He wanted to see time fly.
I DIDN’T WRITE THIS.
I have been at The Children’s Trust Residence Center for a week now. I hate it. I would like to kill it. What I hate worst is breakfast. It is in a big noisy room with long tables where we eat with other youngsters who are sickening to look at.
Mrs Cochrane and the children from my wing sit at one table. There is Phil and Robert and Manny and Howie. Robert is only seven. Howie is nine and the rest are eight like me. Robert cries all the time which makes me nervous, to be candid, and he wets his bed at night and it smells quite pungent. He sleeps across the aisle from me. Next to me sleeps Howie, the boy with the scars. Phil never talks, he is silence and just smiles all the time and I don’t know why, but maybe he is happy happy or maybe his face is froze that way. (My mom says when I frown my face will freeze that way and I say “I’m glad so then I won’t have to frown anymore, my face will do it all by itself.”) Manny is my age, he is also Jewish like me, he has black curly hair and says oy all the time.
At breakfast today I made a hippopotamus out of my oatmeal, which was all dried up. I made a bed for him out of cinnamon toast and I took my napkin and made a blanket. Then I took my spoon and beat him to death. I smashed his head open and broke him in half and smeared him on the plate. Mrs Cochrane got cross, she asked me why I did it. I said because he was a bad hippopotamus because he killed Jessica. He dragged her into the river and killed her. Robert said, What river? I poured my orange juice over his head and said, “This river.”
I got marched right down to see Dr Nevele.
He still had his coat on, which surprised me because I thought he lived at The Children’s Trust Residence Center but he doesn’t. I think he lives in a shopping center.
“Good morning, sir,” he said to me, smiling. “Won’t you step into my chambers?”
I wouldn’t. It was what he said. I wouldn’t. I tried to run away but Mrs Cochrane grabbed me.
“What is this all about?” said Dr Nevele.
Mrs Cochrane told him about breakfast.
“No,” I said. “That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
“You know,” I said.
“No I don’t,” said Dr Nevele. “I haven’t a clue. Now please come in here.”
“I won’t go to your chambers,” I said.
“Burton.”
“Don’t,” I said. “I’ll be good from now on. Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me, Dr Nevele!”
“What? Why Burt, what makes you, please, Son.”
And I was screaming. I tried to run but he held me and I kicked at him and bit him to get away. I had to get away.
“Mrs Cochrane, take him to the Quiet Room where he’ll feel safe.”
I ran there. All by myself. Because Dr Nevele said chambers. Because when I was five I saw a movie, it gave me bad dreams which I still have them. It was a movie about a room where they torture you and have a thing that goes over your stomach and squeezes you till your stomach squeezes out through holes like spaghetti, and you bleed to death, and there is a man in a black hood who is a doctor, like Dr Nevele. It was called The Torture Chamber of Dr Night.
There were legs in the Quiet Room. Imagine my surprise. It was the man with the red hair from the Playroom. He is like a doctor too. He was surprised when I walked in. I started to leave.
“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go. I was just leaving. I was about to leave. Take over here, will you, stout fellow?”
He had on a tie this time, like dressed up. I stayed in the Quiet Room but he didn’t leave. He just sat there.
“I’m going,” he said. “Any minute.” Then he did something funny. He put his fingers up to his eyes and wiggled them, and he like hummed, only it was noise, not music.
“You shouldn’t sit on the floor in your good clothes,” I said. “You’ll get punished.”
He looked up at me. His eyes were green with brown pieces, like Jessica’s.
“So true,” he said. “And yet so far.”
Then he stood up and left.
Then I went to write this on the Quiet Room wall and I saw somebody had wrote
He wanted to see time fly.
And it wasn’t me.
So I followed him because he shouldn’t have wrote on my wall. He went down to the Playroom. The door was open. I watched him through the little window, he was in there with the little colored negro boy I saw before, the one who is a spaz. The red-haired man was crawling on the floor with him, and the little boy was crying and crying. Then the red-haired man saw me. He stood up and told me to come in. I went in.
“This is Carl,” he said to me. “He bites.” And he walked out of the room and closed the door. And I was alone with Carl. Who bites.
He got up and suddenly started running all over the Playroom as fast as he could and smashed into the door and bounced off and walked away without crying or anything. Then he sat down. Then he got up. Then he made a circle and walked on some toys and sat down again. I didn’t say anything to him, I thought he didn’t know I was there even. He picked up a bean bag and ate it. His eyes went funny. One over here and one over here. He blinked and jerked his head. He started to crush the toys in the toy box.
“You shouldn’t,” I said.
But all he did was whistle. Then he stood up and walked into the wall and then he sat down against the wall and put his hands up to his eyes and wiggled his fingers. It was the same thing that the red-haired man from the Quiet Room did.
Carl fell over and rolled on the floor and smashed into the jungle jim and it almost crashed on him but it didn’t, so he sat with his back against the wall again and started rocking and pounding the back of his head against the wall. I could see there was a little bald spot on the back of his hair from pounding. Suddenly he sat up straight and put his hands in his lap and sat like a little gentleman.
I said, “You are sitting very nice, Carl, with good citizenship.”
He hummed, only noise, not music, like the red-haired man did, and then he stood up and walked over to a little red wagon they had in the Playroom and climbed inside it and sat down with good citizenship.
“You aren’t supposed to,” I said. “It’s for carrying stuff in.”
But he stayed. He was like a statue in the little red wagon. (It had “Little Red Wagon” painted on the side of it.) I picked up a bean bag and threw it to him, but he didn’t move and it hit his head.
“You’re supposed to catch it and throw it back,” I said. “You better get out before the red-haired man comes back or you’ll get punished.”
Then the door opened up and an attendant walked in. He took Carl’s hand and tried to pull him out of the little red wagon, but he wouldn’t go.
“Come on, stop giving me such a hard time,” said the attendant, who was large and hairy. Carl bit him on the hand. I could see it started bleeding, and the attendant yelled, “You little bastard,” and grabbed Carl around the shoulders so he couldn’t move and twisted his arms around him. Carl screamed and kicked and bit his teeth in the air, and the attendant could hardly hold him. He let go.
“I’ll be back,” he said.
Carl stopped. He just stopped like a cartoon. Then he made a noise.
“Puss.”
I went up to him. He sort of looked at me and I reached out my hand and he didn’t even bite. I touched him. He said, “Puss.” Then he grabbed my hand and pulled me but I got away. Then he screamed real high like a siren and then I got real mad and yelled at him, “Shut up, Carl, don’t you know they are coming back with seatbelts and they are going to punish you and slap you across the face and show you who’s boss and for your own good! God damn you. I can’t understand you.”
And I cried too and I don’t even know why, because it was Carl. He grabbed my hand and put it on the little red wagon.
“Puss.”
The attendant came back in a few minutes with another man, only Carl wasn’t in the little red wagon. He was sitting very good citizenship in a little chair by the window of the Playroom.
They looked at me.
I said, “All he wanted was for somebody to push him.”
They took Carl away and I went back to the Quiet Room. I was thinking about the red-haired man who wiggled his fingers in front of his eyes and hummed noise like Carl. He was a doctor but he didn’t act like a doctor. He acted like a little boy. Like me.
Rembrandt, Burton (cont.)
12/10
Interest in this case is now being shown by Rudyard Walton, first-year intern, working in the Upper South Program here, dealing primarily with autistic and mentally retarded children.
Walton’s work, much praised thus far by his department, is supposedly of the “wounded healer” type, dealing with the patient one-to-one, and actually assimilating that patient’s symptoms himself, thus, I suppose, establishing an empathetic relationship.
He denies any therapeutic involvement in this case, insisting that he simply “likes” the child and enjoys his company. I nevertheless asked him to kindly restrict his work to the Upper South Program.
Walton’s intercourse with this patient may prove detrimental to the child’s progress. Clearly, his technique is designed to first reinforce the existing behaviors of the child, leaving modification until later, after a relationship has been established. While perhaps effective in cases of severe autism, such techniques are inappropriate to sociopathology.
For the purposes of record, I report that Mr Walton reportedly left one of his own patients, a severely autistic child named Carl, alone with Burton Rembrandt under no supervision of any kind, and as a result of this negligent behavior, an attendant was seriously wounded by a bite from the child. This is clearly against the policy of this institution. (Walton later claimed that the abandonment was intentional, and that both children actually benefited. The matter, however, comes up before the Board of Review next week.)
Walton also mentioned that he feels the Rembrandt case to be misplaced in this institution. He feels the child does not belong here. I maintain, however, that the boy’s behavior remains not only disturbed, but recently he has manifested paranoid schizophrenic symptoms involving hallucinations about killers in my office, clearly guilt-generated as regards his actions with the girl Jessica.
It is my firm judgment that the child is severely disturbed and must be kept here, probably for some time.
This was on a paper. I stole it from Dr Nevele, from his desk when I was there.