PART I
UNTEACHABLE
1933–1942
ARRIVAL AT RIVERVIEW
SEPTEMBER 1939
Henry comes here on a Greyhound bus.
Slow, along the bumpy road, his mother
in the seat beside him, sitting straight
and tall, her nostrils pinched, her words
held deep inside. She understands by now
that Henry cannot hear them.
Henry is thinking about his sister, Molly.
Why was she trying so hard not to cry, and crying
anyway, when she hugged me this morning?
Papa didn’t cry, of course. He never does.
He waved his hand as the bus rolled away,
and Henry, looking out, waved back.
Henry tells himself: Remember this whole trip.
Starting at home—the post office, the big old oak tree
on the corner, the water tower, two white churches.
Then out of town—past fields where cows and horses
graze, and other fields where farmers pitch hay
into their wagons. Another town. A city.
More farms. Two more small towns. Henry
tries hard to remember every turn. He feels
so far from home. How long, he wonders,
will we be gone this time? Last time
Mama took him on the bus, he hated that place
where a man tried to make him blow out candles.
It wasn’t even anybody’s birthday, and then the man
got mad when Henry wouldn’t do it. That time
it was night when he and Mama got back home.
Papa met them at the bus station, waiting with Molly
in the dark. No one cried that time. So why was Molly
crying when he got on the bus this morning?
Henry keeps thinking about that. Maybe those big boys
have been teasing her again. Why do they do that?
Henry thinks it is because of him—the way
those kids pointed at him and said something to Molly.
She stood up tall, as if they couldn’t hurt her, then
grabbed Henry’s hand and took him home.
Later on, her eyes were red. Henry picked a big bouquet
of dandelions and they brought her smile back.
He wants to get home soon so he can pick more flowers.
Henry brings his mind back to today, concentrates
to make sure he remembers the last few minutes
of the bus ride. The bus stopping every so often
to let people off and on. Then Mama looking at her map
at every stop. Henry thinks:
I bet that barn used to be red when it was new,
but now look how the roof is falling in.
There must be mice in there, because that cat
that just came out is fat.
At the next stop, right after the barn,
Mama gestures,
Here’s where we get off.
The gate. The grounds. A row of trees.
Mama holding out her hand.
Henry’s small hand wrapped in hers.
Along the stony path
and up
the twenty-seven stairs.
To this room, where they wait—
blue carpet, big soft chairs. Cool water
in a pitcher, with two drinking glasses.
The heavy door.
The room where Mama
signs some papers.
Back in the first room, a father
arrives with three children
and departs with two.
Henry waits with Mama
until someone comes—a woman,
not unkind. Not gentle, either.
Follow me, she says,
and when she sees he cannot hear,
she points, and Henry walks that way.
Through another door.
Mama not allowed
to follow.
Why not?
What is this place?
Who are these people?
ALL MIXED TOGETHER
A long dark corridor.
Smells he cannot name.
Something like when Granddad
forgot to change his clothes.
Something like the mess
the neighbor’s puppy made
before it learned to go outdoors.
Something like potatoes
forgotten in a corner of the kitchen.
All mixed together. Henry tries
to hold his breath, tries
breathing through his mouth—
but then he tastes what he can’t
stand to smell. He wants home,
biscuits warming in the oven,
wild roses by the gatepost,
the wind-smell when Mama
takes the sheets down off the line.
What is Molly doing at home right now?
Who will make her smile if I am not there?
MOLLY REMEMBERS HENRY’S FIRST SIX YEARS
1. HENRY IS BORN
JULY 1933
Molly’s first memory of Henry:
Papa didn’t have a job,
so he was home that day.
That was good, because he could help
Mama when she couldn’t lift
a basket full of peaches.
But it was bad because they didn’t have
money for cloth and thread and buttons
when they needed new clothes.
They couldn’t buy food from the grocery store
if the hens stopped laying and their
garden vegetables weren’t ready yet.
Molly asked Papa, Why is Mama
in her nightgown in the daytime?
but before he answered, a neighbor lady,
Mrs. Grayson, who was there to help,
looked at Molly, cleared her throat, and said,
She’s only five. Molly tried to argue,
I’m five and a half, but Mama said:
Molly. And then, to Papa,
Please take her for a walk.
So Papa did.
When they got back, there was a baby,
eyes wide open, looking up from a cradle
next to Mama’s bed.
Look who’s here, said Mama. Molly,
come and meet your brother,
Henry.
2. HENRY LEARNS TO WALK
JULY 1934
Six days after he was one year old,
Henry pulled himself up on Molly’s chair
and smiled. She kissed his forehead,
kept on saying, You can do it, Henry.
And he’d say,
Oo it, Enny.
At last, he let go, took five steps,
wobbled a little bit, and plopped
down on the floor.
Henry laughed out loud, and Molly
helped him get back on his feet
and do it all again.
3. HENRY’S FEVER
DECEMBER 1937
Molly was almost ten,
Henry four and a half,
that Christmas Eve.
They had made presents for each other,
and those were underneath the tree.
Molly showed Henry how to tell
which ones were for him, and which
were hers. He could see the difference
between H and M, and he learned
that H meant Henry.
They stayed up late, singing “Jingle Bells,”
“Joy to the World,” and “Silent Night.”
Then Henry said, I don’t feel good,
and his face was red and hot,
so Mama sent them both to bed.
Molly drifted off and started dreaming,
but the sound of Henry crying woke her up
and she could not get back to sleep.
In the morning, she was mad that Santa hadn’t come,
only the doctor with his big black bag,
who told them Henry had to stay in bed.
Mama and Papa sat with Henry
all that day,
and on through the next night.
He kept calling out:
Papa! Mama!
My ears hurt!
After four days and nights,
Henry started feeling better.
He got up and had breakfast.
Then Papa remembered about Christmas,
and called to Molly and Henry—
Come and open presents.
Molly jumped right up—but Henry didn’t.
Henry, come on! Molly said.
What? he asked, and she repeated,
Come on!
It’s time to open presents!
Henry sat there,
staring at her. Finally, she took his arm
and pulled him to the living room,
where Papa had the presents.
They each got one store-bought present:
a jump rope for Molly,
a harmonica for Henry.
Molly started jumping rope, right there in the house,
while Papa played a tune on the harmonica,
trying to show Henry how to do it.
Henry was happy, but he looked confused.
He said, Thank you, Papa. It’s just like Mr. Grayson’s,
except his makes sounds when you blow into the holes.
Henry’s harmonica was making sounds—
they stopped what they were doing
and looked at him,
then at each other.
Papa asked some questions,
and Henry shook his head. Mama
had a scared look on her face. She
started singing “Jingle Bells,” and Molly
joined right in,
but Henry didn’t.
Henry could see that people’s mouths were moving,
he could feel his own mouth making words,
but it sounded to Henry like everyone
was speaking
from another room
with the door closed.
That was when Henry and his family
found out
that Henry couldn’t hear.
4. MOLLY KEPT ON TALKING
JULY 1938
Henry turned five, and Molly tried
to imagine his silent world.
No barking dogs? No thunder?
No blue jays squawking at the sparrows?
If he bit into an apple,
would he hear a crunching sound?
In wintertime, would he know
that feeling, when the world gets quiet
just before it starts to snow?
Molly thought about how Mama called them in
when it was time for lunch, and how,
if a car came down the road,
they knew to jump out of the way.
Now, even if cars honked their horns,
Henry didn’t know it.
She kept her brother close beside her.
She wondered: Can Henry hear his own voice
when he talks? Is your voice inside your head,
or outside near your ears? She noticed
that when Henry saw her talking,
he’d stand in front of her, watching
her face. She learned to stand
where he could see her mouth move,
and she spoke slowly, one word at a time,
trying to help him understand.
Sometimes Henry could.
Sometimes not.
5. FOR A WHILE, HE TALKED
At first, he talked as much as ever,
to Mama and Papa and to Molly.
For a while, he talked to people
in the grocery store or on the street.
A lot of times, they didn’t know
he couldn’t hear them,
and they talked to Henry, too.
He tried to guess what they were saying—
usually Hello or Good morning was enough
of a reply, and then he smiled and walked on.
But Henry couldn’t hear the words he spoke,
and his voice started changing.
Sometimes it was hard to understand him.
Molly, scared that he’d stop talking,
kept chattering away to Henry,
even after almost
everybody else
had stopped.
6. HENRY DECIDES WHO HE WILL TALK TO
JULY 1939
When Henry turned six, Mama said,
Let’s invite a few children
to a birthday party. There were three
of them, two girls and a boy,
and Henry couldn’t wait.
He’d never had a birthday party.
The day arrived, and the boys came first.
They just said, Happy birthday, Henry,
picked up a ball, and started playing catch.
They didn’t try to talk much,
which was fine with Henry.
But the girl—Sadie—talked a lot!
Happy birthday, Henry, she began.
She said it loud and slow, and Henry guessed
that one easily. Thank you, Sadie, he replied.
But then Sadie got excited and started talking fast:
My mother asked your mother if we
could make a cake for you, and she said yes!
I thought you’d like white frosting better,
but my mother said it should be yellow.
So that’s what we made. Is that okay?
Henry smiled back at Sadie. He could see
there was a question at the end, but he
wasn’t sure what she was asking.
I like cake, he guessed.
He could tell from Sadie’s face
that wasn’t right, but he didn’t have
another guess, so he turned to the boys
and said, Sadie, let’s play catch with them.
One of the boys said, No girls allowed.
Since Henry didn’t hear that, he had no idea
why Sadie stomped off with her arms crossed.
Come back, he said, but the other boys said,
Let the baby go,
and Girls can’t throw.
Everyone was mad except for Henry—
he felt like it must be his fault,
but he did not know why.
Then Sadie came back,
picked up the ball, and threw it
so hard no one could catch it.
Uh-oh.
It went crashing
through the kitchen window.
They went inside—what a mess!
Bits of broken glass all over,
including on the cake.
Mama said they couldn’t eat it.
That’s when Sadie started crying
and everyone went home.
Molly and Mama both tried
to talk to Henry and explain
what had happened. He kept asking,
What did I say wrong?
They answered, Nothing.
Henry, it is not your fault.
But they couldn’t fix the birthday cake,
the broken window,
or the ruined birthday.
After that, Henry decided:
He would only talk at home,
to Mama and Papa,
and, of course, to Molly.
7. SCHOOL
AUGUST 1939
The other children Henry’s age were starting school.
The principal came and showed Mama and Papa
a picture of a hearing aid.
Maybe this would help Henry
hear his teacher, he said.
It was big and heavy and expensive.
Papa had barely started his new job—
they could never save enough to buy one.
Molly listened carefully
when Mama asked what he meant by
maybe. Even if they could afford it,
no one could promise it would help.
After the principal left, Molly asked,
What does alternative mean?
and Papa said, There might be
a school for deaf children
where Henry could be taught—
but it is in another city.
Molly asked,
How would Henry get there every day?
Papa’s voice was gentle when he answered,
He would have to leave home
and go to live there. We’d only see him
once a year, at Christmas.
Molly looked at Henry, playing with his
rock collection in a corner of the kitchen.
No! she said. No. No. No.
Even as she repeated it,
she knew—
she and Henry
would not be the ones
to say
what happened next.
She didn’t know
the school for deaf children
could say no to Henry.
THE MEN WITH KEYS
RIVERVIEW, 1939
the tall skinny one
(Henry thinks of him as “Slim Jim”)
the one who doesn’t have much hair
(“Baldy”)
the one with burn scars on his face and neck
(“Appleman,” because one scar looks like an apple)
the one who comes in every morning and blows his whistle,
then jerks back Henry’s blanket
when the whistle doesn’t wake him up
(“Blanket Man”)
the one who looks like an angry barking dog
and kicks the kids who don’t jump up to obey,
including Henry when he doesn’t see him coming
Henry watches out for that one
(“Barker”).
He looks at what the other kids are doing,
and does it.
Fast.
THE BOYS ON THE WARD
Thirty-three boys in gray-green clothes:
One bangs his head against the wall.
Another lets the flies land on his face.
One boy sees that Henry doesn’t hear
and taps him on the shoulder
to warn him if he might get kicked.
Henry sticks close to that boy.
He watches people’s mouths
when they say the boy’s name
and guesses that they’re saying
Ted.
One of Ted’s legs
is shorter than the other.
One arm
hangs loose at his side.
With his other arm
he motions: Follow me.
Do what I do.
So Henry does.
HENRY, WATCHING
From his bed at the far end of the ward,
Henry sees a mouse run under
seven beds, across the floor,
and back into the wall. He points it out
to Ted, who tilts his head to one side,
thinking. Henry pretends to catch
the mouse and hold it in his hands.
Ted points to Barker’s jacket, hanging
on a hook, and shows Henry his idea:
If we catch the mouse, we should put it
in his pocket. They laugh together.
Even though Henry knows they’ll never
really catch the mouse, it still
makes him smile to imagine Barker’s face
when the mouse
jumps out.
TEAMWORK
A little boy with curly hair comes
onto the ward.
Where did this boy come from? Henry wonders.
He has seen a group of little children playing outdoors.
Why is he here?
Maybe when those little boys get big enough
they come to live with us.
Where did he get that picture postcard he carries everywhere?
Henry thinks they call him Billy. He can tell
Billy is scared. He remembers how he felt
when he first arrived, how glad he was
when Ted was nice to him.
Then Henry sees a big boy take Billy’s
postcard and start acting like it belongs
to him. He’s not sure if Billy understands
that it’s been stolen—there are a lot of things
Billy doesn’t seem to understand. But Henry
knows for sure, it isn’t fair to steal from someone
just because he’s small and might not notice.
Henry hasn’t figured out the big boy’s name,
but he decides to call him James. He watches
James hide the postcard at the bottom
of the cabinet beside his own bed.
Henry nudges Ted, and they
start watching for a chance
to get Billy’s postcard back.
Ted touches a finger to his forehead
to say, I have an idea. He points to Henry,
then points to where James hid the postcard.
Henry thinks he means,
You go get the postcard.
Henry shakes his head, pretends
to hold up a set of keys, points to Barker,
then to James. Ted seems to understand
what Henry means: Barker and James
are bigger than he and Henry are.
Ted holds up one finger:
Wait a minute.
They watch and wait. When the men with keys
are busy, Ted walks over to the little hole
where the mouse ran into the wall,
and he starts jumping up and down,
waving his arm and pointing.
The men and boys run over to see
why Ted is so excited.
There isn’t really any mouse; it’s just a trick.
While everyone is distracted, Henry quickly
gets the postcard back. It’s easy—open
James’s cabinet, grab the postcard,
hide it under his own shirt, and then run over
to the crowd around the mouse hole
and pretend he’s been there the whole time.
It only takes a minute.
After everyone goes back to whatever
they were doing before, Henry gives
the postcard back to Billy, who looks up
at Henry with a happy smile.
Ted and Henry look around to be sure
no one is watching; then they lift the edge
of Billy’s mattress and show him
how to hide the postcard underneath.
Henry and Ted keep an eye on James.
They don’t look directly at him,
but they see when he discovers
that the postcard is missing,
see him glance across the room
at Billy, as if he’s thinking: Maybe that kid
is smarter than I thought. Ted and Henry
smile at each other. James looks at
Ted, and then at several other boys,
one at a time, sizing them up.
But he looks straight past Henry, as if
he isn’t even there.
WATCH OUT, HENRY
Do people think
if they don’t hear me talk,
that means I don’t have
thoughts?
Henry considers this, realizes
he could hide inside
the person people think he is.
It’s tempting—
he could get away with anything.
He’d be almost invisible.
Then he hears Molly’s voice,
clear and strong, as if
she’s right there in the room with him:
Watch out, Henry—
what if you pretend to be that person
and then you accidentally turn into him?
HENRY’S WINDOW
Henry can sit on his bed and look
out through the room’s only window—
dirty glass with a spiderweb
in one of the top corners.
Sometimes Henry watches
the spider catch a fly and eat it.
One afternoon it catches two flies
and eats one.
Maybe, Henry thinks, it will save
the other one, just in case
it doesn’t catch a fly tomorrow.
Henry names the spider Rex.
An old oak tree scratches the tip
of one branch against the window.
Just below that branch, another
holds a messy nest. Henry likes to watch
the squirrels that live there—four small ones,
two big—as they scamper up and down the tree.
At night, he lies in bed and looks out
through the branches,
sees how they hold the moon
as it grows round.
Night after night,
it fades away to nothing,
then comes back,
just like it does at home.
What is Molly doing right now?
Is Papa still working or did he lose his job again?
When will Mama come back to get me?
BEYOND THE TREES, A FENCE
From his window,
Henry looks down at his new world.
Just below this building, a row of trees
lines the edge of a grassy field.
Beyond the trees,
a fence with a closed gate.
Is that gate locked?
Could a boy squeeze through
the little space beside it?
Beyond the fence, the road.
I wonder what’s inside that barn we passed
the day we came here on the bus.
Beyond the road, a river.
If I got on a boat, where would the river take me?
Most afternoons, a bus goes by,
like the one he and Mama rode to come here,
that same gray dog painted on its side.
It looks like it’s running fast.
I wish I could run as fast as that dog.
Sometimes the bus slows down,
then stops,
so people can get off.
Henry waits and watches by the window.
One of these days, Mama will get off
that bus, and come and get me.
Mornings, it goes by the other way.
People wait beside the road,
and when the bus stops, they get on.
He remembers: Mama gave our tickets to the driver.
If I had a ticket, could I
get on and ride the bus back home?
How do you get a ticket?
They probably cost money.
How do you get money?
A FIELD OF GRASS, A PATH
Between the tree outside his window
and the fence, a field of grass,
a path across it.
Henry and twenty other boys
walk along the path
three times each day,
from this building, where they sleep,
to that one, where they eat.
They’re supposed to walk
in pairs, and Henry walks with Ted.
Billy came after the others were paired up,
and didn’t have a partner,
so Henry took him by the hand, and Ted said,
Come on, Billy, walk with us.
Henry likes these walks outside.
He wonders,
What about the four boys
who can’t get to the meal place
because their wheelchairs
won’t go down the stairs?
What about the three held tight
by blankets that keep them in their beds
all day and night?
Or the two
who have to wear those shirts
with the two sleeves tied together
so the boys can’t use their hands?
And the four strapped into chairs
in the long dark hallway?
Henry never sees any of those boys eating,
but he knows they have to, somehow.
Someone, he thinks, must bring them food
while the rest of us are walking
to the meal place.
BLANKET MAN
Some mornings, Henry is awake
when all the other boys
jump out of bed at the same time.
He sees Blanket Man blow a whistle
and yell—probably something like,
Everybody up!
He remembers how Papa’s clock
rang an alarm bell every morning,
so he could get to work on time.
But usually Henry is still fast asleep
when Blanket Man jerks back his blanket
to yank him into morning.
Ted’s bed is across from Henry’s. He sees
what happens, and it’s obvious
that Henry doesn’t like it. Who would?
He tries to help by gently shaking
Henry’s shoulder. Henry sees him say
something to Blanket Man. Maybe it’s
See, here’s how to wake up my friend.
It doesn’t work.
The next time Blanket Man jerks Henry’s blanket back,
he looks across at Ted and laughs.
Ted and Henry hate that man.
If only a nice one, such as Baldy,
would be there in the mornings.
But Baldy only comes in the afternoons.
Henry keeps thinking
until he finally gets a good idea.
He can’t explain it without talking,
so he decides to speak to Ted.
I know what we can do, he says.
Ted says something, and Henry guesses
it’s What? You can talk?
He says, I can talk, but I can’t hear.
Ted looks like he’s thinking about that,
so Henry adds, Don’t tell. Some people
get mad if I say something wrong.
Ted nods, points to Henry’s head, meaning,
Okay. What’s your idea?
Henry hopes he can explain it.
We need a string, he says, and goes on
to explain the whole idea, smiling
when Ted understands. That afternoon,
Ted talks to Baldy, and the next day,
Baldy brings a ball of string and helps them
measure and cut it to the right length.
That night they tie it
between Ted’s bed
and Henry’s ankle.
Their idea works! In the morning, Blanket Man
looks long and hard at Ted and Henry,
sitting up in their beds, grinning.
Blanket Man looks like he knows
he’s been outsmarted
and he doesn’t like it.
THE PATH CURVES AROUND
When he’s walking to the meal place,
Henry counts eight other buildings
made of dark red brick, like his.
Where the path curves around
behind his building, people walk in lines
from one building to another.
Some of the people in the other lines
are girls. Some are men. Some
are grown-up women like his mother,
only not as pretty.
The men wear gray-green clothes,
the same color as the boys’.
The girls’ and women’s clothes are a color
he can’t name—maybe their clothes were pink,
or even red, a long time ago, but now
they’re brownish-gray.
Two extra people always walk
with the people in the lines—
two men with the boys,
two women with the girls.
One at the front of the line,
the other at the back.
Those men and women wear
dark blue clothes.
Some of the women wear
white caps and aprons.
Henry is sure those men
and women all have keys.
INSIDE THE FENCE, SOMETHING
Across the road, inside a chain-link fence,
something Henry doesn’t understand:
pathways wind through it, like the place
he went one time with Molly and his parents
and the pastor when their friend
Mrs. Grayson died.
He remembers the prayer they said
and the song they sang together.
But this place can’t be a cemetery:
no monuments, no gravestones.
Only tall grass and weeds and
rows of little sticks—what are they?
KICKBALL
Henry looks out the window at the grassy field.
Once in a while, some boys go outdoors
to run around and kick a ball.
I could do that, Henry thinks.
The next time Baldy comes, when he
picks up a ball and says something,
and ten boys line up to go outside,
Henry gets in line and goes with them.
He can figure out this game:
Baldy rolls the ball to one boy,
who kicks it and sends it flying.
Then that boy runs around in a circle
while others chase the ball.
It looks like you’re supposed to touch
three rocks along the way.
When it’s Ted’s turn, it’s hard for him
to catch or kick the ball, but he keeps trying.
Henry sees how he could help.
He stays close to Ted, and when the ball
comes their way, Henry catches it and sets
it down so Ted can kick it, standing
on his short leg, kicking with the longer one.
He starts to walk, as fast as he can,
to the first rock, but Baldy catches
the ball in the air and Ted goes back
to where Henry helped him kick it.
Then Baldy points to Henry:
Your turn. So Henry stands
where Ted was, and Baldy rolls
the ball to him. Henry kicks it hard
and it soars
across the grass,
over the fence.
James chases the ball, and Henry sees—
right there where the fence meets the trees,
there is a space a boy can fit through.
Henry’s not sure if he’s supposed to wait
for James to get back to where they’re playing.
The other boys are waving their arms
and yelling—Henry guesses
they must be saying:
Run, Henry, run!
And Ted is pointing to the first rock,
so Henry runs to it, and keeps going
until he gets all the way back
to where he kicked the ball.
That seems to make people happy.
Henry is happy too.
He understands the game—
kick and run and touch the rocks
until you get back where you started.
There might be some other rules,
but no one seems to care
too much about them. Kick and run,
and help Ted if he needs it.
Henry can do this.
He likes the outdoor time.
It’s easier to breathe out here.
He wishes they could go out every day,
but Baldy is the only one who lets them.
As they walk back inside,
Henry tucks away what he has learned today:
There is a boy-sized space
between the trees and fence.
WHERE IS JAMES?
OCTOBER 1939
Henry doesn’t think James knows
who took the postcard back
and helped Billy hide it.
He hasn’t seen James do anything else
that mean or sneaky, but still
he keeps an eye on him.
You never know.
Then one morning, Blanket Man
thinks James isn’t moving
fast enough—he pushes him
into the breakfast line, grabs him
by the shoulders, shoves him out the door.
James shoves back, not very hard,
but hard enough for Blanket Man to punish
him by making him miss breakfast.
He has to sit there, watching all the other boys
eat toast and oatmeal, without getting
a single bite himself. Henry knows that is
not right. He’s never talked to James
and doesn’t want to start now,
but he wants him to know
he saw what happened.
He gives him a piece of toast
when no one’s looking. James is surprised,
and Henry knows he says, Thanks,
as he hides the toast under his shirt.
James still looks mad
when they line up to go back,
and Henry sees him slip out of the line.
He nudges Ted and they watch James run and hide behind a tree.
When they get back to the ward,
they look out the window and see
him running from one tree
to the next, staying in the shadows.
Then he squeezes past the fence
and keeps on running until they
can’t see him anymore.
Henry asks Ted, Should we tell?
Ted shakes his head. No.
Henry doesn’t know where James is going.
He hopes the men with keys won’t catch him.
SEARCHING UNDER BEDS
When the boys line up for lunch
and the attendants count them,
Blanket Man and Barker know
someone is missing. Who?
They make all the boys
go stand beside their beds.
James.
Where is he? Within minutes,
four other men with keys are on the ward,
searching under beds, inside every cabinet,
pulling dirty sheets out of the laundry bin.
They don’t find James.
When the other boys finally get to lunch,
the food is cold (fried eggs that look like rubber),
and a fly has landed in the milk.
Henry hopes James has a home to run to.
If he gets there, maybe his family
won’t make him come back here.
THAT NIGHT
Mama. Papa. Molly.
As Henry falls asleep that night.
he sees their faces shining
in the sunlight of the kitchen.
In the morning, he’s still dreaming
that he’s walking down the road
from his house to Mrs. Grayson’s.
She smiles at him, gives him
a cup of hot chocolate and a cookie.
He doesn’t want to wake up, but he
feels the string tug at his ankle.
And here he is again.
NOT FAIR
In the morning, Blanket Man and Barker
and two other men with keys
bring James back to the ward.
He’s limping in a way he wasn’t yesterday.
His face is bruised; one eye is swollen shut.
They make sure the other boys
get a good look at James before they
take him to the hallway where the chairs
have straps, put him in a chair,
and pull the buckles tight. Henry didn’t even
like James very much,
but he knows for sure
this is not fair.
HENRY COUNTS THE DAYS
NOVEMBER 1939
Henry goes out to the hallway every day
to let James know he sees him there.
Some days Billy follows him, and Ted
went with him once, but it seemed to
make Ted mad, so most days it’s only Henry.
He counts the days—five … eight … fifteen …
twenty-five … He hopes it won’t get past one hundred,
because that’s as high as he can count.
On day twenty-eight, Barker glances at Henry and Billy
standing beside James, watching in silence.
After he has tightened James’s straps,
Barker looks at James and says something
that looks to Henry like a threat.
Barker waits for James to nod agreement,
and then he loosens all the straps.
Henry wonders,
Will James get up and kick him,
and then run away again?
He hopes so; he thinks that’s what he would do.
But he understands why James stands up
and then just walks away
without saying or doing anything.
WE MISS YOU
CHRISTMAS 1939
It gets colder.
Henry wishes he could find out
how long he has to stay here.
Sometimes the men with keys
bring letters for the boys,
and one day, they give one to him.
He sees an H on the envelope,
like the ones Molly showed him
on the presents. H means Henry!
He tears the letter open and there’s
a picture inside. He knows Molly drew it:
a table with a pie on it, four chairs around it,
three people and one empty chair.
In a corner of the picture,
a Christmas tree with a silver star on top.
This is his sister’s way of telling him,
It’s Christmas, Henry,
and we miss you.
He wishes he had paper and a pencil
and an envelope like that
and someone who would help him
send a picture back to her.
At first, the letter makes him happy,
but that night Henry dreams
of home again, and when he wakes up
at Riverview, and it smells the same
as always, Henry can’t stop tears
from trickling into his ears.
HE’S SEVEN NOW
JULY 1940
The days are hot, like they were
when Henry first came to Riverview.
He gets another letter, with a picture
of a birthday cake. He counts the candles,
so he knows he’s seven now.
He tries to push the thought away,
but it keeps returning:
What if Mama never comes to get me?
Papa?
Wouldn’t Molly tell them not to leave me here?
Every so often new boys come,
and he never sees them leave.
Sometimes the big boys leave. At first,
Henry thinks they get to go home.
But then one day James leaves, and the next day
Henry sees him walking in a line outside
with other big boys.
He didn’t go home.
He only moved to a different building.
A SMALL BROWN BIRD
SEPTEMBER 1940
The pail under the dripping ceiling
fills up fast today. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Henry keeps an eye on it, and, carefully,
before it overflows, he carries it
between the rows of twenty beds,
over to the sink. Billy follows him
and helps by wiping up the little puddles
on the floor. Then they go together
to set the pail back where it was.
When it fills again,
Henry empties it again. Four times a day
if it’s raining hard like this.
He doesn’t know why he’s the only one
who seems to notice when the pail is full,
but since he is, he empties it, with Billy
like his little shadow, helping.
Afternoons, he watches
at the window: he likes to watch
the small brown birds that come—
landing, flying off, returning
to a patch of grass beneath the oak tree,
where they sway back and forth
as they eat the little weed-seeds
left over from the flowers
on their sturdy stalks.
Peck. Peck. Peck.
But not today. When it rains
like this, the birds
don’t come so much.
THE WINDOW
That crack in the windowpane
didn’t used to be there. One evening,
Billy started crying
and he wouldn’t stop.
Ted and Henry couldn’t figure out
why he was crying, and Barker,
the only grown-up on the ward,
was ignoring him.
Ted put his hands over his ears
and said something to Billy—that’s how
Henry knew the sound of crying bothered Ted,
but Billy kept it up. No one could stop him.
After it went on a while, Barker threw a shoe
across the room
that missed Billy and cracked
the window. Henry remembered
a long time ago at home, when bits of
broken glass got on his birthday cake
and Sadie cried. At least this window
didn’t shatter like that one did.
Now, sometimes, Henry looks at that crack
and wonders:
If the shoe had hit my friend,
would he be cracked like this?
THAT ROOM
Henry remembers the steps, the door
where he once entered. Is that room
still there? The one with big soft chairs.
A carpet on the floor.
The room that smelled like
wilting summer flowers.
No one in that room
wore faded gray-green clothes.
Some people there smelled clean.
MAMA AND A GIRL
MARCH 1941
The weather changes—instead of rain,
there’s snow now. It looks fresh and nice,
but Henry’s hands and feet are always cold.
His days all start the same way: get out of bed,
put on his day clothes and a jacket, walk over
to the breakfast place to eat toast and oatmeal.
And then, one surprising day, Appleman
comes with clean clothes, brown and white,
and a pair of shoes not as worn out
as the ones Henry usually wears, the ones
with cardboard shoved inside to cover up
the holes worn through the soles.
Henry puts the clothes on—
they almost fit. He can squeeze
his feet into the shoes.
Appleman leads Henry
down the hallway he remembers
from the day he first arrived.
The heavy door opens, closes behind him.
Appleman leaves him there.
And there she is:
Mama,
and a girl
who looks like Molly, only bigger.
The girl smiles, reaches out
for Henry’s hand, and then he sees:
it is Molly. He remembers
how her name sounds
from long ago, when he could hear.
His mouth opens, and he says it: Molly!
and then he sees her mouth say, Henry.
His name.
And Henry figures out
that he
is bigger too.
NEW SOCKS
Mama gives Henry a peppermint,
an orange, and two new pairs of socks.
He takes off the shoes—his feet are rough;
his jagged toenails snag a thread on his new sock.
But once he gets the socks on, he smiles big.
He almost feels like he’s back home.
Mama straightens out the socks, then looks into
Henry’s eyes and starts to talk, saying every word
slowly, hoping Henry understands:
We would have come before,
but we have no extra money.
I’ve been saving for this trip, taking in
mending from the neighbors,
selling eggs when the hens are laying.
But times are hard, my darling. I’m so sorry.
Henry thinks she says money and bending,
maybe eggs. He doesn’t know she says sorry,
but he understands that she still loves him.
Henry keeps on smiling. When he turns to Molly,
she doesn’t try to talk. She makes her hand
into a wolf, like she used to in the dark,
when the lamplight cast shadows
on their wall at home. Henry thinks
for a minute before his hand makes
the rabbit, and hops away from Molly’s wolf.
He lets her catch it like they always did.
He wonders if his sister will still
pull him close—she does—but she does not
try to kiss his hair. It’s been so long,
and they have both grown taller.
GOODBYE
Henry is happy, thinking, Finally,
they’ve come to get me out of here.
We’ll all go home together,
and Papa will be there.
It’s been a long time since he’s talked out loud
to anyone except Ted, and he only talks to Ted
when no one else can hear him.
But he finds the words he needs.
Let’s go home now. I want to see Papa.
He can see that Molly and Mama are pleased
that he is talking. He knows
they understand him.
But something else—a worried look—flashes
between the two of them. Henry can’t quite
tell what it means. He knows
he doesn’t like it.
Then Appleman comes back, and it looks to Henry
like he plans to take him back to the ward.
The smile leaves Henry’s face.
His eyes go dark.
Appleman motions toward the door,
and Henry sees for sure: He is not going home.
He turns to look at Molly and his mother,
sees Molly wave her hand at him.
Goodbye, Henry.
Henry hollers: Take me home!
Appleman says, What?
jerks Henry by the arm, pushes him
back through the heavy door. Molly jumps up
as the door closes behind Henry. She runs over,
hears the lock click shut. It cuts off
Mama’s promise:
We’ll come again at Christmas.
She doesn’t hear, behind the door,
how Appleman sneers: You little sneak.
Pretending you can’t talk.
Trying to make us think you’re deaf.
THE HEAVY DOOR
Molly jams her fists into her pockets.
That man didn’t have to be like that.
Henry would have gone back through
the heavy door if the attendant had been gentle.
Why did he say What? like that, as if
it was the first time he’d heard Henry speak?
Does Henry talk to anyone in this awful place?
Mama holds her tears until they’re back outside
and the Greyhound bus is coming down the road.
REMEMBERING AUGUST 1939
A CHILD LIKE THIS
On the long bus ride home,
Mama cries
and blows her nose into her hankie.
Molly wishes they could go back to the first time
those ladies came. Mama scrubbed the floor
and Molly dusted furniture.
They washed every napkin, spread them out to dry,
put a doily on the kitchen table
to cover up the burn mark.
Henry picked a big bouquet
of hollyhocks and zinnias,
filled a jam jar halfway up with water.
He put the flowers in it, set it on the doily—
all of them trying so hard to make the house
look like a proper place to raise
a child like this.
That’s what the ladies
kept calling Henry.
A child like what? Molly wondered.
Henry, scared and quiet, hid
behind the kitchen door,
the ladies watching
like they hoped to catch him
doing something wrong.
We will help you decide, they said,
where the boy is best suited.
They must have seen the question
on Mama’s face, so they made it clear:
the State School for the Deaf
or
Riverview Home for the Feebleminded.
Mama gasped.
The School for the Deaf,
of course! she said.
We will see, said the ladies,
and they gave her a card
with the school’s address,
and told her to take Henry there
for testing.
AWAY FROM ALL HE KNEW
Molly remembers Henry looked so scared
when he and Mama got on the bus that morning,
his first time going so far away
from all he knew at home.
Mama took him to the School for the Deaf.
It was dark when the bus brought them back home,
and Molly saw a different kind of darkness
in Mama’s eyes: sadness, anger, something else,
new and hard to name. After Henry went to bed,
Mama and Papa sat down at the table.
Molly sat down with them.
I suppose, Mama said,
you may as well hear this.
They didn’t even show us around the school,
she began. We never saw a single class or met
any of the students or teachers. They took
Henry into a little room and gave him
what they called a simple test.
“Can he be taught,” they asked,
“to blow out a candle?”
Molly knew that would be easy for Henry.
He blew out his birthday candles
every year. He loved that.
But Mama went on:
He was frightened.
He didn’t understand.
She described the candle on a table,
how the testing man would light it,
blow it out, light it again, and point to Henry.
Now you do it was what he meant.
Henry pushed his chair back.
The man lit the candle.
Blew it out.
Again and again—ten times.
And Henry wouldn’t do it.
The man kept writing in his notebook.
Henry got more and more upset.
When he crawled under the table
and refused to come back out,
the man said, I’m sorry, ma’am.
Your son appears to be
unteachable.
It took Molly a few minutes
to understand what all this meant.
Didn’t you tell them, she demanded,
how Henry used to hum along
to the songs Mr. Grayson played on his harmonica?
Or how, when he was only three years old,
before he got that earache,
Henry could hear a story once,
and tell it back to anyone who’d listen?
He can count up to a hundred!
He can find birds’ nests and catch frogs.
Mama closed her eyes before she answered,
You know that.
Papa and I know.
Henry is smart.
But he can be shy. He can be stubborn.
Today he was both at the same time.
That was all the man saw.
He wouldn’t listen to me.
He acted like he knew more about our Henry
from that one silly test
than anyone, including
Henry’s own mother,
could ever know.
She paused.
Those two ladies will be back next week
to tell us their decision.
And then when they came back
and Molly heard their words—
Riverview
and Feebleminded—
she just stood there
with her fists in her pockets
and her mouth clamped shut
as if she
had forgotten
how to talk.
She never told them how Henry saved her life
that time, when a raccoon got underneath
the porch, and Molly tried to coax it out.
Even though he was three and she was eight,
Henry was the one who said, It might have rabies.
So they left it alone and told Papa,
and he trapped it, and took it to a place
where they said Henry was right.
Molly wishes she had told those ladies,
I might have died if Henry
had not been so smart that day.
When the ladies came with their decision,
one said,
He will be better off.
And then the other added,
Surely you understand,
you cannot care for a child like this
at home.
The first, again:
You must think about your entire family,
not only this one boy.
She looked at Molly when she said that.
And Molly
did not say a single word
to defend herself or Henry.
Later, she thought of what she might have said:
You leave Henry here, where he belongs.
I’ll teach him how to read and write and do arithmetic.
I don’t care about the teasing—
those big boys’ words
don’t mean a thing.
But the words
started singing in her head that day:
They’ll take your brother to the loony bin,
loony bin, loony bin.
They’ll take him to the loony bin,
and they should take you, too.
When the kids at school sang that song—
first two, then three, then six of them—
Molly stuck out her chin and answered:
Sticks and stones will break my bones
but words can never hurt me.
It wasn’t true—their words
cut deep-down into her,
and maybe into Henry, too,
even though he didn’t hear them, only saw
how those kids’ faces were like
snarled-up bramble bushes.
Could he tell by looking at them
that their mouths
were full of thorns?
That awful day, those dressed-up ladies just kept talking,
never asking Mama what she thought
would be best for Henry.
And the whole time,
Molly stood there saying
nothing.
Papa was working on a farm ten miles away.
When he got home two days later, Mama repeated
the ladies’ words, and Papa answered
every argument:
We have been caring for Henry at home all his life.
It will be hard for Molly if he goes away.
Then Mama got to the one that Molly knew
could not possibly be true:
He will be happier with those of his own kind.
When she heard that, Molly finally argued back:
We are his own kind!
Papa was quiet for a minute before he said,
That is true.
And then he added, as gently as he could,
The kind that doesn’t get to make the rules.
Mama and Papa studied the paper
the ladies left behind, full of big words,
and hard to read. After a long time, Papa said,
It doesn’t sound like we have much of a choice.
Molly saw Mama’s tears fall on the paper
as she and Papa signed it.
HENRY’S EMPTY CHAIR
NOVEMBER 1941
We’ve saved enough money for two Greyhound tickets,
Papa says to Molly. And we’ve decided—for Henry’s
Christmas visit, I will go with Mama.
Mama knits a sweater,
two pairs of mittens,
and a stocking cap.
Molly helps her make a fruitcake.
Papa decides that he will buy
a sack of peppermints.
Molly draws more pictures
for them to take to Riverview:
Snowball’s three new kittens,
the bonfire they had on Halloween,
and another picture of their table
with Henry’s empty chair.
PEARL HARBOR
DECEMBER 1941
Seventeen days before their trip to Riverview, the news:
Pearl Harbor has been bombed.
America is at war.
WHAT IS GOING ON?
DECEMBER 1941
Something changes at Riverview,
but Henry can’t tell what has happened.
The attendants close the curtains before
they turn on any lights. Men
who used to fix the things that broke
stop coming: When the doorknob
falls off, it stays off. A sink clogs up
and water overflows. A toilet, too.
The attendants, and the boys like Ted and Henry
who can help, work harder, but mostly, things
at Riverview just don’t get fixed.
Slim Jim and Barker lean over a newspaper
looking worried.
What is going on? Henry wonders.
The paper is discarded on the ward,
and Ted and Henry study it: pictures of explosions,
boats, men trying to swim away from fire.
A gray-haired man. Giant letters.
Henry points to something on the paper,
and tells Ted:
That’s an H, like my name, Henry.
They wish they could read the words
and piece everything together.
AT HOME, THEY TRY TO SING
The war changes everything.
Papa learns to be a welder and works all day,
through supper until midnight, seven days a week.
Mama starts working at the bakery when the man
who had that job leaves to join the army. Molly
tries to help by doing things Mama used to do.
The money is still there—maybe they’ll even buy another ticket,
so Molly can go too—but now they can’t get enough
time off from work for the trip to visit Henry.
On Christmas Eve, Papa lights the candles
and they try to sing:
Holy infant, so tender and mild …
Mama sings that much, but then
her voice breaks into pieces,
so they stop.
Papa holds her in his arms
to comfort her.
I promised, she keeps saying.
The thought crosses Molly’s mind:
Henry didn’t hear the promise.
Even though she doesn’t say it
right out loud,
just thinking it
makes her ashamed.
LUCKY
Molly knows that she’s the lucky one.
She does.
Mama and Papa never actually
say this,
but she knows they think,
It might
have been the other way around.
You could
be at Riverview, Henry here
at home.
So don’t complain.
Molly does not
complain
when Mama knits those socks
and mittens,
plus two hats and a sweater—
for Henry.
She doesn’t say a word when
Mama uses
up the yarn. Molly knows yarn
is expensive.
She doesn’t say she needs a new
warm hat
herself, and although
the sleeves
of her only sweater no longer reach
her wrists,
she truly does want Henry
to have
whatever they can give him—
because
there is so much
they can’t.
Henry is the constant undercurrent
of their lives.
Even when they can’t go see him,
whether or not
they talk about him, Henry
is the glue
that holds their family
together.
At home, Henry’s absence is
ever-present.
At school, Molly never
mentions him.
AN ORANGE
One bright snowy day, the attendants
put shoes and nice clothes
on three boys, take them out,
bring them back. They return
to the cold room with gifts—
Henry thinks they must be from
their mothers.
Where is my mother?
Where are Molly and Papa?
When they come, they might bring
new socks again. I want to give them
something too. Would Molly
like the blue feather I found
one day last summer? And the small
striped stone—Mama might like that.
Baldy comes for Ted, gives him
clean clothes, leads him away—
to the nice room, Henry guesses.
When Ted comes back, he holds
an orange in his hand. He peels it
and gives half to Henry,
who gives half of his half to Billy.
Maybe this is Christmas.
Henry hopes
his mother and his sister
will come to see him soon.
Maybe Papa will come too.
If they bring him an orange,
he’ll share it with Ted and Billy.
But no one comes
to visit Henry.
SHE LETS HER FRIENDS FORGET
Molly goes to a New Year’s Eve party,
and all her friends are talking
about brothers who enlisted, fathers
who might get called up. Molly says,
My father learned to be a welder.
That’s important war work.
The conversation is about to
flow right past her, when a girl
whose brother has been drafted says,
Molly, you’re lucky
you don’t have
a brother.
Molly knows what this girl means:
an older brother. One who would
have to go to war. And yes, again,
Molly knows she’s lucky.
But she has been friends with this girl
since before first grade. The girl knew Henry
before he went to Riverview. Everyone did!
But no one, among all the chatter, corrects her.
Not a single person says,
Molly has a brother—his name is Henry.
And Molly doesn’t speak his name herself.
She lets her friends forget
that she ever had a brother.
HENRY HOLDS THE DUSTPAN
FEBRUARY 1942
The men with keys start leaving.
Just when Henry thinks he’s figured out
who he might trust a little bit,
that man is gone, and someone else
comes in to take his place,
with quirks and habits of his own.
There’s one who thinks it’s funny
to turn the shower cold, then hot, then
cold again, making Henry and the others
do a kind of dance. Henry tries
to ignore it and clean himself the best
he can, so the smells he can’t help
breathing in come from
the rooms around him,
but not from his own skin.
Then one day, Shower-Dance Man leaves
and never comes again, but
this time, no one takes his place.
Soon after that, Appleman is gone,
and then two more men leave. Where once
there were nine men with keys, now it’s only
Baldy, Barker, Blanket Man, and Slim Jim.
Henry has known the rhythm of his days,
marked off by breakfast, lunch, dinner
in the meal place, something hot to drink
with a small snack before they go to bed.
Most days now, they only have two meals.
Some days only one.
No snacks. No hot drinks.
The food is always cold.
The boys keep doing their work.
Henry and Ted stack the dirty plates.
Henry and Billy carry them back to the kitchen.
The three of them wipe down the tables.
Ted holds the broom in his good arm
and sweeps the floor. Henry holds
the dustpan. Or they switch off—
Henry sweeps; Ted holds the dustpan.
They like doing those chores together.
SPILLED TOMATO SOUP
MARCH 1942
Ted and Henry and Billy. Billy, Henry, and Ted.
It’s good to have friends to sit with
when you’re eating. Billy watches
Ted and Henry, helps them clear the tables,
wipe them down, then sweep the floor. If Billy
makes mistakes, Ted and Henry fix them.
And then one snowy day in March—
it happens fast—Billy drops
a not-quite-empty crock of soup.
He runs to Henry, taps him on the shoulder,
points to the mess—Henry will know
what to do. And Billy’s right: Henry
quickly steps in, shows Billy and the other kids
how to step around the mess. Then he goes
to get a broom and sees that Ted
already has one, and is on his way to help.
Ted hesitates—he tries to sweep up the broken
pieces of the crock, but it’s hard to do that
without smearing spilled tomato soup across the floor.
That’s when Barker strides across the room, sees Billy
standing there beside the mess, grabs the arm
he raises to defend himself, twists it behind
Billy’s back, and slaps him. Slaps him again.
Ted moves fast, swings his broom at Barker,
and the broom has soup on it,
which gets on Barker’s clothes
and looks a little bit like blood.
(But isn’t.)
Forget about Billy—Barker lets him go,
swings at Ted. Henry puts a hand on Billy’s
shoulder, and they stand there watching
as Barker pulls a lever, and two more
men rush in and tackle Ted. They lift him up,
strap him into a chair.
Oh no, Henry thinks,
the rows of chairs along the hallway!
After that, each morning Ted is strapped
down. He has to stay like that all day.
At first, he fights it. Kicks the wall.
Rocks his chair so hard it tips on its side.
Pounds the fist of his good arm on the floor
until someone comes to stop him.
Once, he tries to bite Slim Jim.
And then one day, Ted just sits there.
Henry sees the light in his friend’s eyes grow dim.
He sits beside Ted
on the cold and dirty floor and tries
to think of ways to make him smile.
He finds a scrap of paper and a pencil, draws
a picture: Barker with a mouse in his hair.
Henry draws keys in his hand,
and then erases them, and draws
three boys—one with curly hair,
a little smaller than the other two.
The boys have keys.
And they are running.
HOW TO HIDE THE BUCKLES
A new attendant comes. Henry watches
Barker show him who to strap to chairs,
and how to hide the buckles
so that the boys can’t loosen them.
How to move the boys from chairs
to beds, and tuck the blankets in around them
so tight they can’t get out.
Henry counts: most boys are strapped down
for ten or twenty days. But Ted has been
out in this hallway for eighty-seven days! Why
do they keep doing this to him?
Henry looks at Ted and wonders:
Could I unbuckle my friend’s straps?
If I did, would they strap me down too?
Someday we will walk right out of here,
push through that space in the fence,
and find our way back home. Where
do these attendants go when they leave
this place and don’t come back?
What happens to their keys
if no one comes to take their place?
ONE PROBLEM SOLVED
JUNE 1942
There’s a problem in the mornings.
The string trick doesn’t work because
Ted is tucked into his bed so tight he can’t
pull the string to wake up Henry.
Henry can’t make Billy understand
how it’s supposed to work. Usually,
Henry wakes up when light
comes in the window. Most days,
he gets up on his own before
Blanket Man jerks back his blanket.
But not always.
One morning,
Henry opens his eyes and looks around.
Good, he thinks,
Blanket Man has not come in yet.
And then something funny happens:
Henry farts.
A big smelly one,
worse than all the other smells at Riverview.
He could lift the edge of his blanket
and let it out a little at a time—maybe
no one would even notice.
But Henry gets a great idea:
He pulls his blanket up around his neck
and holds it tight, waiting for Blanket Man
to blow his whistle and wake up
the other boys. Henry pretends
he’s still asleep, and Blanket Man
does what he always does.
Ha!
Blanket Man jumps back and waves his arms
as if Henry’s bed has caught on fire.
It looks to Henry like he’s hollering,
maybe even cussing.
The other boys start laughing,
and when Blanket Man’s not looking,
Henry laughs too, jumps up,
and takes a little bow,
so everyone but Blanket Man will know
he did that trick on purpose.
And that’s the last time Blanket Man
jerks back Henry’s blanket.
After that, if Henry’s not awake when he comes in,
Blanket Man just taps him on the shoulder—
carefully.
And moves away.
Fast.
DOWN THE ROAD, DAYDREAMING
JULY 1942
Henry looks down from his window
at a row of sunflowers. He remembers them
from home and thinks,
It must be near my birthday. I want to go home.
When everyone returns from supper, before
it gets completely dark, one attendant leaves
and another comes. Could he catch the door
before it locks behind the man who’s leaving?
Step through and stay hidden until he gets outside,
then keep close to the buildings, in the shadows
of the trees? Run to the fence, slip through
the gap? From there, it’s a short walk to the road.
He remembers riding on the bus to get here—
the small towns they passed through,
and one city, where the bus stopped
and everyone got out to stretch.
Not far from here, there was
a train track with a crossing bar.
And then, Just before we got off the bus,
we passed that rickety old barn.
Henry can see it when he looks out the window.
He knows for sure he could run that far,
then hide and rest inside the barn. After that,
the road to his house would be long.
He’d be hungry. Tired. But if he made it—
Mama would have food when he got home.
He’d sit down at a table and have birthday cake
with his family, and go to sleep in his own bed.
He watches the river as it curves along the road,
and the birds that fly above the trees. Henry isn’t
planning an escape, exactly. He is
daydreaming, to keep his mind alive.
PARENTS. SISTERS. BROTHERS. DOGS AND CATS.
Ever since Billy broke the soup crock,
and watched those three men strap Ted down,
he’s been even more like Henry’s shadow.
He follows him around the ward, walking
close beside him when they go to meals. Henry
doesn’t mind—he pretends Billy is his brother.
Billy’s bed is next to Henry’s now,
and before they turn the lights out, Henry makes
the wolf with his hands, and Billy makes the rabbit.
Sometimes the rabbit gets away;
sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, Billy laughs,
and Henry thinks, Good night, my friend.
But after the lights are out,
Henry is pretty sure that Billy
cries himself to sleep.
I wonder if he has a family, like I do.
Did all the boys here have a home one time?
Parents. Sisters. Brothers. Dogs and cats.
Text copyright © 2020 by Helen Frost
