turnabout
CHILDREN
There are millions of children in this country with learning
disabilities. Bright but frustrated, they want
to learn -- to be able to read, to write, to do math.
They are intelligent children whose difficulties in
mastering these essential skills often create a
sense of isolation and loneliness. One
seven-year-old boy in
Turnabout Children
was the only member of his class who did not belong
to a reading group -- any group. Another child
poignantly 	remarked, "I think my brain
is broken."
Mary MacCracken, the gifted therapist and author
of A
Circle of Children, Lovey,
and
City Kid,
has worked with learning disabled children for years. In
Turnabout Children
she tells the individual stories of the boys and
girls she helped transform from academic and
personal failures into children who are successful in
school and successful in life: Joey, Eric,
Ben, Alice, Charlie. Each child has a different
disability or combination of disabilities --
dyslexia, dysgraphia, dyscalculia. What
these children and all the other children like them share is the
potential to overcome their learning problems.
In each chapter we see Mary administer
specific diagnostic tests, develop
therapeutictechniques, and establish practical
rehabilitative programs. As Mary shares with
us her remarkably perceptive

TURNABOUT CHILDREN
BOOKS BY MARY MACCRACKEN
A
Circle of Children Lovey: A Very Special Child
City Kid Turnabout Children
TURNABOUT CHILDREN
Overcoming Dyslexia and Other Learning
Disabilities
Mary MacCracken
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY BOSTON
TORONTO
PALM BEACH COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY
SYSTEM 3650 SUMMIT BLVD. WEST
PALM BEACH, FLORIDA 33406
COPYRIGHT [*copygg'1986 BY MARY
MACCRACKEN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. NO PART OF THIS
BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCEDIN ANY FORM
OR BY ANY ELECTRONIC OR
MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION
STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL SYSTEMSEAWITHOUT
PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHER,
EXCEPT BY A REVIEWER WHO MAY
QUOTE BRIEF PASSAGES IN A
REVIEW.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress
Cataloging-in-Publication Data
MacCracken, Mary. Turnabout children.
i. Learning disabled children -- Education -- United
States. 2,. Dyslexic children -- United
States. 3. Teachers of handicapped children comUnited
States. I. Title.
LC4705.M$33 1986 37i$9i"'bled
86-10461 ISBN 0-316-55540-1
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.
RRD-VA
Designed by Jeanne Abboud
Published simultaneously in Canada by Little,
Brown And Company (canada) Limited
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my own three children
comSusan, Nan, and Steve -- and their
families, in small return for the joy they've
given me.
And also to my four stepchildren -- Michael, Joan,
Karen, and Mark -- and their families, who have
enriched my life.
Acknowledgments
I particularly want to thank:
All the children I've worked withand their parents. This book
might well have been titled "Lessons from Children."
My husband, Cal, for standing by, putting up with, and
continuing to encourage me.
My daughter Susan, for reading every word of every draft
and for offering insights, comments, and unfaltering faith.
My daughter Nan, for joining me in private
practice, and sharing her talent for growing children.
Gene Young, my friend and first editor, for buying my first
book,
A Circle of Children,
and for thoughtfully editing both
Lovey
and
City Kid
and much of
Turnabout Children.
Fredrica S. Friedman, my current editor,
for her hard work,
enthusiasm, and careful guidance of this book in its
final
stages.
Carl Brandt, my agent, for watching over my
books, both here and in other countries.
Ruth Watson, for reading, typing, and
uncomplainingly retyping the many drafts of this
book.
vii
Contents
Meeting Myself ..
Jdgey 15
Eric
jj
Changes 87 Ben
caret
Alice i caret Charlie 189 caret Safe
Place 247
IX
TURNABOUT CHILDREN
Meeting Myself
Maggie. Ten-year-old, bespectacled, beloved
Maggie. She still couldn't tell time or
remember her multiplicationfacts. She passed a
spelling test if she studied the words long and hard,
but a week later she was unable to spell most of the
words on the test. But Maggie was desperately
eager to learn and I was desperately lonely for children,
which was why I was tutoring Maggie and a few others
until I could get my "working papers" and return
to teaching.
I was back in college now, not by choice, but
by necessity. The private school where I had
taught seriously emotionally disturbed children full time
for over six years had become state approved, which
meant that by law its teachers must be certified. I had
left college twenty-five years before to be
married at the end of my sophomore year, and, although
I had been taking courses at night, these credits
accumulate slowly and the school had its state
approval before I did. I could not teach again until
I had a bachelor's degree in educationand teacher
certification.
I decided to do it the quickest way I knew --
by enrolling full time at the state college. Cal,
my husband, supported and encouraged me. Our children
were all grown, some in college themselves, the same
age as my fellow students.
Continuing education for women was not yet popular, and I
moved through my days in a sea of twenty-year-olds
and dull undergraduate courses. That was okay. But
as an education major I had expected to be
surrounded by children. Not so. There were plenty of
lectures, textbooks, quizzes, term papers,
and tests -- but no children. In the spring of our senior
year, we would be sent into schools for six weeks as
student teachers, but that was almost two years away and
I knew that I couldn't wait that long to work with children
again.
Before returning to college I had been teaching
schizophrenic and autistic children in a small
private school, and during those years I had come
to love both the staff and the children. The children had been the
warp and woof of my days, and without them there was an
emptiness that nothing else could fill.
Consequently, when a psychologist I'd known at
that little school asked if I'd be interested in
tutoring, I jumped at the chance, sandwiching sessions
with children between my college courses. And so, without
plan or conscious intent, I began to work with a type
of child I hadn't known before.
The first child to come was Bobby -- seven years old, in
second grade in public school, and
seemingly bright, but totally unable to read. When I
asked the psychologist who had sent Bobby to me how
this could be, he shrugged and replied, "Suspected
minimal brain damage."
Brain damage? The words hit hard. Bobby? I
couldn't believe it. Bobby was bright, alert, bubbling
with life, understanding subtleties without explanation --
it didn't seem possible that his brain could be
damaged. What I didn't know then was that in the
late sixties and early seventies, learning
disabilities was a new field and such medical
terms as "brain damage" and "minimal brain
dysfunction" were often still used. Now educators would
use words like "dyslexic" or "learning disabled"
to describe a child like Bobby.
In any event, I was sure that Bobby could learn
to read. A friend helped me find an unused room in
a nearby church,
and Bobby and I met there twice a week. Almost
immediately, he began to read. Not on grade level,
of course, but within a few weeks he knew both the
sounds and the names of the consonants, then the short sounds
of
a

i -
and before one season changed to the next he could not only
read, "A fat cat ran to a pit"; he could
write it as well.
It was a heady experience to be part of such phenomenal
growth. Phenomenal to me, at least. I was used
to months, sometimes years, of struggle before a child could
acquire what Bobby learned in a few weeks'
time.
It was not that I was doing anything so special. I was
teaching the way I always had -- moving slowly,
sequentially -- making sure each session ended with
success. It was Bobby who was taking off, all
by himself, and I was so caught up in the delight of his
learning that I could hardly contain myself. Working with
Bobby was my first experience with a child with learning
disabilities, although I did not know it then.
Soon a friend asked if I would help Nancy, and
someone else sent Henry, and Henry's mom
referred Peter. And then a teacher who was also a friend
sent me Maggie, and without knowing it she changed the
course of my life. Maggie was small with a narrow
little face and brown curly hair. She was a
quiet, intense little girl, not especially pretty
except when unexpectedly something she had
been working on long and hard became clear to her --
then her face lit up, and for a minute or two
Maggie was beautiful.
Maggie never complained, although sometimes her stomach
ached before a test. She just kept on working
diligently both in and out of school. She kept an
alphabetical notebook of all her spelling
words; she wrote multiplication facts in
toothpaste on her bathroom mirror until she
knew them by heart; she refused a gift of a
digital clock, determined to learn to tell time the
"usual" way. Maggie put in a lot more effort
than most ten-year-olds, and still she struggled.
Why? What was wrong with Maggie? Her mother said she
thought maybe Maggie had a learning disability and
brought
me an article from a magazine. Now, besides the
escalating pleasure of being able to help these children, there
was also a little tick of recognition.
Unable to spell correctly. Tick. Unable
to tell time. Tick. Enormous difficulty
putting a simple puzzle together. Tick. Tick.
Tick. That was Maggie. That was also me.
In kindergarten the school nurse discovered I had
almost no vision in my right eye. I was
immediately taken to New York City to Dr.
Sternhow, who had me look at his pencil, follow
his flashlight, turn knobs to try to make things
meet. I was given reading glasses, a black
patch, a coloring book, and weekly remedial
sessions. It did not seem serious. In fact, my
mother and father seemed almost relieved. "No wonder
she's never been able to catch a ball," they said
to each other, smiling at me.
But despite the glasses and remedial sessions,
I still couldn't skip or sing on key or remember
a new phone number, or make my letters the right
way.
As I got older, I was conscious of mixing up
left and right, not able to set the table correctly
unless I stood directly in front of each
place and pointed my watch, which I knew I wore
on my left hand, toward the spot where the fork should go.
I was never sure in which direction to deal cards, and
I had to work excruciatingly hard to learn the new
steps at dancing school, practicing alone in my
bedroom at night, saying everything out loud to myself in
order to get it in the proper sequence. I was never a
very good speller, and handwritingand artwork were a struggle.
As a young adult, I knew and tried
to cover up the fact that I couldn't tell east from
west or read a map. Even "bef"...and "after" were
difficult, and I had tremendous trouble learning
to tell time. Even now I say, "It's about ten
to two," not sure whether it's actually twelve or
eight minutes before the hour.
But I was lucky. I grew up in the safest of
worlds -- in a
home full of love, warmth, good food, enough money,
and tender care. I went to school in the same town
year after year where there were small classes, good
teachers, and loyal friends who picked me for teams
despite my strikeout potential. So I was
spared the loneliness and feeling of inadequacy that
haunt the lives of so many learning disabled children. My
language center was not affected -- I could read,
my grades were good -- so I didn't have to deal with
terms like "stupid" and "idiot." Hard as it was,
I'm sure it would have been harder still for both my
parents and myself if I had had to struggle in school.
Then, as now, academic success and
intelligencewere considered synonymous. Instead I
simply, though painfully, thought of myself as a
klutz.
Still, I know what it's like, at least to a
small degree -- this feeling that the world is a little out
of whack, slightly askew, and then one terrifying
day you wake up and wonder if maybe it's not the
world, but you.
The day I met Maggie I met myself again, and I
knew I had to find out why we were like that. Did we have
learning disabilities? Why were we different from
Bobby? were we all brain damaged? Was there more
than one kind of learning disability? What caused
it? What could be done about it? And
what was this word "dyslexia" that cropped up with
increasingfrequency?
I continued my dual major in special education and
elementaryggK-8) education through my junior and
senior years. The undergraduate courses remained
dull and the professors uninspired. I still quaked
silently through every quiz and exam, but in spite of it
all I gradually found myself liking school --
enjoying the books and journals, exploring the
library stacks, discovering microfiche, talking with
other students, becoming
friends, Cal and I even partying with some, despite the
gap in our ages.
But most of all, I liked tutoring the children --
helping them learn, learning from them. I had
always intended to
return to the children I had first taught-to the strange,
beautiful, haunting world of emotionally disturbed children.
They were, after all, the reason I had returned
to college in the first place. But now I found myself
increasingly caught up in this new field of learning
disabilities. I had to learn more, understand myself and
Maggie, and the others. I was thoroughly and completely
hooked.
I applied to a program offering a master's
degree in learning disabilities and was accepted. I
spent the next year and a half studying the
historical development and theories of learning
disabilities, the processes of the brain and the
central nervous system, the techniques and tests
involved in diagnosis, and the teaching strategies of
individualized remediation. Unlike those of my
undergraduate days, the courses fascinated and
engrossed me and we had able professors to teach us.
We learned the electrical and chemical components
of the brain, the functions of the right and left
hemispheres, and the importance of such things as the
development of the corpus callosum, the
myelin-covered bundle of nerves that divides the
two hemispheres. We learned that the
delayed maturation of myelinization can slow down
communication between the two hemispheres.
We learned that the cortex alone has over nine
billion nerve cells and millions of
interconnecting neural pathways. I marveledthat
there are millions of tiny neurons inside our
brains, firing again and again during a single second
-- a colossal Fourth of July finale going off
continuously inside our heads. I wondered that any
of us got anything straight.
We learned that there is not just one single, simple
learning disability, but many. The term "learning
disabilities" covers disorders in written
language (also known as dysgraphia), disorders in
arithmetic (dyscalculia), and disorders in
receptiveand expressive language and reading
(dyslexia), as well as difficulties in
perception of spatial relations and organization.we
learned that dyslexia is a specific condition with
its own causes and symptoms and that special teaching
techniques
work. The problem is not a lack of intelligence, but
an inability to process language.
We learned that there were many more boys than girls with
learning disabilities, although no one was quite
sure why or just how many more children in the United
States were consideredto be learning disabled.
Statistics now show there are five to ten million
children, up to

percent of all our children, who have some type of learning
difference, and probably even more who are not
diagnosed. I know from practical experience that in
almost every typical classroom there are one to two children
who are destined to fall behind unless they are
recognized, diagnosedeaand given help. Recent
studies give indications that there are more dyslexic
boys than girls not only because of genetics but also
because exposure to the male hormone
testosteroneaffects boys during prenatal
development of the brain.
I was continuing to see Bobby and Maggie and three or
four other children at the church, and I was sure now that
once I finished graduate school and had my
learning disabilitiescertification, I wanted to set
up a private practice.
Most of my fellow students were planning to work as
learning disability specialists on state-mandated child
study teams in public schools, and they urged me
to do the same, citing the advantages of
vacations, insurance, tenure, and pensions.
But I loved working in a one-to-one situation with a child.
In the quiet I could almost hear what was going on
inside the child without the need for words. I loved having
it all of a piece -- doing both the diagnostic
evaluation and the remediation, although of course at times
I did just one or the other. I felt that there was a
tremendous need to provide help for these bright,
sensitive children who were so often misunderstoodand thought
stupid by some and lazy by others. Few understand the
courage it takes for a child to return to a place where
he failed yesterday and the day before and, in all
probability, will fail again the next. I was moved
time and
again by the bravery of these children and joyous when they
realized that they could learn and be successful. I
loved them without reserve.
The difficulty of setting up a private
practice in learning disabilities lay in the lack
of models. I couldn't locate anyone who had
actually done what I wanted to do, or even anyone
interested in exploring the possibilities. I
decided the thing to do was to be practical and just
proceed one step at a time. I had some children -- now
I needed an office. If I was to be a
professional, I had to have a place of my own.
I had been following newspaper ads and calling
real estate salespeople without success when,
unknowingly, one of my children, Fred, led me to my
office.
With acuity and cruelty his fourth-grade
classmates had dubbed Fred "the pig boy." He
was not really a pig, of course -- but when he was
upset or angry he flared his nostrils and curled
his lips until a kind of snout appeared while he
snorted and grunted and crawled under his desk.
I worked with Fred on reading and writing, but he also
saw Dr. Oldenburg, a clinical
psychologist, for his deeper emotional problems.
Rea Oldenburg was both respected and
controversial. She was well known in the field for
her work on the origins of children's fears, and almost as
well known for her outspokenness. We conferred by phone
several times a month about Fred's progress.
During one of these conversationseashortly before my
graduation, Rea Oldenburg mentionedthat Fred's
mother had told her that I was planning to open a
practice in learning disabilities and was looking for
office space.
I stalled, trying to choose my words, sure
she would think me presumptuous. But instead she said,
"If you're serious, there's office space opening
up here in our building. It's only one room, but
there's off-street parking. Dentists and eye
doctors downstairs. Psychologists and
psychiatrists upstairs. You'd be on the second
floor with us. We all have patients like Fred, who
have learning problems as well as emotional
ones.
I was at the address Dr. Oldenburg had given
me before nine o'clock the next morning. Any office
building with Rea Oldenburg in it would have been
attractive to me -- but to have it on a quiet,
tree-lined street in what was or had been a
residential neighborhood seemed too good to be
true. The building itself was wood shingled with a stone
front and blue-shuttered windows. The dozen
nameplates beside the wide front door announced its
metamorphosis from home to business.
"It's small," Dr. Oldenburg's secretary
repeated, opening a door to a room, off a small
waiting room on the front side of the building.
"And there's no bath -- but Dr. Oldenburg would
probably let you use ours."
"It's perfect," I said.
I scrounged up the security deposit and first
month's rent. I furnished the office with a
windfall of slightly inappropriate office
furniture from a friend who was closing his BMW
dealership. Not the small, welcoming round table and
chairs and white wicker I'd visualized --
instead a six-foot-long, black-walnut-topped
desk with black swivel chairs behind and green leather
chairs in front. I bought a secondhand file
cabinet and had a phone installed, and I had a
place of my own.
The children loved my office almost as much as I did --
especially Michael. Eight years old, not yet
reading, painfully shy -- until he reached the
desk. Once there he leaned back in the huge
swivel chair, propped his feet on the desk,
lit an imaginary cigarette, blew smoke rings,
and proclaimed hmfready to begin. I sat beside him in
a smaller chair -- and Michael was right. He was
ready and he began to learn to read. Michael was the
first of a number of children referred to me by the
psychologists and psychiatrists on the second
floor. Maggie, Bobby, Fred, and two or
three others whom I had been seeing at the church
moved with me to my new office. Gradually,
my practice grew.
I had been seeing twenty-year-old Tony at the
church, and he too preferred my new office
space and furniture. His father
had bought Tony's way through private high school
by paying tutors to write Tony's reports and
by making donations to the school building fund in
amounts large enough to bring him passing grades. Tony
had been referred to me by a psychiatristwith the comment,
"He wants to learn to read; he will also benefit from
healthy mother figures in his life." Tony himself
told me he was coming to me because he wanted to be able
to read the "f--- menus" when he went out on
dates.
Then there was eight-year-old Adam-sandy-haired,
freckle-faced, with the nicest parents in the world.
"He's just like I was," his father said. "I had a
terrible time learning to read. I still can't spell. Just
help him as much as you can, make it as easy as
possible for him. I know he's going to be all right.
It just takes awhile."
Next came Robin, six years old, referred
to me by Dr. Oldenburg. "I don't think there's
that much wrong," Dr. Oldenburg said, "but she got
a poor report at school -- doesn't
follow directions, reverses her letters. A lot of
it is developmentaleab she's an only child of
older, well-to-do parents and she's under a lot of
pressure. Be a buffer for her between school and
parents. Give her some academic help. I think
it will pay off." Robin looked just like my old
Shirley Temple doll -- the same blond
curly hair, round brown eyes, and rosy cheeks.
It was hard to believe I should be paid to work with Robin.
But Dr. Oldenburg was right, and within six months
she was in the middle reading group and blooming like an
amaryllis.
I was beginning. Sometimes I feel as though I still
am. I grew under the tutelage of Rea
Oldenburg and the other professionals on the second
floor, but it is really the children who have taught me.
Sometimes with joy, sometimes with sorrow, I learn a
little more about how to help children from each child who enters my
life.
There are many ways to write about children with learning
disabilities. I have chosen to tell the stories of
five children
because this is the truest way I know to show what these children
are really like. They are not all cut from one bolt of
cloth -- they have different disabilities and
different degrees of disabilities. It is an
injustice to lump them all under one broad term and
assume they are all alike. Instead, it is
necto know each child in detail, adding one tiny
specific after another. Nothing ignored -- everything
important -- until all of a sudden the child comes
clear to me and I can see what needs to be done. The
label is the least important part, and I have finally
stopped fussing over which term is best. It is the child
himself who matters.
We all have our own protective devices, but these
children have more than most. Because they are convinced that they are
stupid and therefore unlovable, they cover themselves as much
as they can. Of course, if they weren't intelligent,
they wouldn't worry about it because they wouldn't be so
painfully aware. But as it is they play the fool,
act the clown, disrupt the class, figuring it's
better to get in trouble than to look dumb. They
slop their handwriting across the page -- sometimesthey
can't help it, but often they do it so no one can prove
they can't spell. They say they hate stupid
games like Trivia because they can't remember
nonmeaningful facts. They have temper tantrums
to show that they don't deserve to be loved. But all the
time there is a silent cry for help from these
children who, given the opportunity, will startle you with their
insights, sensitivity, intelligence, humor, and
ingenuity.
Out of the hundreds of children I have known, the five I
write about here are the ones who cried out the loudest
-- demanding to be heard, to have their stories told.
They are unique, as every child is, but they are also
universal in that I see dozens of Joeys,
Bens, Alices, and Charlies every week of my
life -- and, every so often, another Eric. Their hair
may be a different color, and they may be taller
or shorter, thinner or fatter, younger or older, from
varying economic backgroundsand with different
degrees of impairment -- but I recognize them
immediately and am continuously excited and challenged by how
much they can learn.
Children with learning disabilities are just as bright as other
children, but they will probably have to work harder than most
to be successful in school. They need support and
encouragement.i have seen that with love, remedial
help, and a safe place somewhere in their lives, they
will learn and grow.

Joey
Zap! Wham! Zappo!!" A water
pistol pointed at methrough the branches of a
rhododendron bush. "That did it. I gotcha
now." A thatch of red hair and a small freckled
face emerged momentarily between the leaves.
"Joey," a voice called. "Stop that! Come out.
Come say hello to Mrs. MacCracken."
A dark-haired, pink-cheeked woman emerged from the
bushes. "You are Mrs. MacCracken, aren't
you?" I nodded.
"I'm Mrs. Stone, and I'm sorry," she said,
shaking my hand and then pointing toward the rhododendron
bush. "He's not always this bad. I just can't get him
out of those bushes."
I smiled. "I know what you mean. New
experiences can be very exciting."
"Thank you for understanding and for seeing Joey," Mrs.
Stone said. "We're at our wits' end. It's like
somebody wound him up too tight before he was born.
I've been waiting seven years for him to run down
but..."
Mrs. Stone screamed as Joey sped down the
driveway towardthe street. "Stop! You know you're
not allowed!"
The small boy paused in the breakneck run,
swerved gracefullytoward the azaleas,
performed a perfect pratfall on the
lawn, picked himself up, and dashed down the
driveway again.
"I'll get him," I said. Words obviously
meant little to Joey.
A delivery truck lumbered down the street, and
Joey braked at the end of the driveway to watch it
pass. I took advantage of this brief pause
in activity and crouched beside him, capturinghis
small dirty hand in mine. "Hi, Joey," I
said. "I'm glad you're here."
Startled, he turned to face me, his blue eyes
wide, head tipped to one side, sunlight
ricocheting off his bright red hair, highlighting the
freckles on the bridge of his nose and cheeks.
"Here we go," I announced, still holding his hand. I
ran toward the azaleas, swerved back onto the
driveway, up onto the low stone wall that ran beside
it, lifting Joey with me. He laughed out loud as
we made one fast turn through the parking lot, down the
slate path along the other side of the building,
running at top speed, Joey right beside me, back
to the front door of the office building. Joey was
smiling but was breathing hard, and I waved to Mrs.
Stone with my free hand. "See you in about an
hour," I called. Not stopping, I propelled
Joey through the door and up the stairs to my office,
hoping I'd used up some of his excess energy.
We watched from the window as his mother backed the station
wagon out the driveway and onto the street.
"She'll be back," I promised. "Come see the
rest."
Joey was immediately involved. He no longer raced
madly, purposelessly; now he explored the
shelves of books, the children'sdrawings that covered the
walls. The same electricity that drove him
to random motor movements could be used to divert him.
Joey wandered from the bookshelves to the table of
games. "Can we play one of these?"
It was the first time that I had heard him speak a full
sentence, and I was pleased that his speech was clear and
well articulated. "Sure. But first come over here
and let me show you the stopwatch."
I settled Joey behind the big desk, handed him the
stopwatcheaand sat down beside him to show him how it worked.
He was obviously surprised and pleased to be
holding the
heavy silver watch by himself. "Is it s'pensive?"
he asked.
"Yes," I said. "See, you push this
to make it start, this to make it stop, this to take it
back to the beginning. Let it run for one minute, and
then open this drawer and put it in the box. I need
to ask you some questions."
Joey sat perfectly still for a minute, immersed in
the stopwatch.then he carefully put it in the box,
but he couldn't resist picking up a Magic Marker
from the drawer. "Later," I said, putting the marker
back and closing the drawer, and making a mental
note that Joey had continually used his left hand so
far. "Now," I said, "See if you can tell me
your name, address, and telephone number."
Joey was getting happier all the time, and so was I.
What did the school find so terrible about this little
boy? There was energy and a contagious exuberance about
him. He could speak; he could follow directions.
Joey had been referred to me by his
pediatrician. Dr. Grayson, who disagreed with the
Child Study Team at Joey's school, which felt
he belonged in a special class. Dr.
Grayson recommendedthat Joey be seen by a
pediatric neurologist, who reported "a mild
ADD (attention Deficit Disorder) not severe
enough to require medication at this time." Consequently,
Dr. Grayson recommended that the Stones
contact me for a diagnostic educational evaluation.
I had been somewhat reluctanteafeeling that Joey
had already been tested by qualified people. But Dr.
Grayson was eager for a second opinion, and because
he was an old, respected friend, I agreed to see
Joey at least once. Now I forgot my earlier
reluctance to evaluate Joey -- I wanted to know
everything I could.
I spent the next hour concentrating hard on
Joey, noting all the things that were right with him. First of
all, he was an appealing boy -- his thick shock of
red hair plus freckles and a wide mouth and
slightly asymmetrical face made him look like
the kid on the cornflakes box. His movements were
quick and graceful, and I liked the way he got
interested and involved when I showed him how things worked.
I liked his laugh. I liked the information he had
stored up. He knew
that his dad worked in a bank and that his dad's name was
Also. His mother's name was Gail, and she ran
computers. He knew his two older brothers' names
and ages and that the reason he didn't have any pets
was because his mother said he was "lergic."
I liked the way he understood about the chips, which I
used as a reward system, immediately
comprehending which color was worth how much. I liked the
independence with which he took over. "No. Don't
tell me which colors I earned," Joey said
halfway through our first session. "Just how much. I can
figure it out."
Joey pulled the old cigar box that held the chips
close to him and studied the list on the back cover
of the box. "Orangesare five, blues ten," he
said out loud, "reds are twenty, greens are
twenty-five, yellows are fifty, and these silver
ones are worth a hundred each, right?"
"Right."
"Are the silvers real?"
"Yes, they're fifty-cent pieces. My dad
collected them. I put them in with the other chips
to make it more interesting. All this testing can get to be
pretty dull stuff, so at the end of our time you
count up the chips I've paid you and then decide if
you want to spend for something little or save for something
bigger. You buy stuff from the basket -- stickers,
balls, pens -- things like that. I'll show you when
we're through."
I didn't say it out loud, but chips can also help
keep a child from getting too discouraged. Most tests
have "ceilings," and when a child misses three
or four questions in a row, the test ends. So in the
course of an hour's evaluation, a child may "fail"
a dozen times or more -- and most of the children I see are
smart enough to know when they're wrong. Shoulders slump.
Heads droop. But if I pay at the end of each
test, counting up the answers by fives or tens, adding
a fifty or so, and say something like "Pay yourself one
hundred eighty-five," shoulders straighten and
heads perk up like flowersafter a summer rain. As
the child's pile of chips grows, his
confidence grows along with it. I may be skewing a
few statisticseab I'm seeing the child at his
optimum, and that's what's important to me.
Every once in a while I'd ask Joey a bonus
question like "Why do you think you're here, Joey? I ask
all the kids that."
was "Cause I've got a lot of problems."
Joey's voice was barely audible.
"What kind of problems?"
Joey shrugged. "I don't know. I think maybe
there's somethingwrong with my head."
And Joey was right, in a way. There was something wrong
with his head. The federal government has defined
"learning disabilities" in Public Law
94-142. (the Education of All
Handicapped Act) as follows:
Specific learning disability means a disorder in
one or more of the basic psychological processes
involved in understanding or in using language, spoken
or written, which may manifest itself in an
imperfect ability to listen, think, speak, read,
write, spell, or to do mathematical
calculations. The term includes such conditions as
perceptualhandicaps, brain injury, minimal
brain dysfunctioneadyslexia, and developmental
aphasia. The term does not include children who have
learning problems which are primarily the result of
visual, hearing or motor handicapseaof mental
retardation, of emotional disturbance or of
environmental, cultural, or economic
disadvantage.
The Association for Children and Adults with Learning
Disabilities states, "Each child with a learning
disability is unique; each shows a different
combination and severity of problems -- each has one or
more significant deficits in the essential
learning processes and is considered to have near
average or above average intelligence."
Most of the children I work with have a learning disability that
is known as a specific language
disability -- dyslexia. The Orton Dyslexia
Society, which promotes the understanding,
treatment, and prevention of the problems of dyslexia,
suggests that while some people have a natural talent for
learning their native language and learn to read and
write and express their thoughts clearly in the early
years of school or even before, most of us must work much
harder and need more teaching.
Some (the Orton Society says as many as 10
percent of us) find this learning exceptionally
difficult -- so difficult that it can get in the way
of progress in personal growth. The
dyslexicchild can't learn and remember whole
words, so he doesn't learn to read when he is
taught by a whole-word or "see and say" approach.
He often cannot even remember letters themselves and twists
b
and
d
around. He has difficulty retrieving the words he
needs in order to say what he wants to say: "Can
I borrow the ... you know, the thing you cut with?" Or
words come out wrong sometimes: "bermem-bered" for
"remembered" or "basgetti" for "spaghetti."
He may read "united" as "untied" and
"nuclear" as "unclear."
Math difficulties, the Orton Society
says, are now included as another part of
dyslexia; math is another language that needs
remembering and managing. A child with dyslexia has
difficulty with overall organization -- he loses
his sneakers, his homework, and his sense of direction.
Other members of the dyslexic's family through the
generations probably had similar difficulties.
Dyslexia is not a disease but a kind of mind, often
a very gifted mind. There have been many famous
dyslexics comThomas Edison, Woodrow
Wilson, Albert Einstein, Leonardo da
Vinci, Nelson Rockefeller, Cher, and
Bruce Jenner among them. A child, or even an
adult, with a dyslexic mind can learn. He or she
(though four times more often he) just needs more help and
must be taught in a systematic, sequential way,
using strengths, minimizing weaknesses, and helping him
or her achieve success. Experts agree this child can
learn to read, to write legibly, to spell
passably well, and to put his or her thoughts
into clear, understandable spoken or written words.
Children with learning disabilities, or dyslexia, or
learning
differences, as some of my colleagues put it, have very
real and important problems that deserve study,
effort, and understanding.the labels don't really
matter; the children do. We can help them -- and we know
how. These are children who can succeed if they are given the
chance.
By the time I had finished my four diagnostic
sessions I had found a lot more things to like about
Joey. He had even more going for him than I had
suspected. He was far, far brighter than the average
seven-year-old. Mrs. Stone had given me a
copy of the Child Study Team report, and there the
school psychologist had written that Joey's
"Full-Scale IntelligenceQuotient on the
Wechsler was in the average range." This was true;
the full-scale score was average, but it didn't
begin to tell the whole story. There were enormous
differences in Joey's subtest scores, ranging from
a high 98th percentile in Vocabulary to a low
2nd percentile in Block Design. When there
are tremendous peaks and valleys of this kind, the child
is almost always much brighter than his full-scale
score shows. To average out subtest scores is like
averaging the temperaturesat Death Valley
to seventy degrees when in actuality it's
sometimes one hundred forty degrees during the day and
zero degrees at night.
Unlike many learning disabled children, Joey's
receptive and expressive word knowledge was large and
rich. When asked what a nail was, he replied,
"It's a construction material comy hammer it in like
this." On another test Joey described elbow and
knee as "joints," whereas most children his age answer,
"Things that bend."
In contrast to his good vocabulary, verbal
abilities, reasoningeapractical judgment, and
common sense, his abilities to understand spatial
relationships, to put things in proper sequence, and
to repeat from memory a series of digits or words
were very poor.
In the Block Design subtest of the Wechsler
Intelligence Test, he pushed the blocks across the
desk in frustration and banged his head with his hand,
shouting, "Stupid kid!"
When he couldn't remember more than two numbers and
none at all backward on the Digit Span
subtest, he began bouncing up and down and finally out
of his chair.
During the third testing session, Joey told me that
he thought maybe he "saw things funny."
He was right, or at least when he tried
to reproduce what he saw with paper and pencil they
came out "funny" and bore little resemblance to the
original. Joey continued to use his left hand
consistently, and some designs were drawn sideways,
some upside down; angles looked like double dog
ears.
Joey had other troubles. He read 41 as 14; the
letters he meant to be
d's
turned out as
but's.
He had memorized twenty sight words, but when he
came to a word he wasn't sure of, somehow the letters
twisted around and he read "cliff" as "calf" and
"felt" as "fleet." When he read out loud he
skipped lines and made up words, but if I read
to him, he could answer every comprehension question in detail.
Joey was not only smart, he was aware and
sensitive. As we started a spelling test he said,
"Okay. I'll do it, but could you please not put that
big circle on the front that tells how many I
got wrong, like they do in school." Joey
demonstrated:
0
It wasn't only letters and numbers that Joey mixed
up. He jumbled his own thoughts as well. I asked
him to write a few sentences about whatever interested
him. He thought hard and then took a long time
to write. "I'm going to make this neat," he told
me as he worked.
When I asked him to read out loud what he had
written, he read, "I like to go fishing because we always
win."
"Wait a minute here," he interrupted himself.
"That's not right. See, I began about fishing, but then
somewhere, about here" -- Joey put a line after fishing,
which was written "fsihign" -- "I must've begun
thinking about soccer."
I didn't have a test to measure the restlessness
inside Joey. But observation made it clear that he
was much more active, tense, and distractible than the
usual seven-year-old. I even
wondered if the neurologist's decision against
medication was correct.
I had worked with other children who were labeled
hyperactiveor as having a "hyperkinetic
syndrome" -- and I had seen medication such as
Ritalin work for some, although not for all. Originally,
the thought of medication of any kind repelled
me, but I learned that it did work for some children as long
as it was carefully monitored by a pediatric
neurologistor experienced pediatrician. Often
hyperactivity and learning disabilities are considered
one and the same, but they are actually two separate
conditions. When they occur togetherI think of it as
"dyslexia plus," the plus being hyper-activity.
Both teaching and rearing these children takes a great deal of
energy and love. Just to get them to tune in so that they can
hear what you are saying is a big job in itself --
to sustain their attention minute after minute so that they can
learn is a tremendously difficult task. These
are vulnerable children -- their sensations heightened, their
motors always running a little too fast, never quite in
time with the rest of the world. They are exhausting children. They
need more supervision than most. They need more loving.
They also give it back in quantum measure.
The Stones arrived at the same time but in different
cars, coming straight from work to my office. Mr. Stone
was well over six feet tall, lean, with hair just
slightly darker than Joey's.
"Did you get a sitter?" Mr. Stone asked his
wife. She shrugged, a small frown crinkling her
forehead. "I tried three, but no luck. I think
they were making excuses." She turned to me.
"Ours isn't the easiest house to baby-sit. When
I went back to work last year I tried to make
arrangements to have someone there when the boys got home
from school. Nobody lasted longer than a week.
They all said they couldn't take Joey. They never
knew where he was or what he was up to -- and if
he was there, he was into something he shouldn't have been into.
So now the boys look after themselves. Joey,
ji"
caret
and Bill, he's our eleven-year-old, fight
constantly, but Richardeathe oldest, is thirteen and
responsible, and he can handle Joey better than
most. My parents live across town, so Rich can
call them if anything serious comes up. My mother is
ill, but my father can drive over."
"Which usually makes things worse rather than better,"
Mr. Stone added.
Mrs. Stone turned her head toward her husband.
"Don't start," she warned.
"Shall we begin, then?" I asked, wanting to interrupt
the tension that was building between them. "I've read
everything you sent," I continued. "The Child Study
Team reports, the teacher's comments, the
neurologist's report, the background
information form that I asked you to fill out. I've
scored the dozen tests that I gave Joey, and
I've reviewed them with Dr. Golden, the
psychologist and learning disabilities professor
I mentioned.
"Now, I'd like to go over it all with you and see if
we can pull it together and come up with a plan of action.
Let's begin at the beginning."
I began to summarize. "Joey was a full-term
baby, born October twenty-ninth with a birth
weight of six pounds, ten ounces. The pregnancy
was a difficult one in contrast
to earlierpregnancies with Joey's brothers.
Toward the end of the third month staining was severe enough
for the doctor to advise complete bed rest for several
weeks...."
was For the next hour we went over each of the tests.
I read them Joey's intelligent, sophisticated
answers, and they were surprised and pleased at how much
he had learned about his world in spite of all his
troubles. One by one I showed them the intelligence
tests, academic tests, visual and auditory
processingtests, puzzles, drawings, and Dr.
Golden's comments.
I summed up Joey's strengths: his
intelligence; his excellent verbal skills,
including both word knowledge and speech; his love of people and
ability to make friends; his excellent
physicalcoordination; and his intelligent,
supportive family.
I also went over Joey's weaknesses: the large
gap between
his intelligence and his achievement in academic areas;
his difficulty in "sitting still"; the sleep
disturbances that Mrs. Stone mentioned; his
left-handedness; his difficulties with spatial
relationships; his reversals in both reading and
writing; his left-right confusion; his inability
to sequence digits, letters, days of the week, months
of the year; his difficulty with all forms of writing; his
lack of understanding of decoding skills, which resulted
in wild guessing; his pattern of disorganization; his
lack of confidence in his ability to learn; and an
overriding factor of distractibility and frustration.
"Joey has various learning disabilities and also a
certain amount of hyperactivity," I said. "It's
possible to have either of these conditions without the other, but in
Joey's case both are present, each compounding the
other.
"From reading his report it seems there may have
been some tiny damage to neurological pathways
before Joey was born," I continued.
Mr. Stone looked at his watch and cleared his
throat. "All right, I can accept that. The
neurologist said the same thing, and also my brother
claims he has dyslexia himself -- but the main thing
is, what are we going to do about it?" He looked
directly at me.
"Tell me the two things about Joey that are causing
the most trouble," I said.
They both spoke at once. Mrs. Stone said,
"I don't want him to go to a special school.
Everyone will think he's retarded."
"I don't care what other people think," Mr. Stone
said. "But Joey is sure to get even more down on
himself than he already is if he isn't allowed to go
to the school where his brothers went."
"How about his teacher? What do you think she finds most
difficult about Joey?" I asked.
"He disrupts the class. She also said he acts like
he's not aware of what's going on," Mrs. Stone
replied. "I think what started the talk about a
special class is that he falls out of his chair
all the time now. She thinks maybe he's having
fits."
"He's not having fits," I said. "You've already
had him examined by a neurologist and there was no
sign of convulsive activity. I'd be willing
to bet that Joey is falling out of his chair because he's
not successful when he's in it.
"What he needs to know," I continued, "is that he's
smart and can learn and doesn't have to act like a fool.
I think Joey would rather have the kids in his class think
he's a clown than think he's dumb. Joey himself
is pretty sure he actually is stupid, but at
the same time he's smart enough not to want anyone else
to think so."
"How can Joey ever feel good about himself when he has
so many problems?" Mrs. Stone asked. "His
teacher says he can't read or write like the others
-- now a special class ..."
"I'll tell you honestly that I don't think that
Joey belongs in special education," I said. "I
taught in special ed for many years, and it's the right
answer for some children. But I don't think Joey's
problems are that severe, and his intelligence and
social abilities outside of school say to me
that he belongs in a regular classroom. I think
he's smart enough to learn to use his strengths to bring his
academic skills up to grade level.
You've had top medical advice that his
hyperactivity is not severe enough to warrant medication
at this time, and I think maybe Joey can learn
to control his impulsive behavior if it doesn't
pay off. We just have to try to convince the school to let
him have a little more time, in a regular class."
"That will be a miracle in itself," Mrs. Stone said.
"I think they've already made up their minds."
"There's one thing I want to get straight before we go
any further," Mr. Stone said. "Are you going
to help? Are you going to work with Joey? Or are you just
telling us this so we'll tell somebody else?"
It was a fair question, and I knew what my answer
should be. There were so many children now who needed help that
I often didn't finish in my office until seven
thirty or eight o'clock; understandably, Cal would not be
eager for me to take on another child. Still, there was
something about Joey ...
I returned Mr. Stone's steady gaze and then
turned to Mrs.
Stone as well. "Yes. I want to help. I'd
like to work with Joey, but I can't do it alone. I'll
need a lot of help from both of you and from Joey and his
school. I'd like to talk with his teacher every week or
so. It's important to know how he's doing
in the classroom, because no matter how well he
does here with me, if there isn't carryover into his
classroom it isn't going to help Joey stay in
a regular class.
"I have two things I'd like you to do. I'd like you to have a
pediatric audiologist check Joey -- just
to cover all bases and make sure there is no
physical cause for the low scores in auditory
processing. Second, I'd like you to try and see that
he eats well, with an emphasis on fruits and
vegetables rather than sweets and junk food. I
don't think there's a diet in the world that will teach him
to read, but it may cut down the hyperactivity.
"The main thing will be to get Joey to believe in himself
and take responsibility for his learning and
behavior.
"I tell you what. Let me try over the summer
-- and also talk to the Child Study Team and see if
they will agree to take another look at Joey at
the end of August. If there's been enough improvement,
maybe they'll let him start in second grade."
We went over schedules -- Joey's and mine.
School closed for summer vacation the following
week, so Joey and I both would have more time. Somehow
we'd have to work it out in the fall, but for now
I'd see him from a quarter past nine to ten o'clock on
Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
Joey arrived Tuesday morning still steeped in
sleep. Hair uncombed, eyes half shut,
shirttail out, shoes untied. He plopped himself
onto the chair behind the desk.
"Well," he began, laying his head on the desk,
"the good news is that school's over. The bad news
is that I had to get up to come here."
"Would you rather come in the afternoon?"
"No. I got to swim in the afternoon. That's how come
we're not going up to the lake till August. I
got to be in about
a hundred dozen swim meets." Joey had opened
the middle desk drawer and was fiddling around inside.
"Close the drawer, please, Joey." He had
already explored it several times on other visits.
I wanted his complete attention now.
Some part of Joey was always in motion, touching this and
opening that. He did it unconsciously, not really
aware of what he was doing. He had no real concept
of what belonged to him and what didn't. Whatever was in
reach was fair game. Before he could change, he would
have to become aware of what he was doing.
Joey replaced the box of rubber bands
he'd been playing with, and I said, "Good. Pay
yourself twenty, that's two blues or one red chip, for
following directions so quickly. Now let me show you
what we're going to do today. This is your notebook;
this is your bin. This is where we'll keep the things
you're working on. Would you please write your name on
the notebook?"
"Can I use the Magic Marker you got in the
drawer?"
I laughed. This was the child that was reported to be
unawareof his surroundings? "Sure," I said. "It
doesn't erase, though."
Joey got out the pen and then looked through the black and
white marbleized notebook, blank except for the first
page, where I'd made out our schedule for the day.
He turned back to the cover.
"Maybe I'll just do it in pencil first. In case.
You know?"
"Good thinking, Joey -- pay another twenty."
Joey's turn to laugh. "Twenty for just thinking?
Thinking's easy."
"Maybe," I said, "but it's the most important
part. You're lucky you're good at it."
"Yeah," Joey answered, writing his J
backward with his left hand and then scrubbing it
out with his eraser and making it correctly. The o
came out fine, but somehow when he made the
e
it overlapped the o. Joey attacked it with the eraser
again.
As he rubbed away, Joey looked over at me,
grinned, and said, "This old eraser sure does have a
hard life, doesn't it?"
How could I have missed having Joey in my life?
After Joey had written his name in pencil and gone
over it with the black marker, I took his folder from his
bin and showed him how he'd done on each test.
Joey was only mildly interested, and I decided
to be clearer. "The main thing is," I said, "I
want you to know you're smart, so you don't have to go around
shouting about how dumb you are and falling out of your
chair."
"I can't help that."
"Maybe."
"And I am dumb. I'm the only one in my reading
group. There's the Eagles and the Robins and the
Bluebirds. And then there's me, all by myself. I
don't even got the name of any old kind of a
bird."
"I didn't say you could read well. I
said you were smart. There's a difference."
"What?"
"If you're smart, you can learn to read better --
if I can teach you the right way and if you work hard
enough."
Joey was going to be a difficult child to help, because
testing had not shown either his visual or his auditory
processing to be an area of strength. I had a
suspicion that Joey's auditory skills were
better than the tests had shown and that the low scores
in this area were more than likely due to lack of
attending.his spoken language was so clear and he
had picked up so much information that I felt his
auditory reception couldn't be that bad, even if
he couldn't repeat a string of numbers. Anxiety
could also have interfered; it's hard to rememberanything when
you're scared. Later, the audiologist confirmed that
there was no physical impairment in his
auditorychannels.
I decided to use a combination of methods to teach
Joey to read until I discovered which one worked best.
The biggest thing Joey had going for him was his
intelligence. If he could see that reading was like a
code, the letters standing for certain
sounds depending on their position, then he could
learn to crack the code.
It was important for Joey to understand that 85 percent
of reading is made up of decodable words; the other
15 percentwood be designated
red words.
I would print these
red words
on index cards in red ink and ask Joey
to memorize them. But that was the only memorization I
would ask for;
the rest of the words he could figure out by using the
rules. The books that I gave Joey to read would
have a carefully controlled vocabulary, using words that
followed the rules he had already learned. I was
counting on the fact that someoneas independent as Joey
would love being able to figure it all out himself.
The spelling and writing would go hand in hand with the reading.
Once a child has learned to read "hat," he can also
learn to write it, if he is taught how to match
graphemes (letters) to phonemes (sounds). We would
incorporate Orton-Gillingham methods, and I
would have Joey visualize the word -- saying it out
loud, writing it on the desk, sand tray, or
paper.
I would be careful not to ask him to spell words
that were not phonetically regular, and I would also be
careful not to present too much new information at one
time. I felt that much of Joey's trouble was that when
he was given too much at one time he became
overwhelmed. I suspected that this was when he fell out
of his chair.
That first morning I simply told Joey the sound of
each letter and showed him how to write both the lowercase
and capitals. "See it, hear it, say it, write
it, Joey. Take your time." This wasn't easy for
Joey. He confused the sounds for
b
and
p
and, of course, reversed many letters. Still, his writing
improvedenormously in that one short session as he
learned how to form each letter correctly and to say its
sound as he wrote it.
I knew I was beginning at the beginning and that I was
running the risk of boring him since all this had been
presented in first grade and probably earlier, but
I also knew the risk was slight.
Few learning disabled children are bored. They may
pretendthey are or their parents may like to think they
are, but most are scared instead. Neither they
nor their parents can understand how they can know something one
day and not the next. Usually this is because they haven't
learned the beginning steps of a task thoroughly enough to be
able to use them spontaneously and "on demand," and
particularly when they're under pressure to perform.
In any event, we both got so involved with what
we were doing that we ran five minutes into the next
child's session. Still, we took the time to count up
Joey's chips and to enter the total, 840, in his
notebook and then subtracted 600 for the sugarless,
all-natural-ingredient lollipop that he bought from
the "goody basket." I kept a small supply of
treats in a wicker basket on top of the file
cabinet, and at the end of each session the children each
had one minute to decide if they wanted to spend their
chips or save them up.
Twice a week through June and July, Joey and
I read and wrote and spelled together. We added and
subtracted. We also talked and played a few
games. There were no miracles. I just taught and
retaught and let Joey practice and end with
success each time. His ability to decode and his
sight vocabularyboth improved; his writing became
more legible and computation more accurate. I assigned
small amounts of homework, which Joey did
on his own and, even more importantearemembered to bring
back.
He still twisted in his chair and fiddled with paper
clips, but he learned how to breathe to consciously
relax his body and to live with the three breaks I
allowed him each session.
By the end of July we had both learned a number of
things. Joey had learned to read, although he was still below
grade level, and I had learned that Joey's
disorganizational problems were not his alone. They
seemed to be part of the family life-style. My
phone messages rarely got delivered, and Joey
often
arrived on the wrong day or ten minutes early or
not at all.
Still, we all felt encouraged. It had been a
month and a half since Joey had fallen out of his
chair or said he was dumb. But then again, it was
summer and Joey always did well in the summer.
I sent him off on his August vacation with two
books to read and a workbook I knew he could handle.
We'd just have to see what happened in the fall.
The Stones came back from their vacation a week
early to give Joey a chance to review with me before
he was retested by the school. The Child Study
Team tested him the day after Labor Day and said that
while he was still "deficient," there had been
"significant improvement," and they agreed to let
Joey go on to second grade in his own school.
None of us anticipated that Joey would end up in
Mrs. Madden's class. It was nobody's
fault. The second-grade teacher Joey was
slated to have became pregnant over the summer and on
the first day of school decided she didn't feel
well enough to handle both her first pregnancy and a
second-grade class. She opted for a year's
leave of absence. The principal, Mr. Templar,
thought the new teacher he hired was too inexperiencedto
handle Joey, so he transferred Joey to Mrs.
Madden's class.
Mrs. Madden was certainly experienced. Thirty
years of experience -- most of it in the same school
system. When I called her during the first week of
school to tell her about Joey's evaluation and what
we had done over the summer, and to ask if I could
check in with her every week or so, Mrs. Madden
made it clear that conferences or phone calls with me
were not necessary. She said she had discussed Joseph's
case with the Child Study Team. She understood they were
giving him a trial in second grade.
She assured me that she had known plenty of other children
with problems and that Joseph would not cause any trouble
in her class. She also said she thought she should be
honest with me and tell me that in her opinion tutors
were a waste of time -- worse than a waste if they
let the child become dependent on them. Of
3-'s
course, if the Stones wanted to throw their money
away it was up to them.
When I called the Child Study Team to say that it
appeared that I was going to have some difficulty
communicating with Mrs. Madden, they said they
understood, they had difficulty themselves, but that in many
ways she was a very good teacher.
Joey dragged himself up to my office at a quarter
of six the Tuesday after school started. He stood
in the middle of the floor and raised his arms and then
let them drop. "The bad news is, I got
Madden. The next bad news is, I'm still not in a
group -- there's the Yankees, the Red Sox, the
Orioleseaand me. The next bad news is, she
made me miss gym and stay after school, too!
I'm never going to make it through second, Mary!"
"Sit down, Joey. I'm glad to see you. Pay
yourself forty. That's a lot of bad news."
I'd been thinking about Mrs. Madden ever since our
phone call. I had silently hoped against hope that
somehow she and Joey would communicate even though she
and I hadn't been able to. Evidently that hadn't
happened.
I looked at Joey. "Okay. I hear you. So
you got a tough teacher. You're a tough kid. You can
figure out how to get through second grade."
Joey rolled slowly to one side and then silently
toppled from his chair to the floor. He sprawled
across the gray carpet -- eyes closed, body
limp as a rag doll. I sat watching. After a
full minute had passed, Joey opened one eye and
squinted up at me. I looked benignly back,
waiting for the full show. There was no question that Joey
knew how to put on a wonderful act.
Sure now that I was watching, Joey rolled his
eyes up into his head so that white, pupil-less
eyes stared out at me, and his legs and arms flailed
up and down. The kids in school must have loved it.
"Okay now, Joey. That's enough." I reached down
and hoisted him back up beside me. "We've only
got forty-five minutes. We don't have time for
any of that stuff. Besides, I
don't like it. The next time you hit the
floor it costs you one hundred."
"One hundred!" Joey howled. "Cripes! You
wouldn't do that!" He put his hand protectively
over the red plastic dish that held his chips.
"You know I would. But I'll tell you what. This first
month of school, every day of September that you make
it through with Mrs. Madden I'll pay you a
hundred."
"What do you mean, like ... like if I don't have
to stay after school?"
"Right. And don't get sent to the principal or have
to miss gym. Things like that. You're going to have to be so
good, Joe. Not just a little good, but one hundred
percent good every day. Never mind about the Red Sox --
I know you can read and you'll learn to read better. But
you have to hand in whatever work Mrs. Madden gives you.
Always remember your homework, keep your desk
clean, keep yourself in your seat, raise your hand before
you say anything, stay in line and a whole lot more."
"I don't know. It sounds like a pretty terrible
life."
"Well, Joey, consider the alternatives."
"What's alternatives?"
"Other choices. Like failing second and having
to stay back and have Mrs. Madden all over
again."
"Oh, boy."
During the fourth week of school I decided
to drop in on Mrs. Madden. If my phone
calls didn't work, I had to find some other way
to discover what was going on in school.
At ten after three I walked down the hall
to second grade, nodding to the janitor. I'd been
in the school many times to talk to other children's teachers,
but I'd never encountered Mrs. Madden before.
She was seated at her desk going over papers when
I tapped on the window. Her gray hair was
neatly and tightly curled against her head. The bow of
her blouse hung in two perfect
loops between the lapels of a maroon suit. Mrs.
Madden got up and walked slowly across the room.
She opened the door and stood without smiling.
"Mrs. Madden? I'm Mary MacCracken," I
said.
"Yes. I thought as much." She made no move
to invite me inside.
"May I talk to you for ten minutes?" I knew
all teachers were expected to stay until three
thirty.
She looked at the clock over the door.
"Three twelve. All right. Come in."
I followed her to the front of the room, and she
motioned me to a chair beside her desk. I sat facing
Mrs. Madden, aware that the room was much more
pleasant than I had expected. The large,
sunny windows to my left were filled with leafy green
plants of all sizes. A fish tank hummed on
the window sill. The blackboard had the day's
homework assignment printed neatly in the left-hand
corner, and five short sentences about a trip to the
police station were lettered in the middle. Had Mrs.
Madden actually taken her class to the police
station?
I held two of Joey's folders on my lap.
One contained the written report of the testing I had
done (i had asked the Stones' permission to bring
it), the other some of his recent work. But I didn't
open either. I was there to try to find out how Mrs.
Madden and Joey were getting on. Did she realize
the potential he had? Was he working? Was he
learning?
"May I ask how Joey is doing?"
Mrs. Madden reached for her grade book. "You have
the parents' permission, I assume." I nodded, and
she read from the book: "Arithmetic: 68,
75, 90, incomplete, incomplete, 80.
Reading workbook: 55, 72, incomplete,
incomplete, incomplete, 84eaincomplete,
incomplete. Spelling: 45, 2.5, 60, 50.
There are no incompletes in spelling because everyone
takes the test on Friday, ready or not.
Phonics: 60, 50, incompleteeaincomplete,
incomplete, incomplete, 60."
Mrs. Madden snapped her grade book shut.
"You will have
to consult with the specials about gym, art, library, and
remedial."
"Thank you," I said, putting my notebook back
in my purse. "There seem to be a lot of
incompletes."
"Yes. Joseph often doesn't complete his work.
This is partly due to his not paying attention, so he
doesn't understand what to do. He always wants me to go
over it again with him. I do not believe in this. He must
learn to listen.
"The other reason he gets behind is that he's out of the
room so much," Mrs. Madden continued. "Out with the
reading teacher, out for some Title something or other
program.out for this. Out for that. No wonder he
gets behind in his seat work."
I got the strong impression that Mrs. Madden
didn't believe in remedial help any more than
she did in tutors. Well, at least she didn't
seem overly anxious to get Joey out of her
room, and that was a positive sign.
The clock ticked its way toward three
twenty-five, and I stood up, to reassure
Mrs. Madden that I would not linger.
"One last question. Would it be possible to borrow an
extra copy of any of Joey's books?
Spelling, arithmetic, phonics?"
Mrs. Madden shrugged, stood up, smoothed out her
un-wrinkled maroon skirt. "Call Mr.
Templar, our principal. That's up to him."
"Thank you," I said as I walked toward the door.
"I appreciateyour time and your interest in Joe."
Mrs. Madden accepted my appreciation with a nod as
she eased me out the door. "I will tell you one
thing," Mrs. Madden said magnanimously. "It
doesn't show in the grade book, but that boy is a
lot smarter than those Child Study Team tests show.
A lot smarter!"
I stared at Mrs. Madden, restraining a nearly
overwhelmingimpulse to hug her. "I agree," I
almost shouted. "But how did you find out? Did
you give Joey some tests of your own?"
Mrs. Madden turned back to her classroom. Like
a queen
in her kingdom she pronounced, "After thirty years,
I don't need tests."
Joey dragged the heavy plastic bag across my
office floor. "Mr. Templar said to bring you
these." He dumped the contentsonto the carpet beside the
desk and moaned out loud as his reading, math,
spelling, and phonics books fell out. "Oh,
no. It's horrible to have to do them in school. It'll
beeven horribler to have to do them all over again here."
We didn't, of course, "d" the books, but
Joey could show me where he was and what he didn't
understand. It was much easier for him than trying
to explain it. Also, since Mrs. Madden proceeded
page by page, chapter by chapter, I could look
ahead and see what was coming up next, and let Joey
become a little familiar with it before Mrs. Madden
introducedit in class.
Mrs. Madden was still curt, but she was doing her part.
She now answered my phone calls if I timed them
right and sent Joey's test papers in a sealed
envelope on Fridays. She hadn't complained or
called the Stones in, except for the scheduled
fall conference. All she told them then was that Joey
still needed a lot of work, but that he was making
progress.the main thing was what she didn't say.
There had been no mention of a special class.
My phone rang around noon one day in February.
It was snowing hard and I had gone down to pick up the
mail, so it took me five or six rings to get
back to the phone.
"Mrs. MacCracken? This is Mrs. Madden.
I almost hung up. I thought you must be out."
Disapproval edged her voice.
"Sorry." I was so glad she'd initiated the
call that it wasworth sounding penitent.
"Yes. Well. Joseph is getting farther and
farther behind in I his B book. Phonics book,
that is. He always has to go out when it's time for
phonics. Now he's twenty pages behind --
hasn't even touched the magic
e
rule. I'd like him to do pages ninety-eight, one
hundred one, one hundred five, and one
hundred seven with you. That will give him an idea of
what the others have covered. Don't do the work for him.
I want to see his own work. Send it in so I can
check it. I'd have the specials do it with
him, but they say they have too much work of their own."
"All right," I said, writing on the telephone
book. "Page ninety-eight... could you give me
those other pages again?"
I knew how the specials felt. This would take
time that I would much rather spend on other things, but what
mattered was that Mrs. Madden was becoming a member of
our team. And that was a top priority.
There was no doubt about it. In spite of missed
pages in the B book, Joey was flourishing. He
added, he subtracted, he even multiplied a
little. His facts still weren't totally automaticand he
sometimes got mixed up during subtraction and
regrouping (another word for borrowing and carrying), but
he understood what he was doing and he was one of the best
in the class at problem solving.
With our combined efforts on phonics, word attack
skills, and sight vocabulary, Joey's reading was
improving steadily. One of the things that helped most was
that the Stones took turns reading to Joey every night.
After Joey was washed and brushed and in bed, either Mr.
or Mrs. Stone read to him for a half hour. To their
joy, not only was he enjoying reading more, he was also
sleeping better.
But only one thing was important to Joey.
"Do you think she'll let me be a Red Sox now?"
Not a Red Sox and not till April.
"Da-de-ah-da-dah!" Joey blew an
imaginary trumpet in the doorway of my office.
"The good news is, I'm a goddamn Oriole!"
"Joe -- cool it. No swearing."
"Well, I am. I got moved up yesterday.
I'm in a group!"
A cause for celebration. Joey was no longer
alone, isolated, different. Now he, like the others
in his class, belonged.
In June Joey graduated from second grade and
was
promoted to third. On my testing he had moved up
to the 54th percentile in silent reading vocabulary
and to the 69th percentile in comprehension. His math was
on grade level, spellingslightly below.
On the school tests, Joey was on grade level
in all areas, and Mrs. Madden wrote on his
report card, "Marked improvementin behavior and
academic skills." High praise indeedfrom
Mrs. Madden.
One unexpected piece of news was that Mrs.
Madden was retiring. I couldn't imagine her
classroom without her -- or the other way
around. She had believed in Joey and given him a
safe, structured place where he could learn. Mr.
Templarassured me that it was her choice. She'd
always wanted to travel and was looking forward
to retirement. Maybe. But it would take an awful
lot of lakes and mountains to make up for Joey.
If it was sad to hear that Mrs. Madden was retiring,
it was good to hear that Mrs. Stone had decided
to freelance and use her computer skills at home rather
than in an office.
"It's funny," she told me on the phone. "I
actually like being home now. I don't know whether
it's because Joey's better or because I don't feel
so guilty anymore. Even though I never even
realized that I felt guilty. All I know is that
now I want to be around the kids as much as I can.
I never would've believed I'd ever say that. I'm
taking the summer off and then come fall I'm going
to start working at home.
"Also feels the same. He hardly ever works
weekends anymore.in fact, he's the one who
bought me the home computer."
I was happy for them and for Joey. But I was also
glad that Joey remained himself. I loved the
slightly lopsided, ebullienteadramatic
part of him as much as or more than the part that had made it
into the Orioles.
He came for one last visit before summer vacation and
we picked out some books and workbooks that would
review the skills he'd learned in second
grade. He promised to keep the study sheet I
gave him that would show how he spent his
twenty minutes of work each day while he was at the
lake.
"How does it feel, Joey?" I asked. "Do you
feel good about this year?"
He shrugged. "Yeah. I guess so. I mean, I
know I'm pretty good at reading now, and I can add
and even subtract pretty good. I don't fall
out of my chair or get in as much trouble. But
multiplication's hard and you got to be able to do two
digits in third. I'll never get that."
He shook his head and stood up. "See, Mary.
It's like this with me. If it's not one thing, it's
another."
I laughed. "You'll get it in the fall, Joey,"
I said.
Joey's taxi was late, but Joey was my last
appointment for the day and I was glad to have a few
extra minutes with him before he left for
vacation. We munched on nuts and raisins and the
popcorn I always kept in the office as we chatted
and waited for the taxi.
A horn beeped and Joey picked up his books,
workbooks, and papers. He grabbed an extra
handful of popcorn and ran through the door and down the
steps.
Halfway to the cab he turned back to wave, and as
he did, his feet somehow slid out from under him and he
fell flat, facedown in the driveway, surrounded
by books, papers, and popcorn.
"Oh, Joey..." I started toward him, but before I
was down the steps, Joey was back on his feet,
shrugging his shoulders in my direction, grinning, waving
one last time.
By the next day the squirrels had eaten the
popcorn, and I'll never be quite sure whether
Joey's fall was an accident or his idea of a
perfect exit.
Second grade had gone so well that Joey and I
both took the whole summer off. Joey was at his
cottage at Lake Cham-plain; I was at our
summer house in Connecticut. We were also both
late getting back in gear, so Joey had been in
school for over a week before I saw him for the
first time.
Obviously, something had happened since I'd last
seen Joey, and whatever it was, it wasn't good.
Joey was a wreck. He
sat behind my office desk opening drawers, shuffling
papers, bending paper clips. His nails were bitten
down to the quick. His old-time nervous restlessness was
running high, but there was also a new listless quality
that bothered me even more.
"What's wrong, Joey?"
He hunched his shoulders. "I don't know."
"Do you like your teacher?"
"Not much. She's new."
"It's okay to be new. Everybody's new sometime.
What don't you like?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it. She gets
me all mixed up."
I didn't press further. If Joey was forced
to continue to struggle, trying to put emotions he
didn't understand into words, it would only make him more
anxious.
I switched to something more concrete. "Did you bring your
notebook?"
Joey dragged his bookbag onto the desk. One
look confirmedthat things were not going well.
Already, covers were coming off books and scraps of
papers and pencils mingled with gum wrappers and an
odd sock in the bottom of the bag.
I lifted out the notebook. There was no assignment
pad in the front; in fact, there was nothing at all
in the notebook except blank paper.
"Do you have homework for tomorrow?" I asked.
Again Joey shrugged. "I don't know."
"Joe...." I began.
But Joey interrupted. "I mean it," he said.
"I don't know what's going on. She reads out the
homework so fast I can't even hear it, and I sure
can't write it down. She never puts it on the
board. It doesn't matter anyway, because even if
I do it she never collects it.
"Then like in spelling, she hands out these purple
dittos with the spelling words all scrambled up. She
says it's a game to help us learn our spelling
words, but I never even know what the spelling words are
"cause I can't get them unscrambled.
Everything's like that -- English, math, social
studies -- everything's all mixed up."
Poor Joey. The last thing he needed was a
disorganized classroom and an inexperienced teacher.
He had to work hard enough to keep things straight
inside his own head without having outside confusion
heaped on top of it. What was Mr. Templar
thinking of? He knew the kind of classroom Joey
needed. But the way it was now, Joey was going to have
to muster up his own skills in order to survive.
"Listen, Joey. I hear you, but I don't want
to see all you've learned go down the tube just because you
have a new teacher. You have to get your assignments down
-- and you have to clean up your act. If you don't
hear what your teacher says, then you have to go up after
school and ask her again."
"Sure. And by the time I get out all the other guys
will be gone."
"Then go in early and get it before school starts.
I'll talk to her, Joe, but you've got to do your
part."
We talked about this and Joey softened a little. "Yeah
-- okay. Anyway, what's expanded notation?
See, I did write my math homework here on
my book cover, but I don't get it."
We discussed expanded notation for the rest of his time, and
Joey was doing it easily by the end of the hour. But
somehow this didn't make me feel much better, and
I watched uneasily from my office window as
Joey unlocked his bike from a tree. Before
he got on he took a pair of headphones from the
pocket of his jacket and clamped them on his head,
as if to seal off the rest of the world.
I called Joey's mother at home the next day.
No answer. On impulse, I called her old
office number; she picked up on the first ring. "I
know you can't talk now," I said, "but I was wondering
if we could get together sometime. Your husband, too.
I'm worried about Joey."
"I was going to call you," Mrs. Stone replied.
"He's been terrible at home. One thing Joey
always had was a sense of humor. Not anymore.
Everything anybody does is wrong.
Listen, I know Also wants to talk to you too -- but
he got this new promotion and he's working late every
night. Actually, I'm back at work too, as you
can see," she giggled nervously. "Or hear." There
was a slight pause. "I guess we both changed
our minds. Anyway, I hate to ask it, but do you
think you could come over on Saturday afternoon? Rich
has early footballpractice, and Joey and
Bill always go and hang around to watch him, so we'll
be able to talk."
I hesitated. I tried to save the weekends for
my own family. But I was worried about
Joey. I had the feeling that he was getting in
deeper every day.
"How's two o'clock?" I asked. "I'll check in
with his teacher before Saturday. Ms. Ansara, is
it?"
"I guess so," Mrs. Stone said. "At least
that's what it sounds like. Back-to-school night
isn't until October. Uh-oh. I gotta go.
See you Saturday."
I stopped by Mr. Templar's office the next day
to return Joey's second-grade books and
to try to get the ones for third grade. I also needed
to find out about Joey's teacher. Mr. Templar was a
good principal -- fair and caring, about both the children and
his staff -- and putting Joey in with an
inexperiencedteacher wasn't consistent with what I
knew about him.
"Ms. Answera, you mean. Third grade. Yes,
she's new, but she got good grades at
college." Mr. Templar made a wry face.
"Whatever that's worth. How they expect us to teach
children when they don't teach the teachers is beyond me.
"Look, I know it must be hard for Joey, but it's
equally hard for Ms. Answera. And me. Do you know
how many of my teachers left this year? Over
a third of my staff, including both third-grade
teachers, are new. Do you have any idea how many
parents are calling me? Well, I do the best I
can. What more can I say? I can't even blame the
teachers. They can get a lot more money as well as more
respect someplace else. Anyway, come on,
I'll take you down and introduce you."
The third-grade class was pouring in from gym.
They'd been out in the yard in the warm, sunny
September weather and now, hot and sweaty, they
pushed and shoved one anotherthrough the classroom door.
Ms. Answera adjusted the strap of her blue
sundress as she teetered back and forth on
high-heeled sandals, cautioning the class to quiet
down.
I looked around for Joey. Situations like this could
set him off like a Roman candle. But not this time.
Joey walked by, shoulders hunched, hands in his
pockets, oblivious to everythingthat was going on;
even his red hair seemed dull and lifeless. I could
not believe he was allowed to wear headphonesin
school, but he had them on and no one seemed
to notice.
"Ms. Answera," Mr. Templar said, "I know
this isn't the best timing, but Mrs.
MacCracken isn't in our school very often, and I
wanted you two to have the chance to meet. Mrs.
MacCracken works with Joey Stone."
Ms. Answera peered at me through violet-tinted
glasses, big as saucers. "Pleased to meet you,"
she said.
"Listen, I'll come back tomorrow before school, if
that's all right? You don't need interruptions on a
day like this."
"Sure thing," Ms. Answera answered amiably.
"That'd be fine."
I waved to Joey before I left, but if he saw
me he gave no sign. He slouched against the coat
closet, headphones in place, eyes focused on
something out of sight.
I was more concerned than ever after my visit to the
school. I didn't blame Mr. Templar or
Ms. Answera, and besides, blaming the system wouldn't
help Joey. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe
I shouldn't have fought so hard to keep him in a regular
class. If Joey was in special ed now, there would
be fewer kids and less confusion, and probably the
same teacher as the year before.
Mrs. Stone was watering their lawn when I pulled
up in front of the house.
"Thank you for taking time on a Saturday," she
said, as we walked down the front walk.
She smiled, but before she could open the door, her
smile disappeared. A loud, angry, male voice
shouted, "Get out of here! Right now! Damn it! I
told you a hundred times! No food in the den! I
don't care that's where the television is. This place
is a mess! Now get that plate back to the
kitchen, you little pig."
"That's Grandpa." Gail Stone sighed. "The boys
drive him crazy, especially Joey. Mom died
early this summer, and with his blood pressure I
didn't dare leave him alone. So we sold their
house and he moved in here. It seemed like a good
idea at the time."
"Anyway," she said, "let's go out back. Al
will be right down."
There was a small terrace at the far end of the yard,
and Mrs. Stone motioned me to a canvas chair and
handed me a glass of iced tea.
Also Stone came out from the house and across the
backyard. He looked tired, thinner than I
remembered. Something in his hair glinted in the
sunlight, and I stared in disbelief. The metal
sidepieces of headphones identical to those
Joey wore reflected the afternoon sun.
Also slipped the headphones off as he approached and
shook my hand. "Good to see you. How've you been?"
"Fine," I replied, still riveted to the headphones.
"Oh," he said, following my eyes. "These?
Only way to survive around here."
"Gailllll? Where are you? Gailllll?" Grandpa
stood in the back doorway, calling plaintively.
"Excuse me. I'll just be a minute," Gail
Stone said apologeticallyeaz she scurried across the
yard.
Although the sun shone and the birds sang, I shivered in
the canvas chair. It was clear that Joey's world was
coming apart, both at home and in school.
Also Stone said nothing all afternoon. It was as though he
too had turned off the world. Although his headphones were
off, he was still listening to something else. He was
pleasant, but quiet, and either resisted or ignored
every attempt I made to draw him into the conversation.
Mrs. Stone and I talked, but all the important
things went unsaid.
Gail Stone did not mention that she was torn between her
obligations to her father and the resentment of her husband.
All afternoon she ran back and forth between them, trying
to keep the peace, while we talked in
snatches about what was happening to Joey.
Also Stone did not talk about the anger he felt at
having his home invaded by a querulous, demanding old
man -- he just tuned out. He stayed at work as
late as he could and put on his headphones when he
got home. When I commented on the
inappropriateness of Joey's wearing headphones in
school, Also Stone smiled pleasantly and said that
he hadn't realized Joey wore them in school.
But I never did point out to Also Stone that his actions
spoke more strongly than his words. Joey, like his father,
was shuttingout the confusion of his world by putting on his
headphones.in fact, Gail Stone murmured as
she walked me to my car that both father and son often
fell asleep with headphonesin place, music
blasting into their eardrums. Who knew what effect this
had on Joey's auditory processing?
How was Joey ever going to make it? His world at
school was a jumble of confusion; his world at home was
filled with anger, resentment, guilt, and noise.
I didn't see how things could be any worse for
Joey.
But I was wrong. Grandpa dropped dead from a heart
attack two months later, just before Thanksgiving,
and insteadof improving, things got even
worse. Now Joey stopped talking almost
completely. He did no homework and, acto his
mother, "didn't eat enough to keep a bird alive."
Gail Stone and I talked by phone once or
twice a week. She was as troubled as I was and just as
confused. None of us could figure it out. As far as
we knew, Joey had been frightened of Grandpa, and
it would certainly seem that
Joey would be relieved not to have Grandpa after him all
the time.
I tried to talk to Joey, but he tuned me out as
effectively as if his headphones were in place.
He worked while he was in my office and most of his
skills were still there, but he handed in absolutely no
homework and Ms. Answera reportedthat he did
not "contribute" in class. Mr. Templar called
to say that Ms. Answera had told him she didn't
think Joey belonged in a regular class.
I strongly recommended that the Stones arrange for
Joey to see a psychologist, but Also Stone
wouldn't hear of it.
"Joey's not crazy," he said. "Grandpa was the
crazy one. Joey'll be all right now that
Grandpa's not around. Just give him time. It's only
been a few weeks."
I wondered if Also Stone had taken off his
headphones yet. I knew that Joey hadn't.
It was almost Christmas, a month since Grandpa had
died. I put a little tree at one end of my
office and decorated it with paper chains and ornaments
that the children brought in. There was a small wrapped
gift for each of them beneath the tree to take home after
the last visit before the holiday. My other children were
all thriving. Only Joey remained cold and
silent, nervously chewing his fingernails.
Just before Joey arrived for his last session before the
holidayseaI impulsively scratched out the
lesson I had planned and decided to read to Joey
instead. If he couldn't tell me what was wrong,
maybe we could at least share a story. It was a
gentle tale, and the boy in the story had small
worries of his own. There was no fireplace or
chimney in his house, and he was certain that Santa
wouldn't know how to find him. Finally his mother persuaded
him to hang his stocking from a post at the foot of his
bed and to go to sleep thinking loving thoughts. Santa, of
course, found the stocking, and in the morning the boy
woke to find it fat and overflowing with toys and candy.
In the center of one page there was a black line
drawing of a narrow bed with four spool posts;
a bulging striped stocking dangled from the post at the
bottom of the bed.
I started to close the book, but Joey, sitting beside
me, pushed it open. Silently he traced the bed with
his finger. I moved my hand to cover his, but he
shoved me away impatiently.over and over he
traced the drawing of the bed from head to foot.
I thought I heard him say something and I leaned
closer.
"The bed," Joey mumbled.
"What did you say, Joey?" I asked softly.
Joey didn't hear me, or if he did he
gave no indication of it. But he was surely
talking, if only to himself. "On the bed. On the
bed."
"On the bed," I repeated. "Something was on the
bed."
Now Joey responded, nodding his head. "On the
bed. He was on the bed."
I willed every meter of my mind to tune to Joey,
to understandwhat he was saying.
I repeated, "He was on the bed." I took a
chance, adding a little more. "He was lying on the bed."
Joey continued nodding, almost frenzied now. "Lying
on the bed. Lying on the bed. Grandpa."
Grandpa?
Suddenly Joey turned his body so that he faced
me squarely. His voice was flat and cold, but he
was talking directly to me, not to himself or the book.
"Grandpa was on my bed when he died. I killed
him."
"No," I said. "No, of course not. You didn't
kill him."
"Yes," Joey insisted. "Yes, I did. I
even listened to him die."
My eyes stayed locked with Joey's, and he went
on talking in the same flat voice.
"See, he chased me," Joey said. "I didn't
know he was going to. I just ran out of the TV room
'cause he got so mad when I imitated the way
he yells. I ran up to my room and hid under my
bed so he couldn't get me.
"But then I heard him coming after me, running all the
way up the stairs and sort of bumping along the
wall. Then all of a sudden he came crashing into my
room and fell down on my bed real hard and began
making these choking noises."
The way Joey told it made it so clear.
Joey's facility for imitating and dramatizing must
have infuriated Grandpa. No wonder he'd
charged after the boy, forgetting his own high blood
pressure.
"Then after a while he stopped and it was real
quiet... and that was even worse," Joey went on,
"because then it began to get dark and I knew I had
to get out of there before Rich and Bill got home and
found me under that bed. If they found me there, they'd
know for sure I'd done it."
There were three loud knocks on my office door.
My next child had arrived. "Just a minute," I
called as softly as I could, never moving my eyes
from Joey's. "Go on, Joey. Don't stop."
"I got out," he said, his voice just above a
whisper, "but it was hard 'cause the bed was way on
top of me 'cause Grandpa was so fat, but I
squeezed out and ran downstairs and turned on all
the lights. The TV was already on, and so I just stayed
there in front of it, real quiet.
"When Mom found him . .. see, like Grandpa
didn't come to supper like usual, so they started
calling him and then they went looking for him, and after a
while Mom found him in my room. And she began
to scream and cry and yell that he was dead. That's when
I knew I'd killed him for sure. I'd been
thinking he was maybe just sick. But he
wasn't, he was dead."
The knocks sounded on the door again. "One more
minuteea"...I called back.
"Don't tell," Joey said, panicking, pulling
at my sleeve. "I didn't mean to tell you."
"Joey, listen. Grandpa was very old and very sick.
He had a heart attack. Your mom told me he
did. That happens to lots of old people."
"I don't even know when he died," Joey said.
"Maybe he was still alive when I left. Maybe
if I'd called a doctor, he
would've been all right. Besides, I wanted him
to die. SometimesI even prayed that he would. Maybe
my praying made it come true."
No wonder Joey hadn't told anyone. He must
have been terrified, lying there alone trapped underneath
Grandpa while he died, later convinced that he had
killed him.
Joey put his head down on the desk. I put my
arms around him for a second and then I phoned his mother.
Joey stayed in my office through my next two
appointments.he lay curled under a woolen afghan
on the couch and either slept or pretended to, until
his mother arrived.
In the waiting room, I asked Gail
Stone if it was true that she had found Grandpa in
Joey's room.
She nodded. "Why?"
"Why didn't you say something at the time?" I asked
in return.
Tears gathered in Mrs. Stone's eyes. "I
don't know. Joey was taking it so hard I thought it
would just make it worse if he realized that I'd
found Grandpa in his bed. Joey was downstairs
watching TV the whole time it was going on. I think
Dad must have been on his way to the bathroom just across
the hall from Joey's room. All I can think is
that maybe he felt sick or dizzy or had a
spell and thought he'd go in and lie down on
Joey's bed for a minute. Nobody will ever know for
sure. What does this have to do with Joey, anyway?
Why'd you call me? Is anything wrong?"
The next day Gail Stone and I met in my
office during her lunch hour.
"Also and I talked for hours last night after the
boys were in bed," she said. "It really shook Also
up to realize what had been going on in Joey's
head and he -- Also, I mean -- had never
suspected it.
"Also's a good man. He works hard, he's
smart, he loves his family. He's been true
to me through thick and thin. It was my fault -- bringing
Grandpa home. I know that now. I think I was still
trying to please him, like I did when I was little.
It never worked then either. I should have just hired somebody
to stay with him, seeing that his house was so close by.
"Well, never mind," Gail continued. "It's over
now. We'll mend. But will Joey? That's what we
want to know. I know you probably think we should all
go into therapy, but Also's dead set against it. He
says we at least ought to give ourselves a chance first.
He says he'll talk to me, he'll talk to the
boys, but he doesn't want to have to start talking
to some stranger -- at least not now. I understand that. But
I have to know that we won't lose Joey again."
"I know," I said, struggling for words. I did
believe family therapy would help, but not if it were
forced. "How do you feel about it?" I asked.
"I've been thinking all night," Gail replied.
"I didn't sleep much. I guess none of us
did, except Joey. He slept the clock
around, and this morning he seemed the best I'd seen
him in months. Ate two bowls of oatmeal --
told his dad all about Grandpa, when I would have thought
he wouldn't mention a word. I let him stay
home from school today, and Also took the day off,
too. When I left, Joey was watching TV and
Also was reading the paper, peaceful as could be.
"I think we can do it. Al and I go back a long
way, and we've seen a lot of troubles along with the
good times. Besides, Also's a determined one. Once
he puts his mind to something, he sticks to it."
I thought about Joey as she talked. He had made
such progress the year before. He had turned his high
level of energy toward active learning. He had
stopped playing the fool, although he still liked to joke
and kid around. He loved people; he was intelligent and
well coordinated; he had a good ear for music and
an unusual flair for the dramatic. His strengths
were all still there. They just couldn't get through in the confusion
of school and the tension at home.
"Will it be any different at your house now? Because with
Ms. Answera in the classroom, I don't think
there is going to be any big change at school. And
you know Joey. He thrives when things are
structured and safe and organized -- and he
falls apart when there's change and confusion or he's
scared."
Gail nodded. "And so do I. I'm not very
organized myself. I know that, but what I'm
saying is we're going to try. You told me once
that everyone could grow -- not just children. Remember?"
"I remember," I said.
"And you still believe it's true?" she asked.
"Yes," I nodded. "It's still true."
"Well, for starters," Gail said, "I'm giving
up my job. I have that computer Also got me a year
ago, and we almost made it that time.
"I guess what I'm telling you is, I'm ready
to be the best wife and mother I can."
I smiled at her and stood up. "It sounds to me as
though you and Also have thought it through and that your minds are
pretty well made up. You know I believe
parents know their children better than anyone else.
Maybe that's true for some families, too.
Anyway, if it feels right to you and Also, I'd
talk to the boys and go ahead and give it a try."
Who says wishes don't come true? Ms.
Answera went home to Florida for Christmas
vacation and never returned. And even more wonderful for
Joey, Mr. Templar was able to persuade Mrs.
Madden to come back and teach Joey's third-grade
class for the remainder of the year.
"Portugal has been around for quite some time," Mrs.
Madden said when I went over to school
to talk to her. "It's likely it'll still be there six
months from now."
Once again I had to stick my hands in my pockets
to keep from hugging her. Joey would be all right now --
at least for this year, with Mrs. Madden back in
charge at school and Joey's mom and dad a team
again at home.
I continued seeing Joey twice a week through third
and fourth grades and worked closely with his teachers.
He accumulateda solid foundation of knowledge on which he
could build and a growing confidence in his ability
to learn. He was
Si
also the star of every class play. His tremendous
natural energyprojected out from the stage, and within
minutes he held the audience in the palm of his hand.
We cut our sessions to once a week halfway
through fifth grade and ended completely in sixth.
I was there for Joey's graduation in an aisle
seat. He shone like a burnished penny -- dressed
in a new blue suit, his red hair washed and
neatly combed. He managed to sit still through the
graduation exercises and receive his diploma without
incidenteab he caught my eye on the way out. The
lopsided grin lit his face, and he did a
perfect miniature imitation pratfall as he
passed my seat.
As I said earlier, there was always something about Joey
...
Eric
Nobody was in the waiting room the night that I met
Eric. In fact, the lights weren't even on.
It had been a long day, and once the last child had
left and I had cleaned up and put away books and
toys, I was eager to be off. It was a good
forty-five-minute drive from my office to our
apartment, and the commuting traffic was heavy on the
highways.
I shrugged on my jacket, turned out the lights,
pulled shut my heavy office door, and almost
stepped on Eric.
I rocked back away from him in surprise.
"Hey, now! What's this? Are you okay?" As my
eyes grew more accustomedto the dim light, I could
make out a small boy sitting on the waiting-room
floor just outside my door, examining the contents
of a woman's purse.
The janitor had evidently already turned down the
lights in the waiting room, so the only illumination
was from the overhead light in the hall. I
groped my way toward one of the reading lamps, and the
little boy gave a whimper as light flooded over us.
A woman's voice came from one edge of the room.
"Mrs. MacCracken? Is that you?"
She pushed herself up from the sofa with effort, at the
same
time pulling her worn black coat more closely
around her. She must have once been a handsome woman,
but now as she came closer I could see that her face
was gaunt and deeply lined and there were dark circles
beneath her eyes.
She spoke to me, but she was looking at the boy.
She walked past me toward where he huddled against the
wall, hands across his eyes. She pulled him toward
her, gently cradling his head against her thigh,
crooning, "Shhh, Errol. Shhh. It's all right
now."
She turned to me and said, "He doesn't like the
light."
They made a strange picture there in the
lamplight -- the black-cloaked figure bending
over the tiny boy, her knobby fingers entangled in his
limp brown hair, his face buried in her coat.
I glanced at my watch. Almost eight o'clock. More
than a half-hour drive back home. I
cleared my throat. "I'm sorry," I said.
"It's very -"
"Please," the woman interrupted. "Don't go."
She moved closer to me, her dark eyes searching my
face, the boy clinging to her leg. She looked too
old to be the mother of such a young child, but her next
sentence implied she was.
"Mrs. Tortoni told me to come. You helped her
Frank. She said you'd help us, too."
I felt a small rush of pleasure. When I'd
begun my private practice as a learning
disability consultant, Frank was one of my first
students. Frank was dirt-poor, street-wise,
smart as a whip. His father was a mechanic at the
garage I used. Frank had been easy to help,
mainly because there was nothing really wrong with him. No
signs of any learning disability, no
seriousemotional problems. He'd just fallen through the
cracks of the huge, inefficient school system in the
economically bankrupt city where he lived.
Someone had equated poor with dumb and placed him in
the lowest track of skills classes. Each year
he was passed on to the next grade in the same
slow, dull track. But given a chance and a little
outside help, Frank was off and running,
eager to show what he could do, his parents cheering him
on.
"I get it," he'd shout. "That stupid factoring!
Ain't nothin" but doin' times and matchin' em up.
Whyn't they just say so?"
I coached Frank before the state competency tests and
called the school to see how he'd done.
The next year he was in the second-highest track
in the middle school and flourishing.
Seduced by my thoughts of Frank and how little it had
taken to help him, I hesitated.
"Please," the woman said. "Please just let me
talk to you for a few minutes."
"Do you live near the Tortonis?" I asked,
knowing they lived almost an hour away.
She nodded. "Two blocks down."
"How did you get here?"
"Bus," she said, matter-of-factly. "We
changed at Grover."
A long, cold bus ride, particularly at this
hour of day. This worn, weary woman must care a
great deal about this strange boy or she would never have
bothered.
I unlocked my office door, and they followed me
back inside.
Now she sat silently. The effort of getting them
both to my office seemed to have used up all her
strength. I walked around the room collecting toys
for the boy who sat on the floor by her feet. He was
tiny, the size of a four-year-old, although his pale,
pointed face seemed older. He turned away when
I leaned down to place the cars and trucks and
dolls beside him, and hid his face against the couch. I
was tempted to stay on the floor myself, but then
decided that right now I needed to talk to his mother --
if indeed that was who this woman was.
I pulled a chair beside her and reached for a pad and
pencil. "Why don't you begin by telling me both your
names?"
"Kroner," she said. "I'm Blanche Kroner and
this is Errol. Well, his name's really Eric. I
just give him the name Errol, like a nickname. You know
-- like the movie star. Handsome and all."
I watched as Eric began to push one of the cars back
and forth across the rug, never looking up, his little, peaked
face serious and intent. Did she really think him
handsome?
Gradually Eric's story emerged bit by bit.
Eric had one older sister, Bella, now fourteen.
She had been born on the Kroners' first
anniversary. Mrs. Kroner had vomited every day of
her pregnancy with Bella, and after a labor of
eighteen hours she'd sworn she'd never have another
child. And she hadn't for eight years, although she said she
had "lost two when she was two or three months
along."
The summer after Bella's seventh birthday, Mrs.
Kroner began to feel sick, and when the vomiting
started she knew she was pregnant again. She thought
about having an abortioneab somehow she couldn't bring
herself to do it. She counted the days until the baby would
be born, not because she wanted it, but to get relief from
the pain and exhaustion. Then, to make matters
worse, the baby was two weeks late, and when he
did finally come he weighed only five pounds -- so
little and weak he couldn't even suck right.
Mrs. Kroner sighed. "I had to get him a
bottle with a hole in the nipple so big I could
practically pour the milk down him."
Unexpectedly, her face lit up, and for a few
seconds there was a radiance that eliminated the
weariness. "Even so, he was a sweet little tyke.
The nurses were all crazy about him," she smiled,
remembering.
As she talked I glanced at Eric from time
to time. If he understood any of what was being said, he
gave no sign. He was moving around a little now,
lining up the cars and trucks in a straight row. He
turned each car over and over, inspecting it
carefully. Then, evidently having made a
decision based on some standards of his own, he placed
it in a certain spot in the row. There was something
enormously appealing in his serious concentration.
Sometimes he used his right hand, sometimes his left. When
the cars were all properly aligned, he began
lifting the dolls out of their carton, which was
designedto look like a dollhouse.
There were five small figures made of soft,
bendable plastic -- their felt clothes somewhat torn
(they had been with me a long time), but still completely
recognizable -- father, mother, girl, boy, and a
diapered baby. Eric took them all out and laid
them on the rug.
The bottom of the box was divided in!compartments,
representing rooms. I watched as Eric picked
up the father doll and sat him in a room at the back
end of the box. Next Eric placed the girl beside the
father. Now he put the mother standing up in a room at the
opposite end. Only the boy and the baby remained.
He picked them up -- holding one in each
hand -- and then put the baby next to the mother, but only
for an instant, replacing the baby with the boy. He
tried the boy doll in several different positions
-- standing, sitting, lying down -- but evidently none
was to his satisfaction. Finally he stashed the boy
doll under one of the cushions of the couch and put the
baby back beside the mother.
I had become so intent on Eric's play that I
missed some of Mrs. Kroner's words. Now her
voice reached me again, saying, "... never was one
to say much, but he didn't get into things or talk
back the way Bella did."
She hadn't sent Eric to nursery school. It had
seemed like a waste of money, and besides, she liked
having him around. Bella and her didn't get
along, and Mr. Kroner slept days and worked
nights at the factory, so it was kind of nice to have
some company.
Eric had started kindergarten a year ago, when he was
five, and everything seemed to be going along all right,
although he was smaller than the other children and he was sick
a lot. Just colds, earaches -- nothing serious.
He didn't want to go back to school after summer
vacation, but Mrs. Kroner had taken a job in a
cosmetic factory a few blocks from
their home, knowing Eric was going to be in first grade and
in school all day. So she had to insist that he go, and
after the first week or so he got used to it and stopped
"crying his head off. But he still doesn't like school.
He doesn't act up, but he can't wait to get
out."
Neither she nor Mr. Kroner had ever gone for a
parent conference, until last week. His first-grade
teacher, Miss Selby, was "just real pushy" and said
if they didn't come in, she'd come see them.
"So last Thursday I went, but now I wish I
hadn't. All she did was say Eric didn't know
this, didn't know that, didn't do show and tell,
didn't follow directions, didn't talk right,
couldn't learn his sounds. Said she wanted him tested.
Well, I don't want any tests. I've had
plenty of tests myself over the years, and if there
isn't something wrong with you when they start, there is by the
time they're done. So now I make Errol do his
sounds at home with me every night."
It was not a happy picture. Mrs. Kroner had
been in her late thirties during her pregnancy
with Eric. She had a history of a difficult
earlier pregnancy and subsequent spontaneous
abortions. During Eric's gestational
period she had severe nausea and vomiting. Eric
was a low-birth-weight baby with a weak sucking
reflex, and he was colicky. He lacked the
stimulation of nursery school. There was a history of
ear infections, and Eric had disliked school from the
beginning. Besides, there were intimations from Eric's play
and Mrs. Kroner's comments that there was something odd about
the family configuration. And yet there was a
magnetism -- I could feel myself being drawn to him
almost against my will.
"What does Mr. Kroner think about all this?" I
asked. Mrs. Kroner shrugged. "He leaves
Eric to me. Says he has enough trouble keeping bread
on the table. Says the school is probably making
a fuss over nothing." Mrs. Kroner sighed. "But
I don't know," she said. "I got to thinking about
Mrs. Tortoni and Frankie, and I got thinking
maybe you could help Eric with his schoolwork. You know,
help him sound it out. Like I do at night."
I looked over at the little boy. He was holding the
baby in the palm of his hand, stroking it rhythmically
as he rocked back and forth, his eyes closed. It was
my turn to sigh. Whateverit was that Eric needed, it
was a lot more than sounding it out. Suddenly Eric
opened his eyes, and I could see that
they were filled with tears, his long dark eyelashes
wet and clumped together. Why was he crying silently
to himself?
"Suppose I go over to Eric's school and talk
to his teacher. Miss Selby? Is that her name?
Maybe she can give me some more information about the kind
of help Eric needs."
"No!" Mrs. Kroner spoke sharply. "I
don't want the school to know I'm here. Then
they'll be even surer there's something wrong with him.
Or else they'll say it's the tutor what's doing
the work, not Eric."
"Mrs. Kroner, I'm sorry." And I really
was. Despite the hour, despite the obvious
problems, there was something about this little boy and his mother that
drew me to them, and I was moved by how much she
obviously loved her son and how desperately she
wanted to help him. Still, I couldn't work behind a
cloud of pretense. I tried to explain. "I can't
work that way. I need your help and Eric's
teacher's, too. We all have to work together, be a team,
if we're going to help Eric."
"What would you say to her?" Mrs. Kroner asked.
"I wouldn't want you talking behind Eric's back --
or mine neither."
"I would ask about the kind of things Eric does in
school -- where he does well and where he has
trouble. I would ask about the other children and how he gets
along with them."
"No," Mrs. Kroner said again.
I sighed -- half weariness, half exasperation.
"Then I don't see how I can .. ."
I stopped speaking as something touched my right foot.
I looked down and saw that Eric had put the baby
in one of the trucks and was crouched beside his mother's legs,
pushing the truck back and forth. The truck had
bumped against my shoe. An accident, or was this
Eric's way of asking for help? He was as pale and
silent as before, but now he looked steadily up at
me and pointed at the truck. My heart
capitulated.
"What is it, Eric?" I asked, bending down. But
the instant was gone. I had lost him. He buried his
head back against the couch. But during that one brief
instant of eye contact I could feel the intelligence
behind those eyes, and I knew
,
without a shadow of a doubt that if I could reach this little
boy, I could teach him.
Mrs. Kroner interrupted my thoughts.
"Could you call her instead -- his teacher?" she almost
whispered. "Instead of going over there?"
"Yes," I said. "I guess I could. If you would
feel better about that."
"If you did call her, would you tell her what I
told you? You know -- about how I didn't even
really want Eric at first?"
"No," I said. "I don't think there's any need
to talk about that. In fact, I'm not even sure it's
true."
I wished Mrs. Kroner had given me permission
to visit the school. I could have gathered so much information
by observingEric's interaction with the other children and his
response to his teacher. And I certainly needed
all the information I could get, particularly since there
was to be no formalized testing. I had compromised because
I didn't want to lose Eric, and now I had
to stick to my agreement. I could only hope his
teacher was a good communicator.
Miss Selby spoke clearly and
matter-of-factly. "I'm very concerned," she said at
once. "I'm new. This is my first year here and
it's a big school. There's a lot I don't
understand -- I'm the first to admit it. But I really
don't see why Eric's in our school at
all. He just doesn't fit in with the other children. Why
they ever promoted him from kindergarten is beyond me.
"He doesn't do anything. Good or bad. And he
isn't getting any help. Not even from me, and I
want to help. But I don't know where to begin. I'm
not even sure he hears me."
"Does he talk to the other children?" I asked.
"Well, yes and no. I can't make any sense of
it. But they somehow like him, and somebody or other always
seems to be watching over him."
We discussed the testing she'd suggested to Mrs.
Kroner and her refusal to consider it. "I told
her," Miss Selby said, "that I thought Eric had
some kind of language disability and
that he should be referred to the Child Study Team for a
workup. But she just acted as if I were the one who
needs help. She said there wasn't anything wrong with
Eric and that nobody had complained about him last year.
"Well, in spite of that, I did talk to the
psychologist the other day -- and asked him to just stop
by my room sometime for a kind of informal observation.
He agreed, but he didn't say when."
I pressed on, asking more questions. Does Eric
play? Does he color? Does he eat at
snack time?
"I told you," Miss Selby replied. "The
others keep him with them, but he doesn't actually do
anything."
I thanked Miss Selby. She was certainly
interested and trying to do all she could. But somehow Eric
and school were still a blur to me.
I called Mrs. Kroner to tell her that I had
talked to Eric's teacher and felt she genuinely
wanted to help him -- and that it might be a good thing
to have the Child Study Team do an evaluation. Again,
Mrs. Kroner was adamant -- no testing.
I also asked again if she couldn't find someone closer
to where she lived who could help Eric, trying not
to admit, even to myself, how much I wanted the chance.
But when she insisted that there was no one and that she was
determined to bring Eric to me after she got home from
work, I couldn't hold back my unabashed
delight. I cut my fee in half, and we set
up an appointment for half past six on the coming
Wednesday.
Eric surprised me by leaving his mother's side and coming
slowly but without complaint into my office.
He stood in the middle of the room as I again gathered
up some toys, but this time I sat down on the floor
myself, putting the toys in front of me.
I needed to be on eye level with Eric if I was
to have a chance of making contact again. There was so much I
had to know. Mrs. Kroner had said Eric wasn't
one to talk much, although she was unable to supply any
caret
details. His teacher had said she suspected a
language problem.but what kind? Was it a
receptive problem? Was he unable to hear or if
he did hear, unable to understand what was said? Could he
hear the sounds of the world around him? Could he decipher
words? Did he understand a sentence, or a group of
sentences?
Listening comes before speaking. The first thing I had to find
out was if Eric could hear me, and then if he understood
what he had heard.
I had promised not to do any testing, but nobody had
said anything about playing.
I piled some blocks together, talking to myself. "I
guess I'll make a garage for this truck. Here
are the walls -- and this will be the door. It just swings
open like this. Now here comes the truck.
Rummm-rummm ..."
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eric
turning, taking a step toward where I sat by the couch.
"Rummm-rummm. I'll drive it right
into the good old garage.rummm. Rummm. Rummm.
Oh-oh! Oh, boy. I didn't mean to do that.
Knock down the wall. I guess I drove too
fast."
I reached to put the block upright, but Eric's hand was
there before mine. Caroom! I had him! At least he
was down on the floor with me. Now we could begin.
A siren wailed as an ambulance drove by on the
street outside my front window. Eric turned,
distracted for a moment.had he heard the sound or was
it happenstance? Too soon to tell.
I went back to my play. "Thanks, Eric, for
fixing that wall. Now I guess I'll build a
store over here." I began to make a two-tiered
square building. "No, I know," I said, making
it up as I went along, "not a store. I'll
make a farm. That's better. That's more fun.
I'll get the animals."
I got up, taking a chance, hoping he'd stay. I
brought back some small plastic animals, moving
quickly, watching Eric. He stayed crouched beside the
garage, eyes on the truck.
"All right. Now. This is the barn, and I'll put
some of these
cows in there -- and this part is a field.
That's where the horses go. That's enough." I left the
pigs and chickens and ducks in a pile.
"Okay. Now I'm going to drive my truck over
to the farm. Rummm. Rummm. Backing out now.
Careful. Want to come?" I paused, looking at
Eric, but he kept his eyes fastened on the blue
truck. "Guess not," I said cheerfully.
"Well, here I go. Rummm. Rummm. This is
sure a loud old truck. I'm going to drive it
right up to the barn." I pushed the truck in front of
me, moving on my knees perhaps a foot or so
away from Eric.
"Well, here I am. Mmm. Nobody here but the
cows. I wonder if anybody else is around."
And what do you know. Here comes Eric, creeping right
along beside me. Not only creeping, touching me now.
His hand on my knee. Not only touching -- talking!
"Da," he says.
"Da?" I repeat. Make me understand. Don't
lose him now.
"Da." He pointed to the closet at the side of the
room. "Da-"fore."
"Four da?" Come on. Come on. What's the
matter with me?
Eric shook his head. "Da -- wi 'to."
Yes! Of course. The dolls.
"Dolls," I repeated, getting it, blood
pumping hard. "Like you played with before when you were here.
Good idea."
Eric heard. He understood. He talked. He
communicated. Maybe not clearly. Maybe not in
sentences. But that was okay. That could be fixed.
I lifted the box containing the doll family down from
the closet shelf and handed it to Eric.
"Da," he nodded affirmatively and headed back
to our primitive farm.
I followed, quiet now, letting Eric take the
lead.
He took off the cover and lifted out the mother doll.
"Hou?" he said pointing to the floor.
"How what?" I was certainly out of practice in this
kind of communication.
Eric shook his head, pointing again. "Hou." He
put the mother doll on the floor and picked up a
block, putting it near the barn I had built.
Carefully he placed another on top. "Hou."
He said positively. "Bill hou."
I placed a block alongside his. "I see
now. We need to build a house for the people, right?"
Eric nodded, without answering, busily
piling block on top of block, color in his
cheeks, eyes bright.
There certainly didn't seem to be anything wrong with
his eye-hand coordination. His movements were swift and
accurate.he lined up the edges of the blocks with
ease and soon had built a house three blocks
high, with both a front and a back door.
"Ma," he said, placing the mother inside the walls and
nodding.
I joined him again, pushing the blue truck over from the
barn. "Guess I better go on over to the house.
Doesn't seem to be anybody here at the barn.
Rummm. Rummm. Just back her up and go on down
the road. Rummm."
I let my little finger knock down a brown and white
plastic cow. "Oops. I guess I scared the
cow. A little too noisy." "Cow," Eric said
clearly, placing it back on its feet. Well,
no trouble with
k
sound, or
ow
either. I tapped on the door. "Hello, there.
Anybody home?" Eric maneuvered the mother to the
front door; the baby followed in his other
hand.
"Hello there, ma'am. How're you today? That's a
fine-looking baby you have there."
Eric bobbed the mother up and down. "Is your husband
home? I need to talk to him." Eric shook the mother
and his own head as well. "Mmm. Well, that's too
bad. I'll come back another day. Rummm.
Rummm." I drove my truck back to the
garage.
It was clear that Eric could hear and understand what was said
to him. He could also process the information, match it
with what he had learned before, and make it meaningful.
His difficulty lay with expressive language
-- his words were unfinished and unclear. Both his
vocabulary and sentence formation were limited, and he had
trouble articulating the l, r, and s sounds.
Now that I had a general feel for Eric's
language, I wanted to get to the blackboard. I
wondered about his graphomotor skills. Could he
draw, write? Did he know the letters of the
alphabet?
It was difficult to contain my eagerness to find out. But
I knew myself well enough to know that my excitement could
carry me away. I had to watch myself -- not go too
quickly. I must remember to move in
Eric's rhythm.
Eric put the mother and the baby back in the house. He
laid the father down on the bottom of the box in the
same place he'd had him before. He took out the
girl and boy dolls and looked around for me.
"Thcu?"
"I haven't a glimmer," I said.
He laid down the dolls and picked up more
blocks. I sighed. We obviously weren't going
to get to the blackboard today. Eric was much too
involved with his play -- to interrupt would be unfair
and pointless. The thing to do was to stay tuned in to him right
where he was.
I moved back to his side and placed another
block alongsidehis. He nodded his approval.
"Thcu," he said again. "Big thcu."
B and
g
sounds are intact, and he sometimes uses
descriptive words, I thought, still building. But
what could "thcu" be?
The building was now twice as big as the barn, and
Eric put the boy and girl inside it. "Go thcu,"
he informed me.
"Right again, Eric. You're way ahead of
me. That's where they should be. In school."
Our eyes met across the school. Could he sense my
pleasure"...I wondered. He knew so much -- so much
information inside this little boy. Why didn't it show in
school? Maybe there were too many children, or maybe his
kind of
information wasn't valuable in school if he couldn't
communicate it verbally.
"Listen, Eric," I said. "We have to stop in just a
few minuteseab you'll be back next week. Shall
I help put the dolls away? Or would you rather do
it?"
Eric spread his hands protectively over the
dolls. "Okay," I said. "I'll work on the
blocks. You do the dolls."
I began fitting the blocks back into their wooden
box, and Eric took the boy and girl out of the school
and put them in the house with the mother and baby. Then
reluctantly he transferred them to the doll box,
laying them in a row- mother, baby, boy, girl, father.
"Thank you, Eric. Let's go find your mom now."
Mrs. Kroner almost fell into the office when I
opened the door. She'd obviously had her ear
pressed tight against the door, which was fine with me.
Who had a better right to know about Eric?
She steadied herself and then asked defensively,
"Did you sound out?"
"We began," I said. "Look. I really need
to talk to you. We need to make plans for helping
Eric. Could you call me during your lunch hour
tomorrow?"
The phone rang at exactly twelve o'clock the
next day.
"Mrs. MacCracken? This is Blanche
Kroner. You wanted me to call you."
"Yes. Thank you. I wanted to tell you how
pleased I was to find out how much Eric knows and
understands. And I also wanted you to work with him yourself, if
you'd be willing."
How much parents can or should work with their children is always a
tricky thing. Sometimes it is just an exercise in
frustration, with more being lost than gained. In this case,
Mrs. Kroner was already working with Eric -- but on the
wrong things. Eric's teacher was right -- he couldn't
"sound it out" -- but he also wasn't ready to do it.
Learning proceeds along a continuum. It's like
building a wall -- each brick
carefully placed, each skill carefully
sequenced. My guess was that Eric couldn't sound it
out because he didn't know any sounds. That would
come. In fact, we'd begin next time. But right now
he needed to hear as many meaningful complete sentences as
he could so he would have a model for language.
"All right," Mrs. Kroner said. "Wait.
I'll get a pencil."
"No, you don't need.. ." But in her eagerness she
was already gone.
"All right. Go ahead now. I'm back."
"Well, all I was really going to suggest for right now
is that you go over to your library and go down to the children's
room. If you don't already have a card, ask them
to show you what to do to get one. Then tell the children's
librarian that you'd like some picture books for young
children -- say, age four to six -- and have her show you
where they're kept, and then just pick out a half dozen
different books that you think Eric would like."
"Yes. All right. I can do that. Then what?"
"Then every night before Eric goes to bed read to him for a
half hour. Don't feel you have to read all the words
on the page. Just read as much as you can, but if he
starts to lose interest then just look at the pictures
and talk about them -- talk about concepts like over and
under. The sun is over the house. The flowers are under
the tree. Point to some of the pictures and ask him
to name them. We want to build his
vocabulary as fast as we can.
"Don't worry about how his speech sounds. We'll
talk about that later. For now, just teach him all the
words you can. Try to keep your own sentences short and
clear and ask questions to get him talking."
Eric was through the door before I had it all the way
open. "Book," he said, holding two out in front
of him.
I paused for a minute in the doorway and smiled at
Mrs. Kroner. "You're a fast worker."
She smiled back, and again I was struck by the
radiance in her face when she spoke of Eric.
"He loves it," she said.
"Can't get enough. We read every night, and he
carries his books around with him the rest of the time. And
they were real nice over at the library. I'm going
to take Eric with me this time when I go on
Saturday."
"Good. I'll see you in a little while."
Eric was sitting on the floor in front of the couch,
same spot as before, except now he leaned back
against the couch, one of the books open in his lap. I
sat beside him, leaning back myself.
"Bawne," he said, pointing to a large bear, standing
behind a chair.
"Yes," I agreed. "I think that's the mother bear and
I think somebody's been sitting in her chair." I
put a slight emphasis on the r in both bear and
chair.
Eric nodded emphatically as I retold
Goldilocks's story, and he pointed to pictures
in answer to my questions. "Who is Goldilocks,
anyway? What did she do when she got tired?"
At our next session I'd try to get him to tell
me the story, or at least part of it.
We looked at his other book briefly, and then I
walked to the large blackboard that was fastened to the
wall on the far side of the room. I said, "Come
on over here. I want to show you something. See this
chalk? Did you ever see chalk that fat? We have
yellow, blue, pink, white. I like it 'cause it
doesn't break."
I drew a circle, the size of a saucer. "Can you
make a circle like that?" I asked Eric.
He produced a wobbly-looking oval with
overshooting lines and shrugged his shoulders.
"Not too bad." I smiled at him and added
smaller circles to both, some ears, eyes, mouth,
whiskers, and tails. "A fat cat and a skinny
cat. Okay, Eric," I said, handing him
an eraser. "Get rid of the cats. Rub them out.
"Now, how about a square?" This time I did not
draw first. Eric made a figure recognizable as
a rectangle, although two corners were open and one
rounded. He also drew a
cross -- when I showed him what it was I wanted
-- but couldn't do a triangle, diamond, or star.
I drew two parallel lines on the board, about
three inches apart, and a half dozen straight lines
between them. "This will be a fence. Can you finish it?"
Eric tried, but he had difficulty controlling the
chalk, and his lines straggled down the blackboard.
He obviously had trouble with his graphomotor
skills -- and yet it wasn't just eye-hand
coordination, because he had moved the blocks so
easily. I made a mental note to get out the
pegboard and puzzles as soon as we left the
blackboard. Would he have the same difficulty
controlling pegs and judgingthe spatial relationships,
or was it primarily a lack of strength in his fingers?
Before we left the board, I asked, "Can you write
your name, Eric?"
He picked up the chalk and made an uneven E.
"Okay. Good. That's the first letter. Can you do any
more?" Silently, Eric shook his head.
"Watch me. First I'll do an E like you did --
a tall, straight line down -- now three arms
stick out. One at the top, one in the middle, and one
at the bottom. Now a small
r -
short, straight line down, half as tall as the
line in E, and a little curve here at the top.
Next is ?"', a cinch -- again, a short straight
line and dot it; there, like that. And now the last letter, c
-- to make it, just start drawing a backward circle
and stop before it's done. Here, now -- take this blue
chalk and trace over my letters."
As Eric wrote I made a mental note to talk
about this with his mom at the end of the session. There were
lots of things they could do to improve his drawing and
writing.
Eric put down the chalk and headed for the closet.
"Da," he said, nodding positively.
"Whoa. Come on back here. We're not quite through.
See, Eric, I want to teach you how to read, so you
can read books yourself." I immediately had his attention.
And, of
course, it was his attention I really wanted. I
couldn't teach him anything without that. Everyone in first
grade was learningto read, so, of course,
this fascinated Eric. And I could continue working on his
language while throwing in a few basic skills.
"Book," Eric said, trotting off to the books
he'd left on the couch. If he couldn't have the
dolls, his books were the next best thing.
"Right," I agreed, steering him back to the board.
"We'll put the books right here by the blackboard.
Now see," I said, opening to a page at random,
"books are made of words -- like your name Eric is
a word -- and words are made of letters. Each letter has
its own sound, and when you've learned the sounds you can
read the words.
"Stay with me, Eric. We'll do just one letter so you can
practice it this week with your mom.
"Okay, now. We'll do it together." I put chalk
between his fingers and my own fingers over his. "We'll
make a
B,"
I said. "Now tall, straight line down. Good.
Now one fat stomach -- out like a ball -- at the
top, now another fat stomach at the bottom.
There. That's a capital
B.
And right beside it we'll make a small
but.
Again, straight line down -- now just a small ball
at the bottom. Good.
B
is the letter that begins the word ball." I drew a quick
ball on the board.
"Can you say that, Eric? Ball?"
"Bow."
"Yes. Good." I'd forgotten he couldn't or
didn't make the final l sound. "Here's
another." I drew quickly. "That's a
B
for boy."
"Boy," Eric repeated.
"Terrific. Okay, let's get the dolls."
Much as I wanted to get out the pegboard and
puzzles, I had to play fair. Eric had worked
hard for me; it was my turn to follow him.
I handed Eric the box of dolls, and I carried the
wooden box of blocks. We both went
instinctively to the spot in front of the couch where we
had played before.
Eric opened the doll box and lifted out each doll
carefully. His actions were precise. He did not
dump and jumble as some children did.
After he had inspected each doll, he
lined them up and then proceeded with his plan for each
one. He put the father doll in the back bedroom,
laying him down on his stomach. "Slee," Eric
said.
He put the mother in the kitchen and then held the boy and
baby side by side, this time putting the boy beside the
mother and the baby under the couch cushion. He made
eating noises with his mother, and I said, "The father is
sleepingand the mother and boy are eating. I wonder what
time it is. Are they eating supper?"
Eric shook his head. "Bref."
"I see. They're eating breakfast."
Now Eric put the mother and boy outside the house.
"Go thcu."
I remembered that one. "They're going to school.
Where's the girl?"
Again Eric shook his head. Evidently the girl
did not walk to school with them, but Eric had not yet
put her in the house.
Eric pulled a cushion from the couch. "Thcu," he
announced.he wasn't going to take time to build a
school today. I wondered if somehow he sensed that we
were already running late.
In front of the cushion the mother and boy kissed, then
both waved as the mother walked away. "Ma
go wer," he said sadly as he placed the boy on the
cushion.
His longest speech so far -- a real sentence!
"Yes," I agreed, "the mother goes to work and the boy
goes to school."
Tap. Tap. Tap. I got up and opened the
door. Mrs. Kroner said apologetically, "I
don't mean to rush you -- but the buses don't run
too often out of Grover at night, so we have
to hurry to make the eight o'clock. That first night we
came we didn't get back till almost
midnight, and I don't like Errol out that late as a
rule."
"Of course. I understand. I'm sorry. Could you
call me, then, like last week, so we can talk?"
Mrs. Kroner was putting Eric's arms into the
sleeves of his jacket, zipping it up. I wanted
to say, "Please don't. Let him do it himself."
But criticism is not the way to end a session.
Instead I dug an empty scrapbook from the
bookcase and pressed it into Mrs. Kroner's
hands. "Here. Take this. I'll explain when we
talk."
Mrs. Kroner's call again came just after twelve
the next day.
"Did you get home all right?" I asked.
"Fine. Made it right on time. No trouble at
all. I've got my paper ready."
She was going to need it this time. I was pleased that she and
Eric were working well together, and I felt that she was
happy about helping him. I just had to be careful not
to overwhelm her and to go over very carefully just how to do the
things I asked. I wanted Eric to work where daily
practice would increase his skills. I wanted him
to improve. And most of all I wanted both of them
to be successful.
I explained how to help Eric write both the
upper- and lowercase
b (B, but)
on the top of two pages of the scrapbook, and then
to cut out as many things as they could find in newspapers,
ads, or magazines that began with the sound of
b
and paste them on those two pages. Next I
explained that Eric needed to learn to write his name.
I told her, as I had Eric, how each letter was
formed, and asked her to write "Eric" along the
bottom of the scrapbook pages and to ask him
to trace the letters every day.
I asked Mrs. Kroner to get some clay
and snap clothespins, and to encourage Eric to roll and
pummel and pinch to increasethe strength in his fingers. I
asked her to have Eric trace pot covers, bottle
caps, and playing cards.
I asked her to write the letters
B
and
b
on index cards or blank pieces of paper and
let Eric search through the house
till he found two things beginning with the sound of
b -
any two (bed, bathtub, ball, bureau), whatever
he found -- and then have him tape the letters there and leave
them.
I suggested she help Eric lay out his clothes for
school the night before and let him dress himself by himself
as much as possible.
I asked her to keep on reading to him, to occasionally
underline the words with her fingers as she read, to show him
how the words ran from left to right across the page. Eric
should be encouraged to use words as much as possible. If
he wanted milk or a cookie, have him ask for it.
I told her how well Eric had done at this last
session and that I could already see improvement
in his speech.
Mrs. Kroner carefully read back her notes
to me, and it was clear that she really understood. I
cautioned her to keep their practice sessions to no more
than a half hour at a time and to end each one with a
task that Eric could do well. I also told her not
to worry if something came up and they missed a day
-- and most of all to have fun.
Mrs. Kroner proved to be a talented teacher.
During the following weeks she not only did the things
I suggested, she went further and played games
based on the same ideas. When she unpacked the
groceries, she had Eric hunt for items beginningwith
the letters we were working on.
Consequently, well before the month was out Eric had
learned the
b, p, t, k,
and
d
sounds, and could also write the letters. He was still having
difficulty with l and
r,
but his speech was clearer and he rarely used single
words to express his thoughts. Now he spoke two,
three, sometimes four words at a time,
arranging them in meaningful order.
Best of all, there was carryover in school. Each
week I reported to Miss Selby what he was
doing at home and with me, and I suggested the kinds of
things he might be able to do in school, such as matching
some of the upper- and lowercaseletters, circling
pictures to go with sounds, tracing templates,
coloring. I ran off some worksheets of visual
motor
skills (increasingly difficult paths to trace,
mazes to follow) and sent them in with Eric.
And bless Miss Selby, before I knew it she had
cajoled some readiness workbooks from the kindergarten
teacher, and Eric was actually working along with the other children
every day. She was careful to remind me that the work he was
doing was "certainly not on grade level, but at
least he was doing something."
Easter came early that year, and the day before Eric's
sixth visit I set up an Easter egg tree
on a table by the window. Not really a tree, just a
bare branch sprayed white and hung with decorated
eggshells. A friend had shown me how to make a little
pinhole at the end of each egg, put a straw to one
hole and blow the insides out the other. This way the
egg could last forever. And each year I
managed to get through this messy job and make a
special egg for each child who came to my office.
Actually, I made six for Eric. They were easy
-- just dipped in primary colors, a different letter
on each one. I couldn't wait for him to come and pick
his eggs and tell me the names and sounds of each letter, his
eyes shining with excitement, his head nodding up and down
with pleasure.
Six forty-five. I checked my watch again.
Mrs. Kroner had never been late before. They had
to leave promptly at the end of each session to make
the bus back home, so she and Eric were always in the
waiting room well in advance of their appointment.
At seven o'clock I called the Kroners' house.
A female voice answered on the third ring.
"Hello," I said. "This is Eric's tutor,
Mary MacCracken. I was -"
There was a click on the other end. I dialed back
immediately.the phone rang a dozen times. At seven
thirty I dialed again. Nobody home -- or at
least nobody who wanted to answer the telephone.
I called again the next morning, only to reach a
busy signal. A busy signal that lasted all
day long.
I searched the Yellow Pages trying
to find the name of a cosmetic factory in the
Kroners' part of the city, without success.
At noon I called Miss Selby, and she said
Eric wasn't there;
in fact, he hadn't been in all week. She
didn't know what was the matter, but that this wasn't
unusual. The school nurse rarely had time
to track down the absentees.
"Could you give me Mrs. Kroner's work number?"
I asked.
"No. Sorry. That would be down in the file in the
main office. I can try to transfer you," Miss
Selby offered. "Let me know if you find out
anything."
The phone disconnected, and I called back and
eventually got Mr. Kroner's work number.
Mrs. Kroner's wasn't listed.
I knew he worked the night shift, but I wasn't
sure when that began. I decided to call early and
leave a message so I wouldn't interrupt his work.
By nine o'clock I'd stopped caringab interrupting him and
dialed Gare Manufacturing again. I had no
idea what kind of work Mr. Kroner did there or
how big the business was.
A man's voice answered the phone, and
I asked to speak to Mr. Kroner. I could hear the
heavy rhythmic thud of machinesin the background.
"Who's calling?" the man asked.
I hesitated. Would Mr. Kroner know my name?
I wasn't sure. Yet he might not like me
to identify myself as Eric's tutor.
"One of his children's teachers," I compromised.
"Well, is it urgent?"
"Yes," I answered, not knowing.
"Jack," the man called. "Telephone."
There was the sound of the phone against a table or desk.
The machines thudded on.
"Hello." The man's voice was softer than I'd
expected.
"Mr. Kroner. This is Mary MacCracken.
We've never met,
but I've been working with Eric the last few months,
helping him with ..." I hesitated. What had I
been helping Eric with? Why was I finding it so
difficult to speak?
"Uh, with some of his school work. He didn't come for
his appointment yesterday, and they say he hasn't
been in school all week. I was worried about him.
I... uh ... couldn't reach anyone at your
house."
"That so?" I pressed a hand over my other ear, as
if that would help me hear him above the machines.
"Well, could be. Mrs. Kroner's taking a little
trip -- took the boy along with her."
"A trip? She didn't mention anything about a
trip or cancel any of Eric's appointments. Where
did they go?" I realized too late that my question
sounded abrupt.
But Mr. Kroner continued to talk in the same soft
voice. "I don't know where they went. No idea.
When she decides to go, she goes and takes the
runt along. When she decides to come back, she
comes back."
The runt? Did he mean Eric? But his voice was
so soft, so sweet; perhaps I'd misunderstood. No
one at school had mentionedprevious absences -- but
then, I hadn't talked to his kindergarten teacher and
Miss Selby was new.
"But Eric's all right? I mean he's always been
all right before?"
"All right? You said you knew him." Even the
sarcasm "came so sweetly and softly off his
tongue that I didn't recognizeit immediately. "I
gotta go now, lady," he continued. "But he'll be
back. Always has. It's just his mama's
got this little drinkin' problem. Gets worse around the
holidays and off she goes." The phone clicked.
The dial tone hummed, and I replaced the receiver.
A drinking problem? I couldn't believe it. Mrs.
Kroner was always so responsible, so in control. She
did look much older than her years, but I
assumed that came from work and worry. I had never
seen or heard anything to make me suspect she
drank. But if she did have a problem, how bad was
it? Was she capable of caring for Eric? Mr. Kroner
certainly hadn't
sounded concerned, but then Mr. Kroner also referred
to Eric as "the runt."
Nine thirty. I got out the telephone book again,
knowing it was late, but maybe not too late.
I searched through the half-dozen Tortonis, found a
Frank, dialed, apologized when a woman
answered.
"Mrs. Tortoni?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"Mary MacCracken. I'm sorry to call this
late, but, well, it's a long story. I've been
working with a friend of yours -- little Eric Kroner -- and
... I guess I was just worried about him and called
to see if you knew anything."
"Well, Mrs. MacCracken, I'd like to help
you. I really would, after all you did for us.
Frankie's still doin' real well. But I'm
afraid I can't tell you anything, and I really
can't talk more now. Good-bye."
Mrs. Tortoni had sounded guarded. Not her
usual self. She hadn't even asked why I was
worried about Eric. I had the feeling she knew more
than she'd said. But there was no point in calling her
back, at least not until tomorrow morning.
By ten o'clock the Tortoni kids would be in school and
Frank Senior at the garage. If Mrs.
Tortoni was ever going to talk to me, this seemed the
most likely time.
"Hello." Mrs. Tortoni's voice seemed a
little friendlier.
I identified myself, and then without actually repeating
what Mr. Kroner had said, I implied that I was
concerned about Mrs. Kroner as well as Eric.
"Well, now, look. It's really kind of you to be
thinking about them," Mrs. Tortoni said. "I know
they'd appreciate it and all, but there isn't
anything you can do. Believe me. Now I'll let you
know if something comes up. And Frankie said to be
sure and say hello."
Late Friday afternoon the phone in my office rang,
and I handed the boy I was working with the stopwatch (i
always pay a chip for each second I'm on the
phone) and picked up the receiver.
"Mrs. MacCracken. This is Blanche
Kroner. I'm sorry to interrupt you." She
spoke in a strained whisper, but her words were clear.
"That's all right. I've been trying to reach you.
How's Eric?"
"That's why I'm calling. He's all right, but I
need some work for him. I can't talk over the phone."
Her voice had dropped so I could barely hear
her. "What I wondered was if you could come to Grover
tomorrow morning and bring work for Eric. I can't talk
anymore. Will you meet me at the Main Street
Diner at ten o'clock?"
She hung up before I could answer.
That night when I'd finished work I went through my
shelves and closets collecting materials that I
thought might be helpful to Eric. I wasn't quite
sure what kind of work Mrs. Kroner wanted --
or for how long a period -- and I couldn't find a
great deal. I made up most of what I used out of
my head, but I found a scope and sequence chart, a
few readiness workbooks, and a teacher's
manual, and put them in a large manila envelope
and took it home with me.
The next morning I followed the map to Grover, and
Main Street was easy to find. The diner was at the
far west end of the run-down street.
Mrs. Kroner had obviously been watching for me,
and she came forward and led me to a back booth in the
almost-empty diner.
I ordered coffee for both of us and waited for Mrs.
Kroner to explain. She wore her usual black
cloth coat. She looked thin and tense, certainly
not drunk, but I wasn't exactly sure what
to look for.
The waitress set our coffee on the red Formica
tabletop, and as soon as she left Mrs. Kroner
leaned across, reaching out, almost touching my arm.
"I need work for Eric, like I said. See, I'm
leaving this afternoon, and I want him to keep on learning
like he's been doing and you're the only one I can
talk to." There was a
tremendous urgency behind her words, although she spoke
in a hoarse whisper.
"Where are you thinking of going?"
"I don't want to talk about that -- just going, that's
all."
"What about Eric?"
"He's going with me. That's why I have to have the work."
"Mrs. Kroner," I said. "I think you ought to think
about this more. Eric's been doing so well, making such
progress, I don't think it's a good idea
to take him out of school now. He's already missed a
week. I talked to Miss Selby."
Mrs. Kroner leaned toward me, immediately alert.
"What did she say?"
"Nothing. She didn't know any more than I did."
Mrs. Kroner relaxed, but only for a minute.
"Did you bring the work?" she insisted.
"Yes." I put the envelope on the table. "But
I think I need to tell you that I talked to Mr.
Kroner and -"
"When?" she interrupted. "What did he say?"
"I'm trying to tell you," I said as gently as I
could. "He said that you often went off on trips,
particularly around the holidays."
"That's not true. Where would I go?"
"He said," I continued, "that you take Eric with you and
that you go on these trips because you have a drinking
problem.now if this is true, please don't
leave. Stay and get help -- think about Eric."
Mrs. Kroner's mouth was tight with anger.
"I don't drink. He tells everybody that,
speaking so sweet, so nice. He does it so that if
I ever -- never mind. Thanks for the books."
She stood up and reached for the envelope, and I put
my hand on her arm.
"Why, then? Why do you have to go? You just said you didn't
have anyplace to go."
"I meant for trips. I'm going for good now." She
sat down heavily, and her untouched coffee sloshed
into the saucer.
"Do you know how hard it will be for Eric to start in a
new school in the middle of the year?" I asked.
"More than the middle -- there are only a little over
two months left. For Eric's sake, couldn't you
wait that long?"
"It's for Eric's sake I'm going," she said
quietly, but no longer whispering.
I waited for her to say more, but she sat without
speaking, although she made no move to leave. Finally
I said, "What do you mean, for Eric's sake?"
She put down the paper napkin with which she had been
wiping up the spilled coffee.
"All right," she said. "I didn't know for sure
until this year. I had my ideas, but, see.
Jack works the night shift -- I told
you that -- and when Eric started school full time I
began working days at the cosmetic factory.
"I liked it. I liked the company. I liked the
money. But then one of the girls got some kind of bug
or virus, and we all got it one after the other --
headache, fever. Didn't last long, but it came
on fast.
"When it hit me, I tried to keep on working. I
didn't want to go home. To tell the truth, I
didn't like being around him, Jack, any more than he
liked being around me. We just stayed out of each other's
way.
"But then I began to heave, so I decided I had
to go home. It's only about six blocks, and I
made it all right. I let myself in -- didn't
even stop to take off my coat, just wanted to get
off my feet. Our bedroom door was closed, which was
queer, because Jack usually sleeps on the cot in the
back room -- says its quieter there during the day
-- but I felt so sick I didn't stop to think
about it. I just opened the door -- and there were Jack and
Bella in the bed, both of them stark naked.
was "Get out of here, the both of you," I yelled
at them.
"But Jack picked up a towel by the side
of the bed and wrapped it around him. He told Bella
to take her clothes and go on down to the drugstore for a
while, and Bella did like he said. Then he comes
over to me and puts his hands around my neck. He's
strong. Jack is, even though he doesn't look
it. And he says if I ever tell he'll kill
me. Not only me -- Eric, too. Says it's
my fault anyway "cause I'm such a dried
up old crone."
I didn't want to hear this. It belonged in some
scandal sheet or maybe textbook. Not in
Eric's life. I wanted to think Mrs. Kroner
was lying or making it up. But it was too real. I
waited for her to cry, but she looked at me steadily
and dry-eyed.
"So we made a deal," she said. "I wouldn't
tell, and he wouldn't bother me and Eric."
"What about Bella?"
"She's a born slut. She'd do it -- and does
-- with any Tom, Dick, or Harry. She
doesn't care he's her father. She likes the
presents he brings her and all that pretty talk.
I can hear them sometimes up in Bella's room in the
attic. I try to cover Eric's ears."
I looked hard at Mrs. Kroner.
Bella was her daughter, still a child, no matter what
else. Shouldn't she have tried to protect Bella
instead of making a deal? I started to say this to Mrs.
Kroner but she interrupted.
"I know it wasn't right. That's why I didn't
want anybody testing Eric. I was afraid
somebody would find out something. But life's not easy,
you know. You make do. You get through. A lot of it
isn't pretty. And I had Errol -- Jack
kept to his word and left us alone."
I thought about Eric. How had he done as well as
he had? Not only serious learning disabilities, but
all this as well. But Mrs. Kroner was still talking.
"That is, he kept his word until last Wednesday.
I came home from work in the late afternoon. Errol was
watching TV in the kitchen -- Jack was asleep in
the back room -- Bella was out. Everything seemed
like usual.
"I washed up like I always do before bringing Errol over
to you. Then I called to Errol to come get his bath, like
always. But he didn't want to. Fussed and cried
and carried on. I didn't know what to make of it.
Usually he wants to look clean and nice for you.
So finally I just took his clothes off him, but before I
got him in the tub I saw how his bottom
was bright red and splotchy. Some kind of rash, I
thought. Now what's he coming down with.
"But then Errol started to cry, and I shut the door
tight so he wouldn't wake Jack, and Errol shows
me, acting it out, how Jack made him take down
his pants. And then when Errol wouldn't get under the
covers with him. Jack smacked him across the bottom
with an old curtain rod. And when I looked
close I could see the welts -- the red wasn't from
any rash.
"I put Errol's clothes back on him as quick as
I could and went out the door calling that we were going
to your place -- just in case Jack had heard and was
starting after us. Then I didn't know where to go, so we
took the bus here to Grover. But I couldn't go on
to you 'cause that's where he thought we were going. So
finally we just came here and waited till I was sure
Jack would be at work.
"Since then we've been at the Tortonis" --
you know her, she said you'd called. I had to stay
till I could get back in the house when both
Jack and Bella were out and get the money I had
hid. I had to get bus fare.
"I don't want to say exactly where we're
going, but it's upstate New York, where
I grew up. My mother's still there, and she'll take
us in. But I gotta put Errol in school as
soon as we get there. I know that. That's why I had
to talk to you. To find out what's best for him.
"Well, I got the money late yesterday. That's
when I called you. And now I'm going back and get
Errol from the Tortonis, and we're leaving this
afternoon."
I left the diner a half hour later. I went
over the books I'd brought and urged Mrs.
Kroner to enter Eric in kindergarten when they arrived.
He was so small, I was sure he'd fit in -- and
he'd have a better chance of handling first grade next
year. I also urged her to contact a mental health
clinic for support and help for both of them. All
she really wanted was the books, as if they were some
magic talisman. That was
the last time I saw Mrs. Kroner, and I've
never again seen or heard from Eric.
I did call Family Services about Bella,
but by the time they got over to the house both she and Mr.
Kroner had disappeared.
I saw Eric for only a few sessions, a
fraction of the time I spend with most children, yet he is
the one who haunts my dreams.
If our time together hadn't been interrupted, could he
have continued his growth? Over and over I ask myself why
I didn't realize what was going on. Eric tried
to show me with his play -- always the girl doll beside the
father, always the struggleto decide whether he was a
boy or a baby. Why hadn't I asked Mrs.
Kroner more questions? Did I think I shouldn't
intrude? If I had, could I have made a
difference?
I'll never know. But I'll always wonder and hope
that Eric got the help he needed and deserved. There
are still six eggshellsin a carton somewhere in my
attic. The colors have faded, but you can see that each
is marked with a different letter. I take this to be a good
omen.
Changes
"You are squandering your most precious asset,"
thelawyer said in a voice that was mildly accusing.
"What is that?" I asked. "What do you mean?"
"Time, of course. Time. You are throwing away almost
two hours every day in commuting. You should find office
space closer to your home or move closer to your
office."
I listened carefully. I'd come to this highly
recommended, successful man for advice.
My days had become too crowded, too full.
There was never enough time, and yet I loved my work.
Instinctively, I trusted this man and knew that what
he said was right. Without the long commute each day there
would be more time for both my family and the children.
Cal and I talked. Cal -- inventor, engineer,
entrepreneur, manufacturer, and my friend and husband
-- had operated his manufacturing plant for over
twenty years in the same city where I had been
born. We now rented an apartment almost an hour
away from both our offices, and it made a great deal
of sense to buy a house that would eliminate commutingfor
both of us.
We found a house that had been built by an
architect as both his office and his home -- low and
quiet, surrounded by woods. The office, two
rooms and a bath above the garage,
would be mine, with only a five-minute drive to work
for Cal.
I said good-bye to Rea Oldenburg with sorrow. I
would miss our conversations and shared lunches.
"No, no," she said. "The lawyer is right. It is
a waste for you to be in the car so long. We will still
meet, and now the children will drive to you."
I moved my file cabinets and the
secondhand desk and chairs (they had been lucky and
I had no wish to change). I carpeted the stairs
and the floors of the two rooms in blue, painted the
walls a creamy white, and bought some new towels
and a rug for the bathroom, a five-foot blackboard
for one wall, and a secondhand copy machine. The
ceiling sloped down low from the roof, and the back window
looked out over the woods. Two walls held
deep cabinets, designed for architectural
drawings but equally good for children's games, books,
toys, and testing material. I left the walls
bare, except for the blackboard, waiting to fill them
with the children'spictures and stories.
Rea Oldenburg was right. Most of the children I had
been seeing did drive to me; others were ready
to graduate, and old friends sent new children to take their
place. My practice seemed like a kind of
garden, with children growing in place of flowers -- always
new ones shooting up as the older ones matured.
I bloomed along with the children. If I'd been happy
before, I was even happier now working out of our home.
I loved wearing my sneakers and blue jeans. I
loved not having to spend hours on the crowded
highways. And, to my surprise, I loved having
the time to do more diagnostic educational
evaluations than I'd ever done before.
Some of the evaluations were done simply because parents
wanted to know as much as possible about their children -- whether
they were in the right school, what their interests and
aptitudes were -- and these evaluations were always a
delight. No problems to uncover, no painful
disclosures to
parents -- just the fresh, wonderful responses of the
children. "What does the stomach do?" I asked. (this
is a standard question on the Wechsler Intelligence
Scale.) Seven-year-old Eva, bright as a
dollar, looked at me with confidence. "That's
easy," she said. "It digests the food." Then,
before I had finished writing the first word, she added with
authority, "And from there it goes straight to the vagina
where it's excavated."
But most of the evaluations I did were requested because a
child was doing poorly in school and parents and/or
schools wanted to know why.
The heart of my practice remained remediation, which
is exactly the way I wanted it. The word
"remediation" is derivedfrom the Latin
remederi,
which means "to heal." I believedin this. I did not
think it possible to take a slice of a child's
head and merely try to fix up the reading part. I
felt and still feel that the reading, or lack of it, must
be helped and then integrated into the child's whole being.
My job, as I saw it, was not just to shore up
reading, writing, or arithmeticskills, nor
to ameliorate dyslexia, dysgraphia, or
dyscalculia, but to try to help children become
successful in their place of work -- school -- and
to improve the quality of their lives.
But I was becoming more and more convinced that the first step in the
successful remediation of a child with a learningdisability
is a thorough diagnostic evaluation. How much
easier to teach and heal when areas of strength and
weaknesseswere clearly defined. I became
supersleuth, tracking strengths, ferreting out
weaknesses, drawing hypotheses, translating
to parents. I also found that the hour or two that parents
and I spent together in conference, going over the tests I
had given as well as discussing their deeper knowledge of the child,
usually formed a bond of understanding between us that made it
easier to help the child.
Yet, ironically, I could remember how I had
once loathed testers and their testing. When I was
teaching emotionally
disturbed children, the children were required to undergo a
kind of cursory testing once a year -- and on this
superficial testing, judgments were passed.
I hated these testers, and I hated their tests.
Perhaps hate is too strong a word, but I certainly
didn't welcome them. Who were these people to tell us about
our children? We teachers had only four children each. We
were with them six hours a day, five days a week --
teaching, playing, eating -- intensely involved all
day long. The testers were certified psychologistseab
they came to our school for only a few hours a
week, observing the children from doorways, discussing them
at staff conferences, never really interacting with them.
And then "testing" them -- taking the children out to another
room, the children protesting, hating to go. I had a
strong sense that the feeling was mutual. I doubted that
the testers had any more desire to be close to the children
than the children had to be with them.
But test they did, and they reported back weeks
later that our children were "subnormal." What did these
people know about the real child, I raged silently, when most
of the time the children were frozen with fear and couldn't have
answeredthe questions even if they had known the answers?
I regarded the results of this testing with suspicion
and disdain.
Then in graduate school I learned that the
fault was not in the tests themselves, but in the way they were
used. In a course entitled Individual
Psychological Testing taught by Dr. George
Kennedy -- a tall, gentle man with a fringe of
white hair -- I learned how valuable testing could
be.
"Each week I will test a child," Dr. Kennedy
told us. "You will observe the child and myself through this
one-way window.the child and I will sit here at the table
behind the glass." He tapped the window with his fingers.
"And you," he gestured at the twenty graduate
students who composed his class, "will sit here in this
classroom and watch and record the child's answers.
At our next session we will go over the answers and
your scoring and observations."
He smiled at us benignly. "It will be my job
to furnish the tests. It will be yours to furnish the
children."
So each week, sometimes twice a week, we took
turns bringing our own or a neighbor's child to Dr.
Kennedy and watched as he talked and tested and
revealed to us the amazingamount of information that he
discovered about each. If Dr. Kennedy had been at
the school for emotionally disturbed children, I would have
trusted his tests. He didn't give one
single test and make broad pronouncements. He
gave a batteryof tests, each one revealing a
different facet of the child. He didn't rely
solely on the number of rights and wrongs for the final
answer. His tests were covered with notes, and from these
he taught us that observations were even more
importantthan numbered scores.
Most important of all, the children loved him and
opened easily to him. This was not a painful ordeal for
them, but rather a special time spent with a person who
cared about them. The children sensed his genuine interest and
responded to it.
I loved every minute of that course and the magical way
Dr. Kennedy drew out the children, as well as his
meticulous, careful scoring of each test and the
conversion of the scores into meaningful statements and
recommendations. It was then that I began thinking that
maybe, someday, I might have an office of my own
and do individualized testing that would form a solid
base for remediation.
I got an A in Individual Psychological
Testing, and I immediatelysigned up for the same course
again the next semestereaknowing I must learn as much as
possible about evaluations from this sensitive,
intelligent man. A proper evaluationis
more than just a test. It should clear up questions, point out
the kind of remediation that is needed, forge a team to work
together to help the child, and bring about changes in the
climate and patterns of family life and school.
It is the beginning of the turnabout. At least, it was for
Ben.
Ben
Benjamin Bradford Aylesworth stood on the low
stone porch that runs across the front of our house.
Benjamin Bradford Aylesworth was his given name.
"Banana Brain" was what the kids at school
called him. They just took his first two initials and
fashioned him a nickname. Dr. Golden, the
psychologist who had referred Ben to me, had heard
this from Ben's teacher. He wasn't sure if they
called Ben "Banana Brain" to his face; he
wasn't even sure if Ben knew about it at all.
One look at Ben and I knew he knew. He not
only knew, he believed it was true. If ever a
child projected defeat, it was Ben. He was tall for
twelve, with pale gold hair falling down over his
forehead, hiding his eyes. His features were even,
almost handsome, but his whole body drooped forward in
sullen, melancholy dejection.
"Hello," I said, stretching out my hand.
Ben's eyes remained fixed on the toes of his
Adidas. "Ben!" His mother's voice rose
slightly as she spoke. "Say hello to Mrs.
MacCracken."
was "Lo," Ben muttered without raising his eyes.
There had been a request, almost an order, behind his
mother's words that meant Ben was supposed to extend his
hand and say he was glad to meet me. I knew Ben
heard this as clearly as I did. I also knew
nothing in the world would make him do it. He had somehow
allowed himself to be dragged to my office, but he
certainly wasn't going to shake my hand. I quickly
put my hands inside my pockets to show that shaking was
not a top priority with me.
I moved my eyes away from Ben and focused on his
mother. This was the first time we had met, although we had
spoken on the phone several times. She was slim,
her hair only a shade darker than Ben's, and she
rolled the thin gold chain at the base of her neck
back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, her fingers
trembling slightly. She was obviouslyvery
nervous. I longed to reassure her that I would be
gentle, careful, with her son, but this was not the time.
Later we would spend hours together, but now belonged
to Ben. I needed every ounce of concentration,
observation, all antennas tuned only to Ben if
I were to fathom him. I could only hope she sensed
this and understood.
"Ben and I will be about an hour," I said. "Here is
the background information form I mentioned on the phone.
If you could just fill it in and drop it off sometime in the
next week or two, I'd appreciate it.
Now, would you like to wait here in our den or would you rather
come back?"
She hesitated, looking at Ben, then cleared her
throat. "Well.. . uh, Ben, do you want me
to stay? Uh ... what do you think?"
Ben shrugged without turning his head or raising his
eyes.
Mrs. Aylesworth began backing down the front
path towardthe driveway, the form fluttering in her
hand. "Well... uh, then I'll be back. Just do
a few errands, and be back at... uh." She stared
at her watch, blond straight hair swinging across
her face. "What time should I come back?" she
asked helplessly.
"A little after two," I said.
Ben and I watched together as the white Mercedes
backed down the driveway.
"We go this way," I said to Ben, stepping
inside, leading the way to my office.
As we passed the sliding glass doors that look out
on the terrace, Ben suddenly stopped. Two
chickadees and a tufted titmouse perched on the
clear, cylindrical bird feeders that hung just
outside the doors. Ben stood perfectly still, his
eyes riveted on the birds, which were only inches
away. His head was up and with his hair back he was far
more handsome than I had first thought. His eyes were
grayish violet-blue, the pupils rimmed in
black, his nose straight, mouth wide. Only his
skin seemed out of place -- milk white, almost
transparenteawithout a trace of color, except at
his temples where little purple veins clustered and beat
like a tiny heart on the side of his head. His skin
made him seem vulnerable, without enough protective
coloring.
"Look at that one!" Ben said, pointing to a tufted
titmouse. "Look at him g-g-go!" His voice
was high and excited, with just a trace of a stutter, and
his light-boned, skinny shoulders trembled under the
Norwegian patterned hand-knit sweater. The
excitement in his voice was in such contrast to his
initial behavior that I stood beside him for a moment
or two, watchingas the birds zoomed out
of the woods behind the terrace, braked to an instant
stop on the metal perches that extended from the feeders,
plucked out a sunflower seed, and were instantly off
again.
"I like the chickadees and the titmouse," I said,
making conversation, giving Ben time, "but not the purple
finches. They come in bunches, fill up all four
feeders, and sit forever stuffing themselves. If a
chickadee comes along, they squawk and peck at
it, until I finally have to open the doors and shoo the
finches away so the chickadees can get another
chance. Anyway, let's go on up and I'll show you
my office."
Actually, there's not an awful lot to show. Maybe
that's why I like it. Clearly no decorator has
ever been near the room. It belongs to the kids and
me, and I try to make it a place where people don't
have to pretend to be something they're not.
I pointed out the bathroom, the eccentricities of the
bathroomlight, and the window in the small adjoining
room from which the driveway and front lawn were
visible. I knew that Ben was both angry and scared,
and I wanted him to have a chance to get familiar with the
space around him. Then I motioned him to the chair behind
the desk and pulled another one beside it.
"The first thing I want to do is just ask you some general
questions -- name, age, address, that kind of thing.
What's your full name and what do you want me
to call you?"
"Benjamin Bradford Aylesworth."
"Yes?"
"What?"
"Should I call you Ben?"
"D-d-doesn't matter. It's a stupid name
anyway." Ben's voice was high, almost whiny now.
"Address?"
"One twenty-five Mountain View Road. South
M-M-Mill-wood."
"Phone?"
"Which one? We got three. Two regulars and I
g-g-got one in my room."
"That's pretty nice. I guess you better give
me all three." Obviously, Ben did not lack
the material things in life.
"How old are you, Ben?"
"Twelve."
"Birthday?"
"November twenty-third."
"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"
"Yeah, one sister. J-J-Jessie."
"How old is she?"
"Seven."
"How do you two get along?"
"Jessie's okay."
"How about pets?"
"Yeah. I got a dog."
"What kind?"
"A black Lab. MacArthur. I call him
M-M-Mac for short."
Ben's voice seemed slightly friendlier, and the
occasional stutter did not seem to be connected to the
subject matter. I decided that this was a good time
to see if he would be interested in the chips.
"Pull that box over, Ben, and open it up," I
said.
Ben stared at the chips without speaking.
"If you want, you can pay yourself for everything you do here.
If it's too much trouble, that's okay, too." I
wanted to give him an out if the chips seemed
babyish. But Ben was fingering the chips, letting them
slide through his fingers.
"What do you mean?"
"Each color is worth a different amount. Like
yellow is fifty and green is twenty-five.
It's written there on the inside cover."
I explained about the chips and prizes.
"You can buy things when you're done. Nothing much. A
sticker is worth a hundred, a Matchbox car
seven thousand."
"Seven thousand. That's a rip-off."
I shrugged and counted up the brief information Ben had
given me so far. "Okay. Pay yourself
sixty-five so far. A yellow, a blue, and an
orange. Now, what grade are you in?"
Ben picked out the chips quickly. "Sixth."
"And your teacher?"
"Mrs. Holber."
"Who did you have for fifth?"
"Mrs. Andrews."
I asked and Ben told me the names of each of his
teachers back through nursery school.
"Which one did you like the best?"
Without hesitation, Ben named his kindergarten teacher.
"Why? What was good about her?"
"She didn't yell."
It was a familiar answer. So many learning disabled
childrenremember kindergarten as their happiest year in
school. Things were okay until it was time to learn
to read.
"How about subjects? What do you like best
in school?"
"Nothing."
I decided to change the subject myself. "What's
your dad's name?"
"Ralph."
"What does he do?"
"Zyloc Corporation. He's
p-p-president."
"Your mom's name?"
"Carol."
"And what does she do?"
"Nothing. Well -- she d-d-drives us around and
she goes shopping and stuff."
"Okay, Ben. Two more questions. What do you like to do
best when you're not in school?"
"Sail." The answer came quick and fast.
"Where do you sail?"
"At the river. In the summer." For the first time his
blue eyes met mine, and I thought. Okay, all
right, we're going to get there.
I smiled at him. "Sounds good. Last question. Why
do you think you're here? I ask everyone that."
Ben looked straight at me, every trace of friendliness
gone. "Because they s-s-said I had to.
D-D-Dad and M-M-Mom and
Dr. Crazy all said I had to c-c-come."
"All right. Thank you, Ben. Let's see." I
counted up. "Pay yourself one hundred and
thirty-five. That would be a silver ..."
"I know, I know," Ben interrupted, picking out the
chips. "You don't have to tell me. I can figure
it out."
I moved from the chair beside Ben to the opposite side
of the desk, sat down, and picked up a brown
envelope from a briefcase on the other chair. I
took a small pack of 4-by-6-inch white
cards out of the envelope and placed them upside down
in the center of the desk. I gave Ben a pencil and
piece of paper (the pencil a number two, the
paper 8V2 by 12 inches).
"This is called the Bender Gestalt, and what I'd
like you to do first is just copy these designs. Each of
these cards has
a different design on it. I'll turn them over
one at a time, and you copy it."
Ben picked up the pencil, holding it in an
awkward, hooked, right-handed grip -- three fingers
on top, close to the point. He copied the
circle with a diamond beside it, but somehow he couldn't
get the two figures to touch and the diamond
looked more like a rectangle. At his age this should have
been an easy task, and his struggles immediately set
off warning signals of the possibility of
difficulties with perceptual organization.
He erased and began again, glaring at me across the
desk. "What's the point of this d-d-dumb test?
I can't draw these kinds of things anyway."
"Just do it the best you can."
Ben begrudgingly finished the design and I turned
over the next card.
Ben counted the dots on the card with his finger, counting
backward from right to left. He drew three tiny
circles and counted again, this time from left to right. It was
obvious that Ben had a great deal of left-right
confusion. Inwardly I wondered if he also reversed
or had once reversed letters and words, a condition that
often accompanies confused directionality.
As a teacher or tutor I would never have let Ben
struggle so, but during these four evaluation sessions it
was necessary for me to test and learn what Ben could do on his
own -- to discover his strengths and also his weaknesses.
The Bender Gestalt is primarily a test of
visual motor perceptioneab it also gives clues
to the child's work style, his organizational skills, a
sense of how he feels about himself. Ben's
left-right confusion and difficulty drawing angles were
obvious, but underneath Ben's sullenness was a
surprising determination. He continued to work hard,
although silently now, at a task that was clearly very
difficult for him.
"Okay. That's fine," I said as he finished
copying the last design. "Now take this new
piece of paper and draw as many designs as you can
remember."
"Oh, jeez," Ben whined. "That's not fair." I
understood -- always I wish the test instructions
included the fact that the child will be asked to reproduce
the designs later. Somehow it seems so much
fairer, but while I may fudge the rules a little
with chips, I'm strict with myself about administering
tests the way they are written.
Ben began to draw immediately, despite his complaints,
and produced six of the nine designs, although one was
upside down and all six were only one-tenth the
size of the original. A recall of five
designs is considered average.
"Pay yourself twenty-five for each design you
remembered, plus ten for each of the nine you copied."
Ben was counting and figuring and paying himself. He
wasn't willing to become involved with me as
a person yet, but he was certainly into the chips.
Most children dump their chips any old which way into one
of the empty containers on the desk, but Ben sorted his
by color and lined them up in even rows.
"Wha.a we do now?" he asked, avarice overcoming
anxiety.
"Well, we'll begin the WISC-R. The first part
has to do with information -- facts about the world. The questions
are easy in the beginning. They get harder, up to high
school, so I don't expect you to know all of them.
Here's the first one. How many pennies in a
nickel?"
"Jeez. Wha.a you think? A hundred? Five,
naturally."
The questions became increasingly difficult, and Ben's
answers became increasingly inaudible, a stutter in
almost every sentence now. Still, he worked with concentration, and
we finished four more subtests of the WISC-R --
Picture Completion, Similarities, Picture
Arrangement, and Arithmetic.
Finally, I leaned back and said, "That's it for today,
Ben. Count up."
I helped him separate his chips into piles equal
to a hundred, talking to him as we worked together. "I
don't know if your mother told you or not, but
you'll be coming three more
times for testing. If you'll open that middle drawer and
hand me the black book, I'll tell you when your
next appointment
is.
Ben opened the drawer and rummaged around, taking his
time, fingering the Mickey Mouse watch and letter opener.
There was no hyperactivity in his actions. He was just
doing what I'd asked and taking his time about it. That was
okay. If I was going to prowl around in his head, he
could at least investigate my desk drawer.
He handed me the book, and I opened it to March.
"Here. Next Friday at one o'clock -- is that going
to be all right with you?"
He gave me the same shrug we'd started with. "I
guess so. Doesn't matter. Anyway, they say
I have to. One hundred, two hundred. .. nine
hundred. And then I have these left over. Fifty,
sixty, seventy. Nine hundred and seventy."
I wrote 970 in the back of his folder, walked
to the filing cabinet, and lifted down the wicker
basket and "menu." The "menu" consists of a list of
ten or twelve items and the amount of chips each one
costs. I print each item in a different color
to heighten its appeal. I try to change the
menu a little each week to keep things interesting.
THIS WEEK'S CHOICE
.. too each .. 2,00 a piece .. 500
1,000
1,200
1,400 yea8oo 4,000 4eaioo
4,200
6eaooo
7eaooo
stickers ..............
sugarless gum.........
raisins ...............
Snoopy pencil
.........
erasers ...............
animal crackers .......
ruler .................
click erasers ..........
automatic pencil
......
scissors ..............
colored note paper
....
Matchbox car of choice
Ben studied the list. "What does 'of
choice" mean?" "That you can order the one you want from
this catalog,"
I answered.
Ben nodded. "Anyone ever get seven thousand?"
"Sure. The kids who come after school for extra
help save
up all the time. It takes them awhile though, because
that's
not as hard as testing."
Ben nodded. "Yeah. Uh. Can I see the
catalog?" "Yes. You always have one minute
to decide whether to
spend or save. Would you start the stopwatch?"
I wanted him to use the stopwatch as much as
possible,
because the more familiar he was with it the less anxiety it
would create during the timed subtests.
After thirty seconds of glancing through the catalog
and
the basket, Ben turned off the stopwatch and put it
back in
the case. "I'm saving."
After Ben left, I collected his papers and made
notes about his performance on the WISC-R. I
considered all intelligence tests somewhat
suspect, because I knew from experience that scores can
and do change on different days or with different
testers. Still, the WISC-R (wechsler
Intelligence Scale for Children-Revisedggis the best
of the intelligence tests. I liked the fact that there
are two sections to the test: the Verbal section, where
all six subtests require verbal answers; and the
Performancesection (puzzles, blocks, and so forth),
where the six subtests require nonverbal
answers. So, as I watched a child taking the test I
could see where he felt comfortable and sure of himself and
where confidence faded. The WISC-R is far from
perfect. I wish there were more "right-brain" tests, such
as measurement of ability in music and rhythm. (the
renowned neurologist Dr. Norman Geschwind
claimed that if the WISC-R contained a subtest
that measured musical ability, he would be
classified as having dysmusia, in contrast
to dyslexia -- and I'm sure I would, too.)
I also wish there were less emphasis on the
Full-Scale IQ
score and much more on the individual subtest
scores, which point up the areas of strengths and
weaknesses.
Because the children I evaluate are usually
suspected of having some type of learning disability,
the WISC-R is almost always a pleasant
experience. Nearly every child scores far above his
academic grades in at least some of the subtests,
and he knows it. You can't fool these kids when they're
failing, and it's just as true when they're succeeding.
They love to find that they are good in some things and not the
overall "stupid head" that their academic grades
suggest. Of course, the low subtest scores are
valuable, too -- they yield clues to areas of
weakness, which is necessary for planning remediation.
On the Information subtest of the WISC-R, Ben
missed relatively easy items, such as "Where
does the sun set?" Yet he was able to answer in
detail a question about hieroglyphics.
He didn't know which month comes after March and had
difficulty saying the months of the year; he knew
there were twelve but was able to think of only ten in
scrambled order. Yet, on Similarities, which
measures the ability to think and reason abstractly,
he scored in the superior range, even if he
stumbled in expression.
On the Picture Completion subtest, Ben
spotted the missing detail of a picture
instantly, but then fumbled for the word
to describe it, calling the knob on a bureau a
"button thing" and pointing to the missing strap of a
watch and calling it "the thing ... uh ... I mean the
watch's belt is missing." Because Picture
Completion is not a test of verbal ability, the child
only needs to point to the missing detail for the item
to be scored as correct. Consequently, this did not
lower Ben's score. But difficulty with word
retrieval is another indicator of learning
disabilities and points up the importance of
observationrather than just the numbered scores.
Picture Arrangement was more difficult for Ben.
In this test he was supposed to place cut-up
picture sequences in order
so that they told a logical story. Ben had trouble
partly beche was confused about directionality and so
couldn't tell whether trucks were coming or going, and
partly because he rushed. Also, he was very innocent and
insecure about social situations, and this subtest
requires social awareness, the knowledge of what to do when,
as well as sequencing ability.
The Arithmetic subtest of the WISC-R was also
hard for Ben, not because he didn't know how to do the
problems, but because they were given orally and he couldn't
remember what was said long enough to hold the
facts in his head so that he could figure out the
solutions.
I tucked the papers back into Ben's file and then
turned to the notes I had made during phone
calls with Phil Golden, the clinical
psychologist who had referred Ben to me. Phil and
I had known each other for years. We had both been
on the second floor of Rea Oldenburg's
office building, and we often shared discussions of our
cases. He was a big, kind, intelligent man,
and I respected his work. We both believed that
emotional and learning problems are usually linked in
one way or another, and he referred children to me for
what he called "educational therapy." We both
believed that if one person in a family is troubled
or hurting, the other members will also be affected.
Phil was an accomplished family therapisteaand so
I, too, referred cases to him.
Phil had been working with the Aylesworths for about two
months at the time of my first meeting with Ben. They
had contacted him because Ben's pediatrician had
insisted upon it. Ben had become increasingly withdrawn
during the fall months, keeping almost entirely
to himself. His grades had slipped from C's to D's
and lower. Then one day just before Christmas,
Phil told me, Jessie -- Ben's sister --
had gone out into their yard and looked up to see Ben
standing barefoot on the roof. She called to him, but
he didn't answer, and she ran to tell her mother.
So far, no one was sure what Ben was doing on the
roof.
He wouldn't talk about it, but it was the precipitating
incident that made Ben's pediatrician insist that the
Aylesworths contactPhil Golden.
The Aylesworths had planned to send only Ben,
but Phil insisted that the whole family come in. They
did so reluctantlyeaexcept for Jessie, a
sunny seven-year-old, and Phil said that things were
now moving very slowly. Ben still refused to say what
he was doing on the roof. His father complained
incessantly about Ben's grades and behavior, but
found one reason after another why he couldn't keep
appointments. So to Phil's frustration he was
presently seeing only Mrs. Ayles-worth and the
two children.
Phil said he suspected that some of Ben's troubles
in school might be due to some type of learning
disability and suggested to the Aylesworths that they bring
Ben to me for a diagnostic evaluation.
Mrs. Aylesworth had immediately picked
up on the suggestionand called for an appointment.
She had been anxious to talk and I listened to her
carefully.
"Ben was fine," she said, "till it came time for him
to go to school. Everybody in the family loved him.
He was his grandmother's favorite -. "the brightest and the
best," she alwayssd. Even now she thinks he's
wonderful, but that's because she only sees him in the
summer.
"Still, even though he's never liked school, he's
never been like this before. He's failing everything and then
lying about it. Saying he's studied when I know he's
never opened a book. Ben's not like Jessie, his
sister. She's in second grade now, and I
sometimes think she can read better than Ben."
I was not pleased by the comparison, but this was not the time
to discuss it. Instead I asked if Ben had had any
previous evaluations. It seemed odd, with his
continuing history of school difficulty, that someone
hadn't picked up on it.
There was a short silence, and then Mrs.
Aylesworth said, "Well, actually, his
third-grade teacher wanted the Child Study Team to do
what she called a workup. But Ralph wouldn't
hear of it -- and Ben wasn't all that bad
until this year, sixth, you know. Now he says --
Ralph, I mean -- he says since you're
private and not connected with the school it's all right
to go ahead. Ralph feels strongly about Ben staying
in public school and getting to know all classes of
people."
I wondered if he knew "the people" called his son
"Banana Brain."
I explained in detail to Mrs. Aylesworth
what I looked for in a diagnostic evaluation --
the child's intellectual potential, his levels of
academic performance, styles of learning, any
indication of learning disabilities, strengths,
weaknesses, and how the child views himself and his world. I was
surprised when she called back the next day to say
that Ralph wanted to know exactly what tests I
would give Ben.
I had recently composed an evaluation sheet listing
the usual battery of tests I gave when there was
reason to suspect some type of learning disability
(see the Appendix). I mentionedthis to Mrs.
Aylesworth, and she immediately asked if she could stop
by later in the day to pick it up.
I put the sheet in an envelope, wrote her name
on the outside, and put the envelope in our
mailbox. Before the day was over, she had called again
to say that Ralph had looked over the test sheet and
had agreed to the evaluation. And so we set up the
four appointments for Ben.
Ben arrived at the side door at exactly five
minutes before one o'clock on Friday. The Mercedes was
already at the bottomof the driveway when I opened the
door.
"I'm early," Ben announced. He still wasn't
looking at me, but at least his gaze was up from his
feet.
"Not much," I said. "Come in."
I closed the door and immediately realized that Ben was
looking beyond me to the birds. It had snowed lightly
the night before and the feeders were full, every perch taken;
even the suet box had an energetic woodpecker
tapping away.
Ben walked past me. "Since I'm early I'll
wait here," he said, standing in front of the glass
doors.
"All right. You can leave your jacket on the back
of the chair."
He shrugged off the navy down vest, and
simultaneously the birds, sensing unfamiliar
action, rose in a feather cloud and
disappeared.
"Jeezus cripes," Ben said. "What'd you tell
me to do that for? Look at what happened."
"Don't worry. They'll be back. Just stand still."
Before I had finished speaking a chickadee landed.
"They have to be quick on a day like this -- before the finches
take over," I said.
"What k-kind are those?" Ben whispered, pointing
to three yellow-green birds that arrived together.
"Goldfinches, I think. But I'm no expert.
So far, they're not as mean as the purple ones, but
I'm reserving my opinion. This is the first year
they've come."
Unexpectedly, Ben crouched down on the white
wool carpetin front of the glass doors. Then he
stretched out full length, hands behind his head, lying
quietly, looking up at the birds. Suddenly,
he clapped his hands together, and again the birds rose
up and flew into the woods.
I frowned as Ben stood up. "Why did you do that?
You scared them on purpose."
Ben shrugged, eyes down. "I just wanted to see their
wings from underneath. That's all."
"Well, next time please just wait for them to fly
by themvs.they have to get used to enough going on
around here without someone scaring them on purpose.
Let's go up."
Ben sat down behind the desk without being asked.
"How many points do I have again?" Ben asked, fingering
the chips.
I checked the back cover of his folder. "Nine
hundred and seventy. Okay now. Has anything good
happened since I saw you? I ask everyone that."
(i can never quite give up the Best and the Worst --
I just modify it a little for the older kids. When I
was first teaching seriously emotionally disturbed children, we
didn't start our day with show and tell. Those
children had little to show and nothing to tell. But I found that
if I intensified the questions to "What was the best thing
that happened since I saw you -- or the worst thing?"
not only did they talk, but I had to set time
limits. Often what they talked of was fantasy --
garbage truck's eyes, or playing with a neon
sign or vacuum cleaner, whom they considered their
best friend. But what was important was their desire
to communicate and the willingness to use language to do
it. Now, in my office, I still had to know what the children
were doing, thinking, feeling before I began either testing or
teaching.)
"No." Ben's voice was cool. "What
could happen that's good?"
My turn to shrug. "I don't know. Maybe you
went for a walk with MacArthur -- maybe a good
TV show -- maybe something at home. Sometimes you
have to learn to look for the good things."
"Yeah. Sure."
"All right. What was so bad?"
Ben hesitated. "School. Mom. Dad. They
found out I was supposed to hand in a stupid book
report. I just forgot. How'd I know the
d-d-dumb teacher was gonna call Mom?"
"I can see where that would mean trouble. Pay yourself
twenty-five."
Ben registered surprise and quickly picked out a
green chip. "Then D-Dad started yelling about how
all I do is s-s-sit on my b-b-butt and
think the world owes me a living and on and on. I
don't even know what he was t-t-talking about.
Then Mom began crying while he was yelling. It was
d-d-disgusting. And now I'm grounded for the
weekend." Ben folded his arms and slouched across the
desk. "Not that it m-m-matters. I wasn't
g-g-going anywhere, anyway."
"I don't have any instant answers, Ben, but it
does sound like a mess. I'm sorry."
"How much of a mess?"
"What? Oh. About a sixty-chip mess, I'd
say."
Ben wasn't smiling, and neither was I. But something
better was happening between us, and he was using the chips
to initiate communication.
"Now," I said, "we're up to the WISC-R
Block Design in the testing, and we've still got a
ways to go, so we need to begin. Here." I dumped the
blocks on the desk. "They're all the same --
red on some sides, white on others, and half-red,
half-white on the other sides. Here's the first
card. The idea is to make the design on the card
by using the blocks. Here. Watch me first."
Ben was wonderful with the blocks. Where his fingers
curled around a pencil had been awkward and unsure
as he copied the Bender designs, now they moved
quickly and gracefully, arranging first four and then nine
blocks into the required patterns.
With each successfully completed design, Ben
became a little looser and a little happier. The pulse
at his temple was barely visible. Obviously, it
felt good to him to be doing something well.
"Pay yourself two hundred twenty, Ben," I said.
"The next test is Vocabulary. I'll
say a word. You just tell me what it means."
"I hate that kind of stuff. I lots of times know
the word, but I d-d-don't know how to say it. I
mean I know it in my head, b-b-but when I go
to say what it means ... oh, I don't know."
"Well, just try. Remember, the words start easy
and get harder, but I don't expect you to know them
all. Hat. What is a hat?"
"Thing you wear."
I waited, but Ben didn't elaborate.
"What is ..."
"Here," Ben said, patting his head. "You wear it
here."
Ben's answers were all terse, and the rhythm and content
of his speech were that of a much younger child. And he was right.
He did get mixed up.
"What does "brave" mean?"
"It's like when you're scared. Well, not like that. Like the
opposite. You know?"
I nodded and leaned back to look at Ben, sensing that
he had something more to say.
"Do you think those birds are brave?" he asked.
"Like are they scared flying around up there or do they like
it?"
"I think they like it," I said. "The landing
looks like the hard part." What was it with Ben and
birds? Why did he watch them with such fascination?
Why did he want to see their wings from underneath?
I shook my head, both to clear it and to get back
to work. To stay completely with a child like Ben, who often
went off track, took concentration. Ben continued
to struggle to expresshmf. He knew a lot more
than he could put into words. When asked to define
"gamble," he replied, "Bet over money." Then
he shrugged. "Oh ... I don't know. I mean
I know, but I don't. Just forget it."
Object Assembly, another subtest of the
WISC-R, consisted of four puzzles and for Ben was
as easy as or easier than Block Design.
He immediately knew what the puzzle was supposed
to be. He saw the gestalt, the unified whole, and
efficiently put the pieces in the proper places.
Ben could build from a design. He could also put
isolated pieces into a meaningfulwhole without
copying. Both of these tasks require visual
awareness. Block Design is also considered to be
an excellent indicator of general intelligence.
Ben's understandingof spatial relationships far exceeded
his ability to express himself verbally.
Ben did only fairly well on the
Comprehension subtest, which measures practical
judgment and common sense. His judgment was
adequate, but he often failed to gain extra
points because his answers showed a lack of independence.
When asked what he should do if a much smaller boy
started to fight with him, his answer was, "Tell
somebody -- like tell your mother," instead of thinking of a
way to handle the problem himself.
Both Coding (in which the child is asked to match and
copy symbols, testing the ability to learn combinations
of symbols and shapes and then to reproduce them with
paper and pencil) and Digit Span (which consists of
repeating an increasing number of digits both forward
and backward) were near disasters for Ben. He copied
only a few symbols during the two-minute span
-- his pencil moving slowly and awkwardly comand he
could repeat only four digits correctly. After
that he would have the right numbers, but in the wrong sequence
-- or else forget them altogether. Ben's spirits wilted
as quickly as they had risen earlier; only the chips
sustained him.
I put the WISC-R away and handed Ben the
WRAT (wide Range Achievement Test).
"This is a short test of spelling, reading, and
arithmetic," I said. "The questions all begin
easy and get harder. Try not to get down on yourself
if you don't know some. Remember, I don't
expect you to know them all. We'll start with
spelling."
Ben held the pencil in his right hand in the now
familiar cramped, hooked grip, more usually seen
on lefties. He printed the words in pale,
uneven letters, reversing the
b
in "boy" and the
d
in "dress," and erasing letters over and over again,
usually making the spelling worse than before.
In the reading (word recognition) section, he
skipped lines, lost his place, read "sour" as
"sore" and "plot" as "pilot."
We finished the session with arithmetic. This time it was
a written arithmetic test, in contrast to the oral
arithmetic on the WISC-R. This was much easier for
Ben because he could actually see the problems, rather than
just hear them. He worked quickly and with concentration, adding,
subtracting, multiplying, dividing. He understood
measurement and fractionseaand although much of his computation was
done on his fingers or by counting under his breath, he still
scored well. He knew this stuff, and we
both smiled when I said, "Okay, Ben. We're
done for the day. Pay yourself three hundred eighty and
count up."
I try to end each session with a test on which I think
the
child will do well. It makes it easier for him to come
back next time. I don't always guess right, so
I'm pleased when I do.
Ben had large piles of chips in front of him, and
he counted carefully: "One hundred, two hundred
...," then his voice gradually faded and his fingers
rested on the chips without moving.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"
"I'm not a doctor, Ben. More like a teacher."
"Well, why did they say I had to come? What do
they want you to do?"
"I'm trying to find out how you learn best so I can
show you how to use your strengths to help in the areas where
you have trouble."
Outside a car honked, and Ben stood up.
"That's not true, you know," Ben said. "You're lying
to me just like everybody else. What you're trying
to find out is whether I'm retarded or
crazy or both. Right?"
"No. I don't lie, Ben. And I don't
expect you to lie to me either. I don't think you're
retarded or crazy. I do think school is hard for
you and getting harder, and I'm trying to find out why.
I hope you'll help me. I promise you that when
the tests are finished I'll show you how you scored, and
we'll figure out what it means and what to do about
it."
Beep. Beep. Beep. The horn was more insistent.
"I guess you better go," I said. "It sounds as
though your mom is in a hurry. I'll finish counting
up and add it to the rest."
Reluctantly, Ben came out from behind the desk.
"That's not Mom. That's Dad's honk."
From downstairs a child's voice called. My next
appointmenthad arrived. We'd run out of time.
"Okay. Good-bye for now, Ben. Do you mind
letting yourselfout? I'll see you on Tuesday."
I walked to the lookout window in the front room as
my
next child climbed the stairs. I had never met
Ben's father, and I could not restrain my curiosity.
A Jaguar waited in the upper part of our
driveway. A black-haired man,
wearing dark glasses, sat alone in the front seat
leaning intently over the wheel. As I watched, Ben
opened the right rear door, climbed in and huddled against
the window. As far as I could tell, neither the man
nor the boy spoke.
"This will be a long, hard session, Ben. I've
asked your mother to give us two hours for this one.
Lots of academic things -- more reading, writing.
But at least each test is worth a lot of points.
And let's see." I turned to the back cover of the
folder. "You had fourteen hundred thirty-five
last time, plus the first nine hundred and seventy, so
you're up to two thousand four hundred and five
already."
Ben nodded, but didn't say anything. I handed him
a small book. "Would you just read these words -- there,
where it says Word List Two?"
I turned to the same page in the examiner's copy
of the Spache Oral Diagnostic Reading Test so
I could write down Ben's responses. It's of
little help to know that a child made six or sixteen
errors. It's of tremendous value to know the kind of
errors he made. Reading "was" as "saw" is very
different from reading "was" as "were" or "house" as
"home." Each type of error has a
different cause, and once you know what causes a
problem, you have a much better chance of fixing it. So
I tracked errors carefully.
"I thought you said you always asked," Ben said,
interruptingmy thoughts.
"Pardon?"
"Last time you said you always asked about good things that
happened."
I put the examiner's blank on the desk and leaned
back, feeling the little kick of excitement that comes
when the child takes the initiative, but keeping my
voice low to cover it. "You're right, Ben. Pay
yourself twenty-five. It's a much better way
to start."
"Well, if it doesn't have to have just happened, I
figured I could tell you about the river."
I nodded agreement.
"We've been going there ever since I was little, before
I was even a year old, I think. And Mom and
Dad went before that. Mom's been going since she was
born. It's really Granny'splace. We stay
there all summer, and it's really cool."
"That's where you sail?"
"Yeah. We've got a Lightning. That's a kind
of sailboat, but you need two people to sail
it. And then ..." Ben stopped. "Well, we've
got a lot of boats -- the Sunfish, a big
old Garwood, and then a fiberglass speedboat
and a little al-inum ... alminium, however you say it,
boat, and a couple of canoes."
"Sounds like there's more boats than people," I replied,
thinking to myself that he had stumbled over "aluminum," but
he hadn't stuttered once so far this session.
Ben almost smiled, and the whiny quality was completely
gone from his voice. "No. See, there's
Granny's big house, and then Uncle Joe
uses the boathouse cottage, and we have the little
house over on the other side."
"Does Uncle Joe have kids?"
"Danny and Mehssa. Danny's almost as old as
I am. He has a Lab, too --
MacArthur's brother. They get along real good."
Ben was having no trouble talking now. We could have
spent an hour just on the river, but I was supposed
to be doing a diagnostic educational evaluation. I
had to get on to the educational part.
"It sounds wonderful, Ben. Do you have any
pictures of the river? Or maybe you could draw one
and bring it next time? Anyway, pay yourself one
hundred. And now, please just read the words
on this page."
Ben reluctantly picked up the book and read through
the forty words. He read rapidly, stuttering toward
the end, but thirty out of the forty words were correct. The
errors were mainly substitutions -- "far" for
"fair," "itch" for "inch,"
"ether" for "either." When he got to "guard," he
said, "I know what it is -- like someone who watches
prisoners -- but I can't pronounce it." Ben had
missed the last five words, which meant that he did not
continue on to Word List III.
Reading the thirty words on Word List II
correctly entitled him to try a fourth-grade
reading selection. He substituted, omitted, and
lost his place time after time, stuttering on almevery
other word. But even so, he was able to answer eight out
of eight comprehension questions correctly.
Just for my own interest, I had him read the fifth- and
sixth-grade selections. He was way over the
error limit for substitutions and omissions on
both, but he still could answer six or seven of the eight
comprehension questions correctly. I suspected that if
I read out loud to him his understanding would far surpass his
grade level.
On the Phonetic Analysis section
of the reading test, Ben was unsure of vowel sounds and
could not decode isolated syllables. In order
to read the nonsense syllable "ock," he said
"clock" and then separated out "ock."
He struggled through the five-minute section of the
Speed and Accuracy section of the Gates
MacGinitie Silent Reading Test, completing
only thirteen short passages -- about the amount
expected of beginning fourth graders. But he did
answer twelve of the thirteen comprehension questions
correctly.ccversely, on the longer, more
difficult Vocabulary and Comprehension sections,
he raced along, obviously not reading, just guessing
at answers. It was as if he felt he wasn't
going to be able to do it no matter how hard he tried,
so why bother.
Written expression was painfully difficult. On
the first section comdictation of a fourth-grade
paragraph (i didn't expect him to be able
to write at a higher level than he could read) --
his trouble with spelling and transcoding words that he
heard into written symbols was even more apparent than
it had been on the WRAT spelling section. He
spelled circus as "cirs." He left out many
words and phrases, even though I had told
him that he could have a sentence repeated as often
as he wanted. But at least he wasn't complaining,
and he wasn't giving up. Ben was struggling, but
struggling gallantly, and I paid out chips
generously. I wondered if anyone had any idea
what it must cost Ben to go to school each day --
aware, intelligent, but nowhere near the academic
level of his class, "Banana Brain,"
"Banana Brain" echoing in the corridors.i
wondered that he went to school at all.
Halfway through the session, Ben had earned over a
thousandchips. I went over to a sack in the file
cabinet and brought back ten more fifty-cent
pieces. Ben was pleased. "Did anybodyever get
all ten silvers before?"
"A few. A few others that worked as hard as you're
working.i've had these fifty-cent pieces a long
time. My dad collectedcoins, and he let me
play with them when I was sick and had to stay in bed.
I loved the way they looked and felt, and I
decided the kids who come here might like them, too.
So I mixed some in with the chips. Now, please just
write a paragraph about anything you want -- just a
few sentences."
Ben hesitated. "I can't think of
anything."
"Well, try. If you don't come up with something,
I'll give you a topic."
Two more minutes of silence and then Ben began
writing. He wrote for several minutes, and then
pushed the paper toward me.
I pushed it back. "Read it to me first, okay?"
"One day I went sailing with Danny and a big
storm came up ..."
Ben read on. The ten or so sentences sounded
coherent, but after he'd counted the words and was paying
himself ten for each, I looked at the paper and could
see that almost a third of the words he'd read to me were
left out. Punctuation was nonexistent and spacing
irregular. Some words collided with others, some ran
off the paper, some wandered up from the line and would have been
indecipherable if Ben had not first read them.
While he figured out the correct amount of chips,
I got out the Detroit Test of Learning
Aptitude. This is not designed
to measure either intellectual potential or
academic achievementeab rather to assess various
categories of learning, such as visual attentive
ability, auditory attentive ability, motor
ability, and so forth -- in other words,
to discover through which modalities a child learns best.
I started with the test for Auditory Attention Span
for Unrelated Words. Here the child is asked to repeat
the words the examiner says. First, "cat, ice."
Each sequence becomes longer until eight
unrelated words are given at one time. Ben sped
along in fine shape until we reached a four-word
sequencebbhere he became confused and repeated "cart"
as "kite." In a five-word sequence, he could
repeat only three of the words correctly, and by the
time we reached eight words he could repeat only
two. His chin had sunk low on his chest and he
muttered, "See. I g-g-guess I really am
s-s-stupid."
I counted the words he had said correctly. "You had
forty-one right, Ben. Pay yourself five for each.
Besides, this test doesn't measure how smart you are
-- only auditory memory."
"Audi... what? What do you mean?" Ben asked.
"What's that, anyway?"
"Auditory memory. Just a fancy way of saying
"rememberingwhat you hear," was I answered.
Although Ben perked up slightly as he piled up
two more silvers, from experience I knew this was indeed
a rather low score. "Now try this," I said.
"See if you think it's harder or easier than the
test we just did."
I turned to Visual Attention Span for
Objects. "This time I'm going to show you some
pictures. First, there'll be two pictures, then
three -- more each time, and I'll leave them out a little
longer each time, too. Again, remember nobody's
ever gotten them all right."
The first picture showed a house and a girl. Ben
rememberedthem perfectly. He also remembered a
three-picture sequence and a four and a five. He
was becoming increasingly pleased with himself. Even in an
eight-picture sequence, he could recall six of the
eight correctly.
He piled up his earned silvers and remarked, "That
was much easier than saying the words." What he
meant, of course, was that it was easier to remember
what he saw than what he heard.
Ben, as well as the test, was telling me that he could
process information better through visual than through
auditory channels.
I was not surprised. There had been lots of
indications of difficulty with auditory processing
-- the Digit Span of the WISC-R, dictation,
and Auditory Memory for Unrelated
Syllableson the Detroit. It was as if Ben's
head went on overload when too much material was
presented at one time through his auditory channels.
If the material was organized and meaningful, he
did better, and he scored somewhat higher in
Auditory Memory for Related Syllables, in
which he was asked to repeat sentences. It was interesting that
the overload factor was not apparent with visual
stimuli.
We did five more tests on the Detroit --
Motor Speed, Free Association, Memory for
Designs, Oral Directions, and
VisualAttention Span for Letters. These tests,
too, indicated that visual memory was a strength for
Ben, and auditory processingweaker. However, when
he had to use a pencil to copy designs or draw
them from memory, he once again had difficulty.
As so often happens, a mixed pattern of
difficulties was starting to appear. Much as parents,
teachers, and I myself long for one simple answer, it
is always more complicated. And as I often remind
myself, considering the complexities of our brains this is
not surprising.
The last test of the day was my own variation of the Harris
Test of Lateral Dominance. I always
include this, although there is controversy about the
importance of its results. It simply shows which
hand, eye, and foot the child prefers to use for different
tasks. The majority of the world is right-handed,
right-footed, and right-eyed. For whatever reason, a
large percentage of the children I see have what is known
as mixed or crossed dominance: that is, they are
right-handed
and left-eyed or left-handed and right-eyed.
Footedness (the foot used for kicking, stamping, and so
forth), if there is such a word, is also noted.
Research has not shown this to be a cause of learning
disabilities, but still I always check it out. One more
piece to the puzzle.
The trick in identifying which eye, hand, or foot a
child uses is to have the child focus on the task.
"Okay, Ben. Take this piece of paper. Roll
it up and then look through it and tell me how many fingers
I have up. I'm going to try and fool you."
I twined six fingers together and held them out in front
of me.
Ben put the paper scope to his left eye.
"Six."
"All right. Fine. Take it down. Now once more.
How many?"
Again the scroll went directly to his left eye.
"Eight," Ben said with confidence.
"Now scrunch the paper up into a ball and bring it
over here." I motioned to a spot between the two green
chairs on the far side of the desk. A mural of
prancing horses made of different-colored cloth,
a present from a former student, ran across the far
wall. "See the orange horse at the end. Try
to hit it with that paper ball."
Ben pegged it hard with his right hand, missed, threw again
with his right hand, and got the tail.
"Okay. Now put the paper right here and kick it out
the door."
Right foot. "Pick it up and hop back and put the
paper in the wastebasket." Left foot. "Now
skip to the bathroom and open the door." Ben turned
the knob with his left hand. I handed him the
kaleidoscope. "Quickly-how many patternscan you
see before I count to three?" Left eye. "Write
your full initials on the rug with your toe."
Left foot. "What do you see in this
microscope?" Left eye. "Make a cross
on this paper with this marker." Right hand. "Wind the
stopwatchfour times." Left hand.
Ben and I stood facing each other in the
middle of the floor.

Ben was actually grinning at me. "Touch your right
eye." Ben hesitated, then took his right hand and
pretended to write -- so he could figure out his right
side -- then touched his right eye. "Touch your left
ear." Hesitation, but he did it.
"Okay." I stretched out my hands. "Touch my
left hand."
Ben did just what I would have done. He turned around
so he was facing the same way I was, found which was his
own left, turned back, and touched my left hand.
"Okay. That's fine. Pay yourself two hundred
seventy-five."
Whatever mixed dominance means or doesn't mean,
childrenenjoy moving around and it's a good way to wind up a
session. Ben looked happier and more relaxed than
I'd ever seen him.
He counted his chips carefully, and when he added them
to the ones he'd saved he had 6,070.
He asked to see the Matchbox catalog and perused
its pages carefully, setting the stopwatch when he
started.
I watched Ben as he turned the pages with
concentration, wondering, as usual, at the
magic of chips. I was sure Ben had enough money
stashed away somewhere to buy everythingin the catalog, but
somehow earning the chips to buy the car or truck or
plane made it special. My guess was that the
value of the chips was that each one in essence said,
"You're okay," "You're good," "You're
terrific," and my kids don't hear that kind of thing
very often.
"Hey, Mary," Ben said, bringing me back. "Do
you think the wings on this thing move?" he asked,
pointing to a small green and white plane.
"I know they do." It was the first time he'd used my
name. I wanted to savor it, but there wasn't time.
"I got one for somebody else last week." Then,
suddenly, I took a breath and asked quickly,
quietly, "Why, Ben? Why does it matter if
the wings move? Is it like the birds?"
Ben was silent. Had I gone too far too soon?
Ben turned the catalog over and over in his hands.
Finally, he said, "Yeah. Sort of." There was
another long pause, and then he added,
"That's what I was doing up there on the roof that day.
Icdn't use the porch anymore -- well,
I'll tell you about that later -- anyway, see,
I sneaked out this old pajama top of
Dad's and I took off my shoes to get lighter,
and I figured if I could flap the right way, kind
of like the birds, maybe I could fly. I never did
get to try it, though. Ole Jessie came out in the
yard and saw me and started yelling, and then Mom
called Dad and he came home from the office."
Ben shrugged. "Everybody made such a big deal out
of it. That's why I have to go to that Dr. Golden and come
here. They both -- Mom
and Dad -- think I'm crazy, but I bet it
would've worked."
"Suppose it hadn't, Ben?"
Ben shrugged. "Well, at least I wouldn't have had
to go to school for a while."
The car honked.
"I'll check out the airplane," I said to Ben,
thinking. How can we end now? How can I send this child out
and away?
And yet another child was waiting downstairs, and there would
be four more after her.
"Listen, Ben -- maybe you could draw me a
picture of what you think it would be like -- flying, I
mean. Why don't you borrow these?" I said, nodding
toward a box of Magic
Markers. "There are sixteen different
colors," I added, as if quantity would help.
I woke early the next morning, thinking about Ben,
and
went up to my office and scored and reviewed as many
of the tests as I could.
I studied the scores and my notes when I'd
finished, and even though all the test scores weren't
in yet, it was easy to see that there was a large gap
between Ben's intellectual potentialand his
academic achievement. He scored far above the
average range of intelligence, but his academic
achievementswere far below. This was related to his
difficulties with auditory processing and
memory, poor graphomotor skills,
difficulty with verbal expression, and the fact that he
had very little confidence in his own abilities. However,
he was beginning
to open up a little, and I was sure that Ben's
understandingexceeded far more than he could explain in words.
I decided to add the Peabody Picture
Vocabulary Test, a test of verbal receptive
intelligence, to our last session, even though it would
mean extending his time and rescheduling my following
appointments. None of that mattered now. I was hot
on the trail, tracking down clue after
clue, trying to solve the mystery of Ben.
I had thought about calling Phil Golden for backup
informationand support, but our usual arrangement was for
me to talk with him after I had finished all four
evaluation sessionseascored the tests, and reached my
own conclusions. This was partly because Phil did not
want to impose his opinions before I had formed my
own, and also because he liked to see everything all at
once rather than piecemeal.
Also, I liked to acquire as much information as
possible directly from the child himself. I knew other people
could give me their impressions of Ben. I also
knew that only Ben could give me the truth.
Still, the thought of Ben barefoot, in his father's pajama
top, haunted me. Had he been suicidal?
Certainly he was depressed and discouraged, but then,
who wouldn't be if he were Ben? And, I told myself,
Ben had seemed more open and relaxed during his last
visit than he ever had before.
I decided to wait.
I was watching for Ben when he came for his fourth and
last appointment and went outside to greet him.
Mrs. Aylesworth lowered the front window of the
Mercedes. "Is something wrong? Did I come at the
wrong time?"
"No." I smiled, wanting to reassure her. "I
just came out to remind you that we'll be about an hour and a
half today."
"Yes. All right. How is Ben doing? Have you found
out anything? And oh, I'm sorry I haven't
returned that form. I'll drop it by tomorrow. It's just that
it's so ... uh ... difficult."
"Just fill in as much as you can. We can complete the
rest
when you and Mr. Aylesworth come for your conference.
Ben is working very hard, but I'd rather not try to talk
about it
in pieces. Besides, I'd better get to work.
We'll go over everythingwhen you come."
Ben had already gone in through the side door that I'd
left open and was lying on the floor watching the
birds, his head propped on one hand, the markers in
the other. There were only one titmouse and a
woodpecker on the feeders. But there
were numerous sparrows and one bright red cardinal on the
stone steps.
"How come that red one doesn't fly up?" Ben
asked.
"I don't know. The bird book says that
cardinals are ground feeders; it doesn't
say why."
"Maybe he's scared." "Yes. Maybe he
is."
Ben got up slowly and carefully. Not a bird
moved. I smiled
to thank him; he smiled back and went up the stairs
first, leading the way.
He sat behind the desk, and I pulled the other chair
over beside him. He put the box of markers on the
desk and then lifted the top off the box and took out
a packet of snapshots held together with a rubber band.
Ben didn't mention the markers or having drawn
anything.
"Look," Ben said, his voice high and excited.
"I brought some pictures of the river, but don't
tell Mom. I had to take them out of this
p-p-picture al-albin-albinum, uh ...
wha.a you call it... picture book, and she'd have
a p-p-purple fit if she knew. She keeps
it real neat with everything written underneath -- the names
of the p-p-people and the dates, like. But I can put them
b-b-back okay. I know where they go.
"See, this is Granny's house and part of the
boathouse and dock. You can see the flagpole out
on the rocks -- the whole place is
mostly rock. I put the flag up every morning when
I'm there and take it down before sunset. Granny
says it's my job "cause I'm responsible."
"That's nice, Ben." And it was -- both what she
said and the place itself. The house was big and rambling with
weathered
gray shingles and a wide porch that wrapped around
three sides. There were wicker chairs and a glider
on the porch, and the steps and railing were lined with window
boxes filled with red geraniums.
"This is me and Jessie and Danny. I told you
about him, remember."
The picture showed three handsome blond kids in their
bathing suits, fishing off the boathouse.
"And this is me and MacArthur."
It was a wonderful picture. The dog sat beside
Ben on the front seat of a boat looking straight
ahead, with Ben relaxed and confident behind the wheel.
"What kind of boat did you say it was, Ben?"
"A Garwood. Granny's had it a long time, but
I wasn't allowed to take it out myself till last
year. See. The sides are mahogany, and the hinges
and stuff are real brass. It's a really special
boat to her, so you have to have a pretty good idea where the
shoals are and how to use all the gears and
get it back in the boathouse right before she trusts you
with it."
"I can see why you like it there," I said.
"This is the last picture. See, this is the new
speedboat. Dad got it last summer, and that's him
driving."
The same dark intense man I had seen in the car was
again leaning intently over a wheel.
"I didn't bring a picture of Mom because I
knew you'd seen her."
I still held the picture of Ben's father. "Does
your dad like the river, too?"
Ben shrugged. "Some. He doesn't come up that much.
He says he can only take so much of it at a
time. Besides, he's real busy -- he says we
couldn't afford the river and stuff if he spent his
summers loafing around like us."
I handed the picture back and waited.
Ben piled the snapshots together, making sure he
got them in a certain order, probably so he could
put them back in the album correctly. He put
a rubber band around them and tucked them in the back
pocket of his jeans.
"Would you like an envelope?" I asked.
Ben shook his head. "Mom gets nervous
if anybody g-g-gets into her stuff. I'll just
keep them in my p-p-pocket till I put
'em b-b-back."
It hadn't been easy for Ben to bring the pictures,
and I also knew it had been important to him to show
me that part of his life. I thanked him gravely.
"Pay yourself fifty for each picture," I said.
"Now let's get back to the testing. I know some of
it's hard and boring. But it really helps later on.
"Now please take a look at this."
I laid the Peabody Picture Vocabulary
book in front of Ben. The Peabody is a test
of receptive, not expressive, language.it
measures how much you understand rather than how well you say
it. It consists of a book of black and white
pictures, four to a page. The examiner simply
says a word, and the child points to the picture
described by the word. I did not intend to use it as a
global intelligence test, but I did want to see
if there was a difference between Ben's score on this test
and his rather low vocabulary score on the
WISC-R, which involves expression and also
retrieval of information to a much greater extent. The
Peabody takes only about ten minutes, and I had
a feeling Ben would enjoy it.
If anything, I underestimated. Ben whizzed through the
test, readily identifying such words as rodent,
salutation, patriarcheaingenious. I felt sure that
when I scored it, Ben would place well above his
chronological age.
"Pay three hundred seventy-five. Let's
see what we have left now. Some drawings. Raven
Progressive Matrices, and sentence completion."
I handed Ben a piece of paper and a pencil. "Now
I want you to do a bunch of different drawings.
First, please draw your best picture of a house."
"I told you, remember? That I'm not so good at
drawing."
"I remember. I'm not too great myself. Just make
it the best you can."
I have taken several courses, read many books, and
had
supervised training by a psychologist in both the
administrationof the WISC-R and the interpretation of
drawings. But still, I use great caution in my
interpretations, particularly of drawings. I do
believe that they are necessary pieces of the puzzle, and in
my conferences with Phil Golden he examines the
pictures carefully and I value what he tells
me. But drawingsshould be considered in
context with all else that is known about the child. Some children
love to draw and can communicate ideas and feelings
through drawings that they would never be able to express
otherwise. Other children are uncomfortable with paper and
pencil, and this should also be taken into account.
Ben's drawings reflected his constricted emotions.
The house he drew was approximately one square
inch in all, resting on the bottom of the paper,
surrounded by white emptiness. The windows were few and
barred, and the door was tightly locked. There was an
attached garage with three cars and a motorcycle.
"Now, please draw a tree -- the best you can,"
I said.
Ben drew quickly, producing a small, faintly
drawn tree with sketchy sticks for branches. He
shaded in the tree trunk, anxiety growing, while
the pulse in his temple beat at a rapid pace.
"Now draw a person doing something."
"I can't do p-p-people, p-p-p-par-par-tic
... you know what I-mean -- doing things."
"I know. That's okay. My people don't come out the
way I want them to, either."
Quickly, almost as if to get it over with, Ben sketched
a figure a half-inch tall perched on a line,
hands over his head. "He's diving," Ben
volunteered.
"Good," I said. "Now draw a picture of a
woman doing something."
Ben had given up complaining. He drew a seated
figure with something that looked like a balloon instead
of a head. "She's getting her hair done," Ben
explained.
"Last picture, Ben. Draw a picture of your
family doing something."
"Oh, jeez. Cripes." Ben's pain was real.
"I don't know anything they can be doing." He stared
grimly and silently at the paper, and then finally
picked it up, folded it in half, and then folded it
again. Then he spread it out on the desk, smoothing the
paper till it lay flat, divided it into quarters,
and then carefully penciled in the crease marks. He
numbered the squares -- 1, 2, 3, 4.
"Well, I'll put D-D-Dad up here,"
he said, drawing what for Ben was a large figure.
But he erased it before it was half done. "No, I
know. I'll make him driving his car." And Ben
drew a long, low car with a figure hunched over the
wheel, and then blacked in both car and man.
"Mom can be reading," he said and drew a small
figure with long, perfectly even hair,
holding a book, perched on the edge of a chair.
"Now Jess can be down here. I'll make her
jumping rope." Ben drew a girl with a big
smile and ribbons in her hair, holding a jump
rope.
"Now there's just me left. I'll be at the river."
He drew two parallel lines across box 4.
"The river's a lot b-b-bigger than that, you
know." I nodded as Ben added a tiny sailboat
near the edge of the page. He added a circle on the
top edge of the boat and blacked it again. "You can't
see the rest of me," he said. "It's inside the
b-b-boat. There's just my head there, my
s-s-stupid head." Then he carefully added a
bird above the boat. "There's always at least one
gull out there," he said.
"All right. Thank you, Ben. Pay yourself six
hundred, and then I'll ask you some questions about the
pictures."
Ben's answers were short and the stutter was there, but he
was obviously trying to tell me all that he could.
When we got to the last picture, he lingered over
it, touchingthe picture of the boat with his finger. "I
wish I could draw it b-better, so you could see
what it's like. I don't know
why it is, but you feel good up there, out on the water.
I mean all the time you just feel happy." Ben
smiled at me -- and I wished I had a picture
of him just like that.
I stood up and got my Polaroid and said,
"Tell me some more," and snapped a picture as he
talked. I always take a picture of each child I
see, to help me remember. Many childrencome back
years later for help in choosing the right boarding
school or college. Without a picture, I often
have difficulty placing a child. But when I can see their
faces, I remember each one in detail.
I'd put the picture-taking off with Ben; somehow it
had seemed too intimate a gesture until now.
The picture showed a smiling, handsome, seemingly
untroubled boy -- one that I had rarely seen in
person.
We were almost done. Only the Raven Standard
ProgressiveMatrices Test and the Freeman
Sentence Completion Test were left.
Ben enjoyed the Raven, as I had thought he would. The
Raven Standard Progressive Matrices is an
untimed test of designs, each of which has a missing
segment. The test is used to measure conceptual
thoughts in a perceptual field. The
pictures are somewhat like visual analogies and
range from clear perceptual problems to those of an
abstract nature. Ben scored in the 95th
percentile, again confirming his intelligence and good
visual perception but leaving other questions unanswered.
I had the Freeman Sentence Completion on the
clipboard, ready to write down Ben's endings to the
sentences I read. But before I could start, Ben
suddenly pushed the box of markers almost roughly across
the desk.
"I couldn't d-d-draw it -- that picture you
wanted me to draw. I tried, but I didn't
really know what to d-draw. See, the b-birds,
and being sc-sc-scared, kind of got all mixed up in
my mind. I don't know. It got worse at
school this year -- the k-k-kids made fun of
me and I couldn't talk about it to anyone and everybody
was always so m-mad. I began to dream about the river.
At first I had to make myself do it on
purpose, but then it began to come just b-b-by itself.
All I had to do was just close my eyes for a
second and I'd be at the river. I mean I could
open my eyes and still be there. When they started to yell
at me, or if I was supposed to take a
t-t-that... like an exam, I'd just
close my eyes for that one second and then I
wasn't in school anymore. Instead I'd be out
sailing, or swimming with Danny, or taking Mac
out for a ride. I'd be doing something different all the
time, but the birds were always there. Like they really are in
the summer. Way up there, gliding along -- just a
few flaps -- and then they'd just sail along. It
looked so easy.
"That's how it began. And then I b-b-began
to think how maybe flying and not being scared went together.
How if you could fly you wouldn't ever be scared. And I
didn't think it would be so b-b-bad if I
couldn't read good, or get good marks, if I
didn't get scared. Like, even if everybody else
m-m-m ... I can't say it... minded, there,
I wouldn't. I mean it wouldn't be so important
to me."
I sat without moving, hoping Ben couldn't hear my
heart thudding away, praying that we wouldn't be
interrupted. Ben understood himself better than anyone
else. If I could just listen long enough, hard enough,
he would explain it to me.
"I didn't p-plan it all out," he said. "It
just sort of happened.see, first I just started walking
around the railing on the back porch, just
putting one foot in front of the other and
b-balancing with my arms. The porch is kind of
high up, and I was a little scared at first -- but I
got pretty good at it, and I was getting so I
didn't feel hardly scared at all. But then ole
Jessie found out and she always wants to do whatever
I'm doing, and I got worried she'd
f-f-from..." Ben shook his head in frustration.
"Fall," I said, knowing I shouldn't fill in words,
but unable to stop myself.
Ben nodded. "So I had to stop. But I missed being
up high, being able to do it and not feel scared -- and
somehow it got mixed in with thinking about the birds.
"It wasn't that I really planned to fly, at least
I don't think
I did, or anyway not much. But I liked thinking
about it and the feeling -- being up so high, all alone,
nobody b-bothering me -- and so I started climbing
out the dormers in the attic onto the slate roof and
then walking and balancing around the edge of it.
Nobody ever saw me. Our house is way back
from the road and there's lots of trees around it, and
Mom's never outside. I didn't d-do it on
weekends. I guess I was sc-scared Dad might
come home then and I knew he'd be really
mad. Then the more I walked around out there, the more I
began thinking about the birds and wondering how they did
it.
"The only d-d-d-dumb thing I did was sneaking
out that ole pajama top of Dad's. But it had these
great big s-s-s-sleeves, and I liked
to f-f-flap, and I could balance real g-g-good
in my bare feet. But I shouldn't have gotten his
d-d-dumb pajamas. I wasn't really going
to j-j-j-jump off the roof, though -- honest. I
just liked thinking about it."
"Have you told Dr. Golden?" I asked.
"No. Mom's always sitting there. I haven't
told anybody b-but Jessie. And you."
I could hear the Mercedes pull into the driveway.
There was no beep, but its hum was familiar now.
"I don't know what to pay for that, Ben. It's like
it's too much for chips."
Ben nodded. "Yeah. Anyway, it doesn't
matter. I have enough chips already."
Ben knew as well as I did that our time was up, but
still he finished counting his piles of chips. "Two
thousand and thirty-five. Can I add it up?"
I pushed the file folder toward Ben, open to the
inside back cover. Ben wrote the
figure carefully underneath the previous total and
added them together, counting softly under his breath.
"Eight thousand one hundred and five."
"Good work." I handed him the Matchbox catalog.
"I already know which one I want," he said, leafing
quickly till he came to the little airplane. "This
one, right here."
I circled the plane with a red pen and wrote
"B.b.a."
underneath it. I always write the child's initials so I
will rememberwho orders what.
The motor still hummed in the driveway, and I
looked up to say good-bye to Ben. "As soon as I
get it, I'll call you and you can come back, pick
it up, and we'll go over your test scores then,
too."
But Ben wasn't listening. He was still looking at the
picture of the plane -- or that's what I thought he
was looking at. But instead he pointed to the initials
I had just written.
"Did you always know?" he asked. "That they called
me that? B.b.?"
I nodded.
"How come you didn't say anything?"
"Because I didn't like it."
"You know what it stands for?"
Again I nodded.
"Mom says I should be proud of my name. Benjamin
Bradford coma fine heritage, she says. That's
all she knows. Some heritage. Banana Brain."
Phil Golden was in his fifties, tall, with salt
and pepper hair and beard. He had been working with
troubled children and adults for over twenty years in
private practice; he had also been a school
psychologist and was presently head of the learning
disabilities graduate department at a nearby
college.for all these reasons, I valued his
opinions and consideredthe money and time I spent in his
office good investments. We also liked and understood
each other and had a friendship built on the firm
base of working together for many years.
I stood up as Phil walked into the waiting room.
He wrapped his arms around me and said, "How are you,
Mary? I'm glad to see you. Come in. Come in."
His office was full of leather couches and suede
chairs and animal skin rugs. There was no place
to spread out the papers in Ben's folder, so I
simply handed him the file, keeping only a blank
piece of blue paper on which to make notes. (i
had
found that using blue paper for my visits to Phil
made it easier to pick out his comments when I wanted
to locate them quickly.)
"First, before you go through Ben's file, tell me a little
about his family," I said.
"An interesting lot. You've met the mother?"
I nodded.
"So you know she's a blueblood -- the Bradford
name goes back to Plymouth Rock. Lots and
lots of money. Her mother is still very much alive and I
gather still has a good bit to say about what goes on
in the family. Carol, that's Ben's mother's name, is
very sweet, very anxious, and very eager to please her
husband and her children. I suspect that in the same way
we've seen so often there is a tendency for her
to overidentify with Ben and that her protectiveness
encourages dependency in him.
"The father, Ralph -- have you met him?" Phil
asked.
I shook my head.
"Well, he's a bit harder to describe. Very
intense, very bright. Built his manufacturing company
up from almost nothing till now it's one of the largest in
the state and has recently made several foreign
acquisitions. He was, in the beginning,
punctual and outwardly cooperative, but even then
there was something guarded about him. I can't quite put my
finger on it.
"I'll tell you one interesting thing, though, that just
came out. Aylesworth isn't his real name. It was
D'Amalio, and he changed it to Aylesworth before
he married Carol Bradford and added 'the second"
for good measure. I'm not sure he did that legally.
My guess is that he is very shrewd and wasn't
going into the Bradford clan with what he considered a
strike against him. Lately, he's found reasons
why he can't keep the appointments. Just sends his
wife and kids."
"What about Jessie?" I asked.
Phil smiled. "A doll. A living doll.
Cute as a button and smart besides. One of those
kids who seem to be born happy and generous, and
roll through life no matter where they are,
getting all the breaks and giving back as much as they
can."
"Ben likes her," I said.
"And she likes him," Phil added. "Neither of them
say too much when they're here. But they sit together,
over there on the couch.
"Well, now, let's see what you've come
up with on Ben."
Phil opened Ben's folder and looked up.
"Where's the parentform?" We had gone over so many
cases together that Phil knew exactly which ten or
twelve tests to expect and was immediately aware of any
deviation from the usual procedure.
"Mrs. Aylesworth hasn't returned it yet.
She's promised several times, but when I called
her a few days ago it still wasn't "quite done," and
she said she'd mail it. It doesn't really
matter. We can complete it at the parent conference,
although I'd rather not spend our time together that way when
there's so much to go over and discuss."
Phil nodded. "She probably finds it threatening.
"Well, pretty good score on the
WISC-R," Phil commentedeaalm to himself.
"Certainly signs of some LD stuff -- interesting
how often that ACID acronym turns up."
(phil was referring to a study that showed that children with low
scores on the WISC-R subtests of
Arithmetic, Coding, Informationeaand Digit Span
are often found to have some type of learning disability.)
"Also, the Verbal IQ is lower than the
Performance, if that means anything. How did he act
while he was taking this?"
I reported on the ups and downs of Ben's
behavior during the various subtests, as well as his
interest in the chips.
Phil picked up the Peabody with surprise. "You
don't usuallygive this." He let out a low
whistle. "Mental age, thirteen years, eleven
months; ninety-fifth percentile. This kid's no
dummy, that's for certain, and yet when they brought in his
report card yesterday -- one C and the rest D's
and From's."
Phil continued leafing through the folder, going over the
academic tests, the Bender, the Detroit.
"Terrible Bender, rotations, distortions -- except
for the recall, six out of nine isn't bad.
Visual memory seems to be okay, but then look
at
those low scores on the Detroit. Mary, he's
going to need a lot of help."
And then, as always, Phil spent a long time studying
Ben's pictures, particularly those of the family.
"Well, not exactly what you'd call a close
family. Everybodydoing his own thing. See how the
father is turned away from Ben. Mmm ... I know
you've noted the lack of hands and feet on the self
figure ... the shaded head ... and the
insecurity that shows in those sketchy lines . .."
Phil talked on, going back and reviewing certain
tests, askingquestions when he could not quite read my writing.
Finally he said, "Well, from these I think we can
definitely say that Ben's poor school performance
is not due to a lack of intelligence."
I nodded agreement as I made notes.
Phil continued, "There are definite signs of
learning disabilitiesand emotional overlay. Show the
parents the tests, the drawings, etcetera. You know
how to do that better than I do.
"And tell them," he went on, "that we recommend
supportiveeducational therapy as well as continued
therapy with me. Are you going to have time to work with him?"
I nodded. There was no way I could say no now.
I told Phil briefly that Ben had started
to talk about some of his fears and feelings, about the river
and birds and flying, and that I thought Ben needed time
alone with Phil. Ben didn't want to talk in
front of either his mother or his father right now, and even though
I would be seeing him twice a week, most of our
time would be spent working on ways for Ben to catch up
and then learn how to compensate for his academicproblem
areas. Also, Phil was the trained psychologist, and
some of this was pretty heavy stuff.
"He's so scared," I said. "He tries to cover
it, but it's costing him an enormous amount of energy,
and I don't think he'll let down his cover in
front of his parents, at least not yet. And if
he's going to start academic learning, he'll need
that energy for work."
Phil agreed to give Ben some time of his own and see
how it went. He straightened out Ben's papers and
handed me the folder.
"Thank you, Phil," I said. "I'll call you
after I've seen the Aylesworths. Now, unless you
tell me otherwise, I'm going to play it very
straight with them. I'm going to show them all the tests.
I'm going to explain why Ben has difficulty with
reading and written expression and also how alone and
scared I think he feels. And I'm going to tell
his father that Ben needs him more now than he ever has in
his life, and that Mr. Aylesworth has got to find
some way to spend quality time with his son or he's
going to lose him."
A grin spread over Phil's face. "Atta
girl! I couldn't agree more. I wish I could be a
fly on the wall at that conference. I have a feeling that
you and Ralph Aylesworth are going to have quite a time."
Ralph Aylesworth walked directly
behind me as we went up the stairs to my office. There
was an elusive scent of male cologne, and the
proximity of his finely tailored suit made me
acutely and uncomfortably aware of my faded
jeans. I wished I had scheduled their conference a
few minutes later so that I could have changed out of the
jeans I always wore with the kids into something else. But
into what? I owned nothing more authentic. These were my
working clothes.
Without speaking, Mr. Aylesworth sat down in the
chair to the left. I stood for a minute waiting for
Ben's mother to be seated and then took my place behind
the desk. I knew it was not the conventional grouping, that
some would feel the desk was a barrier, but I still liked
having a place where I could spread out all the child's
tests and papers, as well as charts explaining what
they meant and examples of some of the tests themselves.
Most learning consultants and psychologistsdo not
share the raw data (the actual drawings and answers
to the questions) with the parents. But I believe a child
explains himself best in his own writing and drawings, and
who has a better right to know him than his parents?
"What a nice room!" Mrs. Aylesworth said.
"No wonder Ben didn't object to coming.
Ralph, look at that handmade quilt.
Charming."
Ralph did not even glance in the direction she
motioned.
"Thank you," I replied. "And thank you both for
coming. Can you stay an hour? As I said on the phone,
I think we'll need at least that much time to go over
everything thoroughly."
Both parents nodded in agreement.
"I would like to say two things before we start. First, when
you receive your written report all scores and
scaled subtest scores and percentiles will be
included. This is primarily becit's the way I
would like it myself. If I took my child to a
pediatrician, I wouldn't want to hear that he's of
average height and weight. I would want to know
exactly how many pounds and inches as well as the
range for his age.
"You'll receive the original typed report; I'll
keep a copy. If anyone wishes another copy,
and I do urge you to share information with others who work with
Ben, I will ask that they contact you and that you provide
them with a copy from your original. I do this because it
cuts down the possibility of professionals
exchanging information about a child withoutincluding the parents.
"Which brings me to my second point -- which
is that you, as Ben's parents, have known him
intimately for twelve years and four months. I
saw him at most for seven or eight hours. I can
and will tell you how he did on standardized tests
comparedto other children his age, and I can give you my
opinions and recommendations based on tests and
observations.
"But..." -- and here I looked directly at
Mr. Aylesworth and then at Mrs. Aylesworth
-- "you have the truest, most intimate knowledge of Ben, and
it is your responsibility to stop me or any other
professional, if something doesn't ring true to you,
and say, "That may have been the way Ben acted on
that particular day in your office, but that's not the usual
Ben." his
Mrs. Aylesworth shifted slightly in her seat;
Mr. Aylesworth kept his eyes directly on
my face.
"Now, these are the tests that I gave Ben." I
slid a copy of the evaluation sheet across the desk
to Ralph Aylesworth,
but he barely glanced at it, as I read the names of the
tests out loud.
"I know that these names probably are not familiar
to you, but I plan to go through each test and
explain it and also show you how Ben did on it."
Mr. Aylesworth turned slightly toward his
wife, but kept his eyes on me. "Now, as I
understand this," he said, "the reason we're here, the
reason Ben came here, is to find out if he's got
some kind of learning disability that made him
climb out on the roof in the middle of winter in his
bare feet. Is that correct?"
"Partially," I answered. "I've explained to your
wife and I'm glad you reminded me to explain again
the purpose of a diagnostic educational evaluation.
"What I'm looking for when I do an evaluation
is, what is the child's intellectual potential?
How much do we have a right to expect from him or her?
What are his academic achievement levels, and is
there a match or mismatch between these two? Are there
any signs of learning disabilities such as
perceptual distortions or receptive or
expressive language processing problems?
What are his strengths and weaknesses? Can he use these
strengths to compensate for areas of weakness"...Is the
problem in the receptive, associative, or
expressive
mode? And how does this child feel about himself and his
world?"
Mr. Aylesworth nodded curtly. "All right.
Sounds thorough."
I turned toward Mrs. Aylesworth, making
sure that she
knew I felt her understanding and opinion were of equal
importance.
"Thank you for filling out the form. It came in
yesterday's mail," I said, addressing her. "There
are a few things on which

I need a little more information, but we can come back to those
after we go over the tests."
I laid the WISC-R out in front of them and
pointed out Ben's various scores. I also showed them
a chart explaining the scaled scores, IQ'S, and
various meanings. I explained that I felt the
subtest scores were much more important and gave more
information than the full-scale IQ score. I
drew a vertical line and said that if they thought of 0
as the bottom and 100 as the top, they could
visualize how Ben had done on each test. For
example, on Block Design, a nonverbal
task that is considered one of the best tests of overall
intelligence, Ben scored in the 99th percentile
(meaning that he did better than 99
percent of the children his age); however, on
Vocabularyeaal considered to be an excellent test
of intelligenceeahe scored in only the 37th
percentile. I also showed them the Picture
Completion subtest, where Ben had called a hinge "the
swinging part." In simpler terms, Ben could see "the
answer," but he couldn't always put it into the right words.
After going over each of the subtests, I pointed out that
his full-scale IQ was in the 85th percentile.
I explained that I felt Ben was even brighter than
this and because of that I had administered the Peabody, and that
here Ben had scored in the 95th percentile.
"Are you saying Ben is smarter than ninety-five
percent of the kids his age?" Ben's father peered at
me intently.
"On this particular test, yes. He has an
exceptionally high receptive language, that is,
the understanding of the meaning of words; but he has great
difficulty with expressive language, that is,
expressing his thoughts in verbal or written words."
I turned next to the WRAT and said, "This is a
brief test of word recognition, and spelling, and
arithmetic. The grade scores on this test are
somewhat inflated; that is, they come out four or five
months too high, but the percentiles are
fairly accurate. As you can see, Ben scored in
the thirty-fourth percentilein reading, sixteenth
percentile in spelling, and eighty-sixth percentile
in arithmetic. Both reading and spelling are far below
the potential he showed on the WISC-R."
"Ben's always been good in math," Carol
Aylesworth said. "Shush. Let her finish."
"Well," I continued, "obviously Ben does do
better with math -- which is primarily a visual,
nonverbal task -- than he does with reading and
spelling. It is unusual to have a child's reading and
spelling abilities so much lower than his overall
intelligence. We need to look closely at the
kind of spelling and reading errors he made, both
here and on the other tests of reading."
Thirty minutes later I had finished going through the
rest of the tests, pointing out his slow rate of reading,
his good creative thinking, his difficulty in
remembering the things he heard, his comparative ease
in recalling what he saw, although there was still
perceptual confusion. By "perception" I meant the
way Ben organized and interpreted the raw data
he receivedthrough his senses. I had shown them the Bender,
the drawings, the Raven, and the Detroit and Harris.
I explained that Ben was left-eyed and
right-handed and that while there was dispute in the field over
the importance of this mixed dominance, it was present in
many of the children whom I tutored. The Aylesworths were
paying for all this information, and they were entitled to it. But
more than that, I wantedall of us to understand Ben as
thoroughly as we could.
"Overall," I continued, "we see a picture
of a bright boy-
brighter than he (and probably his teachers)
suspect. In school he feels his classmates
consider him stupid, and rightly or wrongly he
feels that at home he is not pleasing you.
"Both Phil Golden and I feel that Ben does
have specific learning disabilities -- some prefer
the term "dyslexia" -- that account for a large
proportion of his academic problems, andthat Ben
also feels anxious and insecure."
"Anxious? What are you talking about? The boy is
onlytwelve years old. That's a little young to be
anxious." There was an angry edge to Mr.
Aylesworth's voice.
"Anxious is just another word for scared," I said.
"Nobody'stoo young to be scared."
"All right. All right. But it seems to me that this just
confirmswhat I've been saying all
along. He's lazy. You've just proved to me that
he's smart. If he's smart, he can learn.
Correct? If, and I underline if, he works --
and doesn't diddle around up on the roof." Ralph
Aylesworth took out a pack of cigarettes,
then, seeing no ashtray, laid them on the desk.
"Would you like an ashtray?"
"Do you object to my smoking?"
"No. Excuse me a minute. I'll bring an
ashtray up from downstairs."
As I went down the stairs, I could hear Ralph
Aylesworth saying, "I told you to stop babying
him. I knew he was smart."
I set the ashtray in front of Mr.
Aylesworth, watched while he shook a
cigarette from the pack into his mouth. He held a
silver lighter in his left hand and touched it to the end
of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and then let the
smoke out in slow short puffs. The acrid smell
immediately filled the room, but it was worth it. Ralph
Aylesworth was left-handed. Nothing conclusive about
that, but another piece to add to the puzzle.
I turned to the parent form that Mrs. Aylesworth
had finally returned, still only partially completed.
"You've filled in Ben's birth weight
and the fact that he was a full-term baby. But you've
left out the age when he first walked."
"Yes ... well. I know." Carol Aylesworth
smiled appealingly. "It's just that I couldn't
remember. You know you think you'll never forget, but
somehow I just don't know exactly ..."...Her voice
trailed off.
"How exact does it have to be?" Ralph
Aylesworth cut in. "I know it was well before he
was a year old. He was standing up walking around in that
rabbit costume you made him for Halloween, and his
birthday's not till November. I remember your
mother telling everyone about it at Christmas."
"So eleven months?" I said. "Okay. Fine.
Now about talking.when did he say his first words?"
"That was later," Mrs. Aylesworth said,
seemingly
encouraged by the fact that she wasn't expected
to remember an exact date. "He made lots of
noises, but we couldn't understandany of them.
Remember, Ralph, how we used to say he'd
made up a language of his own?"
Ralph Aylesworth ground out his cigarette with his
left hand and glanced at his watch.
"It's after seven. We've been here over
an hour, and I'm still not sure what's the matter with
Ben or what we're supposedto do about it."
"I did tell you that I believe Ben has
specific problems that make it difficult for him
to learn by ordinary classroom methodsea"...I said.
"But I also need to know what he was like before I knew
him. I need you to tell me that. Did he have any
high fevers, broken bones?"
"No, he was a very healthy baby," Mr.
Aylesworth said. "In fact, one thing I've
got to be thankful for is that the whole family is
healthy. Never had to call a doctor in our lives
-- only see them for checkups."
Mrs. Aylesworth nodded. "That's right. The only
time was when we were first married -- and I got so sick
you had to call Dr. Johnstone, and he put me in
the hospital because my fever was so high and I was
vomiting so much that he worried about dehydration. But
then," she stopped and smiled, "it turned out to be
nothing. Well, nothing more than being pregnant with
Ben."
I sighed. "Look. I know it's late. And
learning disabilities is a vague term -- I
realize that. And it's vague because a child's brain is
not an easy place to explore. Until
recently, the only means for internal examination of the
brain have been painful and dangerous. Certainly you can
have Ben examinedby a neurologist, and I can give
you the names of two excellent pediatric
neurologists and, in fact, would suggestyou see
one. I would also recommend an examination by a
pediatric audiologist, just to cover all bases.
I would also recommend that Ben see someone twice a
week who understandschildren with learning disabilities and knows
how to
teach him techniques to improve his reading and
spelling. Ben badly needs to catch up and start
having some success in school."
Ralph Aylesworth stood up. I thought perhaps he
was leaving, but instead he lit another cigarette and
walked across the room.
"Learning disabilities? What the hell does that
mean?" He picked up a pad of white paper from a
corner of the desk and tossed it in front of me.
"Here -- draw me a picture in black and white
of what's wrong with Ben's brain."
I pulled the pad toward me and stared at Ralph
Aylesworth.who did this man think he was to order
me around in my own office? I started to say this, but
then Ben's pale, handsome face imposed
itself on the pad, and I forced myself to be quiet. Ben
needed his father. I had to help Ralph
Aylesworthunderstand that it wasn't just a question of making
Ben try harder. Well, I couldn't draw a
picture of Ben's brain, but maybe I could make
some lists. I wrote:
Overall Possible Causes 1
. genetic 2. organic 3. environmental
Specific Signs of Ben's Learning
Disabilities
1. Mismatch between intelligence and
academicperformance.
2. Difficulty or delay in acquiring
language -- slight stutter.
3. Mixes up or can't remember words.
4. Reversals -- writes
d
for
b -
reads "was" as "saw."
5. Poor auditory memory.
6. Poor sound-symbol relationship.
7. Mixed dominance.
8. Poor perceptual and organizational
skills.
10. Large gap between excellent spatial
knowledgeand poor verbal and written expression.
Additional Information
1. More
males than females have these kinds of learning
problems.
2. 45 percent have close relatives who have
learning disabilities.
What to Do
1. Examination by a pediatric neurologist.
2. Examination by a pediatric audiologist.
3. Supply educational therapy.
4. Supply emotional support.
This took about five minutes. Mrs. Aylesworth
sat folding and unfolding her hands; Mr.
Aylesworth paced back and forth across the room,
stopping by the desk only to snuff out his cigarette and
light another.
When I'd finished I put the pad back on the
desk and pushed it to the other side.
"Maybe this will help."
Mr. Aylesworth glanced at the pad briefly,
but never missed a stride. Mrs. Aylesworth
leaned forward and looked at the list.
"Well, read it," he barked, pacing to the
far side of the room.
Mrs. Aylesworth cleared her throat and read:
"Causes:
one -- genetic; two -- organic; three --
environmental..."
Mr. Aylesworth put out his cigarette and sat
down, shading his eyes, looking at the pad.
When Carol Aylesworth had finished reading the
page, he coughed and said, "Causes? Genetic?
What do you mean by that?"
"Well," I said. "There have been a number of
studies done that show there is a tendency for
dyslexia -- or learning disabilities comto run
in families." I hesitated and then added, "And that
it occurs more often in the males of those families."
The room was absolutely silent until Mr.
Aylesworth spoke. His voice was steady, but very
low. "Are you trying to tell me that I gave this
damn thing to my son? Is that what you're trying
to say?"
"No," I answered. "I said it was one of the
possible -"
I stopped. Tears were running down Mr.
Aylesworth's face. He sat without moving, without
sound, without expression, while tears
flooded his eyes and poured down his cheeks. I
couldn't believe it. This assured, successful,
dominant, demandingman was crying in my office.
Mrs. Aylesworth fumbled in her purse and
proffered a tissue. He pushed it away and stood
up and took a pristine, folded handkerchief from his
back pocket and wiped his cheeks and eyes. He
unfolded it, turned away, and blew his nose.
He sat back down and bent toward me, the
handkerchief still between his hands, his voice unsteady now.
"Did you know I couldn't read? Is that why you made
that list instead of drawing? To prove it?"
"No," I said, shaking my head. "I just didn't
know how to draw a picture of what you were asking. I
was trying to be as clear as I could be."
"Well, now you know. I can't read more than five
or ten words on that whole page. I've never been
able to. But I can talk. Unlike Ben, I
guess. Although almost everything else you said about him you
could say about me."
I shook my head. "I don't understand. How can you
be president of -- his
Mr. Aylesworth interrupted. "I just told you.
Because I can talk. I talked myself a high school
degree, although I never finished. I
talked myself a college degree and an MBA
besides. Nobody ever checked. And life has been a
living hell, wonderingif, when, somebody will find out
and call me on it.
"But, besides being able to talk, I can sell and I can
make
money. I made more sales my first year out than
anybody had ever made in that company, and after that it was
easy. I just climbed the ladder, moving from one
company to anothereaand finally to president of Zyloc.
I had my resume, my sales record,
recommendations, and increasing money and power, and I
had Helen.
"Helen is my secretary. She was an English
major at college.i hired her the day she
graduated, and she's been with me ever since. When
I moved, Helen moved with me. She never married.
Zyloc, Inc., is her life. Everywhere I go,
Helen goes. In fact, until a couple of
months ago, she was the only one who knew I could
hardly read and couldn't write even a simple letter.
Helen reads to me and I dictate to her.
"But when all this damn business about Ben came to a
head, Carol began to fuss about my being home more,
spendingmore time with Ben. Of course, there
was no point to that, because I didn't know what to do with
Ben. He was acting crazy. Did you know he
actually had my pajama top on up there on the
roof? He wouldn't talk to me, and it seemed to me that
Carol was contributing to the problem by babying him, doing
his work for him. He was enough of a sissy as it was."
Carol Aylesworth and I watched silently as
Ralph began his steady pacing once again.
"So then," he continued, "Carol got it into her head
that I was having an affair with Helen." He shook
his head. "Helen has about as much sex appeal as
Grandma Moses."
"Well, you did take her every single place you
went. Chicago. Los Angeles. London.
Brussels. What was I supposed to think?"
Carol Aylesworth said defensively, her voice
whiny, the way Ben's had been in the beginning.
"I took her, for Christ's sake, because she had
to cover for me. Anyway, I hadn't told Carol
before," Ralph Aylesworth continued. "I knew a
hundred tricks with Carol. I told her I had
poor eyesight, so she had to read the street signs
if we were going someplace new. Money -- she
took care of all the bills. The finest
restaurants -- the captain attended to our
order personally, I never used a menu. And every day
I sat behind a newspaper and turned the pages for
at least a half hour.
"Well, she knows now. In fact, there are three of
you who know now. You, Helen, and Carol.
"In some ways it's a relief. And I suppose
I knew all along that Ben was having some of the same
troubles I did, but I didn't want to admit it.
"You talk about scared," Ralph Aylesworth said.
"I can remember screaming at Ben when he first
mispronounced "spaghetti." How was he ever
going to learn to read if he couldn't even get his words
straight?"
I nodded. I could see how terrifying it would be to this
man who had acquired so much surface success at
such cost to think that the same kind of tortured life
awaited his son.
"Well, there's no way of being positive that
Ben's problems are only genetic." I turned
toward Mrs. Aylesworth. "Your high fever and
nausea during your pregnancy may have had something
to do with it, too. That's one of the frustrating things --
no one is sure about causes."
"Is it like a disease?" Mrs. Aylesworth asked.
"Can it be cured?"
I shook my head. "No. A learning disability
is not a disease. It's a kind of neurological
dysfunction. Some very brillianteafamous people have had
similar problems -- Winston Churchill, Charles
Darwin, General George Patton, and John
Kennedy among them. You don't cure it, but you can
learn how to compensate. And Ben can learn to read and
write. I can guarantee that. I also think Ben
has a lot of sorting out of his emotions to do, and he
should see Dr. Golden by himself for a while. I think
you both should continue seeing Phil, too. It's not
easy to bring up a child who has learning
disabilities, particularly when there's so much emotion
involved.
"It's true that it's not good to baby him. It's also
true that it's not a good idea to put too much
pressure on him."
I turned toward Mr. Aylesworth. "Dr.
Golden will be a help on all this -- how much is
too much, things like that.
"The last thing I want to say is that Ben is at a
very vulnerabletime right now, and he badly needs a good
male model. He needs to start moving away from his
mother, becomingless dependent, more independent. And you can
be such help." I nodded to Mr.
Aylesworth. "You, more than anyone, can understand how
he feels. Your problems sound as though they were more
severe than Ben's, and yet you've been
enormously successful."
"Do you know what that success has cost me?"
Ralph Aylesworth replied. "I live in a
cold sweat all day, all night, counting the days
till I can retire. Move away. Do something
else.
"Well, at least Carol knows now. I don't have
to pretend in front of her anymore." He reached
for his wife's hand, and they stood up together. "I
suppose in a way I have Ben to thank for that."
I smiled at him, liking this man who suffered so many
of the difficulties that my children did. "Just try
to spend time with Ben," I said. "Don't feel you have
to teach him anything comj listen to him. Let him know that
you value him for being who he is and what he thinks.
Do whatever is fun for you to do together."
It was after eight o'clock, and we were all tired and
cramped from tension and sitting too long.
"You will be working with Ben, won't you? You do think you can
help him?" Mr. Aylesworth asked.
"I think we can help him," I said, emphasizing
the "we." "Yes. I'd like to try. I'd
also like to speak to his teacher. If she's agreeable,
I'd like to talk to her on a weekly basis so we
can coordinate what we do."
"Wait now. Don't go too fast," Ralph
Aylesworth said. "I'm not sure just how much I
want the school to know."
We had reached the front door. I put out my
hand. "Well, we can talk about it and then decide,
and please call me whenever you have questions, particularly
if there's anything you don't understand when you get the
report. And I'll call you tomorrow, Mrs.
Aylesworth, about setting up Ben's
appointments. I want to go over the test results
with him, too, before we start working together."
I saw Ben twice a week for two years, and
Phil Golden worked with both Ben and his family.
Ben's reading improved quickly. His visual
memory was so strong that he acquired new sight
words relatively easily and learned to use
techniques to speed up his reading without losing
concentration. His testing scores rose because of this and because
he no longer was frozen with fear, sure of his
stupidity. We worked on phonetic skills, using
specific techniques developed for childrenwith Ben's
kinds of learning problems. And when he was
taught in short-sequenced segments, he slowly
learned to decode unknown words and also to improve his
spelling.
Most important, he was no longer alone. We
all worked with him, making it clear that while we
wouldn't do the work for him, he didn't have to do it
alone.
It made a difference. Enough of a difference so that
"BananaBrain" faded from the school picture as
Ben emerged.
At the beginning of eighth grade, Ben went off to a
New England prep school experienced in providing
individualized education for bright adolescents with
learning disabilities, and I'm certain he will go on
to college.
And now, Ralph Aylesworth comes to my office every
week, determined that he, too, will learn to read and
write as well as his son. He arrives early in
the morning, before he goes to work and when there's no chance
of being seen. He wears his hand-tailored pinstripe
suits; I wear my jeans.
He cancels often -- when he's out of town (with
Helen, of course) or at a board meeting. His
problems are far more severe than Ben's, and more
deeply entrenched, but he is learning
to read. His last test showed his silent reading
comprehensionat a fifth-grade level. He works
hard, sweat pouringdown his face, swearing as he
sweats. He's defensive and manipulative, but
he's also intelligent and courageous, and I'm as
proud of Ralph Aylesworth as I am of his
son.
Alice
"I hate her," Alice sobbed. "Hate her!
Hate her! Hate her!"
She was sitting sideways on the couch in my office
over our garage, knees pulled up under her chin.
Now she put her head on her knees, and her long,
straight, light brown hair fell forward around her
face so that tears dripped from an
invisible source, making dark blotches on her
long, gray flannelskirt.
"Oh, Alice," I said, sitting down beside her,
handing her the box of tissues. "What's wrong?
Who do you hate?" Alice sobbed on. "Both of
them, that's who. My stupid mother
and
my stupid teacher. I don't even know which one I
hate the most."
I was surprised at the depth of
Alice's emotion. On her first visit she had
sat like a silent rock for most of the time. Still, I
loved having Alice in my office. While I
enjoyed my boys, there was something special about having
a girl there.
I lifted Alice's feet into my lap (she had
shed her shoes on the way in the door) and waited.
There was no need to ask questions. Since the first visit,
words had tumbled out of Alice -- there was no
language problem here. For a fifth grader she was more
than verbal; she was a veritable fountain.
"Nobody ever asks me what I want," she said,
mopping her face. "They just run my life as if
I wasn't even here. Just because that doctor said I
should take Ritalin, Mom assumes she has the
right to stick it in my sandwich in my lunchbox.
Well, I hate it -- never knowing which bite it will be
in, having the other kids stare, waiting for me
to choke on the pill. She says I'd forget
to take it if it wasn't in the sandwich. Maybe I
would. But it's my life, not hers. Anyway, I just
throw my sandwich out -- I'm not that hungry,
anyway, and that was fine till stupid Mrs.
Robinson decides it's her "duty to tell your
mother." She called Mom into school, and
now there's a whole big hassle and I'm supposed
to show stupid Robinson my empty sandwich baggie
and swear I've eaten the sandwich and the pill.
"Well, I won't. I'm not some kindergarten
baby. I don't care what they do. I don't
even want to go to the dumb school anyway."
"I know," I said. And I did. Dr. Voipe
had sent me a copy of Alice's copious file
before he sent me Alice, and there was a detailed
family history along with reports from various
doctors and teachers.
The Martins had arrived from Kansas during the
previous summer. Mr. Martin had been promoted
and transferred to the New York home office of a
large insurance company.
The Martins were reportedly thrilled by the "move up
the ladder" and delighted with their picture-book
pretty home in a nearby affluent community.
However, it was immediately evident to everyone that
Alice's previous schooling had in no way
prepared her for the highly academic program of this
achievement-oriented town, which prided itself on its
standards of education and high national ranking.
The small private school in the little midwestern
city that Alice had attended had a
curriculum based on "developmentalmilestones"
rather than standardized levels of achievement.it was
considered to be innovative and less pressured
than the public schools, and since Alice had
been "high-strung" from the beginning, the Martins thought
it was the better option for Alice. And it may have
been, but it had left her poorly prepared to enter
any other type of school.
Even in her special school Alice had
difficulties, and while she was still in kindergarten the
school psychologist had tested her.
Her highest scores were in reasoning and abstract
thinking. Her lowest scores were in arithmetic and
visual motor tasks. Her full-scale IQ
score on the Wechsler Preschool and Primary
Scale of Intelligence (Wppsi) was 113; the
Verbal IQ was 126, the Performance IQ 103
-- a 23-point spread. The Bender Gestalt was
reported to be "difficult" for Alice, and her
drawingsshowed "signs of stress." Her teachers
reported that Alice's feelings were "easily
hurt" and that she was often on "the verge of tears --
and needed more than the usual amount of encouragement
to perform." On the basis of the teachers' reports and the
tests, the school psychologist concluded that
Alice's difficulties were due to "emotional rather
than physicalproblems" and advised "a more relaxed
attitude and less pressure from the parents."
The psychologist never did explain the 23-point
difference between Alice's Verbal and Performance
scores.
Alice continued to have trouble during first grade, and her
teacher noted that she had "awkward left-handed
writing, trouble cutting with scissors, and that she
reversed letters." However, the teacher said she was not
concerned, because she felt these difficulties were
simply because Alice was not yet "ready." Since the
philosophy of the school was based on "readiness
determined by developmental milestones," this was also the
advice of the school director, who pointed out that
Alice's molars were slow in coming in and that her other
problems were undoubtedly related to this fact.
Consequentlyeaher parents waited patiently through
another year. But when there was no improvement,
Alice was taken for a neurological examination.
The pediatric neurologist's report stated that
while Alice
was slightly older than most first graders -- seven
years, four months during the spring of first grade
-- she looked more like a kindergarten child, with
"awkward posturing of the hands and fingers accompanying
all of her gait performances and twitches of the hands and
fingers when she is trying to hold still in the
eyes-closed, posture-holding position." The
neurologist also noted a "marked mixed dominance
with a 50-ej% left and right in terms of destination of
tasks performedwith one hand or the other, although the
traditional writing task is done with the left hand.
There is mixed eye and foot dominance."
The neurological summary concluded that Alice
showed signs of a "patchy minimal brain
dysfunction marked by un-evenness in development" and
that while she was "not hyperactiveshe exhibited
elements of the dyscontrol syndrome in terms of
lack of organization, lack of self control and low
frustration." The neurologist's report further
stated that the "emotional problems are secondary
reactions to the MBD syndrome" and recommended
"intensive remedial help over the summer."
The Martins were understandably confused. The
neurologist'sfindings seemed to be the opposite
of the psychologist's.they were relieved that Alice's
problems had a physical cause and were not due
only to pressures they had applied. Their
difficulty lay in the fact that they were not quite
sure what kind of "intensive remedial help" was
required, and instead of contacting the neurologist for
clarification, they followed a neighbor's suggestion
and enrolled Alice in a perceptualtraining
program run by an optometrist assisted
by graduate students from a nearby university. The
optometrist assured the Martins that Alice's
basic problem was "divergenceexcess," and this could be
"cured by practice in eye-hand coordination, eye
movements, visual memory, and balance."
Alice disliked these weekly sessions, the assorted
roster of graduate students, and resisted additional
practice at home. She developed
gastrointestinal trouble, which increased on
the days when the perceptual training was scheduled.
Finally, after more than a year, still with no visible
improvement, the training sessions were dropped and
Alice (and the Martins) struggled along alone through
third and fourth grade. AlthAlice was absent
often and for increasingly longer periods, her academic
grades -- based, of course, on
"developmentalmilestones" -- remained
surprisingly high, except for arithmetic.
Now in fifth grade at Bryant Elementary
School in Brent-wood, New Jersey,
not only did Alice have gastrointestinal problems;
her new school psychologist felt there was a
"phobicresistance to attending school" and referred
her to a Dr.volpe, psychiatrist. Dr.
Volpe confirmed the "school phobiaea"...noting that
Alice's symptoms were "always worse on Monday
mornings or following a school vacation and were
accompanied by hysterical crying and protestations of
dire consequences if she were forced to attend school."
Alice also had increasing difficulty in
concentrating, paying attention, and not forgetting what she
had known the day before.
Interestingly, the parents revealed to Dr. Volpe a
fact that they had not shared before. Alice had been
adopted at five weeks of age through a Catholic
charity. A year after Alice's adoption, Billy,
a natural child, was born as "quite a surprise"
to both parents.
Alice's overall intelligence scores done by the
school psychologisthad dropped slightly between
kindergarten and fifth grade, but the same patterns
were evident -- full-scale intelligencein the bright
average range with highs in abstract thinking and
vocabulary, and lows in spatial and perceptual
tasks as well as those calling for rote
memory. Dr. Voipe commented on Alice's
"rigidity, caution, and self absorptionea"...z well
as the fact that she appeared "younger than her
chronological age." The Rorschach, a
projective inkblot test used by psychiatrists,
showed "good attention to detail, considerable
compulsiveness, constriction, and guardedness." His
recommendations were for "family therapy sessions for
all members of the family," for mild stimulant
medication
(ritalin or Cylert), for Alice to be
monitored by her pediatrician to help her maintain
focus, and for "specific expertremedial help in
the main area of schoolwork where she is weak, namely
math." Dr. Volpe gave the Martins my name.
I was far from an expert; I had had my own
mathematical struggles, but I was enchanted
by Alice. She reminded me of a watercolor
illustration in an old black leather, gold-rimmed
book of my grandmother's. Her brown hair was almost
waist length, held back with a tortoiseshell
headband. She was slim, small-boned, and
fine-featured. On her first visit to my office she
was dressed in a white blouse and an ankle-length
blue pinafore that again seemed from another
age. There was an overall misty quality about her,
almost a physical aura, as if indeed she might have
stepped out of another time and place. It was hard
to imagine the hysterical storms described in
Alice's file.
But appealing as Alice might be to me, I knew
she'd be a joke at Bryant Elementary
School. Jeans were not allowed during the school
hours, but any and every other style of pants were -- and
this particular year, the tighter they were, the better.
This was not only the world of achievement; high fashion
began in second grade. Hair was styled, not
cut, at sixty dollars a throw. Designer
labels bloomed like daisies, nails were long and
polished, and hair was streaked. By fifth grade,
childhood was a thing of the past.
Alice was a walking anachronism, a terrified
one at that. I wasn't sure of how best to go about
helping her, but I was sure I was not going to begin
by doing an evaluation. Valuable as diagnostic
sessions are, it was clear that Alice had been tested
enough. The neurologist's report made sense
to me. And while we no longer used the term MBD
-- minimal brain dysfunction -- I believed
Alice did have some type of
neurologicaldysfunction resulting in what would
now be called dyscalculia, or an inability
to calculate by ordinary classroom methods, as
well as an accompanying dyscontrol. In my
practiceealanguage-based problems were far more
common than
perceptual ones, and, for whatever reason, more girls
have difficulties in spatial and numerical
tasks. It seemed to me that the major mistake the
Martins had made was entering Alice in a
perceptual training program, rather than providing
her with specific help from a trained learning
disabilities specialist.
On Alice's second visit, she wore a dark
red pinafore that was an exact copy of the blue one she
had worn the time before. I asked the usual questions --
address, phone number, parents' and siblings'
names, pets.
"Yes," Alice said. "I do have one pet."
"Good. What kind?"
"He is a rabbit, a brown and white,
intelligent rabbit. His name is Sigmund."
"Sigmund," I repeated. "That's an unusual
name."
"Not really. I thought it would be amusing to have
a residentrabbit psychiatrist in the house."
I'd listened to hundreds of eleven-year-old
kids, but Alice sounded more like she was entering
graduate school than fifth grade. And yet she
was "school phobic" and failing math -- and a
social innocent.
"Is he as insightful as his distinguished
predecessor?" I certainly wasn't going to talk
down to Alice.
She looked up quickly, surprised, and said
quietly, "Sigmunddoesn't often share his
insights with me, Mrs. Mac-Cracken."
"Discreet," I said.
Alice nodded, and then she smiled at me. "And
besides, he's only a rabbit."
And blip -- we'd made our connection. There was no
need to be careful any longer.
"Dr. Volpe told me you were having some trouble with
math, Alice. That's why he suggested that you come
here. But I don't know what kind of trouble it is,
and I really don't want to give you any tests right
now. Could you explain it to me more clearly?"
Alice shrugged and studied her hands again. "I
don't know," she said, "everything just comes out wrong.
Besides, I don't care if it does. I
hate school, anyway."
My sophisticated conversationalist of the moment before had
reverted to total childishness. Now it was easy
to see why the psychologists and neurologist had
seen Alice as a much younger child.
"Yes. I heard that you did," I said. "Do you
hate all of it? Or are there some parts you like?"
"The whole thing. Well... maybe not every single
thing." Alice peeked up at me. "The library
really is very nice. It's much larger than the one in
my old school, and they let you take out three
books at one time."
"You know my idea of heaven?" I said. "An
enormous bed with lots of squishy pillows, a mug
of hot coffee, and every conceivable kind of book
stacked all over the floor and table and bed right within
my reach."
"And Sigmund could sleep on one of the pillows,"
Alice said as I laid out paper, pencil, rods,
and blocks and began to explain basic arithmetic
concepts.
But now things seemed to have gone from bad to worse, and
Alice was dissolved in tears, engaged in battle with
both her mother and her teacher. Certainly a solution
had to be found for the pill-taking; I agreed
with Alice that she shouldn't have to struggle with medication in
public. She was enough of an oddity as a new student
dressed in out-of-date clothing.
I lifted Alice's feet out of my lap and got
up and walked around the office in pure frustration.
Dr. Volpe had made it very clear to me that he was
referring Alice to me for "tutoring in arithmetic,
not therapy" and that he would take care of whatever
counseling was needed.
"I don't mean to be rude," Dr. Volpe had
said when we had first spoken, his slight accent rolling
across the r, "but I must remind you that learning
disability specialists are just that -- specialists
in learning, not in therapy. Sometimes there is a
tendency to forget."
I had not forgotten. How could I? But what did it
matter
how well Alice understood math if she was totally
miserable both in and out of school?
I sat back down again. "Alice, it doesn't
make any sense for you to be so unhappy and
constantly fighting with both your mom and your teacher.
What does Dr. Volpe say about all this?"
Alice shrugged. "I haven't really seen him for a
while. Mom goes there during the day when
Billy and I are in school."
Wonderful. Family therapy seemed to have shrunk.
Shrunk by a shrink. I debated sharing this with Alice
-- she could have passed it on to Sigmund. I
stopped just in time, remindingmyf of my own belief in
the importance of workingas a team.
Instead I called Dr. Volpe after Alice had
left, and he confirmedwhat she had said. Family
therapy had evolved into individual therapy for
Mrs. Martin.
"The father is virtually unavailable to either therapy or
his family," Dr. Volpe said. "He is away
both physically and emotionally most of the time. Alice
is getting a great deal of support from you. Billy
is doing well by himself. Mrs. Martin is the one who
feels deserted and bereft. Alone in a new town
with limited support from her husband, constantly
facing criticism about the way she rears her children,
particularly Alice. She lets Billy dress
pretty much as he wants. And, of course, he's
not on any medication and doesn't have Alice's
learning problems.
"But Mrs. Martin is much more emotionally involved with
Alice, which, as you know, is not rare between the mother and the
so-called wounded child. In fact, there's a
touch of symbiosis on her part, and the fact that
Alice is adopted and that Mrs. Martin was the one
who pushed for the adoption seems to heighten her guilt
and her involvement. She is also a very tense,
anxious person herself, and of course her anxiety
feeds Alice's and vice versa. In any event,
I continue to see Mrs. Martin because she's the one
who's available, and I believe I can help the
whole family best by helping her learn to handle her
own needs."
"But what about Alice?" I couldn't help asking.
"Somebody'sgot to do something about Alice. It's my
turn to apologizeto you if I sound rude. Dr.
Volpe, but the school psychologist did refer
Alice to you for help."
There was a moment's silence on the other end of the line.
Then Dr. Volpe replied in a voice even more
distant than usual, "Indeed. Indeed. An
excellent point. I think you should be more in touch with the
school. Certainly that's where learning takes
place. Or is supposed to. And as I pointed
out earlier, you are the learning specialist, Mrs.
MacCracken. I, of course, will be reviewing
Alice's emotional state periodicallyand am in
constant communication with her through her mother.
Thank you for calling."
I replaced the phone somewhat more loudly than necessary.
I had worked with dozens of clinical psychologists
and psychiatristsand was constantly impressed by their knowledge
and sensitivity, but I certainly wasn't
impressed with Dr. Volpe at the moment. "In
constant communication through her mother." Some wonderful
communication that was.
By the next morning my blood was a little cooler and
my mind a little clearer. The next step was
obviously a conference with Mrs. Martin and then with
Alice's teacher and the school psychologist.
Mrs. Martin sat in the same place on the couch
as Alice had, but her feet were close together on the
floor, her slightly heavy body upright and her
brown hair pinned into a tight bun across the back of
her head. But leaning forward, her face flushed, she
was almost pretty in her eagerness. "Dr. Volpe
is helping us -- well, me -- see how to meet
Alice's needs. But she is so difficult; she
resists everything I try to do for her, even to taking
important medication."
I nodded. "I heard about the sandwich."
"Alice means so much to me," Mrs. Martin went
on. "She's our oldest, you know, and a
girl, and well, it isn't generally known but Alice
is adopted. Mr. Martin was against it, but I
wanted a baby so much and I couldn't seem to get
pregnant,
so he finally agreed. In fact, he fell in love
with her, too. He couldn't help it -- she was such a
beautiful baby. But then before Alice was a year
old I discovered I was pregnant with Billy, and with
Alice awake and crying two or three times a
night, neither of us got much sleep. But I can't
complain. Both our families lived nearby. You
see, both Mr. Martin and I went to the same
grammar school out in Kenoba, Kansas, and our
families had been friends for ages, so I had lots
of company and hands to help with all that needed doing."
Words continued to pour out of Mrs. Martin. "Besides,
Billy was easy. It was only Alice that needed
extra care. And I suppose I felt
responsible for her because, as I said before, I'd been
the one to insist on adopting her. And then, you
probably can't see it now, but I always thought we
looked a lot alike."
Mrs. Martin leaned farther forward, inviting me
to inspect her face.
"Yes," I said. "There is a
resemblance -- the same high cheekbones, the same
color hair. Although your eyes are blue and
Alice's are brown."
"Yes," Mrs. Martin said, "and I suppose the
likeness is harder to see now because I've put on
weight since I've been here.
"Now that the house is decorated and the children in school
all day, there's not that much that needs doing. And, I have
to admit, I miss home. Although this is supposed
to be home. Still, it doesn't feel that way. We
were all so close, both families .. . and it's
different here in the East. I mean back home there
were neighborhoods. Nobody would think of letting
someone move in without taking them some homemadebread
or something or other."
I looked at Mrs. Martin's polished navy
blue shoes and thought of Alice. I certainly
couldn't hold Mrs. Martin's feet in my lap;
in fact, it was hard even to imagine her barefoot.
But how was I ever going to get through to her? She had
been in my office for twenty minutes, and we had
yet to get to Alice. Somehow her loneliness had a
kind of desperate quality,
and I understood Dr. Volpe's view a little
better. It must be very hard for Mrs.
Martin in a strange town, away from her family and
friends. It certainly wouldn't help for me to rush
into criticisms of her handling of Alice's clothes
and medication.
"How does Mr. Martin like his new job?" I
asked, trying to move the conversation along.
Mrs. Martin's face closed, and she leaned back
away from me. "He likes it fine," she said.
"Too much, if anything, if you ask me.
"Now what about Alice?" Mrs. Martin asked on
her own. "I know you've only seen her a few
times, but do you think she'll ever understand math? She
seems to have it all backward."
"I'm sure she will. Once she's shown in a way
she understands.but right now, she's so caught up in
trying to fit into a new school that she isn't
focusing on arithmetic that much. Now the most
important thing in the world to Alice is not to seem
different. She just wants to be like everybody else."
Mrs. Martin leaned forward again. "But that's just it --
she is different. She's not like everybody else. I
mean I know she's overly sensitive and she does
need medicine to calm her down, but so do I. But
what I mean about Alice's being different is that
she's special. I mean you should see the
books she reads, and the poetry she writes, and the
way she talks. She even named our rabbit after
Sigmund Freud, so she'd have someone in the house
who would understand her. Now, have you ever heard of an
eleven-year-old doing that?"
"No, I haven't. And I agree with you that
Alice is intelligent and sensitive. But it's
because of those very attributes that she needs to fit in at
least on the outside, so the others won't make fun
of her."
"Make fun of her?"
"Her clothes seem strange to the other fifth
graders, and also they think she must be sick if she
has to take medicine," I said as gently as I
could.
Not gently enough. Mrs. Martin stood up. "It
is not my
fault or Alice's if those children don't understand
quality. Alice is quality, and so are her
clothes -- the finest materials made by the best
dressmakers. As for her medicine, that's none of the
other children's business, now, is it?" Her voice was
abrupt, and she moved toward the door.
I put out my hand, and only as I said good-bye could
I see the tears standing in Mrs. Martin's
blue eyes. I covered her hand with my free hand.
"Moves are always hard for everyoneea"...I said. "But
Alice is smart and you are, too, and we'll get
it worked out. Do you think we could have lunch sometime?"
Mrs. Martin patted the tears on her cheeks.
"I'd like that very much," she said. "Thank you."
Alice slid out of her shoes and tucked her feet
underneath her on the couch. "Thanks for talking
to Mommy; it really helped."
"It did?" I asked in genuine surprise. "I
thought maybe I'd made things worse."
"Nope. Mom actually told me she'd been here
and that you were going to have lunch together sometime. Usually she
never tells me anything except what to do and how
to live my life. Anyway, it was kind of nice just
talking to her. You know what I mean, just talking about
something, not arguing. So I discussed it with Sigmund.
You remember Sigmund?"
"How could I forget?"
"Well, anyway, I discussed things with
Sigmund. He communicatesnow, and he suggested
that I make my own sandwicheaput the pill in a
corner, and punch that corner with a fork. That way, I
can bite off the corner, be prepared for the pill, and
get it over withand then be able to relax and
enjoy the sandwich, and the other kids wouldn't even
notice. And it works. Mom even likes me making
the sandwich."
"That's terrific, Alice," I said, meaning it.
"In fact, it's so terrific we're actually
going to spend the rest of our time talking about math."
Alice groaned.
"It's not so bad. Actually, it's a lot easier
than it seems. Most of elementary school math --
kindergarten through fifth grade -- is made up of
four things. They call them operations because they're
something you do to numbers, just like doctorsdo to people. And
I imagine you already know these four operations, or their
names, anyway -- addition, subtraction,
multiplication, and division. Adding just means putting
things together, subtracting is separating them,
multiplying is puttingthem together in equal groups,
and dividing is sharing.
"Later on, in fifth, there's maybe a little
fractions or decimalseab I can show you those."
Alice said, "It doesn't sound hard the way you
describe it, but when they put those papers in front
of me I can't rememberanything. It all just looks
like some sort of stuff from outer space."
"All right. Let's start with the first operation
-- addition. Here, take this paper and give me
something to add."
Alice hesitated but then wrote:
caret 3 43aret
"Okay," I said. "That plus sign tells me that
I've got to put those three numbers together. I
start at the top and I run my pencil through the
numbers, so if the columns are long I can write
it out on the side. Like I'd go three and two are
five and write five somewhere out on the side -- and
five and four are nine. I put that in one place.
Do you know about places or place value?"
Alice shook her head.
"All right. We'll talk about that in a minute.
Then I go back up to the top of the next column,
and one of the things that always used to get me mixed up is
that you work right to left in addition -- just the opposite
of reading. But anyway, add straight down -- two
and four are six plus five is eleven."
"But suppose I don't know that," Alice asked,
"that six
plus five is eleven, or what thirteen minus
eight is, or seven times six. Suppose I
don't know any of that?"
"Well, that's my job," I said. "To show
you how you can learn them. And you can. But for now write
down six (two plus four is six), so you don't
forget that, and ask yourself:
what's six plus five?"
"I don't know," Alice answered. "Ask yourself
what's five plus five?"
"Ten. Oh, I get it. Six is one more than
five, so six plus five is eleven."
"Exactly. Now eventually you'll know it
automatically, just like you know your telephone number.
But until you do, I'll show you ways to figure it
out.
"Now, I'm going to write down a harder one, because
I want to explain about places."

plus 24
plus 23
"Some of this you probably already know, but remember you
have a chart like this:
hundreds tens ones
Now, the trick to remember is trading. When you
add and you get ten ones, you trade them for one ten.
"Sorry, that sounds confusing. Let me try again.
We're adding up the problem:
'76

.plus-or-more. 23aret
[UEIB
"Okay, I put the boxes down below -- a box
for the ones, a box for the tens, and another for the
hundreds. Only one number allowed to a box. So
six and four are ten plus three more, that's thirteen.
Okay, I'll put the three in the ones box, but the
one can't go there (only one number to a box), so it
goes up at the top of the tens. One and seven are
eight and
two are ten and two more are twelve. Put the two
in the tens box (only one number to a box), and
put the one up in the hundreds column. It's the
only thing in that column, so one and nothing is one and
that goes in the hundreds box, and the answer is one
hundred twenty-three."
I looked at Alice. She was still looking at the
problem. "And if that last number was one hundred
twenty-three insteadof just twenty-three, then you'd
add the two ones and the answer would be two hundred
twenty-three?" she asked.
"You got it."
"Well, that's rather interesting. Of course, we're
doing things in the thousands in school."
"Same thing. Same for millions, too. I just have
to show you about commas. Let's try a little of your
homework now."
Alice's homework was a page of "mixed
practice" -- a little of everything from fourth grade.
The four operations we'd talked about plus a couple
of word problems.
As I watched Alice copying the problems I could
see how difficult the physical writing and
aligning of the numbers was for her. She could remember
only one number at a time, so she "had to look
back and forth continually from book to paper; her numbers
were uneven and sketchily formed, and her hooked,
left-handed grip covered half the numbers she
wrote. She would also read a number as 36 and
write it as 33aret , misforming the 6. I'd have
to see if we couldn't get a workbook for her so she
wouldn't have to waste so much time and energy copying.
Beside the first problem Alice wrote i and the problem
itself. Unfortunately, her columns drifted to the
left so that she added the i into the last column and
therefore was 1,000 off. Still, she was pleased that she could
do the addition, and we skipped most of that, leaving it for
her to do at home.
She could do subtraction as long as there was
no regroupingggborrowing) involved and she had enough fingers
to count.
Multiplication made little sense to Alice. In
fact, she hadn't really known that multiplication and
"times" were related.
She had never seen a division symbol before.
"Just skip those," I said. "I'll tell Mrs.
Robinson you haven't had division yet. Now,
listen, Alice -- I've got an idea. There's
a man in school by the name of Mr. Renner, and he
gives kids extra help, just like I do, only he
does it in school in a place called the resource
room. It might be a good idea for you two to do some
work together. I think maybe I should talk to your
teacher, Mrs. Robinson, and see how things are
going and also see if we can't arrange for you to get
some extra help in the resource room."
Alice shook her head. "I'm not sure you should do
that. I don't believe you'll hear anything good from
Robinson. BesseaI've already met that man --
Mr. Renner -- he gave me some sort of test.
I guess it was arithmetic, but it wasn't any
kind of arithmetic I've even seen before."
I knew Mrs. Robinson, Alice's
fifth-grade teacher, from having worked with other
children in her class in other years. She was in her
mid-forties and had two children of her own, and her
husband taught in the high school. She used good
materials, she understood the subjects she taught,
and she was organized and thorough. But any deviation from
her way of doing things was regarded as rebellion, so
I could understandwhy she wasn't thrilled to have Alice
in her class, as well as her reaction to Alice's
medication. Still, Alice desperatelyneeded a friend and
interpreter in her school. I decided to give
Mrs. Robinson a call.
"It is incomprehensible to me how they could have let that
child enter fifth grade," Mrs. Robinson almost
shouted into the phone, as soon as I'd mentioned
Alice's name. "I don't care if she is
eleven -- she doesn't begin to know the first thing about
arithmetic. I have the lowest group, you know, so
I've seen everything, but nothing close to Alice.
The school psychologist tested her and says she's
smart enough but has school phobia -- whatever that may
be -- so he referred her to a psychiatrist.
Anyway, I can't get any help from the
psychologist.his caseload is five times what
it should be, and once he's referred a child to what he
considers the best source
of help, he's onto his next case, and I can't
blame him. So I sent her in to Jack Renner --
he runs the resource room, you know. I didn't
need any more fancy testing, I just wanted to find out
what levels she was on.
"He gave her the WRAT -- you know that one, the
Wide Range Achievement Test. Would you
believe she did the wrong section, Level Two?
The one for twelve-year-olds and over. Jack
didn't notice. He'd already showed her the page
she should do. He told her she had ten minutes and
to do as many as she could, and then went back to his
regular schedule.
"Well, at the end of ten minutes. Jack
collected the paper and Alice had done every single
problem on Level Two -- fifty or so.
Averaging, decimals, percents, fractions,
algebra equations, square roots, as well as the
ordinary addition, subtraction, multiplication, and
division. Of course, all but two were wrong -- I
mean way off. She didn't have any idea in the world
what she was doing, but that didn't bother Alice.
She just kept her head in the clouds and wrote down
whatever she pleased.
"For one-sixth of thirty, she wrote
twenty-two. That kind of thing. Well, in my mind,
she should be repeating. I mean it's not just that she
doesn't know her facts -- she lies; she
pretends she knows what she's doing.
"And it's not just math. She hasn't ever had
cursive, or so she says. She scrawls out these
tiny little marks, not even connected half the time, when
she's asked to write. Jack says being left-handed
may have something to do with it, but in my view, it's a
lot more than that.
"And you know, she's lied to her mother about taking her
medicine, though that seems to have been worked out, but I
simply don't know what we're going to do."
I kept quiet. I knew if I listened long
enough, Mrs. Robinsonwd end up offering to send me
Alice's papers, and extra copies of the book and
workbooks they were using in class. She really was
organized and generous, but she and Alice were not what
you would call made for each other.
"I suggested sending Alice to the resource room the
very
first day," Mrs. Robinson shouted over the
telephone, trying to be heard above the noise in the
teachers" room, "but you know what that's like -- she
has to have such and such to qualify for any
additional help, forms filled out, evaluations
filed. Besides, she is doing better. She eats her
sandwich nicely every day now. I don't even ask
to see her baggie anymore."
"That's great. Now what do you say if I just call
Jack Renner and see if he can fit Alice in
for a half hour somewhere in the day? You are
absolutely right about how much help she needs --
let's see if we can't get that help. The forms will
catch up to her, and there's no question she qualifies,"
I said.
"Go right ahead," Mrs. Robinson said, "if you
want to stick your neck out. Your job's not at
stake."
"Right. Just promise you won't wave a flag
pointing it out."
I'd played tennis with Jack Renner a couple of
times at the club. Just pick-up games when one or
the other of us had filled in, but I'd known him for a
long time, and I'd seen him on the courts and in the
pool as he was growing up. He'd gone away
to college, then returned, and had been teaching in the
resource room at Bryant Elementary for the past
two or three years.
I explained the situation to Jack over the
phone.
"Sure, why the hell not? She seems like a nice
kid, although somebody ought to get her out of those weird
clothes before the kids laugh her off the block.
Tell you what, tell her to come into my room at
twelve thirty. I don't think either Alice or
I are the hit of the lunchroom. The ladies can
hardly wait to get me out of the teachers' room so they
can talk about whatever it is they talk about -- and I
bet the kids feel the same way about Alice.
Besides, if someone tells me I'm "bastardizingmy
position" -- like happened once before when I took
an unclassified kid -- I can at least say that
I'm doing it on my own time."
I was pleased that Jack had agreed to work with
Alice. Not only did she need to catch up and
fill in arithmetic facts
and concepts, she also needed somebody in the school who
was on her side, and I had the feeling that Alice and
Jack could become friends.
Also, Jack's feedback would be invaluable to me.
There's nothing like on-the-spot reporting,
particularly from someone on the same team. He was
absolutely right about Alice's clothes. The other
kids would laugh at her; in fact, they
almost certainly already were.
The snow began about four o'clock in the afternoon -- huge,
fat flakes that clung to each other and covered the
front lawn and driveway within an hour.
By morning, the snow was thinner, lighter, but the weather
report announced blizzardconditions with the present
accumulation twenty-two inches, and up to four more
inches predicted. Schools were closed across the
state.
An unexpected holiday. We reveled in it,
adults and childrenalike. The children in the neighborhood
built snowmen and fortresses and filled the hills with
sleds and toboggans. I read and wrote letters,
cleaned out a drawer or two, and helped shovel the
driveway and paths. Then Cal and I tramped
back and forth between friends' houses for good food and drink
and talk.
But the holiday ended as abruptly as it had begun.
After two days, the sun came out, streets were
cleared, schools reopened, reality returned --
and the phone rang unrelentinglyearequesting make-up
appointments. Finally, I decided we'd just have
to double up. I tried to make the "double-ups" as
compatible as possible and hoped that Tara Hirsch and
Alice would work out. They shared the fact that
they both were girls, a minority in my office
population, and both were in fifth grade at Bryant
Elementary School, although in different classes.
Tara had short, black, curly hair and the taut
body of an athlete. Her math was quite good, but she
had the more usual reading and language problems of
learning disabled children. I had seen Tara the year before in
my other office. In fact, I
had been seeing her twice a week for over a year
when I moved, and her mother decided to keep Tara with
me since the drive was about the same to either office.
Tara had been two years below grade level in
both reading and spelling when I first saw her -- and a
snarly little thing besides. Her parents would not let her go
out for sports as long as her grades were poor, so
her frustration escalated. She was not allowed to do the
things she was good at, and she just kept getting worse
at the others. But once her parents understood how much
she needed to excel at something, they allowed her to enter
the after-school sports program, and now she was the
star of the acrobatic team and one of two girls on
the Little League team -- and she was also part of an
active social group.
The two girls arrived at the same time, walking
up the driveway without speaking to each other.
Tara had obviously changed after school and had on
jeans, her Little League sweatshirt, and a blue
down vest, and she skipped along in her sneakers
despite some slippery patches. Alice walked
carefullyeadressed in fitted brown leather boots
and a velvet-collared, dark green wool coat that
reached to her ankles.
I introduced the girls, and we proceeded on to my
office. Alice hung up her coat; Tara
tossed her vest over a doorknob. They both
stood staring silently at me.
"Now we have a choice," I said. "You two can work
separately -- one at the desk, the other at the
table by the couch. Alice can work on math, Tara on
reading, and I'll split my time between you. Or we can
all sit around the desk and have everybody work on the
same thing -- some of the time on this, some on that, but
we'll do it together. Which do you prefer? Alone or
together?"
"Together," answered gregarious Tara.
"Is that all right with you, Alice?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered quietly.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go."
We scrunched around the big desk. I sat in the
swivel chair they usually used when they
worked at the desk, and they pulled up others.
"Let's start with the reading," I said. "Tara,
we're on the first column of the last page of
fifth-grade words. You go ahead and try the first ten.
We'll make our usual cards for the words you don't
know."
Tara read slowly, stumbling over "continue" and
"astoundedea"...b figuring them out by herself. However, she could
not get "opportunity."
"Can you help out, Alice?" I asked.
"Opportunity," Alice said, without hesitation.
"Okay, Alice, your turn. You read the next
ten."
Alice whizzed through the words with elegant elocution.
Tara regarded Alice with new interest. "How'd you
learn to do that?"
Alice shrugged. "I don't know. It's just always
been easy for me."
"How come you come here if you can read so good?" Tara
quizzed Alice.
"I have trouble with math. At least I used to.
I'm getting better."
"Me, too. Isn't it a relief?"
Now Alice was the one who was interested. I kept
quiet. Nothing is more fun than watching
children learn from each other.
I'd been paying out chips all along, and I paid
again as we corrected math sheets.
"Time's almost up, but let's do just a little writing.
Grab a pad of paper, any size you want," I
said, pointing to various-sized pads of white and
yellow paper on one corner of the big desk, "and
hand me a yellow nine by twelve, so I can write,
too. Good. Thanks. Now just write whatever you
want about your favorite place. It can be indoors
or out, maybe some place you go on vacation or
maybe your own room. It can be anywhere, but just
write what it is you like about it. Try to tell what
it looks like -- try to make me be able to see it.
Okay? Now let's go. We'll take about five
minutes."
I wrote about our country house. Tara wrote
three sentenceswith many misspellings about the baseball
field and
how good she felt out there. Alice wrote
three-quarters of a page of printed scratchy words
about a place she'd made for herself in the attic where
she could go to read and think. Each of us read out loud
what we had written, and we were all smiling when we
finished.
As the girls were counting up their chips, Tara said
to Alice, "Can I ask you something?"
Alice froze and looked at Tara
suspiciously. "Like what?" My own complacency
vanished.
"Well," Tara said, "like how come you wear such
weird clothes? I really thought that you were weird. But
you're not. You're really nice. It's just the
clothes."
"My mother makes me," Alice replied, head
down, stackingand restacking her chips.
I was holding my breath.
"Well, that's cuckoo," Tara said. "Why don't
you tell her you need some new clothes like other kids
wear?"
Alice shook her head. "She doesn't care.
She doesn't even listen."
"Well, I'll tell her," Tara said, her head
up, her black eyes blazing. I could imagine her
slamming a home run. Nothing on the baseball
field or in the social world scared Tara.
Alice and I were both staring at her.
"Well, I will. She's got no right making you
look like an idiot."
But when Alice came for her next session
she still wore the long green coat with a gray wool
pinafore underneath.
"What happened?" I asked, trying to hide my
disappointment."...Did Tara talk to your mother?"
Alice nodded.
"Well, come on. What happened? What did your
mother say?"
"She told Tara to shut her fresh mouth."
I sighed. "I don't know what we're going to do.
I've tried, you've tried, Tara's tried." I
sighed again.
"Well, it's not all bad," Alice said,
smiling. "First of all, Tara's my friend now, sort
of. Mom won't let her come over
to the house, but Tara sticks up for me in school when
the kids make fun of me. And we eat lunch together
sometimes. I told her about the pill, and she understood
how gross it was."
Gross? Alice was acquiring a new
vocabulary.
"And we do some of our homework together once in a
while. Like, I tell her words she can't figure out
and she helps me with division."
"That's nice, Alice. Really nice."
"Wait," Alice said. "I'm not done.
I discussed the clothes problem with Sigmund." She
looked at me closely to make sure I was with
her. I nodded without speaking. "And
Sigmundsuggested that perhaps a compromise could be
reached."
"There is no question of Sigmund's brilliance," I
said.
"So I proposed to Mom that maybe we could have my
dresses and coats shortened. Maybe some of them
even made into regular skirts. Sigmund said in
that way Mom would still feel in control."
I wanted to hug Alice. Instead I nodded.
"Insightful."
"And it worked," Alice continued. "Everything but what
I've got on is over at the dressmaker's
getting fixed."
"That's terrific, Alice-was
"And you know what else," Alice interrupted,
"arithmetic isn't really all that hard."
I kept quiet, loving it, watching it happen.
One of the pleasures of working with children with learning
disabilities is that they can learn so much more easily
than they think they can.
"Do you realize," Alice said proudly, "that there
are one hundred addition facts and one
hundred subtraction facts, and that I now know more
than three-fourths of both?"
I smiled at Alice. "How did you manage to do
that?" Alice made me feel like smiling a lot these
days.
"Well, Mr. Renner said the way to do it was to learn
the easy ones first," Alice continued, "like the zeros,
the doubles, the ten sums, the count ons, the nine
pattern. That nine pattern
is so neat; anytime you're adding nine to something, the
number in the ones place is one less and you put that
one in front of it. I don't even have to think about
it. Ask me one."
"Nine plus seven," I said.
"Sixteen," Alice said immediately. "See. It's
automatic. Oh-h," she sighed, "it's so nice
when you can count on something."
Alice continued nonstop. "The rest of the facts are
harder, but Mr. Renner said we'll just learn a few
at a time. What we're going to do is print them on
these Language Master cards; then I run the card
through the machine and record it. I will say six plus
eight is ... whatever it is ... one side will have the
answer. Mr. Renner says I will remember it
better that way because my auditory memory
is better than my visual memory. Isn't that
interesting?"
"V." Alice was obviously thriving under Jack
Renner's tutelage, and he was evidently a
terrific teacher. Or maybe I just meant that he
agreed with me: start at the point where the child actually
is, teach to the strengths, respect the child's
intelligence, break learning into manageable
components, and build from there.
"And he says times is going to be just as easy. Do
you think that's true?"
"I know it is. Maybe easier. There are one
hundred basic multiplication facts, too, and
I bet you already know some of those without even studying."
"No, I would doubt that," Alice said.
"Do you know the zeros?" I asked. "They're
different than in addition. In addition you're putting
together. Three plus zero means three plus nothing
more, so the answer remains three."
"Yes, I understand that," Alice said.
"In multiplication you're working with groups. The first
number just tells you how many groups. Three times
zero means three groups of nothing." I went over
to the prize basket and took out a plastic bag of
sugarless lollipops. "Okay,
reach in and take nothing. Good. How much have you got?"
Alice giggled. "Nothing, of course."
"All right. Reach again and take nothing. That's two.
One more time. That's three. How much do you have now?"
Alice simply made a face at me.
"Suppose you reached in eight times?"
"Nothing."
"That's right. So remember in multiplication that the
answerto anything that has a zero in it is zero."
I wrote 9 x 0 equals on the pad of paper
and put it in front of Alice, and she quickly
wrote 0.
"The ones are just as easy. What do you think three
times one is?"
Alice reached for the lollipop bag. "I'll reach
in three times and take one each time. Last time I
took nothing; this time I'll take one."
Zap! I held onto my chair. I know it sounds
a little crazy to get excited about three times one, but
that's what happens to me.
"Three," Alice announced. "Three times one
has to be three. And four times one has to be four.
Oh, I get it. Wheneverthere's a one, the answer
is the other number. Like one hundred and twelve
times one would be one hundred and twelve."
"That's right. And you already know the twos."
Alice reached for the lollipop bag again.
"You can use that if you want," I said, "but
remember your doubles in addition. The twos in
multiplication are exactlythe same. Two times
three means there are two threes. How much are two
threes? Three and three?"
"Six. I know all those doubles. Remember four
plus four is the spider fact -- four legs on
each side. Eight altogether. Yuk."
"Yeah. Yuk. But if two fours are eight, how
much is two times four?"
"Two times four is also eight," Alice said without
hesitation.
"Okay. This is the two-hundred-dollar question.
Last one for today." I wrote 2 x 8 equals
on the pad, and Alice, without a second's
hesitation, filled in the answer- 16.
"Pay yourself two hundred, Alice. And a bonus
of one hundred for concentration. That was terrific.
Mr. Renner will show you how it's the same with the
fives; there's a trick or two for the nines; and
then, believe it or not, there are only fifteen other
multiplication facts to learn, and you can do those on the
Language Master. Or put them on
index cards and tape them to your refrigerator
door. Don't let yourself open the door until you
know the answer."
My weekly phone calls to Mrs. Robinson,
Jack Renner, and Alice's mother were all
positive. In the past month Alice had been
getting C's on math classroom tests, and
Jack reportedwith pleasure her increasing knowledge of math
conceptsand computation. Mrs. Martin said the best thing
that had happened at home was that she had decided
to plant a garden in the backyard, and on her own
Alice had asked if she could help. Next thing
she knew, Tara was out there working with them -- and she had
to admit that Tara really was a spunky little thing and a
hard worker.
Now Alice stopped just inside the door, and before she
took off her moccasins she handed me a folded
piece of paper. She wore a yellow
turtleneck, her gray skirt ended in the vicinity
of her knees, and there was an inch or two of bare
skin showing between her skirt and knee socks. Not high
style at Bryant Elementary, but not weird, either.
"Here's a poem," she said, holding out a piece of
paper. "It's not very good, but... I guess I
wanted to give you something, and you know how
unbelievably bad my drawings are. Anyway,
don't read it now, okay?"
"Okay," I agreed, "but thank you."
I tucked the folded piece of paper in the back
pocket of
my
jeans and patted it. "I'll save it till tonight when
I'm through," I said, struggling to keep the catch out of
my voice. Presents from children always move me. But
when it's
something they've made themselves, it's as if they're
giving me a little piece of themselves -- saying, "Here,
I trust you to take care of this piece of me" and
"I have enough of me now so that I can share some of it."
But Alice's mind was on practical matters.
She was already at the desk with her book open.
"Okay if I turn on the light?" she asked.
I nodded, thinking how pretty she looked as the
light picked up the highlights in her hair.
"See," Alice said. "We're working on division
now, and I remember what you said about the four
operations and divisionbeing the one that meant sharing, and I
understand that -- four cookies, two people, each person
gets two cookieswhen they share them, right?"
"Absolutely."
"I even get harder ones, because I know the
multiplication facts now. Twenty-eight
pennies, four people, they get seven pennies each,
four times seven is twenty-eight, twenty-eight
divided by four is seven, and also twenty-eight
divided by seven is four."
"Good, Alice -"
"Yes," Alice interrupted, "but what I don't
get at all is long division. I mean there are so
many steps or whatever you call them, I can never
remember what to do when."
"That's not hard," I said, pulling an index card out
of the drawer. "Just keep this card taped in the back of
your math book till you've memorized it. Think
of a family first:
There's the big old Daddy -- D for were-)
division. Next to him is the Mother -- M for (x)
multiplication. Then comes the Sister -- S for
were-) subtraction. And then the Brother -- B for
bring down.
"And then when you've done all that, just start over again.
Here. Try it."
I wrote 5) 2164 on a piece of paper.
Alice said, concentrating hard, "First is D, so
I divide. Five
can't go into two because it's bigger, right? So twenty-one
divided by five is four, and I put that over the one
... like this":
"Right?" "Right."
Alice checked the card. "Mother. Multiply.
Let's see. I guess I multiply the four
by five and put it here:
"Now, subtract, then bring down. Uh-oh. Now
what?"
"Same old thing. Just go back up to the top of the
card and start again. Daddy, Mom, Sister,
Brother. Actually, it's just like your own family."
Alice turned and looked at me. "Yes," she
said, "except we hardly ever see Daddy
anymore. Do you think he's mad at me maybe?
I mean because of school and everything."
"I doubt it. Especially since you're doing
better and better and better. Do you realize how much
you've accomplished in just a little more than half a
year? You've worked out your pill problem, your clothes
problem, you're getting good marks in school..."
"Well, not exactly "good" in math and not new
clothes."
"But much better. You've made a friend, you look
terrific .. ."
"And I don't have those temper tantrums before
school anymore, so that can't be why Daddy
doesn't come home at night sometimes."
"That's right," I said. "Whatever the reason that he's
away, it sure isn't you. Probably it's his
new job and traveling. Maybe you should ask him."
"Maybe. Or maybe," Alice tilted her head
so that her sweet, serious face was close to mine,
"maybe you could."
I didn't forget about Alice's poem. I was
conscious of it all afternoon as I worked with other children, but
I waited until I was alone before I took it out
of my pocket.
She had centered the lines in the middle of the paper,
and the printing was the neatest and clearest I'd ever seen
Alice do. Surrounding the printed words was a border
of little hearts and flowers.
spring
All winter -- the ground has been frozen, And the
brook covered with ice, Hard and white and still, As
if the world was dead.
But yesterday spring came, The dirt in the garden is
warm, Seeds are sprouting, Buds are bursting.
Winter is gone -- spring is here And everything is
growing.
I love you, Alice
I sat reading and rereading Alice's poem,
smoothing it with my fingers, thinking about her and her own
growth, and also about her father and her mother. Alice --
sensitive, high-strung, intelligent, brave,
lovely, still out of fashion, and always vulnerable.and
her mother. I wondered if Mrs. Martin had made
any friends yet and made a mental note to follow
up on my lunch invitation.
If Alice hadn't talked about her father in the
preceding months, she made up for it now.
"You know what he says? He says he'll always
take care
of us." Alice took off her shoes and slammed them
on the floor. "Well, I don't want him
to take care of me. I can take care of myself."
I waited. Knowing Alice, this was just the beginning.
"See," she continued, "they don't know it, but I can
hear every single thing they say at night now.
Saturday night they had this big fight downstairs,
and I couldn't hear that too well, but when they came
upstairs Mom told Daddy not to touch her and she
didn't want to be anywhere near him. And he told
her not to go so fast, that they had to think of the children, and she
says it was a fine time for him to talk about
thinking about the children. Anyway, for the last three
nights, he's been sleeping -- or anyway lying
-- on this chaise lounge thing where Mom reads in the
afternoon. It's way across the room from the bed, so they have
to talk loud to hear each other. They think we're
asleep, but I can hear everything."
I shook my head. "Are you sure you want to?
People say things they don't mean when they're angry."
"Yes, I want to. I want to hear every little thing.
I'm mad, too. You know why he hasn't been coming
home? He has a girlfriend. He says he's in
love with her and wants to marry her -- that's when he
said it was nobody's fault and that he'd always take
care of us."
Alice's rage slipped away as quickly as it had
arrived, and now tears welled in her eyes. "What
are we ever going to do now? You know what Mommy's
like. She doesn't know how to do anything, I mean like
anything besides take care of the house."
I sat beside Alice, smoothing her hair, thinking
how crisis after crisis arrived in some children's
lives. Just when things seemed to be straightening out --
crash, something worse happened.
"I'm sure he meant it," I said. "I'm sure
he will take care of you and see that the bills
are paid, but that doesn't make it any less scary
for you and Billy. How is Billy doing?"
"He's okay. Billy's always okay. That's why
they like him
so much -- he gets the best grades in his class.
That's all they really care about, anyway, is how
many A's you get. That's probably why they're
getting a divorce, because I didn't get enough
A's."
"Come on, Alice," I said. "You know that's not
true. You just told me your father said he was in love
with somebody."
"Yes, but if I'd been good enough, maybe he
wouldn't have had to fall in love with somebody else.
Maybe we'd have been enough."
I stood up and then squatted down in front of the
couch so that our eyes were exactly level.
"Don't ever believe that, Alice. Promise
me. If your parents get divorced, it's not because of
something you did or didn't do. It's between them, and
it's not your fault. Okay?"
Alice's eyes never left mine. "But see, it's
not just that I have this problem in my brain, it's that I
don't really belong to them. I don't belong
to anybody. Last night Mommy said
to Daddy that maybe they should never have adopted me or
had Billy -- that way she'd be the only one
to suffer."
"Oh, Alice, Alice." I gathered her up in
my arms. It was bad enough to hear your parents arguing about
a divorce, but to discover you are adopted at the
same time is just too much. "Hadn't they told you
before?"
Alice waggled her head back and forth against my
shoulder.
"Well, they should have. They've told other people, and
it's in your reports. They wanted you so much --
especially your mom -- and they were so happy when they
found you."
Alice peeked up at me. "How do you know?" she
asked.
"Your mother told me herself. She also told me you were
a very beautiful baby."
Alice sat up. "Beautiful baby," she
repeated. "With holes in her head."
"Alice. That doesn't help."
Alice shrugged. "Well, what are we going to do?"
I shrugged myself. "I don't know. We're just going
to have to work at it."
was was his
Alice, Billy, and Tara all arrived together at
Alice's next session. I stared at the trio in
surprise. "What are you guys doing here?"
"Can we come in?" Billy asked, obviously in
charge.
"Sure, but tell me what's going on."
All three sat down in a row on the couch.
Billy in the middle.
"Well, we have this idea," he said, "and we
decided to come and check it out with you."
I had to admit one thing. Alice did seem to be
right about Billy. He did appear to be very much
okay, especially for nine years old.
I nodded. "Go ahead."
"Well, see, like, we've got this real mess at
our house. Alice said she told you about it."
I nodded again, unable to take my eyes off this
bright-eyed, verbal kid. Even Tara seemed to be
letting him lead the way.
"Well, the first thing we thought of was to track down this
girlfriend of Dad's and try to get rid of her --
like, poison her or scare her off. But that could end
up in a lot of trouble. So then we decided that she
sounds like she's pretty young, so we figured we could
tell her how old Dad is, and Tara
thought maybe if she saw us and thought she'd have to take
care of us maybe she wouldn't be so crazy about being with
Dad."
Alice said, "Sigmund did not think this was a
wise idea. Particularly since I never even
want to lay eyes on that person. But then we thought,
I thought anyway, maybe we could talk to Dad's
boss or somebody and get him transferred back
to Kansas. He never acted like this back there."
"But I told them that wouldn't work," Tara said. "It
would just make him mad to get both depromoted and
lose his girlfriend."
"You're probably right," I said.
"So then we decided to work on Mom instead," said
Billy, taking over again. "She's the worst off.
I mean Alice was bad
in the beginning, but at least she's got us," he said,
and Tara nodded. "And being adopted's not such a big
deal if you're not alone.
"But Mom hasn't got anybody," Billy
continued. "Like, anybody her own age. Except that
dumb Dr. Volpe, and she feels even worse
when she comes back from seeing him. It's, like, all
she does with him is talk about her problems and so
that's all she thinks about and it makes her
feel even more terrible."
"Get to the plan. Billy," Alice whispered.
"Somebody else will be here in a few minutes."
"Okay. Okay. What we decided was that Mom
ought to get a job -- but the trouble is she hasn't
ever worked. So we had to think about what she'd be good
at, and Alice got the idea because of the flowers and her
garden."
"We have this garden in the back," Alice said.
I nodded. "Your mother told me about that and about how you
were helping her with it."
"Yes. It's really nice. I like doing it and
Mom's flowers are beautiful, and then she puts them
in bowls all over the house and they look
wonderful."
"You're the one who'd better hurry up,
Alice," Billy said.
"I know. So we decided she'd be good at being a
florist -- working at a florist's, I mean. So
Tara volunteered to go into that flower shop just off
Spring Street; she kind of knows the owner. I
gave her one of Mom's bowls of flowers, and she
showed it to him and he said he'd be interested in talking
to Mom."
Alice looked at me hard. "Sigmund
thinks it's a good idea, but now we don't know what
to say to Mom. So we decided to come ask you."
"Mmm" was all I could get out. I was overwhelmed
at how enterprising these three kids were. At least
I could tell them that.
"You have been doing some pretty impressive
brainstorming -- trying out all kinds of ideas, not
criticizing each other,
being supportive, and I think you've come up with a
really good idea."
"Yeah, thanks," Billy said. "But what about
Mom? I mean what do we actually say? It
isn't like she's ever tried to get a job before."
"Why don't you just tell her the truth, like you did
me? It certainly shows how much you love her and how
much you've been thinking about her, and she'll be glad
to hear that. And then since Tara knows the man who owns
the florist shop, maybe she could go along with your mother
and take another flower arrangement."
"Yeah, sure. I can do that. You just get me the
flowers, Alice."
"All right. That's easy, especially since Mom
will know. But what about Daddy?" Alice wanted
to know. "I think somebody ought to talk to him and find out
how serious he is and everything."
Three pairs of eyes stared at me without blinking.
There was no mistaking their meaning.
"How about Dr. Volpe?" I asked.
"Daddy hates Dr. Volpe," Alice and
Billy said in chorus.
"Listen," I said. "I'm no marriage
counselor. Be fair. I'm a learning
consultant."
"Well, that's okay," Billy replied without a
moment's hesitation."...Looks to me like Dad's
into learning things."
"Billy," Alice reprimanded. "Don't be
fresh. But remembereaMary, I asked you once before
if you would talk to him. I mean you do have lots of
parent conferences, and you could start out talking about me,
couldn't you?"
"Yes. I guess I could do that. I could try,
anyway."
Alice called as soon as she got home,
whispering into the phone. "He's gone. Gone for real
now. He left Billy and me a note saying
he's staying at a friend's apartment. He didn't
say what friend. Anyway, here's the number." She
rattled it off and hung up.
At least Alice didn't seem
heartbroken about being adopted.
I blessed Billy and Tara for matter-of-factly
accepting her adoption and for involving her in a plan of
action. Problem-solving is the best therapy in the
world.
I tried to reach Mr. Martin early in the morning and
late at night, but there was never an answer. It
seemed unlikely to me that the apartment where he was
staying belonged to his girlfriend, since no one seemed
to be there. More likely he'd chosen some middle
ground -- perhaps moved in with someone else who was
separated or divorced, or at least had given that
number.
I wasn't able to reach Mr. Martin, but I did have
lunch with Mrs. Martin. She told me about how the
children had come to talk to her about getting a job and how
touched she'd been -- and that she'd decided to get up
her nerve and go with Tara and talk to the florist, and
how Alice and Billy waited across the street, and
when she got the job they took her to have ice cream
to celebrate.
She'd been working at the florist's for only about
two weeks, but she loved it. She couldn't imagine
being paid for something that was so much fun. She said the only
thing that had worried her was not being there when
Alice and Billy got home from school. But then
Alice had suggested that she talk to Mr.
D'lppolito, the florist, and he'd been so
nice. He'd arranged her hours so she worked from
eight o'clock until three and could eat a sandwich right
there at the shop instead of taking a lunch hour, and that
also meant she'd lost a few pounds. So she,
Alice, and Billy all left together in the morning,
and they either walked home or waited for her to pick
them up after school. Of course, the school year was
almost over, and summer would be a problem.
I told her I didn't think she needed to worry
with Alice, Billy, and Tara around.
"Sorry you had trouble reaching me," Mr. Martin
said apologetically, ducking a little as he came through
my office door, surprising me. Somehow I
hadn't expected him to be
so large. "I've been out of town a good bit the
last month," he said.
I stretched out my hand. "Well, I'm glad
you're here now. Alice was eager for us to meet."
Mr. Martin shook my hand, almost pulling me toward
him in his eagerness. "Yes. Tell me how she is,
how she's doing."
"She's just fine," I said, smiling. "In
spite of everything -- your separation, even the discovery
that she was adopted -- she's kept on growing, doing
better in school and better at home."
Mr. Martin sat down on the couch, his big, lean
frame collapsing. He leaned back against the
cushions. "You know," he said, skipping over the
separation and adoption, "I never have understood what's
wrong with Alice. Everybody we took her to, and
we took her to a lot of people, seemed to come up with a
different opinion."
I nodded. "That often happens with children who have very mild
learning disabilities. The problems are so subtle
that they go undetected until the child herself or himself
beginsto feel that something's wrong, and then the emotional
problems set in and grow and grow until they disguise
the original learning problem.
"In Alice's case the neurologist was right in
her evaluation. Alice does have a mild learning
disability; some would call it dyscalculia, which
only means the inability to learn math by ordinary
classroom methods. The neurologist called it
minimalbrain dysfunction -- MBD -- a term
rarely used now. If Alice were seen by a
neurologist today, he would probably diagnose
ADD -- Attention Deficit Disorder.
But by whatevername it's called, it's not something in
Alice's imagination or yours, but rather some small, very
real disruption in the neural connections in her brain,
probably in the parietal lobe. It doesn't
affect her overall intelligence, but it does make
processing of spatial and mathematical information more
difficult.
"And then, as you know, Alice's early education
was ... well... unorthodox at the least, and there were
lots of emotional traumas going on as well. But
you can really be proud of the progress she's made
... I'm sorry," I interrupted myself. "I'm
talking too much."
"No. No, not at all." Mr. Martin leaned
forward, large hands clasped between his knees, "I
want to know. I want to know everything. I don't
get much news nowadays."
I sat quietly, finding myself liking this big,
open-faced man. "Since you called me at
Bob's apartment -- he's a friend from work, you
obviously know I'm not living at home. And
knowingAlice as I do, I suspect you know a good
bit more."
I nodded.
"I call home often," he went on, and
I was interested that he still thought of his former living
quarters as "home." "But nobody is very eager
to talk to me. I don't blame them, but I want
them to know I never meant for this to happen."
Mr. Martin cleared his throat, hesitated, then
started again. "Sometimes I wish ... I mean I just
can't seem to ... I don't want to get you
involved with personal things, but I just want to make
sure they're all right. Alice and Billy and
Edna, too."
Edna. I realized I had never heard Mrs.
Martin's first name before. I found myself feeling
unexpectedly sympathetic towardboth Mr. and
Mrs. Martin. His concern for his family certainly
appeared to be sincere (i had to remind myself he'd
gotten himself into this situation), and I loved Mrs.
Martin's courage in finding a job.
"They're all fine," I said.
"Thank you. I wish you could talk Alice and
Billy in!coming out to dinner with me some night, but I
know that's not fair to ask." Mr. Martin stood up.
"But please tell Alice I love them both very
much."
"I will," I promised as I followed Mr.
Martin to the door.
Alice plunked her books on the desk, took
off her shoes, and sat cross-legged, Indian
style, on the couch, feet tucked beneath her.
"Wait till I tell you. First of all. Mom and
I went shopping. Mom's lost so much weight she
needed a new bathing suit, and I got one, too,
and some other summer stuff. It's really cool.
Even Tara says so. And Mom promised I can have
everything new for school next fall. There's only
two days of school left now, so she said it
wasn't worth getting too much now.
"Anyway, while we were at the mall, Mom
decided all of a sudden to get her hair cut. They
cut it really short and it looks so good I'm thinking
maybe I'll get mine cut, too, but maybe not.
Tara doesn't want me to. Incidentally,
we're all going to both tennis and day camp so we
don't even have to get a sitter.
"Anyway, more good news. We haven't got our
report cards yet, but Mr. Renner says I've
passed everything and gotten really good grades in some
subjects."
"Congratulations, Alice -"
"Wait, now listen to this. On Saturday afternoon,
Tara and I were up in my bedroom playing
some new records I got when Mom and I were
shopping, and the doorbell rang. Billy was over at
his friend's house swimming, and Mom was out shopping with
these two friends of hers from work. So I went down
to answer it, and it was Daddy.
"I didn't know what to do, but he looked so sort
of sad that I forgot about being mad at him, and so I
asked him if he wanted to come in. But then once
he was in I didn't know what to talk to him about, so
I got Tara to come downstairs "cause she's
really good with people, and she found our Monopolyboard
and the three of us started playing.
"I guess we must have been having a good time,
'cause all of a sudden Mom was back and Billy
was back and it was almost six o'clock.
"I was really scared, 'cause I was sure Mom was
going to have a fit. But you know Mom. You never know
what she's going to do, especially these days, and she
didn't even act mad one little bit. In fact,
she even asked him to stay for
supper.
"Daddy said he was sorry, he couldn't -- but then,
listen to this, he asked if he could come back the next
day and she said yes.
"Well, he came back and he stayed for
dinner and he was still there in the morning, and Billy and
I are pretty sure he didn't sleep on the
chaise lounge, either. I checked when they were all
downstairs having breakfast. The bed was all made,
but
Mom's book was still in exactly the same place
on the chaise lounge that it had been the afternoon before."
Even Alice had to stop talking for a minute to catch
her breath.
I smiled at her. "That's a lot of good news,
Alice. I hope things work out for your mom and dad.
He stopped by here, you know, and I certainly got the
impression that he missed you all. He especially
wanted me to tell you how much he loved you. But no
matter what happens with your parents, however that
goes, I'm really proud of you. You've sure come
a long way, babe."
Alice smiled back at me, hair glistening,
skin glowing. She smoothed the pleat in her new
short, split skirt. "You know what I've been
thinking lately?"
"What?"
"Well, what I think is that maybe the reason I
was so easy to fix is that there just wasn't that much wrong
with me in the first place."
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
A hundred choruses went off inside my head
simultaneously. Some days I think I'm going
to work forever.
Charlie
Charlie arrived at our first tutoring session carrying
a large piece of paper, dropping it twice on the
way up to the office.
At the top of the stairs he handed it to me, peering up
through round, foggy glasses, his black hair
plastered down on his forehead with water, sections of
hair rising slightly upward as they dried
into black pointy spikes. Charlie was tall for an
eight-year-old and slightly pigeon-toed, often
stumblingover his own feet. Now he stood one foot
on top of the other as if to keep them from getting
tangled up with each other, looking like an oversized
crane. And it wasn't just Charlie's feet that got
tangled.
"Mom said I should show you this. She said to tell you it
was tiptical."
I had a sudden impulse just to gather Charlie up and
somehowsmooth him out and untangle him. But it was too
soon for that. Instead I asked, "Typical? Why,
Charlie? What is it?"
Charlie shrugged. "Just a story I wrote last
year at the end of third. It's called 'The Fiery
Bird." his
I looked closely at the paper. There was some
sort of yelloweared, and black picture on the
top of the wide-lined
primary paper with letters printed underneath. I tried
to decipher the words, but I couldn't.
"Could you read it to me, Charlie?"
"Sure. I've already read it to Mrs. Hawes --
you know, my last year's third-grade teacher. She
said it was very exciting."
Charlie began reading. "The fiery bird has
struck again at the city. The city is wrecked."
"Wait a minute," I said. "Let me write it
down." I realized that Charlie's story was totally
incomprehensible without his translation. "Okay,
I'm ready."
"The fiery bird has struck again at the city. The
city is wrecked," Charlie read again. "All the people
are evacuating. The president is very mad so all
his bodyguards are going there with guns to attack the
fiery bird and capture the fiery bird and then put
it in a zoo so more people can see it. But the zoo man had
to put it in a giant metal box so he
doesn't melt through. But the president can't get it
so his bodyguards are very mad so they are killing
themselves."
Charlie looked at me when he'd finished.
"What do you think?"
I hesitated. It was a classic example of the
writing of a dysgraphic, dyslexic child.
Vocabulary and story content were good, but the written
words themselves seemed to come from a foreign planet.
Charlie wrote "apen" for "again," "retk" for
"wrecked," "rea" or r for "are," "vakuwede"
for "evacuating." Poor Charlie; I could almost
feel his pain and humiliation. What must it be like to be
able to use a word like "evacuating" and yet be unable
to remember how to write a three-letter word like "are"?
No wonder his story had guns and anger and killing,
and I knew that sometime soon I had to try to explain
to Charlie why he was having trouble in school.
"Well," I said. "Your teacher's right. It is an
exciting story, and I sure couldn't have figured it
out unless you read it to
me."
"Yeah. I know. The teacher said spelling didn't
count. She
just wanted us to write a good story.
But..." Charlie stared at the floor. "Why is it
like that? I mean, the other kids make mistakes,
too, but not like mine. I mean, I'm the only one that
has to read it out loud. I hate it."
"I know. I don't blame you. That's one of the things
I'm going to try to do -- teach you how to write down
some of the good ideas you have. Not just write them, but
spell the words so that other people can read them, too, and
then you can hand in your papers like the other kids."
Charlie looked up from the floor and then moved his
chair over toward mine, pushing his face close,
too close for comforteaffmy own.
"Listen," Charlie said. "I'm not like the other
kids. I know it. I've always known it. But I
want to know why. What's the matter with me?"
It hadn't been easy for Charlie from the beginning.
He was born six weeks prematurely; he was
slow to walk, slow to talk, and subject to high
fevers.
He was referred to me by the headmaster of Chapel
School when he was eight years old and just finishing
third grade. The hope was that a diagnostic
educational evaluation would shed more light on whether
Charlie should be promoted to fourth grade or repeat
third.
It was a difficult decision. Charlie had
transferred out of public school to Chapel in the
middle of second grade. His parents hadn't
wanted to put him in private school. They
believed in public education, but, as his mother had
explained to me, "We had no choice. It was like
Charlie was drowning. Every day he'd sink a little
further. There were only three white children in his
second-grade class of thirty, and Charlie was the
one everybody else picked on. I don't know why
-- maybe it was his glasses, maybe because he was
clumsy, couldn't seem to get the hang of how
to catch or throw a ball. He couldn't really read,
he seemed to get things mixed up or backward.
He was tall for his age, so maybe people, the teacher as
well as the other children, expected more from
"The Fiery Bird"
him. Anyway, we knew we had to do something. We
didn't want to move. We'd been lucky enough
to buy our dream house the year before. Charlie's dad
is an engineer, but I used to do some real estate and the
agency I worked for let me know about this old estate
that was coming up for sale. We made an offer on the
stone studio cottage and a piece of land, and it was
accepted. We absolutely love it, and
we'd never be able to afford anything like it anywhere
else.
"So, the only alternative was to put Charlie in
private school, even though it was the middle of the
year. He had trouble at Chapel, too, but his
teacher loved him and thought that his difficulties were due
to 'lack of exposure" and that he just had a lot
of "catching up to do."
"Now they're not so sure."
My formal evaluation showed the same uneven
profile that had been noticed by his teachers. His
full-scale IQ score was in the high average
range. But while the subtests that measuredreasoning,
abstract thinking, and spatial relationships were
superior, the tests requiring rote memory were very
poor. Testing showed that Charlie's intelligence was in
the 90th percentile; his academic achievements were
in the 30th and 40th percentiles. His reading was a
good year and a half behind, and although his stories were
imaginative, his handwritingand spelling were almost
indecipherable. His speaking vocabulary was good, although
he often talked in a circumlocutoryfashion,
calling a knob on a bureau a "drawer puller
thing"; a hinge, "one of those thingamajigs that hold the
door on." He had difficulty
pronouncing words such as "preliminary"...or
"circumstantial." He was unable to skip,
confusedab left and right, awkward, and distractible, and
he had a great deal of difficulty switching from one
activity to another.
If there is such a thing as a classic learning disabled
child, Charlie was it. He could talk on an adult
level, although he mispronounced the words or couldn't
find quite the one he wanted. When he read out loud,
he omitted or substituted
words and phrases, skipped lines and lost his
place, reversed both letters and words -- and yet,
somehow, he could answer eight out of eight comprehension
questions correctly. He could do analogies and
solve complicated mathematical problems. Yet
he scored poorly on math tests because his math
facts were not automatic, and when he counted on his
fingers he would be just slightly off, or else he would
reverse numbers and write down 21 when he meant
12. He could talk at length about the solar
system, but he couldn't say the months of the year in
correct order. He was gentle, appealing, and
affectionateeab he was also disorganized and distractible
and had no friends his own age.
Charlie could easily have benefited from
repeating a grade when he had switched schools.
With a November birthday, he was one of the youngest in his
class even though he was tall. But now he had been
at Chapel for a year and a half. He was shy and thought
of himself as "stupid" and "weird." "Please," he
begged me, "don't let them make me do third
again. Please! The kids will really think I'm
retarded if I repeat."
In the end my recommendation that Charlie be promoted
to fourth grade was based primarily on the feeling that
"more of the same" wasn't going to do it for Charlie.
He could repeat third grade three times and still not
know his multiplicationtables or be able to hand in a
legible book report. Charlie needed to learn new
ways of learning. Most of all, he needed to learn
to believe in himself.
I strongly urged Charlie's parents to rethink the
idea of moving. Several of the surrounding towns had
good public school systems with excellent
resource rooms, and I felt Charliewas going
to need ongoing support, at least through
elementaryschool. But the Hammonds couldn't bring
themselves to part with their house, and Charlie was terrified
at the thought of moving.
"What I think is, I'd be even dumber
in a new school. I'd be scareder and I wouldn't
even know anybody. At least here me and Sam can go
exploring the woods after school."
It was true that Charlie got great pleasure and comfort
from his quiet, familiar neighborhood and from Sam,
a six-year-old who lived on the next street.
Finally, we worked out a compromise. I'd see
Charlie over the summer and twice a week during
fourth grade. Charlie's mother felt that she could
handle the cost by once again doing a little real estate
work.
Charlie had three major problems interfering with his
learning. His auditory processing was exceptionally
weak, although examination by a pediatric audiologist
found his hearing acuity to be within normal limits.
Try as he would, he could not match letters and sounds.
He would make the sound of
p
when trying to spell "put" and then write a
b,
or even reverse the
b
and write "dut." The differences between the short vowel
sounds were too subtle for him to discriminate between them.
Second, Charlie became overwhelmed when
too much materialwas given at one time. If there
were thirty math problemson a page, he might do the
first one or two and then just push the paper aside.
If four directions were given at once -- such as
"Take out your reading workbook; turn to page
seventeen; read the top half of the page; and then
use your green and red crayons to do the puzzle at
the bottom" -- Charlie either turned to the wrong
page, or used the wrong color, or had to go to the
teacher and ask her to say it all over again.
Because Charlie was so unsure of himself, he had gotten
in the habit of trying to forget his problems instead of
trying to solve them. His teacher told me that he
rarely completed assignments. When I talked
to Charlie, it became clear that what happened was that
he would "forget" that he had to read the book by the end
of the month until two days before his report was due.
Then panic struck, and he turned his household
upside down while his mother tried to help him get it
done.
Third, Charlie was lost in time and space. He could
not
remember the months or even which day of the week it
was. He could not remember which was the right or left
side of the football field. He could not
judge the distance between himself and other objects, so he
tripped over obvious obstacles and missed even the
easiest of the balls that were thrown to him.
But how was I going to explain all that to Charlie?
He still had his face close to mine, and he was breathing
hard. He peered at me from behind the foggy lenses of
his glasses. The only thing I was sure of was that I
had to be honest.
"There aren't any windows in your head, Charlie. I
can't look in and say, "Ah hah! There! That's the
spot that makes it difficult for Charlie to spell
things right. And sure enough, that big area over there is
why he can reason and think things out so well."
Someday soon there will be instruments that can see inside
our brains and report back just how we learn -"
"Well, tell me what you know now," Charlie
interrupted. "You must have found out something after all those
tests you gave me. And you've talked to Mom and
Dad. I got a right to know, too."
"Okay. First of all, I know that the troubles, the
failures you have in school, are not because you're dumb.
You're plenty smart enough.
"Also, I know you'll remember things better if they
make sense to you rather than just strings of unrelated words
and numbers -- and that you remember what you
see better than what you hear, and you'll remember
best of all if you see it and hear it and then say it
out loud or write it. We call that multisensory
learning.
"Next, I know you learn better when things are
presented to you a few at a time, so you can digest
them. Your brain sort of goes on overload if you
put too much in all at once. Like, say you have a
TV, a toaster, and a microwave oven on the
counter in the kitchen all plugged into the same
circuit. If you turn them all on at once, you
blow the fuse and none of them
work. If you turn them on one at a time, they're
all okay.
"And I know you get mixed up about right and left and which
way is which, and that you will have to teach yourself to be constantly
alert for clues to give you the right signals."
Charlie took a deep breath. "But why? Why me?
What happened to me? Is it like when kids used
to get polio?"
"No. It's not a disease. Educators like me call
it a learning disability, or dyslexia, if we're
forced to put a label on it. A friend of mine who's
a pediatric neurologist -- that's a doctor whose
specialty is studying children's nervous
systems and brains -- doesn't think there are any
good labels. She says it's due to a lag in
neural development, and then she describes it like
this: "Everything's fine in New Jersey and things are
all okay in New York City, but there's some
kind of tie-up on the George Washington
Bridge." I like that, because I know you can always use
the Lincoln Tunnel as an alternate route."
Charlie smiled, and his body relaxed a little.
"It won't get any worse," I said. "In
fact, if anything it will get better as you learn
new ways to learn. I don't think anybody knows
for sure exactly why it happens to some people and not
to others. I could pretend I did, but I don't
want to pretend with you."
Charlie nodded. "Yeah. I know. I don't want
you to, either." He shook his head. "It sure is
confusing, though."
"Well, Charlie, remember we do know this. You're
smart enough to learn whatever you want to learn. There are
reasonsfor the failures you've had, and something can be
done about it, but you'll have to work longer and harder than
some kids because you have to make the imprint on your brain
very clear and very strong so you can remember whatever it is
you need to remember."
"Well," Charlie said, pushing his chair back,
"I guess maybe it's worth a try."
It was decided that I would see Charlie twice a
week beginningthe first of July. Summer vacation would
have to wait this year.
was * his
"Thank you all for coming in," I said, nodding at
Charlie and each of his parents. Charlie sat behind the
desk; I sat
beside him. June and Jim Hammond sat in the
chairs in front of the desk.
"I'd just like to go over what we're going to try to do this
summer, and I think it's easier if we all talk
about it together.
"We've been through Charlie's evaluation, and
Charlie and I have already had a teaching session together.
We know his strengths and weaknesses. We also know that
he's going into
fourth grade in the fall and that there's a lot to do
to be ready for it.
"I'm going to talk for a few minutes and tell you
what I think we need to work on, and then I'd like
to get your ideas.
"First of all, Charlie has to get organized. In
order to do good academic work, you have to have a
good workplace.
A fine woodworker has his workbench and tools in
prime condition and order.
"It's the same for you, Charlie. You need a desk
in your own room, a good light, a supply of
various kinds of paper, index cards, paper
clips," -- I stopped as June Hammond
reached for a pad, took a pen out of her jacket, and
began making notes -- "pencils, pencil sharpener,
pens, a digital clock or stopwatch,
bookshelves, colored tape, a bookbag, a
notebook, and an assignment pad."
"You know," June Hammond said, "I'm as
anxious to help Charlie as anyone. Maybe more.
But I have to tell you that Charlie has never studied in
his room in his life. Whatever work he's done has
been on the floor of the den with the TV on full
blast. Isn't that right, Charlie?"
Charlie nodded, eyes down.
"Look," I said. "Let's not waste time talking
about the way it used to be. We need to plan for the
fall."
I turned toward Charlie. "I'm going to give you
between fifteen and thirty minutes of homework each day
this summer. I won't give you any once
school starts. Do you think you can handle that in your
room?"
"Yeah. I think so. Can I play my radio?"

"I'd rather you didn't. What you're trying to do is
train yourself to concentrate. I think you'll do better
without any kind of noise while you're studying.
Later on, if you want to try some music without
words, you can."
I explained that Charlie needed a large,
well-made book-bag. He also needed a
special place to keep it. I asked Mrs.
Hammond to help Charlie mark out a large square
on one of his shelves with brightly colored tape.
Any time Charlie wasn't studying, his bookbag and
his books were to be inside the square. This was to avoid
the last-minute scramble that I was sure happened in
Charlie's house: "It's gotta be here. I saw
it just a minute ago .. ."
I talked for a few more minutes, answered a few
questions. It wasn't until after they'd left that I
realized Mr. Hammond hadn't said a word other
than good-bye.
Mrs. Hammond called the next morning. "I'm
so sorry to bother you so soon again, but there
are two other things I wanted to talk to you about and I
didn't want to mention them in front of Charlie.
"First of all, he lies constantly, and it's getting
worse all the time. It's not just about his schoolwork, but
outright lies about things he's seen and done."
"I know what you're saying," I said. "Every once in
a while I get a child, usually a boy, who has
to make everything bigger, brighter, louder than it is.
Try to ignore it for now. Let's see what
happens. You said there was something else bothering you."
"Yes, but I'm not sure you can do anything about it.
I love Charlie so much, but he is so aggravating.
I took him shopping yesterday to get the things for his
room -- you know, the things you said. Well, I was a
wreck by the time we got home. First he fell over
a perfectly obvious chair, then he knocked a
lamp off a table. Fortunately, it didn't
break, but it certainly was embarrassing. And then
while I was getting my charge plate, he asked the
salesclerk for something to drink. I mean,
he acted as if he was a four-year-old, and a dumb
one at that. I'm sorry to sound like such a witch."
I smiled into the phone. "You sound just fine. But what
you've described to me is as typical of many
dyslexic children as the Fiery Bird story
Charlie brought in. Just try to rememberhe
doesn't do it on purpose. He honestly
doesn't judge distances correctly -- that's why
he has a hard time catching and throwing -- and he
hasn't assimilated social amenities. We have
to try to teach those, too. Now, can I ask you something?
How does Mr. Hammond feel about all this?
He was very quiet at our conference yesterday."
There was a pause. "All I can really say is that
he wasn't entirely in favor of your tutoring
Charlie, but he says he's willing to give it a
chance. Anyway, Charlie loves all his new
stuff. I don't know if it'll do any good, but at
least it's the happiest I've seen Charlie in a
long while."
Charlie was still smiling when he arrived at my office
the next day, a navy backpack across his shoulders.
"What do you think? Is it okay to use this for a
bookbag? I got the assignment pad inside."
Charlie's straight black hair was every which way across
his forehead, but his black eyes were shining through his
glasses.
We did a quick run-through of the best thing and the worst thing
that had happened to him since I'd seen him last --
a perfect opportunity for Charlie
to indulge in a few exaggerations.his best was all
his new stuff, but his worst was that he'd been
attacked by three black high school kids when he
was walking home from Sam's last night. This seemed
highly unlikely to me, considering Charlie's
neighborhood, but I let it pass without comment and
paid fifty for the best and the worst.
"Now, Charlie, we need to get started. Do you know
how many letters there are in the alphabet?"
"Mmm .. . maybe about thirty-eight."
"How about vowels?"
Charlie said he wasn't exactly positive what
I meant by a vowel.
"Okay, Charlie," I said. "In English
eighty-five percent of the words are words that you can
figure out and spell if you know the rules. The other
fifteen percent you have to memorize.that will be easy
for you because you have a good visual memory. In fact,
that's the way you do all your reading now -- from having
memorized the words or making a guess according to the
meaning of the sentence. And that's fine. Even unknown
words that I teach you to figure out will become sight
words after you've read them a few times.
"We'll do the easy part first." I took out a red
folder that contained graded lists of sight
words, about four to six hundred words for each grade.
I handed Charlie the first-grade list. "I think you
know all these," I said.
He skimmed the pages quickly. "Yeah, I think
I do," he said slowly.
"And most of these, too." I handed him the
second-grade words.
Again Charlie looked over the words. "You're right.
I didn't know I knew so much."
I put the third-grade list in front of him. The
lists are labeled VT-Z1 for first grade,
VT-Z2 for second grade. This one was
VT-Z3. I didn't cover up the numbers, but
I also didn't stress the grades. "These are a
little harder. Just read the first column out loud, and put
a dot beside any word you don't know."
Charlie had ten dots before he'd read twenty words.
Togetherwe copied the words he didn't know onto
separate index cards and went over them again. With just
one review he knew seven of the ten words. I put
an elastic band around the cards and put them in an
envelope. "Review them at home with your mom and
dad. If you forget, have them tell you the word. You're
not supposed to figure it out." Charlie got out his
assignment pad and carefully wrote, "i.
Rid wrds." He pushed it over to me. "See.
Read words."
"Okay. Fine. Now, I'll tell you what I'm
going to do. I'm
going to pretend that you're Chinese and that you don't know
how to read English. I'm going to begin at the
beginning. Okay?" I picked up a pack of white
cards, each about the size of a regular playing card.
"There are twenty-six letters in the alphabet -- I
have a card for each one. Twenty-one of the letters are
consonants; they always look the same, except when
they're written as capitals. And they almost always have
the same sound. The other five are vowels --
sometimes six, if you count
y -
and I'm going to take those out of the pack for now," I
said, lifting out the
a, e, i, o, u
cards.
"What we're going to do now may seem too easy,
but remember, you're Chinese. When I put a card
in front of you, just tell me the sound of the letter and a word
that begins with it. I'll do it first."
Charlie knew the sounds of all the consonants
except
q, w, y,
and
x,
and he reversed the
d
and gave the
b
sound. We separated those five from the pack and I
wrote each one on a separate index card and
Charlie traced it with a Magic Marker. We
practiced those five again.
"This time, Charlie, leave those five cards in
front of you and I'll make the sound, and you give
me the letter that goes with the sound."
Charlie had it by the second try and put the index
cards in another envelope in his backpack, dated
his assignment pad, and made a note to study them:
"2. Stude letrs."
Next I handed him lined paper and a pencil and asked
him to write his name and the date. Charlie was right-handed
(although he threw and batted like a lefty). He
made his o from right to left and his
d
from the bottom up.
"This time I'm going to dictate about fifty
letter sounds to you. Just write the letter that goes with the sound
you hear me say:
m, h, b, s, b, t, m, but.. ."
Charlie was struggling. He could easily point to the
card representing the sound, but when it came
to transcoding what he heard into written symbols,
he had great difficulty.
"Take your time. There's no rush." When we'd
finished I
put his paper in a folder in his bin. In a month
or two we'd look back, and he'd be amazed that
this had once seemed so difficult.
He had his assignment book open. "What do I
write?" he wanted to know.
"Nothing. We'll do that part here." I certainly
wasn't going to set Charlie up for failure at
home.
I took out the five vowel cards. "These are the
key cards. The vowels. And they're also tricky.
They can have several different sounds, and the position of a
vowel in a word is of prime importance. You must
notice this carefully in order to understand the code.
"Now. This is important, Charlie. Every word must
have at least one vowel, or it isn't a word. So when
you go to spell something, remember that it has
to have at least one of these five letters.
"Now, here's another important thing. There are
short words like "ran" and long words like
"transatlantic." The short word has one part,
the long word has four parts. We call the parts
syllables."
I wrote the vowels across the top of the page and the
words "ran" and "transatlantic." "Okay,
there's one vowel sound in "ran." I'll mark the
a
and color it yellow to make it stand out. Now here, you
mark the vowels in "transatlantic," and tell
me how many syllables."
Charlie got it right away. "Four," he said.
"Four silly bulls."
I hugged him. "You're one terrific kid, you know
that, Charlie? Four is exactly right." I could
explain about the silly bulls later.
"Now, listen to this. Even when you can't see the word and
count the vowels, you can still tell how many syllables there
are. I'll show you how. What we're really talking
about are vowel sounds. I'll explain more about that
later."
I put my hand under my chin. "Cat," I said.
"I could feel my mouth open once. Now,
catcher. It opened twice. That means it has two
syllables. Try it."
"Yeah," Charlie said in surprise, imitating
me. "You're right. Give me some more."
"Christmas," I said. "How many syllables?"
"Two."
"Baseball."
"Two. Harder."
"Electric."
"Three."
"Blank."
"One."
"You've got it, Charlie. Okay. Your
assignment is to think up two words of one syllable,
two with two syllables, and so on. You don't have
to write them. Just know them and be able to tell me."
Charlie wrote in his assignment pad, "3. No
sily bul -- 1,
2, 3, 4."
I kept quiet. Charlie knew what it meant.
That's what assignment pads are for.
"All right. Now one more thing. Tune in to me,
Charlie. This is important." I took the
a
card. "This letter, this vowel, can have several
sounds. The sound I want you to learn now is called
the short
a
sound." I wrote
a
on an index card and drew an apple on the other
side. "Like the sound that begins apple. Say it.
Okay. Good. Now you can write Martian words."
"What do you mean, Martian?"
"Come on, Charlie. You're through being Chinese. You
got to move a little. I'm just fooling around. This
stuff can get enormously boring, you know."
Charlie bulged his eyes at me behind his glasses.
"You're telling me?" he asked incredulously.
"So, okay," I agreed. "As I was saying. Now
that you know all the consonant sounds, the truth about
syllables, and the short d, you can write Martian
words."
Charlie shrugged. "Anything you say."
"Good. Write "zad." his
"Zad? What are you talking about? There's no such
word."
"That's all you know. Martians say it when they're
surprised coml, if they step in a puddle they
didn't see. That's what they say.
"Zad!""
Charlie laughed in spite of himself. "That's nuts."
"Don't insult the teacher," I replied. "Just
write it. Think of the sound that you hear in the beginning,
the sound in the middle, and the sound at the end." I
pushed the pad toward Charlie.
"Zad," he said to himself, "Z-z-z ...
okay." And within a minute he'd written it
exactly right.
I gave him three more nonsense words to make sure
he was writing out of his new understanding of sound-symbol
relationships.
"All right, now, this is the last one.
"Zatbam." Now, think about it, say it to yourself.
How many times did you open your mouth? How many
syllables? Remember, a syllable is just a short
word and it has to have a vowel. Okay, go ahead and
write it."
Charlie worked industriously, saying it, hearing the
sounds, writing them down.
"One hundred percent right, Charlie. Pay yourself
ten chips for each word and a bonus of fifty for
"zatbam." his
I also gave Charlie two easy workbooks for
homework -- one math, one reading-with an
assignment in each. He wrote the assignments in
his own sweet style in his assignment book, counted
his chips, bought a pack of sugarless gum, stuffed
half the pack in his mouth, and at the door turned
back. He shoved the gum to one bulging cheek and
said, "Zatbam."
"Zatbam?" I asked.
"Yeah. Zatbam. That's how they say good-bye in
Martian. Remember?"
"How could I have forgotten? Zatbam to you, too,
Charlie."
I loved working with Charlie. He was intelligent,
gentle, and thoughtful, and he understood that continuing on
to fourth grade at Chapel was going to require a
lot of hard
work on his part. I promised I wouldn't ask him
to do anythinghe didn't understand, but he would have
to practice what he did understand in order
to improve. He wouldn't have to do it alone; I'd be
there and so would his family, but the major part of the work
would be his.
Charlie wasn't turned off and he wasn't
hyperactive, but it was true that he did lie. The
lies grew smaller, though. As his reading improved
and he felt better about himself, the need
to exaggerate diminished, and what was left I used in
language experience stories. For a few minutes
of each session I had him dictate a story to me
-- anything and everything was okay. No limits. I
wrote down all Charlie's thoughts;
whatever he wanted to say was what I wrote. The
resulting stories were an odd mixture of
immaturity and sophistication, war and peace, but he
loved it and so did I.
By the fourth week in July, Charlie was able
to decode and encode (read and write) all
phonetically regular words of one or two
syllables (including silent
e
words). He had learned and internalized another
seventy third-grade sight vocabulary words.
He had learned the days of the week, the months of the
year, and the zero, one, two, and five times tables.
During the last session before he left for a two-week
vacationeaCharlie asked, "Are you going to give me
homework to take down to the shore?"
"Do you want some?"
"No-o! But Mom said you'd make me. Because
there's so much I have to learn."
"Your mom's right, Charlie. You will
remember the things you've learned better if you keep
practicing every day. Like baseball players. The more
they practice, the better they get. The more you work,
the more you practice, the more you'll remember. That is
really true.
"But, on the other hand, there are a lot more things
to learn than arithmetic and reading. Things that are much
more important."
Charlie looked straight at me, his eyes widening
behind his glasses. "Like what?"
"Like friends. Nothing's more important than learning
how to be a good friend. People sometimes give it fancy
names, like they call it learning "socialization
skills." But what it really means is learning how
to have fun with other people, caring about them, helping them when
they hurt, sharing things, telling the truth, brushing your
teeth and changing your socks so you smell good,
keeping your promise, showing up when you said you would.
Things like that."
"Could you say that over again?"
"I'm sorry, Charlie. I think I kind of got
carried away."
"No. I liked it, but I just can't remember it.
Could you make a list?"
I studied Charlie. He was obviously
entirely serious. "I can certainly try."
After I'd written down as much as I could
remember, with Charlie reminding me about the socks,
he went over each item carefully.
"I'm pretty good at most of those. Like with Sam
-- you know, he lives across the street -- I share
and keep my promisesand stuff. But I don't know
if he's my friend. Dad says he's only six.
That's why he puts up with me."
How many times can a child be hurt and stay intact,
whether the hurt is intentional or not? How many
walking wounded kids are out there aching, hurting,
feeling inadequate, with nobody to talk to?
Where's the immunization for interior pain? Where's the
pill for loss of confidence?
"Well, I don't know, Charlie. I don't
think it matters how old somebody is if you enjoy
doing things together. It's the liking each other that counts.
"Anyway, down at the shore, you'll be fishing or
out on the beach, and even though it's early, there'll be
other kids around. It would probably be a pretty
good place to work on making a friend."
Charlie sat without speaking and then finally said, without
looking up, "I can't work on that. See, working on
something is like practicing it, right?
Practice is when you know what
to do, but need to get better at it. But I don't
even know how to start. Making a friend, I mean."
Charlie was right. He needed someone to show him what
to do, not just tell him. I searched for some practical
advice.
"All right, let's see. The first thing is just to look
around. You don't have to say anything. You just look at
the other kids on the beach, and you look for somebody
who's doing the kind of thing you like to do.
"Say you like to fish or collect shells. Look and
see if there's anybody else doing that. Just keep
on walking and looking around, and if after a while the
person seems nice, then go over and do your fishing
or collecting somewhere near him. See, first you sort
of do it near each other. Each of you doing your own
thing. And then after a while you get so you do it together.
"Anyway, Charlie, have fun, and I'll see you in
two weeks."
On the second Thursday in August, Charlie
arrived at the office sunburned, nose peeling, but
grinning from ear to ear. He put a shoebox in front
of me.
"It's a present," he said.
Inside the box was a slightly
fishy-smelling double length of green yarn about two
feet long with shells glued or tied to it at even
intervals.
"One for each day I was there," Charlie said.
"See, this is a horseshoe crab. This one is
called a double sunrise. They're some of my best
ones."
I stood on a stool to hang the shell-studded yarn
in a swag across the wall and then stepped down and
back to admire it. "I love it, Charlie. It's
just exactly what this office needed. Thank you."
"Yeah," Charlie said, admiring it too. "And I
made a friend. I mean a real friend, and I made him
on purpose. He's nine and he's going in fourth
-- just like me. He lives down there at the shore
all year long, and he knows everything there is to know about
that ole beach.
"I saw him out there the first day, walking along
picking up shells. Most of them he put back, but
he'd keep one or two. I mean, he wasn't just
grabbing any ole thing. He knew what he was doing.
"So the next day I did like you said, I sort of
started picking up shells further down the beach, and
then after a while he got down to where I was and we were
both doing it. Then he showed me a sand
dollar he'd found, and before he went home he gave
me a snail shell, a good one, "cause he already
had a lot of them.
"Then the next day we did it again, and then he said
whyn't we go over to his house so he could show me the
rest of his shells. He came back to Gram's
house with me so I could ask if I could go, and it
turned out she knew his mom from church and right where his
street was.
"His name's Eddie, and I'll see him again when
we go down Labor Day weekend. He said he'd
write, but I don't know about that part of it. Most people
can't read my letters so good."
"Charlie, that's terrific. Of course you can write
to him. Anybody who can make a friend that fast can
write a letter. Just make a one-line note every night
in your notebook of something that happened that day -- like
it rained, or your teacher got sick and you had a
substitute, or you watched your favorite TV
show, or your fish died. Then after a couple of
weeks you can put the lines together, add a couple of
words here and there -- I'll help with the spelling -- and
you'll have a great letter."
"Yeah. Well, maybe," Charlie said. "There's
only one trouble."
"I don't have a fish," we said in unison.
Charlie had a very concrete approach to life.
We admired the swag of shells one last time, and
then I said, "Okay, Charlie. Time to get back
to work."
After five or ten minutes of review, it became
obvious that Charlie had forgotten at least 25
percent of the sight words he had learned.
Multiplication was shaky, too. He mixed up
2, x 7 a"...d 2. x 8 and got lost somewhere
in the middle of the five times table. I wasn't
particularly concerned. Kids with learning
disabilities are notorious for knowing it one day and not
the next, so it wasn't surprising that Charlie had
forgotten some things during the two weeks he'd been
away. What he'd learned was far more important.
But not to Charlie.
Gone was the sunny, confident boy who had walked in
less than a half hour ago. Now his arms were on
the desk, his head on his arms.
"See, I am stupid. I'll never be able to do it.
I can't rememberanything. My brain's like a
sieve. Everything falls right out of it."
"I know," I said. "It feels that way sometimes, but
it will come back. I promise you. And
learning how to make a friend is one hundred percent more
important than two times seven. But I know it's
frightening when you try to remember somethingyou knew just a
few days ago and you can't think of it at all."
Tears stood in Charlie's eyes. "You know what
one kid told me when I was in second grade in
that public school? He said somebody fed me
ground-up glass when I was a baby and that was what
made me retarded."
I pushed the tissues toward Charlie and said, "And
you know that's not true. Right? You remember I showed
you your test scores that showed you are smarter than
ninety percent of the kids your age."
"I remember," Charlie said, blowing his nose.
"And I believedyou. Things seemed like they were going
to be all right for a while. Like, I was doing pretty
good before I went away. But now, I'm still the
same."
"Yes. You are still the same and that's good. You're you
and you're going to stay you always. You don't want to be
somebody different every day, that would be too confusing.
You'll grow, you'll learn how to do new things, you'll
get bigger and older, but you'll always be Charlie
Hammond. Nobody else can be you.
"It's true that it's harder for you
to remember some facts than it is for other kids.
That doesn't mean you can't learn. You just have to use
different techniques, and not get mad at yourself if
it takes you a little longer or you forget
sometimes.gradually, it's going to get easier,
believe me, and then the parts that you're good at will
take off -- whammo -- and you'll be right on grade
level or above."
A car honked in the driveway, and Charlie walked
to the lookout window. "It's Mom. Does she know
all this stuff about me?"
"Yes. I've told both your mom and dad everything
I've told you. I've told you before, too,
Charlie -- it's just hard to remember it all."
"You're telling me," Charlie said. I walked out
to the car with Charlie. June Hammond looked
rested and tan and pretty.
"A good vacation?" I asked.
"The best we've ever had." She smiled.
"Good. I came out because I wanted to tell you that we
didn't get Charlie's homework written down in
his assignmentpad this time. We got talking about why
Charlie has trouble remembering things sometimes, and time
ran out befwe got to the homework. So would you just
review the cards in his word bank with him?
Divide the words he doesn't know into piles of
five and go over them, a pile at a time. If he
forgets, just tell him the word and have him say it,
trace it, and use it in a sentence. And if you could
get a dollar's worth of pennies and nickels and
let Charlie practice counting by twos and fives,
that would be a real help. Thank you. We'll be
back in the groove next time." I touched
Charlie's shoulder."...See you then."
Charlie's mother called early the next morning. Her
voice certainly didn't match her sunny face
of the day before.
"I know how busy you are," she said, "but I
wondered if I could make an appointment to come in and
talk to you sometime this week?"
II
"I have time up until eleven thirty today. There
isn't anythingopen tomorrow, but I have lunch time on
Friday." "Would ten this morning be all right?"
"Yes. Fine. I'll see you in a little while,
then."
Mrs. Hammond's eyes roamed across my desk
and then around the room. "Uh . .. what I wanted
to talk to you about... uh. I'm sorry, would you mind
terribly if I smoke? I'm trying
to give it up, but..." her voice trailed off.
"I'll get you an ashtray," I said. "Just let
me bring one up from downstairs."
Cigarette smoke was already curling to the ceiling when
I got back, and she dropped the used match into the
ashtray.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "It's just that I
didn't sleep much last night. We ... uh ...
had a big scene at the house. Charlie's father is
very upset. He says Charlie is worse now than
before he came here. I know that's not true, but I
don't know what to do about it. He wants Charlie
to stop coming."
"When you say scene, do you mean argument?"
Mrs. Hammond nodded. "Yes. Worse. We
were all yelling. Charlie was crying. So was I after a
while."
"How did it begin? What happened?"
"Well, you know how you said to get the pennies and the
nickels. It was too late to go to the bank, I
mean the bank was closed and I wanted to get started
right away. I do that sometimes. I want to help
Charlie so much that I try too hard or go too
fast or do too much and just end up making things
worse.
"Anyway, when I got home I began going through
my purse, and then we opened Charlie's piggy
bank and we found some nickels and a bunch of
pennies, but you had said a dollar's worth and we still
didn't have enough. When Charlie'sfather came home
I asked him for his pennies and nickels, and he
wanted to know why, and when I told him Charlie was
supposed to count them, that's when it started."
I nodded.
"Jim said that Charlie knew how many pennies made
a
nickel years ago and that he had been able to count before
he ever heard your name, and you were making Charlie
worse by having him think he didn't know things that he
already did know."
I sighed.
"I can see why it was confusing, and I really am
sorry," I said. "I should have explained more
clearly. The idea was to have a concrete way of
helping Charlie with multiplication. He was feeling
a little panicked because he couldn't remember two times
seven or five times eight, and he had known them before
he went to the shore. Multiplication is really just a
quick way of counting, and I thought it would help Charlie
if, for example, he could see the eight
nickels and count by fives to forty."
"I know," June Hammond said. "Well, I
mean I didn't know, but Charlie did. He really
did, and he tried to tell his dad about how you had
laid out bottle caps to explain multiplicationeab
Jim never let him finish. He said the next thing
he'd be hearing was that you and Charlie sat around drinking
beer and trading bottle caps.
"Jim doesn't really mean it when he talks like
that. It's just that he's upset about Charlie. We
both are. He's all we've got now."
Tears welled in Mrs. Hammond's eyes.
"Charlie's brother died before Charlie was born.
We lived in the city then. I'm sorry."
Mrs. Hammond stopped and wiped her eyes.
"It's hard for me to talk about it. Jason was four
years old, and I was pregnant with Charlie. Jim
had called me from the office one afternoon and said he had
some good news. He wanted me to call Mrs.
Edgars, our baby-sitter, and meet him for dinner
at Mario's. We didn't have much money, but we'd
gotten engaged at Mario's and we always went back
there when we had something to celebrate.
"I really didn't want to go. I'm always sick
to my stomach when I'm pregnant, and
besides, I was almost seven months and it was hard to sit
in one place too long."
June Hammond stopped and lit another
cigarette.
"I'm sorry I'm taking so long. I don't know
how else to tell you."
"We have plenty of time," I said.
"Well, anyway, I called Mrs. Edgars.
She lived in the next building over. I'd met
her when Jason was a baby and I'd be out walking
him in his carriage. Jason loved Mrs. Edgars
-- she was sort of like a grandmother to him, and we'd stop
in to see her on our walks. And when Jim and I
went out to the
movies or someplace, though we didn't go out
often, she'd baby-sit for Jason.
"Anyway, she said she couldn't come because she had to go
to her church circle meeting, but that her sister was
visiting from Rochester and she'd ask her. She, the
sister, I mean, had heard Mrs. Edgars talk so
much about Jason.
"So the sister came, and I left Jason with her."
Tears slid
down Mrs. Hammond's face. "He was dead when
we got home," she sobbed.
"Dead?"
"Well, not really dead, but as good as. It was boiling
hot -- Indian summer, I guess -- I still
get sick every year when it comes. So Mrs.
Edgars's sister opened a window in our apartment.the
super had just taken the screens off that day to paint the
trim and she didn't notice, and the phone rang and
she went out to the hall to answer it, and Jason must have
climbed on a chair. Nobody really knows.
Anyway, he fell
out the window and dropped two stories into the side
courtyard."
"Oh, no."
"She couldn't find him," Mrs. Hammond
continued. "When she came back she thought he was
hiding, playing a game, and she kept calling him.
'Jason. Where are you, Jason?"' And then she
heard people yelling, and she looked out into the courtyard and
there was this little boy ..."
Mrs. Hammond's sobs filled my office. I
couldn't talk.
"I'm sorry," she said again. "I can't stop now.
I have to

finish now that I've started. I'm sorry.
We never talk about it at home.
"The sister, Mrs. Hale her name was, was so
upset she couldn't find the pad with the phone number
I'd left her, so no one knew where to reach us
till Mrs. Edgars came home and knew we
usually went to Mario's.
"Jason had been in the hospital for two hours
before we got there ... all the time we'd just been
eating, talking about Jim's raise.
"Anyway, Jason lived for almost another month.
He was home for the last week. Jim wanted him
to die at home. He took all the care of
Jason. Jason could only take nourishment through a
bottle and most of that he threw up. But Jim never
once lost patience. He moved Jason's old
crib into the living room, and he slept there on the
couch with Jason next to him in the crib.
"Charlie was born six weeks early, three days
after we buried Jason."
Tears stood in my own eyes. "I'm so sorry,"
I said. "So terribly sorry."
Mrs. Hammond sighed. "I thought I would die,
too. I thought I would die in childbirth. I
wanted to. Charlie's deliverywas very
difficult. But somehow I didn't. I was
still there, and Charlie was, too. This little, tiny,
black-haired baby. In an isolette -- like a
little glass coffin.
"You know, I didn't even want to go see him. I
never told Jim, but I didn't want to go down
to the nursery to see Charlie at all. I thought
I'd hate him. Since I'd lived I thought
maybe it would feel like he'd killed Jason. But
Jim made me go the next day, and I don't know,
the minute I saw him, I loved him." She
smiled -- a sad, tired smile.
"Have you and Jim -- do you mind?" I asked. "It's
difficult to call him Mr. Hammond now."
"Oh, please, and call me June."
"Have you and Jim seen someone -- a counselor or
therapist?"
June Hammond nodded. "Our minister was
wonderful. We still go back into the city to see him.
And we also went to a therapist for a while, but Jim
didn't think it was doing any good so we stopped."
"What did you think?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's true what they say
about time being a great healer. It's been over eight
years now. I know I'll never forget it, but I
try to be grateful for everything else."
I stood up. The emotion in the room was so high that
it was almost tangible, and we still hadn't really talked
about Charlie. June Hammond lit a
cigarette, and I cleared my throat. "Would you like
a cup of coffee?"
Five minutes later I handed her the steaming mug and
asked, "How much does Charlie know?"
"I'm not really sure. As I said, Jim and I
never talk about Jason now. But there are some
photographs in the album, and Charlie's asked
questions. So he knows he had a brother and that he died.
I think that's probably all he knows. Why? Do
you think that's part of what's wrong with Charlie?
"You see, I couldn't ask you before because Jim was always
with me, and he doesn't like other people to know about
Jason. But please tell me, do you think
Jason's death -- I mean, me getting so upset
-- did something to Charlie before he was born?"
Slowly, carefully, I repeated once again what
I knew about the causal factors of dyslexia and
learning disabilities.
"Nobody knows for sure what causes a child to have a
learning disability," I said as gently as I could.
"Most of us who work with dyslexic kids feel that it
has something to do with the neural development and
how the brain is wired. It's true that stress or
use of drugs during pregnancy can cause
changes, but so can lots of other things, such as
heredity. In fact, some think now that the human
chromosome fifteen may carry genes associated
with learning disabilities. And I have always had a
suspicion that eventually the neurologists will
discover that the corpus callosum, that bundle of
tissues
2.1-7
that connects the right and left sides of the brain, will
turn out to be even more important in the transfer of
information and learning than we've expected.
"But look, let's talk about what we can do to help
Charlie now." I pulled a yellow pad toward me
and said, "Maybe it would be clearer if I made a
couple of lists. Column A will be Charlie's
strengths, and column B will be his areas of weakness."
I wrote:
A.
Strengths
B. Areas of Weakness
1. Below average in reading, writing, arithmetic.
2. Large gap between academicachievement and
intelligence.
3. Below average in auditorymemory.
4. Below average in graphomotor skills.
5. Below average gross motor skills.
6. Disorganized.
7. Lacks confidence in his abilities.
1. Above average intelligence.
2. Above average visual memory.
3. Good abstract thinking.
4. Good reasoning skills.
5. Good understanding of spatial relationships.
6. Attractive personality.
7. Motivated -- wants to learn.
8. Not hyperactive.
"Now, roughly, the plan is to use Charlie's
strengths to help him compensate for his weaknesses -- and
he can do it, I know he can; he's doing it right now.
"I can understand your worry, maybe even some feelings
of guilt and also Jim's impatience. But you've
done so wonderfullywell. Charlie is one of the
nicest boys I've known, and he's learning so much
so fast. Really.
"Try to convince Jim to let me keep working with
Charlie. I'd be happy to talk to Jim myself if
you think it would help, although I haven't seemed to have
done very well so far.
"But now that Charlie's been promoted, we can't just
let him flounder in fourth grade. And besides,
Charlie and I like each other, or at least I like
him."
"Oh, Charlie loves to come here. I thought he'd
hate being tutored, but it's just the opposite."
"All right," I said. "Then I don't think it
makes sense to switch to another tutor. Ask
Jim if he'll give us half a year and then we
can reassess the situation."
Charlie plunked his bookbag beside the desk and said,
"Mom says just to tell you that it's okay. She
says you'll know what that means."
I nodded.
"Well, what does that mean?"
"That it's all right for us to keep on working together."
"Well, that's good. The house has been a mess the
last couple of days. Everybody's yelling. Now
Mom's got all these books out of the library,
trying to figure out what's the matter with me. She
said you explained it to her and she understood it while she
was here, but when she tried to tell it to Dad she got
all mixed up, and he got madder than heck and said
if Mom wasn't paying your bills I certainly
wouldn't be coming here. And then he yelled at
Mom, "I don't want to discuss this any
further," and slammed the door on the way out
to work."
"I'm sorry, Charlie," I said, and I really
was. And not just for Charlie, but for Mr. Hammond
and myself as well. Lack of paternal support
made my job much harder.
"It's okay," Charlie said. "I've been thinking
about it, and I don't think anybody can really
explain. I think I'm just somebody nobody
knows."
"That sounds pretty lonely," I said.
Charlie nodded, his sweet face serious. "It
is," he agreed. Then he smiled, just a little,
black eyes lighting up. "But I think maybe
it's going to get better."
was was *
"I called Mr. Dalwig yesterday," I told
Charlie at his last session before school began, "and
he let me talk to your fourth-grade teacher. She
sounded nice, but I had to promise not to tell you her
name. They don't want any of the kids to know who
they're getting until the first day of school."
"I'm glad it's a she, anyway," Charlie said.
"At least that rules out old frog-face
Hogan."
"Just forget I said "she," okay? Anyway, your
teacher said that September will be mostly review in
English and math, and that if I go over to the school
they'll lend me copies of the social studies and
grammar books. So that sounds good."
And it was good. Charlie's teacher, Mrs. Yager, was
intelligenteaccfident, and creative. There were four
fourth grades at Chapel, two with only ten children.
Charlie was in one of these, but the work load was still
heavy.
Charlie took all his books home from school every
night, whether he had homework in the subject or
not. This was Charlie's own idea, because to him the extra
weight was worth the lack of worry. One of his
problems the year before had been that even if he did
remember to write down the assignment, he
invariably forgot to bring the right book. We had worked
out an alphabetical system of organization for
schoolbooks, and I checked his bookbag each time.
"English grammar, math, reading, science,
spelling, social studies, vocabulary. Good,
Charlie."
"Yup," Charlie said. "E, M, R, three
S's, and a V. Pencils and pens here in
the zipper pocket and my assignment pad in the
front. Here's today's."
Charlie had listed his assignments one under the other:
1. Sense -- Rd C.
2. No Q 1-6 as. Sp Bok-Xse 10 ii
3. Math -- qj 20 NM 1-15
4. R -- C 3 nex F
5. Enq -- pj 10 und nons
l@lcaret 3andSddaa caret comAA caret
SandS't caret comISMAND"...ISS caret WS
B
It might look like a foreign language to me, but it
made sense to Charlie.
"I had to write fast, so the spelling isn't so
good. I'll read it to you. One. Science. Read
chapter two. Answer questions one through six. Two.
Spelling book. Do exercises ten and eleven.
Three. Math. Page twenty. Do numbers one
through fifteen. Four. Reading. That's this." He
held up a paperback,
The Riders of the Pony Express.
"We have to read up to chapter three by Friday.
Five is English. Page ten. Underline the
nouns."
I was overwhelmed. How was Charlie going
to handle all that work? He'd been doing a half hour
of homework during the latter part of the summer, but this
looked like a lot more than a half hour.
"Are you going to be able to get all that done?" I
asked.
Charlie nodded. "I think I can. See, I already
checked off science. We get to do most of that in
class. I'm half done with math -- it's just
addition and subtraction."
Charlie did a half page of nouns with me, and it
was clear that he spotted them with no trouble.
"Person, place, thing, or idea. Ideas are the
only hard ones."
We alternated reading pages of
The Riders of the Pony Express.
Charlie either skipped the words he didn't know or
made a passing shot based on the shape of the word and the
meaning of the sentence. I didn't correct him. He
was able to tell me what was happening in his own words, so
I knew he'd understood what he'd read. I also
knew he'd never get through the two chapters if he
had to stop and figure out every word he didn't know. I
told him to try to write down the words he didn't
get and I'd teach them to him, but I wasn't going
to insist. He had enough to do as it was. We
divided the remaining pages of chapters one and two
in
Pony Express
by three (tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday
nights) and separated them with paper clips so
Charlie would know how much he had to read each night.
Spelling was Charlie's Waterloo. The two
pages in the spellingbook were intended to review the
long
a
sound. The
problem was that in the book there were no rules to follow
and no consistency. For example, four of the words were
"rain, payment, tale, and neighbor." There were
twenty new words a week and a test every Thursday.
I copied the next six pages of Charlie's
spelling book on my copy machine, resolving
to figure out some way to help him.
"For this week, just write them out. Learn the easy
ones first, and memorize as many of the others as you can."
Mrs. Yager and I conferred on a weekly
basis. She was wonderful about adapting assignments
for Charlie. She acceptedshorter written
reports, corrected his spelling, allowed him
to copy reports over after she'd
corrected them, and, whenever possible, let him shine
in class by talking about all the information he'd
acquired. Charlie's mom was good, too. She
encouraged him and tried to practice "planned
ignoring," deliberately not noticing the dozens of
annoying little things Charlie did -- just concentrating
on one or two changes at a time. I tried
to clarify and reinforce as creatively as I could the
things Charlie was learning in school, and Charlie himself
was trying to improve his concentration, to focus, and
to sort out the important from the unimportant.
Because it was so important to Charlie not to look
"dumb" in front of his classmates, we spent
an inordinate amount of time on spelling. Charlie
got so that he earned "High Pass" on most
tests, although that didn't mean he would remember how
to spell the same words if he had to use them in a
book report a few days later.
Mrs. Yager had actually offered to let Charlie
skip the spelling test or else cut down his
number of words, at least during the first trimester.
But Charlie wouldn't hear of it.
"Wha.a you mean, not take the test?" Charlie was
fuming."...What am I gonna do while everybody
has the spelling test? Play
tic-tac-toe with myself? There are only twenty
words, you know. Now that I know how to study them, I'm
not ever going to miss thirteen again, like that first time.
I'm not that dumb, you know."
"Okay," I said. "I guess I didn't
remember you telling me that before."
Charlie smiled. "All right. I get it. I did
used to think I couldn't do it. I don't know why.
It just seems like it used to be harder, but that couldn't be
it "cause that was third and third has got to be
easier than fourth."
"Well," I said. "You're older and that makes a
difference."
"And I'm not so mad," Charlie said softly, "so
I can think better."
It was true. Charlie's dictated stories had
less violence, and he had also learned to concentrate
for longer periods of time. Charlie was doing his
homework, passing his tests, increasing his academic
skills, and even smiling a little more. I suppose it
was because things were going relatively smoothly that I
forgot about Jim Hammond. However, Jim
Hammond did not forget about me.
The first day of November was gray and cold -- a
reminder of the long winter yet to come. On
impulse I decided to light a fire in the living
room fireplace and bring my office work down there.
But the phone rang as I struck a match, and I
blew it out and walked to the kitchen to pick up the
phone.
"Mrs. MacCracken? This is Jim Hammond,
Charlie's father. It's been almost a half year
since you first saw Charlie for his evaluation, and I
wondered if you had retested him yet and what the
results were?"
Tested Charlie? When would I have had time to test
Charlie"...Every minute of every session was crammed with
extra explanations of things Charlie was encountering in
school, plus my own steady building of his reading,
writing, and math skills. But I couldn't say that.
If there was one key missing member of Charlie's
team, it was his father. Motivation mellowedmy voice.
"Mr. Hammond. Hello. I'm glad to hear from
you. You're right. Your wife and I did talk about
seeing what kind of progress Charlie was making.
I haven't had a chance to
formally test him again, but I am in touch with his teacher every
week and she tells me that he's holding his own.
Would you like to come in and see what he's been doing
here?"
"Holding his own? What does that mean, Mrs.
Mac-Cracken? I have Charlie's typed educational
evaluation done by you here in front of me. The
report gives me specific information as
to Charlie's IQ and reading and math scores. I
appreciate the specifics of that report, Mrs.
Mac-Cracken ..."
There was a long pause in which neither of us spoke. Then
Mr. Hammond resumed. (it was remarkably
easy to start thinking of him as Mr. Hammond again,
rather than Jim.)
"It's been five months," he said. "I think
it's time to re-evaluate the situation as we discussed
previously and see exactlyhow much, if any,
progress has been made."
There was another long pause. I was holding my
breath. I wanted to scream. Damn it, Mr.
Hammond. Do you have any idea how much energy, how
much courage, how much effort it takes for Charlie
to do his homework every night? To go to school and keep his
mind focused on what's being taught in class?
To strike out in softball every day and still play again the
next day? Can't you see with your own eyes the
progress he's making?
I let out my breath and said, "I understand
your concern about Charlie's progress. It's just that
testing takes time. We only have two
forty-five-minute sessions a week. To repeat the
academic tests I gave Charlie in June would
take two hours, or a week and a half. I
don't think this is the right time to spend that amount of time
on testing, particularly since things seem to be going
along pretty well."
"I don't mean to sound rude, Mrs.
MacCracken, but are you trying to tell me that
Charlie, our son, cannot be successfulin school
without your help for even a week and a half?"
"I am trying to tell you, Mr. Hammond, that at
this stage of the game Charlie needs all the help he
can get, and to use
the time we have for testing rather than teaching would be
ill-advised."
"Then I suggest you see him two extra hours and
get the academic testing done."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Hammond, I don't have
any extra hours after school, and I don't think
we should take Charlie out of his classes now."
"May I ask, then, what you do suggest?"
I wanted to say, "I suggest you get off
Charlie's back and on his side," but
underneath my annoyance I knew from what his wife had
told me that Jim Hammond was a kind, lovingman
who cared for his family. And Charlie needed that caring.
I studied my appointment calendar and Charlie's
school calendar. "How about the Friday after
Thanksgiving? I've canceled most of my
appointments for that day."
"That's almost a month away. But if it's the best you
can do, all right. How soon can we have the results?"
Push. Push. Push. You're driving me nuts,
Mr. Hammond. Out loud I said, "Saturday.
Not a written report. But I can certainly
score the tests and give you the results the next
day."
"Thank you. I appreciate that. My wife will
call you to set up the times."
When June Hammond called to arrange the
appointments for the testing and follow-up conference she
said, "I'm really very sorry to cut into your holiday
like this. I apologize. And I hope you'll understand,
but I'm not going to come to the conference on Saturday.
I know how I feel about Charlie and I know how I
feel about you, and whether he goes up or down a
few points on some tests doesn't have anything to do
with it. Besides, I think you'll be able to talk
to Jim better if I'm not there. I can't explain
why I think so, but I just do. So I'll make the
appointment on Saturday for whatever time you say, but
just know ahead of time that I'm not going to be there.
"My sister's coming down from Boston with her family,
so it'll be easy enough to have something come up."
"I'm sorry to make you come in on a holiday,
Charlie. How was your Thanksgiving?"
Charlie yawned. "Okay. My cousins came down
from Boston.we're going into the city when I finish
here."
Charlie yawned again, and I wondered how much sleep
he'd gotten the previous night.
"What we have to do today is check and see how much more you
know now than you did last June. There's an oral
reading test, a silent reading test, and a short
spelling and math test."
"What's oral?"
"Out loud."
"Criminy! What do I have to do tests for? I have enough
tests in school."
"I know. I usually don't give any till the
end of the year, but it's important to your dad,
Charlie."
"Oh, I get it. He wants to see if
I'm still a dummy."
"I don't think he thinks you're a dummy. He
may think I am, but not you."
Charlie smiled. "All right. Let's get it over
with. How long is this going to take?"
"A couple of hours." He screwed his face into a
pained expression. "I know," I said. "I'll
pay double for unfair pain and cruelty. Start with the
math. Do as many as you can. Skip the ones you don't
know how to do, but remember they get harder as you go
down the page."
"Oh, I remember doing this. What did I get
last time?"
"Well," I said as I checked Charlie's file,
"it came out at third grade, first month."
"How many do I need to get right to get fourth?"
I considered. Would answering be illegal? I
decided that it was a fair question, studied the teacher's
manual, and told Charlie how many he needed to get
right to be scored at a fourth-grade level.
"But I'm not going to correct your tests till this
afternoon, so I can't tell you till Monday how you
did. Agreed?"
We followed the same procedure on each of the
following tests, and at least Charlie's
yawns disappeared.
Mr. Hammond was at my office door at
exactly two o'clock Saturday afternoon. A mixture
of rain and sleet had begun in the late morning and
by early afternoon had turned into a cold, heavy, drenching
rain.
Mr. Hammond shrugged off his raincoat and brushed
imaginaryrain from the narrow lapels of his dark
pinstripe suit. I took his raincoat from him and
motioned to the stairs that led to my office.
"Why don't you go on up? I'll be right with you. Just
let me hang this down by the furnace so it can dry
out."
He started to protest, but a small puddle was already
formingby my feet. "Can I do it for you?" he asked.
"No, no. I'll be right up."
Mr. Hammond was still standing when I entered the room.
He pointed to some charcoal drawings on the wall behind
the desk. "Any of those Charlie's?" he asked.
I silently thanked God that "The Fiery Bird"
was not still on the wall but in Charlie's file. It would
have antagonized Mr. Hammond even more to see his
son's inadequacies displayed.i debated about
pointing out the swag of shells and then decided against
it.
"Actually, most of Charlie's work is here in his
bin," I said, lifting out a pile of papers and the
black and white notebook where we kept track
of the work we did each day.
Mr. Hammond pushed the papers aside without
looking
his
to , at them and sat down in front of the desk.
"Mrs. Hammond regrets she is unable to be
here today. Her sister is visiting from Boston and an
unanticipated doctor's appointment came up,
and so June had to drive her in. If they finish
early enough,
she'll come by. So we might as well get started.
How did the testing go?"
I opened Charlie's file folder. 227
"Fine. Here are the tests I gave him last
June. These are the ones he took yesterday. I
thought you'd like to compare them. I've also drawn up a
chart on this page to point out the differences in grade
scores and percentiles."
This time Jim Hammond pulled the papers toward
him and pored over them intently. While he studied
the papers, I studied him.
Who was this small, black-browed man?
How did he really feel about his son? How much
did he understand? We had spent two hours together after
Charlie's evaluation and anotherhour before the tutoring
sessions began, but his wife had done most of the
talking both times.
Charlie was built on a bigger scale than his father
-- taller, broader shoulders -- but he had the
same black hair and eyes, although Mr.
Hammond's eyebrows were heavier, almost meeting
above his nose. I searched in vain for a glimpse of the
man who had cared so tenderly for his other son when he
was dying ...
The papers rustled as Mr. Hammond flipped them
back and forth. "How is this possible? To have made
over a year's improvement in reading comprehension in
less than half a year?" His tone implied that
perhaps I'd altered the scores in some way.
I chose my words carefully. "I think that there are
several factors involved. First, Charlie has
learned a great deal about decoding unknown words. He
has also increased his sight vocabulary, and he
reads much more easily and quickly than before.
"Secondly, Charlie is much more confident. He
really believeshe can read better now, and that helps.
He actually reads the longer paragraphs
instead of just skimming and guessing. The test you're
looking at is a silent reading comprehensiontest.
Twenty-five minutes are allowed. See, when
Charlie took the test last June -- Level
C, Form One (level C is for third
grade) -- I wrote here in the corner that he had
finished in eleven minutes, which meant he had to be
either an awfully fast reader, or a guesser. The
score -- second grade,
eight months -- says he was the latter. Yesterday
he used the full twenty-five minutes to do the
comprehension section on Level D (D is for
fourth grade). Form One. I'll use Form Two
when I do the regular testing at the end of the year."
I hesitated, suddenly realizing I'd implied that
Charlie would still be with me. I knew I had made a
mistake. Only five minutes into the conference and
already a mistake. But I couldn't think how
to correct it, so I continued. "He concentratedand was
willing to invest a lot of energy into trying to figure
out as many words as he could. And as you know,
once Charlie can read a word he has no trouble
understanding it."
"And it is a different test? It's not just that he's
had it before?"
"Yes, Mr. Hammond. It is a different
test." He nodded. "How else do you account for the
difference?
Not just reading comprehension, but the others, too. On the
math test he scored on a fourth-grade level."
"When Charlie took the tests last June he was
frightened.
He was getting further and further behind. He didn't
know
why, and he didn't know what to do about it. Now that he
sees he can learn, he's willing to try.
"It helps him to know that I know what to do about his
learning problems. If he broke his leg and was
having trouble walking, you'd take him to a doctor
-- find out what was wrong and get him help. It's
the same thing for a child in our society who is having
trouble reading -"
"Are you saying Charlie has a broken head?"
Mr. Hammondinterrupted, "comparing it to a broken
leg? Is that what you think is wrong with Charlie?"
Mr. Hammond shoved the papers back across the
desk and stared at me.
Another mistake.
"No, of course not. I was just using that as an
example."
"An example. I see. Well, then if it's not
his head, what is it? And perhaps it would be best if you
kept examples and emotions out of it and we just
discussed facts.
"In fact, let me start this discussion by saying that
none
of this makes sense to me at all. Oh, I know.
I know. You explained after the evaluation. You've
talked to my wife. You've talked to Charlie, but
I'm not sure they understand any better than I do."
He paused. I had a feeling he wanted to add,
"though they may like you better," but he left the words
unsaid.
"Now, let me tell you what makes sense to me,"
Mr. Hammond continued. "Intelligence means that
you have the ability to acquire knowledge and the ability to use the
knowledge you've acquired. Now that's the truth. I've
looked it up in the dictionary, and it also makes
sense to me personally, so let's accept that statement
as fact.
"Now, reading, spelling, math are all knowledge that you can
acquire and use. At least some people can. Charlie
doesn't happen to be one of those people, so therefore it
follows, or at least it seems very clear to me, that
Charlie is not intelligent."
He stopped to clear his throat. "Unfortunate as that
may be."
"You're very wrong," I said. I had difficulty
controlling my voice. How could he say that?
"Charlie is intelligent. Look at his answers
on the WISC-R intelligence test." I took
the test out of Charlie's file and thrust it in front
of him. "He can think abstractly, he can reason,
he can solve problems, he has acquired a great
deal of ..." I stopped myself in mid-sentence.
What was I doing? I was actually arguing with this man
-- this man who was Charlie's father and whom Charlie
needed so much. I should be listening, not arguing.
"I'm sorry," I said. "You've known Charlie so
much longer -- you have so much more information than I do.
Why do you think Charlie lacks intelligence? Is
it just the school-work or is it also because of the way he
acts at home?"
After a small pause Mr. Hammond said,
"Well, both. Not being able to read is a terrible
thing, although you seem to think he's doing better at that
now. But there's more to it than that." Mr. Hammond
leaned across the desk. "He alwaysneeds help.
He's in and out of our bedroom or living
room twenty times a night, asking June
to help him do this or help him do that. She never
says no. He's like a little baby instead of nine
years old. Nine -- remember that. He turned
nine last week and he can't do anything for himself.
"Please understand. It's not that I don't love him.
I do. You have to ask yourself what kind of a life is it
for Charlie, too. Always behind. Always at the bottom
of everything. In sports, too. He'll never make
a team -- you try to throw him
a ball, it hits him in the head. I tell you,
he'll be better off away."
"Away?" I could hardly get the word out. "Yes,
away at school. I've been looking into it. At
one of the football games this fall I ran into an
old friend from college, and he told me how he'd
gotten his son into this new school, boarding school,
that's just opened in Pennsylvania.
It's not cheap, but he says it's worth it -- it's
made all the difference in their lives." "But-was
"No. Let me finish. Please. I wanted
June to be here when I brought this up because I thought
she could be less emotional
about it here than at home. But since she's not here,
I'm going to put it to you bluntly.
"I think she's covering up -- doing
Charlie's work for him. I think you're covering up
-- trying to make both of them feel better. I
think the school is probably in on it, too,
somehow.anyway, I've had enough. It's time
to face facts. Charlie isn't right. He's never
been right, and he's never going to be. I don't
understand all the ins and outs of it and I'm not saying
he's retarded, but he is defective, and he'll
be better off with his own kind."
I sat silently. Something terrible was going on, and
I had no idea how to stop it.
"We lost one boy, you know. I'm sure June
told you. And something happened to Charlie, too. Some
people just aren't meant to have children. You have to face up to it."
"You don't think you're meant to have children?" I
repeated.
z caret i
"It seems that way," he said in a measured
voice. "I tried as hard as I knew how to hold
on to Jason. I've tried with Charlie. I never
got through to either of them. The only way I can figure
it is, it wasn't meant to be.
"Look now, I'm not talking about putting him in some
institution. Just a school. Lots of kids go away
to school. Nothing wrong with that."
"He's only eight. Nine, I mean. What's the
name of the school?"
He took a card from his wallet. "High
Mountains. High Mountains Boys" School."
"It must be very expensive if it's as good as your friend
says."
"It is. But June has just closed a fantastic
deal. She's lived here all her life, you know, so
she has many contacts, and now she's sold a
five-hundred-thousand-dollar estate up on the
hill, and the commission from that will go a good ways and I'm
sure there will be more to come. So the picture's changed
as far as money goes. That's not the issue now."
I wanted to say, "But you didn't earn the money and
June doesn't even know your plan," but I had
made enough mistakesfor one hour.
"You obviously have done a great deal of thinking about
this." I wasn't going to be able to change his mind in
the next few minutes, and yet I knew it was the
wrong thing to do. Wrong for Charlie -- but also wrong
for his father. I needed time to think.
"Well," I said, glancing at my watch, "let
me copy these test scores for you so you can share them with
June."
The old copy machine whirred noisily
for a minute or two as I copied the papers in the
small adjoining room. I expected Mr.
Hammond to be up and waiting by the door, but he still
sat opposite the desk.
I suddenly felt very tired. The rain pelted against
the windowseaand I leaned against the side of the desk,
holding the copies out to him, not trusting myself to speak.
Finally, he reached for the papers but made no motion of
rising.
But I was the one now who couldn't stand it any longer.
I forced the words up out of my throat. "I'll get
your coat and meet you at the door."
Monday morning the phone rang at seven o'clock.
"This is Jim Hammond, Mrs. MacCracken.
I'm sorry to bother you so early. I'm just on my
way into the office now, and I wanted to be sure
to get you before you saw Charlie this afternoon. I... uh
... haven't had a chance to talk to June -- or
Charlie either, as a matter of fact -- about the
school as yet, so I'd appreciate it if you
didn't mention it to him just yet."
A reprieve.
I heard nothing further from Mr. Hammond for the
next three weeks. My talks with Charlie's mother
and teacher were the same as always -- brief,
specific. We all felt that Charlie was continuing
to make progress.
Then just before Christmas vacation I had another seven
o'clock phone call from Mr. Hammond, asking if
I was going away over the Christmas holiday and,
if not, if he could "come by." Cal and I were to be
away for only a week, and so we arranged a time
to meet three days after Christmas.
Mr. Hammond opened the conversation as soon as he
had settled himself in the chair across from the desk.
"June doesn't know I'm here. Neither does
Charlie. And I'd like to keep it that way, at least
for now."
I nodded and waited for him to continue, but he was
silent, studying his hands for several minutes. Then
he said slowly, "I'm not a humble man, Mrs.
MacCracken, nor can I put my feelings
into words easily. I'm an engineer and have much more
faith and knowledge in how things work than how people work. It's very
difficult for me to come here. I tell you
this not because I want your sympathy, but so you will
understandhow important this is to me.
"I've been doing a lot of thinking since I was
last here, and I've been observing Charlie very
closely. And I'm not sure this makes
any sense, but I think that I may not have been fair
to Charlie. Somehow he's all muddled together in my
mind with Jason -- it's as though they're this one
person, my son. And when I told you I'd tried
as hard as I could with Charlie, I meant it. I
honestly felt I had.
"But now, I don't know, I've been thinking
maybe I've been a little confused, and all the work and
effort was for Jason. He was so sick -- you couldn't
believe how hurt and little and frightened he was.
Anyway, I've been asking myself to be
specific. It seems as though I'm always asking
other people to be specific, so I thought perhaps I should
ask the same of myself. What specifically have I
done for Charlie?
"I couldn't think of very many things. Do you know what I
mean? It felt like I'd worked tremendously hard with
him, but now I can't think of what, if anything,
I've done.
"So that's why I'm here. I want to know if there are
things I can do and if there are, what they are.
"I'm not giving up on that school. I don't
want you to think that. It's just... well, to be
truthful about it, I want to send Charlie off with a
clear conscience. I want to be sure
I've done everything that could possibly be done."
I watched the sun shimmering on the snow in the woods
behind the office windows. I wasn't sure I liked
what I heard;
it almost sounded as though Mr. Hammond were doing it for
himself rather than for Charlie. A clear conscience. Did
I want to get into the business of helping Mr.
Hammond clear his conscience?
"Well," he said, "are there things I can do?"
"Yes. Of course." Who was I to judge
anybody else's conscience"...Charlie needed his father.
Sometimes the way things begin doesn't matter. If
Charlie and his dad could get to know each other, trust
each other, what difference did the reason behind it
make?
"To begin with," I said, "you can listen to Charlie, and
let him know that what he says and thinks are
important to you.
"Get to know his room. What kind of posters does
he have on his wall? What kind of music does he
listen to? Make it a point to get to know his turf
and meet him there a lot of the time. You don't have
to stay forever, but have it get so it's comfortable for both of
you. Whatever rules you have about making beds and picking
up, discuss at some other
time in some neutral place. When you stop in
to visit, don't harp.
"Take over some of those things June does.
Lighten her load, and also show Charlie you want
to be involved. You said or implied that she babies
Charlie by doing things for him that he ought to be able to do for
himself. I think that's probably true, but if you're
involved in helping him then you can gradually show him
how to do things for himself.
"Gradually is the operative word here. If he
has to do a report on Alexander Graham
Bell, don't just tell him to get busy and do it.
He can't. He doesn't know how, and he's more
confused and frightened by having to produce quantities
of words than most kids are. Go with him to the
library. Show him how to use the card catalog.
Talk to the librarian. Ask which of the reference
books are the clearest, the easiest. Help
Charlie find the book. Help him copy the pages
of pertinent information so he can take them home. He
writes much too slowly to try and do it in the
library. Help him organize. Help him when
he gets stuck with the writing. Help him rewrite.
Let his teacher know you're helping.
"Don't expect too much. Even with a
rewrite, there will be lots of mistakes. But
praise him. Praise him for the effort that he's put
in, not just for the result. And he will get better at
it gradually. And, as he does, you can cut back
on the amount of help you give. Don't ever do the
work for him, but also don't let him flounder.
"Teach him as much as you can. Get him to watch the
news with you. Talk about it later. Get a world map
and a
U.s. map. Put them up in the kitchen or hall
and use pushpins to locate the places you talk about.
"Read to him from the books that interest him and from
magazines, books, and newspapers that interest you.
If someonedevelops a new vaccine, tell him about
it. If the stock market drops, explain. Keep
it short, and don't put him on the spot or
criticize or get impatient if he forgets
what you've told him. Be polite. Tell him
again. The main thing is that you interact and expose
Charlie to as much of the world as possible."
Mr. Hammond was taking notes, his black
eyebrows knit tightly together.
"Look. You don't need to write this down. It's
all stuff you know, anyway. I'm just sort of
pointing it out again."
"Mrs. MacCracken, as I told you before, I
am an engineer, a chemical engineer, and I work in
the research department of a chemical company. I'm
good at my job, but I'll never go further because I
can't, or don't know how to, get along with people. I
accept that. I don't particularly like most people,
anyway.
"But please don't presume what it is I know
or don't know. Charlie is the first and probably the
last nine-year-old boy other than myself that I'll
ever know. Where do you think I would have learned?
Certainly not from my father. He believedbringing up children
was women's work. Now, please keep on."
He waited, pencil poised. My head was blank.
Suddenly it seemed too awesome a task, and too
presumptuous of me to assume to know.
"I don't know. A lot of it will just come naturally
once you start. But you can never go wrong telling him you
love him and that you don't care whether he bats zero
or a thousand.tell him about some of the things you couldn't
do when you were nine.
"And you could get him an electric typewriter and
get someone to teach him to type. The keyboard is
practically the same as a word processor's. Word
processors and
computers are going to be big in education. Charlie could
use a head start. And maybe you could make a list"
-- I was off and running again, embarrassed but too
excited to care -- "of all the things you like about him.
You don't have to show it to Charlie, but you could just remind
yourself. And you could make a list of every good or decent
or intelligent thing he does.
"Try to find something that he's good at -- a place
where he can excel easily. This will convince him more
than any words that he really is a bright, capable
person.
"And have fun with him. Go fishing, or swimming, or
watch a ball game or a movie, or eat a
hot dog, or tell a few jokes.
"See, other than June, Charlie is the most
wonderful thing that will ever happen to you. You belong to each
other. He's yours, you're his, and you hold an
excitement for each other that can't be duplicated.
"I'd probably be saying this even if Charlie were
blind, deaf, and dumb, because children, including other people's
children, give me enormous pleasure.
"But Charlie is attractive, and he's bright and
loving; he's a lot like you in lots of ways -- and
he's yours. You're going to have a wonderful time."
Finally I stopped.
Mr. Hammond was smiling at me. I had never
seen him smile before. "I think you like your work as much
as I like mine," he said. "Good-bye, and thank you."
He turned to go and then turned back.
"About that school, the one my classmate's boy
attends. I think that in all probability its
enrollment is full, considering that it's already the
middle of the year. Probably no openings. I
doubt that there is any point in even applying."
"No point at all," I agreed, and returned
Mr. Hammond's smile in spite of myself.
During the winter months Charlie and I continued our
attack on spelling and decoding skills. He had
mastered the
basics of sound-symbol relationships -- the sounds
of consonantseablends, vowels. Now I included
digraphs and reviewedthe meanings of closed, open,
and silent
e
syllables. I taught him how to recognize and read
and spell the four other types of syllables: the
vowel team, such as pa/i or
day, tea or see, pie, toe;
the r controller syllable; the diphthong syllable, like
oi
or
au
in
oil
and Awgust; and the consonant
Ie
syllable, like
bubble, crackle.
The seven syllables made sense to Charlie. They
gave organizationto a previously mysterious
mass. He learned to locate the vowels in the word,
mark them, decide which type of syllable they formed, and
then read it -- or sometimes write it. Words that did
not follow the rules were still designated
red words
and written on cards and memorized, but Charlie was
amazed at how few he had to memorize now that he
had the tools to break words into syllables, figure
them out, and put them back together.
At school Charlie was holding his own. His grades
for the second trimester were up to
"Satisfactory" in all subjects except
spelling and written expression. Even more
important, Mrs. Yager felt that Charlie was
really trying hard and that he deserved a lot
of praise.
The school's biggest concern about Charlie was that he still
hadn't established any close relationships or
made a group of friends. His poor physical
coordination was a handicap, and his lack of social
awareness was embarrassing.
Somehow Charlie clapped too loudly or in the
wrong places during plays in the auditorium.
He laughed at things that didn't seem funny to the
other children. He interrupted during class or forgot
where he was to stand when he lined up at gym. He
tripped on his way to the stage when it was time for his
class to sing at the March concert. Fourth graders
are self-conscious anyway, and being around Charlie
made them more so. But Mrs. Yager tried to help
Charlie learn the social amenities, and so did his
mom.
I also tried to help Charlie understand the meaning of
gestures, facial expressions, and various tones
of voice, and
how to get along with people. Once in a while I made
up open-ended stories for Charlie to complete or
did a little role playing.
"All right, Charlie," I said, "let's say
you're giving a birthdayparty. My name's
George. I just moved here, but you invited me
anyway "cause I'm in your class and you're a
nice guy. Now say this is your living room, this
is the front door, you're inside with a couple of
other kids. Here I come." I crashed through the door
past Charlie and the other kids, looked around, and
yelled, "Where's the cake? I thought you said it was your
birthday?"
"Nobody's that dumb," Charlie said in disgust.
"Dumb? Wha.a you mean?" I said, still being
George. "Come on, Mary. Nobody just yells
for cake." "Oh. What should George have done?"
"Just have waited. The cake comes at the end." I
smiled at him. "You're right," I replied, thinking
but not saying anything about his mother's complaint about
Charlie asking the salesman for a drink when they went
shopping. "When you're at somebody else's place,
you wait for them to offer the cake or whatever.
"Also, I think George could have said hello, at
least to you, before he did anything else."
And all the while I was working with Charlie and talking
to the school and his mother, I waited silently but
impatiently for a sign that there were changes at
home. Was Mr. Hammond studying his lists or was
he actually doing something?
The first hint came not from Mr. Hammond or
Charlie's mother or teacher, but from Charlie himself.
All of a sudden, Charlie was doing things. He told
me that he had gotten out all his old Lego sets
and was making all sorts of things. He had to take
money out of his savings account to buy more complicated
designs. From Legos he moved to mobiles; he
had half a dozen swaying from his ceiling.
As winter gave way to spring, Charlie's building
erupted into the outdoors. Charlie and his friend, Sam,
were building a clubhouse on weekends -- a
two-story clubhouse in

Charlie's backyard. Charlie drew me a floor
plan, and I was amazed at his understanding of space.
I was even more amazed when he brought me a
photograph, for now Charlie was involved in
photography. He said he had gotten a small
camera, and now he was walking the neighbor's dog
to earn enough money to keep him in film. Charlie
certainly seemed to be expanding his world, but whether this was
because of Mr. Hammond or not was hard to tell. I
could have asked, but some reticence held me back.
Whatever was happening in Charlie's world was good and did
not include me. I wanted to be careful not
to interrupt the chemistry of whatever it was that was
evolving.but still, all that wood for the clubhouse and
that camera had to come from somewhere.
April slipped into May, and now all Charlie could
talk about was the upcoming class trip. The two
small fourth grades were going to the Museum of
Natural History. The big excitement was not the
museum, however, but the fact that they were going
by regular public transportation instead of by chartered
bus. Many of these girls and boys had never been on
a bus or subway. Their mothers spent hours each
day carpooling their children to school, piano lessons,
guitar lessons, karate class, dancing class,
hockey games, and swim meets. After much
discussion, parents agreed that travel by bus and
subway would be a "learning experience" and signed
letters of permission.
The day before the trip Charlie had it all
memorized. "See, we'll walk to the bus stop,
everybody's going to have a buddy and we'll walk in
pairs, and each class will take a different bus
across the bridge. Then we're going to take the
express -- that's what the subway's called --
to One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street, and then
change to the local and take that to Eightieth
Street, and then walk to the museum. It's only a
couple of blocks."
I couldn't help smiling. Charlie was so excited.
"You certainlysound like you're ready."
"Yeah," Charlie said, "we've been studying it at
school. I just hope I don't get carsick or
get a girl for a buddy."
"How'd it go, Charlie? Did you have fun?"
"You wouldn't believe. Wait'll I tell you what
happened." Charlie's eyes were shining through his
glasses, and a cowlick of hair stood straight up
at the crest of his head.
"First of all, I drew Rick Tower for a buddy and
he's practically the most popular kid in our
class, and he even said it was interesting when I was
telling him about Mr. Ammann, you know, the guy who
designed the bridge. Dad and I had just finished
reading an article about him.
"And the subway was cool. There was this man who'd
made the bottom of his shoes out of newspaper, and
one girl had her hair cut like an Indian and
colored pink."
"Sounds different, anyway." I said, loving it,
especially reading about Mr. Ammann with his dad.
"Yeah. Well, and then we got to the
museum. I'd already been there with Mom and Dad.
But the dinosaurs are really neat, especially that
Riceratrops."
"Triceratops?"
"Yeah, that's the one -- and the other one with the little front
legs and great big head. Tyrasoranus Rex --
something like that. You know."
I nodded.
"The Indian room was pretty neat, too. Then
we had lunch in a special lunchroom and afterward
got to buy stuff in the gift shop. I got some
postcards of Africa and some stamps for Dad's
collection and a little pink stone for Mom."
"That was thoughtful of you, Charlie. Buying presents."
"Yeah. Well, wait till you hear the bad part.
I guess Rick got tired of walking with me, and
on the way back to the subway he just moved up and
started walking along with these two other kids who are
really his friends.
"I felt really bad, so I just sort of took
Mom's present out to look at while I was
walking. I knew she'd really like it and
that made me feel better, but then this big kid
knocked into me and I dropped the stone and I couldn't
find it."
"Oh, Charlie. What happened?"
"Well, I kept on looking for it, and then all
of a sudden I realized that I was all alone.
Well, not alone exactly. There were lots of people --
but my class was gone.
"I started running. It was only supposed to be a
couple of blocks to the subway, and I thought I could
catch up, but I guess I must've made a wrong
turn or something and boy, did I ever begin
to sweat."
"I don't blame you, Charlie," I said. "All
alone in New York City in the afternoon, night coming
up."
Charlie nodded. "But you know. I just decided I had
to get a plan. And once I decided that, it kinda
calmed me down. My first plan was to get
directions to the local at Eightieth, but I ran
into this creepy guy when I went into a store to ask for
help, so I just decided, man, I better get out
of there. I found a phone booth and the operator
called Mom, but nobodywas home. That was because
Mrs. Yager had called her, and she and Dad
and
the police were out looking for me. I didn't know that
then.
"Anyway, I didn't know Dad's work number,
but I rememberedthe name -- Cartan Chemicals --
and the operatorgot it. And I asked for Dad and his
secretary told me how Dad was already out looking for
me and to stay where I was. I had to go out and look
at the street signs -- Amsterdam Avenue and
Seventy-fifth Street -- so I could tell her
where I was. Boy, was I glad I knew how
to figure out Amsterdam. Anyway, she said Dad
was calling in every twenty minutes for news and for me to just
stay there and he'd come get me. And he did. He
and Mom drove right up to the phone booth in our station
wagon. Mom was all upset and crying, but you know
what Dad said? He said I'd handled myself well."
Charlie sat up a little straighter behind the desk.
"I got this feeling that he was really kind of proud of
me."
"I bet he was, Charlie. Getting lost can
happen to anyone. What you do about it is what's
important," I said. I had a
very clear feeling that Mr. Hammond didn't need
lists anymore.
Jim Hammond figured more and more prominently in
Charlie's conversations. Their latest project was
videotaping. They'd gone together to buy a
VCR and a video camera, and they were out taping something
every weekend -- animals at the zoo, kids
skateboarding. It turned out that Rick Tower was
really into video, too, and now Charlie and Rick were
figuring out how to make a space movie using his
Lego people.
Most important of all, Charlie told me that his
dad had talked to him about Jason.
"See," Charlie said, "I always thought the reason
Dad acted so mad at me was because he wished I'd
died instead of Jason. He was only four, but they
have all these pictures of him and only a couple of
me and he looks so good, and I'm such a ...
well, I used to be such a mess .. .
anybody'd rather have Jason than me. But Dad said
no, it wasn't like that. He wished he could have us both
and he'd probably seemed mad, but anyway, he
said I'm more important to him and Mom than ever now
that they don't have Jason. It's like they still miss him
some, but they love me, too."
The fourth-grade science fair was coming up. It was a
big deal at Chapel. The fifth grade had a
social studies exhibit;
the sixth grade had an academic Olympic
decathlon; but the
fourth grades capped their school year with an
all-day science fair.
The fourth grades, sixty boys and girls in
all, took over the whole gymnasium. The two
janitors and groundsmen carried in sixty desks and
arranged them in a U in the middle of the gym, and then
covered them with red cloths that grew a little more faded with
each year. I had attended a half dozen or more
science fairs, and the setup was always the same.
But it was all new to Charlie. Each fourth grader
created a project for the fair. It had to be
related to something that had been studied during the year.
Originality was stressed,

and Mrs. Yager stretched the limits of science
to accommodateenthusiasm as much as she could.
Charlie knew from the beginning what his project was
going to be. No event during the year meant more to him
or had a bigger impact on his life than the trip
to the museum, so Charlie was going to make a model
of a dinosaur. Mrs. Yager approved the
project, and Charlie agonized over which species
to select, finally settling on the huge
Tyrannosaurus Rex.
Charlie worked fervently on his dinosaur,
racing through his homework to get to the basement, where he was
fashioning"...Rex" out of coat hangers and wire and
green plastic garbage bags, with touches of leather
from an old purse of his mom's to add reality.
"How's he coming, Charlie?" I asked a week before
the science fair.
"Good. Real good." Charlie's eyes shone, his
cowlick zinged up from his head. "It's almost done.
He's almost three feet high and Mom and Dad
both helped me last night and we even got his head
fixed on so that it will sort of wobble back and forth.
And now we're going into the musuem and I'm going
to take pictures of lots of different kinds of
dinosaurs, and then I'm going to make this tape about
them that plays over and over for people to listen to if they
want to. I really wanted to do a videotape, but
Mrs. Yager said that was too complicated. I
guess she's right. We got a big enough problem just
getting big ole Rex set up."
I arrived at the science fair at about ten thirty.
Nothing had changed since I'd been to the science
fair two years ago. Rosebushes still surrounded
the parking lot, matching the pinky red of the low brick
buildings. Boys in navy blue blazerseagirls
in colored cotton dresses, mothers
looking much the same as the girls, fathers in business
suits, and teachers in skirts, blouses, and
low-heeled shoes filled the slate walkways and the
gym itself.
The desks had been covered with the rose-red cloth and
set in the usual U, with approximately sixty
fourth graders sitting or standing behind their exhibits
as teachers led the other classes past and parents
talked in little knots around the room after going through the
line.
I leaned against one wall, soaking it all in,
liking the school. Despite or maybe even because
of the formality and rules and dress code, creativity
flourished amidst respect for learning.
I couldn't actually see Charlie, but it was easy
to tell where he was. At the far end of the
exhibits, Rex waggled his huge green plastic
head above a constant crowd of gawking childrenand parents.
Obviously, Charlie's exhibit was the hit of the
show.
I knew I should get in line, go shake Charlie's
hand, and then get back to work, but I put it off,
taking pleasure in looking at all those people admiring
Charlie and something he'd done.
A hand touched my arm, and I turned to see
June Hammond beaming at me. "Aren't you nice
to come," she said. "Isn't it wonderful? Have you
talked to Charlie yet?"
"No, but I will. I wouldn't have missed this for
anything."
Jim Hammond had been talking to a group of
parents;
now he turned toward me and I stretched out my hand.
"Congratulations."
"Thank you," Mr. Hammond said, smiling. "You
know, Charlie did most of it himself. He drew a
plan first, and then made a small-scale model.
I mainly helped getting the big one assembled."
His strong hand closed around mine, and I knew we were
both thinking the same thing.
June Hammond turned as more parents stopped
to say how proud she must be. Jim Hammond
released my hand, but his black eyes were still intent on
mine. "I've wanted to tell you ... thank you, I
mean," he continued, "and to apologize.you were right
about Charlie. I don't know how I could have missed
it all these years. He's incredible when it comes
to building things. You know, I'm beginning to think he
could actually be an architect or an engineer
someday."
I nodded agreement.
Jim Hammond reached out and pulled June toward
us. "And it's not just Charlie. June made another
big sale, and now they're hinting at a partnership.
She's the best salespersonthey have."
"And you?" I asked. "How are you doing?"
"Fine. Just fine," he said. "I'm still not adept
at understandingpeople, but June's good enough at that for
both of us and I get a lot of satisfaction from my
work." He smiled at me. "Like you. But the main thing
is, you were right about my getting to know Charlie -- and
June. I'm glad I didn't miss either of
them."
"Me, too," I said, and went off in search of
Charlie.
As I worked my way around the exhibits, I thought
about how one thing leads unexpectedly to another.
June Hammond was blooming like the proverbial
rose now that Jim had joined the support team for
Charlie.
Finally I got to Charlie and reached across the
faded-red-covered desk to shake his hand. "That's one
terrific dinosaurea"...I said.
Charlie thanked me, but it was obvious he really
didn't have time to talk.
"Good-bye, Charlie. See you later," and I
grinned at him as I left. "There sure seem
to be a lot of somebodies who want to know you now."
A
Safe Place
I had thought when we first bought our house that I needed
a separate entrance and waiting room for my office.
But any structural change would require a
reevaluation of the entire house with an accompanying
increase in taxes, and Cal advised waiting.
Maybe he suspected something more as well. In any
case, it turned out to be good advice. I wouldn't
even consider a separate waiting room now.
Our side door opens directly into the kitchen, and
from there it's only a few steps to the stairs that lead
to my office. The kitchen is ours during the morning
and evening hours, but in the afternoon it belongs to the kids.
From after school on, there's an ever-changing flow of
children through the kitchen. They open the door for each other;
they drape their coats across the chairs; they pile
their bookbags, their boots, and sometimes their shoes
on the floor or cellar landing; they make the
popcorn if I haven't had time; they debate the
virtues of various television shows or turn the
television off entirely if somebody has
a paper that's due or a test coming up. Some children
walk straight from school and wait in the kitchen for
an hour or more before their appointment. The big ones
help the little ones with their homework, and they share their
prizes while they wait for their parents or taxis
to come and
pick them up. I have never heard an argument or
seen a mean act in the kitchen. The kids have made
it a very safe place for themselves.
Nan, my youngest daughter, works with me now. She's
a learning specialist herself and a superior grower of
children. She has the little upstairs room right next
to mine. So now the kitchen is twice as full, and
deliverymen and unexpected visitors do double
takes when they view our crop of children.
They let each other in, but Nan or I let each
child out, and the children that are waiting call to us as we pass
through the kitchen.
"My turn now?" David asks.
"Almost," I say.
"What day is it, anyway?" Bob inquires.
"I gotta put it on my homework here."
"Friday," David answers. "Are we going
to write today like usual, Mary?"
Upstairs, David settles himself behind the
big old desk, and I sit beside him in a smaller
chair.
"Anything good or bad happen since I last saw
you, David?" I begin our ritual.
"Two goods. One bad."
"Which first?" I ask.
"The bad. John whacked me on the head in school
today."
I wrote it down in David's book.
"But I didn't whack him back. That's one good,
and the other is that it's the weekend and tomorrow I got
karate."
"Pay yourself one hundred and seventy-five for your
goods and bad, and add an extra bonus of fifty.
It took control not to hit back, and that's not
easy."
David bent his handsome seven-year-old head over the
chip box and deftly extracted the chips. He was
in second grade and had been coming to us twice a
week for a year and a half, so he knew the ropes.
He had arrived as an angry, acting-out, nonreading
first grader. He lied; he hit; he cried as
well.
But now I was about to cut his two sessions a week
to one.
He was a natural athlete, his math had always been
good, and now he was on grade level in reading and
getting good grades on the weekly spelling tests,
if he studied hard. But he still had a lot of trouble
with spontaneous writing, so every Friday we worked on
this.
David passed me a pad of paper and my
favorite pen and did the same for himself.
"I already know what I'm writing about," he said.
"Well, you're ahead of me, then."
"Yup."
David already had the first word down, but I wasn't in
any hurry to start. I liked looking at him --
I liked the vibes in the room. David exuded
confidence and grace, and I thought about child expert
Urie Bronfenbrenner's statement that every child should
spend part of each day with someone who loves him and
whom he loves in return. David was lucky.
He had both a father and a mother who loved him a lot.
Theirs was a busy, hectic family that included
two other boys besides David, one older, one
younger. Both parents worked and
loved their jobs, but they also loved their kids and
took time to show them that they did.
I could hear Bob reading softly to Nan in
the next room. A light glowed under their door, and
I thought how lucky
we were to be able to work in such a good place.
Happiness was almost visible.
"Aren't you even starting yet?" David asked,
emphasizing the last word.
"I've almost got it," I said, referring more to what
I was thinking than to what I was about to write.
David had the loving and also help from us while he was
still young, and we all tried to give him a safe
place where he could practice and not get down on
himself if he made a mistake. Love,
specialized help, and a safe place. That seemed
to do it.
David put his pencil down. "I'm waiting for you
now," he said.
"Okay. I'm ready. What are you writing about?"
"Karate. That's what I'm working on. I'm going
to take
my brown-belt test tomorrow. And that's what I'm
writing about."
Karate -- that's what David was working on. Children and
my book -- that's what I was working on.
I picked up my pen and wrote. "I'm having a
lot of trouble finishing this book I'm trying
to write."
David was busy writing again, too. He paused
for a minute. "We'll trade and read them when
we're done, okay? What's yours about?"
I read my first sentence to him out loud.
David nodded. "That sounds pretty good. 'Member
to print so I can read it.
"Okay," David announced a few minutes
later. "Let's switch. I'm done and yours is
long enough. You go first. Read mine out loud, okay?"
"I like karate," I read. "You have to know
weapontry, martial arts, fighting, and karate
streak. I hope I get my brown belt tomorrow.
Mary, I will show you how to do karate when we're done
writing. This is a picture of me fighting."
David had to help me decipher some of the words, but
his paragraph was over forty words long. It hung
together and made sense, and the illustration was clear and
full of action.
"Good," I said. "Pay four hundred and twenty."
David counted out the chips quickly and then bounced out from
behind the desk to demonstrate karate blows, leaps,
and vicious kicks.
"There," he said with satisfaction. "Now I'll
read yours." He read my two
paragraphs out loud and then turned to me. "Is your
book about us? I mean about kids like me?"
I nodded.
"Well, I know what you ought to call it, then."
I studied David carefully. "You do?"
His turn to nod. "See, you just draw a big bubble
like this." David demonstrated on the pad of paper.
"And inside the bubble you write HELP! -- like in
capital letters with a
'splanation thing. Now you draw a line down to this kid
at the bottom of the page so you can tell he's saying
it. This will be like on the cover."
I watched in fascination as David returned to the
bubble and drew curving lines around it.
"See," he said. "You gotta be sure to make the
bubble all wiggly. That way everybody will know the
kid is thinking it, not saying it out loud. I mean like
he's screaming. That's why you gotta write it
big, but he isn't making any noise."
"Is that what he's saying ... screaming, I mean?
Help?"
David nodded.
"Why doesn't he just say it out loud?"
"He doesn't know ... I mean he knows something's
wrong, and he wants somebody to help him,
but he's scared that maybe whatever's wrong can't be
fixed. So he figures he better not say it out
loud -- in case."
I nodded, not able to find equally good words for an
answer.but I knew then that I would -- had to
-- finish this book. Somebody had to say David's
words out loud.
I lingered in my office after Nan and the last of the children
had gone, reliving the day, relishing the time with
David, trying to recapture the thoughts I'd had
while I sat beside him. He was doing so well.
Why? I needed to understand in order to help other children.
Love, help from someone specifically trained
to remediate learning disabilities, ending every session
with success, and a safe place. "A safe
place," I repeated softly. I liked the sound
of the words. I remembered thinking that this was why the children
rushed to our kitchen, lingered there, even bringing
brothers, sisters, or friends to wait for them till their
lessons were done. The children had made themselves a safe
place in our kitchen, and they knew it.
I pulled a pad of paper toward me, feeling the
urge to try to write it down. Could I take the
unwritten rules of the kitchen, understand them, expand and
translate them into
the principles, the ingredients, of the kind of safe
place that these children needed in their homes and schools?
I worked every night for a week, staying in the office after
the children left, going back up after dinner, filling
page after page with stories of the children -- their
successes and failureseatrying to crystallize their
needs -- then cutting, paring down the words, until
less than a page was left.
A
Safe Place
1. In a safe place people are kind. Sarcasm,
fighting, backbiting, and namecalling are exceptions
rather than the rule. Kindness and consideration and forgiveness
are the usual way of life.
2. In a safe place there is laughter. Not just the
canned laughter of radio and television, but real
laughter that comes from sharing meaningful work and play.
3. In a safe place there are rules. The
rules are few and fair and are made by the people who
live and work there, including the children.
4. In a safe place people listen to each other. They
care about each other and show that they do, with words and also with
body language.
5. In a safe place the adults are the models
for the others.
I printed the words on a new piece of paper and
then read them out loud. Each sentence set off a
remembered montage of children, and I walked over to the
shelf that held the children's bins and read the rules of a
safe place out loud once more to the absent children.
Did I have it right? were these the ingredients of a safe
place?
I put the paper on my desk, walked to the back
window, and looked out over the dark woods and up to the
stars above them.
Which of us doesn't need a safe place somewhere in
our
lives? Which of us hasn't gone searching for it if we
haven't found it in our homes or schools?
I believe that we must explore and dare and discover.
But we also need to know that there is a safe place where
we can find the comfort, courage, and confidence to conquer
our feelings of inadequacy, pain, sadness, and
failure so that we can go out and risk again.
Children with learning disabilities experience humiliation
and hurt earlier and more often than most. Their need for a
safe place is great.
I left the stars, and picked up the piece of paper
and tacked it to the wall behind my desk. I would keep
it there as a kind of creed to live by. A
creed given to me by the children.
Appendix
EVALUATION SUMMARY SHEET
TESTS
INTELLIGENCE WISC-R: Wechsler
IntelligenceScale for Children Revised
Verbal Section:
Information
Similarities Arithmetic Vocabulary
Comprehension Digit Span
DESCRIPTION
measures acquired knowledge
measures logical and abstractthinking abilities
measures numerical reasoningand concentration measures
word knowledge and language development measures
practical knowledgeand common sense measures
short-term auditorymemory and concentration
Performance Section Picture Completion
measures visual alertness to details
ACADEMICS ACHIEVEMENT
LEARNING MODALITIES
Picture Arrangement Block Design
Object Assembly
Coding Mazes
WRAT: Wide Range Achievement
Test
SPACHE: Spache Oral DiagnosticReading
Test
GATES MACGINITIE:
Gates MacGinitie Silent Reading Test
GRAY ORAL READING KEY MATH
WRITTEN EXPRESSION
DETROIT: Detroit Test of Learning
Aptitude
WEPMAN: Wepman AuditoryDiscrimination
Test
measures social judgment, perceptual
organization, and sequencing measures perceptual
organizationand knowledge of spatial relationships measures
perceptual organizationeaspatial relationshipseaand
ability to assemble puzzles measures clerical
speed and accuracy, visual motor ability, and
short-term visual organization measures ability
in followinga visual pattern; foresight
brief test of reading (word recognition), spelling,
and written arithmetic word recognition; oral
reading of sentences and paragraphs; phonetic
analysis
speed, accuracy, vocabularyand comprehension in
silent reading
oral reading and fluency math skills in numeration,
fractions, geometry, symbolseamental computation,
reasoning, addition, subtractioneamultiplication,
division, money measurement, time, word problems
dictation from grade level and spontaneous
paragraph
various subtests of visual processing,
auditory processingeaeye-hand motor speed, and
memory measures ability to differentiatebetween
sameness and difference of forty differentword pairs
SENSE OF SELF
SOCIAL HISTORY
HARRIS: Harris Test of Lateral Dominance
BENDER: Bender Gestalt Test
H-T-P: House-Tree-Person
FREEMAN: Freeman SentenceCompletion
determines whether right-
or left-eyed, comhanded and
comfooted
measures perceptual motor
ability and development
drawings of a house, tree, person, and family
completions of partial sentencessuch as "Books
are... his
background information form and parents"
perceptionof child
ADDITIONAL AND ALTERNATIVE TESTS AND
PROCEDURES
(used when a child is under age
six
or when additional information about specific areas is
needed)
bar Zeitlin Early Identification (Zeis)
TESTS
WPPSLW-ESCHLER Preschool and Primary
Scale of Intelligence McCarthy Scales of
Children's Abilities
Goodenough Harris Draw-A-Man
Gates MacGinitie Readiness Skills Test
Slingerland Pre-Reading Screening Procedures
DESCRIPTION
measures intelligence of children ages four to six and a
half measures overall development of children ages
two to eight and a half
measures intellectual maturity and ability to form
concepts of abstractcharacter of children age three and up
measures listening comprehensioneaauditory and visual
discriminationeavisual-motor coordination of children in
kindergarten and beginning first grade short,
multidimensional screening instrument for children
ages four and five to detect strengths and weaknesses
in learning abilities to screen for difficulties in
auditoryeavisual, and/or kinesthetic
modalities and first-grade academicneeds
Slingerland Screening Tests for t Identifying Children
with Specific fi Language Disability
Peabody Picture Vocabulary Test n
(Ppvt)
Progressive Matrices (raven) n a
P Purdue Perceptual Motor Survey n
so. Revised Visual Retention Test n
(benton) p
a Peabody Individual Achievement n Test
f less-than
o screen for specific language
dif-iculties in grades one through six
neasures receptive vocabulary
neasures ability to reason by
nalogy and to organize spatial
"erceptions
rieasures perceptual and motor
kills
leasures visual memory, visual
erception, and visuoconstructive
bilities
leasures academic achievement
ar grades kindergarten through
igh school