A Safe Place for Joey

“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 inexperienced teacher 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 another through 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 everything that was going on; even his red hair seemed dull and lifeless. I could not believe he was allowed to wear headphones in 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 the lawn when I pulled up in front of her 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 if 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.

Al 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.

Al 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 apologetically, as 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.

Al 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.

Al 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 wearing headphones in school, Al Stone smiled pleasantly and said that he hadn’t realized Joey wore them in school.

But I never did point out to Al Stone that his actions spoke more strongly than his words. Joey, like his father, was shutting out 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 headphones in 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 instead of improving, things got even worse. Now Joey stopped talking almost completely. He did no homework and, according to 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 be expected 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 reported that 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 Al 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 Al 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 their last visit before the holidays. 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 holidays, I 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 myself to tune to Joey, to understand what 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.”