Hush (10 page)

him to shoot. But not now. Later, when he's older. If he's good. They got to

earn your respect.
He climbed in and shook the boy's shoulder. "When we get there, don't go popping

off about your mom. Remember, I keep my promises."
The kid wouldn't even look at him. What else is new? But he'd heard, Chet could

tell. Nothing wrong with those ears. Nothing wrong with the rest of him either.

Chet smiled. Hell, it couldn't have worked out better if he'd taken a pair of

pruning sheers and cut his damn tongue right out of his head.
He liked having a son again. He never went without one for long. A son was good

for a man. As he started driving into town, Davy was good for hearing him out.

Sometimes Chet had a lot to say, had to unload his every concern. This was one

of those times. They were passing a roadside park with picnic tables and tall

trees.
"You see that? They got as many trees as ants in that place. And that's just a

goddamn waste. Those trees are like fruit. That's right, just like pears and

apples. If you don't pick them, the worms get them. Trees are no damn different.

You go in the forest and see a tree dying by itself, that's a crime. There are

all kinds of things feeding away at it, like worms and bugs, but not people.

See, if I took down those trees back there, we'd eat for a year. Easy. And no

one would miss them. It's for the tourists, and they can't miss them if they

don't know they're not there. They can't. Like there." They were driving by a

broad clear-cut that extended all the way up the side of the valley. "That fed a

lot of people. That park back there, that's not doing a damn thing. Not for you,

not for me. No one even there. Whole country's full of parks, big parks, and no

one's there and they keep us out. It's just worms and bugs feeding in places

like that. But that'll change when people get hungry enough. You'll see. Then

we'll all get to feed."
Davy gazed at the stumps and broken branches, all gray and bleached by the sun.

Bark? he wondered. He didn't see any. He knew it protected trees, his real daddy

had told him so, but the bark was gone. Why?
He also saw the weeds, some as tall as he was. They looked like they had

stickers on them, like nothing he'd want to touch. And dead ferns lay beside the

road like fossils in the dust, like maybe there were dinosaurs around here that

did this, big scary things with huge teeth. He'd seen dinosaur movies and once

had a dinosaur book, but he couldn't remember much about them now. He could

never remember stuff, and his head felt like it was filled with ants or some

other kind of itchy things that crawled around inside and wanted to get out.
Davy looked at the stumps again. Hundreds of them. All the way to town. Trees

all cut down. The bark still bothered him a lot.
14
Without looking away from Harold Matley's self-portrait, Celia hit the intercom

button on her phone and thanked Barbara.
"Tell them I'll be right there."
She hurriedly put aside the latest drawing by the schizophrenic boy and arranged

the papers on her desk, producing a semblance of order in a matter of seconds.
In the reception area Barbara, with her half-moon glasses nesting in her cloud

of white hair, suggested the Boyces take a seat while they waited. Chet looked

over at the couch by the window but didn't move, so neither did Davy; and when

Celia stepped from the hallway she thought they looked as rigid as fence posts.
"Hi, I'm Mrs. Griswold, and you must be Mr. Boyce?" She let her voice rise when

she said his name, like the smile that some people can place at the end of a

greeting without sounding affected.
"Yeah, that's me." Chet offered her a firm, eager handshake, which Celia took as

a positive sign. A lot of parents showed up full of resentment because they

thought their children's problems reflected poorly on them. Often they were

right. The staff typically fought their biggest battles with the mothers and

fathers or guardians. They were generally the most disturbed members of their

families and getting them to change their behavior usually proved more difficult

than working with their offspring. When the staff did manage to make progress

with a child, it almost always happened despite the parents. In her more

charitable moments Celia reminded herself that rotten family trees have deep

roots, and that the parents themselves probably had been abused; but she found

it hard to be so generous, especially after she'd made small gains with a child

only to see the boy or girl battered into a stunned submission by another

beating— or worse— at home.
But Celia considered it a mark of her professionalism to remain nonjudgmental

when she met a parent. You had to give them the benefit of the doubt. If you

didn't, you'd become suspicious of everyone and never make significant progress

with the families. And some parents honestly concerned themselves with the

plight of their children. She could only hope this was true with Mr. Boyce. He

did appear pleased to be here. That was a start.
"And this is my stepson, Davy."
She found this impressive too, that he took the initiative with the

introduction. A lot of parents lacked all social skills and became belligerent

with the staff right in front of their children. It didn't make working with the

kids any easier when the parents signaled their disapproval so obviously.
"Hi, Davy, I'm glad to meet you." She stuck out her hand, but the child refused

to acknowledge it. Mr. Boyce nudged his stepson, then bent over and murmured,

"Do it." But even with this stern prodding the boy kept his eyes fixed on the

floor.
I'll bet he is a handful, thought Celia.
"Remember my promise. Now shake Mrs. Griswold's hand."
She wondered what Mr. Boyce had promised his stepson. Candy? Money? She hoped

not: bribery worked only in the short run.
Whatever it was, it did prompt Davy to offer Celia his limp hand to go along

with his downcast eyes and empty expression. Some children are instantly

likable. She realized the Boyce boy was not among them, then reminded herself

that her cool reaction to him might be little more than a mirror reflecting

Davy's reaction to the world. If he found it cold, or even cruel, he would no

doubt withdraw from every encounter and produce the same response in the people

he met.
"Davy, why don't you and your stepfather come back to my office and I'll explain

to you what we'll be doing here."
Chet shook his head. You and your stepfather. Explain to you. Not even talking

to me.
"Mr. Boyce." Celia saw that he looked unhappy. "Is that okay with you?"
"Sure, sure." He recovered quickly. "It's just no use talking to him. Most times

he doesn't listen. Might as well just talk to me."
"How about if I talk to both of you?" she suggested cheerily.
Chet nodded. "Might work." But as he followed her down the hall he clenched his

jaw and locked his eyes on her bottom, all snugged up in those tight-ass jeans,

and he realized that she looked just like a... boy. Short body, short hair, tiny

butt, nothing on top. Nothing like a woman. That sickened him, truly sickened

him, seeing her parading around like this, like a boy. Just who the hell does

she think she is? Chet hated that more than anything, when women weren't women.

He couldn't take that kind of misbehavior, not one little bit. Wasn't meant to

be, but here she was ordering him around—"Here, how about this seat, Mr. Boyce?

And Davy over there, that's right"— and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Not a damn thing except sit there while she walked around her big desk, sit

there while she made you look at her tiny goddamn ass, sit there while every

goddamn thought ate away at him till his whole goddamn mind fried in an acid

bath of anger.
*
When Celia worked with children she often sat in front of her desk to eliminate

as many barriers as possible, but during their evaluation she preferred to keep

some distance to avoid unduly influencing their responses. Her initial posture

with the children dovetailed nicely with the need to establish professional

authority with the parents, though Mr. Boyce did not appear troublesome.
But the more she talked, the more Chet could feel his rage building. She was

drawing the fury right out of him. Hell, if she wasn't. That sweet smile, those

smooth words, they always had those smooth words. Always.
"Now, Davy, I understand—"
There she goes again, ignoring me. He could not take this...this undermining him

in front of his boy, making him sit there and take it. And take it. And take it.
"...you've been having some problems in school, so that's why we're meeting

today to see if we can find solutions. I also understand you're also having

difficulty expressing yourself, so when we get started here I'm going to have

you draw pictures. Do you like to—"
Pictures? PICTURES? They take him out of second grade and make me bring him here

so he can draw some goddamn pictures. Chet spoke up. He had to, but in a soft

voice that belied the seething inside.
"Draw pictures? Why? Davy doesn't even talk. How's that going to help him? Is

this why you pulled him out of school, to draw pictures?"
Celia saw the honest confusion on Mr. Boyce's face. She'd run into it before

with other parents who considered art frivolous, not a real school activity.
"Mr. Boyce, this is Davy's school now. This is where he's going to have to come

every morning, and where he'll have to stay until we can figure out how to get

him talking again."
"And how are you going to do that with picture drawing?" This worried Chet, but

for reasons he could not yet explain.
"Because I'm an art therapist, that's what I do, and sometimes I can be

especially helpful with children like Davy who don't speak."
Celia noticed that Mr. Boyce, unlike most of the parents she worked with, paid

close attention to her, so she continued,
"You see, a lot of children don't talk because they're not comfortable with

themselves. But if we can get them to draw, we can help them. Instead of saying

how they feel with words, they say it with pictures."
Enough of that, Celia told herself, you're probably boring him to death. But

much to her surprise Mr. Boyce sat forward, as if to ask another question.

Imagine that, she thought, a parent who's really interested.
"No kidding. So you're really kind of like a...a detective." Chet almost winced

when he realized what he'd said.
"A detective? I never thought of it like that. What do you mean?" But even as

she replied she knew he was right. Art therapy was detective work. She used

lines and colors, shapes and forms instead of fingerprints, blood analysis,

bullets and ballistics.
"You're looking for clues in what they draw, right?" Chet knew he'd made a

mistake suggesting she was a detective, but he couldn't turn back now.
"Yes, I suppose you could put it that way, but I'd prefer to think of myself as

someone just trying to help."
She really didn't want to encourage this art therapy as detective business. Too

much of that could make a parent feel persecuted. If you could get them on your

side or keep them there, as Mr. Boyce appeared to be, you could make progress

with their children much more quickly.
"So what do you look for?" Chet had a familiar feeling in his stomach, the way

it acted up when things weren't just right in his world. It wasn't a good

feeling at all.
"That varies from child to child."
"But you've done this before?"
"Oh, many times. I've worked with lots of children like Davy who don't talk."

Celia had stretched the truth, she had actually worked with only two other

elective mutes, but she considered it important to build confidence in the boy

and his stepfather.
Lots of children. Chet found those words chilling. Maybe the kid wasn't so

unusual. Maybe this art therapy really did work. Maybe the very first thing Davy

would say was...But no, he wouldn't let that happen. He'd never let it happen

before. You stop them. You stop them dead in their tracks if you have to. But

you keep up a smooth front... like their smooth words.
"But it's not like he's really talking, is it?"
"No, you're right, Mr. Boyce. It's not like he's talking like you and I are

talking, but you'd be amazed at how clearly some children say things with their

drawings. Sometimes it takes a while to get them going, but sometimes it happens

quickly."
"That's really something. That's great." Chet put his arm around Davy's

shoulders and hugged him. "Isn't that great, Davy? They're going to be able to

help you. Finally, someone who can help." He smiled at Celia. "Is it just you

that does this or do the others"— he gestured vaguely at the Center—"do they do

it too?"
"No, it's just me. I'm the art therapist. There aren't that many of us in the

country, not like psychologists, but we're having a lot of success ..."
So it is just her.
"...I won't be the only one working with him, though. Our entire staff will be

involved. We all work together."
"But you're the one"— Chet pointed playfully to her—"that we're pinning our

hopes on."
"No, not really." Celia smiled modestly. "I can't do it all by myself." She

looked directly at Davy, who had remained stone-faced throughout the meeting.

"I'm going to need your help, Davy, but I bet you'll like the drawing we do."

She raised her eyes to Chet, a handsome man, she thought. "And of course if