Beautiful Child Page 8

  Fortunately, Julie was there, so she could take the other kids, because I wanted to spend time alone with Billy. My gut feeling was that what he really needed was sympathy and a cuddle, and I knew if I was nice to him, it would make him cry. I wanted to spare him the humiliation of bawling in front of the others, particularly Jesse, who didn’t have a lot of patience with Billy anyhow.

  This would have worked out, if I hadn’t forgotten about Gwennie. I was in the hallway with Billy when she came up the stairs. “Hi,” she said cheerfully. “How come he’s crying?”

  “None of your business!” Billy snapped back.

  “How come he’s crying? What happened? Did he fall down? I fell down. Yesterday. Look. I was on my bike and my bike fell over.” She showed us two scraped knees.

  “Make her go away,” Billy pleaded.

  “I got a Raleigh bike. It came from England. England is one of—”

  “Gwennie, could you just go on into the classroom, please? I’m talking to Billy just now.”

  “Yeah, it’s private!” Billy said.

  Gwennie didn’t move. She just stared at us. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked me, as if Billy weren’t even there. “Has he got something the matter?”

  “Yeah, you!” Billy cried and swung an arm out at her.

  Gwennie wasn’t as out of it as she appeared because she quite gracefully stepped back out of his swing. And just stood there.

  “Gwennie, please. Julie’s waiting for you.”

  It was no use. I gave up, opened the door, and took both Gwennie and Billy into the classroom.

  Julie was only just coping. Shane and Zane had gotten into an argument about who was supposed to use the cassette recorder first and Jesse barked his nervousness.

  “I remember being a baby,” Gwennie suddenly announced. “I remember my mother putting me in a little chair outside.”

  “That’s nice,” I said hurriedly. “Now could you find your chair in here, please? You too, Billy, time to start your folder. You find your chair as well.”

  “Oh? When did my chair get lost?” he queried.

  “I mean, sit down in it.”

  “I was sitting in my little chair and I saw a bird,” Gwennie said. “A bobolink. Bobolinks live in the Great Plains. Some live in Canada. The capital of Canada is Ottawa. Canada’s a very big country—”

  “Gwennie.” I pointed sternly to her chair. That’s when I noticed Venus was not at her table.

  “Where’s Venus?” I asked Julie.

  Julie, looking decidedly harassed, glanced around quickly. “I think she went to the bathroom. She was here. I’m sure she was here.”

  I went over to the window. There was Venus, lounging on top of her wall. I had no idea if she had ever come in from lunch or not. “We can’t have this,” I said. “The amount of time that kid misses because no one notices she isn’t here. I’ll go get her.”

  “No,” Julie said with unexpected feeling. “I’ll go get her.”

  I could hear the unspoken plea not to be left alone in charge of the others. Over the previous few days, I was becoming increasingly aware that I was expecting a bit too much of Julie. While she was experienced in the classroom, she was not a teacher and had no pretensions to be. Obviously, my room had come as a shock after her experiences as a support person to Casey, who was hardworking, sweet-tempered, and confined to a wheelchair.

  So while Julie went down to the playground to charm Venus off her wall, I got everyone started on their work. Or at least she tried to charm Venus. Minutes passed. Five, ten. I glanced out the window and Julie was still down there, standing beside the wall, talking up to Venus, who appeared to be ignoring her completely.

  About twenty minutes later, Julie returned. She didn’t say anything, but the look of defeat said it all.

  “I’ll go get her,” I said. “Everybody here is busy. They can do an activity of their choice, when they’re done with their folders. If you run into problems, call Bob up.”

  I think when I said that I knew I wasn’t coming back up myself, at least not for a long time.

  Down in the empty playground, I crossed to where Venus was sitting on the wall. “Venus, it’s time for class. When you hear the bell ring, it’s time to come in.”

  No response whatsoever. She was in her glamour-queen pose, reclined back with her arms behind her, supporting her weight, head back, eyes closed, one leg up, one leg outstretched along the wall, long hair tumbling down.

  “Venus?” I stood below her. The wall was about six feet high, so it was really a very inconvenient height to bring her down from.

  She totally ignored me.

  “Venus? Do you hear me? It’s time to go in. It’s time for class.”

  I knew I’d crossed the Rubicon. By coming out onto the playground myself to get her, I’d played into her game. The only way to make it my game was to ensure she went back with me. I couldn’t back down now and give up. At the same time, I knew whatever I did had to be well gauged. If I reached for her and missed or did not get enough of a grip, she would be over the wall onto the other side and off, the way she had done the other time.

  I stood a moment longer, trying to figure out the best way to tackle the problem. It was difficult because the wall was taller than I was and Venus, of course, was on top of it. I didn’t want to lose her but I didn’t want to hurt her either. Nor myself.

  Was she aware of me? This was the question that always lurked in the back of my mind. How much awareness was in this incredibly inert child? On the one hand, I felt much of it had to be within her control on some level. There was the definite feel of a power struggle to much of her behavior, certainly during moments like this. She didn’t want to come in and she was accustomed to not having to do what she didn’t want. Like a possum playing dead, if she remained motionless long enough, she was left alone. On the other hand, it was such total unresponsiveness. This gave it the feel of something physical, something so globally wrong that it was beyond her control, like brain damage or hearing loss or a very low IQ. And because I didn’t know, because I hadn’t encountered a child like Venus before, I was left feeling scared of doing the wrong thing.

  But inaction never accomplished anything. With one sudden move, I jumped up and grabbed hold of her leg with one hand and her dress with the other. She hadn’t been expecting that. I quickly pulled her off balance and she came down off the wall and into my arms.

  Venus sprang to life then. She shrieked blue murder and fought furiously against my grip.

  I held on. I tried to sit down to keep her from kicking me, because, of course, being outside, she had her shoes on.

  Venus screamed and screamed and screamed. Teachers and children came to the windows of their classrooms. Indeed, I saw someone come out of the house across the street and peer over their fence.

  I wrapped my arms around her in a tight bear hug and sat down. Venus came down with a thud into my lap. She kicked and screamed and struggled.

  Bob galloped out of the building. “Do you need help?”

  “Hold on to her legs. I just want to get her controlled.”

  Bob grabbed Venus’s legs and pinned them to the asphalt.

  “Calm down,” I said in a soft voice to her ear.

  Venus screamed and struggled harder. She disliked Bob holding her legs intensely and directed most of her energy there.

  “Calm down,” I said again. “I’ll let go when you’re calm.”

  She continued to fight fiercely. Minutes ticked by. She still screamed in a high-pitched, frantic manner.

  Minutes. Minutes. Minutes. It was hard to hang on to her. Bob grimly kept hold of her legs. My arms hurt with the tension of keeping her against me. How much worse it must have been for her.

  Everyone could hear us. There was an embarrassment factor I hadn’t expected. Normally this was the kind of gritty activity that went on behind closed doors.

  I kept talking to her, almost whispering in an effort to get her attention. “Calm down. Quiet.
Quiet now. I’ll let go when you’re quiet.” Over and over and over again.

  A small eternity spun itself out over the playground. I had no idea how long we were there because I couldn’t raise my arm to see my watch, but I was afraid we were going to run into recess. Would the other teachers think to take their children to a different part of the playground? I dreaded the idea of other children surrounding us, watching. Once started, I felt the need to see this through to its conclusion, particularly after the last time with Julie, when Venus had managed to fight long enough to win her freedom. This was a power struggle I needed to win, if I wanted Venus to start playing the game my way.

  Venus went hoarse with her screaming.

  “Calm down,” I said for the hundredth time.

  Then suddenly she screamed, “Let go!”

  Bob and I exchanged surprised glances.

  “Calm down. I’ll let go when you’re calm.”

  “No! No, no, no!”

  “Yes. No screaming. Quiet voice.”

  “No! Let go!”

  So, I thought, she can talk.

  About twenty minutes passed before Venus actually did start to calm down. Exhaustion was taking over by then. She’d almost lost her voice. Her muscles quivered beneath my grasp. Indeed, mine were quivery too.

  “Let go!” she cried one last time.

  “Quiet voice,” I said.

  “Let go.” It was said softly, tearfully.

  So, I did. I loosened my grip and stood up. Bob let go of Venus’s legs. I lifted her to her feet but still kept hold of her wrist because I expected her to bolt.

  “Wow,” Bob murmured as he dusted off the pants of his suit. “It’s been a while since I did that.”

  Venus was still crying, but they were child’s tears.

  Kneeling on the asphalt, I pulled Venus against me in a hug. She cried and cried and cried.

  Finally I picked Venus up in my arms and carried her into the building. We started up the stairs but when I hit the first flight, I didn’t go on up. Instead, I took her down the hall to the teachers’ lounge. As I hoped, the room was empty. I went in and closed the door behind me. I set her down. Indeed, for the first time, I risked letting go of her altogether.

  “Why don’t you sit there,” I said and directed her toward the sofa. Venus did as she was told. I took money out of my pocket and put it in the pop machine. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty after all that, hey? Do you like Coke?”

  Venus was watching me. I thought perhaps there was the slightest hint of a nod. Perhaps not. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking on my part. I picked the can out of the tray and opened it.

  “Here.”

  For the first time Venus responded of her own accord. She reached out and took the Coke from me and drank deeply of it.

  “That was hard work, wasn’t it?” I said and sat down across from her. “I’ll bet you’re tired. I am.”

  She watched me closely.

  “Let’s not have to do this again, okay? Next time the bell rings, please come in. The bell says ‘Time for school.’ So you need to come into the building when you hear it ring. That’s the better way. I didn’t like having to do it this way.”

  Venus lowered her eyes. She regarded the can of Coke for a long moment. Then she leaned forward and placed it on the coffee table. For that brief moment she looked like any kid. Then she sat back, let out a long, slow sigh, and the shade lowered again. I could see it happening. It was almost a physical thing passing over her. Venus went blank. Moving that Coke can was the last spontaneous movement she made for the rest of the afternoon.

  Chapter

  10

  As exhausting and traumatic as the day had been, I went home that night in a buoyant mood. Suddenly, there seemed possibility. Venus could talk. Venus could respond. Now all that was left was finding a way of drawing her out, of making her want to communicate with us.

  But what way was this going to be?

  I spent the whole evening preoccupied with this question. I cast about my apartment, looking for something to stimulate her, some idea that might work. Pulling out drawers from my file cabinet that contained teaching materials and work from students in years gone by, I forgot about having supper as I sat on the floor and went through folder after folder, looking for inspiration.

  Two separate memories kept intruding as I searched. One was of the very first child I had ever worked with. Her name was Mary and she was four at the time. I was a college student, working as an aide in a preschool program for disadvantaged children. Mary was my first experience of elective mutism, where the individual, usually a child, is able to speak normally but refuses to do so for psychological reasons. In Mary’s case she had been badly traumatized by what I now suspect was sexual abuse, although this was back in the days before such things were generally recognized. Whatever the etiology, she was terrified of men and spent much of her time at school hiding under the piano. I was charged with the job of developing a relationship with Mary. Like Venus, Mary had been very unresponsive too, although not to the degree Venus was. She had also refused all the staff’s usual methods of involving her in classroom activities. I was inexperienced and idealistic, so I’d never considered the possibility that Mary was too damaged or had too low an IQ to respond. I’d crawled down on my hands and knees under the piano day after day, talking to her even though she never talked back, reading to her when I finally ran out of words. It was a long, slow process over many months, but in the end Mary did form a relationship with me and eventually she did start talking again. I mulled back over the memory, reliving those long-ago moments spent under that piano that even now stood out in my mind for its unusual color—it had been splatter painted, a zillion white points of paint on a dark turquoise background, like snowflakes against the winter twilight.

  That was my memory: Mary’s wary eyes staring out from the turquoise-colored darkness. I had been made to feel really good about succeeding with Mary. The staff had been supportive throughout and very congratulatory when Mary finally started talking and joining in. No doubt, such a positive outcome and such positive feedback put me on the path to my future career. But I remembered feeling just a bit guilty about all the attention. Why? Because truth was, I had done nothing. I had used no special techniques, no special training, no deep insights. I’d simply spent time with her. Made it clear I was happy to spend time with her, even if we weren’t doing much, even if I had many other things that were important too. And that was all it took to help Mary.

  The other memory that kept intruding over that evening was of a close friend of mine whose son had suffered a severe head injury at six as a result of being hit by a car. I remembered her using a soft-bristled baby brush to brush his arms and legs as he lay comatose in the hospital bed. I couldn’t quite remember what the theory behind this was, something elaborate about realigning the nerve endings that I didn’t quite believe, but the idea of waking him back up to life by softly stimulating him in this way had made sense to me.

  Over the course of the evening, the two memories started to integrate. I’d read to Venus. I wasn’t able, of course, to spend one-to-one time with her like I had with Mary, at least not during the school day, so I was going to have to do it outside class. But that was okay. I’d frequently worked extra time with students. And I’d make it tactile. I wasn’t quite sure how. Brushing her arms with a baby brush seemed a little over the top. Or at least a little strange, because I didn’t suspect she had a brain injury. But I had a very strong feeling that Venus needed this kind of tactile input. Remote as she was, either physically, up on her wall, or emotionally, sitting in my classroom, I sensed she was “out of touch” in the real sense of the word, in the literal sense of the phrase.

  I started looking through my bookshelves for children’s books. I chose a few. Then as I was taking down folders from a higher shelf, a comic fell. I picked it up. She-Ra, Princess of Power.

  I wasn’t quite sure how I’d acquired this particular comic. Probably taken fr
om some child in a former class and forgotten about. She-Ra was the sister of He-Man, who was some toy manufacturer’s massively popular marketing dream in the early 1980s. Stimulated by a cartoon called The Masters of the Universe, these toys may not have actually ruled the universe, but for several years they’d come darned close in my classroom. Ever present in the form of comics, Saturday morning cartoons, and small plastic toys, He-Man, his companions, and his assortment of arch enemies had dominated my boys’ free time, generated a million recess games, and provoked a mania of obsessive collecting and trading.

  To me He-Man had seemed a pale imitation of the old-time superheroes, like Superman and Batman, copied shamelessly right down to the cowardly secret identity. Moreover, the skills of the marketing men targeting their prey irritated me. Nonetheless, while He-Man was rather one-dimensional, I found he and the other characters engaging and decent enough, and there was no denying how much the little boys in my classroom loved following the adventures or acting them out on the playground. As a consequence, I’d lived peaceably with He-Man when he was at the height of his popularity and had become as conversant in the details of his life and that of his followers and their arch enemy, Skeletor, as any gossip columnist following the private lives of the stars.

  On the other hand, I’d remained rather more dismissive of She-Ra, He-Man’s sister, as she seemed a little too transparent an effort to cash in on little girls, given that the toy manufacturers had already captured the hearts, minds, and pocket money of little boys. An exact replica of her brother in female form—secret identity, arch enemies, and superpower in the form of a magic sword—She-Ra had never really caught on in my classes the way He-Man had anyway. My girls had all been “My Little Pony” addicts in that era.

  I opened the comic and paged through it. There was a momentary sense of nostalgia as I saw the old, familiar Masters of the Universe names. These characters had once been such a part of daily life and now I hadn’t brought them to mind in years. The memories filled me with the sensation of warm sun—that smell of sun on linoleum, that baking feel of sun through glass, all, I suppose, because the year Masters of the Universe was at its height was also the year I taught in a classroom with huge windows facing west. So, maybe it was simply a sense of old times’ sake that made me put the comic in with the books I was going to bring to Venus.