Less is more. Or not. 'Pruning' is a story that I wrote to suggest that underestimating children with disabilities might be ill advised. Along the way, David Littlease argues that minimalism is the path best taken.
PRUNING
“Send
him in.” A gruff voice. The administrator.
A
gaunt face and lean figure enters. Tall.
The
administrator again thinks of Ichabod Crane. And I’m the headless
horseman. Heedless. No, mindless terror this ain’t. Nope. A simple
exercise in discipline. Disability notwithstanding. Hasn’t got a
leg to...discipline. Put the fear of...no, a pruning. Proper analogy,
that. Trimming his sails. It fits. Even if the metaphor is a tad
clumsy.
Gaunt,
lean, he stands watching, seeing. His clothes are common. Long sleeve
plaid shirt with sleeves rolled, khaki pants, shoes. Basketball
shoes. His clothes are common, frayed and faded; but they...fit.
Hello
Ichabod. “Young man,” says the administrator, a firmness. Cow
eyes there. They seem to absorb, don’t they now. They ... get on
with it. Get this done. “Mr. Littlease,” fixing an eye on the
boy.
The
boy, or so he appears, takes three paces forward to stand before the
expanse of desk. The administrator peruses pages bound by a cheap,
green folder. His face lifts from the pages, his face set into a
stern mask.
The
boy, David Littlease, sees the office. Shelves of books, diplomas,
degrees, certificates ornately framed, a painting of bright
rectangles, the photographs of the wife and children in plain, black
frames, fancy pen set and mug. Mug.
What
did he know of Littlease? No one seems to know where he came from.
Crawled out from under a rock presumably. His background obscure. His
parents unknown. Illiterate. Profoundly retarded. Psych-eval
inconclusive. Mute. Deaf. Ward of the state shuffled about from
institution to institution always a bad sign ... a rolling stone
gathers much mass, bowls one over ... the bad apple spoiling the
bunch. As it falls. The gravity of the situation cannot be...perhaps
a troublemaker. Troubling, certainly. I always get the problems. I
always get the ones the others can’t...feeling a strange admixture
of self-pity and self pride ... can’t ... now this is interesting:
... has never spoken. The subject is apparently
mute. Deafness, as well, is probable. Neither condition has been
proven clinically. Reports of communication have been documented.
David
stands passively before the desk gazing about the office. No judgment
marks this boy’s face. Just the looking. A perceptive individual
would also mark ... the seeing.
No
record of formal education public or private. Has been segregated for
the past five years. Well, sometimes it’s for the best. Segregate.
What does it mean really? To be set apart. Yes, well, he has set
himself apart, now hasn’t he? This mainstreaming business not
necessarily what floats everybody’s boat. Short an oar, he is. A
paddle. Chicken wire canoe. Ha.
“I
must assume,” begins the administrator, “ that you hear and
understand. It does state here ...” a tap of the page with index
and middle finger joined...”that you respond to direction. Or have
responded. Whatever.”
The
administrator marks that ‘whatever.’ It is a fluster word. It is
a word that marks a loss of control. David Littlease has shifted his
gaze with the word. From the nameplate, the desk, he raises his eyes
to chin, to eyes. He sees the man. He stares.
Benjamin
A. Madsen, nameplate across the back of the substantial base of the
pen set, perfectly squared, all marble and gold plate, some gift,
rearranges his face.
A
cough. “Yes, well,” begins the administrator again. “I welcomed
you here just a month ago as I welcomed each and every new member of
our community.”
Even
tones, a firmness returns. The folder is placed down carefully,
centered with the edges of the desk. Eyes down. Eyes up.
“Yes,
community. It must be. Full citizenship here. It must be. We are
joined here in a common endeavor and towards a common goal. We strive
together. We succeed together. And, yes, sometimes we fail together.”
Benjamin
A. Madsen sits back in his leather swivel chair and folds his arms
across his chest. “Yes,” he says. “Sometimes we fail together.”
Said slowly, each word distinct. Lip reader. That’s it. Grow a
bushy mustache and befuddled the dolt completely.
“This
morning, David, you failed me. And I failed you. We all failed each
other.”
Long
arms extending below hips midway to knee. Bones. Knobs at wrists.
Adam’s apple bob with a swallow. He looks to the window.
Has
he grasped my meaning?
A
bird, a barn swallow, perches on the sill; a head tilt, then away.
One
hundred shades of brown. Each feather of a different hue. One hundred
shades of brown. All one. The illusion of plurals. The clasp of
claws, the strength of beak, the articulation of head. Integers.
Brown bird.
What
is that in is face now? Elation? Frenzy? This just might be a tough
nut to ... Let’s get to it. Take responsibility for one’s
actions. Deterring negative contributions.
“Why
did you vandalize that tree, Mr. Littlease? Can you tell me? Will
you? Speak up, young man.”
Vandalize.
The dogwood there.
Is
he with me? Still out the damn window, looking at his handy work, no
doubt. Hello. Here he is. Read my lips.
Looking
again.
Them
eyes, them eyes, them...what does he see? Check the file. Probably
blind, too. Picked up a hammer and saw.
“Why
David?”
Slowly
the boy raises an arm bending at elbow, wrist limp, elegantly drawn
upwards, hand rising, wrist extending the hand, bending backwards, to
loop down around, hand scribing a curve, a loop, bird swoop. A smile.
The
administrator stares. He becomes aware of dead air. Time passing.
Tempus fugit. Silence which desperately needs a voice. Time passing.
Time passing. Time is money, he thinks. Then: What a stupid thing to
think of. My God.
“David,”
he snaps sharply, stern where gentleness was intended. “We will
talk about this again. We have expectations of everyone here.
Everyone will do
his
part. I simply ask that you join
this community, productive, expanding on relationships, learning,
growing ...” The administrator rambles on, unsure of his purpose.
He has spoken these words before; it has become a text. Finally, he
concludes. “... And that this community joins you.”
He
calls for Miss Formes; then swivels away, back turned on the subject,
gazing purposefully out the window, a pose so practiced even he
believes it.
Those
eyes. Damn his eyes.
Until
Miss Formes touches his shoulder, David Littlease stands before the
desk, watching. He turns with her touch, and the two leave the room.
At the sound of the closing door, the administrator’s shoulders
sag.
* * *
“My
God he’s hung himself!”
Running
footsteps, a shriek.
Shrieking,
running footsteps.
“My
God my God he’s hung himself he’s hung himself! Come quick,
Gladys. Gladys!”
When
Gladys, come quickly, turns the corner sharply from the hall to the
room extending a firm hand and locked elbow to push open a door that
is not there, neither is David Littlease.
“But
... but ... but, he was hanging right there,” says the girl. “By
the neck. In a noose thing.” She makes a face and tilts her head
askew, hung.
* * *
“What
is the meaning of this, Miss Post?” asks the administrator and does
not stop for an answer. “The meaning, Miss Post. Some joke, some
game? I will get to the bottom of this matter, speak up, young woman.
I will have my answers. Speak up.”
“He
was hung, sir.”
“Hanged?”
“Hanging
there. In a noose.”
“A
noose?”
“Hanging
... there in his room.”
“By
the windows.”
“Yes
sir. The windows.”
“Enjoying
the scenery, no doubt.”
Stung,
Miss Post drops her eyes in silence. Then: “I ain’t lying, sir.”
Ah,
Miss Post. Dumb as ...
A
knock on the door. The administrator sits back and sighs. “Yes?”
“Not
either,” sharply from Miss Post. Defiant.
Through
the door, the secretary. “Joseph Quail to see you, Dr. Madsen.”
“Not
you, Miss Post. Thank you, Miss Formes. Have him in.”
“Oh.”
The girl’s eyes here, there, and everywhere. Out the window.
The
administrator makes a gesture, a raise of arm, curl of finger. Come
in.
Joseph
Quail, a fat young man. Round face. Double chin. Dark hair cropped, a
butch. Head large, feet splayed. Standing at attention awkwardly.
A
little soldier. Pig-eyed, thinks Madsen. A case of retardation. Tumor
was it? A six year old’s mentality. Dirt-poor parents who didn’t
give a tinker’s ...
Surreptitious
meeting of eyes, Miss Post and Joey.
Closer
to them than me. Lonely at the top. Cliché. Whatever.
The
door clicks shut.
“Now
Mr. Quail. Explain this business.” To the point. Burst his bubble.
Lip
quivering. “He ... he got to hang. Sir. He likes it.” Knees bowed
outward. Round body. Stout.
“He
likes to hang?” Eyebrows arched. Incredulous. One of my favorites.
“Yes
sir. You bet. You bet he does.”
“We
are speaking of David Littlease?”
“What?”
Eyes
close for a moment. “David Littlease likes to hang in his room,
does he?”
“He
did it. He did.”
A
pause. Venetian blinds drawn. Curtains not. A soft, dim light.
Confessional. A nice affect if I do say so myself. Must draw this boy
out. A simple explanation for it all. What odd behavior. These
people. Will have no mysteries under my thumb. Solution at hand.
“Eases
him, like. Sir. That’s what he says. Eases him.”
The
administrator reaches across the desktop and takes in hand the rope.
“Mr.
Littlease ... David hangs himself from his shoulders,” holding the
loops up, “ for relaxation. Yes? From his shoulders?”
“Yes
sir.” Blushing. Embarrassed guilt flushing his face a splotchy red.
Might
try it myself. Elongate the vertebrate.
“And
this?”
A
noose.
Chin
drops, eyes lower, squint shut. “My ... my ... my joke, sir.”
“Joke?”
“Yes
sir.” Softly.
“What’s
that?” Sharply.
“Yes
sir. A joke, sir.” Head up, eyes brightening. “David thought it
was oh so good, oh so good. Thought it was ... thought ... he grinned
to see it. He did. He thought it was oh so clever. He told me so.”
Again,
the arch of eyebrows. Hands still. The administrator stares fixedly
at the fellow.
“‘Told’
you so? David Littlease told you so. Now Mr. Quail ...” Blithering
idiot. Birdbrain. Flush him out. Down the drain. Almost grinning at
the imagery.
“He
did, he did. Honest.”
“Now
Mr. Quail, David Littlease has spoken to no one in all his recorded
days. There is no record of his having made the smallest gesture of
intelligent...that is, the last vestige of...” What am I saying?
God. “Now listen to me, Mr. Quail. David Littlease is mute. Mute.
Do you mean to stand there and tell me ...”
“He
talks to me.” A monotone, eyes cast down, so softly. Intent.
“Talks?”
“Something
like. I hear him. I do.”
A
pause, becoming a silence. The administrator rises to pace the length
of his window, four strides, to the bookcase, fingering a volume,
turns and says, benevolently: “Let me understand you, Joey.”
Whose
eyes brighten.
“David
does not actually speak to you, as I am now, does not actually utter
words, as I am. Isn’t that correct? But rather communicates
telepathically, that is, with his mind, and you hear him in your
head, like thinking, isn’t it, just as though David were thinking
for you. Is that it? Is that how he ‘tells’ you things?”
“I
... I ...” Staring dumbly ahead.
Lost
him, damn it. How I do go on. Telepathically, sure, he’ll grasp
that concept all right. Idiot, Ben.
“Does
he speak words, as I am doing now?”
“I
don’t know.” Face paled again. Eyes dull.
“But
you hear him in your head, don’t you? The words, you hear them in
your head.”
“I
hear him. He talked to me. He did.” Brightening. “He thought it
was oh so clever.” Bob of head, thin drool from a mouth corner.
What
rubbish. “And he thought the noose would be quite the ruse, did
he?”
“Sir?”
“Well
now. Isn’t that interesting.”
“What,
sir?”
Turning
to the blinds, prying two strips apart with thumb and forefinger,
seeing...that damn tree.
Not
seeing the new buds and blossoms.
It
doesn’t bark how curious ... just pissed on.
* * *
The
blinds now open. Afternoon light fills the office. David Littlease
met with silence and the impassive stare of the administrator. Or
nearly so.
Tension
at eye corners, mouth corners, transitions, Benjamin A. Madsen’s
face so busy holding the mask, lips so grim.
Simplify.
Simplify?
replied Mr. Madsen.
Take
it away. Nothing to do.
Take
it ...
Take
it away.
A
furrow split Mr. Madsen’s brow. A cleft. Consternation. Eye twitch.
He
clears his throat. He begins. “Mr. Littlease ...” A cough. He
sits up straighter. Wrong tone entirely. Be singing a different tune,
you’ll see. Looney ... whatever. Damn his eyes. Supplication will
not do, for Christ sake. Start again, take command, take charge. When
the going gets ... Shut up will you. Damn.
“Mr.
Little ...”
Simplify.
Strip it all away.
Damn
you.
Do
not confuse your aim.
It
cannot be this way. My career, my reputation has been built on the
principle ...
Building
is negative. Subtraction leads to the integer. Addition to duplicity.
Integration is the retention of essentials. Impeccability the act of
doing only the essential. Just the right thing at just the right
time. Take it away. Strip it all away.
Foundation
of ... ideals here. A lifetime. Building. Belief.
Duplicity.
Their
eyes hold. A silence.
Madsen
shudders and wrenches away. Chair squeak.
“See
here, mister,” slapping his desk with a palm, turning, rising to
pace to the books and back. He faces the windows, glaring out.
David
moves to the window.
Control
yourself. You are Benjamin A. Madsen. Doctor ... Benjamin ... A ...
my father is ... was ... Alexander. The great. Madsen. The great.
Great. And this kid is ...
"There
will be no more pranks, mister.” A flat tone without conviction.
“No more pranks. Do you understand me? Or there will be
consequences. I’ll not have it. We are a community here and I’ll
not have it.”
He
might be reading a dull speech to a large room of empty seats.
David
by the window.
Blossoms.
A thousand shades of green. All green. Striated vertical texture of
bark. The cedar. Tree. The swallows. Grass. Short, spindly branches
of the dogwood tree. Fresh cut. Now budding. Soon to blossom.
There.
You see it. Subtraction.
Madsen
places himself in his chair. He straightens his pen set. Just so.
The
boy raises slowly a hand.
No
reception.
The
administrator’s pose. The man is dead.
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