Читать книгу Do We Not Bleed? - Daniel Taylor - Страница 4

I’m better. Thanks for asking.

Not cured of course. What would that mean anyway? Cured of the human condition? There’s only one cure for that and few seem eager for it. Some of course have embraced the cure, fled life—the saddest ones among us. May God receive back their souls.

(There I go again, invoking beings I no longer believe exist.)

No, not cured. But better. No more voices—so far. Less mind noise. More purposeful action. (Judy should be proud of me.)

Like working here at the group home for instance. Me and six disciples—each of them wounded, each of them a wonder. Me their patched-together Jesus, they the faithful half dozen, looking to me for the next meal, the next activity, the next tock in answer to this moment’s tick.

Actually they don’t need me at all. They serve the god Routine and I am just the local priest, one in a long line of Servants of the Schedule. They know What Comes Next much better than I do, but they instinctively grant me a measure of authority, because, after all, I can tell time. I can also count change, use a can opener, and measure out flour—something most of them cannot do at present, though we’re working on it.

When I brought my sister Judy back to New Directions last December, after my near-disastrous attempt to take care of her on my own, I had no idea I would be joining the circus myself. I thought I’d just unload her suitcase, kiss her goodbye, and get on with my own deconstruction. But there was this sign in the office offering a part-time job staffing a group home on the campus. And since I felt I was clearly a part-timer in many ways, including metaphysically, I thought maybe the offer was intended for me.

You know—intended, as in fated, as in meant to be. Never mind that there seem to be no certifiable Intenders or Intentions in the universe.

So here I am, hanging out with the . . . what’s the word? With the . . . you’ve got to be careful, because the right word changes regularly, and they’re very jumpy around here about getting the right word right. I think I’ll just leave it at “hanging out.”

So here I am, hanging out with Judy. And Ralph, and Jimmy, and Bonita, and J.P. And with Billy, who lives in Billy World—population: one.

And we’re about to start a summer football game.

New Directions is very big on real-life activities for the residents. (“Residents” is a safe term at present, as is “clients.” Who knows about tomorrow?) Apparently people in Normal Life play football for fun (I think the Kennedy clan started it), so the activities staff has organized a game of flag football for the enjoyment and social development of all.

Our particular residence, Carlson Group Home, is a big contributor. Ralph is the center, a fitting spot for a fiftyish man of short stature and legendary strength. When I took everyone to the first Lord of the Rings movie, Jimmy pointed at Gimli on the screen and yelled, “Hello Ralph!”—much to the delight of the others. Ralph doesn’t have a beard, but he is built like a Tolkien dwarf—short, broad, strong, a man of few words. When you talk to him, he has two dominant responses. If you instruct him to do something and he accepts it, he says “Da dooey,” turns and goes and does it. If he doesn’t accept it, he gives you a dismissive wave of the hand, says “Ah phooey,” and turns in the same way and goes about his business. You have as much chance of changing his mind as getting an avalanche to go back uphill.

Jimmy is the running back. He campaigned to be quarterback because he knows that’s the position the girls go for and Jimmy is the quintessential ladies’ man. He’s always campaigning for something. He is the youngster of the group home, maybe twenty-five, with sandy brown hair that he is constantly adjusting with a toss of the head, and very verbal, some would say verbose. Jimmy knows enough of the therapeutic lingo to self-diagnose. He likes to announce to staff and strangers alike, “I’m high functioning,” with a sigh and condescending glance toward the other residents, as if to say, “We have quite a load on our hands here, don’t we?”

In a shockingly gender-stereotypical move, Judy and Bonita have been informed in advance that they are to be cheerleaders. J.P. as well. This gives them a chance to dress the part. I’m responsible for costuming and the only thing I can think of are sweaters. I’m a severely-lapsed Baptist and a product of the time when cheerleader meant tight sweaters, not cleavage and bare midriffs. Bonita isn’t interested much in the sweater, but she is adamant about the accessories: “Get me some pond-ponds, Mote.”

Bonita usually calls me by my last name, Mote, unless she wants something. Then she plays the Sweetheart of Sigma Chi, ducks her head shyly and calls me Jon. As in, “Please, Jon, could I have my pop now?” And a quite remarkable head it is, too. About the size of a tennis ball. Okay, maybe a cantaloupe, but noticeably smaller than it should be even in relation to her very slight body. She weighs in at around ninety pounds, stands less than five feet tall, and, with hips substantially wider than her almost nonexistent shoulders, gives the general appearance of a bowling pin wearing a fright wig. (Or, for those old enough, a Shmoo.)

By the way, if you happen to say no to her sweet request for the can of pop, you can expect a lightning quick change of tactics: “Damn it, Mote, give me my pop!” So when Bonita says she wants pom-poms (which I take her “pond-ponds” to mean), I make sure to come up with pom-poms (courtesy of the playroom for the youngest residents in the main building).

Judy, as always, tries her best to get along. “Well, Jon, if cheer . . . cheerleaders wear sweaters, then I . . . I should say . . . I will wear a sweater my own self.” Now she is standing on the sidelines next to Bonita, putting her little fists in the air, and yelling, “Go . . . go . . . I should say, go team!” J.P. insists on wearing a suit and bow tie. He simply stands there, at attention, cautiously smiling.

Billy seems the least likely of all the participants. I don’t know how old Billy is and can’t even guess. More than thirty and less than a hundred is the best I can do. Billy is not with us. And never has been. He spends most of his time looking upward, out of squint eyes that dart from side to side, searching the skies (or the ceiling) for God knows what (there I go again). He has dull red hair and spastic motions, jerking his arms, stiff fingers splaying, and twitching his head in obedience to the electrical storm in his brain. I feel a strange kinship. (I know all about storms in the brain.)

The spectators for the game consist primarily of other residents of New Directions, staff, and parents. Cassandra Pettigrew, the executive director, is chatting it up with Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, big-time contributors and parents of Abby Wagner, one of the residents training for independent living. I made a big mistake with Abby when I first started at New Directions six months ago. The first time I saw her, I thought she was on staff. I was sitting on the steps of the group home taking a smoke break when Abby walked by from the main building. I remember watching her and thinking she was good-looking and wondering what her job here might be. I said hello as she passed, and she immediately changed direction and came and sat by me.

I introduced myself and asked her what she did at New Directions. She didn’t say anything, but smiled and touched my knee. I jumped up like her hand was a snake. She laughed, stood, and walked away toward the apartments for independent living, turning as she entered the building to give me a little wave.

The facilities manager, Mr. Springer, walks Billy out to his position as a split end. How he would think that Billy could ever see a football coming, much less catch it, is beyond me. But then I decide this too is fitting. Billy, the Lonesome End, like the once-famous Army receiver in the 1950s, stationed out near the boundary, alone, away from his companions in the huddle, and yet one of them. On the team, so to speak, but with an assignment all his own.

Mr. Springer is a model of purposeful bustle, aligning each player on the offense by position. A volunteer father is doing the same for the defense. It takes forever. They put one of the younger residents from the dorms, Ronnie, beside Ralph to play guard. When they turn to place another at tackle, Ronnie walks away toward the sidelines. Mr. Springer runs to get him, but by the time he gets Ronnie back next to Ralph, the tackle has laid down on the ground and started groaning. Ralph tells him to get up and shut up and he immediately does so. Meanwhile Ronnie has started talking with the defender standing across from him. They shake hands and then embrace. The defender points at Ronnie and announces to no one in particular, “He’s my buddy.” They both beam.

The choice for quarterback strikes me as strange. Jack is a silent teenager from the independent living units. I have never heard him speak, but perhaps he does. What’s clear is that he is fast. He is warming up by running full speed in random directions, under the tutelage of Mrs. Francis, the crafts coordinator. He runs with studied intensity, hunched over at the waist but with a long, smooth stride.

Mr. Springer calls Jack over to put him in position so they can start the game. They have decided not to have a kick-off. Why tempt Apep, Discordia, Morgoth, and the other gods of chaos? They will just start at midfield and hope for the best.

Mr. Springer places the ball in front of Ralph and tells him to bend over and then hike it to the quarterback when Jack is ready. Mr. Springer demonstrates. Luckily, Ralph says “Da dooey” instead of “Ah phooey” and bends down and holds on to the ball.

“Now Jack, you come up behind Ralph and put your hands under here, like this, and then say ‘hike!’ real loud.”

But Jack will have none of it. He crosses his arms, putting each hand in his arm pits, and shakes his head. Jimmy, from the running back position, immediately sizes up the situation.

“That’s inappropriate touching, Mr. Springer. Ms. Pettigrew says if anyone touches you there, you should tell one of the staff right away. No sirree. You shouldn’t be telling Jack to put his hands in there. No way, no how.”

Jimmy reinforces the speech with vigorous head shaking. And when others see it, they do the same. A moral consensus of shaking heads in a relativistic world.

Mr. Springer is clearly alarmed.

“I only want him to get the damn football, Jimmy. I’m not saying . . . . Well, no problem. We’ll use the shotgun formation. That’s better for Jack anyway. Jack, you back up three steps.”

Jack just looks at him. Jimmy counts out three on his fingers, touching each fingertip with the index finger of his other hand, and flashes them at Jack. High functioning indeed.

Mr. Springer guides Jack back a ways behind Ralph and places Jimmy to his side. He tells everyone to get set, and both the offense and the defense adopt various stances, some very creative. Billy stands out near the sidelines, twitching and gazing at the clouds and humming. Bonita and Judy are trying to yell “Go team” together, but the hitches in Judy’s cadence have Bonita flustered. To stay in sync with Judy, she is yelling something like, “Go the hell team.”

Mr. Springer backs away and shouts, “hike!” Ralph picks the ball up, turns, and tosses it back to Jack. Jack catches the ball and stares at it in his hands. The others, as dramatically as possible, hold their positions. No one moves.

“Get Jack!” Mr. Springer yells in exasperation.

The command animates everyone and they all, offense and defense alike, start toward Jack. He runs toward the sideline, as though to sweep around the end. It looks like a real football play. Momentarily. Jack runs across the sideline, between Judy and Bonita, knocking a pom-pom out of Bonita’s hand.

“Watch where you’re going, asshole.”

Jack keeps running, football tight under his arm, toward the dorms, never looking back, ignoring everyone calling to him to return. A few members of the defense are in hot pursuit, yelling, “Get Jack!” The others remain on the field giving each other high-fives for a job well done.

There isn’t another ball.

Ralph hasn’t moved. He surveys the scene, waves his hand in disgust, and walks away.

“Ah phooey.”