Джонатан Келлерман - When the Bough Breaks

He gazed at me jovially. It was clear I was expected to explain myself.

“Yes. That’s true.”

“Hmm.” He scratched behind one ear, still smiling. Waiting. I smiled back.

“You know,” he finally said, “when Tim mentioned your visit I thought your name was familiar. But I couldn’t place it. Then it came to me, just a few moments ago. You ran that program for those children who were the victims of that day-care scandal, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful work. How are they doing, the children?”

“Quite well.”

“You – retired soon after the program was over, did you?”

“Yes.”

The enormous head shook sadly.

“Tragic affair. The man killed himself, if I recall.”

“He did.”

“Doubly tragic. The little ones abused like that and a man’s life wasted with no chance of salvation. Or,” he smiled, “to use a more secular term, with no chance of rehabilitation. They’re one and the same, salvation and rehabilitation, don’t you think, Doctor?”

“I can see similarity in the two concepts.”

“Certainly. It depends upon one’s perspective. I confess,” he sighed, “that I find it difficult, at times, to divorce myself from my religious training when dealing with issues of human relations. I must struggle to do so, of course, in view of our society’s abhorrence of even a minimal liaison between church and state.”

He wasn’t protesting. The broad face was suffused with calm, nourished by the sweet fruit of martyrdom. He looked at peace with himself, as content as a hippo sunning in a mudhole.

“Do you think the man – the one who killed himself – could have been rehabilitated?” he asked me.

“It’s hard to say. I didn’t know him. The statistics on treatment of lifelong pedophiles aren’t encouraging.”

“Statistics.” He played with the word, letting it roll slowly off his tongue. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice. “Statistics are cold numbers, aren’t they? With no consideration for the individual. And, Tim informs me, on a mathematical level, statistics have no relevance for an individual. Is that correct?”

“That’s true.”

“When folks quote statistics, it reminds me of the joke about the Okie – Okie jokes were fashionable before your time – woman who had borne ten children with relative equanimity but who became very agitated upon learning she was pregnant with the eleventh. Her doctor asked her why, after having gone through the travails of pregnancy, labor and delivery ten times she was suddenly so distraught. And she told him she had read that every eleventh child born in Oklahoma was an Indian, and durned if she was going to raise a redskin!”

He laughed, the belly heaving, the eyes black slits. His glasses slid down his nose and he righted them.

“That, Doctor, sums up my view of statistics. You know, most of the children at La Casa were statistics prior to their coming here – doctor numbers in the Dependency Court files, codes for the D.P.S.S. caseworkers to catalogue, scores on IQ tests. And those numbers said they were beyond hope. But we take them and we work strenuously to transform those numbers into little individuals. I don’t care about a child’s IQ score, I want to help him claim his birthright as a human being – opportunity, basic health and welfare, and, if you’ll permit a clerical lapse, a soul. For there is a soul in every single one of those children, even the ones functioning at a vegetative level.”

“I agree that it’s good not to be limited by numbers.” His man, Kruger, had been pretty handy with statistics when they served his purpose and I was willing to bet La Casa made use of a computer or two to churn out the right numbers when the occasion called for it.

“Our work is effecting change. It’s an alchemy of sorts. Which is why suicide – any suicide – saddens me deeply. For all men are capable of salvation. That man was a quitter, in the ultimate sense. But of course,” he lowered his voice, “the quitter has become the archetype of modern man, hasn’t he, Doctor? It has become fashionable to throw up one’s hands after the merest travesty of effort. Everyone wants quick and easy solutions.”

Including, no doubt, those who retired at thirty two.

“There are miracles happening every day, right on these grounds. Children who’ve been given up on gain a new sense of themselves. A youngster who is incontinent learns to control his bowels.” He paused, like a politician after an applause line. “So-called retarded children learn to read and write. Small miracles, perhaps, when measured against a man walking on the moon, or perhaps not.” His eyebrows arched, the thick lips parted to reveal widely-spaced, horsey teeth. “Of course, Doctor, if you find the word miracle unduly sectarian, we can substitute success. That is a word the average American can relate to. Success.”

Coming from someone else it could have been a cheap throwaway oration worthy of a Sunday morning Jesus-huckster. But McCaffrey was good and his words carried the conviction of one ordained to carry out a sacred mission.

“May I ask,” he inquired pleasantly, “why you retired?”

“I wanted a change of pace, Reverend. Time to sort out my values.”

“I understand. Reflection can be profoundly valuable. However I trust you won’t absent yourself from your profession for too long. We need good people in your field.”

He was still preaching, but now mixing it with an ego massage. I understood why the corporate honchos loved him.

“In fact I have begun to miss working with children, which is why I called you.”

“Excellent, excellent. Psychology’s loss will be our gain. You worked at Western Pediatric, didn’t you? I seem to remember that from the paper.”

“There and in private practice.”

“A first-rate hospital. We send many of our children there when the need for medical attention arises. I’m acquainted with several of the physicians on staff and many of them have been quite generous – giving of themselves.”

“Those are busy men, Reverend; you must be quite persuasive.”

“Not really. However, I do recognize the existence of a basic human need to give, an altruistic drive, if you will. I know this flies in the face of the modern psychologies which limit the notion of drive to self gratification, but I’m convinced I’m right. Altruism is as basic as hunger and thirst. You, for example, satisfied your own altruistic need within the scope of your chosen profession. But when you stopped working, the hunger returned. And here,” he spread his arms, “you are.”

He opened a drawer of the desk, took out a brochure, and handed it to me. It was glossy and well-done, as polished as the quarterly report of an industrial conglomerate.

“On page six you’ll see a partial list of our board.”

I found it. For a partial list it was long, running the height of the page in small print. And impressive. It included two county supervisors, a member of the city council, the Mayor, judges, philanthropists, entertainment biggies, attorneys, businessmen, and plenty of M.D.s, some of whose names I recognized. Like L. Willard Towle.

“Those are all busy men, Doctor. And yet they find the time for our children. Because we know how to tap that inner resource, that wellspring of altruism.”

I flipped through the pages. There was a letter of endorsement from the governor, lots of photographs of children having fun, and even more pictures of McCaffrey. His looming bulk appeared pinstriped on the Donahue show, in tuxedo at a Music Center benefit, in a jogging suit with a group of his young charges at the victory line of the Special Olympics. McCaffrey with TV personalities, civil rights leaders, country singers and bank presidents.