The Home

by Scott Nicholson

  Freeman said nothing.

  Bondurant leaned back in his leather chair. "We'll not have that sort of foolish behavior here. Is that understood?"

  Freeman nodded, looking as if he were near tears. The boy closed his eyes in an attempt to regain control.

  Ah, a lesson in humility. Bondurant bit back his smile. "There's one simple rule at Wendover, Mr. Mills. May I call you Freeman?"

  The boy nodded again.

  "That rule is: respect yourself and respect others."

  "Sounds like two rules to me."

  "That's not a very respectful response, is it?"

  "No, sir." Freeman's voice was barely audible, swallowed by the thick paneled walls of the office.

  The telephone rang, and Bondurant glared at it, annoyed at being interrupted in this important task. He answered on the third ring. Kracowski was on the other end. "Francis."

  Not a question, not a greeting. Merely a fact. The length of line between them didn't make Bondurant feel any more at ease, because Kracowski's office was just down the hall. He found himself adjusting his tie.

  "Yes, Dr. Kracowski." Bondurant clenched his fist around the receiver. He couldn't quite accept that the younger man insisted on being addressed as "Doctor," while Bondurant himself could be called by his first name. No matter that Kracowski had helped bail him out of that Enlo mess. After all, accidents happened.

  "There's trouble." Kracowski made the statement with no inflection. Was it good trouble or bad trouble?

  "Of what sort, sir?" Bondurant nearly swallowed his tongue on that last salutation.

  "Pillow case."

  "What's that?"

  "Womb therapy. Dr. Swenson told me it went badly."

  Some of Kracowski's unorthodox methods, if discovered, would have the Department of Social Services conducting a full-scale investigation of Wendover. Never mind that Kracowski, and therefore Wendover as a whole, produced results, with several children already successfully integrated back into the home and society. Healing had to be done in a proper way, by the book. Kracowski must have read the book backward torn out a few pages, and scribbled in most of the margins. And all that new machinery in the basement…

  Bondurant had to suffer in silence and ignorance. He looked at the cross on the wall, the symbol of He who knew suffering. Bondurant smiled at Freeman to maintain the illusion of calm superiority. "How badly?" he asked Kracowski.

  "The child is unconscious."

  "I see," he said aloud though inwardly he was searching for the kind of perfect verbal blasphemy that only a sinner could summon.

  "We have it under control. It was a necessary part of the treatment."

  "I'm sure there will be no problem." The child would probably have no memory of the treatment. One good thing about Kracowski, he didn't produce potential witnesses against himself.

  "We won't need to administer atropine this time," Kracowski said. "A natural recovery should suffice."

  Freeman rose from his seat, paced back and forth a few times, then walked over to the bookcase and ran his fingers over the books. Bondurant cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and called, "Excuse me, Mr. Mills, but 1 don't think anyone gave you permission to stand."

  Then, to Kracowski, "Hold on, sir."

  Bondurant pushed an extension button that buzzed a phone in an adjacent office. "Miss Walters, send in Miss Rogers. We have a new member of the Wendover family who needs to be shown to his room."

  A static-filled voice responded "Yes, sir."

  Freeman ignored Bondurant and fidgeted before the bookcase. Just before the office door opened, Freeman looked Bondurant fully in the eyes for the first time and said, "She'll be okay once she starts breathing again."

  Bondurant frowned. This boy was a little too witty for his own good. Coming up with words out of thin air, sticking his chest out, squinting, a study in defiance. Maybe it was the mania, the "up" cycle of the boy's manic depression, that brought on the misbehavior. Or his delusions of grandeur. But that would be granting him excuses, and Bondurant believed that evil was innate and that forgiveness had to be earned. Through pain if necessary.

  The door opened. Bondurant deliberately kept his eyes fixed on Freeman's back. To look at Starlene Rogers inspired jealousy. "Freeman, this is Miss Rogers," he said.

  Freeman turned, smiling at the woman. "Hello, Miss Rogers. It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood."

  "Hello, Freeman," she said. "Welcome to Wendover."

  "Take him to the Blue Room," Bondurant said. "I'll have his bag sent over later."

  Bondurant risked a glance at Starlene. She was tall and a little stocky, a country girl raised on garden produce, home-butchered livestock, and Sunday sermons. Even in a navy pants suit, her curves suggested a particularly enjoyable route to eternal damnation. But her wholesome-ness was a threat, her innocence made others seem unclean. Bondurant couldn't dwell on his resentment fully, knowing Kracowski was waiting on the line.

  "Come along," Starlene said, holding out a hand to Freeman. The boy looked at her, trying on a suspicious expression, but Bondurant could tell it was an act. Starlene always put the children at ease. She had a quiet, relaxed manner that added to her charm. Bondurant found the quality annoying, suspecting an ulterior motive for her pretending to be so pure of heart.

  She left with Freeman, who clutched his belly as if he'd eaten too much candy, and as Bondurant waited for the door to swing closed he gazed at the bookshelf.

  "Francis?" came Kracowski's impatient voice from the phone.

  "Go on, sir."

  "Just keep everybody out of Thirteen until I give the clearance."

  "Yes, sir." Bondurant was used to accepting the man's orders without a thought. He found his attention wandering back to the bookcase. One of the leather-bound volumes was out of place. Right near where he'd placed the little bronze globe given to him by the Governor's Childhood Initiative Commission.

  The globe was gone.

  The little brat had swiped it. No, there it was, a shelf below. Bondurant realized he'd missed what Kracowski had just said. "Excuse me, sir. You were saying something about Thirteen?"

  "The patient we're treating."

  Bondurant hoped the home didn't become the subject of a scandal. Kracowski had managed to keep things tidy and under the rug so far, but the man's experimental treatments had gotten stranger and stranger. "And how is she?" Bondurant asked.

  Kracowski's words sent a chill through him that was colder than the dead damp air of Wendover's basement:

  "She'll be okay once she starts breathing again."

  THREE

  Wendover's Blue Room turned out to be a large open dorm in the south wing of the building. Freeman supposed the name came from the sky-blue walls, a color probably chosen by some soft-skulled social scientist who'd decided that the sky promoted passivity. The room was lined with metal cots, a stained strip of gray industrial carpet running down the corridor between the two rows. The rest of the floor was of the same drab tile that had soaked up light in the hallway. If the walls had been olive or khaki, the place could have been mistaken for a boot camp barracks.

  "I've got a feeling I won't have a private room," Freeman said to Starlene. Most of the two dozen cots had wooden trunks tucked beneath, and stray socks and comic books lay scattered in the shadows.

  "The others are in class right now." She led him to a cot near the rear wall. "This one's yours."

  Freeman pushed down on the cot. No give. Oh well, he wasn't here to catch up on his beauty sleep. And dreams were out of the question. "What happened to the kid who was here before?"

  "Excuse me?" Starlene still wore that patient, saintly smile. She smelled nice, too, like bubble gum.

  "I'm superstitious, okay?" He waited for her to try to tell him that this was the twenty-first century, that he was too old for such things, that Wendover didn't allow foolishness. She was a counselor, after all.

  "He found a permanent placement," she said. "Might be a lucky bed."


  Permanent. Freeman had noticed the word was easy for people to say who had families, homes, futures. "I could use a little luck."

  "It's a new start, Freeman. I don't know what happened before, but you can put it all behind you. That's why we're here. That's why I'm here."

  Freeman sat on the cot, wondering where his gym bag was. Probably that lizard-breathed Bondurant was rifling through his possessions, hoping to find some dope or booze or girlie magazines. "How many others are here?"

  "Wendover houses forty-seven at the moment, counting you. We're licensed for sixty, but with this new state emphasis on reuniting children with their families-"

  "Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Makes the numbers look good on paper, but does anyone ever go into the family home later to see what's happening? I mean, I've heard stories."

  "A social critic, huh?" Starlene knelt beside him, not letting him look away. She had strong, straight teeth. Almost perfect. "Do you have a family?"

  "Yeah. A virgin mother and a father who farts brimstone."

  "Why are you angry, Freeman?"

  Freeman realized his fists were clenched. She was trying to drag something out of him. They loved it when they thought they were getting inside your head and scrambling the circuitry. Life was easier when you played along, so they could feel good about themselves for "helping."

  "It's not anger, it's more of an indefinite pain," he said.

  "Your heart probably aches."

  Actually, the pain was lower down, in the part he was sitting on. But he saw no reason to be mean to her. She couldn't have much of a life if she spent all day with screwed-up kids. He should be the one feeling sorry for her, for having people dump their personal crap on her head. All she could do was smile and take it and cash the checks. But he couldn't show any pity. He'd probably have her for group or solo therapy, so he'd need to keep her at a safe distance. His edge was wearing off, anyway. The up cycle always came on like a rocket but left like a fizzled firecracker.

  "I think it's my feet," he said. "May as well take off my shoes and stay awhile."

  He put his feet on the cot and removed his tennis shoes. His big toe stuck through a hole in one sock. For some reason, a stranger's seeing his naked toe embarrassed him. He tucked his foot under his leg to hide the threadbare sock.

  A bell rang, the noise reverberating off the concrete walls. As the echo faded, other bells rang throughout the building in a relay.

  "Class is over," Starlene said. "You'll get to meet your Wendover brothers and sisters soon."

  "One big happy family, I'm sure."

  "We're all part of God's family."

  First Bondurant and now this woman, coming on strong with the God job. Wendover must have taken a rain check on separation of church and state. At least Starlene wasn't being a Nazi about it. Her gaze was steady, her eyes bright. They were deep blue, or maybe it was the reflection of the walls. Her eyes were the kind that he imagined Joan of Arc had, martyr's eyes, ones doomed to see too much.

  Eyes like his Mom's, back before death had shut them forever.

  But Starlene wasn't his mother. None of them were, not the counselor with the whiskey breath at Durham, the frantic Spanish house mother in Tryon Estate, or the Charlotte foster mother who'd made Freeman paint clay figurines to "pay his keep" even though she'd received a regular stipend from the state for that purpose.

  Voices came from down the hall, the shouts of excited and bickering children.

  "I'd better go," Starlene said. "Your House Supervisors are Phillip and Randy. They're good people." Starlene went back between the rows of cots, no longer intimidating now that she was leaving. The threat of continued kindness faded with her.

  Freeman cased the possible escape routes. His cot was beneath the only window, a smudged pane of glass some fifteen feet up. A steel door was set off in the corner, a severe-looking lock attached to the handle. A red light blinked on an adjacent panel above the lock, as if the lock required some sort of electronic password.

  Freeman looked at the door that Starlene had exited. It had the same sort of electronic lock. With fire codes, they couldn't just lock the kids in and swallow the key, could they? He hurried across the room in his stockinged feet.

  The door wasn't locked, it opened with a groan of hinges. He made a mental note to swipe some oil in case he needed to do any sneaking out. The hall was empty, Starlene's shoes making a flat echo around the corner. He was about to close the door when he saw a man coming from the opposite direction.

  Must be a janitor. Except even a janitor ought to dress better than this guy. He wore what looked like an ill-fitting white uniform, gray with stains. The dome of his head shone in the grim light, a few greasy strands of hair stuck to the bald spot. The eyes were blank and empty.

  He looked like a drunk or a bum. Still, he was a grown-up, and Freeman had learned that, in the homes, the lowest rank of grown-up was still way above that of the kids. Freeman waved to him, but the man continued his silent approach.

  "Say, sir, do you know where my bag is?" Freeman asked, not putting any defiance into his voice. Sometimes strange janitors could be turned into allies. If they weren't perverts.

  In Durham, Tony Biggerstaff had bribed the weekend supervisors so that they smuggled in all the R-rated videos the kids could stomach. Freeman never knew how Tony paid them off, whether with cash, drugs, his sister, or himself. He never asked and Tony never confessed. But without Tony's sacrifice, Freeman would have never come to appreciate the Holy Trinity: Eastwood, De Niro, and Pacino. Beat the hell out of Smurfs and Japanime, and taught you a few life lessons in the bargain.

  The janitor drew closer, pale lips quivering. The man's hands trembled. There was something odd about his gait. His bare feet protruded beneath the ragged hem of his trousers, making no sound on the tiled floor.

  What kind of a janitor goes barefoot?

  "Do you work here?" Freeman looked up the hallway to see if Starlene was coming back.

  The man didn't answer. He was close enough now that Freeman could see the pores on the waxy face. Dark half-moons lurked in the shadows beneath the staring eyes. A strand of drool hung from one wrinkled corner of his mouth. The legs moved on, the arms limp at the man's side. The smell of dusty old meat wafted over Freeman.

  The man passed Freeman, close enough to reach out and touch, but Freeman didn't dare. You never knew which of these home employees would snap, which one was important, which one you might need to impress at some time or another. You never knew which of them held your future in his hands. True, this dried-up geezer didn't look like a counselor, but you also never knew which little game was actually one of their staged tests. And if this guy was with the Trust, he definitely had games behind his eyes.

  Freeman waited to be asked why he wasn't in class with the others, but the man shambled past, staring ahead as if Freeman didn't exist. The feet were creased with a mapwork of turgid purple veins, the bones knotted and calcified, but they rose and fell steadily. The man walked as if he had a destination just beyond the wall and didn't realize that the wall stood in the way.

  Freeman had another thought. Maybe this man wasn't an employee of the home. Maybe he was somebody who'd never left, never found a permanent placement. Maybe this was what happened to unwanted people when they grew old. For a moment, Freeman imagined himself in that soiled uniform, condemned to a lifetime of directionless trudging.

  Freeman thought about triptrapping him, getting into the geezer's brain, but the manic buzz of an hour ago had faded to zilch. Plus, every read came at a price, in headaches and confusion and loss of identity. For one thing, he'd learned that everybody was screwed up, everybody's thoughts and emotions were strange and twisted. One voice in his head was plenty enough, and maybe even one was too many.

  The old man disappeared around the corner. Freeman stepped back into the Blue Room and let the door slip closed with a whisper of air. He felt more alone than he had in years. It was almost as bad as the closet Dad used to
lock him in, where the wires and weird lights and pain first caused him to triptrap. And caused him to do bad things, think bad thoughts.

  He went to his cot and sat quietly, like a death camp inmate, until the other kids arrived.

  FOUR

  Bondurant stood outside the padded room known as Thirteen, though no number was posted by the door. The room seemed to him more like "Room 101" from the George Orwell novel 1984. In the novel, Room 101 was where characters faced their ultimate fears. Here at Wendover, the room was where Dr. Kracowski practiced his alternative therapies. The end results were similar.

  "Is she conscious yet?" he asked through the open door.

  "She's fine." Kracowski straightened from leaning over the bed that held the patient. The doctor was six-four, thin and pale, eyes dark and intense. He put his hands in the pockets of his white lab coat as if he'd read an instruction manual on scientific posturing.

  On the bed, a cotton blanket pulled up to her chin, was the girl. Bondurant noted with relief that her chest rose and fell evenly with her breathing. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyelids twitched, but other than that, she looked like any healthy thirteen year old. He wondered what she was dreaming.

  "She responded to the therapy," Kracowski said. "She suffered a little trauma, but when she comes around, she'll be farther along the road to recovery."

  Bondurant wasn't sure he wanted to know more about the technique the doctor had used this time. Womb therapy, Kracowski had explained, where they smothered the subject in pillows and urged her to be reborn. It sounded as sacrilegious as all his other therapies. Bondurant might as well enter a metaphysical bookstore and throw a dart at the shelves. Reiki, qi gong, channeling, past-life regression, primal scream, and dozens of other healing modalities made their way into the alphabet soup of Kracowski's treatments. Some of those were marginally accepted but to Bondurant's mind all were as flaky and godless as traditional psychotherapy. And Kracowski did it all in the name of that ultimate devil's tool, science.

  Kracowski also had his own original techniques, crafted from pieces of obscure disciplines and arcane spiritual beliefs. Those were the ones that scared Bondurant the most, but Kracowski kept them hidden away in his mental medicine bag. All Bondurant knew was that the new treatments were linked to the machinery in the basement and the solemn-faced visitors who checked on Kracowski's progress. Silent investors, with silent motives.