All the Wild Children Read online

  The blackberry bramble is the most prized region. It has sweet berries. Thorn battlements. A mossy creek running though it for drinking and bathing. It has algae for making clothes. It is easy to see why the interlopers wanted it. Thus far we have repelled their every advance. For now at least we are safe here.

  My little sister Shaun and I have witnessed many a raging battle. We each carried marks from Pixie arrows. Bug bites we told our mother. The fairies are our secret. Queen Starshine took a liking to Shaun after the war of the lunch pail. Trolls had attacked using a lunch pail to cover their heads, thereby rendering the fairy’s spears and arrows useless. Tangle and I plotted a maneuver to flank the trolls. Tangle would lead his men in a charge from the blackberry bramble. I would lead a small shock force into the rain culvert and attack from behind.

  Trolls are big. Mean. Vicious. Unrepentant. Beasties. Thirty fairies fell before we even began our campaign. Shaun dragged the wounded to safety, receiving a volley of arrows in her arms and shoulders for her trouble. I knew it hurt, but she never cried. She was the bravest five year old I knew. Queen Starshine and Shaun tended to the wounded whilst General Thistlerod and I waged savage battle. Many good fairies quenched the dry earth with their blood that day. But when Tangle and I finally set down our weapons the trolls were all gone. From that day forth I was made an honorary general of the Acorn brigade. My brave little sister was invited into the queen’s court and allowed to call the queen by her first name, Fen.

  “So general JJ, what word from the lake folk?”

  “The frogs are restless, weasels have been sniffing around the banks. A great horned owl took one of their sentries last night.”

  “Tough life for the lake folk.”

  “Yes General Thistlerod it is.”

  “General? After all we’ve been through? Now I’m sure we agreed on first names.”

  “We did sir, um Tangle.”

  “Much better JJ. Now can I get you a flagon of Madrone ale? Fresh made?”

  “Not today old friend. I’m on a mission. I merely seek permission to pass through your lands on my way to rescue my beast.”

  “Of course you may pass. Do you need an escort?”

  “No, I must travel light and fast.”

  Tangle Thistlerod stands on his thorn parapet and watches me until I dip down the hill. He really is a good friend. I am lucky to have him.

  Rover is barking and circling an oak sapling. I moved up with staff in two hands, ready to swing. Something is in the tree. Trolls have been known to ambush from trees. Looking carefully up into the branches I see Secret, my tabby kitten. She climbed up but doesn't know how to get down. If Rover hadn't brought me to her a hawk or coyote or mountain lion would surely have eaten her. These were no woods for the small or the weak.

  Curling Secret into my jerkin I let her nuzzle my neck. She is frantic to tell me how afraid she was. Kneeling down I look earnestly to Rover. He lost his front leg in battle defending his mate, and deserved respect. “Rover, thank you for your bravery in the rescue of this wonderful Secret. An extra bone will be in your bowl tonight. ”

  We take the long way home. I love the trails, roots underfoot, creek cold stones under toe. The sun is just starting to descend over our hill and begin its long trip to the sea below. I sit Secret on my bed. She immediately crawls under the cover and falls asleep.

  I look on my bed for the otter book. But it is gone. Walking into the living room I see Shaun, she has my book in her hand.

  What is my little sister doing with a second grade book?

  She sees my face and smiles. “I borrowed your book. It’s really great.”

  “You read it all?”

  “Yeah, it’s fun.”

  “Yeah, it is…” I take the book and go into my room. I never open it again. I hide it under my mattress. I tell the school librarian I lost it.

  Sometimes at night I slip my hand between the mattress and box spring and feel the book’s spine. The next year I am put into remedial reading. The next year Woody, the ginger headed teacher will help me. On the worst of days I will always feel the spine of that book on my fingertip. But some days I remember Tangle Thistlerod, and his bravery and our friendship. Some days I remember a three-legged Scottish terrier that saved a kitten. Some days I remember the smell of dust.

  BEST FRIENDS

  JOSH STALLINGS ----- Teachers Betty & Betty

  Second Grader, 7 years, 7 months, April 26, 1966

  California Achievement Test Scores

  Reading 2d grade 0 months

  Arithmetic 2d grade and five months

  Language 2d grade and 0 months

  Total battery 2d grade and 2 months

  Academic Progress: Josh is his own worst enemy in reading. He is very tense when he reads out loud to the teacher, and although he often makes correct starts he is so unsure that he will change his mind, trying another sound, and end up garbling the word so badly that he entangles him self even farther, often ending up with a line of words that no where resemble the words on the page. He seems caught in a web of his own weaving. He obviously has no confidence in his ability to do well, he seems to compare himself unfavorably to others.

  Josh’s vocabulary and understanding of words is above average, often his first stab at words is correct. If he just would not condemn himself to failure. He seems to have perception problems, often reversing words and reversing “b” and “d”. He still has bad days and seems too fatigued to manage more than a page or two, and he reads very slowly.

  In math Josh has a good basic understanding of numbers and grasps mathematical operations quickly. But again, as in reading, he seems unable to focus and has done less in his workbook than any other.

  The reports from the shop, art and crafts and music teachers all indicated Josh has little interest in activities, seems to find concentration difficult and has accomplished little. He seems to be unable to accomplish more because of some kind of fear.

  Real progress was made in the area of peer relationships. Josh is well liked by the girls and accepted by the boys.

  With adults many of his problems come to fore. He often enters school angry and negative threatening the teachers with possible dire acts. He lapses into baby talk and that goes as the morning proceeds. And then he ambivalently denies the threats. He seems to be very unsure about whether or not it is all right to express angry feelings.

  I am 50 and stunned. I don’t know the boy they’re talking about. But I wonder if they were asking the right questions. He’s almost eight, what is he so afraid of? Also, they feel he can’t control his anger, perhaps he is and the small amount that leaks out speaks of a huge iceberg below the surface. I’m just guessing here.

  It is 1966. Planeloads of body bags are coming home from Viet Nam.

  It is 1966. Peter and I meet in the dummy reading class. No Little House on the Prairie for us. We get to watch Spot run.

  It is 1966 and Peter and I are eight, or almost, and we know this is the dummy class.

  I am 50 and I laugh. See, Peter went on to be an Earth Science teacher at University of New Mexico. And I have been paid to write screenplays. Run Dick run, Jane’s got a meat cleaver and she looks pissed.

  Reading came slow.

  Teachers and doctors and shrinks oh my.

  They were going to fix little JJ.

  They had no name for what he had.

  I took test after test.

  I heard my mother told I was just not ever going to be a bright kid. That she should learn to be all right with that. She wasn’t. For all her failings, all her frailties, she was unrelenting in her belief that I was smart. She would later tell me it was this that led her to believe the entire testing protocol was wrong and needed rethinking. Then again she also told me she left my dad because he tried to kill me. And that I was going to ruin my life just like he did when I told her at twenty-one, that my new wife was pregnant.

  In 1966 my reading was a year below level but my comprehension was high. I had a sp
oken vocabulary way beyond my years, but couldn’t spell to save my life. This, Mom says, is what led her to Stanford and a PhD in early childhood development, out of our home and into the world. We would stop having homemade bread. We would fend for ourselves. She would meet the President. She would be the first womanDean at Texas A&M. She would fight to fix the world, in part because it was easier than fixing our family.

  It is 1966 and Dyslexia is unknown. I am the dummy. The dummy lives inside me.

  Barbara tutorsDummy101 after school. Me and Peter are her only wards. 200 plus students at Peninsula and Peter and I are the only ones stupid enough for this. We are a dirty secret. A failing of the liberal hippy ethos: set them free to be creative and they will all become geniuses, it is the shackles of a ridged society that holds them back.

  Both my parents are teachers, my mother by choice, she will spend her life as an educator. My father is a teacher to pay the bills while he does art and writes poetry.

  There are three Saints in my home: John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Dylan Thomas. All martyrs. All dead before their time. All smart men. I live in a family of thirsty readers. Books, books and more books. To be a non-reader is unacceptable.

  I love movies. Saturdays my mother drops us off at the Menlo or Varsity theater. Childcare for fifty cents a ticket. We saw Mary Poppins, man was that a fantasy I could dig into. Old Yeller, it was the only film playing for six weeks running. After five weeks my brother and I are yelling “Kill the dog already!” at the screen. Cat Ballou was a western, with a smoking hot young Jane Fonda. But Dear Brigitte was my all time favorite. Billy Mummy is my age, seven or eight, and he falls in love and pursues Brigitte Bardot. Who wouldn’t, right? Even then I knew I could live happily in her cleavage.

  It is 1965 and only films made by Fellini, Dali, or Warhol have any merit. My father takes me to see Un Chien Andalou, when the straight razor slices the eyeball, I walk out. I’m seven years old and I have already learned that adults have no idea what is best for kids. I sit alone on the marble floor of the museum. After the film and some arty chit-chat, Dad comes out. He wants to explain the surrealist statement of the film. Man, I’d seen Dick Van Dyke step into a sidewalk chalk painting. And you want me to see a mule dragged around on a piano and be impressed?

  It is 1966. Peter is my best friend all through grammar school. Watching Jane kick Dick’s ass has bonded us. We go camping. In dirt clod wars we are always on the same side. He may be one of the few non-siblings I trust. In hindsight he’s probably sorry he trusted me. But in 1966 I was still a good bet as a friend.

  Peninsula School was a hippy school for wealthy progressives. It had dirt and trees instead of cement. It had teachers called Woody and Stu and Steve, not aMr. or Mrs. in the group. It had pottery kilns, weaving looms, painting class, wood shop. It had kids whose families had more money than God. It had a few middle class scholarship kids like Peter. It had poor kids who got in free because their parents were teachers. We didn’t have Adidas or cords or OP surfer shirts. We had Levis and rubber boots and Keds. Mostly we had hand-me-downs.

  We went barefoot year round.

  We wore our jeans low on our hips.

  We wore our long hair tangled.

  We were the cool kids.

  Hang the rich. Mess with one Stallings, you got the pack on your ass. We ran hard. We ran fast. We had a contest to see who had the dirtiest feet. We took our poverty and made it a badge of cool. We convinced ourselves that to be a Stallings meant something. We believed it hard enough that so did those around us. We were those kids. The ones you wanted to hang with. The ones your parents kept an eye on. Andwhenever he wanted, Peter was one of us. Crew cut and clean sneakers be damned. I was his passport into the clan.

  1966 I am a badass. I take lawn clippings and sell them to rich kids as pot.

  “Oh man this is good shit.” They say between coughing fits. Then they act all loopy. I laugh my ass off behind their backs. Hang the rich.

  Hank joins our class in the fourth grade. His mother is a raging alcoholic. His father is long gone. The family fortune is near empty. They are running on the fumes of old money. Hank is a trouble case. Hank is a badass. Hank and I are as thick as thieves. Peter fades a bit. But he is still my best friend. Hank and I smoke stolen cigarettes. Peter is just smart enough to stay away when trouble is brewing.

  On a class campout in Big Sur we play spin the bottle. I hope it lands on Mary Reilly, not her twin Francy. Francy is a Tomboy. We climb trees together. We are good friends. Kissing her would be weird. Hank gets to kiss Martha Agulara. He uses his tongue. Other kids gack. Martha blushes, but doesn’t pull away. Hank is a badass. I spin the bottle. It lands on Francy. We kiss lightning fast. Both relieved when it’s done.

  It’s 1969 and we are older but no wiser. We cook up a plan to bring booze to school. By we I mean Hank and me. Martha and Peter and Francy and Sarah all go along. But it is our plan. Each of us will steal liquor from our parents and bring it in to school in our thermoses. Friday is D-day. Drunk-day. Thursday night I panic. The whole deal is out of control. The wheels are going to come off, I can feel it. I don’t sleep. In the morning I feign sick, put the thermometer on the lamp. Hold my stomach, moan ever so slightly. Act brave. My family leaves me home alone. Alone with my fear. Hank goes to the hospital with alcohol poisoning. The other four are suspended for a week. No one rats me out. I skate. I hate myself. I should have been there. I should have stopped Hank from going too far. I should have gone too far with him.

  The next year Hank is gone.

  Peter is still my best friend.

  We graduate together.

  We go to the ghetto high school together. We don’t last as friends. He wears Pendleton shirts and hiking boots. He is a target. I wear platforms and leather jackets. I am a badass. To quiet my roiling fear I’m stoned every day by 9 AM.

  I am 15, my brother shoots dope with Tanner. We creep houses. We creep Peter’s house. My brother is passed out in the Ford while Tanner and I rifle the house. We break a window in the back. We steal all the whiskey in the house. We steal their TV set. We steal their Navaho rug. We steal Peter’s mother’s jewelry box. I hate Peter, he is a White boy wimp. He is just asking to be robbed. I hate Peter. I hate his hope and possibility. I hate his university plans. I hate his mother for being home every night. I hate his normalcy. And as we drive away, loot in tow, I hate myself.

  It is 1999, I am nine years sober. I have put off making my amends to Peter long enough. IGooglehim. He is a professor at the University of New Mexico. He is anEarth scientist. Not bad for a kid from the dummy class. I find his email.

  Dear Peter, I’m sure you never expected to hear from me. Robbing your house was a low point in my life, I know you can never forgive, but I hope there is some way I can make amends. I leave it in your hands. - Josh

  Dear Josh, man it’s great to hear from you. I have followed your career by way of the internet, you made a real go of it in film. I’m proud of what you’ve done. I have a lovely wife and amazing kids. As for your transgression, man let it go. I have. Hell, we all do stupid shit when we’re kids.

  Don’t stay away so long this time. - Peter

  I am 50. I am eighteen years sober. The shame has left me. I may always be the dummy at some level, but I don’t have to be liar a cheat or a thief.

  DRIVING NOWHERE FAST

  Ground fog clings to the cracked and patched asphalt. A pale blue Mustang pulls to a stop at the intersection of Pagemill and Skyline. Pagemill runs from Palo Alto on the bay side to the sea on the western side of the mountains. Skyline Boulevard ribbons the ridge of the Santa Cruz mountains, north to south, from South San Francisco to Boulder Creek.

  Black Mountain commune sits 100 feet from the crossroads. In a tee-pee a fourteen year old runaway lives with her old man. Next to them a family of four live in a gutted school bus. The commune’s population dips and swells from twenty-two to forty, depending on food stamps and pot availability.

  My
family’s eighteen acres back up against the Black Mountain commune’s land.

  I am 7. The Mustang at the crossroads is my father’s. I am in the passenger seat thinking hard, trying to intuit the correct direction. My father has dark bags under his red-rimmed eyes, their fighting lasted late into the night. Not that I heard their strangled voices, but violence and anger have a way of seeping through walls, bringing night terrors to little boys.

  The nightmare is always the same, I’m being chased by evil mayors in crooked top hats. They never catch me. I never get away. It is an angry limbo.

  “North,” I finally say.

  “You know that’s south you’re pointing at JJ.”

  “I know” I stand my ground. My dad smiles, a rare thing lately.

  “So do I listen to your hand or your mouth?”

  I stab my hand south, my face heating with embarrassment.

  “Hand it is.” He turns left down Skyline.

  Five miles later at another crossroad I lead us west. With every mile his face softens. Rolling under the canopy of oak and bay, dappled light dances over the hood. The sun is fully up, and the fog burned off by the time we hit the Pacific Coast Highway. Waves crashed on the stony beach. Beyond the breakers a green sea roils. There is no such thing as calm water on this stretch of coast.

  My father is laughing when I lead us to a small restaurant in Half Moon Bay. “Where did you learn to navigate like that JJ?”

  “Dunno.”

  “You must have a homing device for bacon.”

  “Maybe. Can I get waffles?”