In Hiding
by Wilmar H. Shiras
Peter Welles, psychiatrist, eyed the boy thoughtfully. Why had Timothy Paul’s teacher sent him for examination?
“I don’t know, myself, that there’s really anything wrong with Tim,” Miss Page had told Dr. Welles. “He seems perfectly normal. He’s rather quiet as a rule, doesn’t volunteer answers in class or anything of that sort. He gets along well enough with other boys and seems reasonably popular, although he has no special friends. His grades are satisfactory—he gets B faithfully in all his work. But when you’ve been teaching as long as I have, Peter, you get a feeling about certain ones. There is a tension about him—a look in his eyes sometimes— and he is very absentminded.”
“What would your guess be?” Welles had asked. Sometimes these hunches were very valuable. Miss Page had taught school for thirty-odd years; she had been Peter’s teacher in the past, and he thought highly of her opinion.
“I ought not to say,” she answered. “There’s nothing to go on— yet. But he might be starting something, and if it could be headed off—”
“Physicians are often called before the symptoms are sufficiently marked for the doctor to be able to see them,” said Welles. “A patient, or the mother of a child, or any practiced observer, can often see that something is going to be wrong. But it’s hard for the doctor in such cases. Tell me what you think I should look for.”
“You won’t pay too much attention to me? It’s just what occurred to me, Peter; I know I’m not a trained psychiatrist. But it could be delusions of grandeur. Or it could be a withdrawing from the society of others. I always have to speak to him twice to get his attention in class—and he has no real chums.”
Welles had agreed to see what he could find, and promised not to be much influenced by what Miss Page herself called “an old woman’s notions.”
Timothy, when he presented himself for examination, seemed like an ordinary boy. He was perhaps a little small for his age, he had big dark eyes and close-cropped dark curls, thin sensitive fingers and— yes, a decided air of tension. But many boys were nervous on their first visit to the—psychiatrist. Peter often wished that he was able to concentrate on one or two schools, and spend a day a week or so getting acquainted with all the youngsters.
In response to Welles’ preliminary questioning, Tim replied in a clear, low voice, politely and without wasting words. He was thirteen years old, and lived with his grandparents. His mother and father had died when he was a baby, and he did not remember them. He said that he was happy at home, and that he liked school “pretty well,” that he liked to play with other boys. He named several boys when asked who his friends were.
“What lessons do you like at school?”
Tim hesitated, then said: “English, and arithmetic… and history… and geography,” he finished thoughtfully. Then he looked up, and there was something odd in the glance.
“What do you like to do for fun?”
“Read, and play games.”
“What games?”
“Ball games… and marbles… and things like that. I like to play with other boys,” he added, after a barely perceptible pause, “anything they play.”
“Do they play at your house?”
“No; we play on the school grounds. My grandmother doesn’t like noise.”
Was that the reason? When a quiet boy offers explanations, they may not be the right ones.
“What do you like to read?”
But about his reading Timothy was vague. He liked, he said, to read “boys’ books,” but could not name any.
Welles gave the boy the usual intelligence tests. Tim seemed willing, but his replies were slow in coming. Perhaps, Welles thought, I’m imagining this, but he is too careful—too cautious. Without taking time to figure exactly, Welles knew what Tim’s I.Q. would be—about 120.
“What do you do outside of school?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I play with the other boys. After supper, I study my lessons.”
“What did you do yesterday?”
“We played ball on the school playground.”
Welles waited a while to see whether Tim would say anything of his own accord. The seconds stretched into minutes.
“Is that all?” said the boy finally. “May I go now?”
“No; there’s one more test I’d like to give you today. A game, really. How’s your imagination?”
“I don’t know.”
“Cracks on the ceiling—like those over there—do they look like anything to you? Faces, animals, or anything?”
Tim looked.
“Sometimes. And clouds, too. Bob saw a cloud last week that was like a hippo.” Again the last sentence sounded like something tacked on at the last moment, a careful addition made for a reason.
Welles got out the Rorschach cards. But at the sight of them, his patient’s tension increased, his wariness became unmistakably evident. The first time they went through the cards, the boy could scarcely be persuaded to say anything but, “I don’t know.”
“You can do better than this,” said Welles. “We’re going through them again. If you don’t see anything in these pictures, I’ll have to mark you a failure,” he explained. “That won’t do. You did all right on the other things. And maybe next time we’ll do a game you’ll like better.”
“I don’t feel like playing this game now. Can’t we do it again next time?”
“May as well get it done now. It’s not only a game, you know, Tim; it’s a test. Try harder, and be a good sport.”
So Tim, this time, told what he saw in the ink blots. They went through the cards slowly, and the test showed Tim’s fear, and that there was something he was hiding; it showed his caution, a lack of trust, and an unnaturally high emotional self-control.
Miss Page had been right; the boy needed help.
“Now,” said Welles cheerfully, “that’s all over. We’ll just run through them again quickly and I’ll tell you what other people have seen in them.”
A flash of genuine interest appeared on the boy’s face for a moment.
Welles went through the cards slowly, seeing that Tim was attentive to every word. When he first said, “And some see what you saw here,” the boy’s relief was evident. Tim began to relax, and even to volunteer some remarks. When they had finished he ventured to ask a question.
“Dr. Welles, could you tell me the name of this test?”
“It’s sometimes called the Rorschach test, after the man who worked it out.”
“Would you mind spelling that?”
Welles spelled it, and added: “Sometimes it’s called the inkblot test.”
Tim gave a start of surprise, and then relaxed again with a visible effort.
“What’s the matter? You jumped.”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on! Let’s have it,” and Welles waited.
“Only that I thought about the ink-pool in the Kipling stories,” said Tim, after a minute’s reflection. “This is different.”
“Yes, very different,” laughed Welles. “I’ve never tried that. Would you like to?”
“Oh, no, sir,” cried Tim earnestly.
“You’re a little jumpy today,” said Welles. “We’ve time for some more talk, if you are not too tired.”
“No, I’m not very tired,” said the boy warily.
Welles went to a drawer and chose a hypodermic needle. It wasn’t usual, but perhaps—“I’ll just give you a little shot to relax your nerves, shall I? Then we’d get on better.”
When he turned around, the stark terror on the child’s face stopped Welles in his tracks.
“Oh, no! Don’t! Please, please, please, don’t!”
Welles replaced the needle and shut the drawer before he said a word.
“I won’t,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t know you didn’t like shots. I won’t give you any, Tim.”