It was a problem that had become more and more apparent over the last five years of Chuck's schooling, but his parents had only begun to take it seriously-as Chuck had-when his sports eligibility became endangered. And that was not the worst of it. This winter would be Chuck's last good chance to take the Scholastic Achievement Tests, if he expected to start college in the fall of 1977. The maths were not much of a problem, but the rest of the exam… well… if he could have the questions read aloud to him, he would do an average-to-good job. Five hundreds, no sweat. But they don't let you bring a reader with you when you take the SATs, not even if your dad is a biggie in the world of New Hampshire business.
“But I found him a ch… changed man. He knew what lay before him and his courage was…… supper superb. He asked for nothing; he regretted nothing. All the terror and the nerv… nervousness which had puss… possett… possessed him so long as he was cuh cuh… culafronted… confronted by an unknown fate… “
Johnny had seen the ad for a tutor in the Maine” Time's and had applied without too much hope. He had moved down to Kittery in mid-February, needing more than anything else to get away from Pownal, from the boxful of mail each day, the reporters who had begun to find their way to the house in ever-increasing numbers, the nervous women with the wounded eyes who had just “dropped by” because “they just happened to be in the neighborhood” (one of those who had just dropped by because she just happened to be in the neighborhood had a Maryland license plate; another was driving a tired old Ford with Arizona tags). Their hands, stretching out to touch him…
In Kittery he had discovered for the first time that an anonymous name like John-no-middle-initial-Smith had its advantages. His third day in town he had applied for a job as a shortorder cook, putting down his experience in the UMO commons and one summer cooking at a boys” camp in the Rangely Lakes as experience. The diner's owner, a tough-as-nails widow named Ruby Pelletier, had looked over his application and said, “You're a teensy bit overeducated for slinging hash. You know that, don't you, slugger?”
“That's right,” Johnny said. “I went and educated my-self right out of the job market.”
Ruby Pelletier put her hands on her scrawny hips, threw her head back, and bellowed laughter. “You think you can keep your shit together at two in the morning when twelve CB cowboys pull in all at once and order scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, french toast, and flap-jacks?”
“I guess maybe,” Johnny said.
“I guess maybe you don't know what the eff I'm talking about just yet,” Ruby said, “but I'll give you a go, college boy. Go get yourself a physical so we're square with the board of health and bring me back a clean bill. I'll put you right on.”
He had done that, and after a harum-scarum first two weeks (which included a painful rash of blisters on his right hand from dropping a french-fry basket into a well of boiling fat a little too fast), he had been riding the job instead of the other way around. When he saw Chatsworth's ad, he had sent his resume to the box number. In the course of the resume he had listed his special ed credentials, which included a one-semester seminar in learning disabilities and reading problems.
In late April, as he was finishing his second month at the diner, he had gotten a letter from Roger Chatsworth, asking him to appear for an interview on May 5. He made the necessary arrangements to take the day off, and at 2: loon a lovely midspring afternoon he had been sitting in Chatsworth's study, a tall, ice-choked glass of Pepsi-Cola in one hand, listening to Stuart talk about his son's reading problems.
“That sound like dyslexia to you?” Stuart asked.
“No. It sounds like a general reading phobia.”
Chatsworth had winced a little. “Jackson's Syndrome?” Johnny had been impressed-as he was no doubt supposed to be. Michael Carey Jackson was a reading-and-grammar specialist from the University of Southern California who had caused something of a stir nine years ago with a book called The Unlearning Reader. The book described a loose basket of reading problems that had since become known as Jackson's Syndrome. The book was a good one if you could get past the dense academic jargon. The fact that Chatsworth apparently had done so told Johnny a good deal about the man's commitment to solving his son's problem.
“Something like it,” Johnny agreed. “But you understand I haven't even met your son yet, or listened to him read.”
“He's got course work to make up from last year. American Writers, a nine-week history block, and civics, of all things. He flunked his final exam there because he couldn't read the beastly thing. Have you got a New Hampshire teacher's certificate?”
“No,” Johnny said, “but getting one is no problem”
“And how would you handle the situation?”
Johnny outlined the way he would deal with it. A lot of oral reading on Chuck's part, leaning heavily on high-impact materials such as fantasy, science fiction, Westerns, and boy-meets-car juvenile novels. Constant questioning on what had just been read. And a relaxation technique described in Jackson's book. “High achievers often suffer the most,” Johnny said. “They try too hard and reinforce the block. It's a kind of mental stutter that…
“Jackson says that?”. Chatsworth interposed sharply.
Johnny smiled. “No, I say that,” he said
“Okay. Go on.”
“Sometimes, if the student can totally blank his mind right after reading and not feel the pressure to recite back right away, the circuits seem to dear themselves. When that begins to happen, the student begins to rethink his line of attack. It's a positive thinking kind of thing…”
Chatsworth's eyes had gleamed. Johnny had just touched on the linchpin of his own personal philosophy -probably the linchpin for the beliefs of most self-made men. “Nothing succeeds like success,” he said.
“Well, yes. Something like that.”
“How long would it take you to get a New Hampshire certificate?”
“No longer than it takes them to process my application. Two weeks, maybe.”
“Then you could start on the twentieth?”
Johnny blinked. “You mean I'm hired?”
“If you want the job, you're hired. You can stay in the guest house, it'll keep the goddam relatives at bay this summer, not to mention Chuck's friends-and I want him to really buckle down. I'll pay you six hundred dollars a month, not a king's ransom, but if Chuck gets along, I'll pay you a substantial bonus. Substantial.”
Chatsworth removed his glasses and rubbed a hand across his face. “I love my boy, Mr. Smith. I only want the best for him. Help us out a little if you can.”
“I'll try.”
Chatsworth put his glasses back on and picked up Johnny's resume again. “You haven't taught for a helluva long time. Didn't agree with you?”
Here” it comes, Johnny thought.
“It agreed,” he said, “but I was in an accident.”
Chatsworth's eyes had gone to the scars on Johnny's neck where the atrophied tendons had been partially repaired. “Car crash?”
“Yes.”
“Bad one?”
“Yes.”
“You seem fine now,” Chatsworth said. He picked up the resume, slammed it into a drawer and, amazingly, that had been the end of the questions. So after five years Johnny was teaching again, although his student load was only one.