Somebody Else's Kids (36 page)

Tomaso, too, I hoped could go back to a normal class. He would be a fifth grader next year, and I thought he was ready for the daily ups and downs of ordinary kids. Even with his temper, Tom was a warm, sensitive, outgoing boy. His anger still lay with him in some areas but he could usually handle it more appropriately. What Tomaso needed most now was eleven-year-old male friends and that was something I could not give him. In discussing the placement with Birk, we decided to send him back to his home school where he would not need busing and could make friends within walking distance of home and school. The resource teacher at that school was competent, and we felt certain that with his help, Tomaso could successfully reenter the normal world.

I was much less certain of Boo. He could not go into a less restrictive environment than the afternoon class had provided. The outburst during the previous week underscored that. However, we could no longer continue to patch programs together for him as had been done this year. He needed a full-time class geared toward autistic-type children, one with a small teacher-pupil ratio and a strong program in language and survival skills. I knew he needed a summer program too. For boys like Boo there could be no vacations.

There was, unfortunately, no proper placement in the district for Boo. Before the wholesale clean-out at the passage of the mainstreaming law, we had had going a fairly adequate program for autistic children. However, the funding was cut and then mainstreaming came along and the program died. Two of the children in it went into regular settings with extensive help, two had been sent away to private schools, one was in Betsy Kerry’s class and one had moved out of the district.

Boo’s parents were as concerned about his placement as I was. Then mid-month Mrs. Franklin called to tell me that they had located a small private program in a nearby community. When I investigated, I found a good-looking place. We had a large population in the area of one of the lesser-known religious sects. With the changing policies toward special education programs in the public schools, they had decided to open a class in one of their parochial schools for that group of children who were falling between the cracks. After a year of running a class for older disturbed children, they had decided to open a primary program expanded to include autistic-type children. The two teachers were young and eager. The room was bright and big and filled with ample, albeit worn, equipment. Aide positions were filled by the parents.

The Franklins, Birk and I discussed the program. I wanted them to be aware that Boo would receive religious training in a faith not his own and that because the family was not of that faith they were ineligible for tuition scholarships. The Franklins would have to pay the entire costs themselves. Yes, they knew. By cutting corners they felt they could afford the modest tuition. As far as the religious training went, they felt that if Boo learned anybody’s religion that was a positive step.

Lori’s placement had not yet come up. Because she remained on Edna’s roster, I was not responsible for her placement. The matter seemed cut and dried to me so I did not worry much about it. I assumed the next year for Lori would be second grade and a good share of her day still with me. Both second-grade teachers were good, and one, an older woman who had been teaching for years, was superb. I was looking forward to planning out Lori’s program with her.

After school, I was down in the lounge with Billie and Hal Langorhan, a sixth-grade teacher, when Dan came in. He pulled his mug off the shelf, filled it with coffee. Coming over, he pushed my logbook aside and sat down next to me on the couch. We made small talk for a while.

“Say Dan,” I said during a pause in the conversation, “when are we going to meet on Lori Sjokheim’s placement for next year? I’ve been thinking about it. I think Ella Martinson would be ideal, don’t you? And the way my schedule looks right now, I could give Lori about three hours of intensive resource help. Ella could handle her the rest of the time, couldn’t she?”

Dan stared into his coffee mug intently, like a fortune-teller reading tea leaves. He did not respond.

“You don’t think Ella is a good idea? Margery doesn’t seem to have things quite as much together as Ella does, do you think? Her kids always seem in a dither. And I thought Lori might profit from someone as down-to-earth as Ella.”

Dan’s face was reddening.

“But if you don’t want Ella … well, I certainly wouldn’t mind working with Margery. She really is creative. I guess that might be good for Lori too. Real good, I’m sure …”

Dan looked up “We’re retaining Lori Sjokheim.”

“What?”

Dan jerked his head. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

We walked down the hall to my room. I was beyond words. Once inside, Dan shut my door firmly.

“Now what do you mean, you’re retaining Lori? There hasn’t ever been a meeting on her. Has there?”

Dan had sunk into a small kiddie chair. “I’ve been meaning to tell you …”

“But –”

“We have had a meeting. Edna, Lori’s father and I. And we’ve decided to retain her. There isn’t much else we could do with her. She hasn’t completed any first-grade skills yet. There’s no way we could justify sending her on to second grade.”

I was speechless.

Dan put a hand up. “Now before you go and get all upset, think about it. What else could we do?”

“Of all the sneaky tricks! You did this behind my back. You knew I wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Her father has already agreed, Torey. He thinks it’s the right idea too.”

“Dan, we cannot do this,” I said. “We just can’t.”

He would not even look at me.

“She’s seven years old, going to be eight in September. She’s a great big girl already; she’s grown like a weed this year. She’ll be half a head over the first graders.”

“But she has no reading skills, Tor. We can’t lay a burden like that on Ella or Margery.”

“And we can lay it on Lori? We’ve half killed this girl already with our stupid ideas. She’s already failed one grade; how is it going to be failing another? The child has a physical disability. You could keep her in first grade until she is a gray-haired grandmother and she may never learn to read.”

Dan’s head was down. “Torey, don’t make this so difficult on me.”

“I’m not trying to make it difficult. I’m just trying to understand. You’ve got to know deep down in your heart, Dan, how wrong this is. Otherwise you wouldn’t have sneaked around like a bunch of kids behind the barn. You’re punishing the girl simply because she’s different and we can’t teach her. All the other excuses are crap.”

“But she is different.”

“Yes, you’re right about that. But we’re stuck with her, aren’t we? So isn’t it about time we start accommodating her handicap? Look at Ruthann Bye in the fifth grade. She can hardly see. Everything Carolyn gives her has to be magnified on that machine before Ruthann can see it. What’s so different about Lori?”

“But Lori can’t learn. Ruthann does.”

“Lori can learn. The truth is that we haven’t taught her. Why can’t we start taping her reading material? We could quiz her orally. Lori isn’t dumb. She simply has a disability. All the time in the world in first grade isn’t going to change that, unless her teacher moonlights as a brain surgeon.”

My words were so much hot air. The decision had been made. Lori’s big mistake was being left with a handicap that did not deform her. We had not yet learned mercy for things we could not pity.

Dan clasped his hands together and gave a weary shake of his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this upsets you but I will not argue it further. Edna, Mr. Sjokheim and I all talked it over and decided together that repeating first grade would be best for Lori. It was a consensus. Edna’s and his. And mine.”

I stared at him. I wanted to hate him. To hate him the way I had Edna in April. I felt nothing. I was just too tired of fighting.

“Edna sure got the last laugh on this one, didn’t she? All the time you made me think I was doing the right thing not putting Lori through the first-grade curriculum. And all the time you knew Edna had the trump card. Just humoring me.”

“Now come on, Tor. You know better than that.”

“I hope the laugh was worth the price.”

There came between us a great, solid silence. I think Dan thought I would protest further. He sat hunched up in his chair, steeled for the worst. I said no more. The fight had gone out of me. It had just been too hard and too long, and there was something in his eyes that told me I could not win this time. The decision had been made. So I said nothing. Not all of me was satisfied with my silence but that would be a matter I would have to come to terms with in myself.

Turning away I looked past the flower garden on the bulletin board, past the finches, past the art cabinet Lori had hidden under, to the window. My mind was vacant. Then I turned back.

“Does she know?”

Dan shrugged. “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“I certainly hope you don’t expect me to tell her. I won’t. The dirt belongs to you.”

I went home in a state of weary depression. After all the trouble earlier, I just could not rouse myself to fight one more time. It seemed too futile. I was not a born fighter and one needed to be for this job.

For the first time since he had left, I sorely missed Joe. The need to lean on someone, to be physically close was so great I was in tears. I was sick to death of being “strong.” I had not cried about Joe’s absence since the night he left. Now I folded my arms on the kitchen table, lay my head down and wept.

Later, I heated up a glass of milk and laced it with molasses, an old trick I had learned years before for insomnia. Then I sat staring at it, waiting for it to cool. My head hurt. I sat in the dimly lit kitchen and thought of other times. My childhood, growing up in the mountains of Montana. My college years. All the times of my life when I had not been teaching. The innocent times. I was tired of teaching.

The hardest time was the next day when I saw Lori. She did not know. As I watched her gaily going about her tasks, I tried to think of some way to salve the future for her.

By afternoon I had a plan.

“Lori, come here,” I said. The other children were at work on their tasks. Lori had been with Tomaso but rose and came across to the worktable. She pulled a chair out and sat down. “We’re going to do something different today, you and me.”

“What’s that?” She was wiggly. I could not tell if it was anticipation or normal Lori-squirminess.

I lay a book on the table. “We’re going to read.”

Her eyes grew wide and dark. Immediately tears formed and ran down her cheeks. “I don’t want to.”

“Lor, Lor, Lor, now don’t,” I said and reached across the table to catch her face in my hands.

“I can’t do it.”

“Hey, now stop crying. I won’t make you do anything you can’t do.”

She snuffled noisily.

“There are two of us here. Lor, you and me. I’ll set the limits. And because I set them. I’ll never make you do what you can’t do. When we come to things you can’t do, we’ll do them together. There won’t ever be a time in here that I let you in for something that you and I can’t handle together.”

My hands remained on either side of her face. The tears still ran. I could feel her trembling beneath my fingers. “Don’t cry. Lor.”

“But I’m scared. I’ll goof up. I know I will.”

“No you won’t. I’ve already told you I won’t let you. Just like when you learn to ride a bike and someone holds on until you can pedal by yourself. I’ll be holding on too, and just like I said, if we can’t do it together, we won’t do it.”

“But, Torey, I
can’t
read.”

I smiled. “Well, I can.”

The book was Dick and Jane. Good old dull Dick and Jane from 1956. Just the kind of book I needed. Few words and a story carried along in pictures. For all the faults of these old books, I liked them. In their extreme simplicity, they worked for me and my school-weary kids.

I put the book on the table. Just a little book, paperback, as all pre-primers seem to be. Lori looked at it askance.

I explained to her about the kids in the stories, Dick, Jane and Baby Sally. Lori was not ready to trust me. Her eyes were huge and dilated, still bright with unfallen tears. She would chance brief peeks at the cover of the book but she would not touch it.

“You haven’t ever read this book. It’s called
We Look and See.
” I picked it up and opened the cover. “Come over here on my side and well read it together.”

Lori rose and came to me. I pushed the chair back and took her on my lap. Holding the book in front of us, I showed her the title page of the first story. On it was Sally taking off her white baby oxfords and pulling on her father’s big black galoshes. Underneath the picture was printed the word “look.” I pointed to it. “That says ‘Look.’”

“Look,” Lori whispered tentatively.

I turned the page. Sally and Dick outside. Dick has the hose on. Sally is stomping through the puddles in her father’s galoshes. “Look, look,” the text reads. Obviously it is what Sally is saying to her brother. “See, here is the very same word as on the other page. Do you remember what it was?”

“Look,” Lori said.

“That’s right. See, it says it two times. ‘Look, look.’ Sally wants her brother to see her walking in her daddy’s overshoes.”