I called Joey’s mother at home the next day. No answer. On impulse, I called her old office number; she picked up on the first ring. “I know you can’t talk now,” I said, “but I was wondering if we could get together sometime. Your husband, too. I’m worried about Joey.”
“I was going to call you,” Mrs. Stone replied. “He’s been terrible at home. One thing Joey always had was a sense of humor. Not anymore. Everything anybody does is wrong. Listen, I know Al wants to talk to you too – but he got this new promotion and he’s working late every night. Actually, I’m back at work too, as you can see,” she giggled nervously. “Or hear.” There was a slight pause. “I guess we both changed our minds. Anyway, I hate to ask it, but do you think you could come over on Saturday afternoon? Rich has early football practice, and Joey and Bill always go and hang around to watch him, so we’ll be able to talk.”
I hesitated. I tried to save the weekends for my own family. But I was worried about Joey. I had the feeling that he was getting in deeper every day.
“How’s two o’clock?” I asked. “I’ll check in with his teacher before Saturday. Ms. Ansara, is it?”
“I guess so,” Mrs. Stone said. “At least that’s what it sounds like. Back-to-school night isn’t until October. Uh-oh. I gotta go. See you Saturday.”
I stopped by Mr. Templar’s office the next day to return Joey’s second-grade books and to try to get the ones for third grade. I also needed to find out about Joey’s teacher. Mr. Templar was a good principal – fair and caring, about both the children and his staff – and putting Joey in with an inexperienced teacher wasn’t consistent with what I knew about him.
“Ms. Answera, you mean. Third grade. Yes, she’s new, but she got good grades at college.” Mr. Templar made a wry face. “Whatever that’s worth. How they expect us to teach children when they don’t teach the teachers is beyond me.
“Look, I know it must be hard for Joey, but it’s equally hard for Ms. Answera. And me. Do you know how many of my teachers left this year? Over a third of my staff, including both third-grade teachers, are new. Do you have any idea how many parents are calling me? Well, I do the best I can. What more can I say? I can’t even blame the teachers. They can get a lot more money as well as more respect someplace else. Anyway, come on, I’ll take you down and introduce you.”
The third-grade class was pouring in from gym. They’d been out in the yard in the warm, sunny September weather and now, hot and sweaty, they pushed and shoved one another through the classroom door. Ms. Answera adjusted the strap of her blue sundress as she teetered back and forth on high-heeled sandals, cautioning the class to quiet down.
I looked around for Joey. Situations like this could set him off like a Roman candle. But not this time. Joey walked by, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, oblivious to everything that was going on; even his red hair seemed dull and lifeless. I could not believe he was allowed to wear headphones in school, but he had them on and no one seemed to notice.
“Ms. Answera,” Mr. Templar said, “I know this isn’t the best timing, but Mrs. MacCracken isn’t in our school very often, and I wanted you two to have the chance to meet. Mrs. MacCracken works with Joey Stone.”
Ms. Answera peered at me through violet-tinted glasses, big as saucers. “Pleased to meet you,” she said.
“Listen, I’ll come back tomorrow before school, if that’s all right? You don’t need interruptions on a day like this.”
“Sure thing,” Ms. Answera answered amiably. “That’d be fine.”
I waved to Joey before I left, but if he saw me he gave no sign. He slouched against the coat closet, headphones in place, eyes focused on something out of sight.
I was more concerned than ever after my visit to the school. I didn’t blame Mr. Templar or Ms. Answera, and besides, blaming the system wouldn’t help Joey. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have fought so hard to keep him in a regular class. If Joey was in special ed now, there would be fewer kids and less confusion, and probably the same teacher as the year before.
Mrs. Stone was watering the lawn when I pulled up in front of her house.
“Thank you for taking time on a Saturday,” she said, as we walked down the front walk.
She smiled, but before she could open the door, her smile disappeared. A loud, angry, male voice shouted, “Get out of here! Right now! Damn it! I told you a hundred times! No food in the den! I don’t care if that’s where the television is. This place is a mess! Now get that plate back to the kitchen, you little pig.”
“That’s Grandpa.” Gail Stone sighed. “The boys drive him crazy, especially Joey. Mom died early this summer, and with his blood pressure I didn’t dare leave him alone. So we sold their house and he moved in here. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Anyway,” she said, “let’s go out back. Al will be right down.”
There was a small terrace at the far end of the yard, and Mrs. Stone motioned me to a canvas chair and handed me a glass of iced tea.
Al Stone came out from the house and across the backyard. He looked tired, thinner than I remembered. Something in his hair glinted in the sunlight, and I stared in disbelief. The metal sidepieces of headphones identical to those Joey wore reflected the afternoon sun.
Al slipped the headphones off as he approached and shook my hand. “Good to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Fine,” I replied, still riveted to the headphones.
“Oh,” he said, following my eyes. “These? Only way to survive around here.”
“Gailllll? Where are you? Gailllll?” Grandpa stood in the back doorway, calling plaintively.
“Excuse me. I’ll just be a minute,” Gail Stone said apologetically, as she scurried across the yard.
Although the sun shone and the birds sang, I shivered in the canvas chair. It was clear that Joey’s world was coming apart, both at home and in school.
Al Stone said nothing all afternoon. It was as though he too had turned off the world. Although his headphones were off, he was still listening to something else. He was pleasant but quiet, and either resisted or ignored every attempt I made to draw him into the conversation. Mrs. Stone and I talked, but all the important things went unsaid.
Gail Stone did not mention that she was torn between her obligations to her father and the resentment of her husband. All afternoon she ran back and forth between them, trying to keep the peace, while we talked in snatches about what was happening to Joey.
Al Stone did not talk about the anger he felt at having his home invaded by a querulous, demanding old man – he just tuned out. He stayed at work as late as he could and put on his headphones when he got home. When I commented on the inappropriateness of Joey wearing headphones in school, Al Stone smiled pleasantly and said that he hadn’t realized Joey wore them in school.
But I never did point out to Al Stone that his actions spoke more strongly than his words. Joey, like his father, was shutting out the confusion of his world by putting on his headphones. In fact, Gail Stone murmured as she walked me to my car that both father and son often fell asleep with headphones in place, music blasting into their eardrums. Who knew what effect this had on Joey’s auditory processing? How was Joey ever going to make it? His world at school was a jumble of confusion; his world at home was filled with anger, resentment, guilt, and noise. I didn’t see how things could be any worse for Joey.
But I was wrong. Grandpa dropped dead from a heart attack two months later, just before Thanksgiving, and instead of improving, things got even worse. Now Joey stopped talking almost completely.