Milk Run

Once she was free of the tension in the house, Margaret felt her whole body go slack. As she drove to the store, she could feel herself smile. Deep Throat, for God's sake, what WOULD the boy think of next?

She supposed a month's grounding and taking away the VW was a bit over-kill, but he had been warned. Over and over and over again, all summer long, she and Alan had harped at Don.

"Don, DON? You're staying out of trouble this next year, right? We are NOT going to be constantly called into Thompson's office because of you, right? You hear us, don't you? Don?"

"I hear you! I've heard you all summer long! It's ALL you've talked about!"

"Good! Because we don't have the time, the patience or the energy to deal with this anymore! We don't like Thompson. You don't like Thompson. He doesn't like any of us. Do everyone a favor and stay out of trouble and we won't have to deal with each other.

"Don't you roll your eyes young man! If Thompson could have, he WOULD have had you arrested last spring. He tried to talk Knoll into pressing charges.

"If we get hauled into Thompson's office again, we are not going to be happy. And if we're not happy, we are going to make very sure you're not happy! You hear us, don't you, Don? Don? Don! You are listening to us, aren't you? Don?"

Well, obviously, he hadn't been listening. Margaret felt the familiar frustration she usually experienced when dealing with her first-born. 'How to get through his thick skull? Why won't he listen?' And the old, familiar guilt, 'Was she that bad of a mother?'

She had tried so hard, God she had tried. But she knew, in her heart, most of her efforts had been on behalf of Charlie. She hadn't meant to neglect Don, yet, somehow, he got pushed to the back-burner. She knew it, and she had a hollow feeling Don knew it as well. Margaret thought of all the restless nights she had lain awake planning the next day; an endless litany of places she needed to take Charlie, things she needed to buy Charlie, and phone calls she needed to make on Charlie's behalf.

Every few weeks she would suddenly think, 'Don! I keep forgetting about Don! What kind of mother am I? How can I ignore Don all the time? Tomorrow,' she would promise herself, 'tomorrow, no matter what, will be all about Don.' It never happened of course. The next day she would once again get swept up with all things Charlie and Don would once again be shoved to the background.

Margaret never meant for it to happen, and she felt terrible that it did happen, but she was powerless to stop it. Mothering Charlie was overwhelming. But at least it was overwhelming in a good way, unlike with Mrs. Benton.

For years Margaret had felt an odd kinship with Mrs. Benton, her childhood nieghbor. If she ever knew her first name, Margaret couldn't remember it, but she knew her family's story. Everone knew the story of the Benton's.

After having two normal sons, Jeff and Scott, the Bentons had a daughter so profoundly retarded that she was a human vegetable. Lisa spent her short life in a wheelchair, wearing diapers, never talking, barely able to hold a rattle, being spoon-fed baby food. Mrs. Benton devoted herself to her daughter, and everyone called her a saint. But Margaret wondered about the cost to Jeff and Scott.

Scott had ended up in prison, after committing armed robbery to support his drug habit. Jeff's fate was even worse. At 16, Jeff had been drag racing and crashed. He was paralyzed from the waist down, and his parents had two children in wheelchairs for a while. But not for long, Jeff had suicided by swallowing toilet bowl cleaner.

The Bentons haunted Margaret, because she had been friends to both brothers, and knew they resented the time and attention their mother devoted to their sister.

'Not Don!' she thought, heart thumping. 'Don might be a little resentful, but he won't self-destruct.' Not for the first time, she wished she could consult with Dr. Wright about Don.

When it first started to sink in to Alan and Margaret exactly what they had on their hands in the form of their youngest, they had been bewildered. Margaret, especially, had taken it upon herself to consult with mathematicians, therapists, and other so-called experts. The advice had been varied and conflicting. Some of the mathematicians, in particular, seemed to believe Charlie should be totally immersed in math. Others seemed to think he should be raised no different from any other child.

Margaret and Alan had been forced to plot their own course, trying to satisfy Charlie's thirst for knowledge as well as helping him develope into a well-rounded human being. One child-developement expert, a Dr. Wright, had been especially helpful.

"Look," she started out, "forget all the garbage you've seen on TV or in the movies about child prodigies. You know the ones I mean. . . where some child is in control of all the adults, who cater to him because he's so smart. Hollywood always depicts these kids as super-smart, super-responsible, super-organized miniture adults.

"Well, here's the truth: really, really smart kids are just really, really smart kids. Emphasis on the word kids. Your little Charlie is very smart, but that does not mean he's mature, responsible or organized.

"Children grow in many ways-mentally, physically, emotionally, socially, and so forth. And even mentally they grow in more ways than intellectually. They also grow in how they perceive the world.

"For instance, it angers me when I hear people call two-year-olds spoiled. A two-year-old cannot be spoiled. Yes, toddlers believe the world revolves around them, but they have no choice in the matter. It isn't until a child is about 3 1/2 that he is capable of understanding other people have feelings. A child has to comprehend that before he can be concerned about others feelings. Until then, the child honestly believes everyone exists for his benefit.

"Just because Charlie's smart doesn't mean he gets to leap ahead on being mature. Don't make the mistake of trying to treat him like an adult or reason with him like an adult. He's not an adult, and doesn't have an adult brain or reasoning. Pointing out monsters under the bed is illogical isn't going to work. You're going to have to check for monsters same as you would any other kid! And even though Charlie's smart, he may still be an airhead! He may lose stuff, forget things, and be a complete slob!

"His biggest problem will probably relating to children his own age. What interests them will bore him, and they won't be able to comprehend his interests. Still, social interaction is very important.

"Having a high math IQ doesn't necessarily mean he'll be smart or sophisticated in other areas. In fact, he might grow up to be one of those unfortunate beings who actually do the hokey-pokey, or likes black, velvet Elvis portraits."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Margaret, "I'll disown him!"

After laughing politely, the other woman went on, "My best advice to you is to relax and trust yourself. You're smart and your instincts are good. You're his mother. I assume you want to raise not just a genius, but a happy, healthy adult. You need to balance his other needs with his math needs.

"It won't be easy, but it will be rewarding. I'll give you the same advice I give all parents: Find the joy."

A horn blared behind her, and Margaret realized with a start she had been sitting at an intersection with the light green. 'Margaret Mann Eppes,' she scolded herself, 'pay attention to your driving.' She pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and headed inside, wondering what Dr. Wright would say about Don's 'postcard logic'.

'Postcard logic' was a pet term she and Alan had coined the summer Don turned 14. After his disastrous thirteenth birthday, dear Aunt Irene decided her great-nephew, and more importantly, her favorite niece, could use a break and had ponied up to send Don to camp. Alan and Margaret had demurred at first, but Don had been wild to go. With a pain, they realized he was eager to get away from Charlie more than anything else, so they finally consented.

Margaret would have burned at the stake rather than admit it, but it had been a relief to have her surly teenager out of the house. The three of them easily fell into a habit of having breakfast together, then she and Charlie spent long days together while Alan worked. Feeling guilty, Margaret wrote cheery notes to Don and sent him plenty of care packages.

At first she hadn't worried about not getting any replies, but as the month wore on she started waiting for the mailman. [This was a time when all mail was snail mail.] Don had promised to write, but time was running out for him to keep that promise. Two days before he was due home, a postcard finally arrived. The postcard was one sentence long and read 'I get the stitches out tomorrow!'

Alan had been hard put to persuade his wife not to go haring off to camp to drag Don home. Since Don was soon due home anyway, Margaret finally agreed to wait for the end of camp.

When Don got home he had a sunburn, a small scar, and seemed honestly puzzled as to why his parents were upset with his postcard. Don argued that he said he would write, well, he had written. He let his parents know he was hurt, since he had stitches. However, his parents COULDN'T have been worried, because he TOLD them the stitches were coming out. There, see? All bases covered, he was home free.

Alan and Margaret spent the rest of the summer trying to convince Don his postcard was inadequate, uninformative, and anything but reassuring. Their arguements fell on deaf ears. Margaret could tell by the stubborn look on Don's face he thouht they were being silly and overdramatic.

Margaret had another example of her son's convoluted logic last spring a couple of weeks before the end of the school year. Shortly after school started for the day, she had received a phone call from a rather hysterical Principal Thompson, screaming, "You better come get your kid before the police cart him away!"

Alarmed, she had contacted Alan, and the two of them had raced to the school, torn between a desire to protect Don (they had no doubt it was Don Thompson had referred to), and an equally violent urge to beat the boy half to death. With dread, they pulled up to the school, and were releaved to find no police cars in the parking lot. Making their way timidly into the school, they found everything looking normal.

They were waved into Thompson's inner-office, where Thompson was standing rigid, face red, glaring at Don. Their son was facing the principal, obviously fighting off laughter, dark eyes brimming with mischief. Alan and Margaret gaped at Thompson and Don for a moment, when a loud, unholy screech made them jump and cower. Looking to the left, they saw a . . . peacock. Margaret had always thought peacocks couldn't fly, but the bird was perched on top of a filing cabinet. During the course of their painful conference with Thompson, the peacock proceeded to fly ,awkwardly, and perced on desks, chairs, and window-sills. After a while, it settled down and decided to put on a show. The bird fanned out it's beautiful tail feathers and strutted around the room. It was a shame none of the humans were in the mood to appreciate it, because the peacock really did have spectacular plumage.

Don didn't even bother to deny he had put the peacock in Thompson's office. Thankfully, the police had refused to come. They had more important concerns than a peacock. They told Thompson (over the phone) that if he could find the owner of the peacock, and the owner pressed charges, THEN they would arrest Don.

The owner turned out to be Robert Knoll, who luckily took a liking to their (sometimes) charming son, and a disliking to to the (always) charmless Thompson. Knoll declined to press charges, especially as his peacock was returned unharmed. Instead, a deal was worked out between Knoll and the Eppes where Don worked for Knoll all summer with no pay.

Between the scolding and lecturing, Margaret, curious, had asked, "Why a peacock?" Don answered, "Well, I was going to use a pot-bellied pig, but I was afraid it would sh-poop, and you would make me clean it up. So I went with the peacock."

As a matter of fact, the bird HAD sh-pooped and Don DID have to clean it up. And though peacock sh-poop wasn't exactly pleasant, Margaret suspected pot-bellied pig sh-poop was much worse. Don could have told her. Bob Knoll, owner of both pig and bird, owned a lot of other mildly exotic animals that were used in various Hollywood projects. Don's summer job pretty much consisted of cleaning up after these animals.

But by bringing up the sh-poop, Don had side-stepped his mother's real question. Just as he had missed his parent's objection to the postcard.

Margaret grabbed the milk, then felt herself grin. If she asked Don why Deep Throat, he'd probably say The Devil and Miss Jones was too depressing. Margaret paused, head cocked, while she mentally ran over the supplies in her pantry. 'Panckes, tomorrow, for breakfast, definitely,' she told herself. Margaret Mann Eppes would never dream of using a mix, when scratch was so much better, and not much harder, but she needed eggs possibly, and certainly maple syrup.

She knew, suddenly, she didn't need to talk with Dr. Wright. Margaret already knew what Dr. Wright would say. Besides, peacocks and Deep Throat were pretty mild compared to drug addiction, drag-racing, armed robbery and toilet bowl cleaner.

'Find the joy.' Honestly, with sons like Don and Charlie it wasn't that hard.