A Fleeting Wisp Of Glory

A Fleeting Wisp of Glory

Sprawled between the stage and the front row of the folding chairs, the children squirmed, poked, fidgeted and tittered as they waited for the beginning of the play. As I negotiated a path through this wiggling congestion, someone called my name and ran to me, arms outstretched. It was Henry. I dropped to my knees and engulfed his small body in a firm hug. His arms squeezed my neck so tightly, and he pressed himself against me with such force, I almost toppled over backwards.

“Will I see you again, Jay?” He asked.

“No,” I said. “I can’t see you anymore.” I tried to think of a way to explain. They won’t let me. It isn’t good for you. What could I say? I shrugged, helplessly.

“I miss you,” he said.

Arms came around my shoulders from behind. I turned and recognized the ten-year-old girl smiling at me.

“Hey, Janet. You were great in last week’s performance,” I said.

“Thanks.”

By the time I turned back, Henry’s green eyes were preoccupied. “I wish I could...” I began. But he pulled away and escaped in the confusion. It would not be seemly to follow him in order to continue our conversation.

The school cafeteria, which had a stage built in at one end, doubled as a theater. All the tables were stacked along one wall and the cleared space was filled with rows of folding chairs. I found my seat in the fifth row, and studied the program. “The Colesville High School Players present: Camelot.” Camelot was spelled in large Old English letters. I looked over the list of the personae, hunting for people I knew. I found several in addition to Janet Monahan’s brother and sister, Earl and Amanda. I had known the Monahan children for some years. They had participated in some of the Children’s Theater performances I had directed. Earl was a senior with a good singing voice and was playing the part of Lancelot. Not being a senior, Amanda had a smaller part, but was still anxious for me to attend. They had called me to make sure I remembered the play, and had reserved a good seat for me.

The audience hushed as the pit band began to play. I was surprised at how good they sounded. As I listened to the familiar overture, my mind wandered to my play therapy room, the stage where Henry and I had enacted so many dramas fraught with half understood meanings. My memory, driven by unknown needs and laws, presented me with fragments, like the individual tiles of a dismantled mosaic:

--- Henry pretends to be the devil. He is forcing me to do his evil will. I must kill all who resist him and torment the innocent. I offer to feed starving babies, and then rip the bottle from their mouths just as they get their hopes up.

--- He is pulling at the front of his pants in obvious sexual arousal as he changes the diapers of a doll. Then he asks me to pretend he is the baby who needs his diapers changed. Always there is this preoccupation with poop and pee. I pretend to change him. Although he is fully clothed and I am careful not to touch his special places, the room is charged with forbidden energy.

--- Henry is sword fighting with me. How many times have I been vanquished!

--- He becomes a baby tiger. I am his father. He has me cuddle with him under the table which has been converted by pillows, blankets, and whatever he could find, into a tiger’s den. We nestle in a jumble of weapons and pretend food. We have been eating humans all day and are tired, so we go to sleep. He wakens and has me feed him from the bottle. I know now that we are reaching the most protected burrow of his being — the place that he defends so strenuously with his outlandish behavior. It is in this place of tenderness that I hope he will find the home of his rebirth. I am as thrilled to lie there cuddling him, feeding him, petting him, as his to be fed and petted. I wonder whether it is wrong that my heart too has been lost, and that I am finding it with him? But how else could I have been so perfectly attuned to his hurts and to his bizarre strategies of self preservation?

The raising of the curtain pulls me abruptly from the playroom, and I am transported to a still different time and place: a hilltop near the Castle at Camelot where a light snow is falling. It is afternoon.

*****

Ms. Williams, the High School Music teacher, had made some adjustments in the play in order to allow for two intermissions. So the first act, as she divided the play, ended with the “Lusty month of May.” With the music fresh in my mind I sang under my breath:

Whence this fragrance wafting through the air?

What sweet feeling does its scent transmute?

Whence this perfume floating ev’rywhere?

Don’t you know it’s that dear forbidden fruit!

Tra la tra la. That dear forbidden fruit!

A frumpy teenager with thick glasses and a substantial harvest of ripe acne on her face waved at me enthusiastically. At first I did not recognize her. But then a younger face peered through the changes and I realized it was Rachel. I waved back and made my way through the crowd to greet her. After all these years — it had been about four since I had last seen her — we were still on hugging terms, and we did.

“Rachel! How good to see you.”

“Yes.” She beamed.

“Are you still in the same home?”

“Yes.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“You want to see my report card?”

“I’d love to.”

She pulled a crumpled paper from the pocket of her blue jeans and handed it to me. The grades listed for the first term were all passing. In my heart I thanked the benign special education teacher who made it possible for her to be successful.

“Do you remember the canoe trip?”

She grinned. “Of course.”

“I remember you sitting in the canoe when we were ready to start out, and saying you didn’t want to go.” I smiled at the recollection of her sitting helplessly in the canoe, beginning to cry, and refusing to budge. We had the canoes packed, and the children were waiting in eager anticipation for the adventure. What the hell am I going to do with this, I had muttered under my breath.

“I was scared.”

“Of course you were. But you got over it and we did make it to the island.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you still hear from any of the girls on the trip?” I asked.

“Margaret.”

“Great.”

On the trip Rachel’s physical problems and the peculiarities of her thought and manner were noticed and commented on — but each girl had her “problems.” For the first time in her life Rachel became a fully accepted member of a group of peers.

“Do you still see Ms. Fiori?” I asked. This was the therapist I had transferred Rachel to when the adolescent hormones flooding her body convinced me that she was more than I wished to handle in individual therapy.

“Yes.”

“You and she getting along well together?”

“She’s nice.”

“Great.

We were standing a little to close together and fell silent. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other and stared at her shoes. We knew each other too well to talk about the weather. But we could not discuss the therapy sessions or more personal matters in this setting. I glanced around the auditorium and saw Janet. “There’s somebody I need to say something to,” I said.

Rachel smiled faintly and said nothing.

“I’ll catch you later,” I said, and followed Janet through the crowd.

“What do you think of your brother and sister?” I asked when I caught up with her.

“They’re great. I can’t wait until I get to high school.”

“Figure you’ll be in the musicals?”

“I hope so.”

“I’m sure you will.”

And, of course, unless the proverbial Mac Truck puts an end to her promising life, she will do well, in drama as in most of her other endeavors.

As I waited for the curtain to go up on Act Two, I remembered my sessions with Rachel. She loved to pretend that she was a witch, and we made witch’s brew. The essence of it

was finding the most foul things imaginable to mix into a watery concoction. We pretended that a bit of red paint was snake blood; marbles were baby eyes, etc. The resulting brew was “milk” that was fed to babies. Needless to say it caused them to die horrible deaths. Always with my more disturbed clients we came back to this issue of milk and breasts. My task in therapy was to help her identify with the baby rather than the witch, and to find some good milk in life.

During the last stages of my therapy with her she started bringing in an old record player, and some forty-five rock and roll records. She wanted us to dance. I believed this would help her to live more fully in her body, which was a thing she carried around more like an old suitcase than a home where she lived. The problem was that I had always had trouble living in my body as well, and was perhaps the world’s worst dancer. My office had a window that opened onto the parking lot and I worried that someone might be able to look through the thin curtain and see us. I think we would have looked like a spider trying to have sex with a Mexican jumping bean. But to ourselves we were the King and I.

The curtain rose on Act Two (which was really scene six of act one.) Pelenore and Arthur are playing backgammon. Arthur is winning the world.

*****

When the curtain fell on Act Two, Ms. Williams came to the stage and began talking about what an honor it has been to work with such a fine group of students etc. etc., and naturally my mind wandered. Inwardly I listened again to the song I had just heard:

If ever I would leave you,

How could it be in springtime,

Knowing how in spring I’m bewitche’d by you so?

Oh, no, not in springtime!

Summer, winter or fall!

No, never could I leave you at all.

Earl had sung it well.

I thought about Camelot. Camelot — a moment of perfect equipoise containing already the seeds of its imbalance and destruction. Perhaps the gods consider too much happiness to be a matter of hubris. I thought of times when I was unusually happy.

On Sandy Island one day last summer I was left with three eleven-to-thirteen year old boys, Michael, Timmy and Raymond, while the rest of the group went off with the other counselors to explore a nearby lake. We had to prepare supper, but that left us ample time for play. Play meant skinny-dipping. Whose idea it was I don’t recall. It just percolated up between the four of us.

We had not been in swimming long when Timmy yelped. He was standing in water to his waist. Anxiously, as though in a dream where you are being chased but cannot make your legs move, he pushed against the water toward shore. I followed, thinking he might have stepped on something sharp. I caught up with him on the beach.

“What’s the matter?”

“Something bit me.”

“Where?”

“There.” He pointed to a small mole on the outside of his thigh.

I laughed. “It was the sunfish. They will nibble at anything dark on your body that catches their attention. They can’t hurt you.”

“It scared me.”

“Don’t you swim in lakes much?”

“Not like this.”

“Just at regular beaches, and in swimming pools?”

He nodded. “I don’t think I want to swim here.”

“It’s safe.”

“What if there was a bigger fish?”

“What would a bigger fish do?”

“It might bite...my thing.”

I laughed. “I know how you feel. But it really won’t happen. Bigger fish are too afraid of you.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. I’ve been swimming like this for years, and never had a problem, except for the sunfish.”

“What about turtles?”

“They’ll never let you get close to them.”

It took some time, but he allowed himself to be talked out of his fear, and we returned to our romp in the water.

A few minutes later Michael, who was exploring along the shore, called out excitedly. “Oh m’god .Come see. Quick.”

“What is it?” I called back.

“A five legged frog! Come see.”

We thought he was putting us on, but when we did come to look, it was indeed the monstrous thing he promised. A fifth leg, fairly well developed, protruded from the side of the frog. Closer examination revealed, in addition, a missing eye. For a moment the four of us stood ankle deep in a naked huddle, literally struck dumb. It was as though we were in the presence of the Holy of Holies speaking to us in this omen of disarray.

“Awesome,” Timmy said, finally.

There was nothing any of us could add.

Michael put his find in an orange juice jar he retrieved from the trash, and brought it back to the beach where he guarded it possessively. Timmy and Raymond ran off to see if they could find others.

When we were alone Michael said, “I’m growing hair down there.”

“That happens at your age,” I said. “Can I see?”

He was standing at the edge of the lake, facing the water. He nodded. I came around and looked more closely. The was an arch of blond fuzz beginning to sprout around the base of his penis.

“Can I feel it?” I asked.

“If you’re careful.”

I ran my fingers over the soft growth. “Very nice,” I said.

“Do you have any down below?”

“A little.”

He allowed me to lift his penis, which became erect at my touch, and caress his slightly fuzzy scrotum briefly. Then this became too much. “Hands off the merchandise,” he commanded.

“You’re the storekeeper.”

He looked at me and could see I was becoming aroused.

“You like me, don’t you,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“A lot?” he asked.

“The feelings I have are similar to those you have about Timmy,” I said. He had confessed to me on a previous trip that he was in love with Timmy.

He smiled and lay down on his stomach in the sand. “Give me a back scratch,” he said.

I complied. With his permission, the back scratch included a “butt massage,” as well. This was my “lusty month of May.” It was the only time I had ever been that familiar with a boy.

I shared a tent with Michael and Timmy. Michael would never have allowed it to be any other way. That night Michael insisted on sleeping between me and Timmy. Both boys accepted a back massage from me and then, opening their sleeping bags so they could be used as blankets, they cuddled up together. I had trouble getting them to settle. They giggled, whispered, poked, and teased each other into the wee hours of the morning. When they finally fell asleep in each others arms I felt lonely, and a little jealous.

When he returned from the camping trip, Michael bragged to his foster parents about the skinning dipping. The foster parents told the Department of Human Services worker, and that was the end of my leadership in the adventure based group. It was also the end of any individual psychotherapy I was doing with children who were in DHS custody. I could not be trusted. My judgement was faulty. DHS workers can smell Eros like police dogs can smell marijuana.

Ms. Williams was calling the seniors to the stage for a special certificate. I watched as Earl came up to receive his award. He deserved it. His performance of Lancelot was outstanding. He might have the talent to become a professional entertainer. But he wants to go into Engineering. I guess he’s a prodigy in math. He’s a nice looking boy as well, though a little short. That detracted some from the Lancelot role and I think it may be of concern to him. But it closes no doors to his future. Suppose my only deficiency were that I was a little short.

I identify with the broken ones — with the misfits, the unacceptables, and the foster kids — with the overachievers who still don’t achieve much — with children who have lousy pasts and even less promising futures. This doesn’t mean I’m not also fond of Earl and his sisters. They carry their many talents with grace. I have never seen them treat anyone with contempt or flaunt their superiorities. I wish them well. It’s just that my wishing seems a little superfluous.

I looked around at the parents gathered in the gym. They were solid people, for the most part, and good hearted. I felt afraid of them. In a famous sermon called “A sinner in the hands of an angry God,” the Puritan preacher Jonathan Edwards, explained how every day of our lives we are suspended like a spider on a thread above a fiery hell. I could relate to this. Only a thin thread prevented me from falling into the condemnation of these good people. They were my hell, and the thread was fragile indeed. Michael only had to mention my touching his private place, or the butt massage. He did not have the sense to keep quiet about the skinny dipping. How could I be sure he would not mention the other transgressions? Perhaps one day in a group in which the leaders harangued about bad touchers he would be tempted to have his moment of glory. Would he be taken in by the lure of victimhood? It seemed unlikely. But I wasn’t sure.

I could see myself being cross examined on the witness stand. “Mr .Marks, did you or did you not touch Michael on his penis, his testicles, and his pubic hair (the little bit of it he has), and rub his buttocks with your hands.” And what could I say? Yes, and it was lovely? Extricating myself from such fantasies, I returned to the real world.

The last of the seniors received her award and we were dismissed for a break before the beginning of the last act. I felt hot and restless. Avoiding anyone I knew, I spent the break outside breathing in cool air and trying to quiet my nerves.

When I returned they were blinking the lights. I looked past the first row of seats and saw the teen-age son of Henry’s foster parents sit him down roughly and say something stern to him. Henry turned his back and pouted. I worried also about Henry. Could something that had happened in my play therapy with him be mentioned and misconstrued? A man who likes to feed boys his age with baby bottles is a little suspicious at best. The flames licked at my heels.

The curtain lifted for Act III (actually Act II, scene one). Arthur and Guenevere are together in a quiet and domestic moment. Arthur complains of feeling old...

*****

The curtain fell and the cast received one of the few fully deserved standing ovations I have participated in giving. For a high school amateur performance, it was superb. As inconspicuously as possible I brushed away a few tears and wiped my dribbling nose.

The words and the music were fixed in my mind:

I loved you once in silence,

And mis’ry was all I knew

And yet when they broke the silence it led to

Twice the despair,

Twice the pain for us

As we had known before.

They were damned either way. 

As I squeezed through the crowd to find Earl and Amanda to congratulate them on their performances, I caught a final glimpse of Henry exiting with his family. He would soon be getting a new therapist. I knew the woman. She was a prim and proper no-nonsense type. I knew they would be trying to get a new therapist for Michael as well.

I thought about my dog dying when I was a boy. His name was Trixie, a black and white mongrel that wandered into our lives by accident one day, apparently after having been abandoned by someone. And he was a “he” despite the name. I was still a little vague on matters of gender, and the important thing to me was that he would be able to learn tricks. He did learn to sit — sort of. At times it was necessary to push his rear end down a bit for him to remember the command, but if he ended up sitting I was satisfied. If we had been more persevering in our teaching, he might have learned more.

He chased cars, a habit we could not break, and was once hit. When he recuperated he ran with his body turned at a peculiar 30 degree angle to the direction he was moving.

Trixie went everywhere with me during the summers of my childhood. This gave me great comfort and a feeling of importance. He was killed in a second car accident when I was twelve. Sensing the depth of my grief, my father promised to buy me another one. It was the first time I realized that the ones we love are replaceable — a fact that has left me lonely ever since. I never really took to the replacement, though he was by all ordinary standards a better dog.

I found Earl with his family. He was glowing with pride, but trying hard to be modest. This was his moment of glory.

“I’ll bet you are proud of him,” I said to his parents, “and of Amanda too.”

“They gave all the big parts to the seniors,” Amanda said.

“Your time will come,” I said. “With your talent I’m sure you’ll get a bigger part.”

“I guess so,” she said. “But next year I’ll still be just a junior.”

“Don’t wish your time away,” I said. “You’ll be a senior soon enough.”

As we chatted about Earl’s college plans for the next year I noticed that Rachel was hovering a short distance away. She was waving a piece of paper at me. When there was an opening in the conversation I excused myself and joined her.

“Here,” she said, handing me the piece of paper.

“Thanks,” I said. “How did you like the play.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I liked it.”

I sang to her. It was Arthur’s instructions to Tom, which we had just heard, so it was fresh in my mind.

Ask ev’ry person if he’s heard the story:

And tell it strong and clear if he has not:

That once there was a fleeting wisp of glory

Called Camelot.

“Do you think I should have had the part?” I asked.

She giggled. Anyone could tell that my voice didn’t merit such an honor.

“So you laugh,” I said, turning to one side and pouting.

“You don’t sing as good as they do,” she said.

“You think not?”

“You sing good,” she said. “But not that good.”

I laughed. “I heard Guenevere liked to run around naked in the castle,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

She giggled again and then nodded impatiently at the note in my hand. “Read it,” she ordered.

“Ah, yes.” I unfolded the crumpled paper and read the words that were scrawled in a labored, childlike hand:

Dear Jay,

Write to me.

Love, Rachel

“Yes,” I said. “I will.”

Her community integration worker, ever watchful for the dreaded stranger, came over and stationed herself beside Rachel. I introduced myself.

“I once took Rachel and some other girls on a canoe trip,” I told her.

“I see.” The worker smiled politely.

“Did you never tell her about the canoe trip, Rachel?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? How can that be?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Well tell her now.”

Rachel turned to her worker. “It was fun. We stayed on an island.”

“Rachel overcame all her fear and paddled to the island,” I said. “And we listened to the frogs and the loons at night. It was great.”

Rachel smiled and nodded agreement. “Yes,” she said.

The worker said they had to go. As I watched them disappear through the door I was already planning the note I would write to Rachel. I would buy her a card with a picture of a frog on it. And I would write:

Dear Rachel,

I often think about the canoe trip, and about the things we pretended in the play room. We had lots of fun. I hope you are getting along real well with the counselor you now have. I hope you have a good life. You are a wonderful girl.

Your friend,

Jay

And if I think of one, I will tell her a joke.