When The Bough Breaks

The interior of the bright pink quonset hut was cold, flat white over a dark plank floor. The dorm was empty and our footsteps echoed. There was a metallic smell in the air. The children's beds were iron double bunks arranged, barracks style, perpendicular to the walls, accompanied by foot lockers and bracket shelves bolted to the metal siding. There was an attempt at decoration - some of the children had hung up pictures of comic book super heroes athletes, Sesame Street characters - but the absence of family pictures or other evidence of recent, intimate human connection was striking.

I counted sleeping space for fifty children.

"How do you keep that many kids organized?"

"It's a challenge," he admitted, "but we've been pretty successful. We use volunteer counselors from UCLA, Northridge, and other colleges. They get intro psych credit, we get free help. We'd love a full - time professional staff but it's fiscally impossible. We've got it staffed two counselors to a dorm, and we train them to use behavior mod - I hope you're not opposed to that."

"Not if it's used properly."

"Oh, very definitely. I couldn't agree with you more. We minimize heavy avers ives use token economies, lots of positive reinforcement. It requires supervision - that's where I come in."

"You seem to have a good handle on things."

"I try." He gave an aw, shucks grin. "I wanted to go for a doctorate but I didn't have the bucks."

"Where were you studying?"

"U. of Oregon. I got an MA. there - in counseling ed. Before that, a B.A. in psych from Jedson College."

"I thought everyone at Jedson was rich." The small college outside of Seattle had a reputation as a haven for the offspring of the wealthy,

"That's almost true," he grinned. "The place was a country club. I got in on an athletic scholarship. Track and baseball. In my junior year I tore a ligament and suddenly I was persona non grata." His eyes darkened momentarily, smoldering with the memory of almost - buried injustice. "Anyway, I like what I'm doing - plenty of responsibility and decision making

There was a rustling sound at the far end of the room. We both turned toward it and saw movement beneath the blankets on one of the lower bunks.

"Is that you, Rodney?"

Kruger walked to the bunk and tapped a wriggling lump. A boy sat up, holding the covers up to his chin. He was chubby, black and looked around twelve, but his exact age was impossible to gauge, for his face bore the telltale stigmata of Down's syndrome: elongated cranium, flattened features, deep - set eyes spaced close together, sloping brow, low - set ears, protruding tongue. And an expression of bafflement so typical of the retarded.

"Hello, Rodney." Kruger spoke softly. "What's the matter?"

I had followed him and the boy looked at me questioningly.

"It's all right, Rodney. He's a friend. Now tell me what's the matter."

"Rodney sick." The words were slurred.

"What kind of sickness?"

"Tummy hurt."

"Hmm. We'll have to have the doctor look at you when he makes his visit."

"No!" the boy screamed. "No docka!"

"Now, Rodney!" Kruger was patient. "If you're sick you're going to have to get a checkup."

"No docka!"

"All right, Rodney, all right." Kruger spoke soothingly. He reached out and touched the boy softly on the top of the head. Rodney went hysterical. His eyes popped out and his chin trembled. He cried out and lurched backward so quickly that he hit the rear of his head on the metal bedpost. He yanked the covers over his face, uttering an unintelligible wail of protest.

Kruger turned to me and sighed. He waited until the boy calmed down and then spoke to him again.

"We'll discuss the doctor later, Rodney. Now where are you supposed to be? Where's your group right now?"

"Snack."

"Aren't you hungry?"

The boy shook his head.

"Tummy hurts."

"Well you can't just lie here by yourself. Either come to the infirmary and we'll call someone to have a look at you or get up and join your group for snack."

"No docka."

"Okay. No doctor. Now get up."

The boy crawled out of bed, away from us. I could see now that he was older than I'd thought. Sixteen at least, with the beginning of beard growth dotting his chin. He stared at me, eyes wide in fright.

"This is a friend, Rodney. Mr. Delaware."

"Hello, Rodney." I held out my hand. He looked at it and shook his head.

"Be friendly, Rodney. That's how we earn our goodie points, remember?"

A shake of the head.

"Come on, Rodney, shake hands."

But the retarded boy was resolute. When Kruger took a step forward he retreated, holding his hands in front of his face.

It went on that way for several moments, a flat out contest of wills. Finally Kruger gave in. "Okay, Rodney," he said softly, "we'll forget social skills for today because you're ill. Now run along and join your group."