6

ROCK TUMBLER

The weekend came and with it, mayhem. Anthony was everywhere and then terrifyingly, nowhere. Susie was expressing her opinions on the furniture in permanent marker, tearing pages out of books and cutting holes in everyone’s clothes with safety scissors. Jason was straddling Anthony’s stomach while pressing his thumbs into his brother’s eyes and a second later was pushing Ruby to the ground and sticking his knee in her back. Ruby was alternately taunting and grabbing toys away from Anthony, his high scream oscillating and cracking like a tortured, adolescent elf. Jimmy was a cameo, pushing and laughing, floating in and out of these scenes.

Time lost its purchase, warping us into an endless day with no rest, no rhythm, no light, no dark. Bedtime was the cue for Susie to scream and run out the door and down the stairs, tearing her clothes off as she went, crying, “Stop touching me, stop touching me,” the stairwell amplifying her screams. Dan gave chase, brought her back up to the landing and held her while I put the other kids under various covers on makeshift beds with firm instructions to stay put. “You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me,” Susie screamed. I opened the door, Dan whispered hurriedly, “I think it will look better if you hold her.”

I sat at the top of the stairs with Susie, biting, scratching, and screaming on my lap. An hour later she cried herself to sleep and I carried her inside. Dan was lying on his back with Anthony on his stomach, the rhythm of his breathing putting Anthony to sleep. Dan put his finger to his lips. I nodded and quietly tucked sleeping Susie into a free corner of the guest bed. A few hours into our sleepless vigil, Dan whispered, “We need back up. Call Marie and get her out here on the next flight.” We needed a professional. My older sister ran a pre-school, had homeschooled all five of her kids, and could travel with her youngest.

Thankfully, the weather gods pitied us: sunny and warm with a gentle breeze. We kept the kids outside in the park, hired sitters to help us push swings, shoot baskets, and chase after them when they ran away. Mistakenly, we sent two kids with one adult for a bathroom run. Taking the opportunity, Susie ran up the stairs past our floor to the roof and pushed the “alarm will sound” bar, triggering a call to the fire department. And while the adult was chasing Susie up the stairs, Jason was dialing 911, just for the hell of it, from our home phone.

Susie made another escape attempt in the wee hours. As I ran down the stairs after her, Dan called, “Take her to the van.” We couldn’t have her screaming infecting the rest of the kids. Susie stopped at the entrance doors to the apartment building, turned and faced me, teeth bared, her tiny, seven-year-old body bare except for her underwear. She screamed, “Stop touching me! Stop touching me!” I picked her up, a tiny mass of solid, lashing sinew. My brother heard the commotion and started racing down the stairs behind me, picking up her trail of clothes as he went. She was thrashing, scratching, biting, and spitting; I could barely hold her.

We struggled to get her in the van. Once inside, Susie stopped crying and started talking gibberish in weird voices, climbing up and over the seats and back again. John and I stared at Susie, then each other, then back at Susie. It was sobering. She was either hallucinating or pretending she was, neither option desirable. I whispered to John, “She might be out of her mind.” My brother smiled, “Some might say the same about you.” I said, “Do you think I’m nuts?” He said, “I think you’re awesome. Going positive discipline on these kids with no television? That is what’s crazy!”

We let Susie climb until she fell asleep. It was one in the morning. I put her clothes back on, and John picked her up and carried her home. Dan emerged from the bedroom and we whispered together in the kitchen. “We’ve got to get out of here. Did you call Marie?” I nodded, “She’s on a flight out tomorrow.”

The next day we threw a ninth birthday party for Jason in the park. The neighbors came, all our sitters were all there with Booker and our friends from the park. We kept scanning the street for signs of my sister. Finally, a cab pulled up to the gates of the park and my sister emerged with a carry-on bag in one hand and her four-year-old son in the other. Dan said, “The Susie Whisperer!” From twenty feet away, Dan caught her eye and pointed to the little lump on the park bench. Susie was hiding beneath a jacket, her body curled into the fetal position, face covered, limbs tight and tense. While we sang happy birthday and opened presents, Marie went to Susie, whom she’d never met, and knelt down beside her.

Glancing over from time to time, we could follow her progress: first an arm, then a leg. Marie was kneeling with her back to us, facing the bench. First the coat came off, then two light brown arms emerged, wrapping slowly around my sister’s neck. A little head appeared on Marie’s shoulder, then a smile. Dan looked at his watch and then over at me. He winked. Fifteen minutes start to finish. Damn, she’s good. Susie was up and meeting her new cousin, my sister’s Gabriel.

Dan called a meeting at the slide for Marie, John, and me. “We pack the van tonight after the kids are asleep. We load the children at 5 a.m., punch out, and drive straight to the lodge. Marie, you take Anthony and Gabe. Ann stays with Jimmy and Ruby, and John, you get Jason and Susie. Any questions?”

The breakdown was strategic. Dan figured I could use my relationship with Ruby and Jimmy as leverage and while Marie was the only one who could connect with Susie, she had Gabe and would not be able to give chase to anyone faster than Anthony. My brother was big and fast enough for Susie, and strong and Alpha enough for Jason. There were no questions. We dispersed. John followed after me for a few steps and whispered, “Wanna trade?” I laughed. “Hell no!”

* * *

Our fifteen-passenger van could barely hold the eleven of us, plus gear. And overwhelming the entire ride was the unsettling feeling that the kids might explode into violence at any second. Marie sat between two car seats on the first bench, Gabe left and Anthony right, reading, Brown Bear, Brown Bear in a calming, soft, sing-songy, voice; the stress reducing, beta inducing, sleep seducing voice of a seasoned mother.

I ruled the second row, Jimmy left and Ruby right, reading Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, rendering a rolling counterpoint to the Brown Bear mantra. We rumbled down the parkway, the engine droning the tonic of the Taconic. Uncle John in the back, his deep voice a walking bass, walking through Where the Sidewalk Ends. Alternating his attention between Susie, then Jason, as needs arose, his free hand covering the seat belt release, while little fingers scratched at his wrists and digits. Dan was in the driver’s seat, two eyes on the road, his third eye peering into the soul of every child chancing to glance at the rearview mirror. Charlie the dog was riding shotgun, sitting ramrod straight, ears up.

After a few hours, we stopped at a rest area and the engine killed. As if on cue, the children woke from their spell and exploded from the van, running and screaming like feral cats across the parking lot, scrambling through knee-high weeds towards a flowing culvert. “Hey! Stick around!” The four adults yelled, chasing them. Susie was running in the opposite direction, John caught her and cradled her snuggly in his arms. She spit in his face as Jason, appearing out of nowhere, approached slowly, staring coldly at his new uncle. John watched in disbelief as Jason picked up a rock and chucked it, hitting Susie, who was still cradled in John’s arms. “Susie, I’m going to have to put you down. I think your brother needs me more than you do right now. Can you go get in the van?” She nodded.

John caught Jason in three long strides, picked him up, and started walking back to the van. “Not okay, Jason, not okay. Get in.”

John sat between his charges, buckling them in, and sealing the latches beneath his hands. Susie clawed and bit him while Jason scratched at his uncle’s hands, swearing. Meanwhile, I was corralling the other kids, Anthony screaming, Ruby taunting, and Jimmy laughing, disaffected. Dan yelled: “Get in the van!” We drove away.

It was another forty minutes before we got our groove back. We rebooted with a song, cheese sticks, and crackers. There was a temporary calm.

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, what do you see? I see some anger issues looking at me.

We rationed water in the interest of pee breaks, regulated blood sugar with apple slices. The next bathroom break we went in shifts, two at time. The rest waited in the van with the engine running. Finally, after seven hours, we got to the lodge.

* * *

That night, we put all the children in one room. Fail. So we pulled the troublemakers out and put them in a tent. Failure again. Then we set up another tent and divided the troublemakers into two tents. Third time’s a charm. By midnight, Marie had Anthony sleeping with her and Gabe, Jimmy was in the bunk room with Uncle John, Dan was in a sleeping bag between Ruby and Jason in the two tents, and I was crashed out in the van with Susie.

The next morning we left my brother at the lodge to cook for us and drove forty miles north to get the kids registered for school. We had prepped this little upstate district in advance so they knew we were coming; there were only six weeks left of the school year, four of our five kids had individualized educational plans, all were delayed, and all had behavior problems. The district responded like a small fire department that constantly drills in anticipation of that big fire, waiting for a chance to test their skills. We were that fire.

Dan filled out the paperwork, while Marie and I played with the kids at the playground. Almost immediately, Jason started throwing sand at the other kids, so I put him in timeout. Then, he started screaming, running away from me. I took him to a quiet, shady spot away from the other kids, and sat him down next to me. When that didn’t work, I picked him up and carried him towards the van.

The principal of the school came out: “Do you need any help, Ms. Fox?”

“Thank you,” I answered, “We’ve got it. We just need to finish a timeout but thank you.”

The principal gave me a thumbs up: “Good work, Ms. Fox, let us know if we can help.”

We finished the registration, loaded up the van, and dropped Dan to pick up another vehicle at the rental car place. Dan had to drive back to the city in two day to close up his office and he, like all of us, was showing signs of fatigue. We voted he should drive down to the lodge alone and in silence. Dan was keeping our family from spinning out into space, and needed some time to recharge.

Marie and I decided to stop at the Stewart’s gas station on the way out of town and buy everyone ice cream. Let it be noted that refined sugar is a bad idea. Within minutes the kids were screaming and running around the parking lot, my shouts and warnings bouncing off defiant ears. Marie grabbed Gabe who was quickly being influenced by the manic energy, and took him inside the convenience store. I grabbed Jason and Susie by their shirt collars and said in my most excited voice, “Fox children! Come with me! Follow me behind the Stewart’s!” Miraculously, they followed.

I had noticed a grassy knoll tucked back behind the store when we pulled in, covered in bright yellow dandelions. “Whomever picks the most dandelions for Aunt Marie and Gabe in the next ten minutes, gets to choose the movie tonight!” Our movie selection was limited to The Sound of Music, Thomas and Friends, and Kiki’s Delivery Service, all of which we had seen several times before, but they went for it and started picking flowers.

Marie emerged with her son from the Stewart’s to an eerie silence. She had watched me from the window and was wondering what I was doing in my stressed and sleep deprived state. She buckled Gabe into the van and fearing the worst, thought about calling the police as she walked slowly to the scene. Her doubts about my safety was an indication of how exhausted we both were and how little control we actually had over the children.

Gabe was delighted when Jimmy, the flower-picking winner, presented him with a gorgeous dandelion bouquet, and equally devastated when thirty seconds later, Jimmy demanded the dandelions back. Marie checked seat belts, I put Jason in the passenger seat next to me and started up the van. Within minutes it was clear we did not have enough adults to maintain safety. Jason unbuckled his seatbelt and ran to join the party that was ramping up in the back row. I grabbed him with my right hand and pulled the van over onto the shoulder. I put him back in his seat, fastened his belt, holding it closed with my right hand, while yelling at the other kids to keep it cool while we got back on the road. I could see Marie’s face in profile in the rearview mirror, looking a hard left out the window over Gabe’s head with her arm around her son in a protective posture.

I pulled into the next picnic area and stopped. “Marie? Have you ever driven a van this size?” Not waiting for an answer: “You are going to love it!” Marie jumped into the driver’s seat. I barked, “Quiet!” loud enough for a momentary effect. Marie turned to Jason and said quietly, “If you do not stay seated with your seatbelt on, your mom will call the police and have them take you to the station. We will drive the other children safely home and come back and get you.” She meant it and he knew it. He sat back in his seat and did not move.

While Marie was scaring Jason straight, the remaining four were silently receding. I had exactly one second to take control. Marie started driving. GO! I stood and started singing the ballad of Frankie and Johnny as loud as I could, “Frankie and Johnny were lovers, good Lawdy and how they could love . . .” I clapped in time, staring at each kid, crazy eyed, curled back lips, swinging my hips, knees bent and head down because I couldn’t stand up straight in the moving van.

I walked down the rows of seats like a revivalist preacher, pointing, singing, moralizing, and pantomiming the ballad of the woman scorned. I had them sing the refrain while I yelled, “I can’t hear you!” and hum along during the interludes. I taught them the traditional hand motions to the song which I was making up on the spot, “These are standard performance practice! Pay attention!” When the ballad ended, I did a forced modulation into “Boom-di-ada, boom-di-ada, I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills . . .” I had them clapping and swaying, louder, now softer, terraced dynamics, “Is that all you got? Your grandmother sings louder than that!” I had them sing rounds, timing the last selection, diminuendo al niente, sotto voce whisper and cadence as we pulled into the lodge driveway. The engine killed. I looked at Marie in terror. Dan was not there. The rental car was not there. The kids opened the sliding door and hurled out of the van like a tidal wave. I yelled to Marie, “Save yourself!”

Marie grabbed Gabe and ran inside. John came out and stood next to me as I watched in shocked silence as my children morphed into a ten-legged clump of screaming flesh and began careening around the yard, shouting and waving their arms. I should have stopped them, redirected them, made them safe but I just stood there, frozen in place. My hands went clammy and cold, my confidence folded like a paper napkin, and I felt fear for the first time since we got the kids. I needed someone to snap me out of it, slap me on the face with a bucket of ice cold smelling salts. Dan pulled up, got out of the rental car, and yelled, “Go inside!”

Everyone went in. Marie had set the table with the dinner John had made while we were away. I stood back, stumbling, staring, taking deep breaths. Holy crap. I needed a plan. Deep breath in and hold it, hold it, and exhale, come on. You’ve got to get in there. Give me a second. This isn’t church camp, girl. These kids aren’t going home at the end of the week.

I turned my mouth on and walked towards the table, “Ruby, help your Aunt Marie with those water pitchers, Jimmy sit yourself down right there across from your brother, everybody sit up straight, sing with me now, ‘Oh the Lord is good to me, and so I thank the Lord, for giving me, the things I need, the sun and the rain and apple seed, the Lord is good to me.’ Is that all you got? Your great-grandmother sings louder than that! Jason I want to hear you singing, don’t make me come over there, we’re doing this again and we’re doing it right! ‘Oh the Lord is good to me . . .’”

* * *

Our lodge was in a beautiful country setting. But where most kids would run around, explore, and swim, our kids glommed together, tortured each other, fought and hit. I stood where Jake and I had sat and thrown rocks in the river, so long ago. “Here’s an idea! Let’s see who can throw a rock across the river!” Bad idea. Now they were throwing river rocks at one another. It occurred to me that they didn’t know how to play.

We encouraged digging holes in the sand, building forts with the driftwood, looking for pretty rocks in the shallow parts of the river, taking nature walks. No takers. Instead, there was hitting, there were insults, there were strange, shifting alliances between the kids that broke down only when the children were allied against the adults.

Two days had passed, and Dan had to drive back to New York for a few days. John was going to hitch a ride down and get back to his life and work. In the afternoon before the men left, I sat alone on the beach with the kids, strategizing, while my brother slept on a towel down by the river. Marie and I had to hold down the fort and while she had seasoned-mom skills, for medical reasons she could not run or lift more than fifteen pounds.

Just then, Jason called Jimmy a freak, Jimmy picked up a river rock big enough to kill someone, and chucked it in Jason’s direction. It got as far as four-year-old Gabe, grazed his arm, and landed thump. I yelled, “John! Jimmy’s throwing rocks at the kids!” John bolted from his sleep, ran full speed at Jimmy who froze, his mouth open, as his uncle grabbed him, pulled him to the ground and started yelling one inch away from his face, “You will not throw rocks at other people! You will not hurt other people! It stops now!” Jimmy started crying. He had never seen his uncle like this, red-faced, heart racing from adrenaline. I also had never seen my brother like this. He was terrifying and effective.

Jimmy played quietly away from the others for the rest of the day. John returned to his towel by the river. I went and sat next to my brother. I could see his hands were shaking. Anthony was screaming; Susie had stolen his bucket and was calling him names. “John,” I said, starting to cry, “you can’t leave. You cannot leave Marie and me alone.” He answered before I started begging, leaving me with a vestige of dignity, “I’ll stay until Dan gets back.”

Those three days without Dan were like a penance, an eternal purgatory for some heinous crime I had committed in a previous life. Screaming children, hitting and biting, dangers to themselves and others. But the weather held. We held. We sang, built fires, roasted hot dogs and marshmallows. I slept in the van with whichever child was the greatest threat. We went to the river every day: the holes got deeper, the sand castles taller, there was constant supervision, intervention, redirection and preemption. Jason and Susie were like kerosene and matches, barely stable apart and a guaranteed flamethrower in proximity to each other. Marie alternated keeping Ruby and Anthony with her and Gabe at the lodge.

One hot, sunny afternoon, Susie pushed Anthony into the deep part of the river. He started screaming and thrashing his way downstream. I ran for Anthony while John grabbed Susie, ignoring her spitting and swearing while his eyes scanned for motion among the other children. I returned Anthony to the river’s edge, his soggy pull-up riding low, his little body trembling and shaking. Jason took the opportunity to make things worse, called him a cry baby and throwing sand at him. John handed wild-eyed Susie to me, took both of Jason’s hands in his own, and led him to a timeout by the bridge. Jimmy came and sat by me. I was holding Susie, while trying to comfort the still sobbing Anthony. The hills were alive with the sound of Jason’s one hit wonder, “You’re hurting me, you’re hurting me!” It occurred to me I didn’t know how to parent.

I looked back at my brother in the timeout ditch with Jason; he smiled at me and pointed up into the sky. There was a bat circling over us. I whispered, “Look up, guys. There’s a bat.” Sudden silence ensued, eyes up, heads back, everyone motionless; the only thing moving was the bat. For five minutes we watched its awkward flight, out of place in the daylight; eyes fixed to its dipping down, jerking up, flapping for us, around and around. How strange at midday.

My brother stayed until Dan came back, but it was another six months before John could come visit us again; he said his heart would start racing just thinking about it. I wondered what the kids would remember from those early days.

Months later into our family life we returned to the lodge and on one sunny day, Jimmy sat down beside me at the river. He put his arm around me and pointed up into the trees. “Remember the bat, Mom? Remember the bat in the middle of the day?” I said, “I sure do, Jimmy. That was really something, wasn’t it?”