were
reasonable men. They had accomplished much already.
Martin Hall and Peter Conroy were weaklings. It was
not a matter of lack of power, but a reluctance to take ruthless action when
required. Conroy in particular was a loose cannon, but they both contributed
power to the mix.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“Joseph McCauley still declines to link to us.”
A mutter of surprise rolled through the alumni, but
was quickly stifled.
"He has threatened to go to the Roses. This is
unacceptable. I believe a peer-to-peer approach may be effective. I make it
your charge to convince him to join us, through whatever means necessary.
“When he links with us, you will be richly
rewarded. If he continues to resist, well, I think you all understand that
there will be consequences.” Now they all looked down at their feet,
afraid he'd use one of them as an example. He'd done it before.
“Give him to me,” Warren suggested.
“I'll turn him around in a day.”
Leicester sighed. “If it were a matter of brute
force, Warren, I'd have settled the matter already. This requires subtlety.
Creativity. Seduction. Not your long suit, I'm afraid.” He rubbed his
palms together. “We'll meet again on the subject in two weeks. Are there
any questions?”
There were none.
The next day, after another night of excruciating
dreams, Seph walked over to the art and music building and found a house phone
back in the vending area in the basement. He picked it up and dialed 0. When
the secretary in the admin, building answered, he said, “I'd like to place
an outside call, using a calling card.” He gave her the calling card
information and the phone number, including the country code.
There was a brief pause. “Your name,
please?”
“Joseph McCauley” Seph replied, hope
evaporating.
“You'll need to get administrative
approval,” she said briskly. “Shall I put you through to Dr.
Leicester?”
“No, thank you,” Seph said, and hung up the
phone.
The classroom routine was soothingly familiar, a
little eddy in the madness of life at the Havens. Lecture, discussion,
homework, examinations. All of the usual tools were in evidence: wood-and-metal
desks lined up in rows, chalkboards, sinks and burners and hoods in chemistry
lab. New textbooks that smelled of ink, with spines that crackled when you
opened them. Like students everywhere, the students at the Havens whined about
homework.
Seph sat in math class, chin propped on his fist,
watching Mr. Richardson scribble equations on the board. Richardson would have
been at the outdoor chapel, garbed in long gray robes, helping preside over
that magical sacrifice. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad dream. What had
spooked him? Rain and mist and bats and mummery.
And the fact that it seemed so important to Leicester.
In music, Mr. Rice told Seph he could schedule private
lessons outside of class to work on piano or saxophone or another instrument.
He encouraged Seph to consider joining the wind ensemble.
The bloody wind ensemble. It was so normal. So
hard to reconcile with his fear of sleep, his dread of getting into bed.
After his last class, and before dinner, Seph went
back to his room and booted up his computer. He'd decided to go ahead and write
his letter.
TO: Denis Houghton, Esq., Guardian of Joseph McCauley
FROM: Joseph McCauley
RE: School placement at the Havens
When I arrived at the Havens, I was told that I'd been
committed here for psychiatric treatment. I'm not sure what your intentions
were, but the staff is unqualified and the methods used are cruel, arbitrary,
and inconsistent, thus unlikely to prove effective.
This placement is not meeting my needs. I would like
to request an immediate move so that I miss as little school as possible. I
would consider a public school placement with private therapy if that is
easier, in any geographic location. I will do everything I can to make it work
out.
It is critical that this
reasonable men. They had accomplished much already.
Martin Hall and Peter Conroy were weaklings. It was
not a matter of lack of power, but a reluctance to take ruthless action when
required. Conroy in particular was a loose cannon, but they both contributed
power to the mix.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said.
“Joseph McCauley still declines to link to us.”
A mutter of surprise rolled through the alumni, but
was quickly stifled.
"He has threatened to go to the Roses. This is
unacceptable. I believe a peer-to-peer approach may be effective. I make it
your charge to convince him to join us, through whatever means necessary.
“When he links with us, you will be richly
rewarded. If he continues to resist, well, I think you all understand that
there will be consequences.” Now they all looked down at their feet,
afraid he'd use one of them as an example. He'd done it before.
“Give him to me,” Warren suggested.
“I'll turn him around in a day.”
Leicester sighed. “If it were a matter of brute
force, Warren, I'd have settled the matter already. This requires subtlety.
Creativity. Seduction. Not your long suit, I'm afraid.” He rubbed his
palms together. “We'll meet again on the subject in two weeks. Are there
any questions?”
There were none.
The next day, after another night of excruciating
dreams, Seph walked over to the art and music building and found a house phone
back in the vending area in the basement. He picked it up and dialed 0. When
the secretary in the admin, building answered, he said, “I'd like to place
an outside call, using a calling card.” He gave her the calling card
information and the phone number, including the country code.
There was a brief pause. “Your name,
please?”
“Joseph McCauley” Seph replied, hope
evaporating.
“You'll need to get administrative
approval,” she said briskly. “Shall I put you through to Dr.
Leicester?”
“No, thank you,” Seph said, and hung up the
phone.
The classroom routine was soothingly familiar, a
little eddy in the madness of life at the Havens. Lecture, discussion,
homework, examinations. All of the usual tools were in evidence: wood-and-metal
desks lined up in rows, chalkboards, sinks and burners and hoods in chemistry
lab. New textbooks that smelled of ink, with spines that crackled when you
opened them. Like students everywhere, the students at the Havens whined about
homework.
Seph sat in math class, chin propped on his fist,
watching Mr. Richardson scribble equations on the board. Richardson would have
been at the outdoor chapel, garbed in long gray robes, helping preside over
that magical sacrifice. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad dream. What had
spooked him? Rain and mist and bats and mummery.
And the fact that it seemed so important to Leicester.
In music, Mr. Rice told Seph he could schedule private
lessons outside of class to work on piano or saxophone or another instrument.
He encouraged Seph to consider joining the wind ensemble.
The bloody wind ensemble. It was so normal. So
hard to reconcile with his fear of sleep, his dread of getting into bed.
After his last class, and before dinner, Seph went
back to his room and booted up his computer. He'd decided to go ahead and write
his letter.
TO: Denis Houghton, Esq., Guardian of Joseph McCauley
FROM: Joseph McCauley
RE: School placement at the Havens
When I arrived at the Havens, I was told that I'd been
committed here for psychiatric treatment. I'm not sure what your intentions
were, but the staff is unqualified and the methods used are cruel, arbitrary,
and inconsistent, thus unlikely to prove effective.
This placement is not meeting my needs. I would like
to request an immediate move so that I miss as little school as possible. I
would consider a public school placement with private therapy if that is
easier, in any geographic location. I will do everything I can to make it work
out.
It is critical that this
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