Birdman

by Jill Stegman

Rita sat across from Mrs. Tate, the principal of Trevor's school, and stared out the window at the fog-scuffed Berkeley hills. The room had a brittle atmosphere and a nauseating scent of sweet peas, from flowers in a vase. The only flowers she couldn't stand. She anticipated the script for this meeting, the jargon-laden dialogue with terms like “special needs child,” meaning Trevor lagged behind in school, and “lacking social skills,” meaning he was a pain in the ass. She already knew her son had a “non-verbal learning disorder,” complicated by dyslexia, which meant he couldn't do much at all.

“But he can memorize anything,” she said. “At dinner last week, he recited the entire script of ‘Star Wars’ to me.”

Mrs. Tate formed a weary smile as she slid a page from a file across her desk. Rita saw a graph with a black line running across the page and a red line running far below it, representing Trevor’s achievement scores compared to the average fourth grader. She used one long tapered fingernail to trace the line. Rita hated her for the cool way she presented this information. It was like getting news about a terminal illness or that a cancer therapy wasn’t working.

“I’m afraid we have to stick by the contract. If a child isn’t making sufficient progress through three performance review sessions, we have to give that spot to someone else.”

Rita froze mid-breath. “You’re kicking him out? Can’t you wait until the end of the year? No one will take him now.” Most private schools, like Stafford, wouldn’t accept students with low achievement scores.

“His distractions in class make it very hard for Mrs. Lee to teach. It’s not fair to the other children. Trevor needs one-on-one help and we can’t do that here.” She closed the file.

“The teacher just doesn’t understand him. He’s just a clown. That’s how he relates.” She hated files. They always contained negative information.

“I don’t think Trevor is happy. We have to think of what’s best for him and the other children.” Mrs. Tate’s hands rested on the file, her fingers interlaced.

“What is best for him? I’m not sending him back to public school.” She remembered the disorganized classrooms and weary teachers from Trevor’s last school. Trevor spent most of the day isolated, in the back of the room, playing with his Legos or doing addition and subtraction on the computer while the rest of the class solved division problems.

“There’s a strong home-school network for families of special needs children. Something like that may be your best choice right now. That and therapy.”

“I’m not a teacher. I want him to go to a private school, where someone can teach him.” It seemed like the fog had penetrated the room, leaving its sharp, chemical taste.

Outside the office, she walked down the polished hallway remembering how it had been on her first visit with Trevor. Mrs. Tate had led them to an art class where the children worked on sophisticated origami projects, their fingers deftly folding and manipulating the fragile pieces of tissue paper. But Trevor had been removed from the class after a week. The teacher said he wouldn’t cooperate, that he crumpled his very expensive tissue paper into balls and threw them on the floor. Perhaps his motor skills weren’t quite developed enough? After that, during art class, Mrs. Lee gave him a ‘Star Wars’ coloring book and a large pack of multicolored fine tipped markers. Rita should have realized then that this school wouldn’t work. But Peter had just moved out and she wanted to show she could solve her own problems.

~

Trevor whooped when he heard the news and slid down the railing by the steps in front of the school, his last infraction. “I’m glad I’m leaving. This place has too many rules. And I already know everything they’re trying to teach me.” He twisted and spiraled down the sidewalk swinging his backpack. Pencils and paperclips rained down from the unzipped side pocket.

Rita had to shield her face from the flying debris. “Damn it, Trevor. Watch what you’re doing.” She finally snagged the backpack and tossed it in the backseat of her Honda Civic.

“No more school,” Trevor shouted out the window. “That means we can invite Dad over and stay up late.”

She pretended to fumble with the radio dials. “What’s that station you like?”

“He’ll come back if you ask him. You said he could come over any time.”

She had wanted to leave Peter ten years ago. But the pregnancy surprised her and when Trevor was born she thought she could tolerate the dysfunctional relationship for a few more years. Now it seemed that the years were stretching into a lifetime and she had nothing to show for it.

She pounded the steering wheel with her fist. “Getting kicked out of school is not a reason to celebrate. I have to quit my job so I can teach you now.”

At forty-five, she had been lucky to get hired by the architectural firm. She hadn’t worked since Trevor was born, but they had wanted a “mature” woman, and she was at least fifteen years older than the other applicants. She loved the order and precision of drafting. She could see her future following the same pattern, building from a solid foundation brick by brick.

She glanced at the blueprints in the back seat. The firm gave her a little extra money to deliver them to clients. She felt like such a professional carrying them under her arm. In the rearview mirror she saw the school retreat. Now it seemed she had only become a professional at ending relationships.

~

After dinner she reluctantly opened the book Mrs. Tate had given her. The contents listed neuro-cognitive therapists, occupational therapists and physical therapists. There was a section in the back on using health insurance to pay the costs. But they had no health insurance. Peter had dropped it the last time premiums went up saying Rita could get it when she went she went back to work. She hated talking to Peter about money these days. Hated to admit she still had to rely on him.

~

“Therapy?” Peter said later on the phone. “We’ve already spent a shitload on private schools and testing and where has it gotten us? Does anyone even know what exactly is wrong with him?”

“We know we have to get him help. He’s ten years old and can hardly read or do math.”

“I thought that’s why you’re doing home-schooling now, so you could help him. You spoiled him and now he has problems in school. You thought you always knew what’s best for him, so now you can be in charge.” She could picture Peter’s familiar expression, his mouth turned up on one side, eyebrows raised, his wrinkled brow.

“Maybe we could sell the house,” she said. They had bought this old Berkeley brown-shingle together fifteen years ago before prices jumped out of their range.

“Where would you live-Richmond, Alameda? Is that where you want to raise Trevor? You never could see the big picture.”

“What is the big picture? At least I’m looking for a solution instead of always rejecting.” She slammed the phone down. Damn him for still talking to her like that.

Her eyes burned now and the nausea returned. It was the chill in the house she remembered when she was with Peter. He accepted it for what it was. For him, passion was overrated. He had laughed when she asked him to leave. “You won’t last six months.”

“When is Dad coming over?” Trevor stood in the doorway looking at her accusingly. “You said he could help me with my Lego project.”

“It’s too late now. We’ll have him come tomorrow.”

She didn’t know what they would do tomorrow. It would take days to look over the material in the binder and make a plan. And she still had to tell the firm she was leaving.

~

“You visited Alcatraz?” The three of them sat at the table eating spaghetti, Trevor’s favorite dinner. Peter glanced at her. He was going bald and had shaved his head. It made him look old and clinical.

She looked away and nodded. “A real life learning experience.”

“Yeah. I got to sit in a jail cell. They had some really notorious guys in there like the Birdman of Alcatraz.”

“The Birdman of Alcatraz? You admire him?”

“Sure. He was cool. He did research about birds and they let him keep some sick ones in a separate cell so he could study them.”

Peter shook his head and laughed without humor. “Sounds like a full day. So you learned about prisons and criminals. I’ll take you to a baseball game. We’ll do the Giants.”

Rita wanted to remind him that Trevor got so bored at the last game, he ran off and the popcorn vender brought him back. But Peter insisted that sports were the cure for Trevor’s lack of coordination and sociability.

“I thought you could help him with math. That’s your forte.”

“No, Dad’s going to help me with my Legos. I’m going to build Alcatraz.” He studied a picture of a low, grimy white building with rows of windows and a guard tower.

“This is unbelievable. I’m helping my son build a prison?” But Peter moved his chair over and sorted through the pile of plastic shapes.

In the bedroom, Rita pulled out the curriculum materials she had borrowed from county special education office. But she couldn’t concentrate on the six-inch thick binder. Where would she even begin? She saw the three rolled blueprints tossed in a corner. They were plans for three renovation projects in downtown Berkeley. She unrolled one and traced the lines with her finger. She would have to return them tomorrow. Later she walked outside and sat in the Adirondack, pulled her knees up and looked at the sky. Astronomy had always confused her. Peter’s parents had given Trevor a telescope for his last birthday and Peter had set it up for them on the back deck, away from the city lights. But she still couldn’t figure out any point of reference. Looking closer at stars and constellations through the telescope made her feel claustrophobic, like the sky was pressing down.

When she came back inside she heard Peter in the shower. He opened the bathroom door and steam drifted around his body. “The guy was a pimp, you know.” His voice came out of the fog.

She stood at the door still distracted. “What?”

“The Birdman of Alcatraz, he was a pimp.”

“For God’s sake. Trevor thinks he rescued birds.”

“Right. Next it’ll be Charles Manson.”

“We’ve got to work together to help him. He needs us both.”

“Work together? That’s not what you said five months ago. You thought you could do it all by yourself.”

“I was doing fine before Trevor started having problems in school. He needs to know we both support him.”

“That’s the only reason I’m here. He wants me to spend the night.” He walked down the hall to the spare bedroom and closed the door. Not even a pat on the shoulder?

He would probably always resent her. He thought they had a relationship, a life together. He didn’t want children. They both loved travel and had met at a surfer’s losman on the beach, in Bali. She had been attracted by his skill in the water and his body, so trim and tanned from construction work. She loved watching him surf. How he slipped easily through the crashing waves when he paddled out. How he glanced over his shoulder to gauge the direction and speed of the incoming sets, then paddled again to position himself for takeoff.

He earned his room and board by working small construction projects along the beach. She finally got to meet him when he spent a few days repairing the roof in her room. She liked the way he whistled through his front teeth as he climbed up and down the ladder. One night, when they were both drinking Corona’s around a bonfire with a group of Aussies, he had simply walked over to her, taken the beer bottle from her hand, and led her away. When they were surrounded by blackness he said, “We both know what we want,” and untied her sarong, sliding it down her hips, removing her bikini with it. He spread her sarong on the firm sand and when he entered her, it felt natural to clamp his body tightly with her thighs.

They were gone for ten months, eventually marrying in a traditional Hindu ceremony in Sri Lanka. She had felt secure for the first few years. When he finished a project, they would leave for Asia or Mexico, laughing at their friends stuck in office buildings with potted plants and opera tickets. But after the first five years she realized his way of giving was to provide financially. That was his contribution to the relationship. It gave him the right to do as he pleased. There was no collaboration. He always made the travel plans and when they returned from a trip, he went back to work. He couldn’t understand why she was unhappy with it. When Trevor was born the traveling stopped and he had to work more to support them. He had accepted his role as a father but had turned into a grim, humorless husband.

~

“It’s time for school now, T-Man.” It was eight the next morning and Trevor sat at the table with his Legos, his toes hooked in the rungs of the chair.

“Let’s try reading together. We’ll take turns.” She propped up a book on the planets in front of him.

Trevor sighed and looked at the book. He stumbled through two pages and pushed it away. “It’s too hard.”

She read on about the orbit of the planets. He stared at the perfect circles and spheres of the solar system. After five minutes he slipped out of his chair and spun around the table.

“I’m orbiting,” he said in a dizzy voice. When she reached out to stop him he tripped over the foot of a chair and hit his head against the edge of the table. He squeezed into a ball and cried.

“You can’t teach me. Nobody can.”

Yes I can. I’m your mother.” But she had no more ideas and it wasn’t even twelve.

~

“Bend or break. That’s what parents of special needs children must do.” The support group met at the Unitarian Church every Wednesday, and Carol, the facilitator, led a cheerleading routine. Carol looked miles beyond tired with pouches under her eyes and oily red hair fading to gray. She wore a white t-shirt stretched over her beach-ball figure, which said, “God Only Gives Special Kids to Special People.” She seemed proudly resigned to her dowdiness. The other mothers sat on folding chairs in a semi-circle, looking dazed, consumed by their burdens. Asperger’s, Tourette’s, autism. They were anonymous, identified by their child’s’ affliction.

“We had to take Jonathan out of the public school because he kept getting beat up by the older children.” The Tourette’s mother, Ellen, was talking about her son. “Jonathan has tics and we couldn’t get his meds right.”

The group murmured in sympathy and shifted in their chairs. Carol bent over and hugged the other woman. “We’re here to help. You’re not alone.” Ellen sniffed into a tissue and patted her eyes.

Rita looked away, embarrassed. Trevor wasn’t like these other children. When she dropped him off at the church playground he shrank from the scene. Most of the children lurked alone at the edge of the asphalt. A stork-like boy in a helmet sat in a swing, twisting from side to side. Assistants tried to organize teams for a modified basketball game with the hoop about five feet off the ground. The children shuffled dutifully up and down the court after the ball. Trevor started over to the game, but veered off to join a much older group. A male supervisor sent him back. She wished she had explained that he didn’t like sports.

“Tell us about Trevor”, said Carol. The eyes of the group focused on Rita. These people wanted to hear a story of martyrdom, sacrifice and selfless love, but all she wanted was to get rid of the anxiety, the acid feeling in her stomach. Could she tell them that she just needed to home-school for a while until she could find another good private school?

But she said, “Trevor can hardly read and I’m not a teacher. And I constantly feel like I’m going to vomit.”

No one spoke. Rita heard the drone of machinery and saw a mower slowly zigzagging across the lawn, cutting a perfect green swath.

“Have you tried Paxil?” A young woman asked. “I’ve been on it for three years.”

Rita closed her eyes. Paxil was a luxury for people with health insurance.

~

In the morning she and Trevor sat next to each other with a sheet of basic addition problems. He had trouble when he had to carry. Numbers floated haphazardly on the paper.

“I can’t add like this.” He clenched the pencil. “My teacher always let me use the computer.”

“We don’t have a computer so we’ll have to do it the old fashioned way.” She took the pencil from him. “You tell me what number to write and I’ll put it down for you.”

It was a slow process. And after forty-five minutes, Trevor still couldn’t do a problem without help. She gave him a pencil and he bore down too hard and broke it. The top third shot off the table. He laughed.

“You did that on purpose. You’re not even trying.” She hated the sound of her voice, cold and crackling.

Trevor crumpled the paper. “This is what always happens,” he said.

“No one can teach me and then they get mad.”

~

The support group met that afternoon. She called Carol to cancel. “I have to get a job so I can help out,” she lied. “I’m going to put Trevor in public school. It’s only a few months until summer vacation.”

She heard Carol gasp. “Make sure you explain about him to the teacher and principal. They might not know much about NLD kids. They’re so vulnerable. You’re going to have to be his advocate. It would be better if you could be there some of the time. Can you volunteer at recess and lunch?”

“Most places don’t give new people time for that. And this seems like a good school.” She thought Carol was exaggerating. Trevor wasn’t as badly off as those other children. At least the school had more resources. And what she needed right now, was to feel successful at something.

~

She bought three suits at a resale shop on Shattuck and took a temporary job as a receptionist at her old architectural firm. Trevor ran wild around the house at night while Peter sank into the couch reading retirement magazines with silver haired couples on the cover strolling down exotic beaches. His body created a permanent indentation on the cushions and the magazines stacked up on the floor.

“Hey, T-Man, wouldn’t you like to go here?” He held up a picture of a child riding a wave on a Boogie-board while several waifs gawked from a fishing boat.
Trevor glanced at it. “I want to go back to Alcatraz again so I can find out more about the Birdman.”

“I’m coming over early tomorrow,” said Peter. “Why don’t we shoot some hoops? Then you can play with the boys at recess.”

“I hate that school. Everyone calls me Birdman.”

Peter’s eyes shifted over and Rita looked down to avoid having to react. “You only have to do this for a little bit more, honey, until we can find a good school for you, with nice kids.” She’d have to talk to his teacher again.

Peter shook his head and she frowned back at him. She’d have to get to the school more often to check on him.

At work she thought about Trevor all day, greeting people in her used suits and frozen smile. She liked being left alone, surrounded by black and white photographs on the walls in the reception area. Every lunch hour she drove to Trevor’s school and watched him on the playground, through the chain-link fence. He rotated from group to group until most of the boys disbanded for soccer or basketball games. He watched them play or sat by himself. Then she wanted to launch herself out of the car and wrap her arms around him.

At night, Peter came by. He had been looking at real estate magazines. He tore out an ad for cheap property on a beach fifty miles from Puerto Vallarta. “I think we ought to fly down and take a look at this,” he said. Tanned, sixtyish looking gringos lounged outside bungalows, an azure sea in the background. In another picture they shopped in outdoor markets surrounded by fruit and vegetables. “It’s paradise. We should just sell the house and move there. It’ll be better for Trevor. It’s a simpler life.”

Rita held her breath. “Mexico? Isn’t that kind of extreme? You’ve been talking to some of your crazy friends.”

“Hell yes, it’s extreme. But so is our situation. I’m nearly finished in construction. My back is shot and so are my joints. This is it, Rita. We have to look at where we are and what resources we have, which is this house. Everything in Mexico costs a fraction of what it does here.”

“What will we do about Trevor’s education? He can’t go to school in Mexico. He feels like he’s already living in a foreign country.”

“You can help him again. Hell, you could even hire a tutor for each subject if you want.”

“But I’m working now. I’ll be learning to draft again. I want to get him in a private school.”

Peter stared at her. “You go off playing dress-up in those suits, and you make about enough to pay for groceries.” He closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch.

“This just sounds like we’re running away. I haven’t heard anything bad from school. And he seems happier. He said he’s made friends with the kids who’ve been calling him Birdman. I’ve been watching him every day.”

“Think about junior high. Those kids are going to tear him apart. Are you going to follow him around there?”

~

She got the call at work. The principal’s words sounded well rehearsed. “Trevor had a problem with some other boys. He’s okay, but he’s upset. We’re all in here with him.”

She remembered nothing before she got to school except passing the large angel in the cemetery. Trevor was in a corner in the principal’s office, his face contorted. His eyes looked like lead. His fists were clenched. The principal, school secretary and counselor formed a semicircle around him with their hands outstretched, like they were trying to calm a wild animal. The scene froze in her mind, a tableau that would reappear for the rest of her life.

She knelt so she could hug him tightly and feel his whole body, each rib and racing pulse. He started crying again and the tears made her cheek wet and sticky.

She smoothed down his hair. “Tell me what happened.”

“Some sixth graders followed me into the bathroom. They kept saying, ‘Hey Birdman, show us your bird.’ Then they started grabbing at me.”

The bathroom. The one place she couldn’t follow him.

“Where did they touch you?” The question came out before she realized she didn’t want to know in this roomful of strangers.

Trevor turned his face to the window and hugged himself. “Can’t tell,” he said.

“A teacher heard him calling and came in. I don’t think he was in there very long.” The principal shook her head. “I’m so sorry.” She stepped toward Rita.

Rita threw up her arm. “Just leave us alone so I can talk to him.”

The principal looked away, unsure about what to do. “All right. We’ll be in the next room if you need us.”

“Why would I need you now? I needed you to stop this from happening.” She heard the door snap closed.

“It’s okay now. It’s just us.”

“They said they’d hurt me if I told. That they’d find me and break my arms and legs.” His face looked small and white and his eyes round and hollow. She bowed her head to stop from crying out.

“Did they touch you where I told you no one should ever touch you?”

Trevor nodded. “Yes, there.” He grabbed her arms. “They all touched me there and they laughed.” He shrank away. “I thought they were my friends. I don’t want to ever see them again.”

She cried and stroked his hair. “You won’t. Never. Never again.”

He spoke softly. “Never means they’ll be dead.”

She couldn’t speak for a minute. But his body was tense, waiting for her to reply. “I promise you won’t ever see them again.”

He slumped against her chest while she led him out the door.

The principal and counselor were waiting in the outer office. Damn their composure.

“I’m so sorry. Our counselor, Mrs. Main, would like to speak to you both and find out exactly what happened and the police will need to talk to him too.”

“Don’t tell me about how you’re going to take care of this. You should’ve been out there watching these children. You should know who would do this and watch them all the time.”

“We have the boys. The police have taken them away. They won’t be back.”

“You know they’ll be back. They won’t keep them for long. And they’ll do this again.”

Mrs. Main spoke up. “Why don’t you come in my office and we’ll talk some more.” She looked at Trevor. “You can trust me.”

Trevor shook his head. The office door was open; it was painted blue, the cool tone of sympathy. Stuffed animals sat on shelves, waiting to be hugged.

“You want to console him with teddy bears?”

In the car, she put her head on the steering wheel. Trevor stared straight ahead. He was waiting for her to take charge, to do something. To make it better.

~

They took the last ferry to the island and faced backward to watch the San Francisco skyline retreating in a series of jagged lines. The buildings glowed a steely indigo with the sun behind them.

They walked up the path to the main cell block. Hundreds of seabirds gathered on the rocks and floated in the small cove. The water glittered in the afternoon sun. Trevor stopped to stare at the roosting birds on the cliffs below. Casually he picked up some small stones lying nearby and threw them down at the birds. Again he scooped up handfuls and flung them over the cliff, aiming for nothing. The birds rose, screeching together in a panic, and swarmed over the water in a roiling dark wave. To think one boy could unleash such turmoil. He was motivated by something more than pain. He squinted into the glare without shading his eyes. She raised her arm to touch him, but he fiercely swept it away.

Sympathy and comfort weren’t all he needed from her now. He needed different things at different times. She would have to learn what those things were and anticipate. She would learn how to follow him to every dark place. She reached down and offered him more rocks, and he threw them until there were no more birds below.

She and Trevor could soar away from this place too, she thought. Over the grey mudflats and the tawny hills to the ocean. They’d fly south, past the flowing mosaic of cities and suburbs, following the coastline until they got as far as they could go, to an isolated beach by the equator. She could imagine Trevor body surfing and rolling in the sand until he glittered. Nothing would remind them of home. Not the food, nor the way their skin softened from the humidity. Not even the way the sun rose and set. But escape wasn’t what they needed. It was the anger she saw in Trevor she needed to fuel. She wouldn’t let him be a victim any longer.

The people from the tour group turned when they heard the commotion and the tour guide rushed over, flanked by security staff. The guide’s face was flushed and he sputtered angrily, but Rita stepped in front of Trevor and blocked him.

“It’s okay. He won’t cause any more trouble. He just wanted to say goodbye to the Birdman.”

On the way back, they rode in the front of the boat. Trevor clenched the railing with both hands and shivered. The city skyline looked vast and incoherent. After all these years in the Bay Area, she hardly knew San Francisco. But soon she would know it. Just like she knew that Peter would leave and she and Trevor would stay. Tomorrow they’d ride the subway and emerge from a tunnel somewhere in the middle of this city like wide-eyed aliens.

Jill Stegman lives on the central coast of California, and teaches at an alternative high school. She is married with a son in college, and a daughter in high school. Her work has previously appeared in such literary journals as Del Sol Review, North Atlantic Review, South Dakota Review, and Isotope. She has a story forthcoming in RE:AL.