The Complete Roderick (21 page)

‘The er Wood boy is it? I’m Dr Welby, heh heh, don’t be nervous boy, been a family doctor to your Ma and Pa for a good many years now, good many years.’ He stood Roderick up on his desk and looked him over. ‘Well well, yes, mmm, says here your regular doctor is a Dr Sonnenschein in Minnetonka.’ He applied
a stethoscope here and there. ‘Heart seems fine, yes, I’d say –’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’d say we can give you a clean bill of health, Roger.’ Dr Welby stepped to the door. ‘Over to you, George. Kid’s clean, I’ll fill out the form later only just on my way to see Bangfield about that lakeside property thing …’

‘Check.’ A young man in white came in, lifted Roderick down to a chair, and said, ‘How are ya, Roger?’

‘Fine. I’ve got a clean bill.’ He noticed that Mr George had lots of wiry black hair and red pimples. ‘Only I like to be called Roderick.’

‘Oh?’ George stared at him. ‘Now why is that?’

‘Because it’s my name.’

‘Is it? Okay,
Roderick
, now don’t let this white coat make you nervous, we’re just here to play a few games. You like games,
Roderick?
’

‘Yes.’ But if the man didn’t want to make someone nervous with his white coat, why did he wear it?

‘Okay now I’m going to show you some pictures, and – funny pictures – and I want you to tell me what you see.’

‘Is that the game?’

‘Yes, now what is this one?’

It was tricky, all right. The picture was nothing but a double blob, nothing like anything. Sideways it might be a cloud, reflected in a lake.

‘I don’t see anything much. A cloud?’

‘Yes, and now this one.’

‘A different kind of cloud with little wisps sticking out.’

‘And this?’

‘A cloud with –’

‘Okay, that’s enough. Now try these pictures. Look at each one and tell me a little story about it. Ready?’

He showed Roderick a picture of a young woman weeping, while an older woman stood behind her.

‘What’s the story here,
Roderick?
’

‘What, any story?’

‘Sure, whatever you like.’

‘I guess the young woman is crying because she’s just learned that her father swindled the bank he works at out of a million dollars, so the bank’s going to fold and everybody’ll lose their
savings. That means she can’t marry the hero because he’s the sheriff and has to arrest her father. She can’t cry in front of her mother here because she has a weak heart and might fall dead any minute. See that’s why the father embezzled the money for a special heart operation, when they catch him he says, “I’m glad it’s over,” and meanwhile the president of the bank, his son is fooling around and gets locked in the safe, and this sheriff who used to be a famous safe-cracker only nobody knows it, has to get the kid out and time’s running out, when he does it he has to resign as sheriff because everybody knows –’

‘Yeah okay that’s enough. Now –’

‘But just let me finish, he has to resign but the bank president gives him a million for saving the kid’s life, and now that he’s not sheriff he can give it to the girl’s father to pay back all the little invest –’

‘Yeah okay I get it, now try this one.’

A bakery truck was turned over on its side, loaves of bread spilling out of it.

‘A guy was delivering nitroglycerin to this place where they had to blast open a mine and rescue these miners they’ve been trapped a week and time’s running out.’

‘Listen, you’re not
trying
, Roger I mean Roderick. These old movie plots –’

‘But listen they put the nitro inside loaves of bread to keep it from getting shook up and, only the truck gets a blowout on a mountainside and the brakes go, these gangsters went and pinched the brake lines, the driver’s got this crippled sister she’s in love with one of the gangsters only –’

George showed Roderick two glasses, one short and squat, the other tall and thin. First he poured the short one full of orangeade.

‘See how much we have? Let’s mark it on the glass.’ He marked the level with a crayon. ‘Now we’ll pour it in this other glass.’ He poured from the short into the tall glass and again marked the level. ‘See, it’s way up here. Now. Do we have more orangeade? Or the same?’

After hesitating, Roderick said, ‘Less.’

‘No I mean now, in this big tall glass. Do we have more here than we did in the short glass? Or the same?’

‘Less.’

‘Look it can’t be less, Roger,
try
. How can it be less?’

‘Well …’ Roderick picked up the empty short glass and tipped it up. A single orange drop gathered at the rim and fell to the desk blotter. ‘
That
much less, anyhow.’

George’s pimples were brighter as he drew out a green form and began writing. He made no attempt to hide the words from Roderick, who was not yet scheduled to have a reading age.

Roderick read: ‘Suspicious, poss. schiz. tendencies coupled with extreme identity crisis. This boy is severely handicapped, and consequently indulges in vivid fantasies of violence, sex, crime, with recurring claustrophobic imagery. Overachiever, poss., with high IQ but poor grasp of abstract reasoning. Obvious resentment of authority, the classical overachievement syndrome. When asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he replied, “Nothing.”’

The screams from the playground could barely be heard in the teachers’ common-room, where a digital clock silently wiped away a few last minutes. Miss Borden stood, clipboard in hand, ready to inspect her troops. No one seemed to feel much like talking: they puffed hungrily at cigarettes, or leafed through tattered copies of
Educationalist Today
, or simply closed their eyes and pretended to doze.

‘We have a few minutes – any questions?’

She looked first to young Ms Beek, who sat brushing her hair with long, deliberate strokes. Last year Ms Beek had taken a sabbatical from Newer Public School, spent in a psychiatric hospital in Omaha. At least the trip had been good for her hair, now longer and browner and lovelier than ever. And the mind beneath its roots? Fully restored – or anyway full of soothing drugs. Even if they made her quiet and withdrawn, they kept her even-tempered, and wasn’t that the main thing? She’d soon be back in the swim.

Mr Goun, a pale, humourless young man with a glassy stare, sat reading a book. His red moustache moved as though in prayer, and his finger traced the lines across the page. Miss Borden leaned over his shoulder.

‘Poetry, Bill?’

He looked up. ‘Educational psychology. Just, er, brushing up.’

‘I understand. Not easy to move from seminars in the ivory tower to the, well, vigorous give-and-take of the grade school classroom. I’ll bet.’

He nodded. ‘Interesting theory here, about utilizing the catalyzation potential of the classroom situation in the micro-assessment of –’

‘Mmm, yes, sounds great.’ She passed on quickly to Mr Fest, or
as he preferred to be called, Captain Fest. He stood at the window surveying the playground through a pair of binoculars.

‘Still keeping tabs on the trouble-makers, Captain?’

He gave her a thumbs-up sign without looking around. ‘They needn’t think they’re getting away with anything out there, by golly. I know every face and every name. I know what they’re up to even before they do. The day will come. The day will come.’ He tapped his grey crewcut. ‘Fest never forgets.’

‘Fine, fine.’ She moved on to Mrs Dorano, the oldest member of the staff by some years. Mrs Dorano was large, shapeless, motherly-looking, and absolutely in charge of the second grade. She sat in ‘her’ chair nearest the door, knitting and frowning.

‘Any questions, Mrs Dorano?’

‘Goodness me, no. Why, my sweet little angel-puddings are just about always as good as good can be. If anyone has
questions or problems
around here, it’s only because
they just don’t understand children
. I
do
understand
my
kiddies.’

‘No doubt.’

‘If only we could keep them innocent! But no, the world of grown-ups is lurking around every corner, waiting to pounce on my wee people and start corrupting them!’

‘Oh yes?’ Miss Borden checked her watch.

‘Yes indeed.’ Mrs Dorano slipped a book from her knitting bag and held it up. ‘Do you know, I found this hideous thing in the school library! The school library! Luckily I managed to confiscate it before some tiny hand fetched it down from the shelf, some clear little eye chanced to –’

‘But this, this is just one of our standard texts for the sex education class.’

‘Exactly.
Dirt
education. For tender babes who never had a naughty thought in their innocent little noodles!’

‘But many of the parents have asked –’

‘For this corruption? I can’t believe it and I won’t believe it. You can call me an old-fashioned grumpy cross-patch if you like, but someone has to stand up and protect the little ones. Why, this book has pictures of unborn babies – right inside the you-know-what!’

One of the younger teachers giggled nervously. A mistake. Mrs Dorano raised her voice. ‘Oh, you may snigger! The world is full
of sniggerers, wicked grown-ups who laugh at innocence, who want to pull it down and soil it.’

‘Mrs Dorano.’ The principal removed her glasses. ‘I’m sure you have a point there. Why don’t you take it up at the next PTA meeting and –’

‘Oh I will, don’t worry.’ Mrs Dorano gave them all a motherly smile. ‘The PTA, certainly. And also the Newer Decency Society.’

Miss Borden turned away quickly. ‘How’s it going on the playground, Captain?’

‘Not much action. Few kids kicking around some kind of toy tank there or something. If that’s school equipment, I can promise them
they’ll
be sorry.’

‘Toy – My God, that’s the new pupil, the Wood boy! Where’s Ogilvy, why isn’t he out there stopping it?’ She rushed out, her head filled with printing-presses, a blur of headlines:

CRIPPLED BOY BEATEN, GANG KILLS CRIPPLED BOY AT NEWER SCHOOL, PARENTS TO SUE …

Threading the maze of corridors, she found Ogilvy by the door. He was kneeling, making a few adjustments to his shin-guards.

‘Some security guard!’ she shouted. ‘They’re beating the life out of a crippled kid out there. Let’s go!’

‘Can’t be everywhere at once,’ he whined behind her. ‘I was just looking at the busted lock on the A-V room.’

She stopped, half way out of the door. ‘What? Not again?’

‘Yup. Ripped off the stereo, TV camera, vidrecorder – the works.’

This was serious, a bad blow to the budget. For a moment, Miss Borden almost forgot where she was going.

Roderick learned one thing right away: he was different-looking. Up to now. he’d never thought much about his appearance. Ma and Pa and the other grown-ups didn’t seem to mind. But as soon as he appeared on the playground bigger kids started shoving him.

‘Hello,’ he said, hoping the shoves were accidental.

‘Get that,’ said a tall, red-haired boy with missing front teeth. ‘He talks! Hey you, freaky, what’s your name?’

‘Roderick. What’s yours?’

‘Roderick, what kinda name is that? Hahahaha it sounds like prick!’

The others doubled over at that one. The conversation turned to names, as, shove by shove, they backed Roderick against a wall. The tall boy, whom the others addressed as Chauncey, favoured the name ‘Freaky-prick’; others suggested ‘Pricky-freak’ ‘Pricky-dick’, etc., etc.

‘Roderick, hahahahaha,’ said one of the smaller boys. ‘It sounds like poopy-pants!’ He and another kid started wrestling and moved out of sight.

‘Freaky,’ said Chauncey again, moving closer. ‘Why you wearing a iron suit, huh? Huh? Think you’re tough or some-ping?’

‘No, well I just –’

‘Shaddap. You ain’t so tough I bet without that iron suit. Why don’t you take it off, huh? Huh?’

‘I can’t.’

‘“I can’t”, he says. Spose I take it off you, huh? I could use a iron suit like that, spose I just take it?’

‘He might die, stupid,’ said a kid in a blue track-suit. ‘It’s like a iron lung, ain’t that right?’

‘Shaddap.’ Chauncey grabbed Roderick’s arm and twisted; it turned easily in his grasp. ‘Shit, you ain’t so tough. Bet I could, bet I could take you apart.’

‘Get him, Chaunce.’

‘Yeah, get him.’

Chauncey hit Roderick hard where his stomach might have been, and jumped back shaking his hand. ‘Owww, Chrise, he’s solid steel!’

‘My old man’s got a stainless steel plate in his head,’ someone was saying, but just then someone grabbed Roderick by the head and pulled him over, and feet were kicking at him from every side.

The robot saw no point in trying to get up; he simply lay there, rolling and spinning under the barrage of tennis-shoes. After a while the kicking stopped, and someone helped him to get up. It was Chauncey.

‘You wanna be friends?’

‘Okay, sure.’

‘Okay then Rick, you got, listen, you got any lunch money?’

‘No. What’s that, lunch money? You mean they pay you to eat lunch or –’

‘Don’t be a smart-ass with me, I’ll, I’ll ionize ya. Now you listen and listen good.’

All at once Roderick realized: Chauncey was a villain. Villains invariably told people to listen good. Or else.

‘Listen good, I’ll let you off this time, only tomorrow you bring a dollar. Or else.’

‘Or else what?’

‘Or else we kick your ass, smart-ass.’

A bell rang. Roderick dusted himself off and looked over the scratches in his new paint job. Pa had painted him especially for school; he wouldn’t like this.

Chauncey gave him a last kick that resounded through his innards and left a dent, then ran off after the other kids. They all seemed to be heading for the building, so Roderick tagged along.

Mrs Dorano had just finished calling the roll, checking each name against one of her magnetic cards, when the door opened and the security man came in trundling Roderick.

‘I caught this kid sneaking around the hall,’ he said. ‘Yours?’

She consulted a lone card. ‘This must be little, er, little Roger. The Wood boy.’

Someone piped, ‘Hahaha, looks like a steel boy to me.’

Unsmiling, she waited until the uproar settled. ‘Naughty. We don’t make fun of crippled people, do we, boys and girls?’