The Orphan Keeper

by Camron Wright

  Chellamuthu tried not to grin. Like any boy, in any state, in any country, on any continent in the world, he ached to fit in. He couldn’t care less about the language barrier. He just wanted to play the game, kick the ball, make friends, and belong.

  The next ball lumbered through the infield, was easily caught for the third out, and the teams switched positions. While the players waited for their turn to kick, the team captain tried to strike up a conversation with Chellamuthu—if that’s what it could be called.

  “Name?” he asked, as he elbowed Chellamuthu.

  Chellamuthu understood the word. He’d also learned that he needed to answer slowly. “Che-lla-mu-thu.”

  A few of the other boys on the team laughed.

  “Me Todd,” the boy grunted in reply, slapping himself in the chest.

  More laughs—and for a moment the experience felt familiar. Chellamuthu didn’t mind the mockery. He had friends—and it was wonderful!

  When his teammates cheered, he cheered. When they spit, he spit. When they pointed that it was his turn to kick, he pounded the ball into the outfield and scored a run. By the time the bell sounded, their team was ahead by double digits.

  On their way back to the school, Todd’s eyes narrowed and the sides of his mouth turned up. He pulled Chellamuthu to a stop.

  “Teacher?” Todd asked, looking into Chellamuthu’s eyes for recognition of the word.

  “Yes, teacher,” Chellamuthu repeated. He knew that word. “Mrs. Wyness,” he confirmed, pointing at the school and repeating her name.

  Todd shook his head. “Wrong!” The boy’s face was stern, but his eyes grinned.

  “Wrong?” Chellamuthu asked, his accent stiffening.

  Todd made sure the two were facing one another, that Chellamuthu could watch his lips. He spoke slow and steady.

  “It’s Mrs. Wide Ass,” Todd said, holding an expression now so serious there could have been a death in his family.

  Chellamuthu paused. It was true he’d had a hard time learning her name. Could it be that he’d been saying it wrong all along? “Wide Ass?” Chellamuthu questioned.

  “Yes! Fantastic!” Todd assured.

  A couple of the boys in the circle began to snicker, but when Todd shot them the stare of death, they wiped the grins from their faces.

  “Principal Dickens?” Todd asked, fishing for a second bite.

  Chellamuthu nodded like he was getting free candy. He knew the man. He’d sat in his office twice. He’d learned his name when his mother brought him to enroll.

  Todd enlightened with convincing lips. “It’s Principal Dick Head. Repeat it!”

  Chellamuthu did so, mimicking the words with equal conviction.

  “Can you remember?” Todd was tapping his head so Chellamuthu would understand.

  Of course he could remember! He wasn’t stupid.

  There appeared to be more words Todd was eager to teach him. What a good friend!

  As Chellamuthu learned his new words, he also praised Shiva for the chance he’d had to kick the ball so far, to show the children he was a good player. This was all going much better than he could have imagined.

  “This next word is the best of all,” Todd said, his eyes glassy like a snake’s. “Look at me. Watch my lips.”

  Chellamuthu waited anxiously for the new word. Each was a gift.

  Todd’s gaze roped the ring of waiting boys and pulled them in tight. Eyes grew so wide some looked like they’d pop.

  He waited until all were listening.

  “The word is . . .”

  The phone was ringing when Linda entered the house.

  “Mrs. Rowland?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Principal Dickens.”

  Her voice quickened. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Everything is fine. We just had a little incident here at the school this afternoon, and I wanted to make you aware.”

  “Incident? What do you mean? What happened?”

  The man skated around his words. “Your son was using some . . . well, colorful language and the students were laughing, and so he kept repeating it all louder and . . .”

  “What did he say?” Linda asked, interrupting.

  “Frankly, I’d rather not repeat it. He’s sitting here in my office, and I was hoping you’d be able to come down and pick him up. Is that possible?”

  Linda swallowed a sigh. “I’ll be right down.”

  The kids were already in bed when Linda arrived home. She’d been meeting late with a client about a new listing and while she’d signed the deal, it had dragged on longer than expected.

  Fred pointed to the envelope from the Lincoln Home for Homeless Children that was open on the counter.

  “What does it say?” she asked, pulling the letter out.

  “You read it. It’s short.”

  Dear Mr. and Mrs. Rowland,

  I am sorry to know of your plight. There are many lost and orphaned children in India, and many who have been adopted through our organization. I will do my best to get information about your son, but it may be difficult. You have given me little. Can you provide the name of the boy’s town, village or state, or any school he attended? Please send and I will investigate.

  I do not know how much information I can get from Eli. He has not been well. Let us hope we will all soon learn more about your son.

  Sincerely,

  Maneesh Durai

  “That’s it?” Linda asked. “He’s asking us for information? We’ve told him everything we know.”

  She was looking at Fred as if he had a pocketful of answers.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “Mr. Maneesh Durai is politely telling us to go fly a kite.”

  Linda carefully read the letter again, studying each word. While Mr. Durai had no obligation to help, still, they were adoptive parents, paying customers. They deserved more. Even so, there was something about his phrasing that seemed peculiar. It could be the language barrier, the way he’d translated Tamil phrases in his head into English sentences on paper—or was it more than that?

  She couldn’t be certain . . . but something didn’t smell right.

  Chapter 19

  Linda was at work when the school called again. With three weeks left before summer recess, Angie Wyness, Chellamuthu’s teacher, was asking if she could meet with Fred or Linda.

  “Is there a problem?” Linda asked.

  “I feel like we need to talk,” she answered.

  Linda hung up the phone, pinched her lips, and then repeatedly clicked her pen. She’d been an educator since the invention of dirt. She was fluent in teacher. When the woman said they just needed to talk, Linda knew it was time to panic.

  They met the following day.

  “I’m concerned with Chellamuthu’s comprehension,” Mrs. Wyness said. “He’s confusing his letters. He’s connecting the wrong sounds with letters. He’s often guessing at unknown words, rather than sounding them out.”

  “But that’s normal,” Linda objected, in a tone that sounded like the defensive parents she’d always abhorred.

  “If he were only five or six, like most of the students in my class, then I’d have no worries. But he’s much older, and I’d expected he’d be farther along by now. The biggest problem isn’t just that he doesn’t grasp what I say, it’s that he doesn’t seem to care.”

  Linda pulled in a slow breath. She took even longer to exhale.

  Mrs. Wyness continued, “Don’t get me wrong. He’s very smart. When he’s doing problem-solving activities on his own, like puzzles or activities that don’t require speech or reading, he’s the best in the class. It’s just . . .”

  “I get it. I understand,” Linda said, her words already waving white flags. “What do you suggest?”

  “I hate to say it, but I really think he ne
eds to repeat the first grade. If he doesn’t, it will just get worse.”

  The muscles in Linda’s face weren’t sure whether to cue up for a laugh or a cringe. “Have you ever, in all your years in the classroom, flunked a first grader?” Linda asked.

  The teacher didn’t answer. She must have presumed the question was rhetorical.

  “You’re right. I know you’re right.” Linda added as she stood. “But I can’t have him repeating here. It would be too embarrassing for him. I’ll see if I can enroll him at Fairview, maybe work out some tutoring, maybe . . .”

  “Mrs. Rowland, there’s something else.”

  Linda hovered, then sat. “What is it?”

  “He’s a good kid, but with the language, and being from India, well . . .”

  “Tell me.”

  “The kids tease him. In place of Chellamuthu, they call him Jello-mutant, Cello-player, Hello-MooMoo, and . . . well, those are the nice ones. I get cross with them, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “ . . . but his Indian name is hard to pronounce, and kids are kids. They say some pretty insensitive, stupid things. I’m not justifying their behavior . . .”

  “Certainly not.”

  “ . . . I just wanted you to know.”

  Linda had always hated the hurt in a parent’s eyes when, as a teacher, she’d relayed similar news. She’d just never realized how much it stung. Now that it was her own son, her own heart, she had to do something to dull the pain.

  She’d make one more stop on the way home.

  Fred was reading on the couch when Linda burst in. “I have news,” she announced, but in lieu of eager eyes, she was packing worry.

  Fred lowered his newspaper.

  “I quit my job,” she said.

  Her words drained shamefully onto the carpet. She looked as if she were admitting guilt to capital murder.

  Fred arched forward, cupped his ears. She loved her job. He must have misunderstood.

  “Say what?”

  If he sounded gruff, he didn’t mean it. His tone, like his face, often wore its angry coat. It was more comfortable. He folded the paper and dropped it on the floor.

  Linda sat beside him. “We should have talked about it, I know. I’m sorry. I am. I know it’s a bit rash. It’s just, well, the kids at school are calling him names, Fred—and our son flunked the first grade! I’ve never heard of a child flunking first grade . . . so I decided to take a year off.”

  When Fred said nothing, she kept pedaling.

  “But we can afford it, because we won’t have childcare . . . and I’ll cook more! And it will give me more time with all our children. And . . .”

  Linda was hunching, hyperventilating, holding back tears.

  “Honey, relax!”

  “Fred, I’m a teacher,” she said. “I’ll be damned if a son of mine ever flunks another grade again. I just won’t allow it. I won’t.”

  Fred picked up his paper. There was only one good answer. “It makes sense to me.”

  “ . . . Wait, what? Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  Gratitude seeped from the woman.

  Fred fiddled for the sports page. “I presume you’ll tutor him at home,” he said. “When will you start?”

  Before answering, she leaned in and gave Fred a longer than normal kiss, scrunching the innocent newspaper against his chest. Neither cared.

  Then she twisted her attention toward the basement stairs and the sound of playing boys.

  “Would you call Chellamuthu?” she said. “I’m starting right now!”

  Marcus Campbell, the principal at Fairview Elementary, was an old acquaintance of Linda’s. The two had taught together at East High about the time Fred and Linda first met. It was time to catch up, time to ask a favor.

  “Hello?”

  It was late in the afternoon. The receptionist had gone, but a light was on in Campbell’s office. The nameplate on the door was polished brass with lettering twice the size of any she’d ever seen.

  Short-man syndrome?

  Enrolling Chellamuthu at Fairview to repeat the first grade had drawbacks. Most important, it was farther away, which meant Linda would have to drive her son both to and from school every day. It also meant that none of his friends in the neighborhood would be attending the same school.

  Attending Fairview also had advantages. Most important, it was farther away, which meant that the students at the school not only didn’t live close but they would never have heard the name Chellamuthu.

  Linda hoped it wouldn’t matter. Between now and the start of school, exactly three months away, she would execute her newly formed plan. Chellamuthu would hate it. Fred and the kids would hate it. Linda would absolutely hate it. Every day, all summer, from breakfast to bedtime if necessary—for a dozen hours a day, if that’s what it took—Linda was going to teach her son to read, write, and speak English. Teasing children be damned (bless their hearts). Linda Rowland was stepping in to take charge.

  She knocked on the principal’s door.

  “Linda, it’s great to see you again,” Marcus said as he welcomed her into his office. “How’s Fred? Is the old coot still teaching PE?”

  “Can you picture him doing anything else?”

  The man laughed.

  They both sat.

  He checked his watch. “Hey, I know you’re short on time, so let’s get right to it. Since our phone call, I’ve been thinking a lot about your request to enroll your son here. I’m on board with it, but I’d like to add a little stipulation.”

  “Stipulation?” Linda edged forward, leaning into the word. Two more inches, and she’d slip off her chair. She would have growled if she had thought it would make a difference.

  “Perhaps that’s not the right word,” Marcus added. “Let’s call it a strong suggestion.”

  “Get to it, Marcus!”

  “You need to enroll your son, and we . . . well, we desperately need a PTA president.”

  Linda squinted disbelief. “Are you strongly suggesting that person be me? This is feeling like a shakedown.”

  Perhaps obeying orders, his smug expression didn’t move.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that. I’d call it . . . two old friends doing each other a favor. It’s a marvelous opportunity, actually. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

  “It sounds like I’m the one doing all the scratching.”

  She wiped her fingers on her blouse.

  She waited.

  He waited.

  The clock on the wall waited. Tick tick tick. Clearly, it had all day.

  When Linda finally grunted her agreement, Marcus shot from his seat. He reached out his hand like a used car salesman to seal the deal, to welcome his new PTA president. Why, he almost danced!

  “It’s gonna be great, Linda, a win-win for everyone. Just like old times at East High.”

  She pulled at the hem of her blouse again. “If it’s a win-win, why do I feel like I need a hot shower?”

  At her car, Linda yanked on the handle with resolve. She might have lost the battle, but she was making progress on the war.

  “The war . . .” she repeated. In an instant, she knew what she had to do next.

  Fred had coaxed her into watching a war movie last weekend with a scene of the D-day invasion. It was heartbreaking to see so many lives lost, simply because of obstacles blocking their landing on the beach.

  It was the same with Chellamuthu. His obstacles were not death, dying, or drowning—she didn’t mean that—but they were still very real. There are times, she reasoned in her head, when we have no choice but to fight through life’s barriers.

  She climbed in, closed the door, grabbed the wheel, and pressed back against the seat.

  For a smooth beach l
anding, however, it is necessary to first clear obstacles from the sand.

  She pushed in the key and started the car.

  She would need to convince Fred first. Then she would need to communicate the idea to her son. Her beach-clearing plan was simple. Before Chellamuthu started school again—actually right away—it was time they address a glaring problem.

  It was time for Chellamuthu to choose a new name.

  Fred Rowland loved lists. He once made a list of the reasons everyone should use lists. He carried his on a school-issued clipboard that never left his side. He ate with it, slept with it, watched TV with it. He once tried to shower with it. Linda drew the line when he brought his clipboard to bed.

  Tonight, with the family huddled around the kitchen table, they were making a list for Chellamuthu.

  Names.

  With their children watching, occasionally helping, Fred and Linda scoured the Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume I, as well as any issue of National Geographic that even pretended to mention the Indian subcontinent. Possibilities were written, sorted, repeated—Rajah, Jute, Kumar, Ira, Ravi.

  With each one, they glanced at Chellamuthu to gauge his reaction. A raised eyebrow was better than a tipped head. Frowning lips were worse than crossed arms.

  They’d hoped to settle on a name that was noticeably Indian, to retain his heritage, but one that wouldn’t provide easy fodder for the taunts and jeers of thoughtless school children.

  While Rux kept voting for his favorite, Anaconda, there were two names that Chellamuthu seemed to prefer.

  The first, Taj, came from the Taj Mahal, and while Fred and Linda knew little about the famous landmark, they read that it had been built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan in memory of his third wife, Mumtaz Mahal, and that it was often listed as one of the seven wonders of the world.

  The second name, Khyber, a possible middle name, came from an article in National Geographic on the Khyber Pass. “If it’s important enough for NG to dedicate the center spread to it,” Fred declared, “it works for me.”