He was well-trained.
The interior of the bright pink quonset hut was cold, flat white over a dark plank floor. The dorm was empty and our footsteps echoed. There was a metallic smell in the air. The children’s beds were iron double bunks arranged, barracks style, perpendicular to the walls, accompanied by foot lockers and bracket shelves bolted to the metal siding. There was an attempt at decoration—some of the children had hung up pictures of comic book superheroes, athletes, Sesame Street characters—but the absence of family pictures or other evidence of recent, intimate human connection was striking.
I counted sleeping space for fifty children.
“How do you keep that many kids organized?”
“It’s a challenge,” he admitted, “but we’ve been pretty successful. We use volunteer counselors from UCLA, Northridge, and other colleges. They get intro psych credit, we get free help. We’d love a full time professional staff but it’s fiscally impossible. We’ve got it staffed two counselors to a dorm, and we train them to use behavior mod—I hope you’re not opposed to that.”
“Not if it’s used properly.”
“Oh, very definitely. I couldn’t agree with you more. We minimize heavy aversives, use token economies, lots of positive reinforcement. It requires supervision—that’s where I come in.”
“You seem to have a good handle on things.”
“I try.” He gave an aw, shucks grin. “I wanted to go for a doctorate but I didn’t have the bucks.”
“Where were you studying?”
“U. of Oregon. I got an M.A. there—in counseling ed. Before that, a B.A. in psych from Jedson College.”
“I thought everyone at Jedson was rich.” The small college outside of Seattle had a reputation as a haven for the offspring of the wealthy.
“That’s almost true,” he grinned. “The place was a country club. I got in on an athletic scholarship. Track and baseball. In my junior year I tore a ligament and suddenly I was persona non grata.” His eyes darkened momentarily, smoldering with the memory of almost-buried injustice. “Anyway, I like what I’m doing—plenty of responsibility and decision-making.”
There was a rustling sound at the far end of the room. We both turned toward it and saw movement beneath the blankets of one of the lower bunks.
“Is that you, Rodney?”
Kruger walked to the bunk and tapped a wriggling lump. A boy sat up, holding the covers up to his chin. He was chubby, black and looked around twelve, but his exact age was impossible to gauge, for his face bore the telltale stigmata of Down’s syndrome: elongated cranium, flattened features, deep-set eyes spaced close together, sloping brow, low-set ears, protruding tongue. And an expression of bafflement so typical of the retarded.
“Hello, Rodney.” Kruger spoke softly. “What’s the matter?”
I had followed him and the boy looked at me questioningly.
“It’s all right, Rodney. He’s a friend. Now tell me what’s the matter.”
“Rodney sick.” The words were slurred.
“What kind of sickness?”
“Tummy hurt.”
“Hmm. We’ll have to have the doctor look at you when he makes his visit.”
“No!” the boy screamed. “No docka!”
“Now, Rodney!” Kruger was patient. “If you’re sick you’re going to have to get a checkup.”
“No docka!”
“All right, Rodney, all right.” Kruger spoke soothingly. He reached out and touched the boy softly on the top of the head. Rodney went hysterical. His eyes popped out and his chin trembled. He cried out and lurched backward so quickly that he hit the rear of his head on the metal bedpost. He yanked the covers over his face, uttering an unintelligible wail of protest.
Kruger turned to me and sighed. He waited until the boy calmed down and then spoke to him again.
“We’ll discuss the doctor later, Rodney. Now where are you supposed to be? Where’s your group right now?”
“Snack.”
“Aren’t you hungry?”
The boy shook his head.
“Tummy hurts.”
“Well you can’t just lie here by yourself. Either come to the infirmary and we’ll call someone to have a look at you or get up and join your group for snack.”
“No docka.”
“Okay. No doctor. Now get up.”
The boy crawled out of bed, away from us. I could see now that he was older than I’d thought. Sixteen at least, with the beginning of beard growth dotting his chin. He stared at me, eyes wide in fright.
“This is a friend, Rodney. Mr. Delaware.”
“Hello, Rodney.” I held out my hand. He looked at it and shook his head.
“Be friendly, Rodney. That’s how we earn our goodie points, remember?”
A shake of the head.
“Come on, Rodney, shake hands.”
But the retarded boy was resolute. When Kruger took a step forward he retreated, holding his hands in front of his face.
It went on that way for several moments, a flat-out contest of wills. Finally Kruger gave in.
“Okay, Rodney,” he said softly, “we’ll forget social skills for today because you’re ill. Now run along and join your group.”
The boy backed away from us, circling the bed in a wide arc. Still shaking his head and holding his arms in front of him like a punchy fighter, he moved away. When he was close to the door he turned, bolted and half-ran, half-waddled out, disappearing into the sun’s glare.
Kruger turned to me and smiled weakly.
“He’s one of our more difficult ones. Seventeen and functioning like a three-year-old.”
“He seems to be really afraid of doctors.”
“He’s afraid of lots of things. Like most Down’s kids he’s had plenty of medical problems—cardiac, infections, dental complications. Add that to the distorted thinking going on in that little head and it builds up. Have you had much experience with m.r.’s?”
“Some.”
“I’ve worked with hundreds of them and I can’t remember one who didn’t have serious emotional problems. You know, the public thinks they’re just like any other kids, but slower. It ain’t so.”
A trace of irritation had crept into his voice. I put it down to the humiliation of losing at psychic poker to the retarded boy.
“Rodney’s come a long way,” he said. “When he first got here he wasn’t even toilet-trained. After thirteen foster homes.” He shook his head. “It’s really pathetic. Some of the people the county gives kids to aren’t fit to raise dogs, let alone children.”
He looked ready to launch into a speech, but stopped and slipped his smile back on quickly. “Many of the kids we get are low-probability adoption cases—m.r., defective, mixed race, in and out of foster homes, or thrown on the trash heap by their families. When they come here they have no conception of socially appropriate behavior, hygiene, or basic day-to-day living skills. Quite often we’re starting from ground zero. But we’re pleased at our progress. One of the students is publishing a study on our results.”
“That’s a great way to collect data.”
“Yes. And quite frankly, it helps us raise money, which is often the bottom line, Doctor, when you want to keep a great place like La Casa going. Come on.” He took my arm. “Let’s see the rest of the grounds.”
We headed toward the pool.
“From what I hear,” I said, “Reverend McCaffrey is an excellent fund-raiser.”
Kruger gave me a sidelong glance, evaluating the intent of my words.
“He is. He’s a marvelous person and it comes across. And it takes most of his time. But it’s still difficult. You know, he ran another children’s home in Mexico, but he had to close it down. There was no government support and the attitude of the private sector there was let the peasants starve.”
We were poolside now. The water reflected the forest, green-black dappled with streaks of emerald. There was a strong odor of chlorine mixed with sweat. The lone swimmer was s
till in the water doing laps—using a butterfly stroke with a lot of muscle behind it.
“Hey, Jimbo!” Kruger called.
The swimmer reached the far end, raised his head out of the water and saw the counselor’s wave. He glided effortlessly toward us and pulled himself waist-high out of the water. He was in his early forties, bearded and sinewy. His sun-baked body was covered with wet, matted hair.
“Hey, Tim.”
“Dr. Delaware, this is Jim Halstead, our head coach. Jim, Dr. Alexander Delaware.”
“Actually your only coach.” Halstead spoke in a deep voice that emerged from his abdomen. “I’d shake your hand, but mine’s kinda clammy.”
“That’s fine.” I smiled.
“Dr. Delaware’s a child psychologist, Jim. He’s touring La Casa as a prospective Gentleman.”
“Great to meet you, Doc, and I hope you join us. It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” He extended a long, brown arm to the Malibu sky.
“Gorgeous.”
“Jim used to work in the inner city,” said Kruger. “At Manual Arts High. Then he got smart.”
Halstead laughed.
“It took me too long. I’m an easy-going guy but when an ape with a knife threatened me after I asked him to do pushups, that was it.”
“I’m sure you don’t get that here.” I said.
“No way,” he rumbled. “The little guys are great.”
“Which reminds me, Jim,” interrupted Kruger, “I’ve got to talk to you about working out a program for Rodney Broussard. Something to build up his confidence.”
“You bet.”
“Check you later, Jim.”
“Right on. Come back again, Doc.”
The hirsute body entered the water, a sleek torpedo, and swam otterlike along the bottom of the pool.
We took a quarter-mile walk around the periphery of the institution. Kruger showed me the infirmary, a spotlessly white, smallish room with an examining table and a cot, sparkling of chrome and reeking of antiseptic. It was empty.
“We have a half-time R.N. who works mornings. For obvious reasons we can’t afford a doctor.”
I wondered why Majestic Oil or some other benefactor couldn’t donate a part-time physician’s salary.
“But we’re lucky to have a roster of volunteer docs, some of the finest in the community, who rotate through.”
As we walked, groups of youngsters and counselors passed us. Kruger waved, the counselors returned the greeting. More often than not the children were unresponsive. As Olivia had predicted and Kruger had confirmed, most had obvious physical or mental handicaps. Boys seemed to outnumber girls by about three to one and the majority of the kids were black or Hispanic.
Kruger ushered me into the cafeteria, which was high-ceilinged, stucco-walled and meticulously clean. Unspeaking Mexican women waited impassively behind a glass partition, serving tongs in hand. The food was typical institutional fare—stew, creative use of ground meat, jello, overcooked vegetables in thick sauce.
We sat down at a picnic-type table and Kruger went behind the food counter to a back room. He emerged with a tray of Danish pastries and coffee. The baked goods looked high-quality. I hadn’t seen anything like them behind the glass.
Across the room a group of children sat at a table eating and drinking under the watchful eyes of two student counselors. Actually, attempting to eat was more accurate. Even from a distance I could see that they suffered from cerebral palsy, some of them spastically rigid, others jerking in involuntary movements of head and limb, and had to struggle to get the food from table to mouth. The counselors watched and sometimes offered verbal encouragement. But they didn’t help physically and lots of custard and jello was ending up on the floor.
Kruger bit with gusto into a chocolate Danish. I took a cinammon roll and played with it. He poured us coffee and asked me if I had any questions.
“No. Everything looks very impressive.”
“Great. Then let me tell you about the Gentleman’s Brigade.”
He gave me a canned history of the volunteer group, stressing the wisdom of the Reverend Gus in enlisting the participation of local corporations.
“The Gentlemen are mature, successful individuals. They represent the only chance most of these kids have of being exposed to a stable male role model. They’re accomplished, the cream of our society and as such give the children a rare glimpse of success. It teaches them that it’s indeed possible to be successful. They spend time with the kids here, at La Casa, and take them off-campus—to sporting events, movies, plays, Disneyland. And to their homes for family dinners. It gives the children access to a lifestyle they’ve never known. And it’s fulfilling for the men, as well. We ask for a six-month commitment and sixty percent sign up for second and third hitches.”
“Can’t it be frustrating, for the kids,” I asked, “to get a taste of the good life that’s so far out of their grasp?”
He was ready for that one.
“Good question, Doctor. But we don’t emphasize anything being out of our kids’ reach. We want them to feel that the only thing limiting them is their own lack of motivation. That they must take responsibility for themselves. That they can reach the sky—that’s the name of a book written for children by Reverend Gus. Touch the Sky. It’s got cartoons, games, coloring pages. It teaches them a positive message.”
It was Norman Vincent Peale spiced up with humanistic psychological jargon. I looked over and saw the palsied children battling with their food. No amount of exposure to the members of the privileged class was going to bring them membership in the Yacht Club, an invitation to the Blue Ribbon Upper Crust Debutante Ball of San Marino, or a Mercedes in the garage.
There were limits to the power of positive thinking.
But Kruger had his script and he stuck to it. He was damned good, I had to admit, had read all the right journals and could quote statistics like a Rand Corporation whiz kid. It was the kind of spiel designed to get you reaching for your wallet.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asked after finishing a second pastry. I hadn’t touched my first.
“No thanks.”
“Let’s head back, then. It’s almost four.”
We passed through the rest of the place quickly. There was a chicken coop where two dozen hens pecked at the bars like Skinnerian pigeons, a goat at the end of a long leash eating trash, hamsters treading endlessly on plastic wheels and a basset hound who bayed half-heartedly at the darkening sky. The schoolroom had once been a barracks, the gym a World War II storage depot, I was informed. Both had been remodeled artfully and creatively on a budget, by someone with a good feel for camouflage. I complimented the designer.
“That’s the work of Reverend Gus. His mark is on every square inch of this place. A remarkable man.”
As we headed toward McCaffrey’s office I saw, once again, the cinder-block buildings at the edge of the forest. From up close I could see there were four structures, roofed in concrete, windowless, and half-submerged in the earth, like bunkers, with tunnel-like ramps sloping down to iron doors. Kruger showed no indication of explaining what they were, so I asked him.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Storage,” he said casually. “Come on. Let’s get back.”
We’d come full circle, back to the cumulus-covered administration building. Kruger escorted me in, shook my hand, told me he hoped to hear from me again and that he’d be dropping off the screening materials while I talked to the Reverend. Then he handed me over to the good graces of Grandma, the receptionist, who tore herself away from her Olivetti and bade me sweetly to wait just a few moments for The Great Man.
I picked up a copy of Fortune and worked hard at building an interest in a feature on the future of microprocessors in the tool-and-die industry, but the words blurred and turned into gelatinous gray blobs. Futurespeak did that to me.
I’d barely had a chance to uncross my legs when the door opened. They were big on punctuality here. I’d star
ted to feel like a hunk of raw material—what kind didn’t really matter—being whisked along on an assembly line trough, melted, molded, tinkered with, tightened, and inspected.
“Reverend Gus will see you now,” said Grandma.
The time had come, I supposed, for the final polishing.
16
IF WE’D been standing outdoors he would have blocked the sun.
He was six-and-a-half feet tall and weighed well over three hundred pounds, a pear-shaped mountain of pale flesh in a fawn-colored suit, white shirt, and black silk tie the breadth of a hotel hand towel. His tan oxfords were the size of small sailboats, his hands, twin sandbags. He filled the doorway. Black horn-rimmed glasses perched atop a meaty nose that bisected a face as lumpy as tapioca pudding. Wens, moles and enlarged pores trekked their way across the sagging cheeks. There was a hint of Africa in the flatness of his nose, the full lips as dark and moist as raw liver, and the tightly kinked hair the color of rusty pipes. His eyes were pale, almost without color. I’d seen eyes like that before. On mullet, packed in ice.
“Dr. Delaware, I’m Augustus McCaffrey.”
His hand devoured mine then released it. His voice was strangely gentle. From the size of him I’d expected something along the lines of a tug horn. What came out was surprisingly lyrical, barely baritone, softened by the lazy cadence of the Deep South—Louisiana, I guessed.
“Come in, won’t you?”
I followed him, a Hindu trailing an elephant, into his office. It was large and well-windowed but no more elegantly turned out than the waiting room. The walls were sheathed with the same false oak and were devoid of decoration save for a large wooden crucifix above the desk, a Formica-and-steel rectangle that looked like government surplus. The ceiling was low, perforated white squares suspended in a grid of aluminum. There was a door behind the desk.
I sat in one of a trio of vinyl upholstered chairs. He settled himself in a swivel chair that groaned in protest, laced his fingers together and leaned forward across the desk, which now looked like a child’s miniature.
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