The Nut Hut Page 2

  We were Doing Good, after all. We were Helping the Less Fortunate. We were Making a Difference. I had asked not what my country could do for me.

  I felt marginally hopeful about doing what I could do for my country. Or in this case, for a state-run institution for the retarded, at least until I saved enough money to go to college.

  As Byerley’s 451st employee, I took a deep breath, stepped inside, and was hit full bore with twin blasts of heat and noise. The temperature was eighty degrees. It was humid. Tropical. Oppressive. After the chill of our outside walk, it was overwhelming. But not as overwhelming as the cacophony that blasted from the open French doors across the marble foyer.

  Beyond the doorway, from a large, high-ceilinged room, came high-pitched screams, hoarse bellows, maniacal laughter, howling, babbling and pounding. Someone sang in a monotone, jinga bells, jinga bells, jinga alla way, over and over.

  Inside was a herd of small boys and young men of all shapes and sizes. Some wandered restlessly barefoot, moving to an inner rhythm. Others rocked in brightly colored, plastic chairs that haphazardly lined the far wall. Several wore pants with wet stains at the crotch. I caught a whiff of urine not masked by the stronger smell of disinfectant.

  On the far side of the big marble room, one boy gazed wistfully through a bank of tall, barred windows. He was tethered to the wall by a longish chain attached to a leather belt on his waist.

  I flinched when Jeff put an arm around my shoulder. "Didn't they take you on a tour of the place during Inservice Training?" he asked, smiling.

  "I haven't been to Inservice Training yet," I said, trying to pretend that small, gleeful, naked males were an everyday sight. One nude, leaping boy was followed by a scowling older man wearing uniform white who carried a bundle of clothes. He spotted us through the open door and nodded.

  "They put you to work cold?" Jeff asked, nodding back at the man but talking to me. "No tour? No Inservice? No preparation for any of this?"

  I shrugged and dredged up a weak smile. It was the best I could do, considering I was suddenly terrified of what else was beyond those double doors. Not once in my happy dreams of Doing Good for Mankind had I thought through what the daily care of the retarded might actually entail. I certainly had not envisioned the practical aspects, some of which were staring at me through the open dormitory doors.

  I inhaled deeply, gathering what little courage I had.

  "Thanks for bringing me over," I said bravely to Jeff, and turned to march through the double doors.

  "Whoa, whoa," Jeff said, catching my arm. "Not down here. You're going to Foster Second."

  He pointed to a wide marble staircase that I had not noticed.

  "Foster Second." Jeff pronounced each word slowly. "Second. That means second floor."

  "Oh," I said, blushing. "Of course."

  "Relax," he said, patting my shoulder.

  A boy, possibly a teenager, with wild dark hair and spectacularly misaligned teeth, dressed in torn cotton pants and a shapeless gray t-shirt, leaned through the French doors and bellowed incoherently in our direction.

  "Martin, go sit down and behave yourself," Jeff said firmly to the screamer, who, to my complete surprise, smiled and walked away. "By this time next week, you won't even hear the noise."

  I must have looked doubtful because Jeff laughed.

  "Come on." He loped up the stairs, two at a time, motioning for me to follow. "Let the adventure begin."

  By the time we reached the next landing, opposite another pair of open French doors, the noise from Foster First had faded, replaced by screams, moans and babble of a deeper timbre.

  The wide staircase continued up (to Foster Third, I presumed), and the sounds drifting from above were different yet again from the lower floors.

  I hesitated for a moment, Jeff took my elbow.

  "I'll walk you in," he said. "Come on, no one bites."

  Sincerely hoping that was the case, I walked into a large room that smelled strongly of Lysol and bleach, and a hint of something far less pleasant.

  As on Foster First, the far wall of the rectangular room was dotted with tall windows, each covered by a locked, wire-mesh grate and a half-curtain. Sunlight beamed in through the streaked glass.

  Males, mostly in their late teens, were scattered around the room. These residents were older than those on Foster First. The deeper rumble made sense now. Their minds may not have matured, but their bodies and voices had.

  A few feet away, a tall, blonde boy stood with one foot far in front of the other as he rocked back and forth on his tip-toes. He held one arm above his head and dangled his wiggling fingers in front of his eyes. He shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth, fascinated by the swift motion of his own hand.

  Nearby, a heavyset boy with a protruding tongue, puffy, slanted eyes and a big grin sat in an orange plastic chair. With no hesitation or embarrassment, he slid one hand past the elastic waistband and down inside his pants.

  As soon as I realized what he was doing, I turned away, blushing.

  Jeff laughed again. "You'll get used to that soon enough. too."

  We passed another group of boys grouped on a couple of vinyl couches and more plastic chairs. They watched cartoons on a TV that was set on a platform far above them. They craned their necks and stared at the screen as raptly as the other boy had watched his moving fingers.

  Halfway along the near wall was a large oak desk, around which sat several uniformed employees. No one seemed to notice the noise or the heat. They talked and laughed comfortably together.

  Beyond the desk were several closed doors, and past those, a large arched opening from which boys periodically emerged, pulling up their pants. Fully one half of the room was taken up with regimentally neat rows of low, narrow beds, all made with matching wool blankets and a single pillow in a white case. The beds were separated by tall wooden cupboards that faced out from the head of each.

  One of the attendants spotted us. "Westphal," a youngish guy said, waving us over. "What are you doing here? Finally decide to work on a real ward?"

  "Nope. I'm just doing Velma Kaiser a favor and delivering a brand spanking new dorm attendant."

  Five attendants, three male, two female, focused on me. Two older men sporting nearly identical pot-bellies sat next to the man who'd spoken to Jeff. A scowling, gray-haired woman, who was sixty if she was a day, sat at the desk and looked over her glasses at me. Evidently she did not like what she saw. The other was a pretty young woman with dark eyes and dark hair. She raised an eyebrow at Jeff, who grinned in return.

  None of them smiled at me, however, and the older woman seemed genuinely displeased by my existence.

  Slowly, I realized a lot more than five pairs of eyes were focused in my direction. Except for the rocking boy and the one with his hand in his pants, the residents were now staring at me. I tried to decipher bits and pieces of a phrase that was being repeated around the room. It sounded like New Mom.

  "Everyone, allow me to introduce Rebecca Decker," Jeff said grandly. He turned to leave but caught my eye and dropped a slow wink. "Be gentle with her. She's a virgin."

  Chapter 3

  From the Foster Second day book:

  Byerley State Hospital and School

  Agatha B. Chalmers, Superintendent

  G. Louis Havermeyer, Assistant Superintendent

  Daily Log

  Ward: Foster 2

  Date: 1-22-71

  Medical: B. Johnson bed rest for cold. Temp 100.2-8:30 a.m.; 100.4-12:30 p.m.;100.4-2:30 p.m. Philpott- petit mal 11:15 a.m. No injury. 3rd one this week.

  Disciplinary Action Taken:

  7 a.m.-3 p.m.: Pretty quiet. No one misbehaved, except Moore, of course. Side room for 1 hr; been good ever since.

  Visitors: Havermeyer tour at 2 p.m. No incidents.

  Head Count: 7 a.m.-3 p.m.: all present.

  Treats and Special Events: C&B Jorgenson birthday party a.m. cake sent by parents, juice.

  General Commentary
: Corn for lunch. You know what that means.

  Signed: 7 a.m.-3 p.m.:Grace Petersen, Doyle Long, John Roberts

  3 p.m.-11 p.m.:

  11 p.m.-7 a.m.:

  Jeff left the ward chuckling to himself. The others stared at me as though I had just stepped off a flying saucer. I stood awkwardly, holding my coat, waiting for someone to tell me what to do.

  No one said a word.

  I tried to let the silence linger, but the waiting was unbearable.

  "Hi," I said.

  They nodded and turned back to each other, talking quietly about ward business: who'd eaten what that day, who was sick, who had misbehaved. They passed around a thin book made of pink pages stapled together along one edge. When they finished inspecting the open book, the older woman and two of the men signed the bottom of a page.

  No one paid any attention to me except for a few of the residents who gathered ten feet away in a huddle.

  "Um, excuse me," I said, stepping closer to the desk and further away from the group of boys. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I have no idea what I'm supposed to do."

  "We're giving the report right now," the older woman said with a frown.

  My puzzled expression seemed to annoy her.

  "Didn't they cover shift change during your Inservice Training?" she asked.

  "I haven't been to Inservice Training yet," I said. "This is my first day. I was told to come here. That's all I know."

  "Who told you to come here?" one of the men asked, not unkindly.

  "Mrs. Kaiser," I said, "over in the Supervisor’s Office. She would have brought me herself but there was a problem somewhere and so she sent me along with…" I paused, leery of overstepping bounds. "…Mr. Westphal."

  "Problem?" one of them asked.

  "Bertha," another said. "I’ll just bet. Tour today, you know."

  They all nodded.

  "Anyway…" I let the word trail.

  "Have you called in yet, young lady?" the older woman asked in a tone used chiefly by elementary teachers nearing retirement age.

  I had to ask. "Call in?"

  She shot a look at the others and sighed as though accepting a heavy burden. "As soon as you arrive on your assigned ward, you are supposed to call in to the switchboard and let them know that you are officially on duty."

  "Call the switchboard?"

  My stupidity was too much for her. She shook her head and turned away. The dark-haired girl pointed to a black phone that hung on the wall behind the desk. "Just pick up the phone and tell them your name and the ward."

  "What number do I dial?"

  The girl laughed. "You don't dial any numbers. Pick up any phone in the joint and a light goes on at the switchboard over in AB. They do the routing from there."

  "Thanks," I said, absurdly grateful for her kindness.

  I stepped over to the phone and picked up the receiver. The others did not immediately resume their conversation. Probably they were waiting to see if I knew how to use a telephone. Some of the residents had edged closer to the desk, the better to eavesdrop as well, but were shooed away.

  I held the receiver to my ear and waited, wondering if I did know how to use a telephone. I was very close to asking for help again, when a nasal voice finally came on the other end.

  "Switchboard."

  "Um, yes, um," I said, in a panic because I had already forgotten what I was supposed to say. "This is Rebecca Decker. I'm on Foster Second. Calling in. You know."

  There was a pause.

  "Who?"

  "Rebecca Decker," I said quietly and slowly. "I'm new. This is my first day. I was told to call in."

  "Standard procedure," the voice said. "Where are you?"

  "Foster," I said. "Foster Second."

  "Hmmmm. I don't have any Deckers listed for Foster Second today. Are you sure you're in the right place?"

  "Mrs. Kaiser in the Supervisor's Office told me to report here. Jeff Westphal brought me over."

  "Jeff." The voice chuckled. "Okay then."

  It seemed as though everything Jeff Westphal did met with universal approval.

  "So, I'm here," I said. "I just wanted to let you know."

  "Okay," the voice said.

  "Am I called in now?"

  "This really is your first day, isn't it?" the voice asked.

  "Yeah," I said wearily, looking at my watch. It was now 2:55 p.m., and I had a little more than eight hours to go before I could collapse.

  "Good luck then." She actually tsked and then hung up.

  I turned to face my audience, but they were huddled over the pink book again. I edged in closer.

  "Have a seat while we finish the report, Miss Decker," one of the men said.

  I felt as though I'd reached a milestone. I was being included in a routine task like a fellow employee. I looked around for a place to sit.

  While the residents sat on vinyl or fiberglass, or the floor, the employees seemed to prefer solid oak. I looked around for another wooden chair but saw none. With no alternative in sight, I pulled the nearest fiberglass chair toward the desk, wincing at the noise it made as it scraped across the marble floor, and sat down.

  In a cold, wet, puddle.

  I knew immediately knew what I'd done.

  So did everyone else.

  Even the residents who gathered around the desk snickered.

  Keeping my face as neutral as possible, I slowly stood back up.

  The gathered boys laughed out loud.

  "Bobby, you stop that right now," the older woman commanded. A nice looking, dark-haired laughing boy paused and looked at me sheepishly. "Go and get Miss Decker a towel immediately."

  He disappeared through the archway, returning with a white towel, which he offered with a shy smile.

  "Thank you," I said, taking it from him. I wasn't sure exactly what to do with it.

  By the time I’d composed myself, two of the men and the older woman had put on their coats and were saying goodbye to the others.

  They nodded at me on their way past.

  I nodded back, feeling like a fool. I’d wanted to Make the World a Better Place, and had ended up sitting in puddle of pee.

  "Don't take it so hard," the young woman said kindly. "It happens to everyone at least once. The trick is not to do it again."

  She smiled, so I smiled back at her.

  "Consider yourself baptized."

  Chapter 4

  General Schedule posted in the office on Foster Second:

  Fridays- 3-11 p.m. shift:

  2:45-3 p.m.: Afternoon shift-change report. Departing morning attendants sign day book.

  3 p.m.: Head count. Inspect windows, doors, locked rooms. Check bed patients, if any.

  3:15 p.m.: Dust day room.

  3:30 p.m.: Order special meals if needed (including attendant meal if necessary).

  4 p.m.: Put up meds.

  4:15 p.m.: Give out meds. Put up night meds.

  4:30 p.m.: Dance boys shower and dress.

  5 p.m.: If no bed patients, one attendant goes to early supper

  5 p.m.: Get out bibs. Special meals arrive. Feed bed patients, if any.

  5:30 p.m.: Take residents to supper. One attendant must stay on dorm if there are bed patients. Attendant staying on dorm eats supper there.

  6 p.m.: Residents return, all brush teeth. Dance boys wash and comb hair. Non-dance boys put on pajamas. Remaining attendants go to supper.

  7 p.m.: Attendants return with mail. 1 or 2 attendants accompany dance boys to dance. Non-dance boys watch TV.

  8 p.m.: Non-dance boys go to bed. Night meds given.

  9 p.m.: Dance boys return and go to bed. Night meds given.

  9:30 p.m.: Special boys as needed. Clean bathroom, office, side rooms as needed.

  10 p.m.: Head count.

  10:00 p.m.: Complete day book entries. Perform routine checks, mending and other chores.

  10:45 p.m.: Night shift change report. Departing afternoon attendants sign day book.

  The male
attendant, one of the older ones, with the brush cut and the beer belly, took one look at me and shook his head before walking off to test the doorknobs and rattle the windows.

  I shot a look at the young woman, who said with a small grin, "Don't mind John, Miss Decker. He's not very sociable."

  "Becky," I said quickly. "Call me Becky."

  I was eighteen. Miss Decker sounded like someone's maiden aunt.

  "Becky it is," she said, pulling her dark hair back into a ponytail. A minuscule diamond sparkled from the third finger of her left hand. "I'm Sharon. Sharon Price." She scooped a heavy key ring from the desk and dropped it into her pocket.

  "Mom? Mom?" One of the residents poked me gently on the shoulder with a stubby finger. "Mom? New mom? Hi, Mom! Hi. Hi." He grinned.

  He was my height, heavyset, with short, spiky, dark hair. His round head sat almost directly on his shoulders, and his thick tongue darted out between cracked lips.

  I reminded myself not to flinch and looked directly at him. "Hi," I said gravely, not knowing what else to say, or if I should say anything at all.

  Sharon nodded encouragement, so I smiled at the boy.

  My smile delighted him so much that he laughed outright. "New mom. New mom. New mom. New mom," he repeated over and over, clapping his hands. His slanted eyes almost disappeared in his wide grin.

  I grinned back, which made him giggle.

  "Yes, Tony," Sharon said gently. "New mom. Her name is Becky."

  This announcement caused an immediate stir around the desk. New mom. Becky new mom. The buzz spread through the ward. Even the boy who had been rocking back and forth, mesmerized by his own fingers, stopped and looked up.

  New mom. Becky new mom. Hi, new Mom. Hi!

  "What's the matter with you idiots?" John bellowed from across the room. "Do I have to come over there and crack some heads? Line up right now!"

  At first I thought he was yelling at Sharon and me. But the boys around the desk, in fact all of the boys, including the one with his hand in his pants, immediately scrambled into ragged rows in front of John by the TV.