puts it on the board. It doesn’t matter anyway, because even if I do it she never collects it.
“Then like in spelling, she hands out these purple dittos with the spelling words all scrambled up. She says it’s a game to help us learn our spelling words, but I never even know what the spelling words are ’cause I can’t get them unscrambled. Everything’s like that – English, math, social studies – everything’s all mixed up.”
Poor Joey. The last thing he needed was a disorganized classroom and an inexperienced teacher. He had to work hard enough to keep things straight inside his own head without having outside confusion heaped on top of it. What was Mr. Templar thinking of? He knew the kind of classroom Joey needed. But the way it was now, Joey was going to have to muster up his own skills in order to survive.
“Listen, Joey. I hear you, but I don’t want to see all you’ve learned go down the tube just because you have a new teacher. You have to get your assignments down – and you have to clean up your act. If you don’t hear what your teacher says, then you have to go up after school and ask her again.”
“Sure. And by the time I get out all the other guys will be gone.”
“Then go in early and get it before school starts. I’ll talk to her, Joe, but you’ve got to do your part.”
We talked about this and Joey softened a little. “Yeah – okay. Anyway, what’s expanded notation? See, I did write my math homework here on my book cover, but I don’t get it.”
We discussed expanded notation for the rest of his time, and Joey was doing it easily by the end of the hour. But somehow this didn’t make me feel much better, and I watched uneasily from my office window as Joey unlocked his bike from a tree. Before he got on he took a pair of headphones from the pocket of his jacket and clamped them on his head, as if to seal off the rest of the world.
I called Joey’s mother at home the next day. No answer. On impulse, I called her old office number; she picked up on the first ring. “I know you can’t talk now,” I said, “but I was wondering if we could get together sometime. Your husband, too. I’m worried about Joey.”
“I was going to call you,” Mrs. Stone replied. “He’s been terrible at home. One thing Joey always had was a sense of humor. Not anymore. Everything anybody does is wrong. Listen, I know Al wants to talk to you too – but he got this new promotion and he’s working late every night. Actually, I’m back at work too, as you can see,” she giggled nervously. “Or hear.” There was a slight pause. “I guess we both changed our minds. Anyway, I hate to ask it, but do you think you could come over on Saturday afternoon? Rich has early football practice, and Joey and Bill always go and hang around to watch him, so we’ll be able to talk.”
I hesitated. I tried to save the weekends for my own family. But I was worried about Joey. I had the feeling that he was getting in deeper every day.
“How’s two o’clock?” I asked. “I’ll check in with his teacher before Saturday. Ms. Ansara, is it?”
“I guess so,” Mrs. Stone said. “At least that’s what it sounds like. Back-to-school night isn’t until October. Uh-oh. I gotta go. See you Saturday.”
I stopped by Mr. Templar’s office the next day to return Joey’s second-grade books and to try to get the ones for third grade. I also needed to find out about Joey’s teacher. Mr. Templar was a good principal – fair and caring, about both the children and his staff – and putting Joey in with an inexperienced teacher wasn’t consistent with what I knew about him.
“Ms. Answera, you mean. Third grade. Yes, she’s new, but she got good grades at college.” Mr. Templar made a wry face. “Whatever that’s worth. How they expect us to teach children when they don’t teach the teachers is beyond me.
“Look, I know it must be hard for Joey, but it’s equally hard for Ms. Answera. And me. Do you know how many of my teachers left this year? Over a third of my staff, including both third-grade teachers, are new. Do you have any idea how many parents are calling me? Well, I do the best I can. What more can I say? I can’t even blame the teachers. They can get a lot more money as well as more respect someplace else. Anyway, come on, I’ll take you down and introduce you.”
The third-grade class was pouring in from gym. They’d been out in the yard in the warm, sunny September weather and now, hot and sweaty, they pushed and shoved one another through the classroom door. Ms.
Answera adjusted the strap of her blue sundress as she teetered back and forth on high-heeled sandals, cautioning the class to quiet down.
I looked around for Joey. Situations like this could set him off like a Roman candle. But not this time. Joey walked by, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, oblivious to everything that was going on; even his red hair seemed dull and lifeless. I could not believe he was allowed to wear headphones in school, but he had them on and no one seemed to notice.
“Ms. Answera,” Mr. Templar said, “I know this isn’t the best timing, but Mrs. MacCracken isn’t in our school very often, and I wanted you two to have the chance to meet. Mrs. MacCracken works with Joey Stone.”
Ms. Answera peered at me through violet-tinted glasses, big as saucers. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow before school, if that’s all right? You don’t need interruptions on a day like this.”
“Sure thing,” Ms. Answera answered amiably. “That’d be fine.”
I waved to Joey before I left, but if he saw me he gave no sign. He slouched against the coat closet, headphones in place, eyes focused on something out of sight.
I was more concerned than ever after my visit to the school. I didn’t blame Mr. Templar or Ms. Answera, and besides, blaming the system wouldn’t help Joey. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have fought so hard to keep him in a regular class. If Joey was in special ed now, there would be fewer kids and less confusion, and probably the same teacher as the year before.
Mrs. Stone was watering the lawn when I pulled up in front of her house.
“Thank you for taking time on a Saturday,” she said, as we walked down the front walk.
She smiled, but before she could open the door, her smile disappeared. A loud, angry, male voice shouted, “Get out of here! Right now! Damn it! I told you a hundred times! No food in the den! I don’t care if that’s where the television is. This place is a mess! Now get that plate back to the kitchen, you little pig.”
“That’s Grandpa.” Gail Stone sighed. “The boys drive him crazy, especially Joey. Mom died early this summer, and with his blood pressure I didn’t dare leave him alone. So we sold their house and he moved in here. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Anyway,” she said, “let’s go out back. Al will be right down.”
There was a small terrace at the far end of the yard, and Mrs. Stone motioned me to a canvas chair and handed me a glass of iced tea.
Al Stone came out from the house and across the backyard. He looked tired, thinner than I remembered. Something in his hair glinted in the sunlight, and I stared in disbelief. The metal sidepieces of headphones identical to those Joey wore reflected the afternoon sun.
Al slipped the headphones off as he approached and shook my hand. “Good to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” I replied, still riveted to the headphones.
“Oh,” he said, following my eyes. “These? Only way to survive around here.”
“Gailllll? Where are you? Gailllll?” Grandpa stood in the back doorway, calling plaintively.
“Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute,” Gail Stone said apologetically, as she scurried across the yard.
Although the sun shone and the birds sang, I shivered in the canvas chair. It was clear that Joey’s world was coming apart, both at home and in school.
Al Stone said nothing all afternoon. It was as though he too had turned off the world. Although his headphones were off, he was still listening to something else. He was pleasant but quiet, and either resisted or ignored every attempt I made to draw him into the conversation. Mrs. Stone and I talked, but all the important things went unsaid.
Gail Stone did not mention that she was torn between her obligations to her father and the resentment of her husband. All afternoon she ran back and forth between them, trying to keep the peace, while we talked in snatches about what was happening to Joey.
Al Stone did not talk about the anger he felt at having his home invaded by a querulous, demanding old man – he just tuned out. He stayed at work as late as he could and put on his headphones when he got home. When I commented on the inappropriateness of Joey wearing headphones in school, Al Stone smiled pleasantly and said that he hadn’t realized Joey wore them in school.
But I never did point out to Al Stone that his actions spoke more strongly than his words. Joey, like his father, was shutting out the confusion of his world by putting on his headphones. In fact, Gail Stone murmured as she walked me to my car that both father and son often fell asleep with headphones in place, music blasting into their eardrums. Who knew what effect this had on Joey’s auditory processing? How was Joey ever going to make it? His world at school was a jumble of confusion; his world at home was filled with anger, resentment, guilt, and noise. I didn’t see how things could be any worse for Joey.
But I was wrong. Grandpa dropped dead from a heart attack two months later, just before Thanksgiving, and instead of improving, things got even worse. Now Joey stopped talking almost completely. He did no homework and, according to his mother, “didn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive.” Gail Stone and I talked by phone once or twice a week. She was as troubled as I was and just as confused. None of us could figure it out. As far as we knew, Joey had been frightened of Grandpa, and it would certainly be expected that Joey would be relieved not to have Grandpa after him all the time.
I tried to talk to Joey, but he tuned me out as effectively as if his headphones were in place. He worked while he was in my office and most of his skills were still there, but he handed in absolutely no homework and Ms. Answera reported that he did not “contribute” in class. Mr. Templar called to say that Ms. Answera had told him she didn’t think Joey belonged in a regular class.
I strongly recommended that the Stones arrange for Joey to see a psychologist, but Al Stone wouldn’t hear of it.
“Joey’s not crazy,” he said. “Grandpa was the crazy one. Joey’ll be all right now that Grandpa’s not around. Just give him time. It’s only been a few weeks.”
I wondered if Al Stone had taken off his headphones yet. I knew that Joey hadn’t.
It was almost Christmas, a month since Grandpa had died. I put a little tree at one end of my office and decorated it with paper chains and ornaments that the children brought in. There was a small wrapped gift for each of them beneath the tree to take home after their last visit before the holidays. My other children were all thriving. Only Joey remained cold and silent, nervously chewing his fingernails.
Just before Joey arrived for his last session before the holidays, I impulsively scratched out the lesson I had planned and decided to read to Joey instead. If he couldn’t tell me what was wrong, maybe we could at least share a story. It was a gentle tale, and the boy in the story had small worries of his own. There was no fireplace or chimney in his house, and he was certain that Santa wouldn’t know how to find him. Finally his mother persuaded him to hang his stocking from a post at the foot of his bed and to go to sleep thinking loving thoughts. Santa, of course, found the stocking, and in the morning the boy woke to find it fat and overflowing with toys and candy.
In the center of one page there was a black line drawing of a narrow bed with four spool posts; a bulging striped stocking dangled from the post at the bottom of the bed.
I started to close the book, but Joey, sitting beside me, pushed it open. Silently he traced the bed with his finger. I moved my hand to cover his, but he shoved me away impatiently. Over and over he traced the drawing of the bed from head to foot.
I thought I heard him say something and I leaned closer.
“The bed,” Joey mumbled.
“What did you say, Joey?” I asked softly.
Joey didn’t hear me, or if he did he gave no indication of it. But he was surely talking, if only to himself. “On the bed. On the bed.”
“On the bed,” I repeated. “Something was on the bed.”
Now Joey responded, nodding his hea
d. “On the bed. He was on the bed.”
I willed myself to tune to Joey, to understand what he was saying.
I repeated, “He was on the bed.” I took a chance, adding a little more. “He was lying on the bed.”
Joey continued nodding, almost frenzied now. “Lying on the bed. Lying on the bed. Grandpa.”
Grandpa?
Suddenly Joey turned his body so that he faced me squarely. His voice was flat and cold, but he was talking directly to me, not to himself or the book. “Grandpa was on my bed when he died. I killed him.”
“No,” I said. “No, of course not. You didn’t kill him.”
“Yes,” Joey insisted. “Yes, I did. I even listened to him die.”
My eyes stayed locked with Joey’s, and he went on talking in the same flat voice.
“See, he chased me,” Joey said. “I didn’t know he was going to. I just ran out of the TV room ’cause he got so mad when I imitated the way he yells. I ran up to my room and hid under my bed so he couldn’t get me.
“But then I heard him coming after me, running all the way up the stairs and sort of bumping along the wall. Then all of a sudden he came crashing into my room and fell down on my bed real hard and began making these choking noises.”
The way Joey told it made it so clear. Joey’s facility for imitating and dramatizing must have infuriated Grandpa. No wonder he’d charged after the boy, forgetting his own high blood pressure.
“Then after a while he stopped and it was real quiet … and that was even worse,” Joey went on, “because then it began to get dark and I knew I had to get out of there before Rich and Bill got home and found me under that bed. If they found me there, they’d know for sure I’d done it.”
There were three loud knocks on my office door. My next child had arrived. “Just a minute,” I called as softly as I could, never moving my eyes from Joey’s. “Go on, Joey. Don’t stop.”
“I got out,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “but it was hard ’cause the bed was way on top of me ’cause Grandpa was so fat, but I squeezed out and ran downstairs and turned on all the lights. The TV was already on, and so I just stayed there in front of it, real quiet.
A Safe Place for Joey Page 5
