Darrell Schweitzer - Full MoonCity

“Are you sure you can get home okay?” the ranger asked as Jake and Ben went to the paved walkway leading out of the park.

“Yeah. We know the way, don’t we, Ben?”

The big dog gave a merry little croon.

The ranger looked displeased but he said nothing more; he scribbled something in his notebook and waved to Jake before continuing on his rounds.

Jake and Ben walked together for about half a mile, as far as West Sycamore; Jake had spent most of the time trying to figure out how he could keep Ben without Mom or Uncle Bob finding out about him. At the intersection, Jake turned right and headed for the last quarter mile between him and home, but Ben halted, refusing to go farther. Jake pulled on the cloth around Ben’s neck, but to no avail. He let go of the collar and pointed down West Sycamore.

“It’s not a long way, Ben. Three blocks down and turn into Barrington Court. It’s the rear unit of number twenty-two,” said Jake, trying not to plead. “Come on. It’s not hard to find.”

Ben moved away from the boy; he was now out of reach and putting more distance between them by moving sideways. As Jake came toward him, he threw back his head and howled, a sound so eerie and forlorn that Jake stopped still. Ben wagged his tail, turned, and hastened off into the night, Jake trying to follow him.

Two blocks later, Jake gave up and turned around, his head down and a feeling of tremendous loss weighing heavily upon him.

The middle-aged woman in the boxy tweed suit at the door had to call out twice to be heard over the vacuum cleaner; when Esther turned the machine off, she gave Jake’s mother a tentative smile through the worn screen. “Missus Sparges?” she repeated. “Missus Esther Sparges?”

Esther made a grimace that was supposed to be a friendly expression. “Yes?” She stayed away from the door.

“I’m Isobel Matthews-from Luther Burbank Elementary-Jake’s school? We sent you a letter a month ago about your boy, but we haven’t heard anything from you, and we really do need to talk.” She pressed her lips together, then explained. “I’m a psychologist for the district, and Ms. Davidson-your son’s teacher?-has expressed some concerns about him.”

“My boy’s fine,” said Esther, bristling. “If she says otherwise, she’s wrong.”

“I don’t mean that he’s disruptive, or that his grades are falling. Nothing like that,” said Isobel hastily. “Quite the opposite; Jake is very quiet and self-contained. He has artistic talents. He’s good at science. He’s an excellent student.”

“Then why are you here?” Esther demanded, setting her vacuum cleaner aside and coming up to the screen.

“Because he’s showing signs of serious depression: that can be dangerous in children Jake’s age. There’s reason to be worried. He’s withdrawn, he keeps to himself, he spends his lunchtime alone, he writes stories about a hero with a secret identity, he wants nothing to do with school activities beyond his classroom work, he is-”

“Oh, God, you psychologists have to find something wrong with everyone, don’t you?” Esther glowered at Isobel. “Look, you’ve got Jake all wrong. He’s kind of shy, and he’s real sensitive about being small. He’s had a rough time of it. Why can’t you leave the poor kid alone?”

“Because he’s at risk, Missus Sparges.” She paused. “May I come in? This isn’t the sort of discussion one should have on the porch.”

Esther hesitated. “I think our conversation is over,” she said, trying to be authoritative and ending up sounding petulant.

“Oh, I hope not, Missus Sparges, for your son’s sake,” said Isobel. “I hope you’ll give me a chance to explain so he won’t end up in serious trouble.”

“That won’t happen; not to Jake.”

“It very well may, if we can’t find out what’s bothering him and try to do something about it.” Isobel wanted to encourage Esther, so she added, “You don’t want to see him hurt by this, do you?”

“Look, lady, I think Jake still hasn’t got over his father’s death, and that makes him quiet and… thoughtful.”

“When did his father die?”

“Five years and seven months ago,” said Esther a bit wistfully, an emotion that faded and was replaced by truculence. “He was okay, and then he was real sick, and then he was dead. At thirty-one, he got sick and died. And I was left with bills that ate up all the insurance money and a four-year-old to raise.” She was afraid that sounded bad, so she added, “It hasn’t been easy for either of us.”

Isobel had seen information about this in Jake’s file, but didn’t mention it to Esther. “Would you like me to refer you to a counselor, or to one of the community support groups? You might be eligible for food stamps and money to help cover the costs of raising a child. I’d be glad to help you through the process, if you like. It might make it easier for both of you, and that would take some of the stress off you and Jake.” She tried to be reassuring but could tell by Esther’s frown that she wasn’t succeeding.

“No, I wouldn’t.” She knew she had been too blunt, so she added, “Thanks. We’ve managed this far, we’ll get along the rest of the way.”

“I hope you’re right, Missus Sparges,” said Isobel, doing her best to engage Esther’s attention in a more positive way. “But for the sake of your boy, I hope you’ll consider having him evaluated for depression. It won’t cost you anything. The district has to pay for it.”

“You mean you’ll pay to find out we have to buy him drugs and things, and you aren’t going to buy those for him, are you?” There was a touch of panic in her eyes now, and she took hold of her elbows. “If you want to hook a kid on legal drugs, you go right ahead and do it, so long as it isn’t my boy.”

“But Missus Sparges, I hope that he won’t need anything more than counseling, or perhaps some kind of therapy. We won’t know that until he’s been interviewed by the district psychiatrist. I need to have your permission to set up the appointment.”

“Well, you don’t have it,” said Esther.

“But it could be very important,” Isobel persisted. “This could head off trouble down the line. The teen-age years are very vulnerable ones, especially for a boy like Jake. Depressed children can act out in very damaging ways. Think about those terrible school shootings-”

“Oh, God, not the Columbine thing again. Jake’s nothing like those two lunatics, nothing at all like them.”

“I agree,” said Isobel promptly. “But if he goes untreated, he could end up in that kind of hidden anger that took hold of those boys. He might not go on a rampage, but he could do something desperate.” She pressed on the screen. “Let me explain it to you, so you can make up your mind what you want to do.”

“I’ve already made up my mind what I want to do. It’s you who’s having trouble getting the message.” She really wanted a cigarette right now, and more than that she wanted this Isobel Matthews to go away. Then she had a sudden inspiration. “Besides, Jake will be spending six months back east with my sister Judith, and that would fu-screw up any therapy, wouldn’t it? Maybe, if he’s still having trouble when he gets back, we can talk about it again.” She reached for the front door, prepared to close it on Isobel.

“Here,” said Isobel, holding out her card. “If you change your mind, call me. I want to help you, Missus Sparges, and your son.”

“If you want to help, go away,” said Esther, ignoring the card and shutting the door with what she intended to be finality.

“Esther, honey, that kid of yours is bad news-what have I been telling you all along?” Uncle Bob was stretched out on the sofa, a six-ounce glass of tequila in one hand and an open Negra Modelo on the coffee table beside him.