Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

I announced myself and received a grandmotherly smile for my efforts.

“Tim will be right with you. Won’t you please sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

There was little of interest to look at. The prints on the walls looked as if they’d been purloined from a motel. There was a window but it afforded a view of the parking lot. In the distance was a thick growth of forest – eucalyptus, cypress, and cedar – but from where I sat only the bottoms of the trees were visible, an uninterrupted stretch of gray-brown. I tried to busy myself with a two-year-old copy of California Highways.

It wasn’t much of a wait.

A minute after I’d sat down the door opened and a young man came out.

“Dr. Delaware?”

I stood.

“Tim Kruger.” We shook hands.

He was short, mid-to-late twenties, and built like a wrestler, all hard and knobby and endowed with just that extra bit of muscle in all the strategic places. He had a face that was well-formed, but overly stolid, like a Ken doll that hadn’t been allowed to bake sufficiently. Strong chin, small ears, prominent straight nose of a shape that foreshadowed bulbousness in middle age, an outdoorsman’s tan, yellowish-brown eyes under heavy brows, a low forehead almost totally hidden by a thick wave of sandy hair. He wore wheat colored slacks, a light blue short-sleeved shirt and a blue-and-brown tie. Clipped to the corner of his collar was a badge that said T. Kruger, M.A. M.E.C.C. Director, Counseling .

“I was expecting someone quite a bit older, Doctor. You told me you were retired.”

“I am. I believe in taking it early, when I can enjoy it.”

He laughed heartily.

“There’s something to be said for that. I trust you had no trouble finding us?”

“No. Your directions were excellent.”

“Great. We can begin the tour, if you’d like. Reverend Gus is on the grounds somewhere. He should be back to meet you by four.”

He held the door for me.

We crossed the parking lot and stepped onto a walkway of crushed gravel.

“La Casa,” he began, “is situated on twenty-seven acres. If we stop right here, we can get a pretty good view of the entire layout.”

We were at the top of a rise, looking down on buildings, a playground, spiraling trails, a curtain of mountains in the background.

“Out of those twenty-seven, only five are actually fully developed. The rest is wide-open space, which we believe is great for the kids, many of whom come from the inner city.” I could make out the shapes of children, walking in groups, playing ball, sitting alone on the grass. “To the north–” he pointed to an expanse of open fields “–is what we call the Meadow. It’s mostly alfalfa and weeds right now, but there are plans to begin a vegetable garden this summer. To the south is the Grove.” He indicated the forest I’d seen from the office. “It’s protected timberland, perfect for nature hikes. There’s a surprising abundance of wildlife out here. I’m from the Northwest, myself, and before I got here I used to think the wildest life in L.A. was all on the Sunset Strip.”

I smiled.

“Those buildings over there are the dorms.”

He swiveled around and pointed to a group of ten large quonset huts. Like the administration building, they’d been gone at with the freewheeling paint brush, the corrugated iron sides festooned with rainbow-hued patterns, the effect bizarrely optimistic.

He turned again and I let my gaze follow his arm.

“That’s our Olympic-sized pool. Donated by Majestic Oil.” The pool shimmered green, a hole in the earth filled with lime jello. A solitary swimmer sliced through the water, cutting a foamy pathway. “And over there are the infirmary and the school.”

I noticed a grouping of cinder-block buildings at the far end of the campus where the perimeter of the central hub met the edge of the “Grove.” He didn’t say what they were.

“Let’s take a look at the dorms.”

I followed him down the hill, taking in the idyllic panorama. The grounds were well-tended, the place bustling with activity but seemingly well-organized.

Kruger walked with long, muscular strides, chin to the wind, rattling off facts and figures, describing the philosophy of the institution as one that combined “structure and the reassurance of routine with a creative environment that encourages healthy development.” He was resolutely positive – about La Casa, his job, the Reverend Gus, and the children. The sole exception was a grave lament about the difficulties of coordinating “optimal care” with running the financial affairs of the institution on a day-to-day basis. Even this was followed, however, by a statement stressing his understanding of economic realities in the eighties and a few upbeat paeans to the free-enterprise system.

He was well-trained.

The interior of the bright pink quonset hut was cold, flat white over a dark plank floor. The dorm was empty and our footsteps echoed. There was a metallic smell in the air. The children’s beds were iron double bunks arranged, barracks style, perpendicular to the walls, accompanied by foot lockers and bracket shelves bolted to the metal siding. There was an attempt at decoration – some of the children had hung up pictures of comic book super heroes athletes, Sesame Street characters – but the absence of family pictures or other evidence of recent, intimate human connection was striking.

I counted sleeping space for fifty children.

“How do you keep that many kids organized?”

“It’s a challenge,” he admitted, “but we’ve been pretty successful. We use volunteer counselors from UCLA, Northridge, and other colleges. They get intro psych credit, we get free help. We’d love a full-time professional staff but it’s fiscally impossible. We’ve got it staffed two counselors to a dorm, and we train them to use behavior mod – I hope you’re not opposed to that.”

“Not if it’s used properly.”

“Oh, very definitely. I couldn’t agree with you more. We minimize heavy aversives, use token economies, lots of positive reinforcement. It requires supervision – that’s where I come in.”

“You seem to have a good handle on things.”

“I try.” He gave an aw, shucks grin. “I wanted to go for a doctorate but I didn’t have the bucks.”

“Where were you studying?”

“U. of Oregon. I got an M.A. there – in counseling ed. Before that, a B.A. in psych from Jedson College.”

“I thought everyone at Jedson was rich.” The small college outside of Seattle had a reputation as a haven for the offspring of the wealthy,

“That’s almost true,” he grinned. “The place was a country club. I got in on an athletic scholarship. Track and baseball. In my junior year I tore a ligament and suddenly I was persona non grata.” His eyes darkened momentarily, smoldering with the memory of almost-buried injustice. “Anyway, I like what I’m doing – plenty of responsibility and decision making”.

There was a rustling sound at the far end of the room. We both turned toward it and saw movement beneath the blankets on one of the lower bunks.

“Is that you, Rodney?”

Kruger walked to the bunk and tapped a wriggling lump. A boy sat up, holding the covers up to his chin. He was chubby, black and looked around twelve, but his exact age was impossible to gauge, for his face bore the telltale stigmata of Down’s syndrome: elongated cranium, flattened features, deep-set eyes spaced close together, sloping brow, low-set ears, protruding tongue. And an expression of bafflement so typical of the retarded.

“Hello, Rodney.” Kruger spoke softly. “What’s the matter?”

I had followed him and the boy looked at me questioningly.

“It’s all right, Rodney. He’s a friend. Now tell me what’s the matter.”