Palomino

by Danielle Steel

  “Has anyone done an article about you yet, Sam?” Charlie was enthralled as he watched a group of advanced senior riders cantering back from an afternoon on the hills. The children, for the most part, loved the horses, and even the horses had been specially picked by Sam and Josh for their docility and the steadiness that they showed.

  But now, in answer to Charlie's question, she shook her head. “I don't want any publicity, Charlie.”

  “Why not?” Living in the vortex of visibility in New York, he was surprised.

  “I don't know. I like it this way, I guess. Nice and quiet. I don't want to show off. I just want to help the kids.”

  “I'd say you're doing that.” He beamed at her as Mellie chased baby Sam down the road. “I've never seen kids look so happy. They love it, don't they?”

  “I hope so.”

  They did, as did the parents, the doctors, and the people who worked there. What Sam had done had been a dream come true. It gave the children all the independence Sam had hoped to give them, gave the parents new hope for their children, gave the doctors a kind of gift to give to brokenhearted parents and children, and it gave the people who worked there a new meaning to their lives that they'd never had before. And most of the time they got children who made it all worth it. Now and then they got one whom even the most devoted therapists and counselors, and even Sam's loving efforts, couldn't help. There were those who just weren't ready or who didn't want help yet, or maybe never would. It was difficult to accept that they couldn't help a child, but they did their best nonetheless as long as the child stayed.

  Amazingly enough, despite the magnitude of the handicaps with which they were dealing, it was always a happy place filled with laughter and smiling faces and squeals of delight. Sam herself had never been as happy and relaxed in her entire lifetime, and now when she met ranchers, or ran into ranch hands, or interviewed new personnel, she asked no questions except about the business at hand. Her endless, hopeless, fruitless search for Tate had finally been put to rest. And she accepted, with an equanimity that still upset Charlie, the fact that she would be alone for the rest of her life, running the ranch, and being with “her kids.” It seemed to be all she wanted, and now and then Josh thought it was a damn shame. At thirty-two she was an extravagantly beautiful woman, and it pained him to think that she was alone. But none of the men who crossed her path seemed to intrigue her and she was always careful not to offer encouragement or innuendos when she met single fathers of new campers, or therapists or doctors. One sensed with Sam that her love life no longer existed, that for her it was a closed door. Yet it was difficult to feel sorry for her, surrounded as she was by children who adored her and whom she seemed to genuinely love.

  It was in October that she was called to her office on an unusually warm day to see a new child coming in who was something of an exception. He had just been referred to the Lord Ranch by a judge in L. A. who had heard of what Sam was doing, and the child's “tuition” was to be paid by the courts. Sam knew that he was expected that morning, and she knew also that there were special circumstances regarding him, but the social worker had told her on the phone that he would explain it all to her when they arrived. She was intrigued by the nature of the new referral, but she had had some work to do with Josh that morning and she didn't want to wait in her office. She had a lot to do before the kids came back from school. There were currently sixty-one staying at the ranch. In her own mind she had already decided that eventually a hundred and ten would be their limit, but in the meantime they still had room to grow.

  But when Jeff came to find her out near the Jacuzzis, talking to Josh, he wore an odd expression, and when she got back to her office, she saw why. In a small broken wheelchair sat a shrunken blond child with huge blue eyes, his arms were covered with bruises, and he was clutching a ragged teddy bear. As Sam saw him she almost stopped, because he looked so different from the others. For the past five months she had seen nothing but handicapped children, they had cried, they had wailed, they had argued, they had sulked, they had pouted on arrival. They didn't want to go to school, they were afraid of horses, they didn't see why they had to make their own beds now, but no matter how much they grouched and eventually adjusted, what they all had in common was that they were all children who had ben lavishly taken care of, almost pampered, by parents who loved them and were heartbroken at what had been dealt to them by the Fates. Never before had there been a child on the ranch who was so clearly unloved, so obviously bruised in spirit as well as in body, as this one, and as Sam wheeled her chair up closer to talk to him and held out her hands, he cowered from her and began to wail. She glanced quickly at the social worker, and then back at the child clutching his teddy bear, and spoke softly.

  “It's okay, Timmie. No one's going to hurt you. My name's Sam. And this is Jeff.” She waved at the young redhead, but Timmie squeezed his eyes shut and cried more. “Are you scared?” It was the merest whisper in her softest voice, and after a minute he nodded and opened one eye. “I was scared when I first came here too. Before I got hurt, I used to ride all the time, but I was afraid of the horses at first when I got here. Is that what you're scared of?” He shook his head vigorously. “You're not?” He shook his head again. “Then what are you scared of?” He opened the other eye and regarded her with terror. “Come on, you can tell me.”

  It was a tiny broken whisper as he stared at her. “You.”

  Sam was shocked, and with her eyes she signaled Jeff and the social worker and her secretary to back off. They wandered slowly across the room. “Why are you afraid of me, Timmie? I won't hurt you. I'm in a wheelchair just like you.”

  He looked at her for a while and then nodded. “How come?”

  “I got hurt in an accident.” She no longer told them that she was thrown by a horse. It didn't serve her purposes, trying to introduce them to riding. “But I'm okay now. I can do lots of things.”

  “Me too. I can cook my own dinner.” Did he have to? She suddenly wondered. Who was this child and why was he so battered and bruised?

  “What do you like to cook for dinner?”

  “Spaghetti. It comes in a can.”

  “We have spaghetti here too.”

  He nodded sadly. “I know. They always have spaghetti in jail.”

  Sam's heart reached out to him and she gently reached out and took his hand. This time he let her, though the other one still clung tightly to his bedraggled bear. “Did you think this was like jail?” He nodded. “It's not. It's kind of like camp. Did you ever go to camp?” He shook his head, and she noticed that he looked more like four than six, which she knew he was. She also knew that he'd had polio when he was a year old. It had totally crippled both legs and hips.

  “My mom is in jail.” He volunteeered the information.

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  He nodded again. “She got ninety days.”

  “Is that why you're here?” Where was his father … his grandma … anyone, someone who loved this child? It was the first admission she'd ever had that upset her. She wanted to shake someone for what they'd done to the boy. “Will you stay with us the whole time she's gone?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Would you like to learn to ride a horse?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I could teach you. I love horses, and we've got some real pretty ones. You could pick out one that you like.” Right now there were still a dozen left unassigned. Each child always rode the same horse for his entire stay at the ranch. “How about that, Timmie?”

  “Uh-huh … yeah.…” But he was glancing nervously at Jeff. “Who's that?”

  “That's Jeff.”

  “Is he a cop?”

  “No.” She decided to speak his language. “We don't have any cops here. He just helps with the horses and the kids.”

  “Does he beat kids?”

  “No.” She looked shocked, and then she reached out and touched his face. “No one here will ever hurt you, Timmie. Never. I promise.�
� He nodded, but it was obvious that he thought it was a lie. “As a matter of fact, how about if you and I stick together for a while, huh? You could watch me teach riding, and we could swim in the pool.”

  “You got a pool?” The eyes began to light up.

  “We sure do.” But the first pool she wanted to get him in was the bathtub. He was filthy from head to foot. He looked like he hadn't had a bath in weeks. “Would you like to see your room?”

  He shrugged, but she could see that interest was dawning, and with a small smile she handed him a coloring book and some crayons and told him to wait there. “Where are you going?” He looked at her with suspicion and fresh fear.

  “I think the man who brought you here wants me to sign some papers. I'll do that and then I'll take you to your room and show you the pool. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He began to pull out the crayons and she crossed the room in her wheelchair and signaled to the social worker to join her in her secretary's office. In a whisper she asked Jeff to stay.

  The social worker was a tired man in his late forties. He had seen it all by now, and this kid was no worse than the rest. But a child in Timmie's condition was new to Sam.

  “Good Lord, who's been taking care of him?”

  “No one. His mother went to jail two weeks ago, and the neighbors thought he had been sent somewhere else. The mother never even told the cops about him when they picked her up. He's just been sitting around in the apartment, watching TV and eating out of cans. We talked to his mother though.” He sighed and lit a cigarette. “She's a heroin addict. She's been in and out of jail for years, in and out of treatment centers and hospitals and God knows what. The kid was a trick baby, and she never got him any of his shots. Hence the polio.” The social worker looked annoyed and Sam looked confused.

  “I'm sorry. What is a ‘trick baby’?” He didn't look like any trick to her, that child was real. But the social worker smiled.

  “I forget that there are any decent people left who don't know expressions like that. A trick baby is a child conceived by a prostitute. She doesn't know the father. He was a ‘trick,’ a ‘john,’ whatever. Charming, isn't it?”

  “Why is she allowed to retain custody? Why don't the courts take him away from her?”

  “They might. I think the judge is considering it this time. In fact she's thinking of giving him up. She considers herself one of the early Christian martyrs, being stuck with a crippled kid, having taken care of him for six years, she's had it.” He hesitated for a moment and then looked Sam in the eye. “I might as well tell you, there's also a question of child abuse here. The bruises on his arms—she beat him with an umbrella. Almost broke the kid's back.”

  “Oh, my God, and they'd even consider giving him back to her?”

  “She's been rehabilitated now.” He said it with all the cynicism that went with his job. Sam had never been exposed to anything like it before.

  “Has he had any psychiatric help?”

  The social worker shook his head. “Our assessment of him is that he's normal, except for his legs of course. But mentally, he's all right. As all right as any of them are.” Sam wanted to scream at him, how all right could he be if his mother had been beating him with an umbrella? The child was terrified. She had already seen that much. “Anyway, she's been in for two weeks, and with time off for good behavior and credit for time served, she'll be out in two months. You got him for sixty days.” Like an animal, like a car, like a rental. Rent-a-Kid. Rent-a-Cripple. It made Sam feel sick.

  “And after that?”

  “She gets him back unless the court decides otherwise or she doesn't want him. I don't know, maybe you could keep him as a foster child, if you want to.”

  “Can't he be adopted by decent people?”

  “Not unless she gives up custody, and you can't force her to do that. Besides”—the social worker shrugged—“who's going to adopt a kid in a wheelchair? Any way you look at it, he's going to wind up in an institution.” “Jail,” as Timmie had already said himself. What a grim life for a six-year-old child.

  Sam looked sorrowful as the social worker walked to the door. “We're happy to have him. And I'll keep him longer if necessary. Whether the court pays or not.” The social worker nodded.

  “Let us know if you have any problems. We can always keep him in juvenile hall till she gets out.”

  “Isn't that like jail?” Sam looked horrified and he shrugged again.

  “More or less. What else do you think we can do with them while their parents are in jail? Send them to camp?” But the beauty of it was that they just had.

  Sam turned the chair around and went back into her own office, where Timmie had torn a page out of the coloring book and scribbled across it relentlessly in brown.

  “Okay, Timmie, all set?”

  “Where's the cop?” He sounded like a little gangster and Sam laughed.

  “He's gone. And he's not a cop, he's a social worker.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Well, anyway, let's get you to your room.” She attempted to get his chair going for him but it locked every few feet and one of the sides had fallen down. “How do you get anywhere in this thing, Timmie?”

  He looked at her strangely. “I never go out.”

  “Never?” She looked shocked again. “Not even with your mother?”

  “She never takes me out. She sleeps a lot. She's very tired.” I'll bet, Sam thought. If she was a heroin addict, she must have slept a hell of a lot.

  “I see. Well, it seems to me that the first thing you're going to need is a new chair.” That was one commodity they didn't have. They didn't have any spare chairs, but she kept a narrow extra one in the back of her station wagon, in case anything ever happened to her own. “I've got one you can use for now. It'll be a little big, but we'll get you a new one by tomorrow. Jeff”—she smiled at the young redhead—“can you get me my spare chair? It's in the back of my car.”

  “Sure.” He was back five minutes later and Timmie was ensconced in the big gray chair, as Sam wheeled along beside him, helping him with the wheels.

  As they wheeled past the other buildings, she explained to him what everything was, and they stopped at the corral for a few minutes so he could look at the horses, and as he did he stared at one of the horses and then at Sam's hair. “That one looks like you.”

  “I know. Some of the other kids call me Palomino. That kind of horse is a palomino.”

  “Is that what you are?” For a minute he looked amused.

  “Sometimes I like to pretend that I am. Do you ever pretend stuff like that?” Sadly he shook his head and they drove on to his room. Now she was especially grateful that she had reserved him this particular room. It was big and sunny and all done in blue and yellow. There was a big cheerful bedspread and there were drawings of horses in frames on the walls.

  “Whose is this?” He looked frightened again as she wheeled him into the room.

  “Yours. While you're here.”

  “Mine?” The eyes were as big as saucers. “You mean it?”

  “I mean it.” There was a desk, without a chair, a chest of drawers, and a little table where he could play games. He had his own bathroom, and there was a special speaker in case he got in trouble and needed help from one of the counselors nearby. “Do you like it?”

  All he could say was “Wow!”

  She showed him the chest of drawers and then told him that that was where he could put his things.

  “What things?” He looked blank. “I don't have any things.”

  “Didn't you bring a suitcase with some clothes?” She suddenly realized that she hadn't seen one.

  “Nope.” He looked down at the spotted T-shirt that had once been blue. “This is all I've got. And Teddy.” He squeezed the bear tight.

  “Tell you what.” Sam glanced at Jeff and then back at Timmie. “Right now we'll borrow you some stuff, and then I'll go into town later and get you some jeans and stuff. Okay?”

  “S
ure.” He didn't seem to care one way or the other, he was happy with his room.

  “Now, about a bath.” She wheeled herself into the sunny bathroom and turned on the tap after flicking a special switch at a comfortable level that would close the drain. Everything had been specially installed. And the John had hand bars on each side. “And if you want to use the toilet, all you have to do is push this button and someone will come and help.”

  He stared at her, not comprehending. “Why do I have to take a bath?”

  “Because it's a nice thing to do.”

  “You gonna do it?”

  “I could have Jeff do it if you like.” She wasn't sure if at six he'd be modest; but he wasn't and now he vehemently shook his head.

  “Uh-uh. You.”

  “Okay.” For her this was a new adventure. It had only taken her ten months to learn how to bathe herself, but to bathe a child from a wheelchair, that was going to be something new.

  She sent Jeff off to find clothes that would fit Timmie, rolled up her sleeves, and told him how to get himself in, but when he slipped and she tried to grab him, they both almost wound up on the floor. In the end she managed to get him into the bathtub, wound up soaked herself, and as she helped haul him out, she got him into the chair she had lent him just in time to lose her balance and fall out of her own. And for some reason she found herself on the floor, looking up at him and laughing as he laughed down at her too.

  “Pretty silly, huh?”

  “I thought you were supposed to teach me how to do it.”

  “Well, there are other people here who do that.” She hoisted herself carefully off the wet floor and back into her chair.

  “What do you do?”