now. “What difference does it
make?”
The woman opened her mouth; then her teeth
clicked, for she didn’t know what to say. The pendulum movements of his
emotions were confusing, even to a psychiatrist. The sad fatalism of
“What difference does it make?” was shocking from a eleven-year-old— especially a boy who, at other
times, had no control whatsoever, and to whom trivial matters were critical.
She decided at that moment to recommend that he go to Camarillo State Hospital
for ninety days of observation. That had already been her tentative decision,
because she could think of nothing better. She wanted to save him from reform
school, where the repressive atmosphere would almost certainly suffocate his
good characteristics and exacerbate his inner furies. Alternatives to reform
school were meager. Shooting someone was serious, even when it was a
semi-accident committed by an eleven-year old, Few foster homes would accept a child with a history of violence. And he’d
been through so many similar places already that the judge would hesitate to
send him to another, though it was really up to the probation department; the
judge just rubber-stamped the recommendation ninety-five percent of the time.
If Alex went to a foster home, it would be a matter of weeks before he was back
before the judge, no doubt of that. The state hospital idea had been in lieu of
anything better, for his emotional problems were severe enough to justify it.
Now she was even more justified, for this sudden lack of affect coupled with
the volatile explosions raised the specter of incipient psychosis. It was
unlikely, but it was possible— and in a way it would be better if he was
psychotic. That could be cured, whereas the psychopathic delinquent had to burn
out, which seldom took place until youth was long gone—often not until
the person neared forty years of age. By then many were buried in prison, while
many others were in the grave. The literature was full of case histories, and
the prisons were filled with persons the histories were based upon.
“We’ve got you scheduled for a
test at the general hospital tomorrow,” she said, turning her thoughts
away from these complexities before she got bogged down in the morass.
“They’ll fasten some wires to your head, but you don’t feel
anything.”
“Wires! What’s it for?”
“It’s called an E.E.G. Your brain
gives off electrical impulses, and it measures them to see if you have epilepsy
or a tumor. Sometimes people with a temper like yours have something wrong with
them, and we can give them pills to help them.”
Alex nodded but seemed uninterested.
“Where’s my father… going to be?”
“In Sunland. It’s called Valhalla.”
“Valhalla. I read about that. It’s a sort of heaven,
isn’t it?”
“Norse mythology. I think it’s where warriors go. Something like that.” She looked at her wristwatch.
“Someone’s waiting at my office for me. I’ve got to go. Is
there anything I can do for you?”
“Can I get something to read?”
“If you’re
allowed to have books in here. What do you want?”
“I really liked some books about collie
dogs by a man named
Albert Payson Terhune… but I’ve
read most of them. I like Westerns, and Tarzan. I think he wrote about Mars,
too.”
“If you can have them I’ll bring
some by this afternoon. Most of the companies have big bookshelves full of
things—donations— and not many kids here are interested in
reading.”
“I’d rather read than do anything
else. It’s like I’m in another world.”
“And
you don’t like this one,” she said wistfully, a comment both on his
outlook and on his real condition. If he wished to escape reality he had a good
reason. If his few yesterdays were dismal, his many tomorrows threatened to be
worse, unless something miraculous happened. Not only was the miraculous
unlikely, she didn’t even know what it might be.
Dr. Noble didn’t bring the books, but
in the afternoon,
make?”
The woman opened her mouth; then her teeth
clicked, for she didn’t know what to say. The pendulum movements of his
emotions were confusing, even to a psychiatrist. The sad fatalism of
“What difference does it make?” was shocking from a eleven-year-old— especially a boy who, at other
times, had no control whatsoever, and to whom trivial matters were critical.
She decided at that moment to recommend that he go to Camarillo State Hospital
for ninety days of observation. That had already been her tentative decision,
because she could think of nothing better. She wanted to save him from reform
school, where the repressive atmosphere would almost certainly suffocate his
good characteristics and exacerbate his inner furies. Alternatives to reform
school were meager. Shooting someone was serious, even when it was a
semi-accident committed by an eleven-year old, Few foster homes would accept a child with a history of violence. And he’d
been through so many similar places already that the judge would hesitate to
send him to another, though it was really up to the probation department; the
judge just rubber-stamped the recommendation ninety-five percent of the time.
If Alex went to a foster home, it would be a matter of weeks before he was back
before the judge, no doubt of that. The state hospital idea had been in lieu of
anything better, for his emotional problems were severe enough to justify it.
Now she was even more justified, for this sudden lack of affect coupled with
the volatile explosions raised the specter of incipient psychosis. It was
unlikely, but it was possible— and in a way it would be better if he was
psychotic. That could be cured, whereas the psychopathic delinquent had to burn
out, which seldom took place until youth was long gone—often not until
the person neared forty years of age. By then many were buried in prison, while
many others were in the grave. The literature was full of case histories, and
the prisons were filled with persons the histories were based upon.
“We’ve got you scheduled for a
test at the general hospital tomorrow,” she said, turning her thoughts
away from these complexities before she got bogged down in the morass.
“They’ll fasten some wires to your head, but you don’t feel
anything.”
“Wires! What’s it for?”
“It’s called an E.E.G. Your brain
gives off electrical impulses, and it measures them to see if you have epilepsy
or a tumor. Sometimes people with a temper like yours have something wrong with
them, and we can give them pills to help them.”
Alex nodded but seemed uninterested.
“Where’s my father… going to be?”
“In Sunland. It’s called Valhalla.”
“Valhalla. I read about that. It’s a sort of heaven,
isn’t it?”
“Norse mythology. I think it’s where warriors go. Something like that.” She looked at her wristwatch.
“Someone’s waiting at my office for me. I’ve got to go. Is
there anything I can do for you?”
“Can I get something to read?”
“If you’re
allowed to have books in here. What do you want?”
“I really liked some books about collie
dogs by a man named
Albert Payson Terhune… but I’ve
read most of them. I like Westerns, and Tarzan. I think he wrote about Mars,
too.”
“If you can have them I’ll bring
some by this afternoon. Most of the companies have big bookshelves full of
things—donations— and not many kids here are interested in
reading.”
“I’d rather read than do anything
else. It’s like I’m in another world.”
“And
you don’t like this one,” she said wistfully, a comment both on his
outlook and on his real condition. If he wished to escape reality he had a good
reason. If his few yesterdays were dismal, his many tomorrows threatened to be
worse, unless something miraculous happened. Not only was the miraculous
unlikely, she didn’t even know what it might be.
Dr. Noble didn’t bring the books, but
in the afternoon,
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