Sacred Heart Elementary was located about half an hour away in the small town of Meriden. After he found the school on a map and made a rough calculation of the distance, Father McCallum decided to rent a car. A cab would cost too much, and if he tried the trip by bus, he might get stranded somewhere.
He took Highway 91 north to Meriden and followed the first exit into town — and was immediately lost. He hated driving. He’d stopped to ask directions three times in half an hour. Finally, he found Elm Street and drove past the school. Just looking at the building made him feel intensely guilty, and he decided to park half a block away. He went around the block, then pulled against the curb under the shade of a massive red maple. The street was a swirling maze of colors from the autumn leaves, which helped him feel anonymous.
He looked around before he got out of the car, then felt foolish. Who would be watching me? I’m the spy. He took a deep breath and checked his watch: nearing two in the afternoon. I don’t even know what time children get out of school, he thought, then told himself that even if he missed the kids he could talk to the teachers. They probably stayed longer.
He approached the school and was relieved to see the parking lot still three-quarters full and no signs of any children yet. He headed to the front doors.
It was a beautiful building, new and modern. The sprawling, single-storey facility was bright blue with red trim and lots of windows. The school was in stark contrast to the neighborhood. He saw unkempt yards and paint peeling off the houses, cracked sidewalks and overgrown weeds. He turned to the school again, and he had to look carefully to see the web of steel bars protecting the school’s windows. He raised an eyebrow. I guess this isn’t the best area of town.
He pushed through the double doors, stepped inside, and felt his legs go weak. His plan had included finding the school — and there it stopped. He hadn’t thought about what he might say to Matthew’s teacher or the aide he’d met at the library. He stood frozen in the middle of the hall.
“Excuse me.” A voice broke through his panic. “Can I help you?”
He turned and saw a bespectacled middle-aged woman carrying a large stack of papers. Behind her was a doorway marked Office. She smiled warmly.
Father McCallum brushed a bead of sweat off his forehead. “I’m from Yale University,” he began.
The woman nodded, still smiling.
“There was a tour at the Beinecke Library this morning.”
“Yes, Ms. Walsh’s grade one class.”
“Right,” the priest said, clapping his hands together. “There was a special little boy in the class — a young chap named Matthew —”
The woman interrupted. “Hold on.” She was staring past him. “Sam! Could you come here a minute?” she called.
McCallum looked over his shoulder and saw the aide coming down the hall. As she approached, her slightly confused expression gave way to one of recognition. “Oh, hello,” she said, extending a hand to the priest. “You’re one of the curators from Yale?”
“Please excuse me,” the woman with glasses said. “I need to get these down to a class.” She nodded at her stack of papers and walked away.
“Thanks, Deb,” Samantha said, then turned to Father McCallum. “What can I do for you? I hope the kids didn’t do any damage or anything.”
“I’m sorry. No. Nothing like that,” he said quickly. “I’m … um, Mr. McCallum. I can’t quite remember what you said your name was.”
“Ah yes. I’m sorry. I’m dreadful with names.”
Samantha nodded, then waited. He realized she didn’t know why he was there.
“Listen, I don’t want to keep you but I simply had to stop by the school,” he continued. “I was positively moved by meeting the young ones and especially touched by meeting little Matthew …” He paused, hoping Samantha would fill the silence.
“You mean Matthew Younger. The autistic boy I work with?”
“Yes, little Matthew Younger. What a courageous boy.”
She nodded. “He’s a good kid. He’s got a lot to deal with.”
“I can see how that would be true.” His face became more serious. “My main job at the library allows some time to help with community projects. I was so taken with young Matthew that I wondered whether there was a way myself or the library could help with his rehabilitation. He seemed so taken with many of the collections we house back at the library.”
“I guess he did take kind of an interest, but it’s so hard to tell. Matthew’s really handicapped. My goal in working with him is to just minimize inappropriate behavior — to help him fit in a little better. He can be quite a handful to work with but his parents aren’t well off and can’t really afford any special treatment programs like a one-to-one intensive behavioral program. Even my work with him is through a practicum placement. I’m doing a masters in Ed Psych at unh.”
“Well that’s just lovely. Good for you,” he said. “I don’t really know much about disorders like Matthew has. Autism, I mean. It must be quite rare.”
“I don’t know the exact numbers but it’s relatively uncommon. I think it’s like four or five kids out of every ten thousand.”
He nodded. “Well, if it isn’t too bold of me — could you tell me a bit about Matthew? I’m quite interested.” This was definitely not a fabrication. Father McCallum needed to learn everything he could about Matthew Younger.
Sam hesitated then replied, “He has a fairly severe type of autism. There are different degrees, like some can talk and some can’t. Sometimes they can’t even do anything to take care of themselves. Matthew’s pretty bad — maybe somewhere in the middle or lower. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t like to be touched and is very likely mentally handicapped.”
He nodded in what he hoped was an understanding manner and then asked, “And don’t these children sometimes have special talents such as math or music?”
She smiled. “I think that’s more rare. Such children are called autistic savants, but Matthew hasn’t shown anything like that.”
“Is the disorder genetic?”
“Um, I’m not sure. I don’t think people know what causes autism.”
“I wonder if I could speak with his parents,” Father McCallum said, trying to sound like he was just thinking out loud.
“Foster parents, actually.”
“Oh?”
“Yep, I don’t know for sure what happened but his biological parents aren’t around anymore. He’s been in foster care for at least a year.”
“Poor little guy.”
Samantha nodded.
“Well, if there’s anything I could do to help him …”
“You know, it was kind of a surprise to see you talking to him,” she said thoughtfully.
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you were crouched down right next to him at that book display and normally that’s one of those things that would set him off and he’d have a screaming fit for an hour.”
“Oh my. I had no idea. He showed no signs of being upset when I approached him. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge me.”
“That’s how he is. You can be shouting right in his ear and he doesn’t even flinch, but then if you touch him or say the wrong word — bam! He loses it.”
“It must be so difficult for the foster parents. Have you met them?”
“The Youngers?”
Father McCallum noticed that her expression darkened.
“Yeah, I’ve met them. I guess they have a lot to deal with. They don’t come around the school too often.”
“Yes, I’d bet it is quite difficult for them.” He paused and then added, “Well, thank you for your time. You know how to find me if there is ever any way I could be of assistance.”
“The Beinecke Library,” she said.
“The Beinecke Library,” he repeated. “Speaking of which — I need to get back there.” He thanked her and left. As he pushed through the front doors, he exhaled deeply. Matthew Younger. At least I have the name. Now I need to find out where he lives.