“I—I—”
“Hadn’t you wondered about my dad? Why he’s never around?”
“Birdie told me weeks ago when I went to your house to pick up the math book. I never told a soul.”
Not even your own mother, nagged a voice inside me. All at once, the spicy smell became overpowering, and I heard Mom telling Dad to go easy on the after-shave. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I turned away from Tree.
“You’ve known all along?” he asked. “Is that why you haven’t come to a game? Because I’m a jailbird’s son?”
“No. I—I’ve always been a loner. I’ve never been comfortable around other people. Because of Punky.” I felt sick. This was the first time I’d admitted the truth to anybody but myself.
“Sheeesh, you’re just like Avanelle,” Tree said, rolling his eyes. “You’re both miserable because you’ve got something to hide. Sometimes the best way to tackle a problem is to meet it head-on. That’s what I did when I came here. I told the whole football team about my dad. It was better than worrying every second that they’d find out.”
“But—but—what did they do?”
“They all stared at me for a minute, then a couple of guys slapped me on the back and said, ‘That’s too bad, man,’ and then Coach asked if we were going to have a hen party or play football.”
“That’s it?”
“‘That’s it.”
“Your situation doesn’t compare to Punky‘s,” I argued. “Anybody’d think twice before crossing you. You’re built like a tank.”
The car door swung open, and Punky said gruffly, “Hey, you, that’s my girl.”
Tree’s eyes lit up with mischief, and he slid across the seat and threw his arm around me. “I say she’s my girl. ”
“She’s my girl, you old goat. Scram!” replied Punky, jerking his thumb westward.
Tree laughed, scooted back across the seat, and climbed out of the car. “Built like a tank, she says, but look who gets the girl.”
I watched him go as Punky crawled in beside me and slammed the door. I was limp as a dish rag, and I could still feel the weight of Tree’s freckled arm across my back.
When Aunt Queenie got in the front seat, she wrinkled her nose and fanned the air, saying, “I declare, Delrita, what are you wearing? It smells like a perfume factory in here.”
SEVENTEEN
The Sheltered Workshop
On the day Punky was to start work, he came into the kitchen with his jogging pants pulled up almost to his armpits.
“Hey, Punk-Man, give your shirt some breathing room,” Uncle Bert said as he tugged the elastic down to Punky’s waist.
“My pants, you old goat.”
“You’re the old goat.” Uncle Bert laughed.
Aunt Queenie handed Punky a shiny new grown-up’s lunch box. “For your first day on the job,” she said.
“You have it,” replied Punky. He set his old lunch box on the counter and tapped the picture of Jellybean the Clown. “My box.”
“But look here. This one’s got an ice pack and a Thermos bottle.”
“You have it. ”
“Well, I declare,” said Aunt Queenie, removing the sandwich, chips, and vegetable sticks from the new lunch box and slapping them on the counter.
I grinned as Punky calmly shuffled the treasures in his old lunch box to make room for the food. He had won this round.
After breakfast, Uncle Bert said, “Well, Punk-Man, it’s time for working men to hit the road.”
“Wait a minute.” Punky sneaked a glance at Aunt Queenie, nestled his lunch box under his arm protectively, and sauntered off to his room. I could hear him sorting through his woodcarvings.
Uncle Bert went out and started the car. When he came back and Punky wasn’t in sight, he called, “Punk-Man, time’s a-wasting.”
“Wait a minute.”
I smiled into my napkin. Uncle Bert could drag Punky off to the workshop, but wild horses couldn’t make him hurry.
Aunt Queenie poured another cup of coffee and sat down. “Delrita,” she said, “Bert and I think you should go along to the workshop this morning. See for yourself that there’s nothing to fear.”
I jerked my head up. “But—but—what about school?”
Studying me with eyes that were made up in lavender to match her dress, my aunt said primly, “Not every lesson can be learned in a classroom.”
I stood beside Uncle Bert’s car, waiting for Punky to gather up his things, and watched as men and women streamed in the door of the workshop.
A huge lump formed in my throat. Some of the people were lame or had twisted features, others resembled Punky because of their Down’s syndrome, and still others didn’t look handicapped at all. I caught myself doing the unforgivable—staring, just like the strangers who had stared at Punky a thousand times.
Bits of conversations floated about, as if someone were flicking the dial on a television set.
“Hi, Susie. You watch Corky last night on TV?”
“Yeah. He’s cute. He’s my boyfwiend.”
“Hey, Mike, how about those mud wrestlers?”
“I watched cowboys. John Wayne.”
To my surprise, these people didn’t seem the least bit unhappy. In fact, they gave the impression they were glad to be here.
A blind man moved up the sidewalk slowly, feeling his way with a long white cane. When he got closer, the lump in my throat grew larger. His forehead was caved in so far that I could have laid my fist in the groove.
“Rudy, old buddy, give me five,” said a middle-aged man in a faded chambray shirt and overalls.
“Hi, Steve,” the blind man replied cheerfully, reaching for the handshake. I remembered something I’d heard a long time before: Blind people “see” with their ears and hands.
When Punky removed his cowboy hat and stopped to salute the flag, I watched a driver lift a gray-haired crippled man out of a van and into a wheelchair.
“Need a hand?” asked Uncle Bert.
“No, thank you,” said the crippled man, in a high, squeaky voice. With tiny hands that were twisted almost backward, he pushed a button and steered the chair up the ramp at the front door.
We followed him into the building, where a circle of employees stared at us. As I glanced around at the curious faces, I felt like a bug being studied under a microscope. With a start, I realized that Uncle Bert and I were the oddballs here, the outsiders.
The workers kept staring as they filed past the reception desk and greeted the secretary. They moved on into a lounge area, then looked back at us and whispered among themselves as they cubbyholed their coats and lunches.
The secretary didn’t notice us until Punky joined the line of well-wishers and said, “Hi, pretty girl.”
“Well, hello. You must be Richard Holloway.”
“Punky.”
Uncle Bert stepped forward. “I’m Bert Holloway, Punky’s brother and guardian. I’d like to see Mr. Reese.”
“Sure thing. I’ll take you to his office in just a minute. ”
Punky was chewing on his fingers and eyeballing the flow of workers, but he hadn’t offered to shake hands with anybody. What was going through his mind?
I felt a hand on my head and turned around to see a chubby man in overalls and a tan cowboy hat peering at me through thick glasses. He had doughy white skin, almond-shaped eyes, and a tongue that seemed too big for his mouth. Stroking my hair, he said, “You’re pretty. My wife.”
Punky puffed out his chest and bellied up to him, saying, “Hey, you old goat. That’s my girl.”
There was a thirty-second standoff as Punky and the fellow stood belly to belly, hat brim to hat brim.
The secretary laughed. “I see Punky has a protective nature, but Barney’s harmless. He wants to marry all the girls. He’s asked me half a dozen times.”
“My girl,” Punky repeated.
Barney took a step backward, removed his hat, and ran stubby fingers through his thick brown hair. He glanced from Pun
ky to me, before sprinting away. and calling over his shoulder, “My wife.”
“My girl, you old goat.” “My wife,” countered Barney as he melted into the crowd.
I couldn’t help but chuckle. Barney was amazingly like Punky, even down to having the last word.
Punky grinned, evidently deciding he’d met his match. He marched over and placed his lunch box and cowboy hat in a cubbyhole.
“Hey, that’s my spot,” objected a rosy-cheeked blonde in a pink sweatshirt and blue jeans. I recognized her as Susie, the girl who liked Corky on TV.
“Hi, pretty girl,” said Punky, touching the pink bows in her curly hair.
Susie giggled. “What’s your name?”
“Punky.”
A buzzer sounded, touching off shouts of “Time to work!” as the crowd surged through some swinging doors. Susie took Punky’s arm and she fell in step with the others.
“Looks like your brother has already found a friend,” said the secretary.
“Shall I bring him back?” asked Uncle Bert.
“No, he’ll be all right with Susie. Now, if you’ll just follow me,” she said, and led us down a hall to the manager’s office.
“Hello, Bert,” the manager said, shaking hands with my uncle.
“This is my niece, Delrita Jensen,” said Uncle Bert. “Delrita, meet Charles Reese, better known as Boss.”
Boss reminded me of Punky’s punching-bag clown—tall and round, with a ruffle of hair around his otherwise bald head. He said, “Have a seat, young lady,” and I backed into an overstuffed chair that swallowed me whole.
“Delrita’s been with Punky all her life,” said Uncle Bert, sitting down at my right, “and naturally she’s skeptical about the workshop. Maybe you can explain it better than I.”
Boss settled back in his chair and flashed me an easy grin, saying, “I like to think of this as a place for mountain climbing.”
“Mountain climbing?” I said.
“Most of our employees have been kept in a valley by their disabilities. We teach them to use whatever capabilities they have to climb up to the mountain-top. They’re freed by what they can do, instead of being restricted by what they can’t.”
I sat stone-faced, feeling small and insignificant as I remembered Rudy with his cane and the crippled man guiding his own wheelchair.
“We refinish furniture here, and we do jobs for factories, like packing detergent into cartons and putting ballpoint pens together,” Boss said. “Sometimes it takes a lot of convincing to get a contract, but once they’ve tried us, they come back for more. It’s easy to understand their reluctance, when you consider that society as a whole, and sometimes even the family, underestimates the handicapped.”
I narrowed my eyes and looked from him to Uncle Bert. Was that last statement aimed at me?
Boss leaned forward, folded his arms across his desk and said, “Some of our employees graduate from here and go to work in the mainstream.”
“The mainstream?”
“Regular jobs in regular places—factories, laun dromats, restaurants. Have you heard of Mcjobs?”
I shook my head.
“It’s a program the McDonald’s Corporation has set up for the disabled, to teach them to work in its restaurants. I just sent one of my best employees over to the local McDonald’s to work with a job coach.”
I pictured the unlucky person learning the ropes, only to become a sideshow for every little kid who ordered a Happy Meal. It sounded like McTrouble to me.
“But we do more than just work at the sheltered workshop,” Boss went on. “Our people compete in Special Olympics, which is for all handicapped people, and we train on Saturdays. Churches take turns hosting monthly birthday parties. Different clubs sponsor dances for special occasions. As a matter of fact,” he said happily, “your aunt, Queen Esther Holloway, is our most active community volunteer. ”
Uncle Bert grinned at my look of surprise. He said, “Delrita knows how good Queenie is at organizing things. ”
All at once, the room seemed hot, and I felt the blood rising to my cheeks. No wonder Aunt Queenie thought she was the expert. She’d certainly done a lot more than I’d given her credit for.
“Now,” said Boss, “would you like a tour of the building?”
I glanced hopefully at Uncle Bert.
“That’s why we’re here,” he said.
As Boss led us toward the work area, I heard scratching sounds and a steady hum of voices. We rounded a corner and walked into a bright room where some workers were sanding furniture.
The noises trickled into silence as, one by one, the employees realized there were strangers in their midst. Now their sandpaper was clutched in idle hands, and dusty faces were looking toward us with curious expressions.
“How’s it going?” Boss asked.
“Good, Boss,” came the replies.
Barney removed a red bandana from the bib of his overalls and wiped sawdust from his glasses. After replacing them, he grinned up at me and said, “My wife.”
“Barney, show this little lady what your job is.”
Barney held up a wooden spindle and said, “Feel.”
touched the wood. It was smooth as velvet.
“Sand with the grain,” Barney said. “Everybody sand with the grain.” He pointed to the workers at his table and called them each by name. “Elaine, Martin, Freda, Ray, Connie. And Barney. Six.”
Connie’s face was lopsided, and her mouth didn’t quite work right as she asked, “What your name?”
“Delrita.”
“That nice name.”
“Thank you. I like your T-shirt.”
Connie looked down at her shirt and giggled. “My sister. She not know I wear it.”
Boss laughed. “Connie has six sisters, and she’s always wearing their clothes. One of these days, they’re going to wise up and start locking their closets.”
“Yeah, Boss,” replied Connie, giggling again as she went back to her sanding.
The workers were relaxed now, and the noise level started up again.
“Hello, young lady. Welcome to the workshop,” said an old man at my elbow.
“Hello,” I replied, recognizing him as the “general” from the parade. Today, instead of a military uniform he was wearing a navy blue jacket that said “Workshop Supervisor.”
Boss moved on and stopped beside another group of workers. “I’ve got the best fine-sanders in the state of Missouri,” he said, placing a hand on the shoulder of the man with the tiny, twisted hands, “and Frankie’s the best in the business.”
Frankie grinned and ducked his head at the unexpected praise.
In the center of the room, workers clustered around a table spread with black plastic sheets that looked like giant photographic negatives.
“They’re peeling labels off microfilm so the silver can be recycled,” Boss said.
I spied Susie’s pink bows, and then I spotted Punky. Seated across the table from each other, heads almost touching, he and Susie were stripping the same sheet of microfilm. The look on Punky’s face was of total concentration.
Somebody poked him and pointed at Uncle Bert and me.
“D.J.! Bert!” he cried, clapping his hands with glee. “Look! My job!”
Boss strode over to him and said, “My name’s Boss. Give me five.”
Punky pumped the big man’s hand a mile a minute.
“So you want to work for me?”
“Yeah, buddy.”
“All right, then, it’s a deal.”
“I like Punky,” said Susie. “He’s cute. He’s my boyfwiend.”
Boss winked at me and tried to look stern as he leaned close to Punky. “I don’t allow hanky-panky on company time.”
Punky rubbed the manager’s head as if he were polishing a doorknob. “You’re a bald-head.”
Laughter and shouts of “Boss has a bald head!” rippled through the room.
Boss grinned at Uncle Bert and said, “As you can see, I really
crack the whip around here.”
He continued the tour, and I was spellbound when I saw Rudy, standing before rows of rubber strips that had been cut from a tire. His hands moved quickly as he fastened the strips together at intervals with metal clips.
“Rudy’s making mud mats,” said Boss. “Even without sight, he can put them together faster than anybody else.”
When I’d seen the whole workshop, I went to say good-bye to Punky.
He dismissed me with a brush of his hand, saying, “Go away. Go to school. Go to your own place.”
EIGHTEEN
Alone Again
I slunk to the car like a stray cat. I wasn’t completely sorry about the things I’d said to Aunt Queenie, but I wished I’d been nicer about saying them.
“Well, what do you think?” Uncle Bert asked as he eased the car out into the traffic.
“About what?” I replied, too stubborn to let on I knew exactly what he meant.
“The workshop.”
“It’s all right, I guess.”
Uncle Bert gave me a sly grin and started whistling off-key.
I watched the mileage computer on the dashboard, its numbers flashing red and changing crazily, as if it couldn’t make up its mind. I heaved a deep sigh. I’d been riding a roller coaster of emotions for so long, I was crazier than the numbers.
“It was Queenie’s idea for you to visit the workshop,” said Uncle Bert. “I know you two don’t see eye to eye, but she’s a good-hearted person and a good wife.”
When I didn’t answer, he went on. “What you said the other night about her being so organized—it’s something I’ve learned to accept in ten years of marriage. You’ll be a lot happier when you can accept it, too.”
“I guess I was a real brat.”
“Understandable, in view of what you’ve been through. Let me tell you a secret about Queenie. Keeping everything in tip-top shape is her way of dealing with not being able to have children. The time and energy and love she would have given a child have been directed toward her home, her flowers, and a dozen worthy causes.”
I closed my eyes. That explained why Aunt Queenie was such a fussbudget, but it didn’t help me feel etter.