Do We Not Bleed?. Daniel Taylor
eyes that dart from side to side, searching the skies (or the ceiling) for God knows what (there I go again). He has dull red hair and spastic motions, jerking his arms, stiff fingers splaying, and twitching his head in obedience to the electrical storm in his brain. I feel a strange kinship. (I know all about storms in the brain.)
The spectators for the game consist primarily of other residents of New Directions, staff, and parents. Cassandra Pettigrew, the executive director, is chatting it up with Mr. and Mrs. Wagner, big-time contributors and parents of Abby Wagner, one of the residents training for independent living. I made a big mistake with Abby when I first started at New Directions six months ago. The first time I saw her, I thought she was on staff. I was sitting on the steps of the group home taking a smoke break when Abby walked by from the main building. I remember watching her and thinking she was good-looking and wondering what her job here might be. I said hello as she passed, and she immediately changed direction and came and sat by me.
I introduced myself and asked her what she did at New Directions. She didn’t say anything, but smiled and touched my knee. I jumped up like her hand was a snake. She laughed, stood, and walked away toward the apartments for independent living, turning as she entered the building to give me a little wave.
The facilities manager, Mr. Springer, walks Billy out to his position as a split end. How he would think that Billy could ever see a football coming, much less catch it, is beyond me. But then I decide this too is fitting. Billy, the Lonesome End, like the once-famous Army receiver in the 1950s, stationed out near the boundary, alone, away from his companions in the huddle, and yet one of them. On the team, so to speak, but with an assignment all his own.
Mr. Springer is a model of purposeful bustle, aligning each player on the offense by position. A volunteer father is doing the same for the defense. It takes forever. They put one of the younger residents from the dorms, Ronnie, beside Ralph to play guard. When they turn to place another at tackle, Ronnie walks away toward the sidelines. Mr. Springer runs to get him, but by the time he gets Ronnie back next to Ralph, the tackle has laid down on the ground and started groaning. Ralph tells him to get up and shut up and he immediately does so. Meanwhile Ronnie has started talking with the defender standing across from him. They shake hands and then embrace. The defender points at Ronnie and announces to no one in particular, “He’s my buddy.” They both beam.
The choice for quarterback strikes me as strange. Jack is a silent teenager from the independent living units. I have never heard him speak, but perhaps he does. What’s clear is that he is fast. He is warming up by running full speed in random directions, under the tutelage of Mrs. Francis, the crafts coordinator. He runs with studied intensity, hunched over at the waist but with a long, smooth stride.
Mr. Springer calls Jack over to put him in position so they can start the game. They have decided not to have a kick-off. Why tempt Apep, Discordia, Morgoth, and the other gods of chaos? They will just start at midfield and hope for the best.
Mr. Springer places the ball in front of Ralph and tells him to bend over and then hike it to the quarterback when Jack is ready. Mr. Springer demonstrates. Luckily, Ralph says “Da dooey” instead of “Ah phooey” and bends down and holds on to the ball.
“Now Jack, you come up behind Ralph and put your hands under here, like this, and then say ‘hike!’ real loud.”
But Jack will have none of it. He crosses his arms, putting each hand in his arm pits, and shakes his head. Jimmy, from the running back position, immediately sizes up the situation.
“That’s inappropriate touching, Mr. Springer. Ms. Pettigrew says if anyone touches you there, you should tell one of the staff right away. No sirree. You shouldn’t be telling Jack to put his hands in there. No way, no how.”
Jimmy reinforces the speech with vigorous head shaking. And when others see it, they do the same. A moral consensus of shaking heads in a relativistic world.
Mr. Springer is clearly alarmed.
“I only want him to get the damn football, Jimmy. I’m not saying . . . . Well, no problem. We’ll use the shotgun formation. That’s better for Jack anyway. Jack, you back up three steps.”
Jack just looks at him. Jimmy counts out three on his fingers, touching each fingertip with the index finger of his other hand, and flashes them at Jack. High functioning indeed.
Mr. Springer guides Jack back a ways behind Ralph and places Jimmy to his side. He tells everyone to get set, and both the offense and the defense adopt various stances, some very creative. Billy stands out near the sidelines, twitching and gazing at the clouds and humming. Bonita and Judy are trying to yell “Go team” together, but the hitches in Judy’s cadence have Bonita flustered. To stay in sync with Judy, she is yelling something like, “Go the hell team.”
Mr. Springer backs away and shouts, “hike!” Ralph picks the ball up, turns, and tosses it back to Jack. Jack catches the ball and stares at it in his hands. The others, as dramatically as possible, hold their positions. No one moves.
“Get Jack!” Mr. Springer yells in exasperation.
The command animates everyone and they all, offense and defense alike, start toward Jack. He runs toward the sideline, as though to sweep around the end. It looks like a real football play. Momentarily. Jack runs across the sideline, between Judy and Bonita, knocking a pom-pom out of Bonita’s hand.
“Watch where you’re going, asshole.”
Jack keeps running, football tight under his arm, toward the dorms, never looking back, ignoring everyone calling to him to return. A few members of the defense are in hot pursuit, yelling, “Get Jack!” The others remain on the field giving each other high-fives for a job well done.
There isn’t another ball.
Ralph hasn’t moved. He surveys the scene, waves his hand in disgust, and walks away.
“Ah phooey.”
two
Judy has lived here for nearly thirty years. For most of that time it was run by the Sisters of the Good Shepherd and called by the same name, Good Shepherd. But they had proved themselves unfit in the eyes of government to provide modern standards of care and retreated, with sadness, to the cloister. (An uncommon change of mission for a religious order, but these are not common times.) A large, national, for-profit business, New Directions, had taken over in recent years and was trying to undo the damage the sisters had wrought.
A key part of that campaign involved procedures, guidelines, and models, not to mention action plans, safety plans, medical plans, socializing plans, work plans, and individualized learning plans (ILPs)—none of which the sisters had seemed to care about. The result was multiple shelves of three-ring binders, all in the process of being turned into computer files and databases. Professional care had, like the cavalry, arrived just in time. (I almost said “calvary,” further evidence of my misspent youth.)
All that orgasm of organization would have spelled doom for my participation had I really been expected to understand it. The executive director, Ms. Pettigrew, undoubtedly smelled my incompetence when I applied, but with the wages New Directions paid the hands-on workers, she was having trouble staffing the facility with anyone who could speak English. (Not that she would ever be caught suggesting that speaking English was preferable. Lengualism and all that.)
I remember the initial training session very well, sort of like I remember the sex ed talks in junior high and the drill sergeant in boot camp. I had already been working at New Directions for a few weeks. They waited for a quorum of new hires before having the required “Orientation to Working with Those with Special Needs” session.
Cassandra Pettigrew insists on leading these sessions herself. (I call her Cassandra to myself, but Ms. Pettigrew in the outside world.) She could farm them out to staff, but I think she wants both to stamp her authority on the head of every new hire—a sort of corporate 666, you might say—and she enjoys a forum in which she can demonstrate that she knows all the acronyms and you don’t. I thought the military had a lot of acronyms, but it doesn’t hold a candle to the