Four Saints
By Gordon Kearns
Part One (Pages 1-6)
Scot
Monday, October 10, 1983
The fourteen year old boy stood at my office door. A nice looking blond-haired kid --slightly taller than average for his age, with a lean athletic build.
"Scot? ...Come in." I took the classroom release slip he somewhat awkwardly offered. "Please ...sit down," I said, indicating a chair by the round blond utility table typically found in counselors' offices in our district. It was truly a table of many uses: test make-up, therapy materials, elbow resting, and probably most important: personal space separation. Scot sat as I requested, but kept his arm across the sizeable stack of books he brought with him, ready for take-off at the first opportunity. Students generally carry with them all the texts, notebooks, and supplies they'll need for that half-day's classes, usually a worthy armful. There's rarely enough time to stop at lockers in the short five minutes allowed between periods.
Most children are inscrutable. When you get right down to it, most people are inscrutable. We delude ourselves into thinking otherwise. Grown-ups have worked all their lives creating the persona they think the world sees in them. The world mayor may not perceive that persona, but it convinces itself the persona it sees is true. We make judgments on each other all the time. The scientific minded among us make such judgments based on textbookish classifications more astute, but not necessarily more accurate, than astrological charts. Since most children are too inexperienced to have evolved socially effective personality masking, they do the next best thing when confronting situations they read as threatening to their real selves: they shut up. "How are you doing?" "Okay" "Is anything bothering you?" "No." "What do you think about (whatever)?" "I don't know." Did you ever watch a talk show host sweating an interview with a child? It's the classic picture of frustration. Most children are terrible interviews. Most interviewers end up prompting for answers they think are proper for the subject at hand, satisfying themselves with any indefinite grunt in response. Of course we can't admit we don't understand children, so we make up age, sex, development, ethnic, religious, term length, birth order, or relationship to parents rules of thumb by which we satisfy ourselves that we know what must be going on inside them. We've even invented measuring devices to help us probe for hidden selves, typically survey instruments that require the testee to answer subjective questions, assuming he will do so openly and honestly. But a typical child is no less guarded in a testing situation than when talking to his Aunt Jane at Christmas. However, I'm a counselor so I use the tests knowing how useless they are --I know how to play the game. A counselor who wants to get ahead does the things counselors do: she uses the resources available to her; she reports her activities in proper counseling terms at monthly meetings (and buys the doughnuts when it's her turn); and she provides professional sounding responses at her spring evaluation conferences. Thus, I know as well as I'm sitting here that adults are inscrutable. But that's all right; we can live with the face they give us. And children are inscrutable; but that's not all right, because when they're being inscrutable, they give us nothing to work with. So we pass it off and draw stereotyped conclusions, and say what good counselors we are.
"How's it going today, Scot?"
"Okay "
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I picked up the folder with Scot's name in prominent letters on the tab and began idly paging through its contents; another standard technique to fill in spaces, signaling, "I know things about you, kid, maybe even you don't know." In truth, I had most of his records pretty well in mind; I believe in doing my homework before a conference. "You have some pretty impressive stats here."
No reaction whatever.
"All A's on all your report cards from the fourth grade through the seventh."
Nothing.
"Ninety-ninth percentile on all tests and subtests of the biannual standardized achievement testing program from the second grade on."
Picking at a dry cuticle.
"Student Council President in the fifth grade over at Godfrey, when you lived on the north end of the district; and over here at this end, at Kennedy Middle School, you were student council president in the eighth grade; first place in the district eighth grade math competition; three blue ribbons in the county science fairs in three consecutive years; state eastern district spelling bee champion last year --you won a trip to the state capitol for that one; and elementary school 'Super Learners Program,' middle school Gifted Program,' and the 'Honors Program' here at MacArthur High."
Sighing audibly.
"And ..." I took four 4 x 6 slips of paper from the folder, "and now, at the end of one month in the ninth grade, a record of sorts: four "Unsatisfactory Progress" notices --Science, Social Studies, Honors English, and Honors Math." With deliberate dramatic flair I placed the copies of the four notices on the table in front of the boy. "I think we've got a problem here, young feller."
A shrug of the shoulders, hands digging deeply into pockets. Utter silence.
"You've got a lot of people worrying about you."
*****
To say the least. The staffing we held for Scot this morning actually went something like this:
"... hasn't answered a question since school started."
"... only grunts."
"... doesn't do a lick of work." ,
"... doesn't care."
"... bad attitude."
"... lazy."
"... in over his head."
"... has no business being in the Honors Program."
"... typical over-placement by the lower grade teachers."
"... probably did great in their controlled environment." but can't hack it here where we won't baby him."
"... should be put back in the regular program before it's too late.
"... maybe in the low track."
"What's his 1.Q.? a hundred fifteen or something?"
"That's only about average for our district, isn't it?"
"No wonder he can't keep up."
Me: "The last three years he scored 140, 145, and 148 on the group tests, near perfect scores for their standardizations. On individual kits he did 172 and 184; he literally blew their lids off."
"1.Q. tests don't tell the whole story anyway."
"Is he a social misfit?"
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Me: "As far as I can tell he's a regular Jack Armstrong. Class leader over at Kennedy, and star of the wrestling team. A really popular guy according to his records."
"Then it must be 'burn out. ,"
"Or his parents are demanding too much."
"If I'm not mistaken," I said, "his mother is a widow; works as a secretary in a furniture store in town. Scot's a 'latch key.' I spoke to Mrs. Bennett briefly at the open house. I remember her as somewhat reserved, but friendly enough. I have a conference scheduled with her this afternoon about five-thirty."
"Five-thirty? Joe and I will be showered, fed, and lined up for the late afternoon matinee at the Dalton Six Screen by then. You're a glutton for punishment, Wally."
"Such are the rigors of counseling. It would've been difficult for Mrs. Bennett to break away from her job earlier. Besides, I'm going to talk with Scot this morning to catch his reaction to all this. I can use the time after school to gather everything together to see if I can find some logical reason for Scot's radical change of behavior.
*****
"Is there something at school bothering you?"
"No."
"Something happen at home worrying you?"
Pause. "No."
"The work certainly shouldn't be too hard for you."
Shrug.
"Are you making friends here?"
"1 guess so."
"Girls?"
A "look."
"What do you think of your teachers?"
"They're all right, I guess."
"Something's different in your world. As of the end of the last school year you were headed for a golden future, scholarships and everything. Now you seem to be throwing it all aside. Giving up. Come on, kiddo, something's happened. Let's get it all out on the table.1!
Nothing --not even a "1ook."
I fished around in his file, pulling myself together. I turned to him again. "Tell me what you do at home in the afternoons and evenings?"
"Nothing much."
"When do you do your homework?"
"After supper ...sometimes."
"But then you haven't been doing your homework lately, have you?"
Shrug.
"You know, if you keep up the way you're going, you're heading straight for a bunch of F's on your report card. What will your mother think if you bring home a failing report?1!
"1 don't know."
"You could even fail the grade."
Shrug.
"Is that what you're trying to do?"
"1 don't know."
"Come on feller, knock it off. What's the matter? Look, I'm your friend. Whatever's bothering you, I want to help. I really do. That's what I'm here for. I'm on your side. I'm not going to do anything to hurt you.1!
The "look" again.
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I put the file down and looked out the window for a few moments. "I'm going to be talking with your mother this afternoon. Is there anything you want me to say to her when I see her?"
Shrug.
"Don't you care about anything?"
The "look."
"You're just not going to help in this at all, are you?"
Nothing.
"We can't let you go on doing nothing at all. You have to know that."
Nothing.
I let him go back to his study hall. We were getting nowhere. Kids are inscrutable, inscrutable, inscrutable. But I had no doubt I'd get to the bottom of it sooner or later. I looked forward to my conference that evening with Mrs. Bennett. It had to go better than the one I just had with Scot. The strangest thing, though, was Scot's parting shot. As he was about to walk out the door, he turned and looked me straight in the eye. "Are they going to kill me?" he asked.
At the time I thought it was just a sarcastic wisecrack, so I didn't answer him.
Mrs. Bennett was a sweet, soft-spoken woman. She was obviously nervous, fidgeting with her handkerchief throughout the conference. No, she wasn't happy that Scot's schoolwork had slipped so dramatically this year, but she wasn't so concerned about this as she was about his whole change of behavior both in school and out. He'd become sullen and distant, moping and daydreaming around the house day after day. He rarely talks, except to answer questions, and then only with grunts. His chores go undone, though he never outright refuses; he just "forgets." She was sure his attitude was in some way related to the tragic death last July of the little girl who lived next door. Even though there was a disparity between their ages, he was fourteen and she was just nine going on ten, they'd been inseparable buddies ever since the Bennetts moved into our area about three years ago. No, she didn't think it was a sexual thing, but of course you can't be sure with a boy of Scot's age. In any case, she was sure there wasn't anything overt about their relationship to indicate anything more than a sincere, close friendship. What happened to the girl? It was in all the papers, she said. Deborah ...Deborah Irving, that was the little girl's name, Deborah was murdered. The police found her in a motel room in Dalton, over by the inter-state. A horrible thing. They said she'd been raped. Yes, I remembered the story. The police thought it was done by an itinerant, who was long gone by the time Deborah was discovered. We get a lot of itinerants around here because of the big truck stop and shopping center in Dalton. I agreed; Deborah's murder must have been terribly traumatic for Scot. Mrs. Bennett was worried that Scot was carrying his grief on too long, that it might lead to a more serious depression --drugs, maybe ...or suicide. Trying to establish some norm against which to measure his present behavior, I turned the subject to his father. I asked about the circumstances of Mr. Bennett's death. Her late husband also died suddenly, about three and a half years ago, she told me. A heart attack. He was an architectural draftsman. He collapsed while working at his drawing table at work. She and Scot moved here shortly after, because they couldn't afford the rent on their large house. There wasn't much insurance. That's when Mrs. Bennett went back into the work force. How did Scot take his father's death? Not bad. She found him crying to himself in bed at night a few times in the weeks after. But he seemed to react well to his new role as the man of the house; and when he started at the new school, he was back to his friendly, gregarious old self again. He seemed
5
happy with his acceptance by the kids around here, and he sort of naturally evolved into his usual leadership status. It was right after they moved here that he met Deborah. They seemed to take to each other right away. It was an unusual match-up. There was the difference in their ages, as she mentioned earlier; and a big contrast in their sizes, too. Deborah came up to about Scot's chest. Scot, of course, was a pretty good student, while Deborah apparently had a history of learning problems from the time she started kindergarten. In just two things did they seem to share a common denominator. Athletics, for one. Scot was good at almost every sport; and Deborah was quite adept at gymnastics; in fact, P.E. was about the only subject she did well in at school. The other similarity between them was, as best as she could describe it, their basic characters. Both were perceptive of and sensitive to the feelings of others; both enjoyed thinking in terms of broad perspectives. Certainly, Scot was skilled at detailed learning --math, grammar, spelling, memorization, and so forth; however, his greatest strengths tended more into the broader fields. He loved to delve into the ideas and implications of literature, history, and politics. And Deborah, though weak in schoolish skills, enjoyed talking about the "bigger things in life," as she liked to put it. And both possessed wonderful heads for original, creative thought; they could see images in the clouds, and imagine kingdoms under the oceans. Mrs. Bennett thought it was in this last that their friendship was sealed. It seemed they could sit together for hours talking about things most of us are content to read about once in a while in
books, or see in an occasional movie fantasy.
Question: "Did Scot ever cry or in any way at all that you could tell express his hurt over Deborah's death?" She was sure he never did.
So, I had my handle. We were dealing with simple case of a grief not yet faced; straight from the textbook. Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't serious. But it was something, after all, I was trained for, the kind of problem I felt confident I could work with. Therefore, I assured Mrs. Bennett not to worry, I was certain we could get Scot back on track. As I would also assure the teachers it would be all right; there was no need to change Scot's grouping.
And tomorrow I would have at it again with Scot. Only this time, Mr. Inscrutable, I have a handle on you, I thought; I can help you --whether you want help or not.
Tuesday, October 11, 1983
"Well, here we are again."
Nothing --again.
"You may as well sit down; this may be a long session."
He seated himself where he sat the day before. He put his stack of books on the table again: the barrier.
"I talked with your mother."
The "look."
"Why didn't you tell me about Debbie?"
"Deborah."
"Deborah. You should have told me about her."
"Why?"
"Because I understand how you must feel. I understand why you're having so many problems this year. I think I can help you ...if you let me."
"Help me what?"
"Help you handle your ...grief. You know, there's nothing wrong with feeling grief for someone close who died. It was a terrible thing that happened to Debbie ...Deborah. I think it
6
would be unusual if you weren't pretty well shaken up by it. But you can't keep it all bottled up inside you; nobody can. When this kind of thing happens, you --everyone --needs to someway or another get it into the open. Having somebody to talk it out with helps one keep his ...perspective. This is really what I'm all about here, to help kids with their problems."
Scot turned his head toward the window. "What ...what do you think you know about what I need?"
"That's just it. I can't KNOW what's going on inside you. You have to help me know. That's what I mean by 'talking it out.' But I bet I can guess some of your feelings. For one, emptiness at the loss of a close, constant friend. You just plain miss her; it's hard to re-focus your life without her in it. I know ...I'm sure this has to be a part of what's inside you, right? For another, anger. You'd have to be less than human if you weren't mad at God, maybe, for allowing such a thing to happen, and at whoever did this awful thing to her. It would be natural for you to want to get even. It would also be natural for you to direct perhaps a little anger at Deborah herself for deserting you, leaving you without a bosom friend to share your innermost secrets with; and perhaps this makes you feel guilty, as if you're betraying her. Am I hitting the mark, Scot?"
He gave me that "look," holding my eyes for some time. Then: "You have all the answers; why do you need me to say anything?"
"But it has to come from you."
"Why?"
"Because if you don't talk about it, then it will fester and fester inside you. You'll get further and further away from the rest of the world, until you find it just about impossible to get back with it. I know it hurts, but you have to put her death behind you, and go on living your own life. Don't you think this is what she would want you to do? And this is where I come in, helping you get things in their proper places. Sooner or later a person has to put a period at the end of the sentence. But it isn't easy. It's hard to say good-bye to someone you ...like very much."
"Why couldn't you say, 'love'?"
"Because ...I'm not sure what your feelings are about Deborah. If it is 'love,' it only means you'll need help all the more. Okay, Scot? Are you going to let down and permit me to help you?"
He got up from his chair, wiped his fingers across the table as if to put lines in imaginary dust, and walked to the window. He scanned the beautiful view my office oversees --the rusty dumpster behind the cafeteria. There he remained perfectly still for at least a full two minutes, as if awaiting some movement on the dumpster's part. Finally, he turned back to me, sighed heavily, and returned to the table, leaning on it with both hands. "Miss Wallace, do you really think I don't know what grief means? Do you really think I don't know that life has to go on? Do you really think I don't know about perspective? Do you really think my emotions are out of control? Do you really think I don't know the importance of schoolwork? You may have my records on your desk; you may have read them inside and out, but you didn't learn anything about me from them. You think I'm capable of being a great student, but you haven't given me any credit for being able to think on my own. To you, the only priority I can reasonably have in my life is school. You've read all my records; you've gone to counselors' school; you've got dozens of books on those shelves, but you don't know anything about me ... anything at all. You say I should put a period on the end on the sentence, put Deborah's death behind me, get along with my own life. Why not? Everybody else seems to have. It doesn't seem to bother anybody to let the dead be dead, especially to let Deborah be dead. It wasn't enough that Deborah died; the world wants her erased. The world is working very hard to erase her.
NEXT: Part Two (Pages 7-19)
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