Ready for a good jousting match, Starlene?
Starlene loved Group. The setting was perfect for teaching socialization skills while also gaining the children's trust. In group therapy, she could be a "facilitator," though she hated that word for it. A facilitator was someone who was structured and inflexible, who "empowered" others while not taking much personal risk. She thought of her job as more like "witnessing," showing others the blessings she'd discovered and which all could share in.
"Hey, guys," she said looking into each face in turn.
"You're late," Deke said.
"And I apologize. Adults have to apologize sometimes, too, don't they, Freeman?"
Freeman winced, twitched one corner of his mouth, and said nothing.
"You going to make us talk about something, or do we just got to sit here for an hour?" Deke said.
"I think it's better when we get things out in the open," Starlene said.
"Because sharing is caring," Freeman said.
She ignored his sarcasm. Many placements came to Wendover with a wall around their hearts. You couldn't hammer through the wall; battering at it only made the wall stronger. Love was better. Love seeped through the cracks and melted the wall away, eroded its base until the stones crumbled. "We do care, Freeman."
Deke glowered at Freeman, then at Starlene. He looked around the circle, at the children sitting in their straight-backed chairs, making sure he had an audience. "Not all of us care, Freaky Freeman."
Starlene was about to quiet Deke, then decided the group dynamic might be more interesting if she let the children lead the discussion themselves. If only Deke's natural leadership skills didn't turn nasty so easily. Six years in therapy, according to the case file, and Deke was no closer to adjusting to society than he'd ever been. Still, the Lord and her professional obligation required her to have hope for him.
But patience was a demanding virtue. That was one of the warnings that her psych teachers had burned home, that occasionally you'd feel like slapping little Johnny across the face. No matter that he had been abused and suffered a neurochemical imbalance and was diagnosed with an adjustment disorder, you sometimes had to wonder if a particular kind of vermin was, and always would be, a rat.
"Why do you think Freeman is 'freaky'?" Starlene asked Deke.
"He's weird. He likes books and stuff. He sits by himself. He don't talk much, and when he does say something, it's big words nobody understands."
"And how would you respond to that, Freeman?"
Freeman shrugged and slouched more deeply into his chair. "Do unto others."
"Ah, something from the Bible. That's a good rule to live by."
"Actually," Freeman said, straightening, "that's a basic tenet of many religions: Scientology, Buddhism, Islam."
"See what I mean?" Deke said. "Weird."
"He's a thief, too," Raymond said.
"Let he who is without sin," Freeman said.
"Hey," Cynthia said. "What about 'she'? Girls can sin as good as you can."
Raymond let loose with a wolf whistle. "And you ought to know, sweet cheeks."
"Like you'd ever be so lucky," she responded.
Starlene cut in before the verbal barrage turned crude. "Why do you accuse Freeman of being a thief?" she asked Raymond.
Raymond and Deke exchanged looks. Vicky, who had been silent thus far, watching the conversation as if it were the ball at a tennis match, finally spoke.
"Because they feel threatened," she said. "They're insecure and overcompensate by trying to dominate the other boys. Any time a new guy comes here, Deke and Raymond and their gang have to knock him down in order to build themselves up."
"I ain't insecure," Deke said.
"Dysfunctional. Both psychologically and physically. Remember on the rocks?"
"At least I don't throw up every time I turn around," Deke said.
Vicky turned even paler, if such a thing were possible, though two red roses of anger blossomed on her cheeks.
"Guys," Starlene said. "Remember that we're all here for each other. We're all in this together."
"Bull hockey," Deke said. "Don't give me that 'brothers and sisters' crap. We get enough of that in chapel."
"Remember that part in the Bible about not coveting thy neighbor's ass?" Freeman said.
"That's not in there," Deke said, then turned to Starlene. "See how weird he is?"
"It's there," Freeman said. "The unexpurgated version of the Ten Commandments. The long form that usually gets trimmed down when they get posted in the courthouse or the classroom. Lots of other good stuff, too, about slaves and how God is a jealous God. The Big Guy said so himself."
"You seem to know a lot about the Bible, Freeman," Starlene said.
"He probably swiped a copy," Raymond said.
"Yeah, Weasel-brains," Deke said to Raymond. "I got one personally autographed by Jesus. Want to buy it?"
Raymond glowered, fists clenched. Deke held up his palms and smirked. Starlene left her chair and stood between the two boys. "Jesus said to turn the other cheek."
"His other ass cheek?" Freeman said. The kids erupted in laughter, even Deke, and finally Raymond.
Starlene sighed. Dirty jokes and sacrilege. Things were going to be very interesting with Freeman around. Not to mention having a ghost in the Home. The good thing about doubting your sanity was you didn't have to worry about dying of boredom.
ELEVEN
Bondurant didn't believe in ghosts. No sane man did, no holy man did. But the incident with Starlene at the lake was the third of its kind in recent weeks. Each of the three people had claimed to see a man in a dirty gray gown.
The first report had been from a kitchen worker, a wrinkled Scots-Irish whose family used to own the farmland where Wendover had been built in the 1930s. The man said the ghost was dressed just like the patients who had shambled down these halls when it was a state mental hospital during the Second World War. He'd been a boy back then, and as Bondurant had interviewed him, a childlike fear had crept into the old man's eyes. Bondurant had written him off as a superstitious hillbilly.
The second report was from a counselor, Nanny Hart-wig, who had worked at Wendover for eight years. Nanny was a reliable sort, thick-bodied and dull and as patient as a cow. She'd never been rattled by the children, even when they threw food or cursed or spat. Nanny could slip a child into a restraint hold as smoothly as if it were a choreographed professional wrestling move.
But Nanny had shown up one morning to begin her three-day shift as a house parent, then disappeared. The other counselors noticed her missing and found her several hours later, huddled in a closet, gripping a mop handle so tightly that her knuckles were white. Nanny muttered incoherently about the man in the gown who had walked right through her. Bondurant had given her two weeks' vacation and hinted that she might consider therapy. In a church, not a clinic.
But this last sighting, with Starlene today, was the worst. Bondurant believed that the third time was a charm. The third time meant that the sightings couldn't be written off as imagination or drunkenness, because Starlene was of good Christian stock. Bondurant could lie to the Board of Directors, give positive spin to the grant foundations and private supporters, even snow the Department of Social Services if it came down to it, but quieting rumors among the staff was like trying to keep water from flowing downhill.
He'd considered approaching Kracowski about the sightings. Kracowski had an easy answer for everything. Usually the doctor could open one of his journals or spew some charts from his computer and Bondurant would be left standing dumbfounded, overwhelmed by terminology and formulas. Bondurant was always comforted by the doctor's confident manner. The very lack of humility that made Kracowski irksome also made his explanations believable.