City Kid
by
Mary MacCracken
(D
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copyright 1981 BY MARY burnham maccracken
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10019
first signet printing. february, 1982

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
This book recounts the essence of my experience and in
that sense is a true story. However, it is not
intended as a literal account and it is not to be taken
as a portrayal of any living person. All names
(except for my family's and mine) of
individuals, places, and institutions are
fictitious.
LUKE WAS A HARD CASE comHARD ENOUGH
TO BREAK YOUR HEART
Sitting quiet and withdrawn at a battered
schoolroom desk, Luke had the looks of a shy
angel-and a past history that special teacher Mary
MacCracken could barely believe
Already Luke had been picked up twenty-four times
by the police, had set over a dozen major
fires, and had a staggering record of thefts No
adult could reach him, no teacher could control him, no
cop could cow him All this-and Luke was still only
seven and a half years old
Trying to help Luke was Mary MacCracken's
job-and a seemingly impossible challenge This
is the story of how the impossible came true
"INSPIRING!"
- CLEVELAND PLAIN DEALER
A LH KRARY GUILD ALTERNATE
SELECTION
111111111111111111111111111111 11336

his

7 1 1 6 2 was 0 0 2 9 5 "II
"?"""
B
?"'" his
ISBN G-4Sl-1133b-S
For Cal:
who believed in me
"Which one is Luke"...*" I whispered.
"There, next to my desk," Lisa answered. "The
one not working, of course. He doesn't even answer
when his name is called. Listen, I've got to go.
Talk to you later."
Lisa walked to the front of the classroom to continue
the math lesson I'd interrupted. I sat on a
radiator cover and studied Luke.
I couldn't believe it. When they had told
us at college that we'd be working with children who were
socially maladjusted juvenile delinquents, I
conjured up images of burly kids with bulging
muscles and perpetual sneers. And now here was this
little boy in second grade who couldn't be more than
seven years old.
I peered at him intently, saying his name under my
breath, "Lucas Brauer, Lucas Brauer,"
trying to make him real. He shifted slightly in his
seat and I could see that his brown hair curved around
his cheeks, so that from this angle he looked almost like a
girl.
There must be some mistake, I thought. How could this child
have a record of twenty-four arrests for arson,
theft, and truancy? I shook my head. Something was
wrong somewhere.
But if something was wrong, something was also right. For the first
time in months, I felt the beginnings of the familiar,
soaring, ridiculous excitement that came with teaching-a
feeling I'd almost forgotten since I'd become a
student at the state teachers" college.
I had entered in September, full of hope and
determination.by February I was full of
disillusionment In 1
fact, until that day when I found Luke.
I wasn't sure I could make it through one year,
much less two.
So now I memorized him-the scruffy sneakers
half the size of mine, the faded jeans torn at the
knees, a plaid shirt with one button missing, and
each inch of his small profile. I could help
Luke, now that I'd found him. I knew I could,
and he would help me, too. He would make me
remember there was some reason for the endless empty
courses, the meaningless assignments, and the
foolishterror of exams.
*
I had known it wouldn't be easy, going back
to college at age forty-four. In 1970 the
movement for continuing education had not yet become
popular and ninety-nine percent of the members of the
junior class at Union State College were
under twenty years old. They walked the campusin
pairs or clumps, ate in noisy groups at the
student union, shouted cheerfully at one another
over the blare of rock that poured from speakers mounted in
the ceiling. I walked alone, ate my cheese and
apple in my old convertibleeaand tried to learn to be
heard over the sounds of the Grateful Dead.
That was all okay. I was there to get a
degree, to get certified so that I could continue
teaching, not to develop my social life. I had
remarried in June and the excitement of living with
Cal and trying to blend our combined seven kids, aged
fifteen to twenty-seven, into some kind of
homogeneousgroup was challenging and absorbing. None
of the children lived at home full time, but they arrived in
bunches on weekends and vacations and filled our
apartmentor country house with excitement, laughter, and
dirty laundry.
It would be difficult to give up teaching and go back
to college after a twenty-five-year interval between
sophomoreand junior years, but it was also the one
way I could continue to teach. What I hadn't
expected was the stifling boredom, the frustration of
hours spent taking courses that had nothing to do with
teaching, and most of all, the 2
overpowering, unending longing for the troubled children I had
taught.
I had been teaching seriously emotionally disturbed children
full time for more than six years, when the school where
I taught became "state approved" and its teachers
had to be fully certified. I had no
certification, only two years at Wellesley and
some night-school educationcredits. Not enough.
I had to leave because the only way I could continue
to work as a teacher was to get a bachelor's degree in
education, and certification. I could get my degree
and dual certification in elementary and special
education in two years going full time during the day;
it would take six years at night school. At my
age there was no choice.
But where were the children? Children had been the warp and woof of
my life for years. Without ever really asking, as an
education major I had assumed that my days would be
filled with children. Not so. They saved the children until
senior year, and then only for six weeks of student
teaching.
I railed inwardly at the poor preparation the young
teachers-to-be were getting. How could they learn to be
teachers without children, without the models of
experiencedteachers, without being in a classroom?
I remembered Helga, the wonderful teacher I had
worked under as a volunteer when I had first started, and
all she had taught me. Where would these young people learn
about commitment and involvement and communicatingwith children? Not
in my courses in Background of Mathematics I,
Adapted Physical Education, Integrated
Techniques, Current Methods and Materials
for the MentallyRetarded, and Teaching Reading to the
Mentally Retarded.
Of all my courses. Background of Mathematics
I was the worst. Not only did it have nothing to do with
childreneax was also couched in a foreign language. Math
to me meant addition, subtraction, multiplication,
fractions, decimals. Maybe word problems and a
few math concepts. Not so to Mrs. Kaiser, our
professor. She talked of sets and union and
commutative properties. 3
Each morning she said coldly, "Good morning,
class. I will explain the work to be assigned.
Follow now." With that she turned her back to the
classroom and the tight blond braid that ran across
the back of her head bobbed up and down as her chalk
made numbers, arrows, circles with overlapping
circles, equations resting between and below her drawings.
She talked rapidly to the figures on the board,
never turning her head. She covered one, two,
sometimes three of the blackboards that surrounded the
room.
Then, "Volunteer?" she demanded more than asked.
Five hands in the front row shot up. She chose
two and sent them to the unused portion of the board. Then
she read a problem out loud and the race was on. Who
would finish first? Who would get it right?
I watched from the back of the classroom, never
volunteering and hoping only for invisibility and
sudden insight.
lan Michaels, the boy in the seat next to mine,
attended only every other day and never volunteered.
Instead he silently scratched out the problem on a
back page of his notebook. He was always right,
always ahead of the blackboard people.
I decided I would try to do the same. I was
beginning to understand some of the vocabulary now-matching
sets, equivalency, the commutative property-but
usually I got lost about halfway through the problem.
One morning lan's hand reached lazily across my
paper, underlining the place where I had gone wrong,
putting it right, then finishing the problem. After several
days of this, I began to follow it through, while lan
dozed beside me, coming awake just before the end of class
to circle those I had gotten right.
Dr. Kaiser was a believer in unexpected
quizzes. She would sit wearing the same bland
expression as we arrived each day, but twice a
week, always on different days, after her "Good
morning, class," the scribble on the board was put
there for us to solve on paper and hand in.
I began to wake in the middle of the nights from
the sound of chalk on blackboard rattling in my
dreams. My
stomach was queasy on the morning elevator rides
from the apartment to our cars.
"Are you all right?" Cal asked.
"I don't know," I said. "I've got a
sixty-eight average and I dream about Mrs.
Kaiser."
Now Cal, too, studied the associative,
distributive, and commutative properties, shaking
his head, saying almost inaudibly, "This is math?"
Cal was an engineer and inventorwith over eighty
patents. If he had trouble understandingBackground of
Mathematics I, how could I ever hope to get it
straight?
I was okay in my other courses, averages in the
ninetieseab I wasn't at all sure I would
pass Background of Mathematics I.
I said so to lan Michaels.
He opened his eyes slightly and looked at me through
half-raised lids. "No problem," he said between
yawns. "Just copy my answers on the final Then
go back and mess up enough to get what you need."
He closed his eyes again.
Cheating. He was suggesting that I cheat.
I knocked my sneaker on his boot. "That's
cheating," I said.
His eyes stayed closed. "No shit," was his nearly
inaudi3omment.
I wasn't sure how to interpret this. I sat
silently drawing circles on my notebook,
watching the others file into class.
*
Everybody cheated. This was my first exposure to the
marketing of papers. All the various societies and
clubs on campus had a file of papers for every
course, going back over several years. This was
supposed to be a secret, but unless you were considered
the type that would rat, the availability and cost of
papers were discussed openly. Students mocked
professors for giving an A to a paper that had
earned only a B two years before. Copy 5
machines made it possible simply to "rent" a
paper for a day, copy it, return it, and then,
depending on audacity and/or willingness to risk, either
retype it or simply hand in the copy, saying you were
keeping the original for your files.
Did anybody ever get caught? Not that I knew.
Did the professors know what was going on? Again,
not that I knew. But somehow the fact that it was
happening contaminatedthe atmosphere. There was an
"I'll get away with as much as I can"
philosophy among a large group of students.
The environment was so impersonal that the students
oftenreminded me of little children with their hands in the cookie
jar, wishing desperately that someone would catch them, just
so they'd know someone cared.
*
Adapted Phys Ed was a two-credit course, which
meant that we met only three times a week As if
to make up for this, Mrs. Hogan assigned twice
as much work as any other teacher. Each class ended
with a lengthy new assignment, and a moan from the
students. Mrs. Hogan had graduated from
Union State five years earlier. It was as if
she were saying, "In my class, you're going to work for
those two credits."
I admired her spirit, but wished she had a subject
closer to my work. One of her favorite
assignments was to ask us to write twenty abstracts
on twenty different physical education articles.
I spent hours in the library. Locating the
article was a major problem in itself; often the one
needed issue was missing from the stack. Then I spent
more hours reducing articles on wheelchair
volleyball and adapted jungle gyms to short
abstracts, and still more hours typing them up. Where were the
children? What was I doing here?
We were assigned to demonstrate before the class a
"phys ed technique" that would be useful with
"special children." I could not do this. I had taught
Rufus to swim, Hannah to ride a bike,
Brian to climb a mountain, 6
but I could not bring myself to stand before those forty
nineteen-year-olds and put on a demonstration.
An old shyness returned, and for the hundredth time I
thought, "I cannot do this. I cannot stay here in these
classes for two whole years, while the children are out
there."
Cal put his arms around me in the middle of the night,
and then wiped my tears. Neither of us spoke.
*
The next morning I wrote a letter to Mrs.
Hogan asking if I could substitute a paper or
else more abstracts for the demonstration. Perhaps because of
my age, the letter came back. "Permission granted
for substitution of twenty abstracts for class
demonstration." Back to the library.
If only I had known about Luke then.
2
Our final math exam was on December 20. I
was later than usual and I could feel nervousness
building as I inched the car along the highway. It was
snowing lightly and snow combined with Christmas shoppers
made travel slow. I finally reached the college
parking lot, found a spot heading downhill, and then
walked rapidly across campus, quiet and
beautiful under the fresh cover of snow.
For once, lan Michaels was in his seat before I
was. We always sat in the same seats. I don't
know why, but it was the same in all my classes.
There was some slight jugglingand changing the first week.
After that we returned as though programmed to the same
seat each day.
I hesitated inside the doorway for a minute.
Maybe I should take another seat. Maybe I
couldn't resist looking
at his paper, with the problems worked so simply, so
elegantly, so clearly once I saw him do it.
lan, I thought, whatever I have learned in this class,
I've learned from you.
I sat down in my regular seat next to him. He
opened his eyes to half-mast and winked at me.
"Listen," I said, the wink catapulting nervousness
into annoyance. "Keep your answers to yourself.
I can do this on my own."
The eyelids lowered. "Sure, lady."
Thirty minutes later, lan had handed in his paper
and was gone. Forty-five minutes later, everybody
was gone but me. On the hour. Dr. Kaiser
announced, "Time's up. Pass
the
papers to the front, please." There was no one there
to pass to. I carded my paper to her desk.
A week later. Dr. Kaiser stood in front of
us. "I will announce both your exam grade and your
final grade. Anyone who wishes to see his paper
may request it after class. Barker,
Frank-exam eighty-six, final grade
eighty-two. Cavaluso, Florence-exam
sixty-five, final grade seventy-eight."
I studied my notebook, wondering how far Dr.
Kaiser would go. Would she read the failures?
"Mann, Anita-exam forty-eight, final grade
fifty-two."
She would. She was-and she was already to the Minins.
Could my stomach really churn like this over a math
grade?
"Michaels, lan-exam ninety-eight.
Congratulations, Mr. Michaels. Final
grade ninety-six."
What was the matter? Where was MacCracken?
Mao-Crackcn came before both Mann and
Michaels.
"MacCracken, Mary. I always leave the Mc's
and Mac's till the end of the More's."
She pinned me with her eyes. The others turned
to look. lan Michaels's eyes were closed. My
stomach rumbled beneath my jeans. Say it. Would you just
say it and get it over with?
"MacCracken, Mary-exam eighty-eight, final
grade, eighty."
I passed! I not only passed, but a B!
Exultation flooded 8
through me. How could I care so much about a math
grade? I felt foolish, but anyway, I
wouldn't have to take this course again. I did it! We
did it!
lan Michacls's boot nudged my sneakers.
Eyes half-opened, he gave me his accolade before
lowering his lids once more. "Way to go,
MaeCracken."
*
The second half of my junior year was still filled
with required courses, but the ordeal of
scheduling and registrationwas a little easier the second
time around. I was getting to know most of the professors
in the special ed department by name and/or reputation and
that helped.
"Have you had Bernstein yet? Well, don't if you
can help it. He's a pig."
"Jones? A good lady. Marks hard, but knows her
stuff."
"Telker? Terrific if you need an easy B.
Never gives anything lower."
I wondered if the teachers knew their reputations were
graven into oral history and available to anyone who
listened.
Still, registration was always tedious, sometimes
traumatic.we were classified like so many
potatoes. With us, the identifying characteristic was the first
initial of our last names. On the first day of
registration names beginning with A through F were
admitted; on the second day, G through L; on
the third, M through R; and on the fourth, S through
Z. The following semester the order would be reversed.
Patiently we lined the walks and stairs and halls
of the student union, where various rooms and floors
had been partitioned into cubicles representing
different courses. The faculty took
turns at the adviser's desk.
To actually get in the front door, an hour
process in xfeatook two things, your student
identification card and your social security
number. Nobody cared what your name was, only
what letter it began with, to make sure you were with the right
potatoes. After that you were known by your social
security number. I wondered, as I
stood waiting in boredom, if I could find my
numerical relatives by adding up my digits and
matching the total results If I was a 46, who
were the other members of my clan? were there 42's and
48's around me? I contemplatedthe girl ahead of
me, her hair combed into a high Afro; maybe she
was a generic 40.
Behind me a red-haired woman in her twenties
shifted from foot to foot. "What's taking so long?
Christ! If Statisticsis filled by the time I
get there, I'll kill myself I only need six more
credits, but that one's required I'll have to come
back to this hole again next semester if I can't
get that course." I understood. I had some
required courses myself. If I didn't get them
I could quit, I told myself. I could stop taking
these inane courses . . . but what about
teaching? What about the children?
Inside, we raced frantically from booth to booth,
checkingour catalogs against our schedules.
Working with schedule sheets and catalog in hand, I was
trying to keep to my plan of double certification (in
both elementary and special ed), which meant I had a
lot of courses to fit in. Trouble came when the
course planned for 10:40 or 11:40 turned out
to be filled; then there was a scramble for the catalog.
What else have they got at that hour that's required?
Teaching math. Great. Nope-turned out it wasn't
allowed.
"You don't have the prerequisite. You have
to completeBackground of Math Two first. Sorry,
it's the rule," said the graduate student manning the
booth.
The rules! I was beginning to understand the frustrationsof
some of my natural-born children and their friends. It had
been different in a small private college like
Wellesley, where students were honestly seen as
individualseaor at least they had been twenty
years ago. But in a state college like the one I
was attending, there were no exceptions. As long as it
came out right on the computer, it was okay. (computers
don't make exceptions.)
Well, Statistics and Orientation
to Psychological Testingdidn't have a
prerequisite-and what's more, it was required and
met only once a week, on Thursdays from
4:00 to 6:30. I signed up.
Finally, my spring schedule was complete- Counseling
and Guidance for the Handicapped; Current Methods
of Teaching Mentally Retarded Adolescents;
History of Education in the United States;
Background of Mathematics IIBBStATISTICS and
Orientation to Psychological Testingbbanda
Practicum in Teaching Reading to the Mentally
Retarded. All required courses.
Schedule and course sheet in hand, I headed for
ProfessorFoster's office. I had discovered at
registration that he had been assigned as my adviser
and his signature was required on my completed
course schedule A stroke of luck to get him, I
was told. He was considered one of the best.
Foster's office door stood open and he sat with his
feet on the desk, chair tipped back against the
wall.
"Professor Foster?" I asked from the hall
"I'm Mary MacCracken. Could I see you for a
minute about signing my course schedule?"
"Mary MacCracken? Where the hell do you keep
your-self? I've been trying to locate you for
weeks Ever since I discovered you'd been a teacher
at Doris Fleming's school and have over six
years" experience with emotionally disturbedkids. Is
that right?"
I nodded.
"Well, come in. Sit down." He lifted a
pile of journals from a chair beside the desk "Do you
ever hear from Doris? I've been out to that school
several times Damn good reputation, even before it got
state approval. Those are tough kids. When did
you teach there?"
"Until last year."
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Trying to get certified."
"Ah, I get it. Last year is when the state
approval came in, right? No tickee, no
job, eh?"
I nodded.
"Well, Doris is a tough old war-horse, but
she kept that school alive when no one else could."
"Yes, she taught me a great deal" Glad that I
could say it. That the hurt of having to leave was easing.
11
"Okay now," Foster said, "let's get down
to business. We have come up with a terrific idea."
"We?"
"Yeah. Bernie Serino and me and the Falls City
Mental Health Clinic. You know Bernie?"
"Yes. He was supervisor of special ed when I
was teaching and helped me get one of my kids back
into a regular class in junior high."
"Yeah. Well, Bernie and I have lunch every
Wednesday.a little business, a little pleasure.
We've known each other a long time.
"In some of the districts they're having a hell of a
time with the younger kids. Not just truancy, you expect
that, but stealing, setting fires, drugs-you name it. So
what happens, they call the school social worker
or psychologisteashe adds a name to her list. Then the
truant officer, they call him something fancier, but
I don't remember what it is, checks in.
Nine times out of ten he comes back and says it's a
"broken home," either the father's skipped or
nobody knew who he was. All they got is
uncles. Uncle This and Uncle T. Every time
Mom gets a new boyfriend, the kids get a new
uncle. Convenient, but unstable.
"So they have a conference and call up Bernie
and tell him they need "special services."
Well, about the only "special services"
Bernie's got any connection to where he might get
help for these kids is the Mental Health Clinic.
They're a good bunch, working hard in the community, but
they got an even longer waiting list than the school
social worker."
He paused and I asked what he knew I would
ask.
"What happens?"
"What happens?" Professor Foster banged his
feet to the floor and leaned toward me.
"Same damn thing happens every time By June the kid
has moved up to number thirty on the waiting list
He's been picked up by the police, taken
to court, warned and fined, and released. The school
year ends and the whole thing begins all over again the
next fall his
I said nothing. I sat looking at my hands,
feeling the 12
old familiar sadness as I heard about the children.
What sense did it make? Any satisfaction I
had felt at completingregistration faded. What was
I doing here in this collegememorizing the
commutative, associative, distributive
mathematical properties and the content and study
skills of reading?
I was so deep in my own thoughts that I missed the first
few words or sentences of Professor Foster's
next statement, tuning in when he got to "dis . .
the Mental Health Clinic has gotten a grant
to put "therapeutic tutors" into one of the schools
in Falls City on a trial basis Bernie's
agreed and picked the school and I've offered
to supplythe therapeutic tutors."
"What's a therapeutic tutor?" I interrupted.
"Somebody who's good with kids. What else? You can
hear it in fancy words later. So what do you say?"
"It sounds like a good idea from what you've told
me."
"No. Not that. Will you do it? Be a tutor?"
"Me?" I couldn't believe it. I answered
instantly before he could change his mind. "I'd love
to. Where do I go?"
Professor Foster smiled at me. "Don't you
want to know about credits-hours?"
I looked down, embarrassed and immediately shy. I
had been too eager, revealed too much. I nodded.
"Well, first there'll be training sessions at the
clinic. Then you'll see your child three times
a week for about fifty minutes each session.
Eventually you'll have three children."
In my mind's eye, I could see the schedule of
courses that I had just completed. Falls City was
about twenty minutes from the campus; that would mean
another forty minutes each time I went down. There
wasn't a day when there was a block of time long
enough. Wordlessly I handed Professor Foster my
schedule.
He studied it briefly, then whacked it down on the
table.
"What the hell is this? How could you sign up for
classes before you checked with me? Am I your
adviser or not? Why didn't you ask for advice?
"Never mind," Foster said after a minute, picking
up 13
my schedule. "Sorry. Didn't mean to yell.
Let's see what we can do." He studied it
closely and then grinned at me. "At least you've
got good taste, picking "Counseling and Guidance
for the Handicapped"-that's mine. Unfortunatelyeax's
only a two-credit course, but at least that gives
us a couple of hours to play with.
Mmm-de-dum-dum."
Professor Foster hummed to himself as he
flipped through catalog pages, checking them against
course requirementsand my own schedule. Finally,
he looked up at me and said, "That'll do it.
Drop History of Ed and take Independent
Study in its place and spend the time of my course
at School Twenty-three and you'll be all set."
"What's Independent Study? And what do I do
about History?"
"Independent Study is whenever I want you to do
something. I just write up a slip and send it to the
dean. You'll get your three credits."
"Power," I said.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
"Okay, now. Go on back to registration before it
closes and drop that history course. You can always
take it next year, there are plenty of sections.
Here's a note if you need it."
"Thank you," I said as I stood up. "When, where
will I start?"
"Well, the other two tutors are both seniors with
much more freedom in courses, so scheduling will be a
lot easier for them. Let's see your schedule again.
Okay. You've got some time on Monday afternoons.
We'll meet down at the clinic at
two." He glanced out his door. Four pairs of
blue-jeaned legs could be seen below the hall bench.
"Ah. Gotta rush now, way behind. See you next
Monday.call the clinic to get directions down
there. Sorry I can't talk longer." He was already
standing, tucking in his shirt, smoothing back his hair.
The line was still long at the student union. I went
up to the guard at the door. "I've already
registered. I just want to drop one course. Is it
all right if I go in?" 14
"Name, please."
"Mary MacCracken."
"MacCracken. M. That's all right. Social
security number?"
"No. Look, I've already done this. I don't
need to regis-was It wasn't any use. I was just
wasting time. I sighed. "One four seven-was
"All right. Step to the back of the line. No
exceptions."
I went back. Six new people in line since I
arrived, but I should have known better than to ask the
guard. There were no exceptions on the lines, only
in professors' offices.
But if the system bothered me, it couldn't snuff out
the small bubbles of excitement surfacing
inside me. What kind of children would they be? What were
we going to do together? Who would be my child?

It was cold, even for the end of January, and the fact
that there was no snow made it worse. The campus
looked bleak and bare, and the contrast with the
rememberedwarmth of Christmas made it even more
difficult for me to return.
We had spent most of vacation and winter break at
our house in the country. We cut our own tall,
wonderful, scraggly Christmas tree and carried it
up from the woods. We hung eleven stockings in
front of the stone fireplace, ours and the children's and the
grandparents' and friends'.
The house was not meant to be a winter house. Cal's
parents had built it for summers fifty years before.
It took days to warm the stone walls and floors.
The small furnaceworked valiantly, shedding soot
as well as heat. Gusts of wind and small mice
scurried through chinks in the stone walls to the inside
warmth of the house.
In the mornings we lay in bed and blew smoke rings
of warm breath into the frosty air and then rushed from bed

to shiver by the window as we watched deer leap
across the meadow. We ate simple meals and trudged
along un-plowed roads, chopped logs and read and
talked quietly to each other. Happiness was almost
visible that week.
Vacation over, spring courses began. I wondered
if everyone had as hard a time coming back to school as
I did. But I did have seventy-six credits
now-five A's and a B-and fifteen more credits coming
up this semester. If I could just get through
Statistics and Orientation to PsychologicalTesting
and Background of Mathematics II, I'd have
ninety-one by May. And now, thanks to Professor
Foster, there would be children.
*
Many of the faces in Background of Mathematics
II were familiar, but instead of Dr Kaiser, the
teacher was a man in his thirties, wearing black
horned-rimmed glasses- and there, sleeping beneath a
grubby tennis hat, was lan Michaels. My spirits
lifted.
I stepped over several pairs of blue-jeaned
legs and settled beside lan, who continued to sleep,
or to pretend he did.
On the board was written Background of Math not.
Beneath this was the statement:
A denumerably infinite set is one that can be put
in a 1-1 correspondence with the set of counting
numbers.
Oh, no. Here we go again. I had thought we'd at
least be to something like fractions.
I opened my notebook and copied the statement down
anyway; I could puzzle over it later.
A familiar hand reached lazily across the page and
scrawled an example.
Ex: The set of multiples of 5 is a
denumerably infiniteset.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
....tion .... 5,
10,15,
20, 25,....5n....
I looked at what Lan had written. Okay,
I see that. I smiled at lan's tennis hat.
"Thank you," I said, settling back in my chair.
"The one thing I'm good at in math is knowing how
to pick the right seat."
*
If classes at college were as frustrating as
ever, our training sessions at the clinic were
fascinating.
The Mental Health Clinic was in the center
of Falls City on the second floor of the
Logan Building, and alththe streets were littered
and the surrounding buildingsshabby, there was a lingering
ambiance of power and elegance.
In earlier years Falls City had been a leading
manufacturingcenter. Its chief industries were the
dyeing and finishingof textiles and the manufacture of
silk. But with the rising popularity of synthetic
fabrics, business declined and companies closed.
Although pockets of culture remainedeathe downtown
area had become drab and rundownand the population was
predominantly lower middle class.
Inside the Logan Building, shabbiness was more
evident.water stains marked the ceilings, walls
needed painting, floors were bare, furniture was
folding metal. But there was a lot of space, a
large waiting room, several secretarial
offices, and a half-dozen rooms for therapists
to meet with clients. Some rooms were furnished with
chairs, table, and couch; another had low furniture
and toys for children. We met in the children's room.
The other two tutors were both seniors, Shirley
Hayes and John Hudson. Shirley was quiet,
with a soft sure voice and dark smooth skin. Hud
was tall, slender, red-haired, filled with
vitality. Shirley was going on to graduate
school next year, and was working now as a clerk in a
departmentstore after her college classes to earn
tuition. Hud was job-hunting, hoping to teach
teenagers with emotional problems. I liked them
both. Hud had worked 17
with multiply handicapped children at summer camp.
Shirley with disadvantaged children at a day care
center.
Jerry Cotter had been put in charge of the
program and conducted our training sessions. He was
small, with a brown-gray beard and a gentle
handshake. His official title at the clinic was
psychiatric social worker.
At our first meeting Jerry said, "This program could
be the beginning of a revolutionary change in the treatment
of emotional problems in children. The central idea is
to expand and intensify mental health services in the
schools themselves, instead of letting kids vegetate
on waiting lists. We are going to try to do this through
therapeutic counseling and tutoring at the school-and
you are the ones who are going to do it."
At later sessions Jerry stressed again that help
would go to the child in a familiar place, his school, rather
than the child going, or waiting to go, to a
clinic. He also said we would not be asked to work with
psychotic children, the ones who were so disturbed that they would
be consideredautistic or schizophrenic. He
smiled at me. "These children are not as out of touch with
reality as the children you've worked with, Mary. Instead, they
take their anger out on society, stealing, burning,
destroying, and earn the label of "socially
maladjusted" or "juvenile delinquent.""
I smiled back but didn't reply. Labels
meant little to me. In fact, as far as I could see,
their only use was to give a name to a program so it
could be funded. Nobody funded anything without a
name.
The next four sessions focused on diagnostic
tests and teaching procedures. Jerry demonstrated
the administrationand scoring of various tests given
to screen for emotionalor neurologically based
impairments. We, of course, did not have the skill
to score the tests ourselves, but we were all amazed at
how much information he was able to obtain from such seemingly
simple devices.
Our last session was on observing and charting
behavior.jerry gave us stopwatches and taught us
how to use observation charts, marking down the number of
incidents of a child's disruptive behavior
during short intervals carefully timed by the
stopwatch. 18
At the end of this session, Jerry said, "That's it.
I, of course, will be at the school scoring tests and
supervising from time to time. The grant covers the rest
of this year and 111 get over as much as I can, but
we're short-handed here and you're going to be more on your
own than originallyplanned.
"Anyway, good luck. I've enjoyed our sessions
together and I'll see you all at School
Twenty-three on Wednesday."
How could I wait till Wednesday?

School 23 was a half-hour drive from the
college, just off one of the main streets of Falls
City. It was old, like most of the city's buildings,
its dark red brick packed with city grime. The
gray cement steps, worn smoothly by thousands of
children's feet, dragging in, rushing out,
descendeddirectly to the sidewalk of the small
street. There was no front yard or back yard,
only a macadam side lot that evidently served
as teacher parking lot and play yard.
Small, rundown houses surrounded by yards consisting
of brown dirt and cracked cement lined the
rest of the short block.
I parked across from the school and started across the
street. A large white dog came off the steps of
one of the houses, snarling and hurling himself against the
chain-link fence that surrounded the house. I shivered
involuntarily and then ran back and locked the car
doors before I climbed the steps to School 23, not
realizing I was holdingmy breath until I reached the
door.
"Remember," Jerry Cotter had warned us at the
beginningof the training sessions, "the kids you'll be
working with are different than most. We call them
"socially maladjustedwith an overlay of emotional
disturbance." What 19
we mean is-they are tough, street-wise, and don't
give a damn."
The warmth inside the school was unexpected. Steam
radiators clanked cheerily. Mrs. Karras, the
principal, was waiting in the hall. Her handshake was
strong, her smile warm, and I liked her immediately.
Jerry arrived next and then within minutes of each
other John Hudson and Shirley.
Mrs. Karras poured us mugs of steaming coffee and
we carried them across the hall to the music room and
sat down around a long folding table that had
been set up in the back of the room.
"This will be your room," Mrs. Karras said
cordially. "Fortunately, or unfortunately, we
don't seem to have a music teacher this year, so the
room is all yours. I've had those file
cabinets over there cleaned out for you. I know you said you
needed room for some materials."
Jerry nodded his thanks and then we all listened
intentlyas Mrs. Karras described her school,
kindergarten through fifth grade, twenty-eight
to thirty children in each room. Many of the teachers were on
the far side of fifty and tired of teaching unruly
kids, but money was short and jobs hard to come by.
Tenure assured these teachers their jobs at School
23, though they longed to be elsewhere.
Mrs. Karras again added her welcome and delight
we were there and then said, "Let's not waste any more
time."
She turned toward Jerry. "I understand you feel
it's best for each tutor to begin working with just one child at
first and then gradually take on two more. Right?"
Jerry nodded, and Mrs. Karras continued. "Here's
a list of the youngsters we've selected for the program.
They've been given an intelligence test by the
district psychologist The tests are in the
file in my office. Just ask the secretary for the
key, their records are open to you. That's been made
clear to their families. You do understand that in ninety
percent of the cases, family means a mother and, of
course, other brothers and sisters. Almost all of the
kids live in the low-income project, and the reason
they
live there is that there's no father around to provide
adequateincome.
"Norm Foster called and asked me to pick three
youngsters for you to start with. I don't know if it's
fair to you, but I picked the three worst. Seemed
to me they needed help the most. Of course, it's up
to you to decide who gets who.
"So here are my three candidates. Vernon
Schofield, Lucas Brauer, and Milton
Green. Vernon's in fifth grade, Mrs.
Jacobson's class-eleven years old. He's
black, disruptiveeabeen in several knife fights,
picked up by the policefor shoplifting. Has a younger
brother who's on the list as well, but Anthony
isn't as bad yet.
"Lucas Brauer's in second grade. German
background. Luke's hard core. Nobody gets
through to him. He's got a list of arrests as
long as your arm. Been picked up twenty-four
times. He's set over a dozen major fires,
stolen over fifty dollars' worth of goods from the
stores on Main Street. He's got a hundred
and two average IQ, but he's a truant and even
when he does come to school he doesn't do any
work. Just sits at his desk drawing
pictures.actually, he's one of the lucky ones that
made it off the waiting list into the clinic last year.
They worked with him for six months and then discontinued,
said they just couldn't get through to him.
"And then there's Milt Green, black, one of
eight kids. He's in third grade, quiet,
except he cries all the time and then climbs on
the desk and swims like a fish."
"I'd like him," Shirley said.
"And if you don't mind, Mary, I'd like Vernon
Schofield," said John Hudson. "I think
I'd do better with a fifth grader."
If I had been asked, I would probably have
picked Milt. It took a certain amount of something
to swim like a fish on a desk in a third-grade
classroom, but it didn't really matter. I could
never tell anything anyway until I saw the child.
"Fine. I'll work with Luke."
Jerry glanced at his watch. "Suppose I take
each of you 21
down to the classrooms. Let's see, Vernon is
in Mrs. Jacobson's class, you say? That's
on the second floor, isn't it?"
"Yes," Mrs. Karras responded. "And Luke
is in Miss Eckhardt's class and Milt in
Miss Fuller's, both just down the hall. I'll
show you."
Miss Eckhardt's class was first, a jumble of
confusion and noise that was instantly quiet when Mrs.
Karras walked in.
"Miss Eckhardt, would you please go out to the hall
for a moment? I'll take the class. All right,
class. Get out pencil and paper and copy these
five words that I dictate.
"Hen.
The hen laid an egg.
Hen."
A boy in the third row laughed out loud.
"I'd like to see you in my office at three o'clock,
Jimmy," Mrs. Karras said. The room was
absolutely silent as Mrs. Karras said,
"Hen.
Do you have that"? All right. Your second word
is
ran.
The dog ran after the ball.
Ran."
One thing was obvious. You didn't fool around with
Mrs. Karras.
Miss Eckhardt walked through the room, which was now
absolutely silent.
In the hall. Jerry held out his hand. "Lisa, do
you remember me? Jerry Cotter from the Mental
Health Clinic. We met at Bernie's a
couple of months ago."
"Of course. Jerry. I'm glad to see you."
Lisa Eckhardt'svoice was warm and deep
dimples appeared by the corners of her mouth when she
smiled. Her brown hair was cut short and it
curled in disarray around her pretty face.
Jerry introduced me as the tutor for Luke
Brauer and Lisa immediately invited me into her
classroom. Jerry pressed a data sheet and
stopwatch into my hand. "Good luck."
Lisa and I went back together, and it was then that she
pointed Luke out to me. He was just a little kid, I
thought once again, as I watched him from my seat on the
radiator.
As Lisa took over from Mrs. Karras, she said,
"Class, 22
we're lucky to have a visitor today. Mary
MacCracken is here."
The kids paid no attention. A boy in the back
wadded the paper he'd been writing on into a ball
and, as soon as Mrs. Karras closed the door,
threw it at the girl across the aisle. She yelled
and the others immediately joined the fracas.
Except Luke. He turned and looked at me as
though from a million miles away, and then turned
back to his desk. It was as though he looked but
didn't see me, any more than he heard the shouts
and yells around him.
At his desk, small and alone, Luke drew
something on a paper. I put the stopwatch and data
sheet in my pocket and moved to a windowsill near
his desk.
What was he drawing? Horses? I couldn't quite
tell.
"The first two rows go to the board."
Eleven bodies crowded along the blackboard at
the side of the room, grabbing chalk from one another.
"Luke," Lisa said, "aren't you in the first row? Go
to the board."
Reluctantly, Luke stuffed his picture in his
desk and walked to the blackboard,
By the time he arrived, there was no chalk left and
al- " most no space. He wedged himself in between
two other boys, looked up and down the chalk rail
and then, seeing no chalk, just stood silently.
"All right, now," Lisa said. "I'll call out a
problem for each of you. You write it on the board,
figure it out, and then we'll check it. John,
nine plus five. Ed, seven plus six. Luke,
eight plus six."
Luke had no chalk. He could easily have asked
to borrowsome, or told Lisa. He did neither.
He just stood, doingnothing, and then returned to his
seat.
"Luke," Lisa called sharply. "Where are you
going? I told you to write your problem on the
board. Eight plus six. Go on now."
But Luke's head never turned. He hunched down
in his seat, turning his picture over and over.
A boy at the board hit his neighbor with an
eraser. 23
"John! Stop that! Now read your answer to the
class and see if they agree." As Lisa talked
she went toward Luke, then stood in front
of his desk. "What's the trouble, Luke? Don't
you feel well?"
Luke shrugged without looking up. A boy in the
back row yelled, "John's hittin" Ed again.
Lookit him, Miss Eckhardt."
"John, get back to your seat, since you can't
behave at the board."
As soon as Lisa turned away, Luke pulled
out his picture and spread it on the desk, his head
bent down so that it almost touched the paper.
I edged closer, trying to make out what he was
drawing. Maybe they were lions. One large one
lying down and three little ones on the far side of the
paper.
I squatted beside Luke's desk. "Hello," I
said. "I'm Mary. Will you come with me for a minute?
Bring your picture.
"Luke and I are going to do a little work," I said
to Miss Eckhardt. "We'll be back in about a
half hour."
I knew I shouldn't be doing what I was doing. I
could feel the stopwatch pressing on my thigh in the
front pocket of my jeans. I knew both
Luke and I should still be in his classroom while I
"charted" his behavior. But I couldn't stand
to waste the time. It was already clear that he did no work
and his behavior was negative. What I had to know was
why and I couldn't find that out with a stopwatch. I had
to listen to Luke, even when he wasn't talking, and
I couldn't do that in a roomful of thirty kids.
I walked down toward the music room, Luke beside
me, hoping that Jerry had gone back to the clinic.
I was glad to find the music room empty, filled
only with a musty, unused smell.
"Let's sit here," I said to Luke. He wiggled
onto a chair at the long table and I sat beside him.
He kept his picture under the table.
"I think," I said, "that those were tigers on your
paper. Very, very tired tigers."
Luke's round eyes stared at me. 24
"They probably get very tired because of all the
noise in the zoo and had to lie down," I said.
Luke turned away and we sat silently for three
or four minutes. I concentrated on Luke-the ring
of grime on the back of his neck, the sharp points
of his elbow bones. What went on in his head when he
set fires? What was he thinking right now? I
felt, rather than saw, Luke move, and then slowly
he brought his piece of paper up from under the table.
"Nope," he said in a voice so soft I
could hardly hear him. "They're lions. They got
no stripes."
"You're right," I said. "I should have noticed."
Luke got a little stub of a pencil from his pocket.
"And this one's got fur around her face," he said,
drawing whirls around the lion's face.
"It's a her," I said.
"Yup. Even though she's got fur like a
beard.**
"It must be a pretty big cage," I said. "Those
little lions are so far away from the big lion."
"It's not a cage. It's Africa. It's the mother
lion and her babies in Africa, and then a zoo
keeper came to Africa and they got caught and he
put them in a big field with a big, BIG, fence
around it."
Luke was on his knees on the chair drawing a fence
around the lions.
"There are three babies . . . and-was Luke
stopped suddenly, obviously surprised at himself.
He wasn't ready to trust me with any more. "That's
all."
It was enough for one day.
"That's a good story," I said.
We sat silently looking at the lions.
I had no materials with me. What to do? What
to do? Suddenly I remembered the stopwatch. We were
supposed to use the stopwatch. I took it out of my
pocket and laid it on the table.
"Do you know what this is?" I asked Luke.
He nodded without expression.
"This one works like this. Press the thing at the top
to make it go. See, there are sixty seconds in a
minute. Press it again to make it stop. Now this little
thing on the side 25
makes the hands go back to the beginning when you press
it. Try it." I nudged the stopwatch toward
Luke.
Luke stared at it, then touched it tentatively with
one finger. Suppose he threw it, dropped it,
broke it. Suppose he did? I wanted him
to know I trusted him. And I did trust him. More
than that. Already more than that.
Luke picked up the stopwatch and held it
carefully in his left hand, pushed the button on the
top with his right index finger. Tick, tick, tick.
The stopwatch and my pulse beat together. Five,
ten, fifteen, twenty.
"Okay," I said. "Time me. Give me something
to do and see how long it takes."
Luke pushed the top button and then the side
button. The hands returned to the top. He looked
at me steadily. "What can you do?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. Think of something."
"Can you do dition?"
"Dition?"
"Like pluses. Add."
"Oh. Sure. Addition. I think so."
"All right. One million dollars plus two
million dollars. Write it down here. G."
Luke snapped on the stopwatch and turned over the
lion picture. I wrote it down.
"Ten seconds. Twenty seconds," Luke
counted off the seconds.
"Three million dollars. There." I pushed the
paper back.
Luke clicked off the watch and put it down
carefully on the table away from the edge. He studied
my face and then, never saying anything, turned back
to the paper and wrote 100 beside my "dition and
turned back to me.
"You can keep it if you want," he said.
"Thank you, Luke," I answered. "Listen,
we've got to go back now, but I'm going to come down
here every week, a couple of times a week or
more, and see you. If that's okay with you."
Luke nodded and we walked back to class without
talking.

h?""
Just outside the door, he stopped. "When you
comin"?" he asked.
"Tomorrow," I said, without thinking. "I'll be down again
tomorrow."

Time dragged the next morning. It was harder than ever
to sit through Current Methods of Teaching Mentally
Retarded Adolescents and Practicum in Teaching
Readingto the Mentally Retarded. This was a
practicum with no practice, only
mimeographed sheets. Finally the clock buzzed
its muted signal to freedom and I was out and on my
way to School 23.
I thought about Luke as I drove. I'd talked
to Cal the night before. I didn't understand it. Luke
just didn't seem that bad to me. Was it because I had
taught such seriouslydisturbed children before that now Luke
seemed easy in comparison?
Partly, perhaps. Or was it his environment that didn't
give him a chance? It seemed as if people
didn't listen to him. Did Luke realize this and so
didn't bother to talk? Maybe his resistance grew
into refusal to do work and he escaped into the fantasy
of his drawings. I would have to get into the office and read
his records carefully.
I arrived at ten to one, and the yard at the west side
of the school that served as parking lot and playground was
jammed with kids. A heavy woman, with a plastic
kerchieftied over her gray hair and black
galoshes on her feet, stood in the center of the yard
blowing short shrill blasts on a whistle. The children
cheerfully ignored her, pushing, shoving, moving like a
tidal wave from one side of the yard to the other, back
and forth, swirling around the teacher almost without noticing
her.
Occasionally something would distract them. A fight would
break out between two boys, and a small group of 27
ten or twelve children would form a protective
circle around the combatants, their cheers drowning out the
agitated
whistle blasts.
A long loud bell rang inside the school and the
wave of children rearranged itself.
"Line up. Line up. We're not going in till
I see straight lines."
The children separated themselves into a dozen or so groups.
"Straighten up those lines"-a few more whistle
blasts. The children didn't move at all, except
to dart from their clusters to pick up a forgotten glove
or book.
"All right. Kindergarten first." No one seemed
to expect to have to form lines as they had been instructed
to do, and one group after another tramped through the side
door. Once again, words were meaningless.
Lisa Eckhardt was mixing paint when I walked
into her second grade.
"Hi," she said cheerfully. "I didn't expect
to see you so soon. Come on in."
"I know," I said. "I didn't mean to be here so
soon. I think we're only supposed to come
twice a week in the beginning."
"Well, feel free. Come whenever you like. You know,
Luke actually said something to me yesterday Didn't
do any work, of course, but he did say good-bye
when he left. And that's something. I wasn't sure
he even knew I existed."
The door burst open and the kids poured in. Lisa
yelled, "Put your boots in the closets or
else wipe off your feet. The floor's getting
too wet to paint on." "Okay, Miss
Eckhardt." "We gonna paint. All
right!"
In between pokes and yells and boots tossed across the
classroom, the children managed to find a pile of
men's shirts and help one another button them up.
I watched, liking what I saw. Obviously they
had all done this before and knew what to do. It was
noisy and chaotic, but there was a sense of unity,
almost of a family. The bickering was part of their
communication. 28
Remembering Luke's pictures, I knew this was
not the time to take him out of class During art, at
least, he could be doing the same thing as the rest of the
class.
Luke came in last No boots. No gloves.
His hands rough and red, nails black with dirt. I
stood beside him as he hung his jacket on a hook
in the closet.
"I'm going to come back for you in about a half hour,"
I said. "I have to go down to the office right now.
Okay?"
Luke nodded without expression. He stood by the
coat closet, alone and silent. I wanted to get
him a shirt, help him button it, find a
paintbrush. Instead, I walked to the door.
It would not help to treat Luke like a baby in
front of the other children.
Mrs. Karras was nowhere in sight when I walked
into the office, but the secretary willingly gave me
the key to the file and in a minute I had lifted out
Brauer, Lucas. The file was thick and the folder
smudged and bent. It had obviouslybeen in and out of the
drawer many times. I took the file to the music
room and sorted the contents on the long metal table,
There were four piles of pink absence slips signed
by the truant officer. Twenty-five slips in
three piles, twenty-eight in the fourth. One
hundred and three altogether. Luke had been enrolled in
school for two years. One hundred and eighty days
to a school year. Two years and half of this one.
Four hundred and fifty days altogether and Luke had
missed over a hundred of them-over half a year.
Had he been out more days this year than last? I
tried to read the dates, but the carbon print was
smudged and illegible. I sighed and put the pink
slips back in the folder.
There was another large pile of white typewritten
pages. I began to leaf through these and realized they were
descriptions of Luke's arrests. Twenty-four
pages, a separate sheet for each arrest.
Last November he had stolen over ten dollars'
worth of toy guns and army men from the five-and-ten.
The previous April, a woman's purse and
gold earrings from the local department store, and before
that, a cigarette lighter and aspirin and cough
medicine from the drugstore.
The accounts of fires were more numerous. Luke had
set both small and large street fires, and there was
one major episode on the hills on the edge of the
city during a dry spell. The fire had gotten out
of control and it had taken the entire Fire
Department two days to put it out.
My stomach felt queasy. The reality of the folder
hit me harder than the report Mrs. Karras had
given us the day before. But the mismatch between this file and
Luke of yesterday was the hardest to understand. How had
all this started? Why? I searched the folder for a
social history or background information, but there was
none. Only a signed permission slip from
Luke's mother, agreeing to his being part of the
program, and the intelligence test Mrs. Karras
had mentioned.
I studied the test form closely, trying to decipher
the psychologist's handwriting and remember what
Jerry had explained about the WISC
(wechsler Intelligence Scale for Children). He
had felt that there was some bias against culturally
deprived children on all verbal sections of
intelligence tests, but that the performance sections,
made up of puzzles, pictures, and mazes, were
more accurate. I could see that there was a great deal of
difference in Luke's subtest scores. He had
given mainly one-word answers or no answer at
all to verbal questions, but on the performance part of the test,
where he had to arrange pictures sequentially or
build block designs from patterns, his score was
far above the mean of ten. I made a mental note
to discuss all this with Jerry at our next meeting.
I glanced at my watch. I'd spent over twenty
minutes going through Luke's file. No more time
to think about the past. Now I needed to think about today.
I took the file back to the office and hung my
jacket and scarf in the closet in the music room
and then stood looking around the room. We were not going
to have much in the way of books, or any kind of
equipment; at least I wanted to keep my coat in
our room. It was going to be difficult to work in a
room that wasn't mine. For the past six years I
had tried to build a room for children where they could feel
physically and emotionally safe, I was
convinced that all children needed a safe place some-
where in their lives in order to grow. A place where
they knew they were listened to, accepted, and cared for.
I had filled my room at school with books,
records, pictureseaand plants, with scraps of
bright carpet sewn togetherfor mats, old pillows
covered with soft prints, fish tanks, and homemade
games. There would be none of this in the bare, drab
music room of School 23, only cold metal
furniture and an old piano.
Yet somehow I was sure Luke could grow. The pink
truant slips and typed arrest sheets faded from my
mind. That was last week, last month, last year.
Now the image of yesterday's Luke hunched over his
lion picture filled my mind. Suddenly I
knew what to do. I took Luke's lion
picture from the file cabinet where we were to keep our
records, data sheets, and tests on the children and
wrote down his story as nearly as I could remember
it; then I went back to the office and typed it on a
white unlined piece of paper. I wrote the
title in capitals.
THE LIONS
There were four lions. A mother lion with fur around her
face and three baby lions. They lived in
Africa. A zoo keeper caught them and put them
in a big field with a big, BIG fence around them.
They lived happily ever after.
by Luke Brauer
As I typed, I thought of Luke's picture. Was
there any relationship between the baby lions and Luke
and the large space between the lions and their mother?
Careful, I warned myself, don't read in too much.
In the music room, I cut a file folder in
half to make front and back covers, punched the
picture, the story, and the covers with a three-hole
punch. I put Luke's story and lion picture
between the two halves of the folder and laced them all
together with some red yarn from the 31
materials drawer. With Magic Markers, red,
yellow, and blue, I wrote LUKE'S BOOK
on the front cover.
Painting was over by the time I got back to Lisa's
room. They were cleaning up, to use the word
euphemisticallyeaaccompanied by Lisa's shouts. "dis
. . Dump the water in the sink, for Pete's
sake. Not on the floor. Pick up the papers!"
Lisa looked up at me. "I swear I don't
know why I do it. It's not worth the mess." Then
she smiled. "Well, maybe it is.
Look at this." She pointed to what was obviouslya
picture of School 23, grimy red bricks
outlined in black, gray stone steps, even a lady
with a whistle in the yard beside the school.
We smiled together. "It's worth it," I said.
"How about Luke? What did he do?"
"God! You know, I don't know. He's so
quiet. The other twenty-nine are so noisy, it's
like he's not there. But I know he did something-I would
have noticed that at least."
Lisa wiped her hands with paper towels at the sink.
"Luke," she called. "Come here."
Luke's body crouched lower over his desk.
"Luke Brauer. Do you hear me? Come over here."
Lisa's voice was not mean. Just loud.
Reluctantly, Luke stood up as the class
watched with interest.
"Come on over here. Now what did you paint?"
Oh, Lord, I thought. Why had I asked? I never
wanted him to be singled out like this.
Luke stood in front of Lisa. Paint was
smeared on his shirt, his face, his hair.
"Well," she said, "what did you paint?"
Luke shrugged.
"See," Lisa said. "That's all he ever
does." She hunched her own shoulders in imitation.
"I'll ask you once more, Luke. What did you
paint?"
Luke kept his eyes on the floor.
"All right. All right. I give up. Go on with
Mary." She shook her head at me. "Maybe you
can get something out of him."
Lisa turned to the class as Luke and I headed
for the door.
"Get out your phonic workbooks." The class
groaned and then shouted its objections as Luke and
I left.
I walked down the hall toward the music room with
Luke beside me, not talking, wanting only to give
him some space to let the humiliation dissolve a little.
When we got to the music room, Luke crawled
up onto the same metal chair of the day before. I
sat beside him, turning a box of crayons in my
fingers.
After a while I said, "I thought maybe you might be
tired of drawing or painting. I wasn't sure, but
I thought maybe we could read a little."
Luke's expression never changed, his eyes stared
straight ahead. He had yet to speak to me today.
Still, I might as well try; there certainly
was nothing to lose.
I pulled the file folder toward us and turned it
over.
"I made this while you were painting. The cover isn't
too good, because I made it very quickly. You can make
another one sometime, if you want."
"Luke's Book," Luke said.
You are wonderful, Lucas Brauer, I wanted
to say, remembering my other children and how it often took
months to get a single spoken word. You talk. You
read. But I'm sure you startle easily. I
kept myself silent, my body still, not even turning the
cover.
Luke looked at me and reached for the book at the
same time.
"Luke's Book?" This time it was a question and there was
surprise in his voice.
"Mm-hm. Remember how you drew the lions
yesterday?"
Good! He can't resist. Luke opened the cover,
then turned the book sideways to study the lions.
Then he looked at me. "I can make better
lions," he said. "Do you want me to make better
ones?"
"I like these," I said. "But you can make more
if you want." Will he look at the story? Can he
read more than his name?
Luke turned the book back and easily, as
easily as any-33
thing, he read, was "The lions There were four
lions. . . ." was When he'd finished he said,
"You forgot to say they were lying down was He said it
softly, without accusation.
"Yes," I answered "I thought that was all right
becanybody who looked at the picture could see
they were lying down."
Luke turned the book around again and studied the
picture.
"I guess," he said. "But next time put in about
how they're lying down."
Next time! There was going to be a next time. Luke
might set fires and lie and cheat and steal, but there was
no doubt that he could be reached.
Now I was the one who leaned back and stared out across the
room, wanting the moment to last a little longer.where was
the arsonist and thief of the file folder? Where was the
rebellious truant? It didn't make sense.
Luke squirmed beside me and rubbed his nose, leaving
new smears of red paint across his face.
There was a sink in the back of the room and I
nodded toward it and smiled at Luke.
"How about washing up? You've got red paint from here
to here." I touched my own face to show him.
I turned the faucets back and forth-hot, cold,
a little more hot. Making it the right warmth, as I had for
my own children.
"Okay," I said. "Here's a piece of soap."
I wanted to mix the soap between his hands, wash his
face, but I knew better. I moved back and
sat on the table, watching him from across the room.
Luke rewarded me with a question.
"Know how I got so much paint?"
"Unh-unh. How?"
"From the kangaroo. I made him all red."
"The kangaroo you made during art?"
"Yup. I could tell a story about it, but you write
it down so you don't forget stuff this time. It's
called "The Kangaroo.""
There was a long pause. Then Luke said, "How'll
I start?"
"Lots of good stories begin 'once upon a time.""
If pretending made it easier for him to talk, it was
okay with me.
"Okay. Once upon a time there was a kangaroo, and
he hopped very high. He was funny and he was
a boxing kangaroo. One day he hopped into a
bucket of red paint. That was bad. The kangaroo was
sad. A zoo keeper put a fence around him. But
then he remembered how high he could hop and he
hopped right over the fence."
Luke stopped. "Do you think a kangaroo could hop
that high?"
I nodded, still writing. "A good young boxing kangaroo
could definitely hop that high," I said.
Luke nodded. "Write The End by Luke
Brauer.""
*
Friday night Cal and I drove up to the country.
The snow was gone, but there had evidently been a
heavy windstorm and broken branches lay across the
road and path into the house.
Before breakfast the next morning, Cal was out
prowlingaround, inspecting the damage.
"There'll be a lot of clean-up work to do in the
spring. A couple of big trees are down in the
meadow. Must have had a wet snow before the wind."
I poured our coffee and Cal talked to me as I
cooked the eggs.
"You know, my father used to tell a story about
President Roosevelt. After he had
finished his first term in office, he went to register
to vote. In those days you had to write down your
occupation. You know what he wrote? 'Tree
Grower." I was thinking about that this morning. When
I'm here in this place, I think if I couldn't
describe myself as engineer or inventor, I'd say
"grower of trees." Not very good trees, maybe,
but certainly lots of them."
I put our eggs on the table and climbed in on the
bench next to the stone wall. "Yes," I said. "I
can see that. You are a grower."
"And you," Cal asked. "If you couldn't say teacher
or writer, what would you say?"
I watched the sun glimmering through the small
windowpanes, highlighting a pale brown spider who
was beginningto spin a web in the far corner of the
room. Cal was one of the few people who knew about the
journals I kept and the occasional poems and
articles I'd published. He teased me sometimes
about my diaries, but it was an old habit. From the
time I was a little girl, things stayed brighter, clearer
for me if I wrote them down. After I beganto
teach, I kept a small black and white
notebook for each child I taught. My version of a
lesson plan, I suppose.
A montage of the children I'd known imposed itself upon the
spiderweb and I smiled at Cal.
"I know what I would think, but I'm not sure I
could tell other people."
"What?"
"A lover of children."
This time Cal smiled at me as he got up to pour
us more coffee. "That sounds very nice. You should get
used to saying it."

We no longer had our meetings at the clinic on
Mondays.now that we were with the children at School 23,
it didn't seem natural to meet in any other
environment. We had unanimously agreed that our
meetings would be at the school.
Each week we discussed one child in depth and shared
opinions, ideas, and suggestions about things we should
eliminate, continue, or increase. We altered
discussions of children and this time it was Luke's turn.
I was eager to talk about Luke with Shirley and
Hud. Luke was so different from the seriously
emotionally dis- 36
turbed children I had known. I thought perhaps at the day
care center or camp they might have had other
childrensimilar to Luke.
Most of all, I wanted to talk to Jerry. He
had promised to check the records at the clinic for
background informationab Luke. He had also asked
me to copy Luke's subtest scores from the
WISC test and to give Luke two other tests: the
Bender Gestalt, in which a child copied designs
to test visual perception, motor and memory
abilitiesbbandthe House-Tree-Person, in which
drawings often revealed to a trained examiner how a child
felt about hmfand his world. Luke had enjoyed copying
the nine design cards of the Bender and doing the
drawings. I also had asked Luke to draw a
picture of his family, and now I spread his tests
and stories and my notes on the table for Shirley and
Hud to inspect and Jerry to score and interpret.
"Well, he's not dumb, that's for sure," Jerry
commentedas he examined the WISC. "His scores
in information and vocabulary are low, but look at this
sixteen in Block Design and a fourteen in
Picture Arrangement. This kid knows how to plan,
organize, and then carry out his thoughts, and he's
socially aware and alert to detail Whatever the
reason for his acting-out behavior and poor school
performance, it is not because of lack of intelligence."
Shirley commented in her soft voice as she
leafed through Luke's book, "His stories seem
to be mainly about animals. Does he talk about
other things?"
I shook my head. "No, not much, although he
didn't object when I asked him to draw the
House-Tree-Person-oreven to drawing his
family. I really feel he's trusting me an
awful lot when he talks at all. Do you think I
should ask him more?"
"Not yet," Jerry answered. "The records at the
clinic show he didn't talk at all while he was
there. Just poured the sand back and forth from bucket
to bucket. I'
d
go slow for now. Besides, he's telling us a lot with his
drawings.
"See how tiny the door is on this picture of a
house? 37
Now I don't feel you should try to read an entire
psychoanalysisinto children's drawings, but if you
treat their pictures asone more piece in the
puzzle, they can be helpful."
"What's the matter with a little door?" Hud asked.
"I bet I'd put a little door on a house if
I drew one. I'd probably draw my
camping tent with a very little door."
"I doubt it," Jerry said. "In any case,
don't put too much weight on any single
drawing. But still, studies do show that a door like this one
often means the child is reluctantto share his thoughts and
tries to keep a lot inside."
"That certainly fits Luke," I said.
"Notice how small his picture of a person
is?" Jerry continued. "How over in the family
picture there is no fathereathe mother is positioned a
great distance from the three children, who are huddled together?"
Jerry talked further, pointing out evidence of
anxiety, depression, and hostility.
"Are there three children?" I asked.
Jerry nodded. "Luke has a younger brother and
sister. The parents are divorced. His mother was
described by the clinic social worker two years
ago as having physical and emotional problems, and
much of the care of the two younger children was left to Luke, but
the social worker added that it was hard to get much information
as Mrs. Brauer was very guarded."
I sat silently, trying to put together all Jerry
had said. What did it mean? How would it help
Luke? Finally, I asked the last question out loud.
Jerry shook his head. "Tests can only
give so much information.the rest you have to get from
personal interviewsand interaction. Let me ask you
about that, Mary. What's your impression of Luke?"
Again I sat without speaking, thoughts tumbling through my
head. Impression of Luke? I shook my head,
trying to answer.
"I don't know, Jerry. I guess the main thing
is he just doesn't seem that bad to me. He is not
spitting or biting himself, or talking in weird
gibberish, or refusing to eat. 38
Besides, the way he acts in the music room Just
doesn't fit with the boy described in the folder."
"Well, don't let him fool you," Jerry
interrupted. "Remember the fires, remember the
thefts. Those weren't accidents. Those were planned
destructive acts."
I nodded. "I'll remember. But why? Why did
Luke do those things? And how can we help him not do
them?"
Jerry shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine.
Remember he spent six months at the clinic
without makingany progress and he was a year younger then
and supposedlymore reachable."
"Listen," I said, "I know he can be reached.
Sure, he's reticent and suspicious, but
you give him half an opening and he's off and
running. My God, Jerry, he can walk, he can
talk, he can even read. Maybe he doesn't
use what he's got, but maybe he's never seen
anyone use words effectivelyeas he hasn't
bothered to try. If his mother's "guarded" and his
father's not there, maybe he's never learned that you
don't have to set fires to show how you feel. Maybe
he's never had anyone he could trust."
I stopped abruptly, realizing I had been
speaking with too much emotion. "Sorry. I didn't
mean to sound off."
Jerry smiled. "Dont worry about it. Maybe
that's one thing nobody's tried. Just caring about the
kid."
I collected all the tests carefully and put them
back in Luke's folder. I would return to them
many times in the next months, remembering, studying,
searching for clues that would help me reach Luke. But
usually it was not until I was with him that I had a
real feel for what we should do that day.
*
Lisa Eckhardt made my times with Luke
successful. She was far from a model teacher; she
might not be able to keep thirty
seven-year-olds in perfect order; she might
yell and scream in frustration; she might not always be
sensitive to an individual child's problem; but she
loved the kids and set me up for success with
Luke, and I blessed her for it
Each time I arrived in her second grade she would
greet me with "Hello, Mary. Okay, Luke.
No more work for you for a while. You get to go with Mary
now." And Luke came with increasing eagerness as his
classmates shouted, "That's not fair, Miss
Eckhardt! Luke went last time." "He always
gets to go." "When's it gonna be my turn?"
How smart of you, Lisa. Finally, Luke had
something that the others wanted, even if it was only an
out from work.

I arrived at school one Tuesday in March and
even though it was still cold, the sun was so bright that the
air seemed warm, and as I walked up the gray
stone steps, I knew it was ridiculous to stay
inside on a day like this. Luke and I had been working
together for several weeks, gradually building
rapport, but we had not moved outside of School
23. It was time to expand our world.
Mrs. Karras gave immediate permission for
Luke and me to go out for a walk. The groans and
complaints from the other second graders were louder than
ever as I told Luke to bring his jacket
"Hey, Mary. I wanna go. Why don't you ever
take
me?"
A small bevy of second graders crowded around
us. I smiled down at them and then at Lisa.
Thanks to her, we at least didn't have to worry about
stigma.
Down the hall and out the door. The white dog set
up his uproar, throwing himself against the fence, as if
to tear holes in the wire links.
Luke picked up a small stone and threw it at the
dog. Instinctively, my hand went out and pulled his
hand down so that the stone fell short and landed on the
sidewalk.
Luke looked up at me inquiringly.
"It must be hard to be fenced in like that," I said.
Ah,
Luke. That's the first time I've touched you. I
wouldn't have planned it like that. Never mind. Let it
go. I jogged out into the sunlight. Luke ran beside
me.
I didn't know the town very well. Where should
we go? What would be the right thing to do? Easy. Ask
Luke.
"Where'full we go, Luke? We have forty minutes."
Luke knew. "The doughnut shop," he said without
hesitation.
I nodded. "Okay, you show me."
Luke quickened his pace so that he was slightly in the
lead. Down the side street to one that was a little
wider, but still quiet in the early morning. A grocer
was piling grapefruit and oranges in the front
window of his store and he waved to Luke as we went
by. Luke waved back and I thought, this is what
I need. A feel of Luke's world.
He slowed down as we went by the five-and-ten. Was this
the one where he had stolen jewelry and toys?
Probably.he stopped and stared at a red fire
engine. I moved away a little and studied a sale of
wicker baskets. Nobody likes to be rushed when
they're window-shopping.
In a few minutes Luke was back, nosing around like
a small puppy, his body urging me down the
street. We waited for a light at the corner and then
stopped in front of a shabby-looking movie theater.
Luke read the coming attractions out loud to me.
"Godzilla and the Hairy Monster; Big
Foot and Dracula."
"Scary," I said.
"Yup. I saw Big Foot. His foot's as
big as that whole building." Luke pointed to the bar
and grill we were passing."...He could step on you and just
like that you'd be dead."
I shook my head. "I don't think I'd like that."
"It's okay, it's just a movie."
We rounded a corner and there was Dunkin' Donuts.
Luke stood close to the window and inspected everything
going on inside, his breath making steamy patches on
the window. "See," he said, pointing to the
waitresses in their white uniforms, the shiny steel
coffee maker, the rows and rows of doughnuts lining the
wall.
"Let's go in," I said.
Luke hesitated. He obviously hadn't
planned on this, but he followed me through the door.
Counter or table? Counter. Better view of the
doughnuts.luke and I sat silently admiring
them.
A waitress swished a wet rag in front of us.
"What'll it be?" she asked.
Should I go first? Had Luke ever ordered?
"Do you have a menu?" I asked. That would
give us a little time.
"A menu? Uh-yeah, I guess so was She was
back in a minute and handed me a pink and white
cardboard menu.
"Thank you." I spread it out between Luke and myself.
We read in silence the information inside. THE
HEARTY WESTERN (two eggs any style,
bacon, hash browns, and muffins), THE PICK
ME UP (tomato juice, one egg, cottage
cheese), THE CONTINENTAL (orange juice,
Danish, and coffee).
"Where are the doughnuts?" Luke whispered.
"There I guess." I pointed to the bottom.
DONUTS- 35--.
"Oh," was all he said, but I could hear
disappointment behind his voice.
Suddenly I remembered Howard Johnson's, and
how I had loved hearing the flavors of ice cream.
I looked at the waitress. "Could you tell us
what kind of doughnuts you have?"
"Cinnamon, sugared, raised, potato,
chocolate, jelly, cheese, or plain."
It was wonderful. Almost like a litany. I wished
she'd do it again.
"Cinnamon, chocolate, raspberry ..."
I said, making the mistakes easily,
purposely.
"Cinnamon, sugar, raised, potato,
chocolate, jelly, cheese, or plain."
Wonderful, wonderful.
I looked at Luke. He was smiling. I had
never seen him smile before.
"Jelly for me," I said, "and coffee."
"Me too," said Luke.
"Two jellies. Two coffees. Be right back."

Luke poured two containers of cream and four
spoonfulsof sugar into his coffee and held it between
his two hands. Nutrition experts would have a stroke,
but sometimesthere are more important things than too much
sugar.
It was nice, sitting there in the sunlight, sipping
our coffee, nibbling at our doughnuts, and licking
jelly from our fingers. I wished we could have stayed
all morning, but the wall clock said 10:00. We
had already used up thirty-five minutes and I
wanted to be back on time so we could get out again.
On the last block before school, Luke stopped beside
a telephone pole and dug deep in his pocket.
He brought up his fist closed tight. He
looked up at me and then opened his hand. A shiny
gold shell lay in the center of his palm. My
stomach lurched. A bullet shell?
But Luke was talking to me. "See? I got it at
the factoryand shined it. You can see your face if you
want."
"The factory?" I asked.
"Yup. The lipstick factory. I go by it on my
way home. I got a secret place there."
An empty lipstick tube. Not a bullet after
all. But I still couldn't find my voice.
Luke touched me this time. He put his hand into mine and
turned it upside down. "It's a secret
place. But you can keep this one if you won't tell.
I got more. Look. See if you can see your face
his
I peered at the gleaming shell, and sure enough, there
I was, distorted and oval around the empty tube.
"Thank you," I said. "It's nice. Lucky,
too I can tell."
"Yup," said Luke. "It's luckier than
anything."
March meant midterms at college. Background
of Mathematics II. Not too bad. We were
studying probability.
., .
no. of favorable elements sample space
tot. no. of elements sample space
Current Methods of Teaching Mentally Retarded
Adolescentswas easy. A take-home exam,
plus an interview with someone who was willing to hire
a mentally retarded educable person. I interviewed
Cal. He had several people, good people, in his plant with
IQ'S in the seventies.
Counseling and Guidance. Even easier. Lunch with
Norm Foster to report on the Special Education
IndependentStudy Project. My project, of
course, was Luke.
Reading practicum. The exam read, "Discuss
causes of reading disability in four categories."
I knew those. I even knew five. Meeps:
mental, emotional, educational, physicaland
social.
But Statistics and Orientation to Psychological
Testing was not so easy. We had spent an
inordinately long time on beDo curves and standard
deviation. The curve I understood.its normal
distribution curve did seem normal
stbackslash

it seemed right that there would probably be more average people
than other kinds. Professor Frye said that a
random sample of a thousand people in Times Square
yielded 68.26 percent (%) with IQ'S between
85 and 115. However, the curve wasn't always
normal;
sometimes it skewed to the right, sometimes it skewed to the
left. Then beware the mean and trust only the
median.
Worst of all was
a.
This simple little sign stood for 44
standard deviation, and Professor Frye was
determined that we all be able to figure out standard
deviations mathematicallyeaalth there are perfectly good
charts in the test manuals that are readily
available.
But day after day we memorized the formula and did the
computations. If I did them carefully, two or
three pages of numbers and many minutes later it was
possible to arrive at the measure of the variability
of a group of scores independent of the mean.
Where was lan Michaels? And what did all this have
to do with helping Luke?
My head steamed like an overheated
teakettle.
I wrote everything on index cards and laid them on
the floors through our apartment. Then I walked through my
carpet of cards picking up the ones I thought I
knew, piling them on the dining room table, then
picking up the others and studying them once again. The
steaming in my head turned out to be mostly due to the
flu, and I staggeredfrom bed to exams and back to bed
again. I called School 23 Monday morning
to explain to Mrs. Karras that I was ill and couldn't
come until Friday. Mrs. Karras was out, but her
secretary said she would relay the message
to Lisa, Luke, and Mrs. Karras.
I finished my last exam on Thursday afternoon. My
temperature was down, and on impulse I drove
to School 23.
John Hudson was in the music room with Vernon
when I arrived. They were playing catch with a tennis
ball over the piano.
Hud said, "Christ. I'm glad it's you. Come on
in."
Hud and I hardly ever saw each other anymore.
Our schedules at the school were on different days and
our group meetings were dwindling.
Vernon pegged a hard ball at Hud's
stomach. Hud dug it out with his left and sent it
looping back.
"Nice," I said to Hud.
"You know him?" Vernon asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Kin he bat? He say he bat as good as he
throw. That true?"
"I don't know."
"Hey, Vernon," Hud said, "come on, man. You
gotta have faith."
Vernon threw the ball hard, harder than ever.
"We'll see, man. We'll see . .." he
said.
Hud grinned. "What do you think, Mary? Am I
convincing?"
"still believe you," I said. "Ill leave you two.
I just came down to see Luke for a minute."
John pocketed the ball.
"They didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
"Vernon, set up the checkerboard, will you? I'll
be with you in a minute."
Hud came over and stood close to me.
"Luke's not here."
"Why? Where is he?" My stomach
plummeted down.
"They can't find him. At least the probation officer
can't, although they think he comes home at night and his
mother just doesn't let on."
"Why?" I asked again, not understanding. "Why would he do
that?"
Hud shrugged. "Because of the fire, I guess."
I sat down, suddenly nauseated, remnants of the
flu rolling in my head and stomach.
"You know about the fire, don't you?" Hud asked.
I shook my head.
"Oh, Christ. I'm sorry. Tuesday afternoon some
cosmeticfactory caught on fire. No one was
hurt, but they lost a back storage shed. The
police are sure it was set by kids, but they can't
prove it. They got one kid, Wendell Higgins,
who had been involved in a lot of other fires and
grilled him. (he's on our waiting list, too,
I hear.) Acto him, he didn't have anything to do
with it. It was all Luke."
"What does Luke say?"
"That's just it. Nobody can find Luke."
Vernon began pitching the checkers in our direction.
I got up. "Thanks, Hud. I'll talk to you
later." 46
"Listen, Mary. I can stay when Vernon goes
back to class. If I can help . . ."
Again I nodded my thanks and headed for the office.
The door to Mrs. Karras's office was closed.
I looked inquiringly at the secretary, who
smiled sympathetically.
"She's in conference, one of the board members.
Probably be awhile."
I nodded and asked for the file keys.
Brauer, Lucas. I lifted out his folder, but there
was nothing new except absence slips for Tuesday
afternoon, Wednesday, and Thursday. I put it back
and handed the key to the secretary. "Have you heard how
much damage there was at the fire?"
"Not much. Didn't really amount to a lot. Just a
storage shed for extra lipstick tubes, from what
I heard. Fire Department got there fast. Kept
it under control."
"Do you know where the factory is? Is it close
by?" My face felt as if it were frozen.
Lipstick tubes.
"Sure. It's right over on Jefferson. Just three
blocks down. We could see the fire from the steps."
"The steps? Oh, yes. The front steps."
It was all like a bad dream. I headed for the
door. "Tell Mrs. Karras-was I stopped
suddenly. "She did get my message-I mean,
Luke-uh, Miss Eckhardt knew why I
haven't been in this week, didn't they?"
A look of confusion passed briefly over the
secretary's pleasant face. "Not in? Let's
see, you're Shirley, aren't you? Let me see,
here in my notes ..."
I didn't wait for her to finish. Obviously, the
secretary had been confused. Nobody had gotten
my message. Nobody knew I was home sick.
Luke must have thought I just hadn't bothered to show up.
One more person in his life he couldn't count on.
I walked across the street to my car. Not really
thinking yet, just ordering my stomach to be still. I
drove straight ahead. There it was, Jefferson.
I parked my car and got out and walked down the
street. Most of the buildings were empty, or else
the windows were covered with grimy sheets concealing
whatever went on behind them.
The factory was immediately recognizable. There was an
unpleasant acrid smell and then the sight of
burned grass and piles of blackened tubes.
Automatically I touched the outside of my front
jeans pocket. I could feel the tube that
Luke had given me for luck. I had carried it
to each exam.
I looked at my watch. Three-fifteen. Nothing
to do now. I felt better, though. The walk had
cleared my head and I went back to the car to wait.
By four o'clock the last of the school kids had passed.
At four-thirty the factory whistle blew and a
dozen or so workers poured out. A few minutes
later, what were evidentlysecretaries or
bookkeepers or office personnel left and the
plant seemed empty. I waited a few more
minutes and then opened the car door and walked back
toward the factory. It was quiet and in the dark,
late winter afternooneathe ancient street lights were the
only illumination.
I walked without hesitation to the back of the factory
and nudged the charred piles of metal with the toe of my
boot, waiting, listening. Luke wasn't here. I
knew that, but somebody was. I walked in close
to the building, leaningagst the old bricks, invisible
against the wall.
A small, dark figure scurried past. Good.
Not the police.not Luke either, though. Maybe
Higgins. Judas Hig-gins. The one who had
ratted on Luke. I went out to the metal
pile, once again stirring the empty tubes with my
foot to make enough noise so whoever was there would listen.
"Give Luke a message," I said to the darkness.
"Tell him to be at the doughnut place at ten tomorrow
morning." Not a sound. Not good enough. Think of something
more. Ah! "Tell him I will give him two
dollars to give to the person who brings him the
message."
I went back to the side of the building and waited.
There he goes! The same small figure
scurried even faster across the back of the lot, this time
not stopping by the piles of tubes.
I was parked outside the Dunkin' Donuts
by 9:45.
March had turned lamblike and April continued
soft and warm, with white woolly clouds tumbling
across the blue sky. I rolled the car window down and
waited.
I had surprised myself the night before. We had
finisheddinner before I mentioned the fire or Luke
to Cal. I had even thought, for a little while, that I
might not tell him at all. Cal, of course,
knew nothing of what had occurredand attributed my
silence to weariness or exams or the flu.
I didn't understand yet what had happened
myself. I wanted to talk to Luke before I tried
to explain it to someone else. In the end, I told
Cal, briefly, almost abruptly. He listened,
asking only for facts, not interpretations.he
didn't even remind me of what I knew, that it
had been foolish to wander alone in the back of a
factory after dark.
Unexpectedly, I slept soundly, deep in a
dream that I could not remember. When I woke, the
last residue of the flu was gone and I was ravenous and
wide awake.
Now every inch of my body was alert. Where was Luke?
Ten o'clock. He should be here.
A small dark head appeared in the open window.
"Luke say gimme the two dollars."
"Who are you?"
"Wendell Higgins."
"You're the one who said Luke lit the fire, is that
right?"
"No. I never said nuthin'."
"Listen, Wendell. If you know where Luke is, you
go tell him to get himself down here right away. No
money till Luke shows up."
"I dunno if I kin find Luke," Wendell
Higgins whined. 49
"Well, you just try, Wendell I'll wait till
twelve."
Wendell was instantly gone He moved so fast I
hadn't seen him arrive or disappear; with Wendell
he was either there or not there.
At eleven-thirty he was back. Alone.
"Luke's skeered to come here."
"No two dollars then Sorry."
"You know the park? Luke'll come there his
"Okay. Get in. You can show me the park."
We drove for about a mile with Wendell Higgins
crouched, wary and intent beside me "Cops don't come
near here in the a.m. Stop here I'll get him."
Within five minutes Wendell was back. Luke
walked behind him, his face expressionless.
He was so small. Seven and a half. My own son
at almthat age was tying knots for a cub scout
badge, and Luke was dodging the police.
"Hello, Luke," I said, trying to keep my
face as expressionlessas his. I took out my
wallet. "Here's the two dollars I said you could
give to Wendell."
Luke passed the bills to Wendell and once again
WendellHiggins was instantly out of sight. Luke
looked nervouslyaround him.
"Will you get in, Luke?" I asked.
Luke quickly stepped into the car and closed the door
behind him, obviously glad to be out of view.
I started the car and drove without any particular thought
as to direction. Because it was the route I took most
often, I headed back toward college. Luke
huddled close to the door on his side of the car, but
at least he had come to meet me. That was a beginning.
I had no plan of what I would do or what I would
say to Luke. I concentrated my entire energy on
trying to feel what he was feeling, trying to listen with the
"third ear." I let the car drive itself.
Suddenly Luke sat up straight, leaning forward,
peering intently out the front window.
I, too, strained forward trying to see what he
saw, but there was nothing. Only the road cutting through
the hills 50
on the way to State. Even the trees were bare,
except for the pines.
I could feel Luke looking at me. I kept
driving, looking straight ahead. Give him time.
He's almost ready. Don't look at him now; that
will make it harder.
"How'd you know about the mountain?" Luke whisperedthe
question.
What did he mean? What mountain? The hills?
These hills must seem very big when you're as small
as Luke. And then I knew This is where he had
been. This was his hiding place. Was this also where he had
set that large fire last fall?
I drove until I found a flat place where I
could pull off the road. After I'd parked I
turned toward Luke.
"Are you okay?" I asked. "I'm sorry about this
week. I was sick and couldn't drive down. I
called school and explainedeab somehow the secretary
got mixed up-was
Luke nodded, barely listening, intent on something
beythe car.
"Let's walk awhile," I said. There were
evidently no answers to be found inside my old
convertible.
Luke was instantly out of the car, running down the way
we had just come. I followed as fast as I could.
About a quarter mile back he jogged off the road
onto a small path, turning once to look back
at me.
The ground began to rise almost immediately. Within ten
minutes we were on steep rocky ground. Another
ten and I was panting. I pulled off my
sweater and tied it around my waist. Luke
obviously had a destination in mind. This was no
casual stroll.
We were almost to the top when the water tower came in
sight. I remembered now seeing it from a distance, a
large blue-gray metal tank ballooning against the
sky, supported by thin splayed legs. Strange that
it had been out of sight as we walked toward it.
Luke climbed in underneath the water tower and sat
down. I hesitated and then sat next to him,
feeling the chill dampness of the earth seep into my
jeans almost immediately.there was no board or
blanket. Luke would have been very cold if he had
stayed here any length of 51
time; there must be some other type of shelter. I
looked upward. The metal legs that supported the
water tank had small cross bars, not visible from
a distance, but up close you could see they formed a
ladderlike structure.
Luke had brought me only partway. I stood and
began to climb up the water tank. Three quarters
of the way up the four legs were joined by a kind of
platform; someone had put a piece of plywood
over the metal grids. I crawled out on the board
and caught my breath at the sight of Falls
City spreading out beneath me.
The great falls that had once provided power for the
saw mills tumbled and spat foam high against the
sky; old, intricate, elegant church spires
pierced the smoke puffs of the factories. From here the
decay and squalor were not visible, and the city glowed
with a luminous dreamy beauty. It was also possible
to see beyond Falls City; the highways leading in and
out were clearly visible. How had Luke found this
place?
It was obvious that Luke was not going to climb up and
join me, so I climbed back down and sat beside him
on the cold ground beneath the water tower.
"It's nice," I said. "And a good lookout. You can
see when anyone's coming."
Luke sat expressionless beside me. How had he
learned to keep his face so still? There was nothing in his
eyes at all. Was that because he felt nothing, or because
he'd learned to cover it so well? I rubbed my
thumb across the moss that grew under the water tower and
tried to feel what Luke was feeling. What would it
be like to be seven years old and have only a water
tower for comfort?
Luke spoke suddenly, interrupting my thoughts.
"My father brought me here. My real father,"
he added quickly.
"I don't know about your father."
Luke shrugged. "I don't see him much
anymore. Mom and him are divorced and he's got
a new wife now. She's got three kids."
We sat without talking again. What was there to say? I
watched Luke's small, handsome face for some
opening, but it remained closed and immutable. His round
brown 52
eyes stared straight ahead, never flickering; his arms
were wrapped tight around his knees.
After a long time he turned to me and said, as if he
couldn't bear to keep it inside any longer. "This is
where he used to shoot up."
"Shoot up?" Why couldn't I do better than echo
his words?
But Luke barely noticed. Now that he'd begun,
the rest tumbled out in a torrent. "He'd stay here,
underneath, see, and I'd go up there to the seat and watch
out. I'd call back and tell him if there were
copper cars or anything and when it was okay I'd
call down and he'd get out his stuff and make a little
fire and get it all ready-and then he'd do it."
For the first time, Luke's face changed, crumpled more
than changed, and his teeth began to chatter.
"I stayed up there on top watching out-and anyway,
I didn't like to watch the needle."
I nodded. My own body was trembling. What a
way to live. How old would Luke have been then?
Five? Six?
"We'd stay till it was almost morning, till it
got light;
then he'd take me back to the project so I'd be
there before Mom and Alice and Frank woke up."
Well, at least I understood one thing. My face
had no expression now, either. It's a lot easier
not to cry that way.
"Your mom didn't know you stayed out here?" I
asked. Somehow we could talk under the water tank.
There was a feeling of safety and it took less
effort to find the words. I didn't feel as if I
was intruding when I asked the question.
"Mom's sick a lot," Luke said. "She
doesn't shoot up." He sat up straight and
looked me in the eye. "Honest," he said. "She
never does. She drinks some and smokes stuff and
she gets sick. She throws up a lot, but she
doesn't ever shoot up."
"Who cooks? Who takes care of your little brother
and sister?" Wrong. Luke turned away,
defenses back in place.
"She does," he said. "Most of the time." 53
I stood up, or partway up, and crawled out from under
the water tower. I stretched, my body cramped from
sitting and emotion. I looked at my watch. Four
o'clock.
Inadequacy and urgency churned inside my
stomach. There were less than two hours of daylight
left and I had just begun to understand a little of Luke's
problems; I wasn't even close to any
solutions, but he couldn't stay out here alone much
longer, and his home, what there was of it, was far away.
I walked around the water tower trying to think. How was
I going to help Luke? I climbed up to the
platform, searching for clues, but the enormity of the
problem was even greater there. Down in Falls City,
in its schools, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of
children like Luke and behind them was a society of poverty,
ignorance, and neglect spawning new Lukes
nightly.
I climbed back down and was glad to see that Luke
had come out from under the tower and was sitting on a ledge of
rock to one side of it. I sat beside him, feeling the
warmth the rock had accumulated from the sun,
remembering the fire at the factory. This
is what we had come to talk about. I couldn't think
of a subtle way to begin, but I knew I had
to ask.
"Did you start the fire at the factory, Luke?"
He shook his head. I waited, but that was all.
"Were you there?" I was insisting. I knew it. I
also knew it was a risk, but I had to do it.
This time Luke nodded.
"Why? What were you doing in a shed behind the lipstick
factory?"
"I wasn't in it. I was just by it."
"All right. Beside it. Why, Luke? What
happened?"
"I don't know." Luke scratched at the flat
rock where we were sitting with a smaller stone. He
hunched his shoulders. "I didn't feel like goin'
back to school. You didn't even come like you said and
anyway, "member I told you I had a secret
place?"
"Yes," I nodded. "You told me that when you gave
me the lipstick tube. I was sick, Luke.
I'm sorry." I took the 54
tube out of my pocket and held it in my hand.
Maybe it would bring us luck.
"That was the place. I had a little dugout
place beside that shed and I kept things there. Some of the
tubes I found, a ring my dad gave me ...
special things."
I nodded. There was probably no place in the
project apartment that was safe from the explorations of his
small brother and sister. I remembered a little cedar
chest completewith brass hinges, a lock, and key that
my grandmotherhad given me, a place for secret
things.
"Now they're all gone," Luke said. "I sent
Wendell back to look, but he says they musta
gotten burned up."
"What's Wendell got to do with this?"
"He came there while I was looking at my things.
Wen-dell's always following everybody. Then he-was
Luke stopped abruptly.
"Luke," I said. "It's important that you tell
me what really happened. Wendell told the
police you set the fire."
Luke looked at me, his face still without
expression.
"I never did. Wendell done it his own self. I
just went there 'cause I wanted to look at my
things. The men all started work again at one o'clock, so
no one was out by the shed. But then Wendell
came and said he had somethingto show me, something that would
make me feel real good. And he got out matches
and a spoon and then he made a fire . . ."
Luke's voice cracked, but he kept on, "and
then he got out a needle, sorta like the one my dad
used to have, and I yelled at him.
"I couldn't help it and then I ran and I guess
I made too much noise 'cause Wendell ran,
too. And then the fire kept burning-and it got
bigger and it got up into that ole wood and next thing
I knew, the whole shed was burning."
I nodded silently, seeing it clearly-the small
fire feeding on the grass, licking the dry wood
of the shed.
Luke chattered on. "We got out of there fast.
Me and Wendell. I just kept runnin" till I
got here. Nobody ever caught my dad here and I
knew they wouldn't catch me. I lost ole
Wendell on the way, but it doesn't matter.
Wen-dell's not scared of nuthin'!" 55
"Luke," I said, "there are papers in your file
at school that say you've set a lot of fires.
Is that true?"
Luke scratched with the stone. "Maybe some little ones.
Leaves in the street."
"Why?" I asked, still pushing, still risking, needing
to know.
Luke tossed the stone over toward the water tower and
it clanked against one of the metal legs. "Don't
know. I just like to watch "em. They're pretty,
all red and blue and orange, dancin" around."
"How about the big fire on the mountain last fall?
Did you set that?"
Luke smiled-and I hated the smile.
"That one was real pretty. Red, yellow, orange,
lickin' away, eating up the ole grass,
runn*in all by its own self."
Luke paused. There was no guilt or repentance in
his voice, only admiration for the fire. "It kept
on gettin' biggerand bigger and then began going down
into town and the pines all started too-and it was taller
than me."
Luke stopped and laughed out loud.
He had forgotten about me in his excitement of
rememberingthe fire and was just talking out loud, not
to anyonein particular.
"Then the cops began to come, blowin' their sirens and
then the fire truck, but they couldn't put it out-they
couldn't catch that ole fire, it just kept goin'."
His voice sounded hard and cruel, not like
Luke's at all.
"Were you alone?" I asked.
"Why?" Instantly alert. "Why do you want
to know?" Luke was aware of me again. The outsider.
"Nothing," I said. "Never mind." Why had I
thought that I could reach through seven years of fires and
drugs and neglect and touch a child? But Luke
wasn't done.
"I got away," he said with pride. "The cops were
all stretched out and lined up searching for us-me," he
corrected himself. "But I just started running and took
an ole belly whopper right through the middle and came
out on the other side. My shirt was burning like
anything and I knew I couldn't get those little
buttons undone. So know 56
what I did? I just lay down in the dirt and
rolled and rolled and it went out."
I put Luke's lipstick tube back in my
pocket. Now it was my turn to sit staring out at the
sky without talking. I could see why there were waiting
lists at schools, why clinics couldn't get through,
why teachers gave up. It was too much. These
delinquents, or whatever label you used, weren't
born out of an acute crisis, but out of a chronic,
unending sickness in cities.
Urgency departed, replaced by sorrow. I decided
to attributethe churning in my stomach to hunger.
Neither Luke nor I had eaten for a long while.
"Listen, Luke," I said. "I'm going to go get
us somethingto eat. Want to come?"
He shook his head as I had known he would. He had
already made the trip off the mountain once today.
"Okay. I won't be long," I promised.
Down the hill, back to my car, but not back
to Falls City. If Luke was watching from his water
tower, as I was sure he was, I didn't want
him worrying about what I was doing in Falls City.
Instead, I drove on toward the college and
stopped at a roadside stand and bought sandwiches and
soda.
On the drive back, textbook phrases echoed
in my head. "Socially maladjusted . . . character
disorder . . . sociopathic behavior;
destructive, immature, impulsive,
manipulative-with a disregard for the needs and feelings
of others. A deficit of conscience and judgment;
inability to feel guilt and shame." I knew the
words; I'd read all the descriptive phrases
at night school years before.
Luke would be considered a classic case,
who, as he grew older, would continue to steal,
destroy and even perhapssometime to kill. He was a
product of his society, and even I knew I
couldn't change a society.
I forced my thoughts away from Luke, back to the
road.
Where was the place I'd parked? Everything looked
differentfrom this direction. There was the water tower.
I strained to see if I could see a figure beneath the
tank, but none was visible.
Panic never arrives slowly for me Now it
hit-wham! Suppose I couldn't find the place,
the path Suppose Luke waited and then decided that
I wasn't coming back, that I had let him down
again?
I'd gone too far. I was sure of it. I was
getting much too close to Falls City now
Damn, damn* Turn the car around. You'll
recognize the spot from this side.
I drove back up the hill slowly, slowly
searching the side of the road for the same place I'd
pulled off with Luke. If I could find that spot,
I thought I could cut back to the path. Things are
easier to remember on foot.
Luke! I'd almost missed him. I
slammed on the brakes and backed up. Luke
stood up and came out from behind a small bush. I
jammed the car into some low evergreens and took the paper
bag of sandwiches and soda back to where Luke
waited. Luke cared' He'd even come to help.
Remember the days in school, the doughnuts, the
lipstick tube. Don't sell him short.
"That path's hard to see when you don't know it,"
Luke said, forgiving me.
"Yes," I said. "Thank you his
Four-thirty now. Time was running out. The sun
turned molten red and began to descend into the city.
The sky above the sunset changed from blue to gray.
Luke ate two sandwiches without speaking, washing
down mouthfuls with gulps of soda. Then
unexpectedly, he said, "Sometimes, after my dad was
finished . . . underneatheahe'd put out the fire and then
come up on the platformand sit with me. And sometimes he
would stay awake awhile and when the stars came out,
he'd tell me their names." Luke had his arms
wrapped around his knees so he had to turn his whole
body to look at me. "He knew all the names
Big Dipper. Little Dipper. Orion. Cassy
Fee's Chair." There was pride in Luke's
small voice.
I concentrated on the sky, trying to remain
objective, to remember the textbook, to realize
what a small percentageof success socially
maladjusted kids had, but my heart was
thump-thumping for some undefined reason. I 58
watched a small cloud form above the sun, an odd
shape, reminiscent of something.
"Luke, look," I said. "See that cloud? It
looks like an amoeba."
"What's an amoeba?"
"It's the simplest of all animals. It's really
very, very small-only about a hundredth of an inch
around. I saw one first when I was in college. I
saw it through a microscopeand it looked sort of like
a starfish made out of gray jelly."
"Where's it come from?" Luke asked, leaning toward
me.
"They said in college that you could find them, amoebas
, in mud or in weeds in ponds But I don't
think we could see them. Not with just our eyes."
Luke's own eyes were close to mine. He was on his
knees, listening hard. I realized suddenly that our
eyes were almost identical in color-brown, almost
black, so that unless you looked closely, the pupil
was indistinguisha6rom the rest. I studied
his whole face now, searching for answers. Where was
cruelty? Not in his eyes or short, straight
nose. Where was destructiveness? Not in his wide
mouth or small chin.
All of a sudden I knew what to do to help Luke.
It was so simple. I would
teach
him. He wasn't, after all, a segmentof
society. We'd leave society to someone else and
just be what we were. I would teach him about amoebas
and plants and animals-and numbers and how words could
be used to communicate thoughts and feelings. I felt
such a rush of energy that it almost propelled me off the
ledge. I forgot the college textbook
predictions, even the mountain, the day, Luke and
myself, totally immersed in my idea.
Luke nudged my arm and pulled me back to earth.
"Hey, look, Mary. Your meba's gone."
I stood up. The sky was hardly any color at
all now. It was time to go home, but Luke didn't
seem to know it. He had become inordinately
cheerful and was hopping about on the rock. Now he
tugged at my hand as I bent over to pick up our
empty soda cans. 59
"It's turned into a kite," Luke said.
"The meba's turned into a kite."
Luke was right. The shape that had hung amorphously
amoebalike above the sun had shifted, somehow
changed itself into the pattern of a kite so that now it
sailed across the sky, a beribboned tail bobbing just
above the dark horizon.
There was the evidence that change could and did occur.
"Okay," I said, recognizing confirmation. No
matter what the textbooks said, Luke and I were
going to have to give it a try. "You're right. It does
look like a kite. But right now, Luke Brauer,
I'm going to take you back to Falls City and then
I'm going home and tomorrow we're goingdown to the
police station and you're going to tell them about the fire
at the factory." I couldn't go back too far.
Forget the mountain fire. Concentrate on now.
"I'm not gonna tell on Wendell," Luke
muttered.
"Okay. But you're going to tell about your special
place and how you left before the fire started."
Luke stalled.
"Can't go to the police tomorrow," he said. "I gotta
go to school."
"Tomorrow's Saturday," I reminded him. "We can
go."
Luke inspected me. "You comm'?"
"Looks that way," I replied.
We walked down the hill together carrying the paper
bag and soda cans.

It was raining when I picked Luke up in the park the
next morning. It looked to me as though he had been
home. His pants were dry and he had on a clean
shirt. But I didn't ask. He had wanted to be
dropped off at the park last night and I'd
agreed. We had been through a lot 60
yesterday-it was enough that he had been willing to come down
off his mountain. Now we needed our strength for the
police.
I was worried. The only time I'd been in a
police stationin the last ten years was to renew a
dog's license and I was far from sure of
procedure. Cal's advice had been to find a
top officer and state who we were and why we were there.
Why were we there? Because the police had been hunting for
Luke. What would they do to him? Probably not much.
The jails weren't set up for seven-year-old
kids who set fires and ran away. Nonetheless,
I was perspiring slightly as Luke and I walked
into the policestation.
A wooden rail and gate divided the space in the
front office. Behind it two men in dark blue
pants and lighter blue shirts sat in front of a
switchboard.
The larger of the two looked at us without getting up.
"Help you?" he said, although it didn't sound as though
help was what he had in mind.
"Yes," I answered. "I'm Mary
MacCracken. This is Luke Brauer."
"Luke Brauer? Oh, yeah. The truant kid
at Twenty-three who's always setting fires. That
you, kid?"
Luke nodded silently.
"All right. Come on over here."
The big man opened the wooden gate and motioned
Luke inside. I started to follow.
"Who're you, lady? His mother?"
"No. I'm Mary MacCracken. I'm-was
"Mary MacCracken," he mimicked me. "Come
on, lady. Don't play games. I asked who
you are."
Anger snapped inside my head like a rubber band.
I wanted to stand up close to this fat bully and
answer. Who am I? I am a teacher and a lover of
children.
But I had learned from Luke. In Falls City the
less said the better. "I work with Luke over at
School Twenty-three. I'm associated with the
Mental Health Clinic."
"Oh," he said. "A social worker."
"Sort of," I said under my breath, nodding. Then,

"What is your name, officer?" I'd be quiet, but
I wouldn't be pushed around.
"Snow," he answered, obviously annoyed.
"All right, come in here, the both of youse."
He pointed to two metal chairs and Luke and I
sat down.
Officer Snow stood over us, clipboard in hand.
"All right. How do you spell your name, kid?"
"L-u-k-every." Luke's voice was so quiet you
could hardly hear him.
Officer Snow slammed the clipboard against the
metal chair next to Luke. I sucked in my
breath quickly and then immediately hated myself for reacting.
Luke never moved a muscle.
"What're you? A wise guy? Acting like I
wouldn't know how to spell a little word like Luke. Just
watch it, kid. Now spell your last name."
"B-r-a-u-e-rather."
Officer Snow wrote the letters on his clipboard.
Luke sat silently. I forced myself to keep still.
"Now what about these fires? Why'd you try to burn
up the lipstick factory?"
Still Luke said nothing.
Officer Snow kicked the legs of the metal chair.
This time neither Luke or I stirred. "All right
now, Brauer, you better start cooperating or you're
gonna be sorry. Did you set that fire up at the
factory?"
Luke sat without moving.
"Damn it. were you there?"
Luke nodded.
"Speak up! Answer yes or no."
"Yes," Luke said.
"That's better. Who was with you?"
Silence.
"All right. I've had it. Get up. Stand over
here." He pushed Luke into the middle of the room under
the overheadlight. "I said who was with you?"
"Nobody."
"Nobody, huh? You just ran around setting fires
all by yourself, is that it?"
Luke shrugged.
Officer Snow walked back and forth, back
and forth. He turned suddenly and snapped, "Where's
your father?"
Luke shrugged again. "New York, I guess."
"You got an address for him?"
Luke shook his head.
"I told you. Speak up."
"No," Luke replied.
"How about your mother? Where's she?"
Luke studied his sneakers. "She doesn't feel
too good."
Now Officer Snow left Luke in the center of the
room and descended upon me. "What the hell is
going
on?
How can we put any pressure on him, let
alone get any fine, if he doesn't even know
where his father is and his mother's sick? What's he doing
here, anyway?"
I stood up. "I told him to come."
"You did. How come you did that?"
"Because it was his responsibility."
He stared at me. "Responsibility.
Re-spon-si-bil-i-tee! You hear that. Bill?
Responsibility. You ever hear a big word like that in
this here little station before?"
The policeman at the switchboard shrugged. "Let
*em go. What's the use giving them a hard time?
At least we don't have to look for the kid
anymore."
Officer Snow walked to the files. He leafed through
a folder and then came back. "All right. I'm
gonna let youse go. But you better be at School
Twenty-three every day, kid, when I come looking for
you. Because if you're not, when I find you, you're
gonna think those fires you set are cool as ice
water compared to what I'm gonna do. Now wait
outside."
The station house door clanked shut behind Luke and
Officer Snow said, "What's the matter with the kid's
father"...Where is he, anyway?"
"All I know is that Luke's parents are
divorced."
"All right. All right. A lotta men leave a
lotta women and the other way around. But you don't
never let a kid not know how to find you. I got six
of my own. I oughta know. Now you tell that kid to come
down here and ask for me if he's got some kind of
problem." 63
I knew Luke would never do it. Still, in spite of
Officer Snow's lack of sensitivity,
he was one more person on Luke's team. "I'll
tell him," I said. "Thank you."
When I got outside it was still raining and Luke was
huddled against the side of the building trying to keep
dry. "Let's go," I shouted and Luke and I
raced across the street to the car.
We drove in silence for a while and then I said,
"You were strong, Luke." I wasn't going to quibble
about leavingout Wendell. "I can see it doesn't
pay to argue. OfficerSnow was impressed too.
He said to tell you from now on to come down and ask for
him if you need help."
All the time things were becoming clearer to me.
By actually being in Luke's world, I could see why
he didn't talk in school or at the clinic, why
he couldn't express eitherhis anger or his
feelings in words.
Luke lived in a world where words were used against him.
No wonder he belly-flopped through fire, ran from
cops, refused to answer questions from Miss
Eckhardt. When you live in the city and live
mostly alone at seven years of age, you have
to devise ways of coping.
Luke's way was to escape-evasion rather than
confrontation.who could blame him? The faster
you ran, the less chance life had to catch you.
"Luke," I said. "I'm going over to the clinic
now. Do you want to come?"
"Nope." Luke was clear.
"Okay, then. I'm going to take you home."
"You gonna tell?" he asked.
"Your mother? No. That's up to you. I want to meet
her and talk to her sometime soon. But not today. I
hope you'll stay home, though, and not hang around the
park or mountain."
Luke nodded agreement, evidently relieved that
anothershowdown was not coming up.
Was he telling the truth? I couldn't tell. I could
also see now why he had much less respect for the
truth than I did. I must remember to give him
time to answer, to give second chances, never to force a
lie. 64
I stopped the car in front of the project, a
rundown conglomeration of two-story square apartment
buildings.
Luke hopped out, then stood by the door waiting.
Waiting for what? I couldn't think how to say
good-bye. I searched for good advice. "Stay away
from Wendell Hig-gins now, hear?"
Still Luke lingered. What? What was it?
Suddenly I knew. A promise. That was all.
I leaned as far as I could across the car and called through
the open window. "I'll see you Monday. I'll be
there Monday, Wednesday, and Friday next
week."
Luke nodded and trotted toward the project. He
stopped partway and raised his hand. "See you," he
called, sealing the promise.

On my way home from dropping Luke off, I
stopped at the Mental Health Clinic Jerry
Cotter was in the middle of his sandwich, but he nodded
encouragingly between bites as I talked. I
apologized for not calling him sooner and asking his
advice. The truth was I hadn't even thought of it,
and now I was aware of how wrong this had been.
"Yes," Jerry agreed. "You should have called
sooner. But no harm done. Everything you did was all
right, positivein effect. What are you going to do
now?"
I sat without saying anything. That was what I was
goingto ask him.
*
I called Professor Foster's home late that
afternoon, expectinga roar of disapproval.
Instead, he was benign and I found myself telling him
about the mountain and Officer Snow and my visit to the
Mental Health Clinic. 65
"What'd Jerry say?"
"He asked me what I was going to do now."
Norm Foster let out a bark of laughter. "Sounds
like he's laying it right on you, baby. Well, they
are busy as hell over at the clinic right now.
Incidentally, now that you mention it, what
are
you planning to do?"
"First of all, do you have some kind of reading and math
tests that I can give Luke so I can see just how
much he knows and what grade level he's on?
Jerry says the intelligence test shows he's smart
but he's been out of school so much, I think we should
find out if he's learned all the first-grade and
beginning second-grade material and just refuses
to use it, or whether he's missed some basic stuff
because of all his absences."
"Stop by my office Monday before you go over to the
school. I'll dig up something for you. A space,
a rat, or something."
Maybe he drinks too much, I thought. It was
only four o'clock, but when I asked about
reading and math tests he responded with rats and
spaces.
I stopped by his office rather cautiously on
Monday, not at all certain he would remember our
conversation.
"Okay, Mary, here you go," he called to me through his
office door. "Here's the rat." He handed me a
gray manual and a couple of white test blanks.
I couldn't help it. I had to ask, "Why do you
call it a rat?"
Norm tilted back in his chair. "Ho! The
Wide Range Achievement Test.
W-R-A-T. Get it? That's a good one.
Didn't they use the WRAT over at Doris's
school? Well, maybe she's one of those that think
testing emotionally disturbed kids is a waste of time.
Can't say I can altogether blame her.
"Anyway, the WRAT is a quickie. Won't
take you more than fifteen minutes and will give you a
pretty good idea of Luke's word recognition and
spelling. You'll have to add an informal test of your
own to round out the math. And natch, there's nothing on
reading comprehension or phonetic skills. Try the
Spache for that." Another manual-more test blanks.
I looked at the cover.
Spache
Diagnostic Test.
Not space, Spache. Well, rd keep that one
to myself. I had something a lot more important on my
mind.
"I need to talk to you," I said, urgency underlining
my voice. "You've been out to Doris's school.
You know where I'm coming from-the kind of child I'm used
to working with.
"I can't understand why we're losing kids like Luke.
It keeps going around in my head-they just don't
seem that bad. In spite of the foe, I still feel the
same way."
Foster locked his hands behind his neck and then stretched
them above his head. "You're right, Mary, Luke's not
as disturbed as the children you've known, but in some ways that
makes it more difficult. Some people figure that if
kids aren't sick, they gotta be "bad"-and who
wants to bother with troublemakers?
"Sure, there are agencies set up to help, but
even when these kids get off the waiting list and finally
see a human face, it's usually a different
face every few weeks or months. There's a lot of
turnover in most social agencies.
"Besides, most people want to do their job, but they
don't want to get too involved. And the only thing
that's going to help these kids is a hell of a lot of
involvement. Once they believe you're not a nosy
do-gooder or putting them on, they'll trust you. That's
what this program is based on."
I nodded. "I've been thinking about it ever since
Luke told me about his father and the fires. It
doesn't seem as though I can do much about his world or
the facts of his life or even make up for his father.
But maybe I can help him learn to use some
tools, skills like reading, so that he can handle
school better. That's one thing. The other is-I'm
going to try to show him that I can't do the work for him-but
he won't be alone. I'll be there to help."
Professor Foster stood up and smiled. "Not
bad for starters."
Through the open door I could see four pairs of
blue- jeaned legs beneath the hall bench.
"Well, look," I said, "I know you're busy.
Thanks for the tests. I'll get them back as soon
as possible." 67
*
Luke was standing in the principal's office with two
other boys when I arrived. Now what? I hung
my jacket in the music room and walked
down toward second grade, not acknowledging
Luke's presence across the hall. I wanted to hear
from Lisa what had happened.
Luke's class was sitting in a circle on the
floor. They had pushed the desks against the wall and the
children were quiet for once as Lisa put three
magnets and plates of paper clips, hairpins,
and nails in the middle of the circle.
Lisa obviously couldn't talk now. She had
captured the children's attention, not an easy trick.
It would be unfair to interrupt her. I stopped in the
doorway and turned around to leave.
Lisa called, "Luke's down in Mrs.
Karras's office. You can get him there."
"Did you send him there?"
"I had to."
"Then I'm not taking him out. Tell him I'll
see him Wednesday."
But I couldn't leave. It was two-fifteen. I
really should study those tests Foster gave me, I
told myself.
At two-fifty-five Mrs. Karras's voice
carried across the hall. "All right, boys. Get
back to your class. And don't let this happen
again."
I heard them pass the music room, but I kept
my head bent over the test manuals.
At three o'clock the bell rang. At 3:05
Luke appeared. It had been worth waiting. "How
come you didn't get me?"
"How come you weren't in your room?" I countered.
Luke shrugged.
"Listen, Luke," I said. "I can't take you out
of the principal's office. If Miss Eckhardt
sends you down there, you have to stay there. But it's dumb.
First, you can't learn anything standing in the office. You
missed a good experiment with magnets, and second,
I miss seeing you." 68
Luke
stood silently.
I was beginning to sound like Officer Snow. Come on,
Mary. What else can you do? Don't just lecture.
Get up. Move around. Think.
I went over to the board and began to doodle with the
colored chalk. I think better when I move
around.
Circles. Moons. Faces. Yellow stars.
Blue stars.
Luke came over. "Will you show me how to do that?"
"What? Oh, the stars. Sure. Up,
down, halfway back up, across. Then back to the
beginning. Here. I'll do each part in different
colors. The top is blue. The halfway up in
yellow. Across in pink. Then back to the beginning in
white. Here. Try."
Luke said, "I'm gonna do mine all yellow."
He took the yellow chalk. "Its like you make a
triangle without a bottom," he said, drawing the
beginning part. "And then you start to make an upside
down triangle." He drew up and across. "And then
you Just sorta finish it up."
"Perfect," I said. "Yours is better than
mine." And it was.
Luke's yellow stars made me think of the boxes of
stars in the materials drawer that I had never touched.
UnknowinglyeaI began my first behavior modification
chart. I, who had once said Skinner's pigeons
denied the soul of man, got out a piece of oaktag
and drew lines for TuesdayeaWednesday, Thursday,
and Friday. Forget Monday. That was done. Then I
got out the boxes of stars, gold stars, silver
stars, red stars, blue stars, large silver stars,
large gold stars. I took the top off every box.
"Listen, Luke," I said. "Every day you stay out of the
office, we'll put a star under that day."
Already my head was teeming. We could add stars for work
done, days in school, fires not set. Slowly.
Move slowly. One thing at a time.
Luke stirred the stars with his finger. He examined
each box. "Just one color?" he asked.
"Pick your favorite," I answered.
"Big gold," he decided.
"Okay. Good. On Wednesday when I come you can
stick big gold stars in the days you weren't in the
office."
The janitor put his head in the door. "Sorry,
Miss. I have to close up in here now."
I glanced at the clock. Ten of four.
"Oh, sure. I didn't realize the time.
We're through anyway."
I turned to Luke. "Good-bye," I said. "See
you Wednesday."
"Can I help put them back?" Luke asked
nodding at the stars.
"Sure." It was so easy to forget how little he had.
An empty lipstick tube had been a treasure.
Now he didn't have treasures or a place
to keep them. The hole in the ground by the lipstick
factory was off limits now. I searched for something
that could substitute. An empty carton
on the closet shelf. I lifted it down, pausing
for a second in the dim light of the closet. Luke
was talking, not only talking but using words to ask for
something he needed. In our bare music room,
Luke was using more words than in all his other days in
School 23 put together.
"Here, Luke," I said as I handed him the carton.
"Put the gold stars in here. They'll be just for you.
And your book. And these two pencils. We'll
keep your things in this box."
Luke nodded. "Can I put my name on it?"
"Yes." A used carton. A small beginning for a
safe place.

When I arrived at school on the first Wednesday in
April, Shirley, Hud, and Jerry were already in the
music room.
"Hello, Mary. I'm glad I was able to get you
all together.sorry to interrupt your sessions with the
kids,"
Jerry said, "but I wanted you all here so we could
review where we are right now and where we're going.
Norm Foster's sorry he couldn't get down."
For an hour and a half Shirley, Hud, and I
went over our work with Milt, Vernon, and
Luke. Milt and Vernon had both made good
progress. Luke was the only one who had been in
trouble with the police since we'd started.
When we finished, Jerry said, "You've done a good
job, Shirley. Milt's teacher says he is
attending better in class and the bizarre behavior
is decreasing. John"-Jerry never could bring himself
to say Hud-"Vernon's time in the office has
decreased by one third and truancy by one half.
Congratulations. Mary, I know things have been rough with
Luke the last week, but remember, Mrs
Kar-ras said right in the beginning that Luke was what she
called "hard core," meaning he would probably
be the hardest to reach."
I nodded. Our record, Luke's and mine, was
certainly unimpressive compared with the others'.
Jerry looked at me carefully. "There is one
thing. Please don't misinterpret this, Mary, but
if you don't feel comfortable working with Luke, I
want you to say so. We can make some other
arrangements...."
"What do you mean?" I interrupted, as my heart
lurched slightly.
"Well, the rapport between the therapeutic teacher and the
child is vital."
Oh, no, I thought. You can't take him away. I
made my voice level. "I'm comfortable. We just
need a little more time." Please, God, let me sound
competent.
"Fine," Jerry replied. "As I said, I
didn't want my meaning misconstrued. I just
want to emphasize the importance of the relationship.
In fact, I'd like to review again that part of the
written project that defines who you, "the
therapeutic tutors," are. I know we went over
this at our first meeting, but just let me read this out loud
again."
was The development of the therapeutic tutor is
predicated on the belief that in the vast majority of
school 71
referrals, emotional and learning disorders are
inextricablyintertwined and that both aspects of the
problem should receive attention. Educational therapy as
deemed in this project would require developing the
tutor's capacityfor creative listening-an
alertness, sensitivity to, and an ability
to reflect and clarify the child's underlying feelings and a
strong empathy, honesty, and positive regardfor the
child, coupled with some knowledge of reinforcementtechniques.""
Jerry put down the paper and looked at
all of us. "Do you understand what that means?"
We all nodded silently-Luke's small face
clearer to me than any in the room.
"There is just one more point." Jerry resumed reading.
was *In contrast to traditional psychotherapy, there
would be no direct attempt to evoke unconscious
material, offer analyticinterpretation or
attempt to reconstruct a personality.stress will
be on developing self-confidence, ego skills, and
developing means of coping."
"Agreed?"
Again we nodded silently. Luke knew how
to cope. He coped with his environment better than
I did. He "coped" by not letting it get to him,
by shutting it out or running if it got too close,
by covering his feelings, turning off his tears.
Jerry put the paper back in his briefcase. "The
main reason I called you all together this morning is
to go over the program for the rest of the year. I'm
sorry I haven't been able to be here more. I've
been talking to Norm Foster and we've decided that
there is just no way to add more children now. We're at the
beginning of April and we'll be through the semester in
another two months. John and Shirley, as
seniors, will be finished even before that. In
order to get reports, grades and records
completedeawe have to formally close this project by the
fourteenthof May."
"May fourteenth?" I said. "That's only about a
month away and we didn't start till
February."
"I know," Jerry continued. "You notice I said
"formally." Certainly you're welcome to continue as
long 72
as you want. Falls City schools don't close
till the end of June."
I could come in June. Another month. Eleven
weeks in all. Would that be enough? Could Luke and I
recoup in eleven weeks?
I would have to plan carefully. The luxury of doing
what came into my head was over, at least for now. I
had to sit down and prepare for each meeting with
Luke. I had to give him the tests I had got from
Norm Foster and find out where he was academically,
what he knew and didn't know, and what I must
help him learn.
After everyone had left the music room, I went
over to the files and got a copy of the experimental
elementary school mental health project that Jerry
had been reading from and reviewed the points
he had made once again.
Creative listening. We did that; Luke and I
listened to each other. Alertness, sensitivity
to underlying feelings. Yes. Strong empathy,
honesty, positive regard for the child. Yes. I
felt all those. Where was I going wrong? Why had
Luke not made more progress?
Even as I asked myself the question, I knew that I must
remember his strengths and what he had
accomplished.in spite of the trouble with the police, he
had made progress. He who never talked, who
never got involvedeahad talked to me. And he trusted
me. I must remember that and trust myself as well.
Luke had grown. I knew it. I felt it deep
in my bones. Just because he hadn't shown it to anyone
yet didn't mean it hadn't happened.
I turned back to the printed sheet and read beyond
Jerry's quotes. "Therapeutic tutoring
includes the academicskills, positive regard
for the child, coupled with reinforcementtechniques, but is
primarily concerned with increasing self-esteem and
motivation." Luke was just beginningto use stars. I
knew very little about behavior reinforcementtechniques.
Could I learn in eleven weeks?
"Includes the academic skills ..."
I had not done enough of this. I must set up more
academics for Luke. But first, I must find out how
much he actually knew. 73
*
"Listen," I said to Luke. "We've got to find
out what you know and how you learn best. Okay?"
Luke stared at me silently and hunched his
shoulders.
"There are two tests here."
"I hate tests," Luke said flatly.
"I know. But it's no good calling them games when
they're not. Right? Each of them takes about fifteen
minutes. The Spache and the WRAT. You can pick which
one you want to do first."
"A rat test? What's that? You trying to find out if
I'm a rat or something?"
"It's just a funny name," I said. "It's really
spelling, reading, math. A little of each. Here.
Write your name here and then I'm going to say some
words for you to spell."
Luke wrote the letters of his first name carefully on the
line I indicated. "Do you want my last name,
too?" he asked.
I smiled at Luke. How could anyone say there
hadn't been progress when he
volunteered to do more than he was asked?
"Sure," I answered. "That's good Now, these words
start out easy and then get hard. I'm supposed
to say the word, read a sentence that has the word in it, and
then say the word again. Okay?"
"Okay." Luke picked up his pencil and looked
at me hard.
"Go," I read. "Children go to school.
G."
Luke sat without moving.
"Write it on the line by number one. See?
Here." I pointed to his page.
"Write what?" Luke's eyes searched my
face.
"Go," I repeated. "Just write the letters that make
go
right here." I pointed again, letting my hand touch his
shoulder, just a little.
"Oh. I get it. I thought you were just saying go like

ready, set, go." Luke carefully lettered
g-o
on the first line.
"Word number two,
cat.
The cat has fur.
Cat,"
thinkingas I said it that if this had been a group test,
Luke would probably have failed. He wouldn't have
written the first word because he didn't understand what he
was expectedto do and he would never have asked. He would
have sat silently, getting farther behind and more
bewilderedeafiguring that the best way out of trouble,
since he couldn't run, was just not to do anything.
Luke wrote
cat
and looked at me. "Is that right?" he asked.
"I'm not supposed to say till the end. You just
keep goinguntil you think you've missed about ten and
then I'll check it."
"Ten's a lot," Luke said.
"It is," I agreed. "Number three.
In.
We are in the room.
In,"
thinking all the time, there's a lot to learn about this
testing business. One thing's for sure. I'm not going
to trust anybody else's testing. It's as
important to know what the child is doing and saying as
to know what his score is.
Luke worked hard, saying the words to himself. "Number
twenty-four.
Surprise.
He may surprise you.
Surprise."
Luke hesitated. "I think maybe I've
missed ten." I had, of course, been watching
carefully, but I took his paper and inspected it.
"Not quite. One more."
"Jeez," said Luke. "I got some of those?
They're hard."
"Yup. They are. Now this one-
surprise."
Luke wrote
sprize
and I said, "Okay. We'll give you, mmm,
five points for each word you wrote and let's say
you get a star for each one hundred points. Okay?
Can you count by fives?"
"Easy. Listen. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty,
twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty,
forty-five, fifty, fifty-five, sixty,
sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five, eighty,
eighty-five, ninety, ninety-five, one
hundred." He hesitated. "Uh-one

Maybe if I kept track of what we actually
did each time, I'd get a better idea of how
to help Luke.
Lunch period was just ending when I arrived. The
usual chaos was going on in the yard, but suddenly it
organizedxf. Like gulls swarming to a sandbar, the
childrenconverged on an old blue van that was pulling
into the parking section of the asphalt play yard.
"Beep. Beep. Beepidy-beep-beep." I
stopped to watch. There was a huge map of the United
States painted on one side of the van, and across and
up and down the map went a trail of red dashes,
evidently marking the journeys of the van.
The kids responded by shouting, "Be-be-beepidy
Lisaea** and crowded around as Miss Eckhardt
opened the door, grinned at them all for a second,
and then raised her arm and hurled something above their
heads. A paper airplane.the wind caught it and the
children cheered again as the little plane whirled over their
heads and they raced toward the plane as it crashed on
the asphalt.
Lisa caught sight of me on the stone steps and
waved. I was impressed. I had never seen a
teacher so at ease with children.
I smiled as we walked toward her classroom
together. "That's quite a car."
"I've had it ten years now. It was a high school
graduationpresent. My dad was never very good about
rememberingbirthdays or holidays, so when I
graduated he just lumped all the presents he'd
forgotten into one and gave me the van. I think
maybe he was sorry later, because I took off the
next day for New Mexico. At least that's where
I ended up. And every summer since then, the day after
school ends, I just get into the bus and go.
Doesn't matter where. I just go."
"Alone?"
"Sometimes. Mostly with a friend." I itched to ask more
about the friend, but decided on discretion.
"Who painted the map?"
"Me. That's right, you don't know. I was an art
major, thought I'd be a painter. Took me
awhile to realize nobodywas going to buy my
paintings, and I needed to earn
some money. Anyway, Mrs. Karras hired me
last year as an art teacher. Only when it came time
for school, it turned out they'd cut the budget-no
art or music. Fortunatelyeaor unfortunately,
I haven't decided yet, the
second-gradeteacher moved, the one who was going to be
the second-grade teacher, I mean, and Mrs.
Karras offeredme the job."
Lisa unlocked the classroom door and
straightened the paper sign on the glass window that
read:
Room 112 Grade 2
Miss Eckhardt
"Come on in, if you've got a minute."
"Thank you. I really did want to talk to you about
Luke, but I can do it after school-was
"Now's fine. In class, he's a little better.
He's finishing some of his math, he's showing up every
day, which is something new. He still won't read a word
and never touches his workbook."
"What does he do to get sent to the office?"
Lisa finished watering the last plant and put the can
by the sink. She sat down on one of the desks and
looked at me.
"If you were the superintendent or even one of the other
teachers here, I'd make up some story. Since
you're not, I'll tell you the truth. Whenever it
gets to be over a hundred decibels in here, I
just point to the part of the room where there's the most noise
and yell, "You three-or four or
whatever-get down to the office. Right now!!" It
may not be fair, and probably isn't when it comes
to Luke, he doesn't usually make much noise,
but it works. Gets rid of part of the class and scares
the rest inffbeing quiet for two minutes. Sorry, but
that's the way it is. Otherwise, I'd lose my
cotton-pickin' mind."
"Listen, Lisa. Do you have any books I could
use with Luke? Borrow, I mean. The
clinic-uh, nobody seems to have any kind of reading
material."
The kids were coming into the classroom now. One had
picked up Lisa's airplane; four others were in
hot pursuit. Lisa took her keys from the top
desk drawer. "Go on down to the storeroom.
Help yourself. Most of the stuff is ninety years
old, but maybe you'll find something. The brass key
on the end." She tossed the keys to me over the
heads of the children and then shouted at the kids racing up and
down the room. "Hey, you guys! What's going
on?"
I signaled my thanks, waved to Luke outside
the door and went off in search of the storeroom.
*
Lisa was right. The books did look
ninety years old. The covers were faded and the
pictures were all of sweet little children with golden
curls, rosy cheeks, and frilly clothes. How
could the kids at School 23 relate to them? Who
bought the books? Why?
At least they were organized. The lower shelves were for
first and second grades, the higher shelves for the
uppergrades. I sat on the floor and picked out
a book from each section of the first and second halves
of first grade-spelling book, reader, handwriting
manual, math book, teacher's editions of science
and social studies. Then the same from the second
grade. I'd get to know what you were expected
to learn in first and second grade. They hadn't got
around to that yet at college, and in the school for
seriously emotionally disturbed children where I had
taught, there had been little emphasis on and less
expenditure for academic materials.
I carried the books to the music room and put them
on top of the file cabinet, and then went back
to Lisa's room to return her keys and pick up
Luke.
"Any luck?" she called over the heads of the
kids, who were taping cardboard boxes together.
"We're making totempoles," she
explained. "Social Studies says you learn about
Indians in second grade. I figured this was as
good a way as any.
"Could you try to have Luke back by two-fifteen
td"...The second grades are going to get together for

baseball." I nodded. It was so hard to get
anything done in forty minutes, but I would have to learn.
Luke was quiet as we walked toward the music
room and he shut the door quickly as soon as we were
inside.
He sat down at the long table and stared at me.
"Wen-dell says you lied."
"Wendell Higgins? I thought you were going to stay
away from him."
Luke was not to be diverted. "I told him you were
gonna tell me how I did on those tests and he
says teachersnever tell, and I told him you weren't
a teacher and he says you're the same as one."
I added another notch to my dislike for Wendell
Higginsand went over to the file cabinet where we
kept our own records on each child and took out
Luke's folder.
I went back and sat down beside Luke. "Whatever
I do, I won't lie to you," I
promised. "Not now. Not yesterday.not tomorrow, and I
hope you won't lie to me."
Luke's soft, stubborn little voice asked, "Are
you gonna tell me how I did?"
"Of course." He had a right to know about himself.
Facts I found out in testing belonged to him more than
to me. He should know as much as he could understand.
I spread Luke's test papers out in front of
him. "In Mrs. Karras's office they have another
file for you where they keep the pink slips for the times
you're absent, times you got in trouble, things like that.
They have a file for everybody in the school."
Luke looked at me disbelievingly. "Not
everybody. Not the good kids. That'd be hundreds and
hundreds of files. That'd take up the whole
office."
"Well, they've got them," I said. "Anyway,
they also have a test for you and the other kids that are in our
programeal Vernon and Milt, that's supposed
to tell how smart you are. I can't show you that because I
didn't give it to you and it's not mine, but I've
seen it and I know what it says."
Luke's black-brown eyes never left my
face. "And it says," I continued, "that you have
average intelligence."
"And are in the fiftieth percentile." The squirming
increased. "Luke, listen now. I know some of this is
hard to understand, but it's important." I pulled a
blank piece of paper in front of us and drew a
line from the bottom to the top. I wrote 0 by the
bottom and a 100 at the top.
"You're good at counting," I said, as I made a
fat black dot halfway up the line. "If this
is zero here at the bottom and you were going to count up
this line to one hundred by ones, what do you think this dot
would be?"
"Can I count by tens?"
"Sure. Why not?"
"It's quicker," Luke said.
"Yes."
Luke pointed to the line. "Zero, ten, twenty,
thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty,
ninety, one hundred. That dot would have to be fifty.
It's like right halfway up."
"Yes. That's right. And that's where the test says you
are. That's what fiftieth percentile means.
You're smarter than half the kids."
"Nooo." Luke couldn't help himself. "You're
kidding me. I am not smarter than half the kids."
"Yes. Half the kids your age."
"Like in second grade? Smarter than half of
them?"
"Yes. Smarter than half of all the kids in
all second grades."
"Mrs. Jacobson's, too?" Luke stared at
me in disbelief.
Again I nodded.
Then Luke said, "What test was it?"
"It's called a WISC, the Wechsler
Intelligence Scale for Children. The psychologist
gave it to you a few months ago. He asked you a
lot of questions and gave you some puzzles and things to do."
"Yeah, yeah. I remember him." Luke was
kneeling on the chair now. "He had a stopwatch just
like you!" Suddenly, Luke was quiet, thinking hard.
Then he turned so he could look at me full in the
face. "Listen, Mary. How do you know how smart
he, that sico, whatever he's called, is? Maybe
he didn't get it right?"
I laughed out loud, thinking, by God, Luke, I
think 84
you're smarter than the fiftieth percentile. maybe
smarter than most of my professors. To Luke,
I said, "He got it right. I checked it. Besides
he's been to lots of colleges and is
even a special kind of doctor."
Luke was impressed. He thought hard for a while and
turned around again full face. "Well, if I'm
supposed to be so smart, how come I'm dumb?"
"What makes you think you're dumb?"
"Jesus," Luke sneered, forgetting his usual
detachment. "Look at all the zeroes I get.
And From's." He got out his lipstick tube just like the
one he'd given me, and spun it on the table. "You
don't get F's if you're smart."
"I know," I said. "That's what we have to try
to figure out. It doesn't make sense to me either.
Anyway, let me quickly tell you about these other
tests before you have to go back. Our time's almost up."
Never enough time. Now I realized how lucky I had
been when I taught emotionally disturbed children and had
them five hours a day, five days a week. How
could I teach anything in thirty or forty minutes?
Never mind. Don't waste time now.
"See, Luke? Here on the math-you're in the
fiftieth percentile too, grade score two
point six. That's right where you should be. But spelling
and reading are in the sixteen to twenty percentiles.
Not so good."
"Maybe that's why I get From's."
"Maybe. But I don't think so. It doesn't
make sense if you're smarter than half the
kids."
We looked at each other. Neither of us mentioned the
undone work, the unfinished pages, the fact that he
didn't read in reading group. I figured he could
bring it up if he wanted to, but it was too late
today for me to start on something that big. Maybe Luke
felt the same way.
"We're five minutes late already, Luke. Can
you get your box?"
Silently, Luke got the box and put the gold
stars by his name and then started to put the box away.
"Wait. Put on another red one."
"Why? I didn't do nuthin' today."
"Sure you did. You did a lot. You listened hard

you thought a lot and that's hard work. At least one
hundred points' worth."
Luke's face lit up at least a one hundred
watts' worth as he licked the star. Soon I would
have to give the stars some value, so that Luke could
"cash in." But for now it was enough just to earn five or
ten points for doing a problem or spelling a word-and
when there were a hundred points, Luke
traded them for a red star.
"Jeez," Luke said, as he pasted the star on the
page. "One hundred points just for thinking."

I stopped by the office on my way out to make sure
it was all right to take the pile of books I had
gathered from the storeroom.
Mrs. Karras was alone in her office and motioned
me to sit down. I realized how seldom I ever
saw her by herf.she was either in the classrooms or in
conference with teachers or board members or out in the
halls talking to the children. I mentioned this to her now.
"Well," she said, "I've been in this business
over twenty years now and one thing I've learned.
If the principaldoesn't work, nobody else
does either. You can't wander in at nine and expect
everybody else to be here at eight. And these teachers
have a hard job, these are tough kids-and if they say
that Bobby Ferraro, say, is disruptingthe whole
class, I'm not much help if I don't know who
Bobby Ferraro is. Besides"-Mrs. Karras
smiled at me-"I love these kids. I always have.
They have so little and yet they survive. They're not
quitters. I suppose that's what gets to me the
most. They keep on when other kids, even
adults, would go under. Yet these kids just keep on
living on inadequate food, rags for clothes, no
toys, absenteeparents, and they never complain.
"I asked to be transferred here. I was
vice-principal at 86
a posh school on the other side of town. The
principal was retiring in a year and, as everybody
kept pointing out to me, "I had it made!" But
then this opening at Twenty-three came up and I
applied and got it. That was six years ago and
I've loved every day of it. Of course,
everybodyelse thinks I'm out of my mind. But, you
know, like the kids, we're surviving. And unlike a
lot of the schools around here, we haven't had fires
or broken windows or looting here. Plenty in the
surrounding neighborhood, but not here at the school.
I like to think it's because the kids feel like the school
is theirs.
"Well, speaking of loot," Mrs. Karras
continued, "what are all the books?"
"I got them from the storeroom to use with Luke. I
also got a couple of reading and math tests from Norm
Foster and gave them to Luke. It turns out his math
isn't too bad, but he's almost a year behind in
reading and spelling. But neither the clinic nor
the college have any books I can use to teach
Luke."
Mrs. Karras glanced through the books. "Well,
you're certainly welcome to these, if you want them.
We haven't used those editions in five years.
One of the first things I did was get a new series in
here. But if Luke is turned off now, Mary, do
you really think these books will turn him on?"
"I don't know. But it's a place to start. As
long as you don't mind what I do with them."
"I don't care if I never see them again."
Mrs. Karras waved at the secretary, who was
signaling from the door. "And thank you again for coming down
here. It's going to mean a lot to Luke and the others.
I'm sure of it."
I stood up. "We thank you. I know a lot of
other principalsturned the program down, didn't
want "college kids" fooling around in their
schools."
Mrs. Karras's upright bearing suddenly became
limber and loose and she surprised me with a slide
step from an old soft-shoe routine. As we neared the
office door, she whacked me softly on the arm.
"Be my guest, kiddo. Fool around all you
want."
I drove back to college smiling all the way.

*
That night after dinner, I got out the' books from
School 23 and spread them on the floor in front
of me. There was no doubt they were unappealing. But that
was mainly because of the pictures. The words in the
first-grade books were first-grade words, the same
words as in the newer, more attractive texts. I
knew because I was alwayssearching forand reviewing "high
interest, low content"...books for the children I had taught
before. Their academic skills had often been even
lower than Luke's. The language experience
stories, such as Luke was writing for his book, worked
well with all kinds of kids and I planned to keep
on doing them with Luke, but books using a
phonetic or linguistic approach, which needed good
auditory abilities, didn't seem right for
Luke right now.
Foster had teased me when I told him I thought
Luke remembered what he saw better than what
he heard, but I still felt this way, even though I
didn't understand why it was so.
If Mrs. Karras had learned that a principal
had to be a working principal, I had
learned that the only way to teach a child who is in trouble
is to give him success. I didn't want
to drill where Luke was weak. I needed to use his
strong points. Just telling Luke he was smart
wouldn't mean anything. He had to be able to do something
he hadn't been able to do before.
I sighed and Cal looked up from the yellow pad where
he was sketching a design for the return header on
an ice mat, one of his many patents in the field of
heat exchange.
"Trouble?" he asked.
I leaned back against the couch. "It doesn't come.
The right way to teach Luke, I mean. I know it's
there. I can almost touch it, and then it's gone."
Cal nodded. "I know. Strange how the solution
to a problem can be so elusive." He put his pad in
his briefcase. "Maybe if you sleep on it."

By ten o'clock the next morning, I had it, or at
least the beginning. I knew what to do with those books.
I'd begin with the first half of first grade, words I was
sure Luke knew, and that were in large type. I'd
glue each page on a piece of heavy cardboard
and then cut them up and Luke could use the words in his
stories. That way, there'd be no dippy
pictures and no "baby book." And most
important, success was sure. Of course, I
could only use one side of a page, but that was okay.
There were plenty more books in the storeroom if I
needed them. But I didn't think I would.
First-grade sight vocabulary is pretty well
controlled and the same words were used over and over.
r
I had the box of word chips out on the table when
Luke came in, but if he noticed, he gave
no sign. In the little black and white notebook
I had our "lesson plan" for the day. Six lines
long. The date at the top of the page. Then, 1.
Best Thing, Worst Thing. (we always started with this.
It was an old and loved routine for me and Luke
liked it, too. Luke's telling me the best thing
and the worst thing that had happened to him since I last
saw him gave me a quick check on where he was and
what he needed. It also encouraged his use of
language.)
I 2. Dictate Story I 3. Word Bank
I 4. Addition Problems I 5. Rash Cards
6. Mystery Box
be At the bottom of the day's page in the notebook

be
the number 75-Luke's leftover points from the day
before.
" We read the list together. Luke knew most of the
I words from other times. He pointed to number 6.
"What's " that say?"
"Mystery Box."
"What's that?"
I pointed to the box that held the word chips. I'd
quickly slapped some red contact paper on it and put
a big yellow question mark on the top.
"Can we do it first?"
"Not today. Let's get through this other stuff first.
Best thing?"
"I got a hit in baseball. A good one.
Whacko. Ole Bobby Ferraro couldn't even hold
onto it and I got to second."
"A double. Good, Luke. Give yourself ten points.
You know, I never got a hit ever when I was in
school."
"How come?" Luke asked, interested.
"I don't know. I just couldn't get the bat
to connect with the ball. They both seemed so little. I just
struck out every time. I hated spring to come because of that."
Luke nodded, understanding. "Yeah. Well,
a baseball is pretty little, a lot littler than a
basketball. But it's not too hard." He looked
up at me. "Maybe we could play some, sometime."
"Maybe. Maybe you could show me. Do you have a
worst thing?"
Luke thought for a minute and then shook his head.
"Nothing?" I asked, pushing a little, but needing to know.
"No bad dreams-not in any trouble-?"
"Nope." Luke's voice was sure. "Well,
only thing-I burned my arm a little." He turned
over his right arm and there was a large red welt
halfway to his elbow.
"Ugh! How did you do that?"
"Cookin'. I was frying the hamburgers for Alice
and Frank and Alice began throwing her shoe around in
the kitchen. I told her not to, but she just did it
anyway, like a dumb ole girl, and then it landed right
on the stove and hit the pan and, plop, the ole fat
popped up on my arm."
"What did you do?"
Luke looked at me. "What do you think? I put
her shoe up high where she couldn't get it till after
supper."
I nodded, thinking a hundred things at once. Where
was his mother? Why couldn't I ever get her on
the phone? I'd have to see her somehow. Had anybody
put
anything on his arm? Was it bad enough to send him to the
nurse? Would he see that as a betrayal?
Out loud I said, "I didn't know you could cook
hamburgers."
Luke laughed. "That's nuthminin. I can cook
thousands of things. Hot dogs. Beans.
Hamburgers. Jelly sandwiches. Chocolate
milk. Lots of things. I cook for Alice and
Frank and me all the time."
I kept the sigh inside, remembering his defensive
silence on the mountain when he thought I'd
criticized his mother. "You better pay yourself
twenty," I said. "Ten for the burn, worst thing, and
another ten for the cooking."
"All right," Luke said, keeping score on a
piece of paper.
Forget the burn. It doesn't look that bad.
He'd hate to go to the nurse. I checked off 1.
"Okay. Two: Dictate story. What's the
story today?"
Luke settled back. This was old hat to him now.
We had at least twenty stories in his book, some
long, some short. "Once upon a time," he
said, "there was this baseballteam and it was the Bust um
up team."
"Bust um up? How do you spell that?"
"Just write it any way," Luke said
impatiently. "Like bust um up. Anyway, they were
playing a game against another team called the
Killers ..."
Luke's story was one of blood and violence.
Everybody got hit on the head, blood drenched the
ballpark. His storieswere much more related to his
world now. Instead of writing about lions in Africa,
he was moving away from fantasy and was beginning
to write about the guts of his existence.
I was always moved by his stories, and now as he
finishedeaI had to clear my throat before I said,
"Okay. Let me read it back to you." Luke
made a few small correctionsand then read the
story to himself. "I'll get it typed and bring it
next time," I promised. "Now pick your word.
Anything but Bust um up."
We kept a word bank of special words Luke
wanted to learn.
"Baseball," he said without hesitation.
"Okay." I was pretty sure he already knew it
He'd used it several times in his story, but
his word was
his word,
and we used the one he chose. "That's called a
compound word." I printed it onto an index card with a
Magic Marker. "A compound word has two real
words in it. See?
Base
and
ball."
I handed Luke the card.
"'BaseLukelooked at it carefully and then put
it in with the other words in an old wooden recipe box
I'd brought in.
"Baseball, blackboard, sidewalk.
All compound words," I said.
"And Bust 'em up," Luke said, teasing me.
"Bust you up," I said. "Here. Two addition
problems. They're hard. Ones, tens, and
hundreds."
Luke bent his head over the paper, adding out loud,
"Four and three are seven."
I watched him as he worked. He made it all
worthwhileeaall the dumb, dreary courses. All
the wasted time memorizing useless facts. It
didn't matter. I could do it because of
Luke.
There." Luke pushed the paper back to me. "How's
that?"
I checked the problems. "Add the ones, add the
tens, add the hundreds. Perfect. Give yourself
ten points for each. And an extra five for this one.
Look. See how neat it is? All your answers
are exactly under the right columns. That's good.
It's important to keep them straight. Okay.
Check off addition. What's next? Ah, flash
cards. They're over on the file cabinet."
Luke was already on his way. Good. He needed
to stretch his body a little. He had been sitting so
still, concentrating sohard.
He brought the box back, put it on the table, and
stood beside me.
"Thank you, Luke," I said. "Whatll it be today?
Easy or hard?" We had divided up the addition
facts from one to twenty into two piles, one easy,
one hard, and were gradually moving more to the easy pile
as Luke became certain of them. Now he answered.

"Both. First the easy. Then the hard." I grinned
at him. "Pretty sure of yourself." "Gimme the
easy ones fast, Mary. I know 'em so
good."
He was right. He did. He had at least thirty
of the cards down cold. Automatic for him now.
"Thirty more points," I said. "You're going
to break the bank today."
Luke marked the score sheet. "Boy, those 'dition
cards are easy. You know what?" Luke put his hand
on my arm to get my attention. "Those easy 'dition
cards are so easy, I know 'em outside in."
Outside in? Maybe that's the way to get to know a
child. Outside in or inside out. What did it
matter? We both knew what he meant.
"And now," I said, "for the Mystery Box." Luke
jumped up on the chair eagerly and my heart
clunked downward. What a letdown this was going
to be. Why hadn't I let him open it in the beginning
and use the words in his story as I'd planned? Now
he would be bored by this and what I had thought was such a
good idea wouldn't work at all. I shook my head
at myself. Dumb. What was I going to do now?
Luke sure wasn't going to want to make sentences
out of those words now. I knew it.
Luke was still waiting, looking at me. "What is
it?" he asked pleasantly. "What's a mystery
box?"
I looked at him. "To tell the truth, Luke,
I don't really know. I just called it that because I
didn't know a better name. Here. Look." No
use trying to fake it. I pushed the box toward him
and waited. He took off the lid and silently
stirred the word chips with his finger. "What are we
gonna do with them?"
I shrugged. "Well, I had a plan, but now it
doesn't seem so great. I'm trying to get a new
idea." I piled a few words in front of me,
trying to think, but Luke was way ahead of me.
"Look," he said. "We can make it like a TV
show. I'll 93
close my eyes and pick a word and then see if I
can read it."
"Yes," I said, warming to Luke's idea.
"Listen. We can get the tape recorder and
pretend it's like a microphone." I was already up,
lifting my tape recorder down from the closet
shelf.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome
to the-was I snapped the recorder off and turned
to Luke. "What are we going to call the show?"
Luke knew. "The Mystery Show. Today it will be
words. Other times we can make it other
things."
I nodded. "Welcome to the Mystery Show. Our first
contestant is Luke Brauer. He will pick words
absolutely unknown and never before seen by him, from this
box right before your eyes and attempt to read them."
Luke tugged at my sleeve. "Pretend I win
money for them," he said. "That's the way they do it on
TV."
"How much?" I asked.
"A dollar for every word I get right," Luke said
seriously and then whispered to me, whispered because the
audience was getting so real to us. "That's just pretend,
Mary. Not real money, okay?"
I nodded and turned on the tape again. "We have a
fortune waiting here to be won by some lucky someone.
A dollar for every correct word. Are you ready,
Mr. Brauer?"
Luke nodded, closed his eyes tight, and reached for a
word chip. He held it in the center of his hand, opened
his eyes and said triumphantly,
"Play.
The word is
play."
"Correct. Absolutely correct. That is one
dollar." I tore off a small piece
of paper and handed it to him.
I picked up my stopwatch and grinned at Luke.
"You now have three minutes in which to earn as many
dollars as you can. Ready. G."
Luke grabbed a handful of chips.
"Ball. Said. Ran.
X.
Blue.
One,"
shouting out the words, piling them in front of him as the
stopwatch ticked away.
When the three minutes were up, Luke had emptied
the box and won eighty-seven dollars, and I knew
he knew all the words. Our next show would have the
words 94
from the second half of first grade. Maybe they should
be worth two dollars.
One thing was sure. I didn't have to worry about how
to teach as long as I had Luke around. If I
couldn't figure it out, he'd show me how.

I tried to call Luke's house once more from the
office, but again there was no answer. Was his mother home
and just not answering? Perhaps she was sleeping. According
to Luke, she was now working as a waitress
at Joe's, a roadhouse at the edge of town, and
left for work at five o'clock each afternoon.
The idea of the therapeutic tutorial program at
School 23 was good, but there sure were a lot of
loose ends. Less than four official weeks
left and I hadn't even met Luke's mother yet
When I complained about this to Shirley and Hud, I
found they were having the same trouble, although Hud had
finally met Vernon's mother one afternoon when she came
to pick him up at school.
I told both Jerry and Norm Foster and they were
sympathetic, but we barely sawJerry now and
Foster really did have difficulty finding time to get
down to School 23, between classes and the long rows of
students waiting to be advised.
I went back to the music room and took out a pad
of fined paper. "Dear Mrs. Brauer," I
wrote. "I am Mary MacCracken, Luke's
tutor here at School 23. I am enjoyingworking with
Luke and would like very much to meet you. When and where would be
good for you? Mary MacCracken."
I wrote the note five times without getting it much
better.i didn't want it to sound threatening or
superior or condescending. Finally, I just folded it
up and put it in an envelope and wrote
"Mrs. Brauer" on the outside. 95
But then I had to figure out how to get it to her. I
didn't want to mail it. Luke could take it, but
then he would wonder why I was sending a note to his
mother.
I glanced at my watch. Two-thirty. I would
wait for Luke and give it to him after school so I
could explain.
I took out my notes on the reading practicum
course, to go over while I waited for three o'clock.
We were supposedto be teaching a retarded child to read,
only it turned out that we just simulated the child and
talked about what we would do if we were teaching an
"educable" child. "Educable" was supposed to mean an
IQ of fifty to seventy-five; "trainable" was
twenty-five to fifty;
"custodial," zero to twenty-five; seventy-five
to ninety, "slow learner"; ninety to one hundred and
ten, "average";
one hundred and ten to one twenty, "bright"; and on up
the scale. Somehow it seemed very artificial when
Mrs. Riley lectured about it during reading
practicum. Maybe it was because I had the feeling
I wouldn't want to answer her questions if she were testing
me, and if I didn't answereawhat
label would I get? Slow learner? Educable?
More and more I was coming to believe that testing was an art, that
no group IQ test should ever be given, and that somehow
I was going to have to take enough courses so that I would have the
training to do my own testing.
The three-o'clock bell rang and chaos was instant. It
was spring and the kids couldn't wait to get outside and the
teachers couldn't wait to get them there.
I stuffed my notebook back into my canvas bag
and caught up with Luke as he was going down the stone
steps. I should have known he'd be the first one out
"Hey, Luke. Wait a minute."
He turned, pausing only for a second.
"Will you take this to your mom?" I took the note out
of the envelope so he could see for himself. "I can't
get her on the phone so I wrote to ask her when
we could meet. Okay?"
"Okay. I'll tell her." I put the note
back in the envelopeand handed it to him. "See ya,"
Luke called back, already on the sidewalk with
Wendell Higgins close beside 96
him, and then gone around the corner in a second. Where
did they go? What did they do? How little I knew
of Luke's life.
*
At ten o'clock on Friday morning I sat alone in
the music room. Strange how different a room can
seem at varying hours of the day. Luke and I were
usually here in the early afternoon; then the room was full
of sunlight and I had come to think of it as a cheerful,
pleasant place. Now, as I waited for Mrs.
Brauer, the sun had not yet reached these windows and the
long white overhead tubes gave off a thin cold
light. I shivered and took the paper from my pocket
and spread it on the table. On the bottom of my
note, Mrs. Brauer had written, "I will come
to school Friday at ten."
The clock over the door clicked loudly. It had
never made noise before. Impatiently I walked
around the room, wondering what Luke's mother would be
like, how much she knew about the program, what she
thought of it.
Click. Click. Click. Ten-fifteen. I
would wait until eleven, I decided. I had
cut my nine-thirty class. No great loss, but
I had to be back by eleven-thirty. We were havinga
quiz in Current Methods of Teaching Mentally
RetardedAdolescents.
"Mrs. MacCracken?"
"Mrs. Brauer?" I moved quickly to the
doorway and held out my hand. "Good morning. I'm
glad to meet you." How young she was. And small.
Her hair was like Luke's, short, brown, wavy,
cut the same way.
"Would you like some coffee? I can get us some from the
office."
"No. No, thank you. I can't stay long."
Mrs. Brauer looked back over her shoulder
nervously. Was someone else with her? Or waiting?
"May I take your coat?"
"No, thank you." She pulled it closer around her.

"All right. Let's sit down over here. I laid
out some of Luke's things."
We moved to the long table where Luke and I worked and
I showed her some of Luke's pictures and
stories, the lesson plan book, his pages of
arithmetic.
She looked at each carefully and then put them
neatly in front of me. "Is he doing good?" she
asked. "Is he behaving?"
"Oh, yes." How could I tell her what fun he
was? How I loved working with him? I searched for
words that she could take home. "Luke's smart,
Mrs. Brauer. And he's hardly sent
to the office anymore."
She nodded and we again sat silently, until I
said, "How are things going at home?"
"Fine."
We were getting nowhere. This wasn't helping Luke.
"Mrs. Brauer," I said as gently as I could.
"I've read Luke's file. I know he's been
in trouble for setting fires. In fact, I went
down to the police station with him once. Do you know why
he does it?"
"No. He didn't do it. Luke's a good boy.
He didn't do nuthin" wrong." She gagged
slightly and took a tissue from her pocketbook
and wiped her mouth. She couldnt have been more than
thirty-two, but there were dark circles under her
eyes. Still, it was clear that she had once been a very
pretty woman.
I half stood, remembering how Luke had said his
mother wasn't well. "Would you like some water?"
Mrs. Brauer shook her head. "No. I'm
fine. Fine. Luke's a good boy."
"Yes," I agreed.
"Helps around the house. Helps with Alice and
Frank."
"Yes."
"The only thing"-the tissue turned back and forth between
her fingers-"is some of those other kids in the
project. I try to keep him away from them, but
Luke doesn't talk much so I don't know ..."
her voice trailed off and she wiped the corners of
her mouth again.
"It must be very hard." Hard? It must be hell.
Some-98
how she made it seem so real. Not by what she said,
just by her existence. The poverty, the sickness, the
constant struggle-for what? So you can stay alive
to struggle one more day?
"Listen," I said, silently shaking myself. Feeling
sorry for her wasn't going to do anybody any good.
"Luke is doing better. But he has a way to go.
He's behind in both reading and spelling and he can't
afford any more absenceseawhatever the reason. It's
important that he do his homework and get to bed
early. I agree he shouldn't hang around with kids
who'll get him in trouble."
Mrs. Brauer smiled slightly. This was better.
Tough talk was more reassuring than sweetness and
light.
She nodded her head. She looked happier for a
minute, the expression around her mouth almost
like Luke's. "Maybe if you speak to him. Maybe
he'll listen." She pushed her chair back and
stood up. "I have to get back," she said.
"All right. But I'd like to see you again soon."
"It's hard to get away-so much to do." She was
fadingaway, going out the door, almost not there. Running
silently, just like Luke, dealing with life by running
away. "Yes. We'll see-I'll let you
know..." She was out the door and down the stone steps,
her small thin shoulders hunched together, both arms
wrapped around her pocketbook. I watched her
until she was out of sight.
Then I walked back to the music room and closed
the door. What could I do about Mrs. Brauer? Not
much. Not much. All she wanted was to be left
alone. And who could blame her?
Alice and Frank. Where were they? All I knew
was that they were younger than Luke. I asked in the
office. The secretary checked the file. Yes,
Alice Brauer in kindergarten, F rank in first.
Both classes in the basement.
I walked down the stairs slowly. I had never
been in this part of the building before. There was one large,
dark, damp room with tables set up in the corners.
One of the teachers came toward me.
"Yes?" Her voice was cold. It was apparent
visitors were not welcome. 99
"I'm one of the tutors from the college," I
explained. "Working with Luke Brauer. Could you
point out his brother and sister?"
"Those two at the paint table," she
said.
"Don't be long. Disturbs the children. Besides, there's
nothing to see."
Two blond heads bent close together. Blond
hair, not brown like Luke's and his mother's, but wavy,
cut the same. What were they doing at the same table
if they were in different classes? Open
classroom? Ha!
I walked back upstairs even more slowly, fighting
the urge to go get Luke. Go get him and set him
free somehow.how could he survive under all that
weight? The responsibilitieseapoverty,
illness. I walked through the office without looking at
the secretary and sat down opposite Mrs.
Karras. She was on the phone, but I waited,
needing to talk to her.
"What happens to these kids?" I asked her as
soon as she was done. "I mean when they're twelve
or twenty or thirty. Does anybody
ever have a decent life? Or do they all end up like
Mrs. Brauer?"
Mrs. Karras stood up. "Not all. Most
maybe, but not all. A few get out, but they don't
usually come back. Why should they?
"You know something, my husband's a principal here in
Falls City, too. We live here. We work
here. But you know where we spend our time? Down at the
shore. As soon as we had enough money, we bought a
house just a block from the ocean-and that's where we go
whenever we can. That's how we survive, and in another
five or six years, that's where we'll retire."
She walked over to the small window that faced the
street. "Come here a minute, Mary." She put
one arm around my shoulders and pointed with the other hand.
"See over there? The house with the wire fence."
"Yes." I knew the house. That was where the white
dog hurled himself against the fence at each passerby.
"I was born in a house like that, just two blocks
down."
If Mrs. Karras could get out, maybe Luke
could too. 100
I drove slowly through the streets surrounding the
school. Where was Luke? What did he do after
school each day? Where did he race with
Wendell Higgins close beside him?
There was no point in admonishing Luke to stay away
from Wendell. If Luke didn't find Wendell,
Wendell found Luke. But what did they do?
There was no one Luke's size on the streets or
sidewalksnear the school, only a few adults
walking slowly. Over by the project, girls were
jumping rope. "Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, rum
around, Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the
ground." One little girl ran out from under the rope,
another one in. The chant continued. "Teddy Bear,
Teddy Bear, climb the stairs, Teddy Bear,
Teddy Bear, say your prayers." Luke would not be
here.
I turned out of the narrow streets back onto the
main road, down toward the park. High school
kids standing or sitting around on the grass, smoking.
I left the car and walked through the park, past the
fountain. Conversation stopped as I neared.
Obviously, I was not welcome. Luke and
Wendell would not be here either.
I went back to the car and drove through the small
business district, past the movies to Dunkin'
Donuts. Kids covered Dunk*in Donuts like
flies-inside, outside, leaningon the
glass window, sitting on the sidewalk in front,
lounging on the cars parked in the street. These kids
were all ages, but still no Luke or Wendell.
The mountain? Would Luke have taken Wendell there?
I wasn't sure. The mountain meant a lot
to Luke. Memories of his father were strong there, and
yet Wendell must know about it. He was the one who had
taken my message to Luke when he was hiding out.
Should I hunt for them there? Could I even find the

place? Wherever Luke was, he wouldn't be there much
longer. His mother went to work at five and she said he was
good about being there to take care of his brother and sister.
Maybe the best thing was to go back to the project and
wait and see which direction he arrived from.
I parked my car a block away and waited.
"Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch your shoe,
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, twenty-three
skiddoo." Why didn't they jump to a different
tune? I smiled to myself. Or march to a different
drummer? Who can lead anyone else's life? Or
even understandit. Prime example, me.
There's Luke. Wendell, too. Coming from the
direction of town. But not walking now. They sat
down on the curbs as I watched. Luke
was dirty, face and hands black with grime or
soot. From fires? As I watched, Wendell
took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and
passed it to Luke. Luke took a deep drag and
handed it back to Wendell.two little kids sitting
on a street corner, smoking.
*
"Why can't we?" I said to Hud and Shirley.
"Nobody knows what we're doing now, anyway.
When's the last time you were supervised?"
Shirley said, "I haven't seen Jerry in
weeks. I don't know what's happened, but he's
not around much. I hear you, Mary. I hear what
you're saying, but I can't help you out. I'm having
enough trouble getting down here for my regular sessions with
Milt. I'm working forty hours a week now at the
store, trying to get enough money to cover the first
semester's tuition at graduate school. I
sure can't take any time off to play baseball."
I turned to John Hudson. "How about it,
Hud? You're the one we really need. You and
Vernon. What's one afternoona week? You can work out
after we finish. Look, all we have to do is
organize the teams. Get them started and then they can
play by themselves. Once a week isn't
going to kill you."
"Jeez. I don't know. I agree those kids
need something to do besides hang out. Maybe they will play
baseball 102
Who knows? All right. There are only a few
weeks left anyway. But it has to be Thursday.
That's the only free afternoon I've got."
"Okay. That's good." I'd miss part of
Statistics and Orientation to Psychological
Testing, but that was no big loss. I'd get the
notes from somebody. "How should we start? We've
got Vernon and Luke. They're both nuts about
baseball. What about Milt, Shirley-will he
play?"
We needn't have worried about kids. Thirty showed
up the first afternoon and Hud was better than terrific with
them. We divided them into two teams by lining them up
and counting off by fours. Ones and threes on one team,
twos and fours on the other. We named the teams the
Yankees and the Red Sox.
They were scheduled to play only on Thursdays, but
by the second Thursday, it was clear they were playing
on their own almost every afternoon. They had captains, they
had their own team names, the Shirts and the Skins, and
they had a batting order.
Vernon was the captain of the Red Sox (alias
Skins) and a big blond kid named Willie was the
captain of the Yankees (alias Shirts). By now,
of course, they had rearrangedthe teams the way they
wanted them; each captain had taken turns picking
players. Luke was on Vernon's team.
I loved to watch them play. Racing around the
blacktopeastealing bases, banging the ball with all
their might. Thirty kids having fun and also keeping
themselves in order.on Thursdays Hud had permission
to use the school's equipment-bases, bats,
balls, gloves, masks. I don't know what they
used on other days, but somehow most of the kids had
got caps of some shade of red or blue, so
everybody could tell who was on which team. Of course,
on every day but Thursday, half the kids took off
their shirts and identification was easy. On
Thursdays Hud umpired; who knows who made the
rules the other days?
I was late getting to the game the third Thursday
because I' d stopped to talk to Lisa. I ran down
the steps and out onto the blacktop side yard.
Hud shouted to me, 103
"Second half of the fourth inning. Five to two,
Yankees.** I walked out on the
field next to him and he added in a quiet voice,
"Keep an eye on Vernon, will you? He's not the
world's best loser anyway and something's bugg*in him
today."
I went back to the sidelines thinking about Vernon and
how far he'd come. He had even signed up for a
paper route this coming summer, but some of the anger that had
been behind the previous knife fights was still there.
I was so busy thinking about Vernon that I walked
straight into Officer Snow.
"Hey," I said. "What are you doing here? Is
Luke okay?"
Officer Snow shrugged his beefy shoulders. "How
should I know? I just stopped by for the game. One of my
kids is playing. Our youngest. See him up there?
He's right behind the batter."
The Red Sox got two runs in the last of the fourth
and Officer Snow bellowed approval. "Aw right,
team. Way to go. Keep "em down now. Don't
let them Yankees score. You can tie it up
next time."
I moved down the line away from the cheers of Officer
Snow and crouched down on my heels looking for
Luke. I finally spotted him in the outfield.
He caught my eye but gave no sign.
Nor did I.
But Officer Snow's shouts seemed to be having an
effecteaand at the middle of the fifth inning the
Yankees were only one run ahead of our team.
Vernon led off with a double and then Luke was up. He
looked so little opposite Willie, the pitcher. I
got up and walked back and forth, unable to sit still.
Officer Snow was pounding the fence. "Come on, youse
Brauer kid. Knock him in! Knock him in!
Tie it up!"
My mouth was dry and I whispered under my breath,
"It's okay, Luke. Whatever happens, it's
okay. Good luck." I turned the lipstick tube
inside the pocket of my jeans.
"Ball one," Hud yelled.
Luke struck at the next ball and tipped it off
the side. "Foul ball Strike one. Ball one."

The next pitch was straight across the middle of the
plate and Luke swung and connected and the ball
sailed out beyond second base. Luke headed for first
and Ver-non was already halfway to third.
One of the Yankees pegged the ball back
to Willie and he hesitated for one second as
Vernon touched third and started home before
he threw to first and Hud called Luke out.
Willie threw to home and Vernon retreated and
made it back, just in time, to third.
Inwardly, I raged at Hud. How could he do that
to Luke! It was so close, how could he tell for
sure. Poor Luke.
Poor Luke, nothing. Luke was out in the middle
of the field, hat in hand, yelling at Hud. I
couldn't hear what he was saying, but then I couldn't
believe what I was seeing either. Luke wasn't
running away. He was standing up there, yelling,
protesting, telling it his way.
If I couldn't hear Luke, I could hear Officer
Snow loud and clear. "Thataway, kid. You tell
him. That ump's blind as a bat."
Luke was sure telling him, his cap on the ground
now, hands on his hips, words pouring out.
Suddenly Vernon raced out from third and swung at
Hud. Hud hammerlocked Vernon and yelled out
loud and clear.
"You guys have ten seconds to quiet down or this
game's over. Luke, you're out, get off the
field. Vernon, you're safe, get back on
third. The score is four to five with one man out.
Now let's play ball."
Nobody moved, and then Luke picked up his cap,
swatted it against his rear, retrieved his bat from the
sidelineseaand went to wait with the rest of the Red Sox.
Vernongrumbled something but went on back to third.
Luke had won. He'd made his protest, he'd
used words, and even though he hadn't changed Hud's
mind, Hud had listened to him and Luke had abided
by the rules. He hadn't run away, and no matter
how the score came out, Luke was a winner.
Above the hubbub of the game, Officer Snow resumed

his cheering. "Never mind, kid. You'll get on
next time. That ump should have his eyes examined."
I moved back down by Officer Snow and shouted with
him.
"All right now, Red Sox. Let's tie 'er
up."

I could not believe I had gotten so far behind. Two
papersand ten abstracts due for Professor
Drobuy's course in Current Methods of
Teaching Mentally Retarded Adolescents.two
book reports for Practicum in Reading for the
Mentally Retarded, plus two months" lesson
plans for teaching reading to a simulated
mentally retarded child. Piles of notes to copy over
for Orientation to PsychologicalTesting from the times
I had come in late from baseballeaplus a page
each on the description of twenty different
psychological tests. Describe what they test.
What is the validity? The reliability? What
is standardization"...How much do they cost? Where can they be
purchased"...Who is considered qualified to use them?
I spent hours in the library searching for information,
taking notes, then writing reports, typing them
up.
At least there was no backlog in Background of
Mathematics II . We had to hand in homework
daily. Our silent, dark professor
corrected, graded, gave it back to be redone the
next day. Quizes twice a week. I thought I
understood it a little better this semester.
Probability. "Two dice are thrown. Find the
probability that the sum is nine and at least one of the
two faces is even."
%
X % equals %. Easy. lan Michaels
slouched beside me nodding approval. Each night I
prayed that probability would etch itself into my brain so
that I could retrieve it on the exam three
weeks away.
Where had the days gone? I, who had thought they had
dragged endlessly, now raced to catch up. In and out of

School 23 in an hour three times a week. No
baseball for me now, either, but the kids kept on
playing. Lisa reportedthat Luke was reading a
line or two at his reading group. "Hang in,
Luke," I told him. "Exams will be over in a
week and then college will be closed until June
twenty-eighth, when we start summer school."
"Summer school? What are you going to go to summer
school for?" Luke looked at me unbelievingly.
"A good question," I said. But I knew it was the only
way I could finish in two years.
Shirley and Hud had said their good-byes, written
their anecdotal reports on Vernon and Milt,
and left the state college behind. Hud already had a
job teaching a neurologically impaired class at
a junior high, and Shirley had accumulatedmost
of the tuition she needed to begin graduate school.
"How come they left?" Luke wanted to know.
"They graduated," I explained.
"You gonna graduate?" Luke asked.
"I hope so, Luke," I said. "But not
this year. That's why I can still come in June and they
can't. I won't graduatetill next year. I
don't think that they are going to have the same kind of
program next year, but I can still come down sometimes
if you want. You'll be in third grade by then."
Luke was working well in class and was high scorer
on his baseball team. Mrs. Brauer came
back to school twice, unexpectedly, without
appointments (i suspected Mrs. Karras was
somewhere behind those visits), but at least she came and
I felt that she was beginning to trust me a little.
I forced my head back to Statistics and Orientation
to Psychological Testing. The Wechsler Primary
Preschool Scale of Intelligence, the Wechsler
Intelligence Scale for Children, the Wechsler
Adult Intelligence Scale. WPPSI,
WISC, WAIS. Mr. Wechsler would certainly
feel at home in the world of acronyms in
Washington, D.c.
*
The last week of May was hot and muggy. Clothes
clung, tempers frayed. I was lucky in exam
scheduling- one a day, Monday through Thursday, and then
the anecdotalreport on the School 23
project. Monday:
Practicum in Reading for the Mentally Retarded.
TuesdayccCurrent Methods of Teaching Mentally
Retarded Adolescents. Wednesday: Statistics
and Orientation to Psychological Testing.
Thursday: Background of Mathematics
II.FRIDAY: Report on School 23
project.
Done. Done. Done. I'd done it. I'd finished
one year of college. Now three weeks off, then
summer school and one more year and I'd be through.
*
The phone rang in the middle of the night and I heard
Cal's voice answering as I swam up from
sleep. "Yes. She's right here." He turned on
the light and handed me the phone. "It's your dad.
Your mother has had a stroke."
The northbound parkway was almost empty in the early
morning, and I was at the retirement community in
less than two hours. My father was waiting by the
glass doors as I came in. He looked the
same, strong and clean, although he must have been up
most of the night. "Are you okay?" I asked as I
kissed him, loving the familiar smell of Aqua
Velva.
"Fine. You're good to come. Have you had
breakfast?"
I nodded. I'd had a thermos of coffee in the car.
How's Mother? Can I see her?"
"Not till nine. And that's an exception because you're
from out of town. Regular visiting hours at the
nursing home are two to four in the afternoon."
"Nursing home?"
"That's what they call the little hospital we have
here."
I nodded, but it was hard to think of my mother in a
nursing home. She had always been the first one up in
the morning, sitting at the table in the breakfast
room, planningthe meals with Maud, who lived with us,
pouring my father's coffee as he walked in. In the
evenings before it 108
was time to meet my father's train, she would play the
pianoand sing softly. I loved coming home after
school and so did my friends.
Because of my mother, our house was always full of clean,
good smells and soft, friendly sounds. In the
summersat the river, she cooked breakfast herself.
(maud went back to the West Indies each
summer.) She gave us large bowls of steaming
oatmeal, topped with brown sugar and fresh cream.
My grandmother stayed with us in the summer and I
loved to watch them together-my mother and her mother. They were
gentle and quiet with each other, sitting on the porch
looking over the water, writing letters, sewing,
talking, having tea in the afternoon. They touched each
other often, straightening a sweater, picking up a
ball of yarn that had fallen, tucking back a strand
of hair. It was through watching them that I first understood
the strong bond of love between women.
The nursing home smelled like any other hospital.
There were cheerful nurses on duty and wheelchairs in
the hall. And then my mother's room, her bed by the
window.
I knelt on the floor beside her bed and kissed her
face. Still lovely. Chiseled bones. Fine skin.
She raised her hand and gestured toward her mouth.
Good. She can move. I looked up toward my father.
"She can't speak," he said. "The stroke's
affected her speech."
I put my hand over hers. "It will come back.
There's no need to talk now, anyway. Just rest.
I'll be here awhile and I'll tell you all the
news a little later."
I stood up and looked at my father. "You must be very
tired. Why don't you go back to your apartment and rest
while I'm here?"
My father rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes.
"All right. This wasn't the first time, but she never
wanted me to say anything. And she always came back
fast." He kissed my mother. "You always were a
plucky girl, sweetheart." Her brown eyes
searched his face. "I'll be back this afternoon," he
promised before he turned to me. "You'll come over for
lunch?" 109
"Yes."
"All right, then. I'll meet you in' the lobby at
twelve- thirty."
I pulled a small chair up near the bed and sat
beside my mother throughout the morning, except when the
nurses came asking me politely, but firmly,
to move to the hall.
"She's mine," I protested inwardly. "My mother.
Let me do that." But outwardly, I obeyed and
stood among the wheelchairs in the hall.
At eleven-thirty they served lunch in the nursing
home. A nurse rolled a cart into the room,
cranked up the hospitalbed, lifted a tray
onto the bed table, tied a bib around my mother's
neck, and began to spoon a thin clear soup into her
mouth.
A bib! How she must hate it. She had
headed our table so graciously, with a silver bell
beside her glass and a damask napkin in her lap.
"I'll do that." This time my own voice was firm.
"You have so much to do."
As soon as the nurse was out the door, I untied the
bib. "No need for that." I smiled and thought I could
see an answering smile somewhere near her eyes.
She couldn't swallow much, but I made the
spoonfuls small, wishing I had one of the
demitasse spoons that she had given me to feed my
babies, showing me how the slender shape of the
demitasse fit small mouths so much better than
the usual fat baby spoon. She had taught me
so much, cared for me so tenderly. I touched the napkin
to her mouth after each small sip. It was my turn
now.
Then when the nurse had taken the cart away and I
had washed her face and hands, then finally, she
slept.
In the parking lot with my father, I said once more,
"Please think more about moving down with us. There is enough
room; you could have your own bedroom and both Cal and
I would like to have you there."
"Thank you, dear. We're fine here. One reason
we moved down from the country was in case
anything like this happened. I can have all my meals in the
dining room and see your mother every day." 110
I knew he meant it, knew he would hate being
cooped up in a city apartment. Here he had his garden
and his golf, and they both had many friends.
He patted my arm. "We'll be fine. The
doctor wouldn't let your mother be moved yet,
anyway. Now don't go worrying about us. You know
she wouldn't want that. She's so proud of you, going
back to college, all the work you're doing with the children."
Tears stood in my eyes. I cried too easily
these days. "How long? How long will she have to be
there?" I wished I could tell him about the bib, but that
wouldn't be fair. He wasn't allowed to visit
until two o'clock, anyway.
He shook his head. "Nobody knows. We'll just have
to take each day as it comes."
I nodded at the familiar words.
"Okay." I climbed into the car. "I'll see you
tomorrow."
"Not tomorrow. That's too long a drive."
"I have three weeks off now. Let me come as often
as I
can.
18
I was down at School 23 the next morning before it
opened, waiting for Luke. As soon as he arrived,
I signaledto Lisa, and Luke and I headed for the
music room.
"How come you're here so early?" Luke wanted
to know.
I shook my head. "Luke, I have bad news.
My mother is very sick and I need to be with her as much
as I can, so I can't come down here these last weeks
of school like I had planned. I'm sorry. I
really am."
Luke picked at the edge of the table. "What's the
matterwith her? What's she got?"
"She had a stroke-was hesitating, not sure how

describe it. "She can't talk now, she's in a
hospital. I'm going up to see her when I leave
here."
Luke sat, head down, picking at the table. How
could I leave him like that?
I went over to the closet and got down his box.
"Why don't you keep this, Luke? Will you keep this
for us over the summer?"
Luke looked at me. "The whole thing? The chalk,
crayons, notebook, pencils-everything?"
I nodded. "Everything but one notebook. I need the
one that we wrote our 'lesson plans" in."
"Even the stars?" he asked.
"Sure. Of course. Especially the stars. You know
how to do them now.""
"Yup. Red for work. Gold for being" good. I did
a whole page in my reading workbook yesterday."
"That's terrific, Luke. Hey, what do you say
we celebrate? One last doughnut for the year?"
"Aw right."
My mother would understand. She would know that it was necessary to end
it properly. I would miss lunch at the nursing
home, but maybe I could stay through supper.
It was wonderful outside. Later in the day, the heat
would hang heavy in the city streets, but now the air
was still cool, and in almost every yard someone was watering or
weeding, trying to make something grow on the tiny patch
of land in the coolness of the morning.
"Yourrr. Yourrr. Yourrr." The white dog threw
himself at the fence as we walked by on the opposite
side.
"Yourrr. Yourrr," Luke replied, baring his teeth
and hunching his shoulders. I smiled at them both.
Mrs. Kar-ras had got out. It was possible.
As we hit Main Street, I said, "You
know what? It's pretty hot for doughnuts. How
about an ice cream cone instead?"
Luke knew where to go-Dave's corner store.
"You got a holiday today, Luke?" Dave asked
from behthe counter. Luke shook his head. "Uh-oh!
Playing hooky then, huh? Well, I won't
tell." Dave winked in my 112
direction. "Looks like you got a nice friend." He
added another little scoop to each chocolate cone.
We stood outside the corner store licking our
cones.
"Do we have to go right back?" Luke asked.
I glanced at my watch. "Not right away. We could
stay a half hour."
Luke was quiet, thinking. Then he said very quickly,
"Wanna see my shortcut?"
"Shortcut?"
"Yeah. The quick way from school back to my house.
Nobody knows but me and Wendell."
Back to the school. Down past the lipstick
factory. "That's where I got the cases," Luke
said. I nodded, remembering the last time I had been
there after the fire without him. And now he was here.
"Race you to the cornerea"...I said. Running. Running
hard. I will not be sad this last day with you,
Luke. It is wonderful to be here with you. That's
all I'll think about right now.
We ended at the corner together. "Now we gotta
cut across the field," Luke instructed me. A
choppy field filled with rocks and beer cans, but
Luke knew more. He leaned down to point out a
small hole. "There's where the mole lives," he
said. "No kidding. A live one."
I picked up a small stick and wiggled it around in
the hole. "That won't make him come out," Luke
said scornfully."...I done that lots of times. He's
too smart. You just gotta wait til he's
ready."
Maybe this was where Luke came after school-maybe
he just sat waiting for the mole to come out.
Luke scampered ahead, then back. This was his
territory.he knew it cold and I was glad to be
included. "We're coming to it now. The river. You
gotta walk across it." Luke looked at my
feet and I was glad I had my sneakers
on-skirt and sandals were in the car.
Sure enough, there was a stream, small and dirty
brown, but moving steadily through the field.
Luke walked along the side until he came to a
large rock. "See," he said. "This is
where you cross. Wendell and me made the bridge,
kind of."
I mellowed a little toward Wendell. He couldn't be
all 113
bad if he came out here in the field and helped
Luke build a bridge across his river. And sure
enough, there were three large flat stones forming a path
to the other side, water gushing around and sometimes over
them.
"You gotta go pretty fast," Luke said,
demonstrating. He was nimble as a mountain goat,
hopping from one rock to the other, across and back in
less than a minute.
I shook my head at him. "I'm not sure I can
go that fast. Are they slippery?"
"Kind of. Specially that big ole middle one. But
just step right in the middle of it. See." Luke
hopped across again-happy, happy as I'd ever seen
him. Showing me how to do something. The teacher now himself.
I stood a minute, savoring him, wanting
to remember him this way.
"Come on, Mary. Just hop across real fast.
Don't think about it."
"Okay. All right. Wish me luck." I stood
on the flat stone by the side, stepped over
to the next stone with my right foot, then to the middle
one. Water splashed onto my sneakers. Luke was
yelling something unintelligible. I tried
to concentrate. One more to go.
The last stone rocked under my weight, teetered
back and forth in the muddy water. Oh, no. I
didn't want to sit down in that water. I moved
quickly, missed the far side, and stepped in water and
mud, halfway to my knees. "Hey, Luke.
Give me a hand."
Luke reached across the side and holding his hand, I
scrambled out.
"What happened?" I asked. "What did I do
wrong?" "You didn't step on the mid-was Luke
couldn't finish the word. Giggles flooded up out of his
throat. He tried again. "In the mid-was Again
laughter took over and he sat down rocking back
and forth.
"Terrific," I said with mock anger. "Here I
am with both feet soaked and you're laughing." But
all the time I was thinking, Luke's actually
laughing. I'd never heard him laugh before.
Luke looked at me contritely. "I'm sorry.
But you just looked so funny . . ." Laughter
threatened to take over again, but Luke
controlled it. "Did you get hurt?" 114
"No. A little soggy, but fine. Where now?"
"We're almost there. See, you can see the project
over there."
"Okay. Let's go."
We were so near we might as well go the whole way,
finish it. I squished across the field beside Luke,
water oozing out of my sneakers with every step.
When we came to the street, Luke said, "Wanta
see my room? Nobody's home."
We walked up to the project and Luke pulled a
key out from under his shirt and slipped the string over his
head.
"Luke, wait. Let's not go in. I'll come
back sometime when your mother is here."
"She wouldn't care," he said. "I'm not allowed
to bring kids in, but she knows about you."
I couldn't explain to Luke, but somehow it seemed like
spying, and Mrs. Brauer's trust of me was so
tentative that I didn't want to do anything that would
weaken it.
"Are you on the first floor? Which is your room?
Maybe we could just look in the window."
"Here. This one. See. Gimme a boost up." I
lifted Luke so his head cleared the sill,
thinking, you trust me, anyway. How naturally you
let me hold you now.
"Yup. This is it. This is where Alice, Frank,
and me sleep. Mom and Uncle Chuck sleep on
the pull-out in the living room. You look now. See
that big ole snake skin on the wall? That's mine.
I found it on the mountain."
Luke was chattering in his excitement. I put him
down and looked in. Three stained mattresses on
the floor, three cotton blankets folded
neatly at the end of each mattress. Uncle
Chuck? Was he new? Don't think about it now.
"See the snake skin?"
"Not yet."
"There, over the table."
I shaded my eyes. Now against one wall I could
make out a narrow table covered with blue jeans,
underwear, and T-shirts. That must be where they kept
their clothes. Above the table, almost the same color as
the wall, I saw the snake skin.
"I see it. It is big."
I turned back to Luke. "I'm glad you found the
skin and not the snake. It's good you have sharp eyes."
Time to go. Time to go. I started walking back toward
the field. Luke walked beside me. How
to leave him? How to say good-bye? Not good-bye.
What did they say?
Auf wiedersehen?
Till we meet again. Whatever you say, don't
cry.
We were back at the field. When we got to the
stream I said to Luke, "Okay. Watch this. This
time I'
m
going to do it right." I held my arms out like a
tightrope walker and never missed a step.
"AW right, way to go," Luke rewarded me. We
were almost to the mole hole. Do it here. If you're
going to say good-bye, do it here. Not in front of the
whole school.
I knelt and looked down the mole hole, more to get
myself on Luke's level than for any other
reason.
"What are you going to do this summer, Luke?"
"Visit my father," he answered without hesitation.
"Maybe we're going to go to Florida, even."
I nodded, missing him already. "You deserve it,
Luke. You've worked hard, your reading is really coming
along, and your math's terrific. How many days were you
absent this month?"
"None," Luke said.
"Great. And I know you haven't been in the office
or the police station. You can feel real proud of
yourself, Luke. Now, listen, I'll write to you,"
I said. "I'll send you a postcard with my address
and maybe you'll write back."
Now it was Luke's turn to nod.
I stirred the mole hole a little. If I couldn't
find the mole, maybe I could find the words to say
good-bye.
"Will you be all right till school ends? Do your work?
Keep out of trouble? Call me if you need me?"
Again Luke nodded.
"Okay, then. Give me a hug good-bye and
I'll see you in the fall."
Luke's arms went tight around my neck. I could
feel his breath against the side of my face, but he
didn't say anything. Not "good-bye." Not even
"see ya." He just held on tight. We stayed like
that for a couple of seconds
and then Luke dropped his arms and started to run,
turned and ran backward, and said, "I'll race
you. All the way back."
"Okay." I ran just behind Luke, down the narrow
streets, past the lipstick factory,
leaving wet footprints on the hot sidewalk.
Neither of us raced. We ran together, Luke leading.
There was the school, my car parked on the opposite
side of the street. Both of us knew Luke wouldn't
stop, wouldn't even look back. We ran down the
street in front of the school, and then when we reached
the steps, I stopped and Luke ran on alone.
Up the stone steps, not turning his head, through the
door, into the school.
I unlocked the door to my car, sat down and took
off my wet sneakers and put on my sandals. I
put the wet shoes on the floor in back, then
changed my mind and put them on the front seat. I
drove to the hospital with the smell of Luke's
river beside me all the way.

My mother improved a little every day. Her speech was still
sparse and slurred; she could not feed herself or walk
alone. But she was better, and when we found Mrs.
Hub- bard, a retired nurse, who agreed to come
and help care for her during the day, the doctors
agreed that she could move back to the apartment
Summer school began on June 28. I had
classes five days a week, four hours a day.
I could visit my mother and father only on
weekends now, so I was glad that she was back
home, surrounded by familiar things, near my father.
I was taking three courses, the maximum allowed,
but they added up to only six measly credits.
Three for Speech Correction, two for Teaching
Social Studies, one 117
for Elementary Swimming. It was the swimming that
nearly did me in.
"Gym" was a required course. No gym, no
graduation. I didn't believe it at first, but it was
true. My forty-five-year-old body was going to have
to go to gym.
Fortunately, at least I had thought it was fortunate
in the beginning, there were many choices-archery, golf,
tennis, swimming. I didn't hesitate. During
the first eighteen years of my life, I had spent
two and a half months each year at the Thousand
Islands. We lived on the St. Lawrence River
all day long, changing only from a wet bathing suit
to a dry one, adding a sweatshirt if it was cool.
All our waking hours were spent fishing, sailing,
swimming. Elementary Swimming would be a snap, I
thought as I registered. Thank God I didn't
sign up for intermediate.
Because the summer session was only six
weeks long, classes met every day. Swimming was from
8:00 to 9:15, Speech Correction from 9:20
to 10:45 and Teaching SocialStudies from 10:50
to 12:00. Plus an hour or so at the library
digging out material for the abstracts and papers.
*
It was raining the first day of the summer session.
Collegewas an hour away, so it was 7:00
a.m. when I pulled out of the underground garage with my
bathing suit on the seat beside me, and I felt the first
misgivings about ElementarySwimming.
At least there was no traffic or trouble finding a
parkingspot I walked through the misty rain to the gym.
Insidethe girls' locker room, a dozen young
girls in tank suits were clustered together chatting.
I nodded to them, dreading the thought of donning my
three-year-old floweredeatwo-piece suit.
Misgivings multiplied.
I stripped quickly, pulled on my suit and hung
my jeans and shirt in the locker, put my books
on the floor and closed the locker door. I had
forgotten a towel. How could I have forgotten?
Maybe there were some by the 118
showers. I felt naked in my outdated suit as I
walked by the waiting girls, thankful at
least for the cover of my tan. No towels anywhere.
I hovered beside the shower curtains for a few minutes
and then went back and sat on a bench and waited for the
instructor to appear.
One of the girls was demonstrating what looked like the
belly dance. "See, Just lock your hands here, behind
your head, and rotate. This is the center of
gravity." She nodded downward. "And you just
moo-oo-oove around it." Her slim young hips
undulated faster. "It drives Frankie
absolutely wild," she said. Her feet picked
up the rhythm and she began to dance down the aisles.
The outer door slammed shut and a whistle blast
interrupted the belly dance. "All right. Line up
over here. Bring your class cards with you. Hand them in
as I call your name." It was Mrs. Hogan. The
same Mrs. Hogan from Adapted Phys Ed, the
one who had made us demonstrate in front of the
class. What was she doing here? The catalog had
listed the instructor as Fuller.
"Avigammo, Bishop, Barrati-thank you-stand
over there now alphabetically," Mrs. Hogan
called out. "Cog-gan, Gentula, Grossman,
Gruber, Hall. No card? Wait there." She
pointed behind her.
"Let's see. Where was I? Mmm. Hall.
Okay. I've got Hall-now, all right . . .
Kenny, Lanzana, MacCracken.
MacCracken?" The surprise in her voice
made the others turn in my direction. I handed in
my card without speaking.
"Ritter, Schwarzenbach. Is that right?
Schwarzenbach." A tall blond handed in her card.
"Well, is it?" Mrs. Hogan demanded.
"Yes," the blond muttered. A small giggle
went round the locker room. I eyed Schwarzenbach.
Maybe she would help me plan the demise of
Mrs. Hogan.
"Thirteen. Right?" She counted our bodies.
"Including Hall." She turned to the plump girl
behind her. "Where's your card. Hall?" The girl
shrugged her shoulders. "I can't find it," she said.
"Well, get another one today or don't bother
to come tomorrow. Get in line now." Hall scurried
over behind 119
Schwarzenbach. "Not there," Mrs. Hogan
bellowed, consultingher list. "Behind Gruber, for
heaven's sake. Stay alphabetical."
Mrs. Hogan advanced to the head of the line. She was
wearing green camp shorts, a gray
T-shirt, green socks, comsneakers, and a whistle
on a silver chain. Evidently, she was not planning
to swim.
"Ms. Fuller is unable to teach this course as
planned, so I am taking it over. Now there are
thirteen of you. There are also seven boys. Men.
They're at the pool now. I already have their cards.
There will be no homework for this course; there will also be
no exceptions. Go through the door to the pool now and
I'll go over the requirements."
She blew a blast on her whistle. I couldn't
believe it. It was like the one week I'd spent at
scout camp when I was ten. "All right,
Avigammo, go ahead. Single file. Be sure
disffstep through the disinfectant."
The pool itself was large and well lighted. Seven
assortedmale shapes stood by the shallow end.
Mrs. Hogan now read the total list, inserting the
men in their alphabeticalslot. "Fisher. Step in
before Gruber. Raise your hand, Gruber.
Michaels. Down there between Mac-Cracken and
Ritter. Raise your hands, MacCracken and
Ritter." It was lan. I hadn't recognized him
without his hat. He slouched his way into line.
"Good morning," I said under my breath.
"You're nuts, MacCracken. You gotta be
nuts," he replied.
Mrs. Hogan blasted her whistle. "There will be no
talkingduring class. None. Save your breath.
You'll need it." Her mouth curled in what was
evidently intended to be a smile. "Here are the
requirements. We will be working on four
strokes-breaststroke, sidestroke, backstroke,
and freestyle. Freestyle does not mean you do what
you want. It means you do what some of you refer to as the
crawl.
"This is an elementary class, so I do not expect
perfect strokes. I do expect mastery of each
stroke, plus a few simple dives. Mainly,
I expect to build stamina. No one 120
will pass until they complete fifty laps of
alternating strokes."
"I told you," Tan whispered.
I stared straight ahead.
"All right. Everyone in the water. Line up at the
shallowend and take your alphabetical positions."
The water felt warm and wonderful. I crouched down
under it.
"You will swim the length of the pool, four people at a
time, alternating strokes, so I can get
an idea of your ability.all right. Let's go.
Avigammo, Bish-was
"Excuse me-uh-Professor Hogan." Beside
me, Rit-ter, a tall black girl, was waving
her hand. "I can't swim."
Hall called out, "Me neither."
Blood was rising in Mrs. Hogan's face,
staining it a reddish purple.
"Can't swim? What are you doing in here, then?"
"Thought I'd learn," Ritter said coolly.
"Elementary, it said in the catalog. Didn't have
no prerequirements like knowing how to swim."
She was absolutely right. I silently cheered her
on. Schwarzenbach, Ritter, and I could form a
conspiracy and do in Mrs. Hogan.
Mrs. Hogan paced back and forth, chewing on her
whistle. Finally she made her decision. "All
right, Ritter and Hall. Get out of the water.
I'll talk to you later. What about the rest of you?
Is there anyone else here who can't swim to the end
of the pool?" Her gaze lingered on me, but neither of us
said anything.
"Regroup then. Swim down four at a time.
Don't worry about changing strokes. Just see if
you can get there, for heaven's sake."
lan was in my alphabetical group and he swam the
way he did math problems, lazily,
elegantly. My style was far from elegant, but I
made it to the other end.
Mrs. Hogan spent the rest of the hour dividing us
into groups according to ability. Ritter and Hall were in the
bottom group, unable to swim, relegated
to imitating strokes at the side of the pool. My
group was next. I could see that Mrs. Hogan
expected me to sink any 121
minute. We were each assigned a "buddy," who was
supposedto send up a warning if we had any
difficulty.
I was busy thinking about trying to transfer to another
course. Surely there must be something else I could
take for one credit. But when? I was taking the
maximum load for both fall and spring next year.
I would not be allowed to add another credit there. It
would have to be this summerand that would be a problem. There were
no afternooncourses and my other morning hours were full.
What else, I wondered, was offered at 8:00
a.m. that would fill the gym requirement? The
familiar feeling of despair crept into the swimming
pool. What was I doing here, anyway?
At last we were dismissed. I'd been down
and back three times and I was exhausted. Fifty?
I'd never make it fifty times. I dragged myself
to the locker room. No towel. I'd forgotten.
No hair dryer, either. The young crew were wrapped in
towels and blowing their long manes-practicingthe
belly dance at the same time. Only Hall,
plump and dismal, sat alone in a corner. I would
not ask any of them for a towel or dryer.
I carried my jeans and shirt to the shower room.
Rinsed briefly under the warm water, dried myself on
the shower curtain, combed my wet hair, and walked out
of Elementary Swimming straight into lan
Michaels, who was sitting on the floor in front
of the door.
I was not glad to see him.
He walked beside me out into the rain. If he made
one wisecrack, I would kill him. I would use the
karate chop I'd seen on TV and then carve his
heart out with my ignitionkey.
We walked in silence, rain running down my
face, drippingoff my nose.
lan touched my arm. "Want my hat?"
I shook my head, not looking at him, but deciding
not to kill him, after all.
"You can still drop it, you know," lan said.
"Substitute something else. There's probably still
room in archery."
I stopped and looked at lan silently. I had
been headingfor the registrar's office. For the last hour
I had been 122
planning to drop swimming. Now suddenly I changed
my mind.
"Why," I asked coolly, "would I want to do
that?"
*
Speech Correction was taught by Andrew York, a
tall, handsome black man in his late thirties.
His voice was gentle as he introduced himself and
told us what text to buy. Then he asked us each
to introduce ourselves and designate our major.
Again, there were twenty of us, only two males this
time. Most were special ed majors, a few were in
nursing, one other was like me, with a dual major in
elementary and special ed.
"What is defective speech?" Andrew York
asked and then when we replied with silence, he
continued, "Speech is defective if it
deviates so far that it calls attention
to xfeainterferes with communication, or causes its
possessorto be maladjusted. In other
words, if it is conspicuous, unintelligible, or
unpleasant. It is always importantto remember
the degree of the defect. When the defect is
slight, speech improvement is needed rather than
speech correction."
I listened intently, taking notes. For the first time
I felt I was listening to someone who knew and cared
about the course he was teaching. I smiled. This more than
made up' for swimming.
Not so Teaching Social Studies. I had no high
expectations for TSS, as the students called the
course. This would be my first exposure to what were known
as "method courses" and were required for elementary
certification.i had teaching math, science,
language, and music coming up in the fall and I had
been warned that they were "all a crock."
The methods courses were taught in a small brick
building that had once housed an experimental
nursery school. It was situated across the street from
the rest of the campus, a ten-minute walk, or a
five-minute run, away so I was out of breath and the
class had already started when I arrived.
Stevie Wonder's version of "The Star-Spangled
Banner"...rolled through the room, and at the front of the
classroom, Professor Figerito
waved his arms in front of the portable record
player as though conducting an invisibleorchestra. His
pink shirt was wet with perspiration. The record ended
and he grabbed a pile of yellow paper and passed it
down the rows.
"Write how you feel about that record. were you
affronted"...Shocked? Should the national anthem be treated
as a sacred hymn? Do you object to difference?"
We sat looking at him.
"Well, write. Write. Don't just look at
me. Unless you'd rather tell us. Uh. You, little
lady, there in the back row-was
He couldn't mean me. I was five feet seven.
"Y. The one who arrived late. Yes. You, dear.
Do you want to tell us what you thought of the record?"
He did mean me. He had come to the back of the
room and was standing right beside me. I could feel the
blood rising in my own cheeks as chairs squeaked
and the class turned to look at me.
I shook my head. I was blushing. I couldn't
believe it. I hadn't blushed in twenty years and
here in this idiot class before this idiot man, I was
blushing. I looked down at my piece of yellow
paper.
"No. Well, all right, dear. Maybe
tomorrow you won't feel so shy. How about you,
blondie?"
The class shifted its attention to a new victim and
I put my hands together in my lap to stop their
trembling.
At the end of an hour, Figerito said, "You can
all keep your piece of paper as a memento. I
hate to correct paperseaanyway."
I hurried out the door and back to the parking lot.
Everyspot was taken now and the roofs of the cars were steaming
in the sudden sunshine. I put down the old
canvastop and ate my apple and cheese. In some
ways my car seemed more like home than any other
place-it was ten years old now and more familiar to me
than the apartmentor the house in the country.
I thought about Figerito and Teaching Social
Studies. It 124
was going to be a problem. The only way I could get
there before class started was to leave Speech
Correction early, and it made no sense to cut
short the one good course I'd found. But walking in
late was going to call Figerito's attention to me every
day, and that meant trouble.
*
Three weeks later, after exactly
twelve sessions, we had midterms. In swimming
we would be required to do twenty laps and a
demonstration of a racing dive and two of the four
strokes. Of the original twenty, six students,
including Hall, had dropped out. Ritter had
stuck it through and was now paddling back and forth at the
shallowend. She was given permission to do thirty
abstracts on the benefits of exercise for her
midterm.
lan and Amy Schwarzenbach were the stars of our
class. They had speed as well as style and raced
each other playfully up and down the pool, diving and
surfacinglike two young porpoises. I did not
play. I worked everyminute of that class. I had
got a tank suit and towels and a hair dryer, so
I was less conspicuous. But fifty laps was still a
lot of laps. At least for me. I could do a
passa6reestyle and sidestroke, the backstroke
was easy, but I could not master the breaststroke. My
head was always up when it should be down and I could not
snap my legs together frog-style. I had made
myself do two more laps each day so I was pretty
sure I could pass the midterm.
Swimming had become much more than a one-credit
course to me. It had become a symbol.
If I could pass swimming this summer, I would be
able to make it through the next year to graduation and
certification. I apologized to Cal during dinner
every evening, then fell asleep before nine o'clock, and was
up and gone again by seven the next morning. Cal
checked off the days till the end of swimming on the
kitchen calendar.
All midterms came on the Thursday of the third
week. I wished they would stagger them, put some on
Tuesday or Wednesday, but they didn't. 125
*
The third Thursday of summer school dawned hot
and humid. I stood on our terrace drinking my
orange juice, watching the sun rise over the
Manhattan skyline. Hot and red, burnishing the
tops of the New York buildings across the river,
gilding the bridges. My spirits rose with the sun. I
could do it-swim and pass Speech and Social
Studies. I went back into the kitchen and poured a
thermosof coffee to keep me awake after swimming.
Mrs. Hogan lined us up at the edge of the pool.
She had an assistant with her this morning, dressed
in identicalgreen camp shorts. They each had
two stopwatches and somehow or other would keep each
student's time for twenty laps. Mrs.
Hogan lectured us sternly: we must start with a
racing dive, demonstrate one stroke up, a
differentone back. After that we could use any stroke
we wished, but we must go for eighteen more laps.
"There will be no stopping at either end. Swimming will be
continuous."
A blast on the whistle and the first swimmer, lan, was
off. Three minutes later she started Amy
Schwarzenbach in the second lane. I would be next
to last. I sat down and pondered Mrs. Hogan
while I did my breathing exercises. What could the
rest of her life be like? How could she care so much?
I winced. Look who's talking.
"MacCracken! Go!"
I dove in. At least I went in head first and she
didn't call me back as she had some of the others.
lan said we'd have to go off the board for the finals-I
couldn't do that. Don't think about the board now.
Freestyle first. Flutter kick. Pull right.
Pull left. Breathe. I was at the end before I
knew it and almost cracked my head against the cement.
I recovered just in time and turned underwater and came
up to do the sidestroke back. Easy. Stretch
Pull. Scissors kick. If anything would get
me through the finals it would be the sidestroke.
It had become as easy or easier for me than the
backstroke and I could tell where I was going. 126
"An old lady's stroke," lan teased. "So,
who do you think I am, anyway?" I'd answered.
Lap sixteen. Only four more. I can do it. I
know I can. I did twenty-two yesterday. Just
don't panic or cramp. Stretch. Pull.
Stay relaxed. Pretend you're lying on your own
bed . . . Luke. All of a sudden an image of
Luke's small body appeared above the pool.
What are you doing here, Luke? I thought you were in
Florida. I've called you seven times now and
sent four postcards and you haven't answered once.
How come?
"Hey. Watch it." I had veered off my lane and
kicked the body in the next lane.
"Oh, sorry. Sorry." Pay attention. Keep
in line. Luke? Where are you? Are you okay? But
Luke was gone. There was nothing above the pool now but
lights, shimmeringlike rainbows because my eyes were
full of water.
Eighteen. Turn. Pull. Glide. My
shoulders ached and my pulls grew shorter. Tension.
The ache must be tension.twenty-two. Remember, you
did twenty-two yesterday.
Nineteen. Turn. This is it. Come on. Don't
let your legs sink.
lan was waving from the side of the pool. "Hey,
Mac. This is it. Go out in style." lan had been
keeping track.
I pulled long and strong-and glided like a fish
until my fingers touched the wall at the shallow end.
I stood up and smiled at lan.
*
Luke appeared again halfway through the Speech
exam. I had outlined the four types of speech
problems. I. Disorders of Articulation. II.
Defects of voice. III. Language.
IV. Rhythm.
I knew articulation disorders. They spelled
soda: substitutionseaomissions, distortions,
additions. Voice disorderswere easy, too:
pitch, pitch breaks, quality, volume.
Language was more difficult. Delayed speech and
aphasia, which was a breakdown in language. There
are four areas of language. But what are they? My
mind waan-127
dered. Did my mother have aphasia? Her language
had certainly broken down. Broken down.
There had been something strange about Luke as
he hung over the swimming pool. What was it?
Something different-I shook my head. Not now.
The four areas of language are-ah-I remember.
Two major areas: "receptive" and
"expressive." Under "receptive?-every
"understandability and readability" and under
"expressive" come "speakability and
writeability." A miniature image of Luke
superimposed itself on my exam book. I strained
to see him more clearly. were those tears on his face?
Luke never cried. Was that what was different"...The
image faded and I forced myself to finish the exam as
quickly as possible. Just this and then Social Studies
and then I would drive to Luke's house.
As I handed in my exam I asked Andrew York
if my mother's stroke could have caused something like
aphasia.
He nodded. "I'll bring you a book, two
books, in fact, one of exercises on Monday.
I know what you're feeling. My mother had a stroke
when I was twelve. That's how I got interested in
the field." I was lucky to have Andrew York. A
professor who is caring and knowledgeable is one of the
most important elements in a teacher's training.
*
Figerito pranced around the front of the room like a
peacock. Lime green was the color of the day.
Matching shirt and socks, set off by white bucks
and cream-colored Dacron slacks. The effect
spoiled only by the patches of perspiration beneath his
arms.
Amy Schwarzenbach lifted her books from the chair
beside her so that I could sit down. Amy had saved me
from Figerito's ridicule by coming early (she had
another class in this same building after swimming) and
staking out two seats in the rear of the class by the
outside door. I would wait just outside the door
until Figerito's back was turned and then slip
silently into the seat Amy had saved. So far he'd
never noticed.
Now I poured coffee from the thermos and offered it

Amy. She shook her head. "Good going today,"
meaning swimming. I smiled my thanks and leaned
back, grateful for Amy, the hot coffee, and
Andrew York.
"Only one question today." Figerito smiled at us.
"I'll write it on the board."
DISCUSS THE SIX THEORIES OF RACE
PREJUDICE.
Everyone began talking at once to everyone else.
What six theories? What did he mean? What was
this?
Figerito raised his hand for quiet. "What's the
problem"..."...he smiled.
Bedlam. Everyone shouted at once. Figerito
raised his arm again. "What do you mean you haven't had
it? It's right in the text."
Double bedlam. People were standing up now. We had never
had a text.
"You never had a text?" Pigerito mocked us.
"It's listed right here on the course description I
handed out the first day. Did you think because I didn't
mention it you didn't have to read it?"
Groans. Figerito took two turns around the
classroom, then stopped and smiled at us.
"Well, don't worry. Just in case you forgot
to buy the text, I've had the page run off for
you." He displayed a large pile of typed pages.
"Just rewrite it in your own words in the examination
book, add your opinion, and leave it on the
desk."
Games. He'd been playing games. This was no
way to teach teachers to teach children. I scribbled an
essay and left it on the desk and got my
car and drove to Falls City.
School 23 was empty, the black macadam side
lot withoutcars or people. A school without children is a
desolate place. I left my car on the street
opposite the school, wanting to walk, to get in
touch with Falls City again.
The city was different in the summer. Maybe it was
becit was lunchtime, but shades were pulled and there were no
children anywhere.
No one was outside at Luke's project, either.
I walked past three times before I gathered the
courage to ring the bell at Luke's apartment, but there
was no one home. 129
I walked back to my car. What was the matter with
me? School was over for Luke. He'd said he was
going to Florida-that's probably where he was. With
his dad, fishing, swimming. I was just tired, imagining
things. Well, only three more weeks for me, too,
and then in August we'd go up to the country and spend
time with our own children, home from college or on
vacation. Just get through the next three weeks-and
trust Luke.
The July days were uneventful, one so like the other I
never knew what day it was. Swim, study,
sleep. Then weekends in the country,
stopping at my parents' on the way up and back,
guiding my mother through the beginningexercises in the
aphasia manual. It was both painful and a joy
to see her working hard to pick up seven raisins one
by one and put them in her mouth. She was better, or so
the doctor said, but she still dropped more raisins than
she ate.
She had all her meals at the small dining table in
the apartment, refusing to be wheeled to the dining room
becshe could not handle her knife and fork, was unable
to find the exact location of her mouth. Unintentionally,
she spilled and knocked things over and she would not do this
in front of others.
My father was patient and gentle. He wheeled my
mother's chair into the garden so she could sit beside him
while he weeded or tended the roses. It was a
difficult time for them both, though neither complained.
Most of all, Cal and I tried to bring them a little
laughter.we saved each small story that might
interest or amuse them. My mother loved hearing
stories of the children.she knew each small step forward
that Luke had made. She still had the rare, wonderful
ability of making my small accomplishments seem
special. And I loved her for it. Often, though,
she could not say good-bye because tears clogged
her throat. Would Luke have understood? Somehow I was
sure he would.
*
My father always walked with us to the parking lot.
"Melancholy often accompanies strokes, the
doctor says. It's not always lasting."
"Come visit," I urged. "We could put the
wheelchair on the ski rack."
"Not yet. The doctor says not yet." He
smiled at me. "We're fine, you know. She knows
you care and that's what's important."
I nodded and waved as we pulled out, remembering how
my mother always ran up and down our stairs, my father
cautioning her to be careful, to go more slowly. He'd
never need to do that again.
*
It was the last week. No exam in Speech, only
a take- home project that involved taping young
children's speech and a paper discussing the quality and
quantity of their language.
Figerito had handed out the final exam the week
bef.amy Schwarzenbach said he did it to make himself
look good. I didn't know or care. I only
wished to get through TSS and away from the likes of
Figerito.
The last day. I saluted the sun with my orange
juice, feeling strong, good. An hour later, I
plopped my body off the low diving board at the
pool in an almost dive that Amy and lan had
drilled me in and were sure would pass. Not the first time
or the second-but finally on the third try, Mrs.
Hogan did not call me back and I stroked the
first of my fifty laps. Amy Schwarzenbach and
lan were finished when I was only half through, but they
stationed themselves at either end and counted off the laps for me
so I didn't have to try to keep track. I had come
to like swimming itself, the feeling of moving through another
environment. Some primal instinct in my body was
roused, and I wished that there were rocks and sand and weeds
and other living organisms beneath me instead of painted
blue cement,
"Forty-two," Amy shouted, kneeling at the edge
of the shallow end. I was breathing hard now and I
rolled onto 131
my back, almost floating, knowing it was not allowed,
moving my arms and legs just enough not to inspire the wrath
of Mrs. Hogan.
And there once again was Luke, floating in the air
above me, his arms stretched wide as if he were
flying- dipping, gliding like a gull against the
river sky. At least I thought it was the river sky.
I was back at the Thousand Islands. I rolled
over and began a slow Australian crawl,
pretending I was up, flying with Luke, moving with him
across the sky, out of the gym, out of the state college,
out of Falls City.
I felt my head touch something and my feet sank.
It was lan's hand, cushioning my head from cement.
"Don't stop!" he said. "Kick. Kick.
Keep going. Only two more. You can do it. Just count
the strokes. Count to a hundred. You can do a
hundred strokes."
Can I? Onto my side. One. Two. Three.
Four ... I tried to look up at the skylight
to see if Luke was still there, but my head would not turn
that far.
At the shallow end, Amy said, "You're almost done.
You've got it now, only one more lap."
I looked around the pool as I turned. I was the
only one left. I swam the last lap alone. But
not quite. Amy walked beside me, counting off the
strokes-and I was sure I could see a little of
Luke's blue jeans against the skylight.
"Seven and eight and-kick your feet-ten and-was
Her voice faded and I swam in a
dream, moving through ghosts and voices from far away.
And then Lan grabbed my hands and held them against the
end of the pool.
"Okay. Okay. You did it, Mac. You swam the
whole goddam fifty laps. Way to go! Breathe
easy, now."
*
A half hour later, Amy, lan, and I
sprawled on the grass behind the gym. They had bought
a bottle of white wine to give to me. "For
celebration if you passed, for consolation if you
didn't."
There was, of course, nothing to do but open it. I
toastedAmy and lan, they toasted me and each other.
State was a long way from Wellesley, but as far as
I knew, nobodythere had ever bought anybody a
present for passing a course, or for failing it.
There was time to spare. There was no Speech class
tdeasince there was no exam. All we had to do was
drop off our tapes of children's speech and typed
comments and I had done that on my way to swimming as
I passed the Speech building.
Figerito wanted us there, though.
"Gotta go," Amy said.
lan tipped his head back and drained the
last of the wine from the bottle and then buried it in the
soft dirt undera maple tree.
"You should have put a note in it," Amy said. "So
when they dig it up in a thousand years, they'll know it
was us."
"Jeez," lan said. "This isn't the Atlantic
Ocean. I'm just cleaning up."
But I noticed he touched her hand before we left and
mumbled, "Pick you up at eight o'clock."
He did not touch me. He stood with his hands in his
pockets, body bent like a question mark, his head forward
as he peered out at me from under his hat.
"See ya around, Mac."
And all of a sudden he reminded me of Luke, and
I answered him, promised him.
"See you, lan."
*
"He's nice," Amy said as we walked across the
campus.
"Yes. He is." My head and stomach felt
slightly unstableeaz though they were not connected to my
arms and legs. Maybe drinking that wine at ten in the
morning had not been such a great idea after all. I
put my hand on Amy's shoulder to steady myself as we
crossed the street.
"You two should build a pool," I said,
remembering 133
their lean, graceful bodies swimming, diving,
rolling, turningin the water.
"Watch the curb," Amy said.
A mistake. We'd lingered too long. Class
"had already started. Figerito was in canary yellow
today and he swirled upon us as we lingered by the
doorway. "Come in. Come in, little ladies.
Don't be shy."
I slouched toward a seat in the back, imitating
lan, tryingnot to be visible. I wished I had a
hat
"No need to sit way back there. We're a
small group today. Come on down here, dears. Join
us."
I followed Amy to the middle of the room. The room
was half empty; obviously a good percentage of the
class had not come. Wiser than I. I put my
hand on top of my head to adjust it. It seemed
to be sloping to the right.
Canary yellow passed back and forth before my eyes
as Figerito paced across the classroom lecturing
animatedly about something. Big Bird. He looked
rather like Big Bird. Unexpectedly he
lighted beside me.
"Is it always evil?" he shouted at me.
"Pardon?" It was difficult to focus on him when
he was so close.
"Evil? Wrong? Malodorous? . . . Well,
is it?" His arms worked up and down. Big Bird
flapping.
"I don't know," I said. I didn't have a
glimmer of what he was talking about.
"Well, think. Think. You must have some opinion.
Is violence always evil?"
His voice seemed far away, loud but far away as
though he was shouting through a muted mike.
Perspirationrolled down the side of his face and
gathered in little pools at the end of each sideburn.
Had I really been frightened of this man?
"Is violence always evil?" I repeated.
"Well, is it? Is it?"
I shook my head watching the perspiration patches
darken on his shirt.
"No? Are you saying 'no"?" He took a
handkerchief, unbelievably bordered in yellow, out
of his back pocket 134
and mopped his face. "How can you say that? Give us
an example."
And from somewhere to the right, just beyond my head, I heard my
voice telling Big Bird coolly, "Love-
making can be violent without being evil."
Silence. No one spoke. Only the squeak of
chairs as a dozen or so twenty-year-old bodies
turned to stare at me.
I could feel the blood rising in my own face, but
my head was suddenly clear and firmly back in
place.
Big Bird flapped to the front of the silent
room.
"Love-making!" he squawked. "Love-making,
whatever that may be, can be violent? Amazing! You
learn a little something every day."
Blessedly, the bell rang and I was up and out before it
had stopped ringing.
*
The last I ever heard from Figerito was in a note
fastenedto my exam that he sent back to me by mail.
"Excellentpaper. I'd like to discuss it further.
Call me next week to arrange lunch."
I dropped both the exam and the note in the
wastebas-ket. Enough of TSS. And wine at ten in
the morning. But even so, I don't think I'd
take it back.

I had completed a day and a half of fall classes
when I decided I couldn't wait any longer to see
how Luke was doing. There was no official program
at the school this year and my days were crammed with six
different courses that I needed in order to graduate
in June. But I had an hour's break at one
o'clock and on impulse I drove down to School
23.
Mrs. Karras's door was closed, but I stopped
at the secretary's desk to find out which room Luke
was in.
She checked the records. "Room one twelve."
"One twelve?" I repeated. "Are you sure?"
None of the third grades was on the first floor.
The secretary turned the printed sheet around so that
I could see for myself. Her finger pointed to the line.
"Brauer, Lucas. Room 112. Miss
Eckhardt."
"Thank you." I forced myself to walk out of the office,
but I began running as soon as I hit the hall.
Something was terribly wrong. I slowed when I got
to Lisa's room and stood to one side and studied the
sign on her door. It was exactly the same as
last year.
Room 112 Grade 2 Miss Eckhardt
How could that be? I edged up to the glass window and
peeked in just for an instant, careful not to be
noticed. The instant was as long as an hour.
Luke was there. He was sitting in the same seat as
last year.
I took another look. I couldn't see his face.
His head was down on his arms and only the back of his
head was visible, but his body was limp and dejected.
I went back to the office.
"How soon can I see Mrs. Karras?" I
asked the secretary.
"Wen, a group of room mothers just left, planning the
first PTA meeting, you know. She might be able to see
you now, though she's terribly busy. Want me
to find out?"
"Please."
I paced the tiny waiting room. No wonder I'd
worried about Luke over the summer. But what had
actually happened"...Why wouldn't someone have called me?
"Mary! I'm so glad to see you. I've thought of you
so often."
Mrs. Karras looked tan and healthy and I was
glad, but there was no time to talk about that now.
"What happened to Luke?" I asked.
"I just saw him in Lisa's classroom. What's
going on?"
"Come on in the office. There. Sit down. I
tried to call you in June when it happened, but I
never seemed able to reach you."
I nodded. That was the time of my mother's stroke.
"When what happened?" Impatience edged my
voice.
"Well, it was decided that Luke should be retained."
"Retained?" I couldn't believe it. "You mean
he's still in second grade? What happened?" I
repeated again.
"Nothing specific happened," Mrs. Karras
said. "I mean he didn't suddenly set the school
on fire or anything. In fact. Lisa said he was
reading out loud a little more every day. True, it wasn't
the regular class reading text, but he was reading and
working more than he ever had before."
I shook my head. "Then I don't understand-was
"Well, Mary, to put it as simply as I can, the
Child Study Team decided that Luke wasn't ready
for third grade work."
"The Child who?"
"Study Team."
"Who are they? I never even heard of them
before."
"Yes. Well, they weren't connected with the Mental
Health Clinic project-except, of course, the
psychologist did give the IQ tests, but that has
to be done for referral anyway." Mrs. Karras
sighed. "It's too involved to go into in detail, but
just between you and me, there was some resentment of the mental
health project, some feeling of "outside
interference." Now whether that had anything to do with
Luke or not, I can't say for sure."
I got up and walked around the room. "How could they
retain him? None of them had even worked with Luke."
I shook my head. "He had come such a long way.
He had. He was coming to school every day, even beginning
to like it a little. He was doing his work, reading out loud, not
in trouble with the police."
"I know. If it had been up to me . . ." Mrs.
Karras 137
stopped for a minute before she continued. "The worst part
was nobody told him. We each thought someone else
had. He didn't know until he came back this
fall."
"Can I see him?" I asked abruptly.
"Of course. He's in the same room. You
remember?"
I nodded and walked back down the halls
to Lisa's classroom once again.
I stood to the left of the door and looked at Luke
through the window.
There he was, still in the same seat as before, head on
his arms, looking out the window. What must it have been like
for him the first day of school? Thinking he'd be in
third grade along with Wendell and the others, and then
being told to go to second. His brother must be in
second grade this year, for God's sake! How
could this happen? And I wasn't there. I was at the
hospital with my mother and didn't even know. Not that
I could have made them change their minds, but at least
I could have told Luke, warned him.
I walked away, back down the halls, anger,
sorrow, defeattumbling through my head. I wasn't
ready to see Luke yet, after all. I wouldn't be
any help to him feeling like this.
I left a note with the secretary in the office
asking Lisa to meet me for lunch the next day.
*
Lisa looked pretty and clean and young as she
climbed out of the van and walked into the restaurant.
She was just back from Mexico. She'd met a
terrific guy in Arizonaeashe said, and
he'd gone with her the rest of the way and back as far as
Mississippi, but the relationship had ended there
by mutual agreement.
"What about Luke?" I asked, not able to wait any
longer.
"He's terrible," she said flatly. "Worse than
the beginningof last year, if that's possible. He
won't talk at all. Not even to Wendell. I
even tried to get Wendell and Luke together at
lunch one day, but it didn't work." 138
"Why did they do it?" I felt like throwing my water
glass across the room. Instead I set it down more
softly than usual.
"Because they don't care," Lisa said, leaning back
in her chair, her long legs stretching out beyond her
short skirt. "What the shit does it mean to them!
They look at the scores, see he's reading at
one point eight or whatevereaand is in a one point
two reader. Check his absenceseasee he's been
absent thirty-eight days during the year..."
"But not in May or June."
"You don't get it, Mary. It's the system. The
system looks at the total-the absences, the
fires, the grade scores. Add the numbers,
count the slips. Luke loses."
"Well, so does the system," I said. "Where
does the system think Luke will be in ten years?
How much money will it cost "the system" then?"
"Don't shout at me. I couldn't agree more.
Besides, who's worried about ten years? How about this
year? How about me? To be honest, I don't
relish being stuck with Luke again. Much as I like him,
he's a difficult kid. And I gather that that
project you were in last year is kaput.fini. So
that means no help at all."
"Lisa, listen. Don't say that. You're good with
Luke. Look what you did in his reading group last
year. He wouldn't have a chance with Mrs. Fenton.
You know that, she's way too old. I don't know
anything about the other second-grade teacher, except
every time I've seen' her in the halls she's fishing for
her bra strap. Not a good sign. Besides, I'll be
down. When's the best time for me to see Luke?"
Lisa took another sip of coffee. "Anytime.
What differencedoes it make? I'm telling you,
Mary, he does not do one thing all day long. Not
even draw. He doesn't even show up until
around ten." She put her cup back on the saucer
and looked at me. "Maybe I shouldn't say this, but
does it ever occur to you that maybe you,
unlike the systemeacare too much? There are a lot
of kids in this world who just aren't going to make it no
matter what you or anybody else does. That's just
the way the cookie 139
crumbles. And you aren't going to do anybody any good
if you go around breaking your heart over each one you
run into."
Lisa glanced at her watch and stood up, shaking out
her skirt. "Me and my big mouth. Listen,
thanks for lunch. I'll see you over at school."
I sat at the table after she had left, thinking about
what she'd said. In some ways it made sense.
Survival of the fittest.darwin had been around a
long time.
But what about the not so fit? Kids like Luke
didn't just die or disappear. Instead, they moved
further and further outside society, traveling
alone. No longer caring or even really knowing what was
right or wrong. Surviving.getting even. Finally
convincing themselves that they were the ones who were right, everyone
else wrong. The "I'm okay-you're not okay"
syndrome of the criminal that makes sociologists
believe he's the hardest to reach.
Maybe it was because my first work had been with
seriouslyemotionally disturbed kids.
Psychotic children. Childrenlabeled autistic and
schizophrenic, children that not only shut out the world, but
replaced it with another of their own making, so that you had
to move through barriersand strange lands of other worlds
to reach them. And yet, some of those kids made
progress, some of them grew. A few even made
it to public school. If they could do it, Luke
could. He almost had. We'd just have to start over.

Luke left the classroom grudgingly. He
walked at least three feet behind me down the hall
and if I slowed, trying to be closer to him, he
slowed his own steps so that he kept the same distance
between us.
In the music room he did not sit down. Instead,
he stood just inside the door, looking down at his
feet. 140
I shut the door and he glanced at me briefly.
I thought he might bolt, but he stood silently,
head down.
I went over to the long table where he had always worked and
slouched in one of the metal chairs. I wasn't
expecting anything to happen. I just wanted to get a
feel of Luke, be in the same room with him so I
could absorb his vibrations and begin to understand
where he was.
We stayed just like that for fifteen or twenty minutes.
I had the feeling Luke could have stood there for hours.
He had always had control, too much control. No
tears, few words, at least in the beginning. Now no
movement. Now his running away was even more complete.
I looked at the clock. I wouldn't keep him
over thirty minutes. Not fair to make him stand so
still so long. I got up and moved toward him, but his
head snapped to one side almost as if I'd hit him
and I couldn't bear that. I walked away to the other
side of the room and stood there next to the
blackboard, looking at Luke. We'd known each
other so well. He must feel let down by me, as
well as by everybody else. How can I tell him?
What can I do?
He won't listen to me, won't let me near him.
Maybe I can write to him. I picked up the
chalk and printed large clear letters on the
blackboard.
LUKE,
I AM SORRY. I WANT TO HELP.
LOVE, MARY
I turned around slowly, not wanting to startle him.
His head was up! He was looking at the
board. Was he readingit? Don't ask. Don't
push too hard. It was enough that he had raised his head.
*
I walked into Professor Foster's office without
knockingean caring about the kids on the bench. "I need
to talk to you."
He swirled in his chair, among the piles of
books and papers.
"I might have been in a conference, you know. Would you
please the hell knock next time?"
I sat on the pile of books by his desk.
"What happened to your wonderful program? Where were
you and Jerry and the Mental Health Clinic and the head
of special services and this whole state college
when they left Luke back?"
"They left him back? What are you talking about?
I didn't know anything about it. How come?"
"Not ready for third-grade work. At least that's
what they say," I sighed, some of the anger gone.
"And maybe he wasn't. But he was moving. He was
doing better. And if he'd just had some kind of
extra help in reading this year he could have caught up
by the end of the third grade. I'm sure of it. Now
they've got him in second, the same grade, although
at least not the same class, as his little
brother.
"Mrs. Karras says the Child Study somebody
reviewed Luke's records and saw he was a year
behind. I realize that makes sense on paper, but he
isn't paper."
"I know the Falls City Child Study Team,"
Foster said. "They do a pretty fair job on the
whole. The trouble is numbers. They have thousands of
kids in that system. There's no way the team could
see each child individually.when did this happen?"
"The end of June."
"I see. I was in Maine. Probably why they
didn't contactme. How about yourself?"
"I was away a lot, too."
"So the kid arrived at school thinking he'd
passed, ready for third grade, and finds himself
shuffled back into second?"
I nodded.
"What's Luke say?" Foster asked.
"He doesn't say anything. Or do anything. I
don't know why he shows up at school at all."
Foster stood up and shook his head. "It's a
shame. It's things like this that made us get the clinic
program 142
started. Well, I'
m
sorry, Mary. We did have high hopesfor the
program. Just didn't work out. There was a lot of
political stuff going on at the clinic. I think
I mentioned it once. Reorganization. Personnel
changes."
I stood without speaking. None of what he said
helped Luke.
Foster sat back down again. "I honestly don't
know what else to say. I will call Bernie and get
Luke on the waiting list for the clinic." He
paused, studying the papers on his desk. Then he
cleared his throat and continued. "While you're here,
Mary, I might as well give you the other bad
news and get it over with. Trouble never travels
alone, they say." He shuffled the papers on his
desk and finally found what he wanted. He handed me
a white sheet of paper with a pink slip attached to the
back.
I recognized the white sheet. It was the waiver
form I had filled out the year before at Foster's
suggestion.
All students were required to student teach for six
weeks in their senior year. My only quarrel with
this was that it was too little and too late. In
my view, students should be out in actual
classrooms during some part of each of their four
years.
As my adviser, Foster had suggested that since I
had taught full time for six years, I should apply
for a waiver that would allow me to substitute other
courses for student teaching. Although he didn't mention
it, I was quite sure that my age and the growing scarcity of
student teacher positions contributed to his feeling that
more would be lost than gained by my student teaching.
Besides, it would give me a chance to catch up on the
requiredcourses I'd missed while working in
Falls City.
I turned the sheet over and read the pink slip.
"Waiver denied. Teaching was not supervised so unable
to determineif it was good or bad." The slip was
signed by the head of the department.
I turned the paper in my hand. "What does this
mean?"
Foster shrugged. "That you have to student teach this spring.
I'll try to find you a good spot."
I took the pink slip and walked out of the office,
across 143
the campus, to the parking lot. I climbed into my car
and drove out the gates, not heading anywhere in
particular, just needing to be in a familiar place so
I could think.
I knew I was angry, but I wasn't quite sure
why. Luke had been given a bad deal-that was a
legitimate thing to be angry about. I knew I
also felt some guilt about not being there to help him, but
I'd have to forgive myself for that. It had been right
to spend that time with my mother. I wished I'd reached him
over the summer. Where had he been? I still didn't
know. Would I ever? Was he ever goingto talk to me
again?
As I drove I thought about this and also about the
rejectionof the waiver for student teaching. How could they
say they had no way of knowing whether my teaching was
"good or bad"? They could have asked the director,
Doris Fleming. Whatever else had gone on between
us, she would have said I was a good teacher.
But that's not how "the system" works. Not neat enough.
You need a living, breathing supervisor to observeand
write reports.
Okay. It's the system. I guess that's why
I'm angry. "The system screws everything up."
I'd heard the kids in my classes and teachers at
the school use the phrase a hundred times and I'd
always felt that it was a cop-out. Shifting the
blame. Well, fair's fair. Now you're a
victim of the system yourself, Mary. You and Luke
both. Wait. A glimmer of an idea. Be still.
Wait. Let it grow.
I felt a surge of happiness and I tooted my
horn at no one in particular. I had it! I
knew what I was going to do! Student teach in
School 23. I'd spend the required time, six
weeks of it, student teaching in Luke's school.
I wasn't sure how, but that's what I was going
to do. One way or another Luke and I were going
to beat the system and get out from under.
The lights on the bridge came on just as Lisa and
Mrs. Karras arrived at our apartment for dinner.
We stood togetheron the terrace for a minute, looking
out across the river at the Manhattan skyline. The
swag of lights I loved so outlined the arch of the
George Washington Bridge, forming a necklace
across the dark hollow of the Hudson River.
When we walked back inside, Lisa surveyed the
room-the thick white carpet, my grandmother's cherry
chest, the old dining table with leaves almost touching the
floor, contrasting with the low, nubby white furniture
and slate coffee table that Cal had made.
"Nice," she declared, and flopped full
length on the couch. "I love it." Then she sat
up and stared at me. "What the hell are you doing in
a dump like School Twenty-three?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is that
I want to be there more and I need help. From both of
you."
I explained my idea of student teaching at
School 23 to them during dinner. Mrs. Karras was
immediately enthusiasticbbLisa was not. She felt that if
there was any way for anyone to stay out of the grubby world
of Falls City, he or she should do it.
We took our coffee back to the living room.
Lisa sat cross-legged on the floor.
Mrs. Karras urged me once again to call her
Jo, and I did, but in my head she was always Mrs.
Karras. She stirred her coffee and said, "I have a
good eye. I know who can teach my children and who can't and
it has nothingto do with race, color, or creed,
or age or education. It's a gift. Pure and
simple. The art of communication is just that, an art,
as much as painting or music or literatureeaand it's
especially important when you're working 145
with children. You either have it or you don't You, Mary, have
it. And if you have it, you have to use it."
The front door opened and closed and Cal
came in, back from a long day in Washington.
I got up and hugged him and introduced him to Lisa
Eckhardt and Mrs. Karras. They chatted for a
moment and then Cal excused himself and went to change his
clothes.
Lisa lay back flat on the floor. "Now I
know you're crazy. You have the best of everything. Why do
you want to leave it?"
"I'm not leaving it. Cal's work is important
to him, too. We value that in each other."
"Okay," Lisa said. "Tell you what. You go.
I'll stay. We can have a little menage a trois."
Mrs. Karras said sharply, "Hands off. Lisa."
Cal returned in worn blue corduroys and a
sweater, carrying a beer. "What can I get for
anyone?" Wine for Lisa, a small liqueur for
Mrs. Karras and for me.
Together we plotted. Mrs. Karras agreed to call
Professor Foster and ask to have me placed in
School 23 for student teaching. She herself would
supervise, but she did not want me in a
classroom. What she wanted was for me to continue the
mental health program by myself.
"So it's only three or four kids. It's three
or four kids that have some kind of chance instead
of none. Say you started at nine and saw one child from
nine to nine-forty-five-another till ten-thirty-a
third till eleven-fifteen and another till
twelve. Then you could set up the other courses you
need for graduation in the afternoon."
"What about lunch?" Lisa asked. "Or aren't you
going to let her eat?" She turned to Cal. "What
do you think about all this?"
Cal was silent. When I first knew him I took
his silence for uncertainty or disapproval. Now I
knew he was organizing his thoughts, careful with his
words. At last he said, "It's a good idea.
I'm not sure Mary would make it through another year
of courses, if they're like last year's courses,
without the children." 146
"What about your dinner and the wash and the shopping-?"
"Lisa!" Mrs. Karras warned. Cal smiled
at them both. "We manage."
*
A week later Professor Foster caught up
to me outside the book store.
"Congratulations. Your student teaching forms for
School Twenty-three are filled out, signed
by me, the dean, everyone. All you have to do is stop by and
pick them up. You start in January."
"Thank you," I answered, not sure how much he
knew.
Foster stood staring at me, rocking on his heels a
little, chewing on the end of his pipe.
"Isn't it amazing how that student teaching position
opened up, just like that? We've never placed a student
at School Twenty-three before."
"It's a good school," I said. "Maybe you'll have
other students there next year."
"Maybe. Maybe we will. Anyway, Mary, good
luck."
He turned to leave and then turned back. "How's
Luke doing?"
I shook my head. "Just about the same. I've seen
him three times now. He comes with me but it's not like it
was before. I think he's so angry about being in second
grade that he doesn't care about anything else. It
really was a rotten thing, especially not telling him.
He'd been workingeatrying so hard, not running away,
or setting fires, beginningto open up. It's as
though it proved to him that he's no good and there's no
point in trying. It doesn't make any difference.
"I don't know. I just hope we can get through this
fall term. Both Luke and myself. I've got a
heavier load of meaningless courses than
I've ever had before." I hesitatedea"...And my mother's
very ill."
"I'm sorry. Let me know if I can help."
He shook my hand, holding it for a minute between his.
"I mean that."
"Yes," I said, liking him. "I know you do.
Thank you. 147
Just keep thinking about Luke, of some way to get through
to him."
*
My mother died on November first-alone. My father
found her in her wheelchair, her head slumped down
against the table, when he came back up from dinner.
"She had another stroke," my father said. "The
doctors say a "massive hemorrhage" this
time." He touched my arm. "They say it happened
instantly. That she wouldn't have been in pain."
I nodded, not able to speak, thinking only that I wished
I had been there with her when it happened. I somehow
couldn't bear that she had been alone. I hardly
heard my father.
"You know she wrote letters to you and each of your three
children today. I mailed them before I went to supper."
It was true. The letters arrived two days later.
She had written to me and each of her
grandchildren to tell us she loved us and thank us for the
Halloween cards we'd sent. Her writing was tiny
and cramped, sloping every which way across the page. It
must have taken her hours to write those pages. Had
she somehow known?
I stayed at their apartment and my father and I worked
together, doing the necessary things-arrangements at the funeral
home, notices to the papers, the lawyers, sorting
her things from immaculate drawers and closets. The
funeraleathe memorial service. I could not believe
that she was dead. She had been my first teacher and
beloved friend for over forty years.
Death was a common visitor in the retirement home
and my father said at the end of the week, "It's better
this way, Mary. She hated sitting in that wheelchair
day after day."
I kissed him, nodding agreement, thinking how he had
been the one to help her dress each day and reach the
wheelchair. He had been the one that lay beside her as
she sang the hymns of her childhood trying to get
to sleep 148
each night. He knew better than anyone how
difficult it had been. It was not his fault that he
had been at dinner when she died. It was just that I could
not shake the sadness.
*
The phone was ringing when I walked into our apartment.i
let it ring. I did not want to talk to anyone. I
went out on the terrace, everything gray in the
November afternoon.the sky, the bridge, the city itself.
The phone rang again. One, two, three, four,
five. Maybe it was Cal or my father, or one of the
children. I pulled the sliding glass door closed behind
me and picked up the receiver.
"Mary? This is Jo Karras. I'm sorry
to bother you at home. Are you all right? They said
you'd been absent from classes the last few days.
Are you better?" she asked, assuming I'd been
sick. "I wouldn't bother you exceptI've got
Luke here in the office. I just picked him up at
the police station. His mother's in bed sick and couldn't
go down."
"The police station? Why was he there?"
"Same thing. Fires. Could you possibly come
over?"
I didn't want to go. I needed time to mourn my
mother's death, to work it through. But how could I refuse?
"All right. I'll be there. It will take me an
hour from here, though."
"That's all right. We'll wait."
It was almost four o'clock by the time I got to School
23. The door was locked, but through the small side
windowI could see the janitor mopping the front
hall. I tapped on the glass. He recognized
me and unlocked the door. I walked directly
to Mrs. Karras's office. She was behind her desk
working on a pile of papers. Luke sat on a
wooden chair in the corner of the room. His head was
down so I couldn't see his face. His sneakers and
pants were dirty and he held the bottom of the chair
seat tightly with both hands.
"Hello, Mary," Mrs. Karras said. "Come
in. Thank you for coming down."
I nodded and sat in another wooden chair in front
of her desk, my body turned toward Luke.
"Luke?" Mrs. Karras asked. "Do you want
to tell Mary what happened?"
Luke didn't even look up.
Mrs. Karras sighed and said, "They say he set
twenty-five fires this afternoon. Twenty-five!
All by himself. Wendell was in school. We know that.
So we can't blame Wendell."
"That's a lot of fires."
"Well, you know we haven't had rain for a week or
more. Everybody got their leaves and trash
raked out of their yards and piled in the streets over the
weekend. We don't have that many trees, thank
God in this case, in this part of the city, so the piles
weren't terribly large But from what they say,
Luke would light one pile of leaves, then move
down the street and light another pile, then run to the
next street and begin again. Pretty soon he had
fires burning on a dozen different streets. People
were calling in to the police about a boy the size of
Luke in brown pants and a plaid shirt who was
setting the fires. He was starting another one when they
picked him up."
Luke's head stayed down while Mrs. Karras was
t
alking.
Now she sighed and continued. "They called Mrs.
Brauer, but she's in bed sick, so she called here
trying to find you, thinking maybe you could go down. She
said something about your being down there once before."
Mrs. Karras paused.
I nodded.
"I don't believe you mentioned that to me," she said.
"In any event, I couldn't reach you so I went
down."
Mrs. Karras stood up and walked to the
window. "They've had it. The police. There was an
Officer Snow there, a big man who seemed to know
Luke, but even he wanted to send him over to the
shelter. Said Luke would be better off there than in
a family that didn't care about him."
"The shelter?"
"It's part of the county hospital, a wing where they
keep kids while they're trying to decide where
to send comthem, what to do with them."
I looked at Luke. He was holding onto the
chair so tightly that his knuckles showed white through the
soot and grime.
Mrs. Karras turned back from the window. "I
told them they better be damn careful before they sent
Luke anywhere. That he had an established home,
that his mother was working regularly, that his brother and sister
were both doing well in school, that his mother was only
temporarily indisposed, that I was representing not
only Luke's family, but the Mental Health
Clinic, the college, and the school, and that we all
had a vested interest in Luke."
I wished I could have heard Mrs. Karras reading the
book to Officer Snow.
"Whatever a vested interest is," she said.
"Anyway, it worked. And they let Luke
out in my custody."
She turned and walked back to her desk. "However,
Luke doesn't seem to have any ideas on how
to keep this from happening again, or for that matter, any
ideas about anything." She glanced at her watch.
"The police called at one o'clock. I got him at
two. I called you a little before three; it's almost
four-thirty now." She sighed and rubbed her
temples. "I can't stay here much longer. I've
got a board meeting at eight."
I stood up myself. I wasn't feeling anything, not
anger or disappointment in Luke, or even
pleasure in the Kar-ras-Snow encounter. Not anything
at all. My mind and body seemed to work; they just
didn't feel anything. It was as if I'd had a
massive injection of Novocain. But Mrs.
Karras was right. She had a school to run.
Hundreds of kids to think about I could at least go
through the motions.
"Do you want me to take Luke home?" I
asked.
"Would you? I called his mother and said you were coming down.
Maybe," she said, "you and Luke can talk on the
way over." Mrs. Karras was putting on the
jacket 151
to her suit, taking her pocketbook out of the bottom
drawer of her desk, turning out the light.
*
I unlocked the door of my car for Luke and he
crawled in and pulled it closed behind him. I went
around to the other side to unlock my own door and then
stood for a second watching the lights on Mrs.
Karras's car as she pulled out of the lot next to the
school. With daylight savinggone, night arrived
early. I wished they could have known each other-my mother
and Mrs. Karras. Sadness enveloped me and I
got in quickly and turned the ignition key. Luke
had his legs pulled up under his chin, his arms wrapped
around his legs. Talk, Mrs. Karras had
suggested.what was there to talk about? Luke and I had
run out of words.
"Are you ready to go home, Luke?" were the only
words I could find.
He nodded and we drove the few blocks to the
project in silence.
"I'll wait," I said, "to make sure you get in
all right."
He nodded again. At least I thought he did, but he
didn't get out right away. Finally, he said, "You
want me to get the box?"
"Box?"
"The box with the chalk and stars and stuff. You want me
to give it back?"
He must mean the box with his things that I'd given him
last June. I'd forgotten all about it and he'd
never mentioned it this fall.
"No, Luke. Of course not Those are yours. They
belongto you."
Again we sat in silence for a while. Then Luke
opened his door and put one leg out. "Maybe," he
said, pausing between words, "maybe I could bring the box
to school."
So we are not done. Luke is saying as clearly as
he can, in his own words, that he wants to try again. And
I want to say to Luke-don't Not now. I
don't have the energy to think about you or anyone else
right now. 152
I put my head against the side window, pressing my
forehead against the cold glass, trying to clear my
thoughts, and suddenly I realized what I should have known
before. Luke knew me as well as I knew him.
My added years did not make me more expert at this
kind of knowledge. Out of his own sorrow, Luke
intuitively recognized mine and he was reaching out not
so much for help himself, but to help me.
"All right," I said, straightening up. "Okay,
Luke. Maybe you could. Maybe we can. I'll
come down to school late tomorrow afternoon. How's that?"
Luke nodded and I said, "Okay. I'll see you
then. I'll watch now till you get to your door."
Luke pushed the car door closed and ran to his
apartment, opened the door with his key and ducked
inside. I backed the car around and started to pull out
when Luke was back outside waving, calling something.
I slowed and rolled down my window.
"She wants to talk to you. My mother does."
The front door opened directly into the living
room and Mrs. Brauer stood in the open
doorway, pulling her pink bathrobe together around her
throat.
"Thank you," she said. "I got the flu pretty
bad. Thanks for getting Luke."
"Mrs. Karras did that. I just brought him home."
Mrs. Brauer coughed and shivered as a gust of wind
blew through the open door. I could hear children arguing
somewhere behind her and a deeper voice, or was it the
TV?
"You should get out of the draft," I said. "You don't
want to get chilled."
"Mary-uh. I don't mean to call you that.
It's just that it's what Luke says-was
"Mary's fine."
"Could I talk to you? They're not going to send him
away or nothing like that, are they?"
"No. I don't think so. Not this time, anyway."
"Could I come over to school? When I'm better,
I mean?"
My heart lifted a little. Maybe if she would
help- maybe.
"I'd like that," I said. "Just let me know when's good
for you. We'll work something out."
*
Cal was home when I got there.
He looked at me carefully. "Tired?"
I nodded, tears so close I couldn't speak.
"Sue and Nan both called to see how you were. You
just missed them. They both sent their love."
My daughters. "111 take a shower. I'll just be
a minute."
I leaned against the side of the shower and let the water
run hot against my shoulders, my face, my back.
Thoughts and tears mixing with the hot water.
I stepped out and rubbed myself dry with a towel,
rubbingaway rivulets of water and the last remainder
of tears.

Luke was already in the music room when I arrived
at School 23. He was sitting at the long table,
the carton in front of him. He watched as I
hung up my coat.
"Miss Eckhardt said I could wait here," he
said.
"Okay." I went and sat beside him.
The cardboard box was dirty and cracked. At least
he had used it. I touched it tentatively. "Can
I look?" Luke nodded and I pulled the box
toward me and took off the cover.
There was the box of colored chalk, the stars, the
notebookeapencils, Luke's story book, the
mystery box. I lined them up in front of me; the
accoutrements of our time togetherwere so few.
"There's more," Luke said. "See. I put this
in." He put 154
a flattened penny with the other things. "And this." He
laid an empty lipstick tube beside the penny.
"You know
"bout
that?" he said nodding. "You know where that came from?" I
nodded in return.
"That's all. Except for this."
"A tooth?"
Luke nodded. "A mole's tooth. I found it in
the field." He looked down. "No. It isn't.
It's mine own. I put it in there myself." He
looked at me straight now, full face. "They
told me, some kids did, that there was a tooth
fairy and that if you put your tooth under your pillow
when it came out, this fairy'd give you money. I
didn't have a pilloweas I put it in the box. But
nuthin" happened."
Luke was forgetting to sit straight. He was up on
his knees looking at me. No more standing in the
corner, head down. His eyes were only inches from
mine.
"Is there a tooth fairy?" he asked.
I took a breath and then let it out. What a
place to start. "That's a hard question, Luke."
"Well, did you ever get any money?" he
insisted.
"Yes. A quarter. A quarter for each tooth."
"Under your pillow?"
"Yes."
"Maybe if I'd had a pillow-was Luke's
voice trailed off. "Maybe she wouldn't know
to look in a box."
He was such a little kid, street-wise, savvy with the
policeeaa budding arsonist, and here we were talking about
tooth fairies.
I looked around the room. It was too small for
all we had to say. I wanted to take Luke to the
mountain, to walk, to picnic, to feed him. But it was
already late. It would be almost dark by the time we reached
the mountain.the music room would have to do. I turned
so I was facing Luke.
"How was your summer, Luke? Did you get my
postcards"...I tried to call you, but no one
answered."
"Okay, I guess."
"Did you visit your father?"
Luke began putting the things back in the box.
"Yeah." The pencils and chalk were back in.
Luke took the cover 155
off the gold stars and held one on the tip of his
finger. "I didn't stay too long. He hadda go
to the hospital so I came back and stayed with my
grandma. Alice and Frank went to Florida with
Mom and Uncle Chuck. Mom doesn't like
Grandma. She says she spoiled my dad
rotten."
Things seemed worse than ever to me.
Somehow Luke's family was dividing up and because he
loved his father, he was being shunted toward his father's mother,
while his mother and brother and sister moved in another
direction.
"I'm sorry, Luke," I said. "You were the one
who was supposed to go to Florida."
Again he hunched his shoulders and put the cover on the
box.
"How's your dad now?" I asked, not wanting to end
here.
"Better, I guess. I don't know. My mom
says he's bettereab still in the hospital. She
says it's the best place for him."
Luke turned toward me. "Did your mom get
better? Did she get out of the hospital?"
I looked at Luke and then got up and walked
around the room. How did I answer that? So many
ramifications to any answer. What would help
Luke? I walked to the blackboard and then back
to the table. There was no choice. We couldn't begin again
on lies.
"Yes, she got out of the hospital, but she's not
better, Luke She died a couple of weeks
ago."
Luke looked at me without saying anything.
He took the cover off the box and dug down in and
found the lipsticktube and the penny. He balanced the
penny on the top of the lipstick tube. I sat
down beside him again.
"I knowed it," he said. "I knowed something was wrong
when you came to take me home after the fires."
"Yes," I said. "I felt like you knew. I
didn't tell many people. It helped me to think you
understood. My mother was very old, Luke. Over
eighty. Much, much older than your father."
Now Luke turned the penny on edge and tried
to spin 156
it on the table, but it was no longer round and it fell
back to the table each time.
"Do you believe in the tooth fairy?"
Impatience surged in me. Back to this? Why?
"I don't know, Luke."
"How about Santa Claus? Do you believe in
him?"
Okay. I see now! The tooth fairy? Santa
Claus? And life? And you? Do I believe in you?
That's what you're asking.
Easy now, I told myself. Don't come on too
hard.
"Santa Claus? A grown-up like me?
How could I believe in Santa Claus?"
But Luke heard behind the words. "Do you hang up your
stocking?"
"Well, now that you mention it-was
"Does he come? Does he fill it up?"
I smiled at Luke for the first time that day. "So far.
So far he has."
Luke let out his breath and his tense tight body
relaxed a little.
Now I could ask, now was the right time.
"What's going on, Luke? You've got to level
with me. What's with all these fires and coming to school
late, not doing any work and not talking to anybody?"
Luke shrugged. "I don't know." He twisted
back in his chair and flicked the lipstick tube with
his finger so that it spun round and round on the table.
Almost inaudibly he said, "I'm the tallest one."
"The tallest one? In your class, you mean?"
Luke nodded. "The other kids are shrimps.
Babies. Same as my brother."
I nodded. What was there to say?
"Frank. My brother. He says I'm
mental."
"Mental?"
Luke tapped his head. "Crazy.
Re-tard. Frank says it comes from drugs."
"How come Frank thinks he knows so much?" I
asked.
Luke hunched his shoulders. "Frank's smart."
Then without looking up, Luke said, "Does it come
from drugs? Like old Mr. Spencer drinking out of his
bottle and telling 157
me it's his birthday. Every day he tells me that.
Are drugs like drinking? Is that what's the matter with
me?"
"No, Luke. It's not like that at all. Look.
The Child Study-was
"Mary," Luke interrupted. "I could of caught it
maybe from my dad." He was crouched back on the
chair, his small body intent, fierce. "See,
I never told nobody but you. About the shots and
things. And I didn't even tell you, but sometimes I
used to pick up the needle and stuff and throw it
away. See. I coulda caught it."
"No, Luke. Frank's wrong. You can't catch
it. And besides, there's nothing wrong with you." Even as
I said it, I knew it was foolish. Luke would
never believe it. How could I get through? The
issues were so big, the hurt so deep, the answers
so elusive. Better begin with somethingon the
smaller side.
"Let's get back to why you're late for school every
day, Luke. Miss Eckhardt says you don't
come in till around ten o'clock." That's it. Start with the
little things. Leave the fires till later.
Luke shrugged. "I gotta come or Frank will
tell on me and Chuck'll, Uncle Chuckll
gimme the strap. But Frank doesn't come
lookin' for me till he goes to the bathroom in the
middle of the morning."
"Frank and Alice get here on time," I said.
"They leave with Chuck at eight. He says
they're too little to walk so he drops them at
school on his way to the factory. But he can't
make me ride with him. I take the shortcut."
"I remember. But why not till ten? Why don't
you get here at nine so you don't start out the day in
trouble?"
Luke shrugged. "I just put the milk back in the
"friger-ator and then I look at Mom sleeping
and then I go lie back down again."
I knew the feeling. When things are really hard
sometimeseax just seems safer in bed.
"You could look at the clock. Maybe set the
alarm. You could get up when it says
eight-forty. You know how to tell time. I remember
you knew on one of those tests."
"Don't have a clock," Luke mumbled. 158
Excuses. He'd never get anywhere till he
got through with excuses. "Well, look at the
clock in the kitchen."
Luke shook his head. "Don't have one."
Not an excuse. Another way of life. A home
without a clock.
"We got a TV, though," Luke said. "They
say what time it is sometimes."
*
At home I counted our clocks. The grandfather
clock in the living room that I often forgot to wind.
Two clocks in the kitchen, one on the wall and one
on the back of the stove. Another, digital,
clock in the bedroom radio, a travel alarm in
my bureau. Five clocks, plus Cal's watch
and two of mine. An embarrassment of clocks.
I took the travel alarm out of the drawer and wound the
little key. It ticked cheerfully all night and its
alarm buzzed beneath my pillow the next morning. I
wrapped it in tissue paper and took it down
to Luke.
He loved the clock. He set it on the
table in front of us. "Does it really work? I
mean keep going all night?"
"If you wind it," I said. "It's the right time now,
but you'll have to remember to wind it every night. I forget
sometimes to wind the ones at home."
"I won't forget," Luke promised.
I showed him the alarm and how it worked and how you could
slide the case up so it covered the face of the
clock altogether. Luke tried to put the clock in his
back pocket, but then he couldn't sit down, so he
just sat holdingit against his stomach. He reminded
me of the black Lab puppy we'd had once who
huddled tight against the cushion under which we'd put an
old alarm clock.
Out loud I said, "Okay. Now what are we going
to do about the work?" Not the fires. Not yet.
"I'm too big to be in that class," Luke
protested again. "The biggest kid, next to me,
only comes to here was Luke put his hand just above his
chin. "And she's a girl." Scorn filled his
voice.
"Hey," I said. "There's nothing wrong with girls.
I hear 159
what you're saying, Luke, but that isn't
going
to get you out of second grade. The only thing that's
going to get you to third is to prove you know all the.
second-grade work."
"Suppose I don't? Suppose I can't learn
it?"
"That's foolish. Of course you can learn it. In
fact, you already know a lot of what they're doing
now."
"It's dumb anyway. It's dumb stuff."
I looked at Luke. "What do you like to do,
anyway? You don't like to get up, you don't like
school. What
do
you like?" I challenged him.
"Hunting. That's what I like. Deer hunting. I
went with Dad once, I think I did, anyway.
And once I went with Mr. Berkus. He lives
behind us."
I wanted to cry. Deer hunting. If there was
anything I hated, it was deer hunting. Now at our
house in the countryeathe deer came to feed in the meadow,
rooting under the apple tree. There was a fawn,
tawny, the same color as the last leaves on the
trees, quick, graceful, wary, jumping the stone
fence, into the woods at the slightest sound.
Fast. Faster than a thought could be spoken. How could
anyone want to kill that swiftness?
"I'm maybe going to go hunting again this weekend."
Skip the lecture on hunting. "I don't think
you ought to go anywhere until you're doing your work and
getting to school on time."
Luke said nothing.
"Luke, you can't quit now. You know you can learn that
stuff. Even by yourself you could learn it and I'll come
down and help you. In fact, in a few weeks
I'll be here every day. The only reason they didn't
pass you to third grade was that they didn't think you
could do third-grade work."
Luke thought about this. "Can you show me some sometime? Some
third-grade work?"
"Sure. It's not that hard, you'll see. If you can
do secondeay can learn third easy." I opened the
box and took out the mystery box of word chips. "Just
run through these, Luke. Let's see how many first and
beginning second-gradewords you remember." 160
And of course, he knew every one.
After Luke and the other children had left, I copied
down the names of each of Luke's books and got
duplicatesfrom the storeroom. I found out from
Lisa what page they were on in reading,
math, and spelling. I took the books to the music
room so that if there was anything Luke didn't understand
in class and didn't want to ask about in front of the
other kids, he could show me and I could explain it
to him in the music room. I had to be
absolutelysure that Luke's first- and
second-grade basic skills were solid enough not
to crumble under the Child Study Team's testing at the end
of the year. I was going to be sure they did test him.
His knowledge must be so solidly built by learning and
relearning that no amount of anxiety or apprehension
could shake him.
*
My courses at college were a joke this semester.
AlthI was taking the same or more hours than ever
befeathe courses were almost all "method" courses
comteaching this, teaching that-and yet I learned nothingab
teaching. I was making a scrapbook for Education of the
Mentally Retarded Trainable; I was learning to print
in round fat letters in Language Arts, Special
Ed; I was making a game to teach the concept of ones,
tens, and hundreds in Teaching Elementary School
Math; I was making a terrarium in Teaching
Elementary School Science; I was listening to other
seniors talk about student teaching in the
seminar for Special Ed; and I was playing the
piano by number in Methods and Materials for
Teaching Music.
I practiced on the piano in the music room and
Luke, at least, loved this part of my college
course. Soon he memorized which keys were C
D E F G A B and together we could play
"Merrily We Roll Along," "London
Bridge," and a snappy rendition of "Jingle
Bells." For my final exam I was practicing a
solo of "Aura Lee," completewith left-hand
chords, followed by a seasonal "It Came upon A
Midnight Clear." I was fairly confident 161
about the piano, since the keys obligingly stayed in
the same place; it was just like typing once you got
everything memorized.
Not so the recorder. A recorder is a wooden
instrument that looks like a short flute. By blowing
down into it and covering different holes with different
fingers, one was supposed to be able to produce a
melody. I had taken my first recorder back to the
music store, sure that it was defective.only a
shrill squeal came out. In disdainful tones, the
clerk informed me it was not the recorder, it was me.
My breath was not controlled. Each evening
after dinner, I cut out pictures for my
scrapbook and practiced my assignedsong,
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," on the
recorder.
Cal thought I was making it all up. I concentrated
on breath control.
*
Luke was up and out of his seat before I could even open
the door to Lisa's classroom.
"Come on," he said. "I got something to show you."
He almost ran to the music room.
"Mrs. Karras said I could put it in here." He
opened the door to the music room and then quickly
closed it behus. He opened the door to the coat
closet in the back, pulled a metal chair over
to it, stood on the chair, and lifted down a long
box from the shelf.
He put it on the table. "Go ahead, Mary. Open
it. It's for you."
I stood in front of the table-we hadn't had time
to sit down yet-and looked at the box. A
florist's box. Long and thin. A memory of
long-stemmed red roses stirred somewhere in my mind.
Where would Luke have got flowers? I looked at him
questioningly.
"Go ahead. Wait'll you see."
I pulled up the top of the box, expecting green
waxed paper. Instead, there was aluminum foil.
"Open it, Mary. I got it for you my own self."

I separated the aluminum foil gently,
carefully. There was an odd odor, and my fingers were
sticky.
Hair. It felt like hair. An animal? I
pulled the aluminumfoil wide open and almost
vomited.
A deer's leg. From the hoof to the first joint.
Sticky with blood where it had been severed.
"Oh, Luke." I sat down.
Luke was dancing with excitement. "I killed it
myself. Well, almost. Mr. Berkus hit it first, but
he let me pull the trigger for the shot that really
killed it. And then we put it on the car and brought it
home and then we spent all day yesterday out in Mr.
Berkus's garage cleaning it and cuttingit up and
Mrs. Costa's even got a freezer and we put
it in there all wrapped up and we're going to eat it
on Thanksgiving. Venison. That's what it's
called. Not deer meat. Venison. It's very
expensive. I'da brought you some, but Mom
said it would spoil without 'frigeration, so I brought you
the leg instead."
I had never heard Luke say so many words all at
one time. I forced myself to rewrap the leg in
aluminum foil. It would be better if I couldn't
see it. "Thank you, Luke, for thinking about me."
I put the top back on the box and swallowed,
trying not to think about what was inside.
"Do you like it, Mary? were you surprised?"
He was so excited. In his culture this was a coming of
age. I couldn't take that away from him. "It must have
been scary, Luke, shooting that gun all by yourself."
"You shoulda heard it. It was louder than any ole
firecrackerever-was
He was off again, talking a mile a minute,
describing each detail. I listened hard, because I
knew Luke was teaching me something important that I
must learn. To see things from his point of view. It
would have been easy to misconstrue the deer leg. But
Luke hadn't brought it in to scare or horrify
me; he had brought it as a gift of friendshipeal the
clock I had given him. As I listened, another
idea was beginning.
I couldn't replace Luke's world of violence, but
perhapsI could give him a glimpse of a
different kind of world.
"Will you be hunting every weekend now?" I asked.
Luke shook his head. "Not for a while. Mr.
Berkus can't take me all the time. He's just like a
neighbor, know what I mean?"
I nodded, my own excitement growing. "Would you have
time then, some weekend, to come to the country with us, if
your mom said it was okay?"
Maybe if he could see the deer in the meadow,
maybe if he could see how beautiful they were and if
he saw Cal watching them, just watching, without a
gun-maybe it would make some difference in his life.
"I guess," Luke said, "if Mom said it was
all right, I guess I could." He looked up at
me, his small face round and open "I could
probably come this next weekend, if you want."

We picked Luke up at ten o'clock Saturday
morning. Cal waited in the car while I rang the
doorbell of Luke's apartment
Mrs. Brauer opened the door herself. She was
dressed in a skirt and sweater, her hair curling
around her face, and she looked so young that for a minute
it seemed impossiblethat she was old enough to be
Luke's mother.
But there was Luke, right beside her in his jeans and shirt
and jacket, carrying a suitcase.
I smiled at him. "All set, Luke?"
He nodded without answering.
"Okay. Let's go then."
"Don't forget the present," Mrs. Brauer
whispered to Luke. And he picked up a small
rectangular box wrapped in flowered paper from the
arm of the couch.
Cal was standing beside the car and I introduced him
to Luke and Mrs. Brauer. He shook hands with
Mrs. Brauer and took Luke's suitcase and
box and put them 164
beside ours in the back seat. Luke started to crawl in
with the suitcases, but I touched his arm.
"Sit up front with us. There's lots of room."
Mrs. Brauer watched silently as Cal got in
behind the wheel and Luke eased through my door to perch in
the middle, on the edge of the seat.
I stayed outside next to Luke's mother. We
hadn't been able to meet at the school yet, but
we'd talked several times on the phone and I felt
we knew each other a little better.
"Thank you for letting Luke come. We'll take
good care of him."
"He's so excited," she whispered. "He didn't
hardly sleep all last night. Was up before dawn
packing his suitcase all over again." She shook
her head. "I hope he's got everything he
needs."
"I'm sure he does. Besides, there are extra
sweaters and things at the house." I handed her a
slip of paper. "Here's our phone number if you
need us for anything, but don't worry if we don't
answer right away. We may be outside, but we'll
be back by suppertime. Would you like Luke home by any
special time tomorrow?"
Mrs. Brauer shrugged. "Doesn't matter."
Worry lined her face, making her old again. "I
hope he minds his manners and doesn't be too much
trouble."
I put my arm around her shoulders for a second.
"He'll be fine. You try and catch up on a little
rest now. Okay? We'll see you after supper tomorrow
night."
I got in next to Luke and we both waved as
Cal turned the car around. Mrs. Brauer waved
back, calling to Luke, "You be good now, hear."
We waved until the project was out of sight.
Luke sat tense and tight between us, his
back straight, hands squeezed together in his lap.
Cal talked to me about small, unimportant things
and then casually pointed out the barges in the Hudson
as we crossed the bridge, then the ice-skating rink
by the river, the license plate from Texas, small
things that he thought might interest Luke. Gradually
Luke's body relaxed. He 165
leaned back against the seat and even let his shoulder
brush my arm. I smiled across Luke's head at
Cal.
Our house was two hours away. At the halfway
mark stood the Red Rooster, a fast-food stand with
picnic tables outside-hamburgers, hot dogs,
milkshakes inside. It was more than a place
to eat. It was a place to shake the city and
surburbia off your feet and out of your mind. I had
never known anyone to be unhappy at the Red
Rooster, at least not driving up. Somehow we never
stopped there on the way home.
Cal ordered a hot dog with sauerkraut and
mustard;
Luke and I had ours with relish. Cal and I shared
a black and white milkshake. Luke drank a
whole one on his own, down to the last drop.
Back on the road we all felt full
and comfortable. Luke leaned against me and I told him
stories of trips I had taken when I was little, how
my dad made a real bed for us in the back seat, a
mattress on top of suitcases, sheets and
pillows on top of the mattress. Cal told about
going to the world's fair in Chicago with his father. Luke
loved every word.
We came to the covered bridge and Luke couldn't
believe a bridge made of wood could be strong enough
to hold a car. He held his breath until we were
across. Just beyond the bridge Cal pointed out the stone
painted to look like a frog that had been there for fifty
years.
No sign of the city now. Only winding country
roads, a few houses, mountains in the distance. And
trees. Luke couldn't get over how many trees
there were. Not just one mountain full of trees, like his
outside of Falls City, but mile after mile of
trees, thick and deep along the road. Most of the
brilliant color was gone, only a few sturdy
brown November leaves still clung to the branches,
but the age-old trunks stood weathered and strong.
We turned into our dirt road and Cal said
to Luke, "See if you can see the roof of our
house. What color do you think it is?"
Luke leaned across me to see out my side window and
I could feel quivers of excitement running through
him. 166
"I see it!" he shouted. "No, I guess not."
His voice sank.
"What color?" Cal asked.
"Green. Light green," Luke said softly. "But
it couldn't of been."
"You're exactly right. It's a copper roof, and
it's fifty years old now and that's the color
copper gets when it's old. Well, here we are."
We parked in the turn-around one hundred feet from the
house. All of a sudden, for no apparent reason,
Luke began to run, down the path toward the house,
back out to the dirt driveway, out to the dirt road,
back in again, passing me on the path, not saying
anything, just running. He ran with his arms straight out
to the side, stretched wide, wheeling like a glider
turning in the autumn sky. It almost seemed that in
another second Luke would fly.
Cal and I carried in the suitcases and paper
bags of food, doing ritual things, unlocking
doors, turning on the water, putting things in the
refrigerator, carrying in wood to pile beside the big
stone fireplace at the end wall of the
living room.
Suddenly I realized Luke was standing absolutely
still in the middle of the living room. He looked so
small, the high rough wood ceiling rising thirty
feet above his head.
"You okay, Luke?" I asked, setting down the
log, straightening.
Luke nodded and came over to where I was standing beside the
fireplace. A rush of thoughts. Had Luke ever
seen a fireplace before? Not at the project. At
his father's place in New York? His grandmother's?
Well, surely on television. Did it make
him think of fires? The ones he'd set. Why he
did it? We had never really talked about the fires.
I sat down on the low bench in front of the
fireplace and pulled Luke close. "I'm so
glad you're here."
Cal appeared suddenly with a last armful of logs.
I had told Cal about Luke and the fires and the deer
leg. Now he knelt before the fireplace and began
to lay the fire and then stopped and turned to Luke.
"Would you like to light some matches before I get the
fire going?"
Luke nodded solemnly, his eyes round. Cal
handed Luke a box of wooden matches and
showed him how to strike a match against the rough side
of the box.
Luke lit a match and threw it in the fireplace,
and then another and another and another.
I looked at Cal questioningly.
"Good." Cal spoke to Luke, not me. "Light as
many as you want. That's the right place for fires."
There were two hundred matches in the box. Luke
lit every one, putting each match carefully in the
fireplace.
There wasn't any need for talk.
*
Nan, my daughter, arrived a little before three o'clock,
driving down from college in Boston. She was a
senior now herself. We were both special education
majors and there were always a hundred things to talk about,
compare.there was never enough time for all we had to say.
Luke immediately recognized Nan as a friend and
trotted beside her, helping carry things in from her car.
Within another half hour. Mark, Cal's youngest
son, arrived with two high school friends and they all
went on together to the small store in the village
to buy more food. They took Luke with them without question,
and later, with the afternoon light almost gone, I looked out
of the kitchen window to see Luke riding high
on Mark's shoulders as they came up the path to the
house, the otherscarrying the bags of groceries.
Everybody helped with supper, spaghetti and salad
and french bread. Everybody getting in everybody
else's way;
there wasn't enough room in our little kitchen. I ordered
everybody out; nobody went. I gave in to bedlam,
confusioneaand laughter.
After dinner we went back to the living room and
built the fire high again. Luke sat close beside
the flames, addingsmall sticks from time to time. The
rest of us talked about soccer and exams and the news from
the rest of the family. Nan and I huddled for a while
to compare educationnotes and commiserate over method
courses, and
count the days of school that were left. We would both
graduate in June. I was only twenty-two
years behind. Never mind. It's almost done.
Somehow we got involved in a game of Pictionary-
Nan and Luke and I on one team, Mark and his
friends on another. Cal read out unknown words from the
dictionary and we made up definitions.
Luke loved this game and whispered ideas to me, one
after the other, while a small mouse ran up and down
the stone wall above the fireplace.
At nine o'clock I took Luke's hand and we went
back to his room. We opened his suitcase and he
took out his pajamas and toothbrush while I
turned down his bed. He undressed quickly, his
back toward me, and I walked to the doorway
to give him more privacy.
"Listen, Luke," I said. "Go get washed and
brushed and then I'll read you a story before you go
to sleep."
While he was in the bathroom I thought about how
strange this must all seem to him. Was it scary
to sleep alone in a big bed in a strange house?
Luke reassured me when he came back. He
stood on the bed and traced the carved birds and
grapes that made up the wooden headboard that was
twice as tall as he was. He bounced gently
up and down while his fingers examined the wood and there
was nothing frightened about him. I remembered the nights
he had spent watching over his father on the mountain.
He'd been a lot more alone than this.
Suddenly Luke stopped his gentle bouncing on the
bed. "Oh, oh, Mary," he said. "I forgot the
present."
He brought me the flowered box and I opened it as he
watched.
"Whitman's Sampler. My favorite, Luke.
My father used to buy candy just like this on Valentine's
Day. Thank you."
"You're welcome," Luke answered seriously,
remembering to "mind his manners."
"Why don't you take it out to the living room to offer
everyone a piece? Yourself too, except then you'll
have to brush again."
I watched Luke from the hall, feeling a wave of
love for my family as they praised him and patted
him and kissed him good night without conscious thought,
barely interrupting their conversation.
When we'd finished reading, I tucked the covers
around Luke and kissed him myself.
"Do you think we'll see the deer tomorrow?" Luke
asked. "We looked all over this afternoon, but we
didn't see *em."
"Maybe. Early in the morning is best. When you
first wake up, look out this front window. That's where
I usuallysee them, down under the apple tree in the
middle of the meadow.
"Good night, Luke. Sleep well. I'll
leave your door open. Cal and I will be coming to bed in
a few minutes. Call if you want anything."
But we slept soundly all night long and the
sun was shining on the tops of the mountains when I woke
and turned and saw Luke standing in our doorway.
"Hey, Luke. Good morning." Then remembering the
deer, I lowered my voice to a whisper. "Did you
see the deer?" I asked.
Luke shook his head. "Not one."
"Well, come get into bed here. Your feet will
freeze on those stone floors."
Luke climbed up over the footboard and I
tucked him in between us, snug and warm.
Pancakes for breakfast, then Nan and Luke went
out to look for deer. They saw a raccoon with only
three feet, two spiders, one with a perfect web,
and a snake, but no deer.
In the afternoon we went down to the lake and took turns
playing tennis and fishing off the end of the dock.
Nobody caught anything and most of the bounce had
died in our summer tennis balls; but nobody
minded. We weren't down there to win prizes.
Every once in a while I would realize Luke was
gone and then suddenly he would come running down the
road or up from the beach, in what I had come to think
of as 170
Luke's happiness run, wheeling, turning,
happiness almost lifting him off the ground.
The hours ran out too soon. Everybody packing
up, heading back to school and college, remembering
suddenlyall the undone homework, reports not
written, books not read, the real world of Monday
coming close. We hugged each other, kissing quickly,
promising to call, to write, to see each other
soon. Luke stood by the fireplacewatching us.
After Nan and Mark left, we packed our own
things, checked the fire, turned off the water. I
looked for Luke and found him out on the stone wall in
front of the house, alone.
"I think maybe I saw one, Mary. Look.
SeEvery that deer?"
I peered into the dusky meadow, looking hard, wishing
a deer into existence, but nothing moved.
"Time to go, Luke," I said as gently as I could.
"Are you all packed?"
We rode silently for the first hour and a half,
Luke sound asleep against my shoulder. Then a
traffic jam and honking horns woke him. He
rubbed his eyes and looked at me in the half light
of the other headlights.
"I was dreaming about the deer. Like the one I saw in the
meadow. Remember that one?"
"I remember the tracks we saw," I
said, knowing how badly he had wanted to see it-how
much I had wanted it, too. Now he was putting the
deer there the only way he knew. "So anyway,
we know the deer are there, and I remember you saw a
mouse and a snake and a raccoon-was
"With only three feet, but he could still walk okay,
and a spiderweb."
"Yes," I said, "and a fish. You saw a lot."
"At least six things. I'm gonna tell Frank
tomorrow. Maybe tonight even."
Luke's voice faded and he was back asleep.
Was he dreaming once again of the deer he hadn't seen?
Or perhapshe had. Who could know for sure?
Well, my plan hadn't worked out. My hopes of
having Luke see deer in another light, to understand that
they 171
were meant for more than killing, had flopped. I
sighed, adjusted Luke's body so that I could lean
against the windowand then I, too, slept and dreamed of
deer and boys and birds against the sky.
"We're here." Cal's voice woke me and I
felt Luke squirm awake.
"Hey, sleepyheads, wake up. We're back
in Falls City."
Luke stretched and sat up and I blinked
my eyes to get them open. The light went on over
Luke's front door and then his mother stepped into the
light, peering out toward the car.
I rolled down the window.
"Hello. We're back," I called
redundantly. "Luke was terrific."
Luke said, "I'm gonna tell Frank I saw
a spiderweb and a raccoon with three feet and a mouse
and a snake and deer tracks-and a deer. Right,
Mary?"
"Right. You tell him what you saw."
"And I'm gonna tell about the fireplace and how
you can light a hundred matches there, more'n a
hundred and not hurt nuthin". Right, Mary?"
"Right, Luke."
And then without thinking, Luke gave me and Cal
too, a quick hug, casually, easily, as he had
seen the other older children do.
Cal carried Luke's suitcase to the door while
Luke ran ahead and I sat thinking how maybe
Luke had learned even more than I had planned.

Mrs. Brauer had her uniform on under her coat.
A black blouse, a short black skirt and a
white frilly apron. She glanced
nervously at the clock on the wall above the counter
of the diner.
"I gotta be there by five sharp," she said, "or
Joe has a fit. But I had to talk to you.
Thanks for meeting me. I
didn't want to come to school like this." She glanced
down.
I nodded. "This is fine." I would have met her
anywhereshe suggested. I was so glad she'd called.
"Not that there's anything wrong with Joe's place. I
don't mean that. I wouldn't work there if there was any
funny stuff going on, know what I mean, but still, you
know how those teachers talk. I didn't want them
gettin' wrong ideas."
Again I nodded, waiting. I had lots to say myself,
but I wanted to hear her first.
Her coffee sat untouched in front of her and now
she pushed it to one side.
"Luke liked being at your place last weekend.
It's all he talks about now. Anyway, I
figure that you had a real good chance to look at him
and the thing I gotta know is, is Luke gonna be
all right?
"See, Chuck, he's a friend of the family like a
cousin sort of, stays at the house some.
Chuck says Luke's like his father. Bad blood.
Sick Maybe even sick in the head. Chuck
says maybe Luke'd be better off living with his
father."
"I thought Luke's father was in the hospital," I
said, trying to keep my voice even, friendly, not
wanting to frighten her away.
"Well, in and out. Who knows? But he's got an
apartmentin the city and a wife with three kids. Seems
to have plenty to spend on them, so Chuck says why not
send Luke in there. That way he, Luke's father, will
have to spend on Luke, too. Only way any of us
will ever see a cent."
"Do you want Luke to go?"
This was what I had to know. I could understand the
bitterness. I could even understand Chuck's wanting
to get rid of Luke, there must be some jealousy and also
it would be easier economically. But what about
Luke? How would he fare with a stepmother who had sent
him back to his grandmother's when his father went in the
hospital this past summer? It didn't sound as if
she'd been too eagerto have him around then There was no
reason to 173
think she'd changed. But how did Luke's mother
feel? Did she love him? That was what
I had to know.
I looked at her carefully. Tears were clinging to the
black beads of mascara on her lower lashes.
She shook her head. "I just want him to stay with us.
He was the first, you know. The first baby. He was so
fat and cute, you wouldn't believe. And good too.
Even Grandma said he was the best baby she'd ever
seen. Never cried. Always did just what we said."
Mrs. Brauer touched her lower lashes with a paper
napkin, blotting up the tears, careful not to smear the
mascara. "I don't know what went wrong.
Everything fell apart all at the same time. Frank
and Alice came too fast, I guess, and I
got sick and then Luke's father had some habits
like-well, they got worse, and we split up and then
the next thing I know the school is calling me about
Luke-then the police are calling. I don't know.
I don't understand it." Mrs. Brauer's voice
quavered and she stopped to clear her throat. "You know
what the police said? They said he was the rottenest
kid in the neighborhood."
"Forget that," I said. "Luke isn't rotten.
He's good and he's smart. He was just scared and
angry and he didn't know how to tell anybody so
he set some fires instead. But he needs
you, Mrs. Brauer, Luke needs you more than
anything in this world."
"Me?" She glanced down at herself again. "Why would
anybody need me?"
I smiled at her. "Easy. Because you're his mother.
You know more about him than anybody else. You've
known him for, what-eight years?" I stopped,
shocked, realizing I didn't know exactly how
old Luke was. "See, I don't even know when
his birthday is. But you do."
"May thirtieth."
I nodded. "And you remember what he looked like when
he was born and when he first walked and what he said
when he began to talk. Nobody knows all those things
but you."
I had Mrs. Brauer's complete attention now.
I hurried on.
"And you remember how he used to help with Frank and
Alice when you were sick, do some cooking-was
"He did all the shopping, too," Mrs. Brauer
said with pride. "I'd give him a purse with a little
money and he'd get the things I told him. He
always brought the money back if there was any left.
He even got so he knew what things cost!"
"Yes. I'm sure he did. Luke's
plenty smart enough, Mrs. Brauer."
"Then how come he got left back?"
Her voice sounded like Luke's now. It almost made
me smile to hear how much alike they sounded.
"I don't understand it all," I said. "Maybe he
didn't do as well on tests as he should have.
Maybe he'd missed a lot of school over the
years. Maybe he set fires because he was feeling
mad and sad about a lot of things, your being sick, his
dad leaving. Maybe he even felt like there was more to do
than he could handle."
"I know that feeling for sure," Mrs. Brauer
muttered under her breath.
"And so maybe he wanted to get back at the world a
little, or maybe he just wanted to get away by himself
sometimes. Anyway, I think he was thinking about a
lot of other things instead of school work. And then when
he came back this fall and found he'd been left
back, it was too much and he forgot all the
progress he'd made. But look, he's starting
again. It will take awhile to come back, but at least
he's starting."
"Maybe," she said. "Maybe so." Her eyes
flicked toward the clock. "Listen, I gotta go
in a minute. I mean if you're late,
Joe is on your back the whole night and I sure
don't need that. But just tell me this. What's going
to happen now? Chuck says maybe he'll never
get out of second grade. Maybe that's as far as
he can go."
"Luke can get out of second, third, fourth, and
fifth and sixth. Luke can graduate from high
school and get a job and help you, and Chuck too,
if he's around, to pay the bills. At least until
he has his own family."
Mrs. Brauer was obviously taken back by the
idea of a 175
Luke that large. I took advantage of her
silence and the extra minute it gave me.
"I can help him with his school; I'm going to be at
the school every day after Christmas. And I can show you
how to help him, too. But I'm just a teacher, and there
are hundreds of teachers in the world. But you're his
mom. You're the only mother he's got. He needs
you to love him, Mrs. Brauer."
"I do love him. I always have. It's just-hard. I
mean, it's really hard now."
"I know. It's hard for Luke, too. And Chuck.
But tell Luke you love him. Tell Chuck how
much you love Luke and that you hope
Chuck'Us get to like him, too. But in any case,
your apartment is Luke's home. It always has been
and it always will be. Tell Chuck to give us till
June. If you and Luke and I all work hard, as
hard as we can, I bet by June Chuck is going
to be proud of Luke."
*
I ordered another cup of coffee after Mrs.
Brauer left. I hesitated between the pink packet
of artificial sweetener and the white one of sugar.
Cancer or diabetes? The world was full of
wonderful choices.
I sat alone at the booth thinking about my talk with
Mrs. Brauer. "Just give us till June.
Chuck is going to be proud of Luke." I shook
my head. Maybe if I don't graduateI can
get a job giving pep talks to parents, or
maybe the football coaches could use me during
halftime. "Come on, team, you can do it."
What was I doing raising her hopes? And over and
above that, suggesting that she stand up to Chuck and tell
him she wanted Luke to stay with them?
How did I dare? What did I know? I sighed
and stirred my lethal coffee. Maybe Luke
wouldn't be able to satisfy the Child Study
Team's requirements for third grade. Maybe
they'd keep him back again or put him in a
special class. Maybe Chuck would leave and
they'd be worse off and Mrs. Brauer would blame
me. Maybe I wouldn't be able to tootle
"Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" on my re-

corder with a classroom of twenty-year-old kids
staring at me. Maybe I wouldn't pass my exam.
I could use a pep talk myself.
Exams. Exams were less than a month away,
before Christmas vacation. I'd been cutting a few
classes and I sure hadn't contributed anything
during class. But I had completed my assignments
and nobody but Mrs. Karras had commented on my
absences. Not even the week that I had spent with my
father after my mother's death.
A familiar sense of loss ran through me and I
put down my coffee cup and got out a pencil and a
piece of paper. Lists helped. I'd make a
list.
I was used to missing my mother now. I realized that it
was something that would be a part of me for a long time. The thing
was to keep it in proportion. My father seemed to be
all right. He often drove to our house in
the country on weekends and sometimes, if he had been
visiting my mother's grave, he would show up at the
apartment and stay for dinner. In any event, he would be
with us for Christmas.
*
I drank my coffee and listed my courses on the
piece of paper, the number of classes left for
each, reports and projects due. If I
alternated cutting, missed different classes rather
than the same ones, and if Luke, and Lisa too,
could tolerate my coming down at different hours on
different days, I could get down to School 23
three times a week and work with Luke for forty
minutes each time. If I could get Luke and his
mother to agree to fifteen to twenty minutes of
practice each night, I was sure Luke could be
at least at mid-to late-second-grade level
by January.after all, he'd been there the year
before. I'd just have to plan his work carefully.
So much for Luke's classes.
So much for mine.
Enough of both for now.
I paid for the coffee and raced home.
"Look, Luke. Try this. A whole row of
hills and valleys."
I handed him the Magic Marker.
Luke bent his head over the paper and concentrated on
hills and valleys.
We were working hard on academics now, and besides
reviewing first- and second-grade work, I had
decided to teach him third-grade script, or
cursive writing, as it was called at School
23. I'
d
discussed it with both Lisa and Mrs. Karras,
explaining that Luke's math was in good shape. He
knew his addition and subtraction facts through twenty;
he could add two columns, carrying the ones to the
tens; he could subtract. He understood time and
money. His reading was not as good, but he was working in a
second-grade reader and his silent comprehension was
fine. It was just difficult for him to read out loud.
He omitted some words and put in others of his own.
He also had a lot of trouble with phonics. He
couldn't hear the subtle differences between the short
vowels, and consequentlythe instruction to "sound it out"
remained a mysteryto him.
We worked on math and reading and written
expressionevery day. Luke still dictated stories
to me, but now he copied them himself and drew
illustrations into a book that I had made for him.
He loved doing this and his "eye-hand coordination" (a
college term for the ability to move the hand and eye
together smoothly) was so good that it seemed to me that it should
be easy for him to learn to write rather than print,
particularly if I could demonstrate it clearly.
The big advantage to cursive writing over
printing, as 178
far as Luke was concerned, was that it wasn't taught
until third grade and if Luke learned to do this
before anyone else in his class, it might raise his
opinion of himself.
Luke finished his line of hills and valleys.
"Okay," I said. "Now watch this. One hill,
one valley. Right? Now watch what happens when
I put a line through it-
it."
"An
x,"
Luke
shouted. "You just made an
it.
Here, let me try."
"Pretty sharp," I said. "How about this one? It's
a little harder. A hill, a valley and a
loopy tail. Down and back up again-you. You can
check the letters on the strip if you want."
I had found a small teachers' supply house in
Falls City and had bought adhesive strips showing
the alphabet in both block print and cursive.
Luke had both strips fastenedto a board that we
laid out on the long table in the music room.
"I don't need to. That's a you. See." Luke
wrote it quickly. "Show me more."
"All right. Can you make waves like this?"
caret Can caret Can caret CX caret
"Another whole line? Okay. That's fine. Do one
wave and you have a
c,
close it up and you have an a."
Luke made hills and valleys and a's and c's
and
x's
and y's on his paper and then, not able to resist, on the
blackboardas well.
"Tell Mr. Foley to leave it there, all right?
You write right beside it. DO NOT WASH. That's
what Miss Eck-hardt does. See, I'm
maybe gonna show it to her. All right?"
"Yes, Luke. That's a good idea.
Here's your notebook with your work for home. Four
math problems, two storiesin
Getting the Main Idea,
and your handwriting page. How's that?"
Luke nodded. "Okay. Boy, wait'll I show
Frank I know how to write. I mean really
write."
Our plan for Luke was going well. I met with
both Lisa and Mrs. Brauer at the end of each
week, reviewed what we'd each done, and planned
for the next week.
In Lisa's class Luke was doing the work and handing
it in. He still had no friends and rarely spoke, but
Lisa was 179
pleased and said so to Mrs. Brauer. "I've got
him in my top math group now. Would you believe
that?"
Lisa and I planned Luke's work together, deciding
what he should do in class, what he should do in his
sessions with me. Neither of us could figure out why
Luke had made such a bad impression on the Child
Study Team at the end of last year. The only
possibilities were that they had tested him after school
or on a Saturday and Luke had been nervous and
anxious and his basic knowledge had been too
shaky to stand up under the pressure of testing, or
else they had not tested him at all and just gone by old
reports.
I prepared his homework and the tasks I sent home
with Luke were ones that I was sure he could do well.
He could use the practice and just as important,
he needed to look good in front of his family.
Mrs. Brauer was doing her share, too. She
didn't leave for work until five so she made it
a point to have some milk or juice ready for Luke
when he got home from school and then sit with him for
fifteen minutes while he showed her what he could
do. She didn't attempt to teach or explain.
If Luke got mixed up they just skipped it and
Luke brought it back to me. Mrs. Brauer was
amazed at how much Luke knew. She didn't have
to try to praise him to make him feel good. Her
honest surprise delighted Luke and prompted him
to learn even more.
My three sessions a week with Luke were divided
betacademic skills and something nameless.
AcademicallyeaI tried to give him as many
successes as possible, gradually shoring up his
weaknesses. Once again, I learned more from Luke
than from my courses. What he taught me
all over again was to teach to his strength first,
remediate his weakness later-ninety percent to the
strength, ten percent to the weakness in the beginning. Which was
why I was concentrating on increasing his sight
vocabulary, giving him massive doses of sight
words each day. He could remember what he saw.
We worked only a little on vowel sounds and word
analysis skills. It was also why we ended each
session with a few math problems. He always walked out
feeling good.
The something nameless? I don't know. I couldn't call
it therapy. I didn't even have a bachelor's
degree in anything.and yet, I knew that Luke
had to have a place where he could talk about what he was
feeling. He couldn't do it in class or at home,
so I tried to make room for this during our time together.
I knew it wasn't enough, fifteen minutes,
maybe, out of the forty, three times a week. But I
had already learned that there was never enough time.
I still asked Luke about the best thing and the worst thing
at the beginning of each lesson. This often triggered a
thought and because Luke trusted me, he was very
honest.his best things now were mainly his school work,
sometimes a trip with the neighbors, once a shopping
trip with his mom to get new sneakers. His
worst things were abundant-the shrimpy babies that
made up second grade and the embarrassment of being
seen with them; the spankings he got; sometimes no
dinner; Wendell's taunts;
nightmares; his mixed feelings toward Uncle
Chuck. Sometimes Luke would get down the ancient
family of dolls that had been part of my teaching
equipment for years and ask me to play the part of his
mother or Chuck or Mrs. Karras, while Luke
played himself or sometimes his mother or brother.
Did it help? Who could say? Nobody knew we
even did it. I just crossed my fingers and added up
each day that he came to school and each day without
phone calls from the police.
*
Luke was doing better, but my own life was not so
peachy. Exams in Education of the Mentally Retarded
Trainable, Language Arts, Teaching Elementary
School Math, Teaching Elementary School
Science, Methods and Materials for Teaching
Music were scheduled for next week. The only
exception was the seminar in Special Education.there
I was supposed to write a report on what I'd
learned in student teaching. My student teaching was
scheduled for the next semester, but I'd
written most of 181
the report anyway. Mrs. Karras said she'd
sign it They'd probably never notice.
But I was worried about the others and was up at five
each morning rereading text books. What did I
know about teaching elementary science? Our professor
was a nice elderly man who showed us films each
day. I'd learned how to build a terrarium, but
suppose he asked about electricity or earth
science on the exam? And it was almost as bad in all
the other subjects. What I'd actually learned
about teaching reading and math and language arts, I had
learned from teaching Luke-and the children I had known before
him.
Besides my own worries about exams, I was very
discouragedab the education young teachers were getting and it was
not until later in graduate courses (still at
Union State) that I experienced the pleasure and
excitementI had always associated with learning.
Someday, some way, I vowed to do something about the education
of teachers-to-be.
What's more, Cal was obviously getting tired of
my short-order cooking and the mention of roast lamb
or hol-landaise sauce crept increasingly into his
conversation. Once when he asked if I
planned to do a wash that day, I snapped that he went
by the laundry room as often as I did-and then I
burst into tears.
And there were the children, our own ever-present children.seven was
a bigger number than I'd realized. Now there were
comments about a lack of letters and cards. To compensate,
I called as often as I could and told them all not
to worry about calling collect if they needed us.
Our phone bill skyrocketed. Once again I
wondered if I would really make it through to the end. And
if I did, if our family would still be intact
*
My last exam was Methods and Materials for
Teaching Music. I had practiced and practiced
"Aura Lee" and "It Came upon a Midnight
Clear" both at School 23 and also on the
Sunday school piano on weekends after church was

over. I played "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little
Star" on the recorderevery night ten times, in the
bathroom with the water running. I didn't think
Cal needed that on top of everything else. I knew
exactly which fingers to put where, but sometimes, for
seemingly no reason, a shrill squeal came out
instead of the correct note. I would just have
to hope, and as the music clerk said, control my
breath.
There were eighteen of us in music class. We
performedour solos in alphabetical order as
Mrs. Oliphant called off our names. The kids
were as nervous as I was and I'm sure it was just as hard
for some of them.
Lewis, the boy ahead of me, got up from the
piano afplaying "When the Saints Come Marching
In" with lefthand chords and took a handkerchief out
of the back pocket of his jeans and wiped the sweat from
his forehead.
"That was very good, Lewis." Lewis nodded his
thanks. He was big and black and a guard on our
winning football team. He wanted to be a high
school coach; it seemed unlikely to me that he would
ever need to play the recorder. Not so to Mrs.
Oliphant. "Let's see now, Lewis, you were
assigned "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star* on
the recorder. Class! Shhh!" Mrs.
Oliphant tapped her pencil on the side of the
piano. "We need quiet so we can hear Lewis
properly." Sweat covered Lewis's brow again, but
both hands were on the recorder and he could not wipe.
Someone giggled and again Mrs. Oliphant
tapped the piano. The room was still. "You may begin
now, Lewis."
All of a sudden I realized Lewis was playing my
song. He couldn't do that! "Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star" had been assigned to me! That was the one
I'd practiced. I started to raise my hand, then
thought better of it. My whole upper body was as
damp as Lewis's forehead. Lewisplayed through to the
end without a mistake. His versionsounded much better
than mine ever had.
"Thank you, Lewis. You may sit down. Let's
see now. MacCracken. Uh, yes. Are you
ready, Ms. MacCracken?" 183
Mrs. Oliphant called everyone else by their first
name- me she called Ms.
I nodded and went up to the piano and played "Aura
Lee" without a hitch. I missed two notes in
"Midnight Clear," but managed to keep going and
Mrs. Oliphant did not comment.
I stood beside the piano, holding my recorder and
my breath. Maybe both Lewis and I had been
assigned "Twinkle."
Mrs. Oliphant studied her list. "Your
assignment for the recorder was 'A Tisket, A
Tasket," Ms. MacCracken. Are
you ready now?"
"Excuse me, Mrs. Oliphant. My
assignment sheet says Twinkle, Twinkle, Little
Star." was I could not believe I was having this
conversation.
"Well, mine says 'A Tisket, A
Tasket," Ms. MacCracken."
"I have practiced "Twinkle," Mrs.
Oliphant."
"Do you have your assignment sheet with you, Ms.
MacCracken?"
"I believe so, Mrs. Oliphant."
"Then get it. Immediately."
I went back to my seat and rummaged through the pile
of books beside my chair until I found my
zippered notebook.i opened to the section marked
"Music" and there in the slotted pocket was the
assignment sheet. It said:
"Final Examination: piano-two solo renditions
of your choice from
Musicale.
Recorder-one solo rendition of Twinkle,
Twinkle, Little Star." his
Thank God.
I handed the sheet to Mrs. Oliphant.
She read it and then handed it back. "You are
correct, Ms. MacCracken. Proceed."
I finished the first bar and started on the second. My
breath must have become uncontrolled because the note
slid away into shrillness. I tried several times
to get it back, but no luck. Coughs and giggles
filled the room.
"All right, Ms. MacCracken. You may sit
down."
I looked at Mrs. Oliphant desperately.
I could not fail Methods and Materials for Teaching
Music. Without it, I 184
couldn't graduate or get certification. I took
a deep breath.
"I would like to try it one more time," I said.
Mrs. Oliphant looked at me steadily.
"All right. Permission granted," she said. I
never understoodwhether she imagined herself in kindergarten
or the army.
I blew out and then raised the recorder to my lips
and began again, remembering to blow down over my lower
lip rather than directly into the hole. I closed my
eyes;
blocked out Mrs. Oliphant and Lewis and the other
sixteenkids.
I played it straight through without a mistake.
The class clapped when I finished and I smiled
my thanks, but never, ever will I sing or play that
song again.
*
My father was supposed to arrive on the morning of
Christmas Eve, but somehow he got confused and
arrived two days early. Nan was home from
college and was makinghis Christmas present, a
felt banner, on the floor of the living room when
he rang the doorbell.
We had decided to stay at the apartment for the
holidaysbecause many of our children were flying in and then
out at odd hours of day and night and from the apartment we
could get to all three airports, Newark, La
Guardia, and Kennedy. There was no airfield near
our house in the country.
It was a crowded, confusing time. Happiness and
sorrowmixed together. Sue was there and Nan and Steve
and his wife, Margie, and Cal's Karen and Mark.
Michael and his family were in California, Joan
was in medical school in Colorado.
We put up the tree on Christmas Eve afternoon and
it looked beautiful against the glass doors to the
terrace, the New York skyline a
perfect backdrop. Silently, I wonderedif
anyone else could hear my mother's voice saying as
she did each year, "You know, I think it's the
prettiest tree we've ever had."
January 5. The first day of the last term of my
senior year! My marks had come over vacation and
I'd passed everything with respectable grades, even
music. My undergraduatedays were almost over. I was
going to make it! Come June, I'd be a certified
teacher.
I stopped by Professor Foster's office for a
final briefing on student teaching. He went over the
various reports that Mrs. Karras and I were
required to write and said that he'd be down from
college once or twice.
"You understand, Mary, that your student teaching
experiencewill be for twelve weeks rather than the
usual six."
I nodded. "Yes, I know. It's because I'll
only be at School Twenty-three in the mornings
so that I can take History, School in
Contemporary American Society, and
Philosophy of Education in the afternoon."
"That's right. Usually our seniors have finished all
their three-credit courses by spring term so
that they only have a seminar or two to go along with their
student teaching. Of course, they also spend a good
bit of time interviewing.
"Which brings us to your plans for next year. Do you know
what you're going to do?"
"Teach," I said, smiling at him. "That's why
I'm here."
"We'll need to get you lined up for campus
interviews then. Also you should complete your resume and
bring it in for me to go over. I guess that's it for
now. Good luck at Twenty-three."
*
Mrs. Karras was waiting for me by the front door
when I arrived at nine o'clock.
"Ah. Good, Mary. I was worried you weren't
coming." I smiled at her. "Not a chance." But I
heard what she
was saying and resolved to get there earlier the next
day. I followed her into the music room and she
spread a
sheet of paper in front of me.
Student
Louisa
Luke
Bobby
Maureen
Harold
Grade
Teacher
Parnell
Eckhardt
Novak
Bianca
Kraus
Time Slot
9:00-iccdj
9:45-ajccbe
10:30-aaccaj
11:15-aaccce
1:00-accdj
I studied the list. "It's fine. Except for
Harold. I have to be back at college for a one
o'clock History course. Professor Foster
arranged it so I'll student teach mornings for
twelve weeks instead of six and take the last
required courses in the afternoon. I'm sorry. I
assumed he'd checked it out with you."
Mrs. Karras nodded. "I guess I knew that.
I guess I was just hoping. Harold needs help so
badly. Now, shall we get the children?"
I looked at her. "I don't know them."
"I know, Mary," she said. "Before, for the mental
health project, the psychologist tested the children and
there was a file of sorts for each one. Well,
there's no time or money for that now. Besides, there's no
better way to get to know them than to see them. And
I'd be interestedin hearing what you think about each one,
withouthaving read anybody else's opinion."
Mrs. Karras brought Louisa to the music room,
introducedus, and left. Louisa had glossy dark
brown skin, round cheeks, and four or five
pigtails that stuck out all over her head in
different directions. She wore a bright pink
dress and looked like some kind of ice cream
sundae.what could be the matter with Louisa?
"Louisa," I said. "Let me help you wriggle
up here onto this chair. It's kind of big."
Louisa's feet swung back and forth six inches
off the
floor. I'd have to see about getting some smaller
furniture.
"Louisa, can you tell me your last name?"
"Uh-huh. Hit Louisa Mae."
Hit Louisa Mae? Who would hit her? Then I
realized what she was saying. I was going to have
to listen carefully.
"Louisa Mae what"?" I asked gently.
"That hit. Louisa Mae."
"Do you know where you live?"
"Falls City."
"Good, Louisa. Should I call you Louisa or
Louisa Mae?"
"Louisa Mae. That my name. Nobody call hit
right."
"Do you know what street you live on?"
Silence.
"How about your telephone number? Do you know that?"
"Hain't got no tefone."
"Do you know your daddy's name?"
"Hain't got no daddy, neither."
These questions were for the birds. At least they weren't for
Louisa Mae. I put my pad and pencil down and
went and got some crayons and unlined paper.
"Louisa Mae, let's pretend we've got a
million dollars."
"Hoowee." Louisa Mac's eyes were round as
silver dollarsthemvs.
"You can buy anything you want. Draw me a
picture of what you'll buy."
Louisa Mae knelt on the chair and
drew a large round circle and then a smaller one
and then put her pencil down and looked at the
ceiling. I was beginning to realize she never looked
directly at me. Always a little to the side.
I waited. She continued to look at the ceiling.
Finally, she looked back at the paper. "That
hit," she said.
"Okay. Can you tell me about it?"
"Hit Baby Hug Me. Seen hit on TV.
Kin I go?"
"In just a minute, okay? Draw me one more
picture first Draw me a picture of your best,
best friend." 188
Another circle. Two lines. A smaller
circle between the lines. Down went the crayon.
Eyes to the ceiling.
Again I waited.
Slam! Louisa Mae hit the table with her hand.
"That hit! I mean hit!"
"Okay. Fine. Just tell me who it is."
'That Clara. That her legs and that her pee-pee
'tween um."
"Okay. I see. Thank you, Louisa Mae.
I'll walk back to class with you now."
Maybe Clara was a boy or a
hermaphrodite, I thought as I walked beside
Louisa Mae. Or maybe she meant Clarence.
*
Luke was sitting in the music room waiting for me
when I got back from Louisa Mae's
classroom. I was not proud of my first interview.
Oh, well, at least I'd see her again tomorrow and the
next day and the next. I loved the fact that we had
so much time.
"You're late," Luke said, eyes on the clock.
"I'm sorry." I smiled at him. "How are you?
Did you have a good Christmas?"
"Yeah. Okay. It was a long time ago. How come
you're here in the morning? How long've you been here
anyway"..."...Luke looked at me suspiciously.
"Since nine. Remember, I told you that I'd be
here everyday after Christmas. Well, here I am."
I pulled Mrs. Karras's sheet of paper over
in front of me. "And I'm goingto work with you every
day, every school day from nine-forty-five
to ten-twenty-five. See?" I pointed to the time
written by his name on the paper.
Luke studied it. "Nine-forty-five
to ten-twenty-five. Forty-five. Fifty. Ten
o'clock. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty,
twenty-five." Luke counted on his fingers.
'That's not as long as before," he said.
"No. Not quite. But it's every day. That's five times
insteadof three." I paused. It was not like Luke
to be cranky. "Is anything the matter?" I
asked. 189
"Nope."
"Okay, then do you have a best or a worst thing?" I
got down the plastic dishpan with his name on it that had
replaced the worn carton. I took out his
notebook. The last entry was for the day before
Christmas vacation. I had not made a plan for
today, it had seemed too far off. We'd just have
to make it up as we went along.
Luke was still staring at the sheet of paper Mrs.
Karras had given me. "Who's Louisa?"
"A little girl from first grade. I don't know her
last name."
"Oh, I know her. Louisa Mae West. She
lives in the cellar of the house across the street from the
project."
"In the cellar?" I couldn't help myself.
"Yup. Her grandma and uncles live upstairs."
"Oh. Well, never mind Louisa Mae. Tell
me about you. Your best and worst."
Luke was not to be diverted. "Who's Bobby?"
"Luke," I said. "We talked about this before
Christmas.remember? I explained about student
teaching, how everybody that wants to be a teacher has
to do it and that I was lucky because my student teaching was
going to be here at Twenty-three. Usually you do
student teaching in a classroom, but instead I'm
going to work here in the music room with four children, and
you're one of the four."
"Who're the others?"
I read from the sheet: "Louisa, Bobby,
Maureen."
"Maureen Barber? She's the biggest baby."
"I don't know her last name. Mrs. Karras
forgot to write it down, but I'll let you know. And
maybe later there will be a Harold somebody." I
figured I'd better tell him about all of them at
the beginning.
Luke flicked his thumbnail against the green
plastic dishpan. "How come you gotta see so many
kids?"
"That's the only way it will count for student
teaching."...I tried to think while I talked.
Luke's jealous. Finally I understood. I should have
thought of this. I'd promised myself to make this
room a safe place for Luke. A place where
he could grow. And now, without warning,
I'd dumped three kids on him, plus Harold,
whatever we were going to do about Harold. Luke had a
right to be jealous. I remembered how carefully
I'd prepared Susan, my oldest child, for the new
baby.
What had I told Sue? I couldn't remember
what I'd said. Only her delight when I'd had
twins. Nan and Steve. At two and a half, she
was sure I'd done it just for her so we'd each have a
baby of our own to "salt" (read powderggat
bathtime. I suppose what I'd done
unconsciously was to make her feel special,
let her know that her place was unique, hers for all
time. Also tried to include her in, not out, as much as
I could, while I cared for two new babies.
I sat looking at Luke, trying to think how
to tell him he'd always be special. No one in the
world could ever take his place. How could I
translate that into the right words for Falls City and
Luke?
Luke scratched at the table, his head down so I
could hardly hear him when he spoke. "You gonna
take all those kids up to the country,
too? So they can all see the deer an" everything?"
I wanted to put my arms around him. But instead I
took the handwriting paper out of his dishpan. "No,
I won't take them there. The house is closed for the
year now, anyway. I guess you're the only one
from School Twenty-three who'll ever see that
house."
Luke pushed the handwriting paper aside and picked
up the crayons I'd had out for Louisa. He
pulled an un-lined piece of paper toward him.
"I remember what it looked like," he said, beginning
to draw. "It's made out of stones, great big
stones, see, like this. And it's got this funny kind of
green roof. I forget what it's called. And then
here's the chimiley."
"That's exactly right, Luke. That's just the way it
looks."
"And then, see, out here's the meadow," Luke drew
a long rectangle in front of the house. "And
here's the wall. That's stones too, and here's the
woods." He drew lots of spiky trees beside the
rectangle. "And right here in the middle of the meadow
is an apple tree." 191
Luke drew a round bushy apple tree and then, of
course, under the apple tree he drew a
deer with antlers sticking up from his head. "And here's
the deer I saw underthe apple tree. And that's the
way it is."
Luke pushed the drawing over in front of me. I
smiled at him. "Yes," I said. "That's just the
way it is. Let's tape the picture up here so
that the others can see what it looks like and maybe
sometime you can even tell them about it."
"Yeah. Maybe. And maybe sometime I can help you
with that Louisa Mae. She lives right across the
street, you know."
*
Mrs. Karras put her head in the door. "How
are things going?" It was clear that when the project
belonged to Mrs. Karras, she made sure she
knew what was going on.
"Okay." I hoped she wouldn't bring the next child
until Luke was gone.
Somehow she understood what I was saying and
answeredea"...Fine. You're on your own now."
I finished with Luke and walked back to Lisa's
class with him. I waved to Lisa and touched
Luke's shoulder before he went in the door. Lisa
called out, "Luke's earningstars in here now." I
signaled back an A-OK,
impressed once again with the resiliency of these city
kids.
Mrs. Novak's third-grade class was on the
second floor and the list said that was where my next child,
Bobby, was. I watched through the door for a second
to be sure I wasn't entering at the wrong moment and
then introduced myself to Mrs. Novak and asked if
I could take Bobby.
"Bobby who?"
I wished she would talk a little more quietly.
"It doesn't say. I'm sorry. I'll find out
Be right back." I should have known better.
"Wait. Never mind. Any Bobby that needs
special help has got to be Bobby Ferraro.
The two other Bobbys I got are both good."
Her voice boomed through the classroom while I

cringed. "Bobby Ferraro. Go with this lady. Take
your pencil." She peered at me. "How long will you
keep him?"
"Till eleven-ten."
"All right. But be sure he comes straight back
here. No wandering into the lavatory. You know what
goes on in there."
I didn't. But then I was beginning to see
that there was a lot I didn't know about School 23.
I walked straight to the door, opened it, aware of
another small body in front of me, and I
didn't look down until I had closed the door
and we were in the hall.
Bobby looked like a little rat. He was very thin, with a
sharp pointed face and dark blond hair that was
slicked down tight to his head. He followed me
obediently down the stairs and through the halls to the
music room.
Once there, I introduced myself.
Bobby came over and pumped my hand. "Glad
to meet-cha. You the one that's going to be my tutor.
Mrs. Karras told me I was getting a tutor
yesterday when I was in the office."
"How come you were in the office?"
Bobby shrugged. "I got sent there."
"For what?"
"I don't know. For talkin'. Or gettin' out of
my seat. Something like that. I get sent down. most every
day. What are we gonna do in here, anyway?"
I was beginning to feel tired and the day wasn't half
over. I shrugged myself. "We can do whatever you'd like
to do today. Tomorrow we'll have a plan."
"Anything I want? You got some cards?"
"Yes." I went and got them out of the drawer in the
file cabinet. I remembered reading about
"non-directive therapy," letting the child lead the
way. That's what I'll tell myself I'm doing,
I thought.
"You know how to play any games like Black
Jack, Poker, War?"
"I know Poker and Black Jack."
"You do?" Surprise tinged Bobby's voice.
"I'll deal. Black Jack."
"We don't have poker chips," I said.
"We'll tear up paper and use the pieces for
chips.** Bobby was resourceful. I could see
that.
Five minutes into the game and I caught Bobby
palming first one ace and then another. I called him
on it, forgetting to be non-directive, and he
cheerfully put the aces back. Bobby's approach
seemed to be take all you can get. If you're
dumb enough to be cheated, you deserve it.
We played six hands before Bobby lost the deal. I
took the cards and shuffled them idly back and forth.
Suddenly I realized that Bobby was fascinated. I
flipped a little faster, showing off, dividing the pack
in two, letting the cards fall together
alternately, arcing them upwards with my fingers, then
pressing my thumbs downward, making the cards
flutter back into place.
"Where'd you learn how to do that?" Bobby wanted to know.
"I used to play cards with my cousins on rainy
days in the summer when we couldn't swim or fish."
"You know how to fish?" Evidently in Bobby's
eyes women didn't fish. "What kinda fish you
catch?"
"Perch, small-mouth bass, pickerel. Once a
muskie."
"Trolling or still fishing?"
"Mostly trolling. But sometimes we'd anchor off a
shoal."
"You use worms?"
"No, minnows. We seined for them in the bay.
Shiners, small perch minnows. Perch minnows were
especially good when we were out for bass early in the
morning." I stopped, caught up in my own thoughts.
Memories of seining with my father. Why did I think
it was all right to fish but not to hunt deer? Was it because the
people I loved fished rather than hunted? Was it just that
I'd had a different kind of model than Luke
had had?
I missed the first part of Bobby's sentence.
"dis . . five sunnies. And I cleaned "em
all myself too. You know how to clean fish?"
"Not too well. My dad usually cleaned them."

"Yeah. Well, I can clean any ole fish. You
know what else? I can skin rabbits too."
"No?" Remember the fish. Don't make a
judgment.
"Yep. When me and my brothers go camping we
lotsa times shoot rabbits and skin *em."
"How many brothers do you have?"
"Eight. There's nine of us Ferraros."
Mrs. Karras appeared. "Well, Bobby.
Hello. It's nice to see you somewhere other than the
office."
"Yes, ma'am," Bobby answered.
I looked at the clock. Eleven-ten exactly.
"Come on, Bobby. We have to go. I promised you'd
be back by ten after."
"I want to talk to you before I go," I said to Mrs.
Karrason my way out.
Bobby trotted beside me through the halls.
"You gonna show me how to do that shuffle?"
"Sure. I'll show you tomorrow. Here's your
room.**
"Okay. Listen, I'll come down myself tomorrow."
"Fine with me, if it's all right with your teacher."
"She'll let me, if you gimme a note to take
back saying I got there on time. She just doesn't
want me smokin" in the head." At least life was
clear and understandable to Bobby.
Mrs. Karras was sitting in the music room with a
pretty little blond girl when I got back.
"I know I said I was going to leave you on your own,"
she apologized, "but you seemed to be running a little
late and I didn't want Maureen to miss her
turn."
I smiled at Mrs. Karras. "That's okay.
I can use all the help I can get. Hi,
Maureen. I'm Mary. Mary Mac-Cracken,"
thinking it would be wonderful if it turned out that
Maureen was into poker too.
No such luck.
Maureen pushed the cards away. "My mother says
cards are a waste." Her voice had a nasal,
whiny quality.
"Does she? Is she a Presbyterian? I was
never allowed to play cards on Sunday, but that was because
my mom's dad was a Presbyterian minister."
"What's a Presbetearn?"
"Presbyterian? It's a kind of religion."
"Like Catholic? I think that's what we are. But
we don't go except Easter and Christmas
Eve."
"That's my favorite time. Christmas Eve. We
always go to the midnight service. Last year it was
even snowing."
Maureen clucked. "I know. I had these new
boots? But Jimmy wouldn't let me wear them.
He is sooo mean."
"Who's Jimmy?" I asked, more because she seemed
to want me to than for any other reason. I was leery
of movingtoo fast after Louisa Mae.
"He's my mother's boyfriend But we're not supposed
to talk about him. And if we have to, we're
supposed to call him Uncle Jimmy, so people"!!
think he's a relative. But it's silly;
everybody knows he's a boyfriend."
Maureen had the makings of a realist as well as a
truly great gossip.
She crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt as
she continued."...He really is terrible. You know what
he did yesterday"...Jimmy, I mean. I didn't
eat my cereal fast enough, so know what he did?
He just picked up the whole bowl and smushed
it in my face. And last week"-Maureen
swallowed; she was talking so fast her mouth was
dry-"know what he did last week? I didn't
eat my supper. So he saved it all night in the
refrigerator and then he made me eat that and the
cereal. And once he strapped me in the baby's
high chair and kept me there until I cleaned my
plate."
Poor Maureen. Also poor Jimmy. Maureen
had just met me and was telling lurid tales. What
did she tell the neighbors?
"Well, my mother says she will never have any children with
Jimmy. She may marry him, probably not, but
even if she does, she will not have children with him. See,
we are her children and not Jimmy's so she has more
to say. If the children were part his, she couldn't control
him at
all."
"Yes," I said. "I can see that." I felt
full. I needed time to digest all that she said. But
there was no stopping Maureen.
"My mother was going to sign permission for me to be

caret
in the program last year. The one with
tairipic tutors. But you know how it
is-promises, promises. My mother says that
program never even got off the ground."
"How old are you, Maureen?" I asked, thinking
maybe she'd answer a hundred and two.
"Seven, going on eight. My mother says it's not that
I'm dumb, it's just that I don't put my mind
to it-that and the allergies."
"Allergies?" What now?
"Oh, yes. I'm allergic to almost everything.
Cats, chocolate.dust even. That's why I have
shots every week. The nurse maybe is going to teach
my mother how to give me the shots so it don't cost so
much."
A bell sounded throughout the school.
"That's the first bell for lunch. I'll be in tomorrow."
Maureen slipped out of her chair and was gone.
I sat down at the table waiting for the whir of
Maureen's words to be gone so I could think.
Louisa Mae, Bobby, Maureen. Why had
Mrs. Karras picked them out? Luke-I knew
Luke. But it had taken time. How could I
possibly help these children in three months' time? And
what about Harold? I hadn't even met him.
Suppose it had only been for six
weeks? That would have been worse.
Again, none of these children seemed so terrible to me. Where
was the hostility that I had read so much about? These
kids seemed to crave attention rather than reject it.
Maybe the secret was getting them while they were young.
But even so, how could I help them in so short a
time? And yet, what all these kids seemed to want
most was somebody to talk to. Could it possibly be
that simple?
Thinking about student teaching reminded me of
college.i had History at one o'clock. If I
was going to see Mrs. Karras first, I had to get
going.
"Okay," I said to Mrs. Karras. "I know you
only have a minute and so do I, but now that I've
lived through trial by fire, how about telling me what
you do know about Louisa Mae and Bobby and
Maureen?"
Mrs. Karras smiled. "To tell the truth, I
really don't know much about them. Louisa Mae just
moved in with 197
her grandmother, who registered her. Her first-grade
teacher reports that Louisa doesn't know the
alphabet or numbers, but more disturbing are quote,
the signs of immaturity, unquote. That
means she wet her pants the other day."
"Wait till I show you her drawings."
"What I want you to do is keep an eye on an
unknown commodity. I don't know what we're dealing
with in Louisa.
"Now, Bobby. I can tell you a little more about him.
There are nine brothers. Bobby's next to last. Every
single one has been a troublemaker. Bobby has
several arrests for breaking and entering, usually with one of
his brothers. None of them are too bright. I do have
Bobby's IQ somewhere, because he was tested by the
psychologist at one time. I'll look it up for
you.
"With Bobby-just get him through. He's old for his
class, anyway. I think they had him in two
different kindergartens, but, anyway, no teacher
wants him twice. As soon as class lists go out
you can hear them yell, "Not another Ferraro!"
"Maureen is something else altogether. She spends
half of her day in tears, the other half whining and
complaining. That's on the days she's here. There's no
doubt in my mind that she's a very bright little girl.
She should be enjoying school. She should be one of the ones
to make it out of this life. But not the way she's going.
I honestly don't know what to tell you to do
with her. She's on the waiting list at the clinic, but
you know what that's like. They don't have room for any
new cases this semester. So there goes another
year."
Mrs. Karras got up. "Mary, I don't
expect miracles. You know me well enough for that. You
don't know how badly these kids need somebody
to talk to. If you don't do any more than that,
I'll be satisfied."
"Mm-hmm," I said. "Sure you will."
But I didn't really mind. Mrs. Karras loved
her school. All she was trying to do was get as much
help as she could.
*
The history professor didn't know it, but the
colonists' revolt against England seemed dull beside
School 23, and Philosophy of Education and
School in Contemporary American Society
couldn't even place.

I arrived at School 23 at eight-thirty the
next morning carrying three marbleized notebooks,
clay, salt, an old cigar box, more Magic
Markers, index cards, the Spache, and the WRAT.
No getting caught short today. Today I'd
have a plan.
I was greeted by Mrs. Karras. "Good morning,
Mary. Coffee?"
"Thank you. No time to talk, though."
I took my mug of coffee and closed the door to the
music room. The clay, salt, and cigar box were
for Louisa Mae. The index cards and Magic
Markers for Bobby, the tests for Maureen. I had
what I needed for Luke.
"Good morning, Louisa Mae," I said as Mrs.
Karras delivered her at two minutes of nine.
"How're you today?"
Louisa Mae's pigtails were slightly atilt
"Grobby," she said.
I could not decipher "grobby," but it did not sound
positive.
"I'm sorry."
Louisa Mac squirmed herself onto the chair.
"Sent me home. Hain't right. Called me a
"mother-," you know. Cain't call me that. Hit
him."
"They sent you home? Yesterday? Oh, Louisa
Mae, I'm sorry. Who did you hit?"
"Him," she said with finality. Was that a personal
pronounor a name? Who could tell?
I began to divide the clay into separate colors.
Red, yellow, white, green. I tore off small
pieces and rolled them back and forth against the long
table. My plan was to soften the clay and then use it
to make letters for Louisa Mae; a clay
B
might be more memorable than one written on a
piece of paper.
Louisa Mae picked up the piece of white clay
I had rolled out. "Cigarette. Bum you
cigarette if you don't mind. Ahhhh.
Ahhhh." The horrendous squeal filled the room.
I sat absolutely still watching Louisa Mae.
Now she took the clay and hit it with her fist.
"You'll get hit now."...Bam. Bam.
I began rolling out the red clay. Louisa Mae
grabbed it and smashed it on top of the white. "Going
to the hospital"...ationooo. Nooo. I be good. Not
operation."
My God. Dear God. Is this child abuse? How
can I possibly teach this child letters and numbers with all
that's going on inside of her?
Suddenly Louisa Mae threw the red and white
clay across the room. "Hey!" I said. "Wait a
minute now."
But Louisa Mae wasn't waiting. She had thrown
the cigar box and had hold of the salt when I pinned
her arms.
"Now just a minute, Louisa Mae. You don't
throw things in here."
She turned her head back and bared her teeth,
trying to bite my arm. But she was an amateur
compared to twelve-year-old Alice whom I had
taught four years before.
"No throwing. No biting," I said. "Let's get
the clay." I kept my hold on Louisa Mae
and propelled her to the center of the room where the wad of
clay had fallen.
"Pick it up and put it back."
And, amazingly, she did. Then she slid down under
the table.
"Gonna sit my house now," she said from under the
table.
"All right. I'll sit with you."
Louisa Mae and I sat together under the table. I
prayed silently that Mrs. Karras would not do one of
her routine checks at this moment.
Then Louisa Mae said, "Wanta draw."
"All right."
We came out from under and I got the
crayons and paperwhile she waited docilely. More
round circles. Ovals. None connected.
Louisa Mae got up. "Gonna draw on de
board."
"Okay."
More circles. Then a rectangle. "Hit
chimley," she said. "Here smoke." A long
wiggly line came out of the rectangle."...Smoke go
sky."
"Yes, smoke goes in the sky."
"To God."
Oh, now, Louisa Mae. Do you have to bring in
God?
But she was sure. "Drawin' God now," she said,
as huge circles covered the board. Then she
stopped and looked at me. "How many feets do
God have?"
Now who could answer that?
*
Luke watched from the doorway as Louisa Mae
drew little circles up and down the board, hopping with
excitement.
It was time for her to go, but I waited one more minute,
hoping for a natural break rather than interrupting her-and
got it.
Louisa Mae put down the chalk and looked almost in
Luke's direction. "Dere's God's feet,
boy," she said with pride.
When I got back from returning Louisa Mae
to her classroom, Luke was erasing the board.
God and his many feet were almost gone.
"Thank you, Luke." I sat down on a
radiator cover near the board and watched. It was a
pleasure just to look at him. He was tall now, a
head above the other second graders, and very handsome.
Slim, graceful. He rarely laughed or even
smiled, but his interest in everything 201
around him was so intense, he lit up the room when he
walked in. In the turbulent sea of Louisa
Mae, Maureen and Bobby, I was grateful for
Luke. We knew each other and what we were trying
to do.
Luke erased the last of the small circles and then
brought his dishpan of materials to the long table. I
sat beside him and smiled a welcome.
"I am so glad to see you. How are you?"
Luke shrugged, getting out the teachers' guides
to correcthis work as well as the graded sight-word
list.
"Okay, I guess." Luke put his
arms on top of his books instead of opening them.
I waited. There was obviously something; he wanted
to say before we started working, something that wasn't easy
to say. He was having difficulty finding words.
Finally, "You know that little black kid that was just in
here?"
"Yes. Louisa Mae."
was "Member I told you she lives across the
street?"
I nodded.
"Well, last night when I went out to get Frank
and Aliceto come in for supper, she was out there running
down her side of the street, screamin" and
yellin'."
Luke paused and then looked at me squarely.
"She didn't have nothin' on but her underpants and it
was freezin' out there."
"Thank you for telling me, Luke. I'll try
to find out what's going on."
"Not even any shoes. Her feet must have froze.
One of her uncles came out and grabbed her and stuck
her under his arm and took her back in."
I shook my head. "I don't know what's
happening, Luke. I'll talk to Mrs. Karras
before I go back to college. Thank you
again." I changed the subject to focus on Luke
himself. "Any trouble with your homework?"
Luke shook his head. He was still moving steadily
ahead: he'd mastered cursive writing and now, after
we had edited his first drafts, he copied all his
work in what he called "real writing." I was
beginning to show him the similarities between addition and
multiplication, nothing much. Just that 2X3 meant
that there were two threes 202
and 5X3 meant there were five threes. Anybody
who could add fast could do multiplication. Luke
couldn't believe it could be that simple.
In fact, he had a hard time remembering why any
of the work had once seemed so impossibly
difficult. His reading was improving now almost as
rapidly as his math. Again it was no miraculous
trick on either Luke's part or mine. We
simply added five new words on index cards
to his word bank each day.
In order to make the words more visually memorable
to Luke, I printed each one with a different colored
Magic Marker and he traced the letters with his fingers as
I wrote them on his back with my finger, saying each
letter out loud together. Then Luke used each word in a
sentence. His mother reviewed them with him at
night and listened with pride as he read her stories
made up of the words he'd learned. There were three or
four hundred words to each grade on the word lists
I'd made from the backs of the school's basal
readers. Luke had known all the first-grade words and
most of the second when we started this year, so it was
easy to keep building on his solid base of sight
vocabulary.
He still had difficulty figuring out words he
didn't know. He often couldn't remember the sounds
of vowels or blends or how to break a word
into syllables. His comprehension and understanding of what he
read were high;
his word attack skills were low.
Luke and I were at the board reviewing the short
sound of
e
when the door opened and I turned to see Bobby
Ferraro's ratty little face peering into the room.
"Can I come in?"
"Uh, yes, sure, Bobby." The clock showed I
was already five minutes into his time. "If you'll
sit down over there I'll be with you in a minute."
But Bobby was already with us at the board. "Hey,
Brauer, I dint know you got tutored,
too. Those your words? Hey, man. I can read those.
Those are easy." He read down the list:
"Bed-fed-led-red-Ted."
Luke said nothing. Then he looked at me. "Can
I still read one page from
Golden Bridges?"

"Of course."
Golden Bridges
was the third-grade basal reader. We always ended with
one page of this now becit was composed of the sight words
Luke could remember so well and was an antidote
for the difficult phonics and word attack skills.
I still felt it was important to end each session with
success.
I turned to Bobby. "Would you write a sentence for
each of those words on the board while I do this one
last thing with Luke? The paper's over there in that
drawer and there should be a pencil there, too."
I went back to the long table and sat down beside
Luke. He already had the book open and began
to read.
At the end of the first paragraph he looked up.
Bobby was standing in the middle of the room listening
to Luke with his mouth open. Luke, the
school dummy, left back in second grade, was
reading the third-grade book with ease.
I let Bobby stand there. Who cared whether he
copied the words or wrote the sentences? What he was
doing for Luke in that one minute was worth more than
all the praise I could give him in a year.
Luke closed the book and looked at me, waiting
for my comment. But I waited for Bobby. He closed
his mouth, then opened it again. "Jeez," he said,
"how'd you learn to do that?"
*
From that time on Bobby and Luke shared part of each
other's time. Bobby came early, Luke stayed
late, so that they were each getting almost an hour a
day.
They were good for each other. Luke's mind was quicker, his
ability to grasp concepts better, but Bobby had his
own strengths. For one thing, he had an almost perfect
ear. The slightest variation of a sound was blaringly
apparent to Bobby, so that phonics and word attack
skills were a snap for him. He shone in one arena,
Luke in another, and they developed respect for
each other.
They helped each other in other ways as well.
Bobby was rooted in reality; his family was
poor and evidently 204
boisterous and unruly, but there was also a knockab
cohesiveness to them, a sense of family. Whatever
Bobby's problems were, they didn't seem bad enough
to cause him to run away, either mentally or
physically.
In another discussion of the troublesome short
e,
the word
pet
came up. Bobby immediately began to tell us how his
pet bird died. He had put it in a cereal box
and buried it in the woods. "I cried somethin'
awful."
Luke said, "Not me. I never cry. Last year
my dog- we had a big, big, dog then, almost
all Saint Bernard-got hit by a car and died right
in the street. I didn't cry or nu-thin'. My
mom and I just got the wheelbarrow from Mr. Berkus
and pulled on that big ole dog till we got him
in it and then we wheeled him down to the dump."
I loved watching Luke and Bobby. They worked
well together. They listened to each other. They played
togetherboth inside and out of school. Best of all, the
Fer-raro brothers now included Luke in
their fishing and camping expeditions. He thrived in their
company and developeda capacity to deal with life rather
than running away to fantasy. I missed his
flights of imagination, but I welcomed his new
strengths. Most of all, I welcomed Bobby.
For the first time since I'
d
known him, Luke had an honest-to-goodness friend.

All senior classes were canceled for two days.
Campus interviewing was in full swing. Longworth
Hall had been cleared of teachers and in their places
sat interviewers from various schools and institutions
questioning seniors one at a time.
I had signed up for five different
interviews-three were for teaching positions in special
ed, one a kinder-205
garten class, one "open." I wasn't sure what
"open" meant, but it sounded possible.
We sat outside the classrooms waiting for our
names to be called. Ten to twenty bodies in a row,
turning restlessly on the wooden benches, leafing through
our resumes. The wait was usually thirty or forty
minutes, the interview five or six.
On the second day, as I twisted back
and forth on the bench between two sets of jeans and long
straight curtains of hair, Amy Schwarzenbach's
rangy figure loped by.
I was off the bench in a second. "Amy! Hey,
Amy! Wait a minute."
Amy paused, squinting her eyes in my direction.
"It's me," I said. "Mary. Remember swimming
and TSS? How are you? I haven't seen you for
months. lan ei.how are you doing?"
Amy shrugged and nodded. "Okay, I guess.
Except it's a long time between letters."
"Letters?"
Amy nodded again. "lan's in Vietnam. You
didn't know? He got called last summer. I
tried to get him to go on up to Canada. But you know
lan. He just said if he kept his hat on, the
enemy'd never know he was there. But I don't know,
Mary, I think they make them wear helmets,
don't they?"
I wanted to cry or maybe yell. How could they do
that? Make lan part of that war. Out loud I said,
"I'd put my money on lan. I bet he's
got his hat on under the helmet."
Amy touched my shoulder. "Thanks, Mary. I
gotta run. Would you believe I'm
helping Hogan coach the swim team? See you."
I sat back down. The hair curtains on either
side were misty now. Why did people keep saying
"See you," particularlywhen they didn't?
*
Each of my interviews was a carbon copy of the
others. First an inspection of my folder, which contained
my 206
resume and credits. Next, a description of the
job and then the same question. "Why do you feel you are
qualifiedfor this job?"
The first time I was asked, I had no answer. I
had never had a job interview of any kind before and
I felt both nervous and shy. Why did I feel
I was qualified for the job? Why did they ask that?
The only qualifications I had were inside the
folder and the interviewer had already read that. Was I
supposed to have some other hidden qualifications, or was
it a memory test to see if I could remember what
I had written down?
I went to see Professor Foster.
"It doesn't matter much what you say," he said.
"They want to see what kind of person you are. Just
project your personality."
I looked at him and shook my head. "I
came back to college for two years because I needed
the credits to be able to teach, and at the end, the thing
I'm supposed to do in order to get a job is
"project my personality." his
"Don't be bitter. Doesn't help,"
Professor Foster inspectedme carefully, then
grinned. "And one more thing. You might try wearing a
little tighter sweater."
He ducked before I even threw the book.
*
I did try to talk more and it seemed to work
passably well. At least two of the interviewers
said they'd be in touch to arrange a follow-up
interview. Well, actually only one. The
second man changed his mind at the last minute.
"Uh . . . now . . . did you put your age down
in your resume?" He was suddenly leafing through
pages.
"Yes. On the front. Forty-five."
"Forty-five?"
He cleared his throat, lowering his voice from the
crescendo. "Yes. Well. . . excellent.
We'll be in touch."
But I knew he wouldn't. I limped back
to School 23 feeling older than I ever
had before.
I stopped in Mrs. Karras's office to catch up
after miss-207
ing a day and also to tell her about Luke's remarks
about Louisa Mae.
"She lives in the basement?" Mrs. Karras
echoed. "What makes Luke think that?"
"I don't know. I didn't want to press him,
but then he told me about seeing her outside in her
underpants and I thought you should know."
"Yes. You're right. I'll have the social worker or
someonecheck up. Incidentally, Mary, Luke is
doing so well. Lisa was showing me some of his work when
I was in her class the other day."
I sensed happiness and the return of youth.
Never planning to ask, I asked, "Do you think I
could teach here next year?"
Mrs. Karras shook her head. "Much as I'd
love it, I'm afraid there's not a chance of getting
money to continue the program."
"I know. But maybe I could teach, just teach, in one
of the classrooms."
Mrs. Karras got up and walked to the window. She
stood looking out for a while and then turned and, still standing
in front of the window, spoke to me from there.
"Yes. You could do that. I'm sure one of the teachers
will have a baby or get sick or retire between now and
September, and I could hire you. But is that what you
really want, Mary? I think you should think about it very
carefully because what you do this coming year will set the
course for the rest of your life. Certainly, you could
teach a regular class. You'd probably have a
ball. But what about the other kids-emotionally
disturbed, learningdisabled, socially maladjusted,
whatever the labels are, the kids most people think are
bad, difficult, dumb, differenteaunable to learn,
in trouble of one kind or another? Are you sure those
aren't the children you want?"
I nodded. I knew she was right. "Okay," I
said. "Thank you. I will think about it. Listen, one more
thing I wanted to ask. Would it be all right if I
took Luke and Bobby down to the library and let
them get library cards?"
Mrs. Karras chuckled. "Of course. That's a
fine idea. 208
They're residents of this town They're entitled was
Then she laughed. "I'll bet Bobby will be the first
Ferraro to have a library card."
Maureen was standing outside her classroom door
cryingas Luke and Bobby and I headed for the
front door. We couldn't just walk by her.
"Wait. I'll just be a minute," I said to the
boys.
I squatted down next to Maureen. "What's the
matter, babe? Why are you crying?"
Maureen shook her head, unable to speak, sobs
mixing with hiccups.
Across the hall Bobby pointed his finger and
singsongedea"...Crybaby. Crybaby. Maureen is a
crybaby."
"Cut it out, Bobby," I said sharply and handed
Maureen a wrinkled but clean piece of Kleenex
from my pocket.
Maureen wiped and blew and then sat down on the
floor and began to wiggle her right foot out of her
shoe. Between sniffles she said, "I got it for you.
Jimmy spanked me somethin' awful when he saw me
copying it, said we didn't give our phone number
to no friggin' do- gooder lady, but when he left for the
station this morning, Jimmy's a policeman, you know,
and Mama was curling Diane's hair, I copied
it down again and put it in my shoe so nobody'd
know."
Maureen handed me a small, crumpled piece of
paper with her phone number written in
large penciled numerals.
A routine question that I asked all the kids.
"What's your address? Do you know your phone
number?" And it had created a family crisis and
earned Maureen a spanking. The families of children
like Maureen and Luke lived closed lives, full
of secrets and deceit. It was necfor survival.
Any probing from the outside might cut off
desperately needed welfare funds or reveal
long-hiddenpolice records or hospitalizations.
To enter the world of these city children would be a long, slow
journey. Mrs. 209
Brauer had just begun to trust me. Would I ever reach
someone like Jimmy or Luke's Uncle Chuck?
I smoothed out the slip of paper and folded it
carefully and put it in my pocket. I looked at
Maureen, her nose clogged from allergies and
tears, sitting, damp and miserableeaon the hall
floor. There was no way I could leave her there.
"Thank you, Maureen. I'll copy your phone
number in my book and tear up the paper as soon as
we get back. Come on, now. You'll need your
jacket. We're going down to the library."
Across the hall Luke and Bobby groaned in
unison.
Maureen scurried to the coat closet in her
classroom as her teacher pulled me to one side.
"Take her with my blessings. She's worse than
all the boys together at disruptingthe class. All those
tears and crying and moaning. You know why she's carrying
on like that? Because she didn't get picked for the
spelling bee, that's why. What else can I do with
her besides put her in the hall?"
I nodded. Maureen would not be a joy, particularly
in a classroom of thirty.
When Maureen and I joined Luke and Bobby,
Bobby made a definite point of holding his nose
and gazing at Maureen. I made an equally strong
point of holding the hand that had held the nose and
holding it hard.
"Jeez," Bobby said. "I was just havin' fun."
"Okay," I said, letting go. "Let's all have
fun."
Bobby and Luke dashed ahead and Maureen and I
followedeaour progress slowed by the fact that
Maureen walked with her face buried against my
leg.
But even so, I was aware of feeling good. Feeling
better.it was almost like having a class again. A
class meant the kids I taught. And that
meant Louisa Mae. We couldn't go without Louisa
Mae.
I herded Luke, Bobby, and Maureen toward first
grade. Maureen now joined loudly in the complaints
about havingto take Louisa Mae.
"I bet you already saw her today. She shouldn't get
to come twice. That's not fair was I could stand tears and
temper210
tantrums, but the whine in Maureen's voice went
through me like fingernails on a blackboard.
"Maureen," I said, squatting beside her once again.
"May I tell you how I perceive you?"
Maureen nodded, not having a glimmer of what I was
talking about.
"That's not fair," I said in near-perfect imitation
of Maureen's whine. It was so unexpected that
Maureen laughed.
"You sound funny," she said.
"Yup," I agreed, "and so do you, when you talk like
that. Try to keep your voice down more. Like this,
okay?"
Louisa Mae's teacher was even happier to give
permissionthan Maureen's teacher had been. Louisa
Mae had poked one of the boys in the eye and had been
relegated to the chair in the corner. The
only trouble was that she insisted on covering her head with
her dress, which sent both boys and girls off
into shrill giggles.
At last we were off, Louisa Mae and Maureen
holding my hands, Luke and Bobby scouting in
front
We were going to have to hurry. I could hear the big old
clock in the city bell tower striking eleven and we
had to be back before twelve for lunch.
But the library was only six blocks from the school
and Luke was used to our walks and stayed at
Bobby's heels, keeping him in line. I kept the
girls' hands enclosed in mine and we arrived at the
library intact.
I was unprepared for the inner va/s of the library, an
ordinary-looking stone building from the outside that I
had passed many times. But inside, everything was dark
wood, empty space, and walls of books and
silence.
One elderly man sat at a table on the right,
nodding over the newspaper. The only other living
person in the building seemed to be a librarian who
sat at a large desk, blocking the entrance and
exit. There was no way to get in or out except
by squeezing past her desk. We were
obviouslygoing to have to speak to her.
"Good morning," I said "We've come over from 211
School Twenty-three. As a special treat.
Do you have a children's section?" I asked.
"Yes. Over this way," she waddled ahead of us,
talking without looking at us. "Nothing fancy. We
don't have the money for all that software
hullaballoo, and we don't have many children nowadays.
But in its time, it was a pretty fair collection."
Bobby waddled after her, somehow making his skinny
body look as fat and awkward as hers.
Up until now the children had been quiet, hushed by the
large, unfamiliar room, but now that we were in motion
again, awe was receding. My hands were full with the girls
and I could only hope the librarian would not turn
around suddenly and discover Bobby.
The children's section was not inviting. There were no books
on display or out on the tables. In fact, most
of.
the books were without labels and their dull black,
blue, and green spines lined the shelves
monotonously. It was very different from other children's
libraries that I had known and I sighed even as I
thanked the retreating back of the librarian. A
disappointment. A waste of the children's time and
mine. Well, at least there would be no trouble in
getting back by twelve.
But I had forgotten that these children had no other
libraries to compare this with, that there were probably very
few books of any kind in their homes.
Luke, Bobby, and Maureen were all on their
knees pulling books out, pushing them back in.
Many of the books did have illustrations on their front
covers and Luke was studying a cover that had a
picture of a small brown deer and other animals
in a forest. Bobby skipped around the room taking a
book from here, a book from there, piling them on the
table.
"Crimminee. Look at these things. They got
books about everything in here. Lookit that." He
pointed to his pile. "Rudolph. Snoopy. They
copied all the good stuff on TV and put it in these
here books."
Maureen was sitting on the floor reading,
oblivious to the rest of the world.
I sat down on one of the chairs and pulled Louisa
Mae 212
onto my lap, watching in wonder. These children were like
sponges, soaking up whatever they came in contact
with.
Louisa Mae tugged my arm. "Hain't got no
book."
"You're right," I said. "Let's find one for you."
Luke came over to my side. "Come on, Louisa
Mae, I'll show you where the pitcher books are."
Luke led her to a low shelf where the larger picture
books were stacked and took out the top one. "Here's
a train," he said. "Wanta book about a train?"
But Louisa Mae ignored him, digging through the
books till she found one with a picture of a doll.
"Hit Baby Hug Me," she said.
I had been so busy watching Luke and Louisa
Mae that I hadn't seen the librarian arrive.
"The children are only allowed to take down one book from
the shelves at a time. Miss. Not create a mess
like this. We don't have all the money in the world, you
know, to hire people to clean up after children."
"Okay, kids. That's enough. Put the books
back. You can each pick one book and then we'll
get you a library card and you can check it out,"
"Library card? Can these children read? You have to be able
to read to have a library card."
"They can read."
"Well, are they legal residents? That's a
requirement, you know. We don't issue
books to out-of-towners." The librarian was becoming
distraught with the thought of parting with four of the ancient
books.
"Yes," I said. "They all live here." Although
suddenly I wasn't so sure about Louisa Mae.
Back at her desk she got out cards. "All
right. One at a time now."
"Bobby Ferraro. Twelve forty-four
Prospect."
Good, Bobby, I thought. You sound like a pro, giving
your address without being asked.
"I'm going to take this here book on magic." Who
would have guessed Bobby was interested in magic?
"Well, who's next? Hurry along now." The
librarian tapped her stamper on the ink pad.

Luke whispered to me, "I don't think Louisa
Mae knows her street. I got her doll book
here, but she'll start to cry or curse if that lady
don't let her get her book."
I nodded. "See if you can get two, Luke."
Luke stepped up to the desk. He looked so
small beside the large librarian and her desk.
"Luke Brauer. Eight thirty-four Cherry,
apartment three A. These two, please."
The librarian eyed Luke, started to say something,
then glanced over at me and changed her mind. She
wrote out Luke's card, stamped his books, and
put his card in a file on her desk.
"Go ahead, babe," I whispered to Maureen. But
she shook her head. "I can't, Mary. Jimmy would
whup me good if I gave my name and address to a
perfect stranger."
"It's okay," I insisted. "It's all right to have a
library card." It was more than all right for
Maureen. It was important.i had watched her for
those few seconds as she sat reading on the floor,
completely engrossed in the book. Here was a whole
other world for her, where she wouldn't need to whine and
allergies would fade. "Go ahead, Maureen," I
urged again. "Get your card."
Maureen inched forward.
"What's your name?"
"Maureen. Maureen Barber," her voice a
whisper.
"Yes. Wen, where do you live?"
Silence.
"Speak up."
"Thirty-nine Fairview," Maureen whispered,
her breath rasping in her throat,
"Okay," I said. "That's all. Thank you." I
whisked the children out the door.
Luke took Louisa Mae's hand as soon as we
were outside."...Here's your book, Louisa Mae.
Come on and carry it. Come on." Over his shoulder
Luke said to me, "I'll tend her, Mary. You
watch out for the other two."
I glanced at my watch. Ten of twelve.
"Hey," I yelled, "we have to run. Come on
now."
I grabbed Maureen's hand and set off full
tilt. Luke ran 214
beside me, tugging Louisa Mae along with him Bobby
ran in circles around us, raising his book over his
head and shouting for no reason at all, "Yay,
team'"
We were in the front door as the first lunch bell
finishedringing and Luke and Bobby dashed for their
classes. I deposited Louisa Mae and then
trotted beside Maureen to her classroom.
Her cheeks were pink, her eyes shining. No tears
or whining now. Outside the room Maureen reached
up and pulled me down and whispered in my ear, "I
love you," and then sat on the floor, took off her
right shoe, and stashed her library card
safely in her sock.

Mrs. Karras was waiting by the front door when I
arrivedthat first Monday in April.
"Well, she's gone," she said.
"Who's gone?"
"Louisa Mae."
I pulled my jacket back on, suddenly cold.
"How can she be gone?" I asked without logic.
"She was here last week."
"Well, she's gone now." Mrs. Karras was as
angry as I'd ever seen her. "She was here Monday
and Tuesday last week, but as you know perfectly
well, she was out the rest of the week. The nurse
made a routine call on Thursdayand the grandmother said
Louisa Mae was sick, had the flu. Lies,
lies, lies. Why can't anybody tell the truth
anymore?"
"What happened? Where's she gone? Why do you think
she has gone?"
"I don't think. I know she's gone. On
Tuesday I called myself. This time nobody
answered. I just got this very strange feeling that something
was wrong. You know, the 215
social worker never did get in that house.
Somebody alwaysput her off with one excuse or
another.
"Anyway, after school Friday, I got hold
of the truant officer and went over there. Nobody
answered the bell, so then we went around back,
to try the kitchen door, and there was the grandmother, standing in
the kitchen stirringsomething on the stove. We could see
her clear as day, through the glass windows in the door,
so she had to let us in.
"Then she tells us that Louisa Mae doesn't
live there anymore. Louisa Mae's mama had
thought she'd move back home to Falls City, but
now she'd changed her mind and gone on out to Chicago
to stay with her sister."
"Chicago? Will Louisa Mae go to school in
Chicago?"
"Who knows! Who-was Mrs. Karras stopped
mid-sentenceand walked back to her desk and sat down
and wearily put her head between her hands. After a
minute she looked up at me. "You know, I almost
said "who cares." That's the first time I've ever
felt that way." She rubbed her temples. "It's
the waste that makes me so damn mad. Waste of her
teacher's time, my time, your time. What good did it
do? You could have been working with Harold all
along if we'd known Louisa Mae was goingto
skip. And I tell you, I wouldn't be surprised
if that grandmother didn't know all along that they weren't
going to stay here for good, and just used us for
baby-sitting."
I walked out and across to my room. I thought of it as
my room now, rather than the music room. I
didn't want to hear about Harold or the grandmother.
I wanted Louisa Mae. How would I ever find out
what "grobby" meant or why God's feet were so
important? Or even more important, why she had
been scared of the clay and called it a cigarette.
I closed my eyes. "God, watch out for Louisa
Mac in Chicago, okay?"
Someone rattled my door and I reluctantly
opened it Mrs. Karras. I sighed and then realized
that Mrs. Karras wasn't alone.
"Mary," she said brightly, "I'd like you to meet
Harold Mills. He's in fifth grade. Miss
Kraus's class ... or maybe you've already
met."

te
I couldn't believe she was doing this "Hi,
Harold," I said to the pale pudgy boy
who stood beside her. "Have a seat." I glared at
Mrs. Karras. "May I speak to you in the
hall?"
Outside the door I hissed, "What are you doing?
The body's not even cool yet and already you're
dragging someone in on top of it. Did you care about
Louisa Mae at all? For that matter, do you care
about me or anyone in the world? Or only School
Twenty-three? A school is made of children, you
know."
"I know. I know it all too well, and you've got
to learn this, too, if you're going to survive.
Schools are made of children and children come and go." Her
voice grew gentler and she touched my arm. "Most
schools aren't like the one you taught at before. There your
children stayed for two or three years at a time, often
in the same class. You had the luxury of long
periods in which to help those children.
"Well, it's not like that here in the city. You do what you
can with what you have. A child comes, a child goes. You have
to hope you touched them for a second. There are too many
kids who need help to waste even a minute."
Mrs. Karras turned and headed back to her
office.i knew she was right. Without Mrs. Karras
there wouldn't even be a place like School
23"
I went back into my room. Harold was slouched
against the file cabinet, eyes on the floor. I
had absolutely no idea how to get started.
I sat down at the long table and studied him, but
nothingcame. Then for no particular reason, I
remembered the House-Tree-Person test, the
same test Jerry had had me give Luke in my
beginning sessions with him. Jerry was no longer around
to interpret, but perhaps Harold would enjoy the drawings
as Luke had. Harold certainly seemed to be
nonverbal. At least at the moment.
I got up and collected paper and pencils.
"Harold, would you come on over here and sit down?"
Harold hesitated, but then shuffled across the room.
"Do you like to draw?"
Harold shrugged.
"Well, here's a piece of paper. Please draw
a picture of a house. The best house you can."
Surprise made him look at me. "What kinda
house?" His voice was very soft and there was some sort of
odd lisp, almost a hiss, on the final
s
in
house.
"Any kind you want."
Harold shrugged again and began to draw. He worked
quickly and produced a tall skinny house without a
baselinereaching upward from the bottom of the page. The
house had nine tiny windows, a wobbly drainpipe,
and a toppling chimney,
Harold pushed it toward me. "Is this all right?"
My turn to be surprised. I had expected
sullenness rather than eagerness to please.
"That's fine. Now draw a picture of a tree,
okay?"
I had no training at the time to attempt
interpretations of drawings and I still feel
interpretations of children's drawings should be done with
caution. Too often, too much is read into them. But
at least Harry and I were doingsomething together and Harry
seemed to be involved.
The picture of the tree was bare, without leaves or
roots, only a round hole bored into the tree
halfway up. The tree, like the house, began at the
bottom edge of the page.
"Okay. One more.-Draw a person, the best
picture of a person you can."
Harry said, "Thass hard." The hiss was more
evident and there was something almost girlish in the
way he spoke.
"Well, just give it a try," I said. Suddenly
I realized I was interested. I wanted to see what
kind of person he would draw. I shook my head.
Where had my resentment gone? Ah, Mrs.
Karras. How cagey you are-but God, please
remember Louisa Mae, all right? Chicago's a
long way from here....
When my thoughts came back to Harry, he was still working
on his picture, spending far more time on this than either
of the other two.
Finally he was finished It was a picture of an
odd-looking man or boy with a tiny head, even
smaller arms, 218
and big feet. The wispy arms and almost invisible
hands were holding a heavily penciled barbell with
large weights on both ends.
"Know what he'sss doing? He'ss lifting
weightsss. You know what weightsss are?"
"Mm-hmm. My son has some, but I've never
used them."
"Me neither. But with that many poundsss"-he pointed to the
picture-"it'd be very, very, heavy."
"Yes," I agreed. "It would be very hard to lift."
Later on I would learn more about the
House-Tree- Person test and consider it a
valuable part of a diagnostic evaluation, although I
would always feel it was important not to draw too many
conclusions from this, or, for that matter, from any single
test. But even in my first meeting with Harold, even
with my limited knowledge, I could see how insecure and
"wobbly" he felt-and he did seem to be saying
he felt weighted down by heavy burdens.
*
It was twenty after twelve by the time I had finished
my time with Maureen and packed the last items in her
dishpan and put it back on the shelf. At the end
of the morning I wrote a brief summary of what
each child had done that day in their notebooks, so I
could keep track of their progress and plan for the
next day. Useful, but I was barely making it
back in time for History.
I grabbed my canvas tote and jacket and headed
for my car, fishing in my jacket pocket for my
keys. Not there. Where did I put them? In my
bag? Not there ei.back to my room. Had I
left them on the shelf? Not there. Come on. Come
on. You don't have time for this, Mary. Maybe in the
car. Back out the door. Down the steps. Across the
street. I shook the door handle.
Locked. And sure enough, there were the keys dangling
from the ignition. Oh, boy! I kicked the tire in
frustration and heard echoes in my head. "You must be
so patient, Mary, to teach those children." Patient?
Me? They should see me now.
Well, at least I know what to do. Back
into school to the office. I took a wire coat
hanger from the rack and untwisted it, forming a small
loop at the end as I had seen Cal do one day in
the parking lot when he was helpinga woman who had
locked her keys in the car.
But I hadn't counted on the children. It was past
twelve-thirty and they were coming back from lunch,
assemblingon the black macadam. I went around
to the far side of the car, feeling foolish, trying to be
as inconspicuousas possible.
I slipped the wire between the top of the window and the
roof. The worn canvas convertible top gave under
pressure and the wire slid in easily. I aimed
the loop for the little knob that locked the door. If I
could just lift that up I'd be in.
The loop went over, but then when I tried to lift,
it slipped off. Steady. Concentrate. Get it on
again. Keep pressing hard. Lift. The lock
clicked and I grabbed the door, pulled it
open-and looked up to see a dozen or more children peering
at me from the back of the car. Front and center was
Bobby Ferraro. "See," he said to what were
obviously three other Ferraros, "I told you."
"Hi, Bobby," I said climbing in behind the wheel.
"I'm late. Got to hurry. See you tomorrow."
But Bobby clung to the side of the car. "I told
"em you could fish and play poker and they wouldn't
believe nothin". But now they've seen you pickin'
locks." Bobby shouted with pride. "Now they
gotta believe me."
I felt as if I'd just received the Nobel
Prize. Who cared if I was late for History?
April slid by. My courses at college were
almost over. I still had to write a long term paper for
History, chronicles of court cases for School
in Contemporary American Societyeaand another
paper for Philosophy of Education. Classes for
seniors ended in mid-May. Graduation would be
June 6. I knew I wouldn't go. Especially
since lan wasn't there. How could I walk the
aisle in cap and gown with lan in Vietnam?
Besides, that belonged to another time of life. What
mattered was the certification, the right to teach as a "real
teacher" rather than as an aide.
I still didn't have a job, but somehow that didn't
worry me. More and more the thought of working on my own,
testing as well as teaching, was turning over in my
mind. In fact much to Cal's surprise and my
own, I drove out to college on Saturday
morning and took my graduate record exams.
Just in case.
The core of my life was School 23. Bobby
Ferraro flourished, down to once a week in the
office. He still lied, copied, fought after school,
came in with a bruised lip from "talkin' back" at
home, but that was his lifestyle. Nothing was going
to change that, but he was going to pass this year, much
to his teacher's relief. And I loved Bobby. I
was a pushover for his tough, sinewy survival
techniques, his charm as a raconteur, his
capacity for delightgghe was in heaven for three
straight days when the circus was in town), and his
occasional unexpected openness.
"Do you have a best thing, Bobby?" To my surprise,
Bobby's face turned deep red, but he nodded and
came up close to whisper to me.
"Don't tell nobody. But the crossing guard
kissed me today."
"Mrs. Renato?"
Bobby nodded.
I smiled at him. "She's nice, Bobby.
You're lucky." Mrs. Renato was fat,
fifty, and friendly. She knew better than most
psychiatrists what these kids needed. I was
alwayscaught by surprise by how what seemed a
tiny gesturewas a treasure to be secretly
cherished in School 23.
Harry lugged a suitcase in to show me the matches
his father had brought him from bars across the country. His father
didn't live at home anymore. He was
evidently a strange, violent man with a drinking
problem. Harry told of session after session when his
father had tossed the landlord down the stairs and broken his
ribs, or thrown knives across the kitchen at his
mother. They lived apart now, Harry at home with his
mother and two sisters. But his father still came to visit and
when his car pulled up outside, it was Harry's job
to hide the liquor behind the attic fan and then run
before his dad could make him tell where he'd hidden it.
Still, he loved his father and treasured each memento that
he brought him.
*
Maureen was writing poetry. All through April and
now into May, poems poured out of
Maureen. No stories or illustrations for her.
Instead she wrote sad, wi/l little verses.
still
used to like jelly,
But
now I don't. I used to like bubbles,
But now I don't. Because what does it matter.
She was a strange, unhappy little girl. Part of
her seemed an old woman burdened with care,
resigned to trouble, another part of her was three years
old. One day in the middle of May she asked if
she could stand on a chair. I agreed and held her
hand to steady her as she climbed up. Once there she
took a flying leap, twined her arms around 222
my neck and her legs around my waist, and begged me
to carry her to her classroom.
"We'd look pretty silly to the other kids,
wouldn't we?" I asked, still holding her.
"Don't care. Don't care," Maureen wailed.
We compromised with once around the room and as far as
the door.
The next day Maureen told me calmly that she was
"finding solutions to her problems." She said she
knew she wanted too much attention, but she was "working
it out by writing," she said, as she smoothed
her skirt.
*
Louisa Mae, Bobby, Harry, Maureen. I
had only vignettesof their lives. But Luke I
knew.
On his birthday his mother and Chuck gave him six
ducks. They got them cheap, Luke said, "cause
they were left over from Easter and the pet store wanted
to get rid of them. Luke named them Jimmy,
Jesus, Patrick, Speedy Gonzales,
Road Runner, and Louisa Mae.
"Louisa Mae?"
"Yeah. 'Member her? That little black kid that used
to live across the street."
"I remember," I said.
"You ever hear about what happened to her?"
"No, Luke. I never did."
"I didn't think so. But this one little ole duck just
kinda reminded me of her."
I silently blessed Luke for remembering.
A few days later Luke reported that all the
ducks were dead. He had buried each one in a
separate box out in the field near the brook that he
crossed on his shortcut. We went out to look at
their graves. Crosses made of two
sticks marked each grave.
Luke and I sat quietly in the field. The
grass was still wet and the early morning sun shimmered in
each drop, turning the field grass
into diamonds. I touched a blade with my finger and the
drop disappeared and diamonds vanished, leaving
only grass.
I looked at Luke. He was up, moving around,
collectinga few black-eyed Susans, laying them
on the graves. It was more than a year now since he
had first brought me here A lot had happened in a
year. And now it was almost over. I couldn't come back
again next year. I had to get a job. That's what
going to college had been all about. There would be no
point to becoming accredited if I continued
to volunteer, but how could I leave Luke? Why was
leaving always the hardest part?
Luke sat down beside me and sliced a piece of
field grass down the middle with his thumbnail,
put it to his lips, and blew a long, loud
whistle.
"You know what, Mary? Don't tell my mother, but
they shouldn't never have bought those ducks."
I nodded. I had thought so at the time, but hadn't
wanted to spoil his pleasure.
"It wasn't their fault, though. The pet store
shouldn't have gotten 'em ever. I don't know how they
kept them alive so long. But ducks aren't
supposed to be in houses or pet stores neither.
Ducks are supposed to be in ponds and lakes or
maybe in farmers" yards."
I nodded again without speaking, and tried making a
whistle of my own. It looked all right, but it
didn't work. Until Luke picked it up and
blew another shrill blast.
"I think," he said, "it's better they're dead.
It's like they're more freer."
I nodded one last time, then slit another piece of
grass. Over the lump in my throat I blew one
note on my fieldgrass whistle.

"Guess what?" Mrs Karras said when I arrived
the next morning. "The Child Study Team is here and
they have Luke in the music room, so you'll have
to take 224
Harold someplace else today." She steered me
toward her office.
"Why? I mean, what are they doing to Luke?" My
heart was pounding.
"Testing him. I guess to see if he can
pass this year."
"Oh, no." I slumped down on the wooden chair
opposite her desk. "Why didn't they tell us?
I could have reviewed things with Luke. I could have showed
him tricks to help make test-taking easier. You
know what we did yesterday? Luke and I put
flowers on the ducks' graves."
"Ducks?"
"Luke's ducks died. You know, he named one
Louisa Mae."
Mrs. Karras squinted her eyes at me "You
all right"?"
"Yes. Sorry." I knew I was rambling,
trying to find base, to think what I could do to help
Luke
"Listen," I said. "I could skip seeing Harold
this morning and go talk to the Child Study Team now if
you want. I could tell them about the progress he's
made. ... I could come back this afternoon and see
Harold There aren't any classes today, anyway-just
graduation."
Mrs. Karras shook her head "I offered. But they
said they want to make their own decision. I offered
to talk to them, have you talk to them But they said no, the
only one they wanted to talk to was his
classroom teacher, after they finish their testing.
"Bernie Serino evidently called the head of the Child
Study Team and said he wanted to see it in black
and white-raw scores, standard scores,
percentiles, the works, on any child they were thinking of
retaining or putting in another program."
"I bet Norm Foster had something to do with that.
Well, at least Lisa will say something positive,
don't you think?"
Mrs. Karras nodded. "I'm sure she will. Although
I'm just not sure how much weight they'll give her
opinion, compared to their testing scores.
"Did you say graduation was today?"
My turn to nod.
"Not going?"
I smiled and shook my head. "They're mailing me
my piece of paper, that's what I really need."
The secretary put her head around the door and
spoke to me. "Harold Mills is here. He
insists he has an appointmentwith you now. What should
I tell him?"
I grinned, happy with the thought of Harry coming to the
office to look for me.
"Tell him he's absolutely right. I'll be there
in a minute."
I turned back to Mrs. Karras. "I'd rather be
here than at graduation any day. You've made this a
pretty special place for kids, you know. And for
me too. I don't think I ever would have graduated
without School Twenty-three."
"I just wish we could keep you forever," Mrs.
Karras said.
We both got up at once. Enough sentiment for one
morning. "How long do you think they'll keep Luke
in there?" I asked.
"Who knows! But I'l let you know if I hear
anything. Where do you plan to be?"
"I don't know. Wherever Harry and I can find a
spot, but I'll keep checking back here."
By eleven o'clock the door to the music room was still
closed. "Is Luke still in there?" I whispered to the
secretary.
She nodded her head.
"Oh, God," I said under my breath. It was more a
prayer than anything else.
What kind of tests would they give him? Who were
"they," anyway? How scared was Luke? If I
had quaked with terror playing my recorder for
Mrs. Oliphant, how must Luke feel in
front of a team?
*
I walked Maureen back to her room at 11:55
and the secretary motioned me to her desk. "Mrs.
Karras is in with them now, she said to tell you Miss
Eckhardt was joining them at twelve. I'm
supposed to go get sandwiches 226
at the deli-anyway, Mrs. Karras says for you
to check back here around one, one-thirty, if you can."
"Okay. Thank you. I'll be here."
I walked out to my car and sat down watching the kids
race down the steps as the bell rang. I was hoping
to see Luke, maybe not bother him-he'd
probably need some time to himself after that much
pressure-but just get a glimpse of him, make
sure he was all right.
The school emptied quickly, but there was no sign of
him. I turned on the engine and drove down the
streets of Falls City thinking about Luke. There
was no way they could leave him back again. No
matter how he tested, even if he'd got nervous
and goofed, Lisa had his workbookseashe could show them
to the Child Study Team. And they couldn't put him in a
special class; none of the labels would fit. I
was sure of it.
I finally pulled the car to one side and
turned off the engine. For somebody so sure that
everything was wonderfuleaI did seem to be a little
shaky. I'd just sit here and wait it out and try
to eat my apple.
When I got back, the door to Mrs. Karras's
office was opened and she was alone behind the desk.
"Well, what did they say?" I asked.
"You won't believe it."
My heart was sinking. "What? Please. Hurry
up. Tell me."
"They not only gave me permission to pass Luke,
but to skip him to fourth grade, back with his old
class."
"You're kidding!"
"You know I wouldn't do that. That's exactly what they
said. The learning disability specialist gave him
some reading and arithmetic tests and couldn't believe
how well he did. The psychologist had him do some
drawings and talked to him and says that his-wait a
minute, I wrote it down-"his social and
emotional behavior has matured," and the social
worker went out to Luke's house and came back and said
the "stability of the family unit" seems to be
improving. Then Lisa came in and showed his class
work and I showed his folder with no arrests
since November and almost no absent or late
slips. They said they'd have 227
the report typed and sent up, but they signed the
promotionsheet for fourth grade right here."
I couldn't believe it. "To fourth grade?" I
repeated.
"That's right."
I grabbed Mrs. Karras from behind the desk and
waltzed her around the room. "We did it. We
did it. We did it."
Then I stopped and held Mrs. Karras at arm's
length.
"Does Luke know?"
Mrs. Karras shook her head. "I thought you should be
the one to tell him."
"Now? Right now? It's only one-thirty."
"Why not? You both deserve a holiday."
One more quick hug. "Thank you. I'll call you-was
I was backing out of her office as I was talking and
when I hit the secretary's office, I began
to run,
Lisa was having a party. Somebody's birthday. The
class was in a circle on the floor. Balloons
and paper streamers were all over the room, but I
couldn't wait. I knelt beside Lisa and
whispered, "Can you believe it?"
"I'm just beginning to. Want a cupcake? It's
Terry's birthday."
I shook my head still kneeling beside her, still
whisperingea"...Have you told Luke?"
"Are you kidding? Nobody gets to do that but you.
Mrs. Karras and I agreed on that."
"Thank you. Lisa. Can I take him now?"
*
"How come they gave me all those tests this morning?"
Luke demanded immediately.
"To see how you're doing, how much you've learned.
Those people were the Child Study Team. What was it like?"
Luke shrugged. "Kinda scary. There were two of
them, a lady and a man, asking all kindsa questions,
making me read books and tell about "em, and draw
pictures. And then they gave me one of those old
rats, like we did with the arithmetic and everything,
remember? Only they 228
didn't have any points or stars like we did. Just a
lollipop."
"Well, you sure must have done a terrific job."
"Yeah? What'd they say?" Luke peered at me
intently.
"They said you passed everything, and not only
passed, you did so well they're going to skip you
into fourth grade."
Luke squinted his eyes at me. "Whatta you
mean?"
"Next fall when you come back, you'll be in the
fourth grade."
"What about third? I haven't had third yet."
"Doesn't matter. The Child Study Team says
so. Mrs. Karras and Lisa say so, too. They
say you learned both second and third this year-so,
wham! Right into fourth."
"Regular fourth? Like where Bobby will be?"
"That's right," I said. "Exactly right."
Luke and I were both standing up now. Luke was
beginningto hop a little, just a little. Up and down. Up
and down.
"Let's celebrate," I said. "What do you
want to do?"
"Everything. Everything we ever did."
We were both laughing, running down the street.
Luke had his arms stretched wide and was doing his
happiness run, the one he'd used in the country,
dipping and wheeling like a small plane or soaring
bird.
We both knew where we were going first.
Dunkin" Donuts.
Luke had already had a party at school, but he
didn't care and neither did I. We drank a cup
of coffee and made the waitress recite the list of
doughnuts twice before we ordered.
The library. Past the fat librarian to the children's
section.back out before she was out of her chair. Luke
didn't want a book today. Nothing to weight him
down.
The corner store. We couldn't eat anything, but
Luke told Dave, "I'm goin' into fourth. They
skipped me."
The lipstick factory. The shed rebuilt. No
sign of the fire. Luke couldn't find the hole where
he had once kept his things.
The field. The mole hole was there. The six
ducks' 229
graves. Only three crosses still standing. Louisa
Mae's was one.
The stream. Luke led us across, hopping from stone
to stone, and this time I made it almost as quickly as he
did.
The project. Luke unlocked the door with the key
he still wore around his neck and shouted, "Hey, Ma!
I passed. I'm going into fourth."
Nobody was home, but we both knew his mother would be
back by three. She always was these days.
Back outside. Only one place left.
"Shall we go to the mountains?" I asked.
We ran back across the field to my car parked across
from the school, and drove away from Falls City,
up to the woods, to the mountain.
Luke showed me where to park. Again, I would have missed
it without his directions. Now we walked more slowly,
tired from the excitement, as we climbed up toward the
tower. There was no need to hurry now.
Luke's platform was still in place under the water
tower. How many times had he been back? Would he
come back next year? Now was not the time to ask.
It was cooler on the mountain and the storage tank formed
an umbrella of shade above our heads. We sat
togetherlooking out over the city and the surrounding
highwaysleading to New York and other parts of the
country. We didn't talk. I didn't even
try to guess what Luke was thinking. I let my
own thoughts float free, trying only to experience,
to make this water tower, this day, this boy, part of me
forever.
Luke touched my knee. "Remember that deer? The
one on the meadow?"
"Yes."
"He was just standing there. Quiet like now. But you know
what, Mary? You know how I wished I'd seen
him?"
I waited, listening hard.
"I wished I'd seen him running. I wished I'd
seen him running beautiful and free."
I turned to face Luke, surprised by the poetry
of his 230
words, but he was no longer looking at me. He was
lookingout beyond the streets of Falls City.
"You will someday, Luke. I'm sure of that."
Beautiful and free. Luke's words reverberated
around and around in my head.
I leaned back against the water tower and put my arm
around Luke's shoulders. Together we looked at the
world stretching out beyond Falls City. We'd done it.
We'd gotten out from under and we were on our way.

It was the hottest day of the year, but it was also the
finalday of school for the kids at 23 and I had to go
down.
It would be my last day there, too. My degree and
certificationin elementary and special education was
safely filed in my drawer of
important papers. I had accepted a job as
supplementary teacher in a resource room in a
public school beginning in the fall. It was only a
part-time job, six dollars an hour. Not much to some,
but more than I'd ever made before. What's more, I'd
had to show my degree and teaching certificate
to qualify. In the eyes of the law I was a "real
teacher" now.
I had also been accepted in graduate school to work
toward my master's and certification in learning
disabilitiesthis summer. I was determined to learn
the techniques and tools of testing and evaluating as
well as teaching. It would take another year and a
half, but the courses were at night and there would be children
every day at school.
When I was certified as a "learning disability
specialist" (why couldn't they just call it learning
specialist?), I planned to open my own
practice so that I could work with children both in and out of
school, with some like Luke, some with different needs.
I wanted to continue to do the kind of educational therapy
we'd been doing in School 23. I believed more
strongly than ever that chil-231
dren's learning and emotional difficulties are
inextricably linked. I was sure now that
the most effective way to help children was to give them
emotional support and at the same time teach them the
skills they need to succeed academicallyand socially.
I had also come to understand that pain is never
isolated.if the child is in trouble, the hurt will
spill into the family, and vice versa Parents must
be included in, not out. In the long run, they are the
real key to a child's success.
The clinic project may have staggered, through lack of
funds or personnel, but the idea was right and that was
what mattered I couldn't be sure about Maureen or
Louisa Mae, but Vernon, Milt, Bobby, and
Luke had all grown and so had Hud and Shirley
and myself, and that was a pretty good percentage. I
hoped someday the programwd have another chance. It
deserved it.
*
I had bought a small gift for each of the children-a
diary for Maureen, a fishing rod for Bobby, a
new clock for Luke, a toolbox for Harry. But
when I got to school, Luke was absent. Uh,
oh! What now? I hoped success hadn't gone
to his head. I resolved to go over to the projectand
check up on Luke as soon as I'd seen the other
children.
I said good-bye to Harry first, trying to use my
Falls City cool, to remember all that the children had
taught me, careful not to presume on our friendship.
Harry thanked me for the toolbox, we wished each
other good luck, and we were done.
It was harder than I had thought it would be. Maybe
I had gone too fast, been too cool. I spent
more time with Bobby. We had one last game of
Black Jack and he invitedme to go fishing with him and
his brothers over the summer. He was sure the new
rod would be lucky.
Maureen liked her diary, except, of course,
actually she wished it was an autograph book.
She was collecting autographseashe said. Finally
she decided it was all right; she 232
would use it as both an autograph book and a
diary. She
opened it to the current day.
"Sign it right here, Mary. Please."
"Okay. Fine." I started to write my name.
"No. Wait," she said. "Write what I say.
All right?"
"Sure. Go ahead."
"All right. Write this." She spoke slowly,
stopping at
the end of each line.
"When the name that I write here
Is yellow with age, And the words that you see here
Grow dim on the page, Then think of me kindly
and do not forget That wherever I am
I'll remember you yet.
"Now write "Your friend, Mary
MacCracken.""
I did as she asked and then said, "Did you make
up that poem, Maureen?"
She hesitated for a minute and then said, "Not
exactly. My sister, the one in fifth grade,
she's got it in her autographbook."
"Well, anyway, it's nice-and it's true. I
surely will remember you."
I waved to Lisa from her classroom door. The
kids were cleaning out their desks and throwing the stuff
around the room.
"Call me when you get back from your trip.
Let's have lunch," I called over the racket.
"Good," she shouted back. "Maybe I'll even
take a course over at college."
*
Before I left for Luke's I packed the children's
notebooksand whatever stories they had
left behind. The rest could stay. Perhaps next year there
would be someone who could use the clay and Magic
Markers. 233
The door opened slowly, quietly, and then
Harry's head appeared.
"Isss anybody here?" he lisped.
"Me."
"No. Anybody elssss?"
I shook my head.
Harry came all the way into the room. He was
carrying his book bag. He put the book bag on
the table and began unpacking. One book, two,
three.
"Uh, Harry. I really can't.. ."
"Sssee. I didn't have time before. You were in sss-
sss-anyway, a big hurry, and I couldn't get
it unpacked."
I sat down. He was right. I had hurried him.
I shook my head. Just because I'd been afraid of
my own emotions, hurrying to get out before I showed how
I felt. Proud of my Falls City cool.
Forgetting that these kids had enough cool for themselves and me
too. Forgetting to be myself.
Harry had seven books on the table. "I had
to put it down on the bottom ssso
nobody'd sssee." He lifted out a square box
wrapped in flowered paper and handed it to me.
"It'ss for you," he said.
Harry. Who would have guessed?
"Thank you." We were both embarrassed, but that was
okay. I wasn't going to rush it this time. "Can I
open it?"
Harry nodded and I carefully slit the pieces of
Scotch tape and lifted off the paper. A bright
pink box labeled Geranium Dusting Powder.
Inside was a fat snowy puff on top of paper
sealing in the powder. I poked in one corner of the
paper and dipped my finger in the powder and rubbed it on
the back of my hand.
Self-consciousness vanished in the scent of
geraniums and I grabbed Harry and kissed him quick
before either of us ran away.
"Hey," he objected, but he was grinning from ear
to ear. "Do you really like it? I bought it for you with my
own money."
"I love it," I told him. "It's
absolutely perfect. You 234
couldn't have picked anything nicer." I gave him one
more kiss.
The door opened and Harry dove for his
book bag.
It was the school secretary. "Mrs. Karras
wants to see you before you leave."
"Okay. Be there in a minute."
Harry was already halfway down the hall. "Hey,
Harry," I called. "Good-bye. Thanks for
everything." He turned and waved, then scurried on,
dragging the heavy book bag, empty now of its
secret.
*
Mrs. Karras looked up from her desk. "What's
this I hear about kissing in the music room?"
No wonder Harry buried his present under seven
books. News traveled fast in School 23.
"Couldn't help it," I admitted. I showed her the
box of Geranium DustingPowder.
Mrs. Karras smiled. "We've loved having you
here, Mary. I wish we could keep you. Well-who
knows? Maybe something will happen."
"You taught me something important," I said.
"It's the principal who makes the school. You're
the one who sets the mood, gives the encouragement,
provides the material, becomes the model. No
teacher can do it alone." I hugged her one last time.
"Please stay in touch."
I ran down the grimy stone steps, waved at the
yowling white dog, and drove to Luke's house.
I rang the doorbell and counted while I waited.
One, two, three, four, five. I was about to ring
again when the door opened slightly.
A stocky, black-haired man stood behind the
half-open door. "Yeah. What is it?"
"I'm one of Luke's teachers over at the school.
Is he all right?"
"Yeah. Sure." The door was starting to close.
"Chuck?" I asked. The door opened again.
"Where'd ya get my name?"
"Luke and his mother, too, mentioned you. I'm Mary
I 235
MacCracken. This is my last day over at
School Twenty-three and I just wanted to leave a
good-bye present for Luke."
Chuck opened the door wider. "Listen. Sorry.
I thought maybe you were one of those truant officers.
See, I let the kids take the day off so they could
go on up to Canada with their mother and my brother's
family. We got a camp up there and I'm going
up myself at the end of the week. But the kids have done
so good, I thought I'd give "em a break, and
let 'em all go up in my brother's
van. Come on in."
"No. No, thank you. I'm late already, but would you
give this to Luke for me?"
"Sure. Sure I will. What was the name again?"
"Mary."
"Mary? Oh, sure. Now I know. Luke went
up to the country with you. Right?"
I nodded.
"You know what Gloria, Luke's mother, that is,
says? She says you worked a miracle on that
boy."
"No. Don't say that. Luke did most of it
himself."
"Well. Maybe. But I tell you, I'd never have
believed that kid could do it. I mean get so smart and
all." Chuck turned Luke's present
awkwardly in his hands. "Could I ask you, I mean,
would you tell me what you did to stop him from being some
kind of stealing, cheating, bratty dumbbell?"
It was my turn to stand without speaking, shifting my
weight from foot to foot in the Falls City
sunlight.
What had I done? How could I put it into words for
Chuck? I'd had my plan for helping Luke
grow, teaching him academics, but I knew
that what Chuck was really asking was how could he do
whatever it was to keep on helping Luke.
It was a question I had longed to hear, and now I
wasn't sure how to answer.
I did the best I could. "I'm not sure. I
guess my part was showing Luke that he was smart, that the
reading and math weren't that hard-and listening to him.
Luke needs someone to listen, so he can believe that
words can make
a difference." I hesitated, searching for words myself.
"I guess we got involved with each other;
anyway, I know I cared a lot about him.
"The rest Mrs. Brauer did here at home. She
heard him read out loud and do his homework. She showed
him she was proud of what he was doing, and when she
really began to believe he could do it, then Luke
believed it too."
Chuck put out his hand. "Well, I-uh-we thank
you. And I'll tell you something. This summer up at
the cabin, I'm gonna teach the kid to fish. I
mean really fish. Wade the streams, cast, go after
trout. A year ago I wouldn't have believed he could
learn, but I'm pretty sure I can teach him how
to do it now."
"I'm sure you can. Luke will love that.
And remember, please call if I can ever help."
Chuck nodded and I shook his hand. Silence grew
around us in the hot sunshine on the project stoop.
I knew that I should go, but Luke had been such a
large part of my life that it was hard to let him go for
all time.
But he would be all right. I knew it. My part was
done. It was foolish to stand there waiting for the right way
to say good-bye. No words would ever be adequate.
I wrapped my heart in a cliche. "Give
Luke my love," I called, as I ran down the
project steps for the last time.
Appendix
When I began writing this book, I reviewed many
old records and files that I had kept during my
college years. One of the documents that I came
across was "The ExperimentalElementary School
Mental Health Model" This was the model that was
actually used for our initial training at the Mental
Health Clinic I was very excited to rediscover this
program even though some parts were never implemented (the
mother's group, for instance, p. 245). The plan had
seemed good to me in 1970, and in 1980 it seemed
even better. My excitement resulted in ninety
hand-written pages describing each
section of this model in detail, and the few training
sessions we actually did have at the clinic in even
greater detail.
Two drafts later I realized that the first ninety
pages of my book were, in fact, very dull
stuff. So I cut the ninety pages and began with
Luke, who, of course, is the heart of the book.
Still, the idea haunted me that somewhere, someplace, there
might be a teacher or psychologist or college
professorwho might want to initiate a program
similar to that at School 23-and this model could be a
road map. (actualnames have, of course, been
eliminated.)
So this Appendix is in lieu of those ninety
pages. It is, I suppose, both a gift and a
challenge to the network of people who truly care about children.
EXPERIMENTAL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL MENTAL
HEALTH MODEL
It is clear that traditional models of
diagnosis and treatment in Mental Health are
totally inadequate in terms of available or
projected manpower. Concepts of diagnosis and
treatment that were accepted a decade ago are now under
close scrutiny and as a result there has been a
great deal of experimentation and innovation in
order to design more efficient programs of
prevention and amelioration. The public and private
schools of our country offer the most fertile
fields for the institution of programs which will eventually
have a profound effect on our total population.*
* Proceedings of the thirty-seventh annual maeting
of the Eastern Psychological Association,
1966.
Project Proposal
An experimental model for the expansion and
intensification of mental health services in the
schools.
Introduction
This pilot project was formulated through a series of
discussionsbetween personnel from the Department of
Special Services of the School System and
Personnel from the County Mental Health Clinic.
Through these discussions it quickly became apparent that new
and more radical approaches were needed to meet the ever
increasing and overwhelming number of referrals for
emotional disorders that were being made to 240
the Department of Social Services and to the Clinic
from School Personnel. These discussions indicated
a need for more immediate, intense and continual forms of help
for pupileaparent and teacher within the structure
of the school. Too often a child vegetates on
someone's waiting list or never makes it for help.
Too often the Clinic and the therapeutic process
seemed divorced from those who have to work withand cope with the child
in his daily crises. Hence, this project is an
attempt, on the part of School and Clinic for
Mental Health, to meet some of these needs by the use
of new approachesby the Personnel of both
Agencies.
Basic Rationale for the Project
The project proposal is based on the following
assumptions:
1. Expansion and improvement of Mental Health
Services in the schools will be introduced by using the
school mental health specialist (social worker
or psychologist) more as a consultant to those who work
and live with the child. Furthermoreeamuch of this
consultative work will be facilitated by use of
small group counseling techniques.
2. The majority of the school's referrals for
emotional disorders can be treated on an immediate basis
through a program of therapeutic counseling and
tutoring at the school itself. Major stress is on
the immediate problems of the child and the social context in which these
problems are developing.the establishment
of a program involving immintervention at the school
should help forestall escalation of tensions and conflicts
into more serious disturbances as well as easing teacher and
parental frustration and concern. This program would also
provide a means for extended observationsand screening
of what might be serious pathologicaldisorders.
3. Major counseling contact with the child can be made
by paraprofessionals or supplementary teachers who will
be trained as therapeutic tutors and supervised by the
school mental health specialist.
4. Substantial help can be extended to the child
by workingclosely and continuously with the major figures
in his immenvironment-teacher, parent, therapeutic
tutor- without recourse to traditional, lengthy,
time-consuming diagnosticand referral procedures.
Referral Procedure
All referrals initiated by teachers or parents will
be processed by the school mental health specialist
in consultation with the principal. In cases involving
learning handicaps believed due to emotional
maladjustments or in cases of aggressiveness,
hy-peractivity, withdrawal, nervous symptoms,
etc. wherein the child's classroom functioning is being
seriously hampered, immediateplacement would be made in the
program. In cases of suspected
retardation or serious neurological impairment,
"quickie" psychological exams could be administered
by the School Psychologist and if special class
placement seemed indicatedeaa more complete and
orthodox diagnostic evaluation would be undertaken by the
Child Study Team. However, if space exists, the
neurologically impaired or retarded child might be
included in the program until special class
placementis effected. As was pointed out, the
program itself providesa means for continual,
close diagnostic evaluation and when necessary referral
to outside agencies can be made.
The Program
Essentially, the program is comprised of three
interrelated parts involving the development of a sub
mental health specialty, a teacher program, and a
parent program.
the therapeutic tutor The first and most important
phase of this program will be the development of the
"therapeutictutor." This individual would be a
carefully screened part-time worker who might be a
supplementary teacher, student teacher or
paraprofessional. Screening will be done by a
collaboration of the Clinic and the School. These
individualswd receive in service training
at the Clinic for Mental Health before entering the
school program. The clinic training would focus
upon the development of a "therapeutic attitude" and
techniques of working with children. Further in service
training, supervision and program coordination would
require the "therapeutic worker" to attend a
weekly group session involving the clinic
consultant, the child study team member, the learning
disability expert and, at times, the 242
teachers of children in the program. These sessions would
focuson therapeutic issues-the meaning of the child's
actions and reactions, possible ways of handling
future situations with the child, feedback information from
home and classroomeaevaluation of pupil
progress as well as different learningmaterials and
techniques that might be utilized. While the
actual programming of learning materials or
games and activitiesthat would help develop
academic skills needed by the child is the
responsibility of the learning disability expert, the
school's mental health specialist would be
responsible for the supervision and coordination of the
program.
The development of the therapeutic tutor role is
predicated upon the belief that in the vast
majority of school referrals, emotional and
learning disorders are inextricably intertwined, and that
both aspects of the problem should receive attention in a
therapeutic program.
Educational therapy as defined in this project would
requiredeveloping the tutor's capacity for
creative listening- an alertness, sensitivity to,
and an ability to reflect and clarify the child's
underlying feelings and a strong empathy, honesty, and
positive regard for the child coupled with some knowledge of
reinforcement techniques. Therapeutic tutoring
includes the area of increasing academic skills,
but it is primarilyconcerned with reducing the
anxieties disrupting the learning processes and it
is concerned with increasing the child's basic self-esteem
and motivation. Hence, much stress will be placed on
creating a relationship between tutor and student and
academic skills are viewed in terms of the child's
personality dynamics.
In contrast to traditional psychotherapy, there would be
no direct attempt to evoke unconscious
material, offer analytic interpretation or
attempt to reconstruct a personality. Stress
will be on developing self-confidence, ego skills,
and developingmeans of coping.
It is expected that the therapeutic tutor would see
the child three times per week for approximately 50
minutes a session. As the program progressed
and the children became better known to the personnel in the
program, some of the children might be put in small
groups for counseling and tutoring. The children would be seen
during the school day.
teachers" involvement The second part of this
project aims both to provide the teacher with more
continual and intensiveindividual assistance in
understanding and coping with
the behavior of the referred child as well as offering a
small group program to the staff designed to make
them more sensitive to the developmental and
psychological problems of their pupils and aware of
their own reactions with regard to these issues. Teacher
contact will be maintained through weekly classroom
observations of the referred child by the mental health
specialist (15 minutes) and by periodic small
group consultations with the mental health specialist,
therapeutic tutor, and learning disabilities
expert.
In addition, the mental health specialist will keep
a designated period of time free for weekly
consultations with teachers concerning
difficulties that they might be experiencing with their
class or individual children.
Finally, an in service study group would be set up
at the school for those of the staff who want
to participate in the group. Group size would be
8-12 members, and the administrative staff would not
be included. Group membership would be on a
voluntary basis and the group would meet for
IV-THAT
hours after school. If sufficient members
volunteer for the program, the program may be
offered to several schools once a week for the duration
of the program and would receive in service credit from the
Board of Education for the course participation.
The initial focus of the group would be the study of the
individual child. While the teacher would gather
behavioral data with regard to a child in her
classroom, the group itself would study as many children as
there are teachers in the group. The purposes of this form
of study would be to illustrate different means of
observing behavior, how to make multiple
hypotheses against further actions. As information is
discussed within the group, the teachers should become more
aware of the recurring patterns of behavior that are
indicative of developmental stages as
well as behavior patterns that suggest strong
anxieties, compulsions, frustrations, aspirations,
etc.
The main purpose of the group, however, is not just
to gather ideas and insights with regard to the child, but rather
to generate a greater empathy forand better relationship
with children. As the group progresses, less
structure would be imposed and more attempts would be
made to help individual group members to gain
insight into their underlying attitudes and anxieties with
regard to the actions and problems of their pupils.
parents' involvement Parental contact and cooperation
is obviously an important factor in any
program attempting to effect change in the child's
emotional attitude. It is felt that an
open-ended mother's group should'be set up at the
school during or after school hours for the mothers of the children
participating in this study. The purpose of the group
would be to provide supportive situations where the
mothers could face and deal with some of their problems, gain
a greater understandingof themselves and their relation to their children and
work out methods of effecting change in their child's
behavior.if a mother, for various reasons, cannot
become involvedin the group, attempts will be made
to meet the aforementioned purposes through
periodic visits to the home by the Mental Health
Specialist.
the organization AND staffing OF THE project The
above-mentioned programs represent a pilot
project to be tried in one elementary school during
the forthcoming school year. If upon evaluation, these
programs or modifications thereof appear
effective, the project programs would be expanded
to include other schools in the succeeding year. It
appears obvious that the success or failure of the
project will depend to a large degree upon the
capabilities and therapeuticskills of the school
Mental Health Specialist. This individualis
responsible for directing and coordinating the
project which will entail supervision of the therapeutic
tutors, heading an in service training group and
mother's group, as well as consultations with teachers.
Given these considerationseax was felt that the Clinic would
aid the project best by supplying therapeutic
consultation with regard to the aforementioned group
programs. In short, the clinic consultantand the
school Mental Health Specialist would work as
co-therapists in the group programs. They would
co-jointly evaluate and modify, if necessary, the
group programs as well as evaluate and
plan for the individuals within these programs.the
Clinic will also collaborate with the school in the
training of the therapeutic tutors.
The Clinic, during September and October, would
provide in service training for the tutors. The in
service training period of about 6-8 hours per
week would include working with children at the Clinic under
supervision as well as weekly sessions devoted
to the discussion and evaluation of these experiences. The
tutors would begin to work with chil-245
dren in the schools during the later part of October,
after the Mental Health Specialist has had the
opportunity to screen, with teachers, principal and
other trained members, possible referrals for the
program. The group work program would also be
initiated at this time.
If these project programs prove viable and are
expanded to include other schools in succeeding years,
the Mental Health Specialist involved in the
pilot project could assume the in service training
functions for other school Mental Health Staff
and the Mental Health Clinic's role in the
project would be phased out, although always available on
a consultative basis when needed.
The program as described should entail
approximately three days work per week for the
Mental Health Specialist:
(a) Weekly group consultation with therapeutic
tutors, learningdisability expert and occasionally
teachers of the children involved in program equals 3
hours.
(b) Brief periodic observations of children in
classroom and tutoring sessions equals 5
hours.
(c) Mother's group equals equals
IV-I
hours.
(d) In service training equals hours.
(e) Home visits equals equals 4 hours.
(f) Time available for individual teacher consultation
equals 2 hours.
(g) Referral screening equals equals 2
hours.
(h) Program preparation and evaluation with Clinic
consultant equals 2hours.
project evaluation This will be made by selected
random sampling and when necessary will be made in cooperation
with a central school. Tentatively, evaluation will
be made in terms of the following program criteria:
1.
Does the program expand and Improve mental
health services?
Possible means of evaluation:
Development of a teacher rating scale for
effectiveness and comprehensiveness of Mental Health
Services in the schools. Scale applied prior
to and following project in control and experimental
school.
2.
Does the program improve the mental health
milieu of the School by making the teachers more
sensitive and respon-
sive to needs and conflicts of the child and better able
to
cope with the child's behavior in the classroom?
Possible means of evaluation:
Measures of attitude change of teachers
participating in group programs as compared to general
faculty in experimentaland control schools.
3.
Will relatively immediate treatment of the Problem and
periodic consultation help the child change and
improve?
Possible means of evaluation:
Q-sorts by child in self-concept prior
to and following treatment. Gains in academic and
behavioral areas as measured by achievement tests,
teacher rating and Q-sorts on child. These measures,
again, would be comparedwith similar measures in a control
school.
Obviously as the program unfolds, there would be
areas requiringfurther survey and research in
succeeding years.
Project Funding
Prime areas of the project that would requirefunding
are:
(a) Development of the research design for
evaluating the project.
(b) Development training and supervision of the
therapeutic tutors.
About the Author
Mary MacCracken, a learning disabilities
specialist, is the author of two bestselling
books about her work with emotionally disturbed children, A
CIRCLE OF CHILDREN and LOVEY. Both books
have been made into television specials and are
available in Signet editions. Ms.
MacCracken was Honorary Chairman of the
National Mental Health Association in 1979;
she is still active in the Association, and
lectures for them around the country. In addition, she
is a member of the Council of Exceptional Children.
She lives in Englewood, New Jersey.