Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

“Rodney sick.” The words were slurred.

“What kind of sickness?”

“Tummy hurt.”

“Hmm. We’ll have to have the doctor look at you when he makes his visit.”

“No!” the boy screamed. “No docka!”

“Now, Rodney!” Kruger was patient. “If you’re sick you’re going to have to get a checkup.”

“No docka!”

“All right, Rodney, all right.” Kruger spoke soothingly. He reached out and touched the boy softly on the top of the head. Rodney went hysterical. His eyes popped out and his chin trembled. He cried out and lurched backward so quickly that he hit the rear of his head on the metal bedpost. He yanked the covers over his face, uttering an unintelligible wail of protest.

Kruger turned to me and sighed. He waited until the boy calmed down and then spoke to him again.

“We’ll discuss the doctor later, Rodney. Now where are you supposed to be? Where’s your group right now?”

“Snack.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

The boy shook his head.

“Tummy hurts.”

“Well you can’t just lie here by yourself. Either come to the infirmary and we’ll call someone to have a look at you or get up and join your group for snack.”

“No docka.”

“Okay. No doctor. Now get up.”

The boy crawled out of bed, away from us. I could see now that he was older than I’d thought. Sixteen at least, with the beginning of beard growth dotting his chin. He stared at me, eyes wide in fright.

“This is a friend, Rodney. Mr. Delaware.”

“Hello, Rodney.” I held out my hand. He looked at it and shook his head.

“Be friendly, Rodney. That’s how we earn our goodie points, remember?”

A shake of the head.

“Come on, Rodney, shake hands.”

But the retarded boy was resolute. When Kruger took a step forward he retreated, holding his hands in front of his face.

It went on that way for several moments, a flat out contest of wills. Finally Kruger gave in. “Okay, Rodney,” he said softly, “we’ll forget social skills for today because you’re ill. Now run along and join your group.”

The boy backed away from us, circling the bed in a wide arc. Still shaking his head and holding his arms in front of him like a punchy fighter, he moved away. When he was close to the door he turned, bolted and half-ran, half-waddled out, disappearing into the sun’s glare.

Kruger turned to me and smiled weakly.

“He’s one of our more difficult ones. Seventeen and functioning like a three-year-old.”

“He seems to be really afraid of doctors.”

“He’s afraid of lots of things. Like most Down’s kids he’s had plenty of medical problems – cardiac, infections, dental complications. Add that to the distorted thinking going on in that little head and it builds up. Have you had much experience with mrs?”

“Some.”

“I’ve worked with hundreds of them and I can’t remember one who didn’t have serious emotional problems. You know, the public thinks they’re just like any other kids, but slower. It ain’t so.”

A trace of irritation had crept into his voice. I put it down to the humiliation of losing at psychic poker to the retarded boy. “Rodney’s come a long way,” he said. “When he first got here he wasn’t even toilet-trained. After thirteen foster homes.” He shook his head. “It’s really pathetic. Some of the people the county gives kids to aren’t fit to raise dogs, let alone children.”

He looked ready to launch into a speech, but stopped and slipped his smile back on quickly. “Many of the kids we get are low-probability adoption cases – mr. defective, mixed race, in and out of foster homes, or thrown on the trash heap by their families. When they come here they have no conception of socially appropriate behavior, hygiene, or basic day-to-day living skills. Quite often we’re starting from ground zero. But we’re pleased at our progress. One of the students is publishing a study on our results.”

“That’s a great way to collect data.”

“Yes. And quite frankly, it helps us raise money, which is often the bottom line, Doctor, when you want to keep a great place like La Casa going. Come on.” He took my arm. “Let’s see the rest of the grounds.”

We headed toward the pool.

“From what I hear,” I said, “Reverend McCaffrey is an excellent fundraiser.”

Kruger gave me a sidelong glance, evaluating the intent of my words.

“He is. He’s a marvelous person and it comes across. And it takes most of his time. But it’s still difficult. You know, he ran another children’s home in Mexico, but he had to close it down. There was no government support and the attitude of the private sector there was let the peasants starve.”

We were poolside now. The water reflected the forest, green-black dappled with streaks of emerald. There was a strong odor of chlorine mixed with sweat. The lone swimmer was still in the water doing laps – using a butterfly stroke with a lot of muscle behind it.

“Hey, Jimbo!” Kruger called.

The swimmer reached the far end, raised his head out of the water and saw the counselor’s wave. He glided effortlessly toward us and pulled himself waist high out of the water. He was in his early forties, bearded and sinewy. His sun-baked body was covered with wet, matted hair.

“Hey, Tim.”

“Dr. Delaware, this is Jim Halstead, our head coach. Jim, Dr. Alexander Delaware.”

“Actually your only coach.” Halstead spoke in a deep voice that emerged from his abdomen. “I’d shake your hand, but mine’s kinda clammy.”

“That’s fine.” I smiled.

“Dr. Delaware’s a child psychologist, Jim. He’s touring La Casa as a prospective Gentleman.”

“Great to meet you, Doc, and I hope you join us. It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?” He extended a long, brown arm to the Malibu sky.

“Gorgeous.”

“Jim used to work in the inner city,” said Kruger. “At Manual Arts High. Then he got smart.”

Halstead laughed.

“It took me too long. I’m an easy-going guy but when an ape with a knife threatened me after I asked him to do pushups, that was it.”

“I’m sure you don’t get that here,” I said.

“No way,” he rumbled. “The little guys are great.”

“Which reminds me, Jim,” interrupted Kruger, “I’ve got to talk to you about working out a program for Rodney Broussard. Something to build up his confidence.”

“You bet.”

“Check you later, Jim.”

“Right on. Come back again, Doc.”

The hirsute body entered the water, a sleek torpedo, and swam otter like along the bottom of the pool.

We took a quarter-mile walk around the periphery of the institution. Kruger showed me the infirmary, a spotlessly white, smallish room with an examining table and a cot, sparkling of chrome and reeking of antiseptic. It was empty.

“We have a half-time R.N. who works mornings. For obvious reasons we can’t afford a doctor.”

I wondered why Majestic Oil or some other benefactor couldn’t donate a part-time physician’s salary.

“But we’re lucky to have a roster of volunteer docs, some of the finest in the community, who rotate through.”

As we walked, groups of youngsters and counselors passed us. Kruger waved, the counselors returned the greeting. More often than not the children were unresponsive. As Olivia had predicted and Kruger had confirmed, most had obvious physical or mental handicaps. Boys seemed to outnumber girls by about three to one and the majority of the kids were black or Hispanic.

Kruger ushered me into the cafeteria, which was high-ceilinged, stucco-walled and meticulously clean. Unspeaking Mexican women waited impassively behind a glass partition, serving tongs in hand. The food was typical institutional fare – stew, creative use of ground meat, Jello, overcooked vegetables in thick sauce.