by Howard Buten
Then you have to cross the hall to get to the pool. It is very cold in the hall and the floor is slippery. I fell. Everybody laughed at me until Rudyard came and picked me up and looked at them and they all stopped. And he held my hand and we went into the pool part.
He put a thing on me, it looks like a football with cloth over it. First he put one on himself, only it was too small to go around, so he put two together and put them on. It looked funny. I would have laughed if I wasn’t so afraid. But before he put one on me he took the buckle and breathed on it and rubbed it in his hands. “I hate it when they’re cold,” he said, and he buckled me up. And it wasn’t cold.
There were many other children in the pool. They were jumping in and splashing and yelling very loud. Rudyard looked at me and put his hand out. He held my hand and we walked together into the shallow part. It was very cold. I almost yelled, but Rudyard yelled first. He yelled, “It’s too cold!” and he wouldn’t go in. “Rudyard,” I said, “the other children will think you’re a baby.” And he looked at me and said he didn’t care what anybody thought. Except me. And I said, “We could just go in to where we can stand up.” And we went.
We were standing in the shallow part and there were children splashing all around. Rudyard yelled at them and they stopped splashing. He yelled that he was afraid of the water. He told them to go to another part of the pool to splash, and they went. He didn’t even care if they thought he was a baby. And I was glad he made them go.
“What do you think?” he said to me, and pointed out into the pool. “Should we try?”
I was scared, only he was scared too.
“I’m too short,” I said. “It’s too deep for me.”
“Well,” said Rudyard. “If I carried you, you wouldn’t be too short, and I wouldn’t be so afraid because you’d be with me.”
I looked at him. He put his hands around me very soft and then he lifted me up and held me tight.
“Squeeze me,” he said, “so I won’t be afraid.” And I squeezed him very hard. We went out into the pool.
All the children screamed so loud that you couldn’t hear anything. And suddenly Rudyard started screaming too. He yelled, “I’m afraid, I’m afraid!” But no one could understand him but me, and then I did something. I said, “You don’t have to be afraid, Rudyard, I am here.” And he like hugged me. The water was up to my stomach.
“Sometimes it helps me to scream,” he said. “When I’m afraid. It doesn’t matter if anyone hears or not. It helps me when I’m afraid.” And he squeezed me. “Squeeze me a little tighter, Burt,” he said. “That helps me too.” And I did. The water was up to my chest.
Somebody threw a ball, it landed right in Rudyard’s face. He got real mad and yelled at the boy to get it away. The kid was scared of Rudyard. I never saw him mad before. “I get real mad when I’m afraid,” he said. “Everybody does. Sometimes they don’t even know it. Next time you get mad, think about it. Maybe you’re afraid of something, you know? Then you don’t have to get mad.”
He started bouncing. Walking on the bottom up and down up and down, and the water came up higher on me, only it was ok, because he squeezed me tight, I knew he wouldn’t let me go. And the water was up to my chin.
Then Rudyard squeezed me even tighter.
“It’s too tight,” I said. “You’re hurting me.” And he let go a little. He still bounced up and down. The football thing on my back was in the water and I felt it, it held me up. “Let go a little more,” I said.
“I don’t know, Burt,” said Rudyard.
“It’s ok,” I said. “Let go.”
He held on to my hands, and kept one arm around me too.
“Kick your feet,” he said. I did. And I went up against him. Then I stopped and I went backwards, he held my arm. Then I kicked again and I went toward him again. All by myself.
Rudyard started to laugh. “You’re swimming,” he said. “Are you trying to make me look stupid?”
But I kicked my feet. And he let go of me a little more, he only held my wrist.
“Paddle with your hand!” he said. “Like this!” And I did, and I went up to him even faster.
“Push me away again!” I said, and he did and then I kicked and paddled and went up to him again, real fast.
Then a ball came and hit me on the head and my head went under the water and I couldn’t breathe, everything was black. I tried to breathe, and then I could. Because I was all the way out of the water, on Rudyard’s shoulder, and he held me up high so I could breathe.
He was real mad. He swore at the kid who threw the ball. Then he put me against him and said, “Let’s get out now.”
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“I can do it, Rudyard. I was swimming, man. I can swim, man.” And then he looked into my face, my face was right in front of his, and he smiled at me with his whole face. “That’s right, man,” he said. And he put me back in the water. And walked right next to me the whole time with his hand under me almost touching, and didn’t let anybody come near me or frighten me again, all the way to the end of the pool. I grabbed the side and turned around. Rudyard was way behind me. He gave me the High Sign. And I yelled, “High Sign,” and did it. Because I beat him, man. I swam all by myself. I swam, man.
When I got back from swimming I found something in my pocket. It was the papers I picked up off the floor in Dr Nevele’s office.
12/17
The patient remains noncommunicative and uncooperative. I cannot but judge the continued interference by Rudyard Walton to be a factor in the lack of progress in this case. Though the review board this week advised him to “defer to the wishes of the psychiatrist in charge, despite personal judgment,” he has nonetheless found reason to see even more of the patient than before.
Today I received a memo from him. For sake of record, I attach it here:
Dr Nevele:
I am writing you this note in a sincere attempt at diplomacy, which is an endeavor quite foreign to my usual modus operandi. (You’ve noticed?) But I feel strongly enough about the situation to put forth this effort, among others which you’ve noticed.
I must say this: Sheriff, you have the wrong man.
Burton Rembrandt, though probably guilty of some crime (let us continue to use the ill-fitting term for sake of poetry) involving a young girl, is certainly not a criminal. I demand another jury. Namely me.
This child is no more a threat to society than Orphan Annie. (At least he has irises.) The psychoses you seem bent on finding in his young psyche are no more than signposts that give clear directions to a place you’ve obviously never been to: Yourselfville.
Burton’s been double-crossed, and he’s mad. Wouldn’t you be? He doesn’t know it in his mind (forest for the trees) but he feels it in his guts (literally, sometimes), and it was partially this double cross that led him to the incident with Jessica Renton, and that continues to lead him into tantrums and silences here where he doesn’t belong and knows it.
He is a human being in kid’s clothing. He has the organs and the feelings of his species, but none of the rights. And he is not alone. This country is stewing itself in the notion that you’re not a person until you reach voting and drinking age. It’s wrong.
You don’t get it, Doctor (with all due respect), and because you don’t get it, you can’t give it. Let him go home. He isn’t crazy, he isn’t even strange. We have met the enemy, and he is us.
Sincerely,
Rudyard Walton
Mr Walton notwithstanding (it seems to me that his method of therapy depends more on wit than on knowledge—his remarkable imitations of his autistic patients, supposedly used to establish empathy between therapist and patient, are really more vaudeville performances than therapeutic sessions), Burton Rembrandt’s behavior will be approached strictly by this therapist, and the aberrations thereof will not be allowed to flourish here. I have filed a formal complaint against Mr Walton, which will be heard by the Board of Directors next week,
and which will result, if there’s any justice, in his removal from the staff of the Children’s Trust Residence Center once and for all.
In the past week, Burton has been the recipient of postal correspondence from the girl in question, Jessica Renton. I have telephoned her mother and will meet with her shortly to discuss this matter. I told her on the phone that I still feel the child (Burton) to be severely disturbed, and informed her of upcoming neuro-pathological testing to be done on him to determine the possible effects of certain medication on his aberrant sociopathic behavior. The correspondence, however, will be withheld from the patient until he is judged to be psychologically stable enough to assimilate this kind of stimulation. It is my further judgment that he not be informed about said correspondence until that time. Particularly interesting in the letter is her reference to nightmares about the incident with the patient. What she says about this matter is too sensitive to expose him to at this time.
I copied this on the wall. I can copy, man. But I don’t understand. It is too big words.
[13]
AFTER THE SPELLING B IT STARTED TO GET COLD. I WAS surprised, I am always surprised at seasons. This is because I am a child and everything takes longer to me. I think it will be summer forever. But it never is. (We had seasons in Science. Miss Ackles said that the sun hits us crooked or something, only I didn’t understand, so I got it wrong when she put it on the Science test. I got an X on my paper next to that answer. X means wrong. C means right. Miss Ackles uses a checking pencil to check our papers. Checking pencils are my favorite as school supplies except for reinforcements, they are red on one side and blue on the other. They are reversible, like jackets. No zippers.)
Soon the weather got quite freezing outside and all the leaves fell down and I had to rake them, which I hate, to be candid. It is like shoveling with holes in it. Lucky for me we have a tree who is a baby so we don’t have many leaves. (Our old one got cut down. He was dead.)
About a week after the Spelling B, Miss Iris announced that we were going to have a Halloween party in Homeroom. Everybody had to wear costumes (except the Home Kids, because they are poor and can’t afford them, only Marty Polaski said they could come as poor children. Miss Iris laughed. “You mean ragamuffins?” she said. But I don’t understand. I think it is when you put like bread on yourself.)
Everyone was supposed to bring refreshments to the Halloween party. I signed up for cookies. My mom makes them, they are very scrumptious.
I wear costumes all the time, not just for Halloween. They are quite marvelous as clothing. My mom makes them for me. (Except for Tom Corbett Space Cadet, which is from a store, she bought it for Jeffrey two years ago and he gave it to me because last year he went as a fruit.)
But my best costume is Superman.
I asked for a Superman suit a long time ago but my dad said no I had enough costumes. Then one day he brought home a box from the store and said it was a surprise for his number-two son (which is me). I opened it and it was a Superman suit only when I put it on I didn’t like it because it was baggy and shiny, not like the real Superman who has a real tight one so his muscles show. (He puts his hands on his hips and the bullets bounce off.) But my dad said I had to wear it anyway since he bought it so I had a conniption fit and threw books down the stairs and got sent to my room. Later my mom came and said she would give the Superman suit to poor children and make me a real one for the Halloween party. I said, “Make sure it’s tight.”
That same night Jeffrey gave me a present, it was his ID bracelet, because he got a new one for his birthday. It is swift, man.
The next morning Shrubs called for me for school, like every morning. Then while I eat breakfast he sneaks into the den and steals candy from my mom’s glass thing. (We have all different kinds, there is even one kind that squirts when you suck on them, I call them hand grenades.)
On the way to school that morning I told Shrubs about the Superman suit and he said “Cool, man,” and then I showed him the ID bracelet and he said “Cool, man” again. He said he was going to make his Halloween costume out of cardboard boxes from the furniture store across the street. I said what are you going to go as. He said a cardboard box.
“You aren’t supposed to eat candy before school,” I told him. (He was eating it.) “It gives you worms, my mom said.”
“Does not,” said Shrubs. “I have ate candy my whole life and I never had any. Worms don’t like candy, they eat dirt.”
At school everyone talked about their Halloween costumes. Marcie Kane said she was coming as the Tooth Fairy. She looks like a tooth, I feel. She should be a cavity for a living.
All during belltime I drew Superman suits on my dividers. I always draw things that I want. I draw them over and over until I get them. Last year I drew Bengali. He is a tiger. I saw him on television. He is like real. He roars. I asked for him for Hanukah but my dad said he was too expensive and I would get bored after two days. I said, “Pretty please with sugar on it,” and he said, “We’ll see.” This means no. So I drew Bengali. I drew him and drew him. I drew him on newspapers and in the margins of My Weekly Reader. Then I got him, the first night of Hanukah. It was Bengali, man, he was big. But he had wires. There were two buttons, one to go and one for the roar. Only the roar sounded like burping, not real like on tv, and also I didn’t see the wires on tv, and also his head was different than the rest of him, it was like plastic and the rest was fur. I got bored with him in two days.
I drew Superman suits. Just the suit, not the head. I put the muscles in though. I drew them in Miss Iris’ room where I sit by the window and look out and pretend that Tarzan is in the tree outside and I climb out and we swing and I give the call and save the school when it gets surrounded by colored negroes in grass skirts.
I was looking out the window when I heard Miss Iris yelling. She yelled at Pat Foder, who was talking to Francine Renaldo who sits behind her. Pat Foder is about four years older than everybody because she flunked eight times. She is a grease, she has hair that looks like an explosion only she wears short dresses with stockings which make me feel funny under my stomach. She always talks to Francine Renaldo, who only flunked twice but is ugly. She has a big nose and a mustache. (But once I went to the office to give a note to the red-haired secretary for Miss Verdon and Francine was on the bad kid’s bench and she talked to me and she was nice.)
Miss Iris called my name.
“Burt, please pack up all your materials and move to the second seat in the row by the bookcase. Miss Renaldo will move back one seat. Maybe with someone sitting between them, Miss Foder and Miss Renaldo won’t feel they have to visit with each other so much and disrupt the rest of us who are trying to study.”
Marty Polaski said, “Who’s trying to study?” and Miss Iris heard him and gave him daggers.
I moved.
Pat Foder wears perfume, I smelled it when I sat down, and she turned around and looked at me and blinked her eyes at me. It made me feel funny.
Then we had Reading. It was a story entitled “The Red Dog.” It is quite interesting as a story. It is about like a red dog.
Francine Renaldo touched my shoulder.
“Pass this, ok?” she said. It was a note for Pat Foder.
I passed it. You aren’t supposed to but I didn’t want to get in trouble for talking.
Then Pat Foder said, “Pass this back.” But I said no. Then I got in trouble for talking. Then later she made me pass it, and called me “Sweetie,” and blinked at me again. The whole day I passed notes for Pat Foder and Francine Renaldo. One of them said
I think Bill Bastalini is sweat.
So I corrected the spelling with my checking pencil. Then Pat Foder asked me about how to spell and I got in trouble for talking again. Then it was time for Lunch.
The children started lining up to pass. Pat Foder turned around and asked if she could see my ID bracelet. I said no.
“Please, Sweetie?” she said.
“No,” I said. “And stop getting
me in trouble.”
“I’ll give it right back.”
“No.”
Then she started talking, and she said she wouldn’t stop until I let her see it. I let her see it. She put it on her wrist.
“Why does it say Jeffrey on it?” she said.
“Give it back.”
Then our row got called to line up. She got up and went to the door. I tried to grab my ID but she pulled it away. In line she started showing it to everyone and saying we were going steady, but that Bill Bastalini didn’t know and when he found out he was going to tune me.
I got real mad and ran over and started to grab her arm. Then Miss Iris saw.
“What’s going on here?”
“Nothing.”
“He gave me his ID to go steady, Miss Iris,” said Pat Foder.
“Did not!” I yelled.
“I thought you were going steady with Jessica Renton,” said Marty Polaski, “I seen you kissing her at the zoo.”
And I socked him, and Miss Iris shouted, “That’s enough!” and I got embarrassed and everybody went to Lunch but we had to stay behind and Miss Iris sent me to the office.
I had to stay after school on the bad kid’s bench. Shrubs was there too. He always has to stay after school because he gets in trouble all the time. (Once he got in trouble for writing his own note when he was absent, he said he had lung cancer.) This time he was in trouble for eating candy in Miss Crowley’s room. She told him it was bad manners to eat if you didn’t have enough for everybody, so Shrubs opened his desk and threw thirty pieces of candy in the air and yelled, Happy New Year!”
“Are you going out for Devil’s Night tonight?” Shrubs said.
