A Southern Place (6 page)

With his sister upstairs and his father away from home, Phil’s mother seemed different than usual. Phil had wondered why she never played with him anymore, why she went places with Laura and Fran, but was never around for him the way she used to be. But today she talked to him, patted his head, listened as he talked to her—yet it was still different than before. Almost as though she were someone else’s mother—like one of the mothers of his friends, a kind lady who acted as though she cared, but not the way she would care for her
own
little boy. It was nice, but just not the same.

“She’s trying to help you,” she explained with a smile. “But it’s gonna be okay. The teacher said she wanted to hold you back a year, but your Daddy put his foot down, and now he’s gotten you the help you’ll need. Your Daddy’s a special man; he takes care of things.”

“What kind of help?” Phil asked. The idea of his father’s brand of help made his stomach hurt. Daddy’s help with tennis, swimming or golf usually involved belittling and criticism.

“Your father’s hired a tutor,” she said. Phil didn’t know what a ‘tooter’ was, but the sound of the word made him giggle. His mother didn’t notice.

“Mrs. Ramsey is a teacher from a special needs school working on her doctorate in something called ‘educational intervention studies.’ She’s going to come and work with you everyday, so they won’t have to hold you back a year. Isn’t that wonderful?” Phil’s mother made it sound like a party or a trip to the zoo. Anything his mommy thought was so wonderful couldn’t be all bad, could it?

And it wasn’t. Mrs. Ramsey was tall and raven-haired with a radiant smile and a serious face free of makeup. She always brought a briefcase of books and papers and a tote bag of brightly colored games and tiny objects to count. In her purse were special treats like granola, trail mix, sugarless gum, even M&M’s she doled out as rewards.

Phil learned enough of the alphabet to show some promise at literacy, and he could work numerical problems with decent speed, given oral directions and allowed to use the colorful chips, sticks, and teddy bears. Learning the names of the numbers and reading actual words still escaped Phil’s grasp, but he loved Mrs. Ramsey and worked diligently at the tasks she presented.

Phil’s favorite game was the set of flashcards she’d made just for him. The first in the stack was the numerical word one. Mrs. Ramsey had cut out brown felt in the shape of a gun that fit around the letters. Two had zoo animals, a tiger and a zebra cut from colorful fabric, their heads sticking out around the shapes of the letters. Three was a bending knee with a real band-aid applied to it There was a card for all numbers one through twelve. Phil’s favorite was nine, the stick part painted to look like bark and a tiny pinecone glued inside the circle. He liked to look at the cards, feel their textures, recite the words in his head.

Phil didn’t see things the way other people did. Years later, he’d learn the term dyslexia and find that many successful people shared the same problem, but no one thought to explain this to a little boy. Mrs. Ramsey encouraged him to touch things, imagine shapes, memorize words that rhyme or other “little helpers” as she called them, and her wise words helped Phil to compensate for the rest of his academic career. Other tutors would come and go, but it was only Mrs. Ramsey who helped.

Phil’s parents discussed his problem, but only with one another and usually late at night.

“Poor stock, your family,” his father would say. “Should have recognized it before I married you. A blind uncle, that cousin with the hair lip, and the women—a bunch of beautiful idiots who turn into brood sows after a child or two.”

“I’m so sorry,” his mother would cry.

Though Phil was two walls away, he’d know his mother was crossing her arms over her midriff, an attempt to hide what she called the “fat” that accumulated after three children. Phil’s mother was no bigger than his teenaged sisters, but she wore oversized clothes and had been on a diet as long as he could remember. Phil thought his mother was more frightened of becoming fat than of snakes or frogs or any of the things other girls and women feared.

“But Mrs. Ramsey says he’s getting better—” she said.

“Mrs. Ramsey will keep saying he’s getting better as long as she’s getting a paycheck. She needs to be teaching the boy to work, not playing games with him. You’d think the head of a college education department could recommend better, especially with what we’re willing to pay.”

How could he say those things about Mrs. Ramsey? She was such a nice lady.

“She seems to understand a lot about his problems, and he absolutely loves her,” Phil’s mother said. “She does ask a lot of questions, though. Why do you suppose she wanted to know how old I was when he was born?”

Phil’s father sighed. “Good God, Vivian, don’t you know anything? She’s saying you were too old to be having another child. It’s a wonder he’s not a Mongoloid. Then again, I guess he might as well be.” Phil heard his mother sob. Maybe the thought of getting old frightened her as much as getting fat.

The fights went on for three years, his mother saying less and crying more as time progressed. Then they stopped. Just weeks before the end of his second grade year, Phil’s parents presented him with a huge surprise.

“Hurry and get dressed for dinner, ” his mother had said. “Thelma’s made all your favorites, and your father and I have something really important to tell you.”

Phil wondered what it could be. Was he getting a new brother or sister? No, that news would be for everyone, not just him. Was he going to another summer camp? He hoped not, the one last summer had been awful. No hiking, no horses, nothing fun, but special reading and
math activities for eight hours per day.
What else could it be
?
Was Mrs. Ramsey coming back?
Phil hated Mr. Lord, the stuffy tutor who’d replaced Mrs. Ramsey last fall. Mr. Lord smelled like mothballs and constantly blew his nose into yellowed handkerchiefs.

“Well, son, how do you like your special feast?” his father asked at the dinner table. His adam’s apple protruded like an extra elbow peeking out from his starched collar and loosened tie.

Phil glanced down at his meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans, then about the table at his family. His father’s plate could have been a picture in a restaurant menu: steaming, perfect proportions in a colorful array. His sisters had small helpings of meat and bread with nothing else. His mother’s plate had a spoonful or less of meat and beans, filling less than a third of her plate. Phil’s plate looked like a mini-version of his father’s, but he wasn‘t hungry and the thought of having to eat it all made his stomach churn.

Who thought this was his favorite meal? He liked meatloaf and potatoes, but only in the kitchen when it was just him and Thelma, who gave him butter from the refrigerator and let him keep the ketchup bottle to use as much as he wanted. He’d never liked green beans. And why did he need a special meal, anyway?

“Phillip?” his father asked. “I asked you a question.”

Phil swallowed. “It’s good, I guess. I mean, thank you, sir.” He hoped that was what his father wanted.

“And I guess you’re wondering what special occasion this precedes?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Phil answered.

Phil’s sisters grinned at each other and giggled. This was nothing new. If they noticed him at all, they were laughing or complaining, usually at Phil’s expense.

“What?” Phil asked, wondering if they could let him get in on the joke.

“They’re shipping you off,” Laura said matter-of-factly. She rolled her eyes and mimicked the word “finally.” Her sister responded with the flip of a pigtail and a thumbs-up sign.

“For the rest of your life,” Fran said, raising her eyebrow and smiling.

“That’ll be enough, girls,” their mother said. She twisted a strand of hair and looked at her husband.

“Your sisters are jealous, son,” said Phil’s father, giving the girls a stern look. “You’re about to embark on a wonderful journey, the chance of a lifetime. You see, son, you’ve just been accepted at The King’s Academy.”

The King’s Academy? What was the King’s Academy?
Phil imagined the sound of royal trumpets, a regal entrance with flags and a red carpet, knights on horses outside the gate. But he knew such places only existed in movies and storybooks. And even if they did exist, why would they want him? Phil’s insides did flippy-things, like just before a dentist visit or riding a roller coaster.

“The King’s Academy is an exclusive educational facility in the mountains of Tennessee. They have a strong curriculum and students from all over the world. Imagine the friends you’ll make, the fun you’ll have—what a lucky boy you are!” his father said, cutting a large morsel of meat, forking it, then holding it up as if to inspect it.

“But if it’s in Tennessee, how long will it take to get there every day?” Phil asked. His sisters snickered, making retarded faces and pretending to drool. When their father cleared his throat, they immediately stopped and sat up straight.

“You won’t be going there every day, son. The school is four hundred miles away—that’s a good six/seven hour drive. You’ll be living there. It’s a boarding school. You’ll live in a dormitory, like college boys do. Your sisters are green with envy. Older than you, but they still having to live at home with their parents, while you’re a man on your own, hours away. You are one lucky, lucky, boy!”

Phil looked at his sisters: They didn’t look green to him, and they didn’t seem jealous. They did, however, seem to think the whole situation was funny. Laura was pretending to pick her nose, and Fran was doing the kid-version sign language for “crazy.” Suddenly Phil wanted more than anything to simply play with his sisters.

“But what about—” Phil knew he didn’t want to go to any King’s Academy. He wanted to stay home but knew better than to say such a thing outright. His father thought this King stuff was like some great gift, and Phil didn’t want to seem ungrateful. He needed a—what did they call it in golf? A strategy. Phil stifled a smile as he launched his amazing plan. “What about my riding lessons and golf and tennis and swimming in the summer, and what about—“

“You’ll have all those opportunities and more,” his father said. “The school’s been established since the 1800’s, nestled in the heart of the Smoky Mountains.” Phil thought his father sounded like a museum guide, like it was someplace
his dad
wanted to go. “You’ll have riding classes, then rafting and hiking as well. In the winter there’s ice skating, something you’d never learn here, and the school has a strong athletic program, too.”

“The campus is amazing,” Phil’s mother offered.“Some of the buildings are like the castles in movies.” Phil had a sudden image of his beautiful mother dressed as a queen. Then he wondered when she had seen these “castles,” and why everyone seemed to know about this King’s place but him.

“We’ll go shopping this weekend, get you some new clothes, and some things for your dorm room,” his mother said. She sounded excited.

“No fair,” said Laura. Now his sister did sound jealous. “
We
haven’t been shopping in ages,” she said. “And I need new swimsuits and shorts for the summer.”

“Me, too,” said Fran. Then her voice went all whiny. “And don’t say I can have Laura’s old ones. It’s not fair. I never get as many new clothes as Laura, and no one even cares.”

“Enough, girls,” said their father. “Phillip will be leaving soon, his needs must come first. And if you can’t rejoice with your brother’s good news, you two young ladies can be excused for the night. Upstairs with both of you.”

“Why am I leaving soon? School doesn’t start until September. Take Laura and Fran shopping first, I don’t care,” said Phil.

“School begins in September, but you’re leaving in two weeks for Kamp Kingspiration, a summer long program held on campus,” his father said. “You can explore all the activities they have to offer, then decide what you like best for the fall. There’ll be tutors available, to help you catch up in any area where you’re behind. Before school starts. It’s an amazing opportunity.”

A lump of mashed potatoes sat in Phil’s throat like a huge ball of wet cotton. He couldn’t swallow it down or bring it up. Trying to wash it down with a swallow of milk, Phil choked, coughing rampantly, discharging milk from his nose and lumps of potato from his mouth.

Phil’s mother rushed to his side.

“Careful, honey,” she said, wiping his mouth with her napkin and patting his back. “You’ll need to learn not to eat so fast. Things like this can be really embarrassing around people who aren’t your family.”

“My God, get him out of here,” exclaimed Phil’s father. He threw his linen napkin into his plate and stood up. “Never mind, I’ve lost my appetite anyway. Maybe they can make him grow up, without you to mollycoddle him all day long. And teach him some damned table manners.” Phil’s father stormed into the family room. Phil heard ice clinking into a glass. His mother gave him a slight hug.

“You’ll love your new school, and the people there will love you,” she said. She smelled like the flowery lotion she kept on her dresser. “Time for bed now,” she dismissed him with a peck on his head.

❦

Surprisingly, Phil loved The King’s Academy from his first day onward. The campus was beautiful and his mother was right, it did look like King Arthur could be around any corner. The teachers were strict about no bullying, and there was no academic stuff during the summer. All students attended chapel every day: There were lots of memory verses to learn, but it was done by rote and Phil had no problems. The Fosters had not been big church-goers. Phil’s mother was Methodist but practiced at being a twice-a-year Presbyterian with Mr. Foster. Phil became enthralled by the simple parables and soothing songs he learned in chapel.

“Even when we are bad, God loves us and is waiting for us to ask His forgiveness and come home,” Brother Ron said. “Let’s pray.”

A room full of ten-year-old heads bowed, most of them closing their eyes. Phil loved chapel. The kind lilt of Brother Ron’s voice made him feel warm and safe. At the sound of “Amen,” the little heads popped up, all eyes on Brother Ron.

“Have you ever been a bad boy or girl? How did you know when you were being bad? Did your parents punish you?” Heads nodded, some smiled at each other. Punishment was fun to think about, as long as you weren’t the one being punished.

“Jesus told a parable of a bad boy. It’s recorded in the Bible in the book of Luke. Do any of you know that story?” A few kids nodded as if they did, but no one raised a hand.

“A man had two sons. The younger son wanted his father to give him his share of the inheritance.”

Phil’s father only had one son, Phil. Phil had two sisters, but it seemed that sons were more important, and because Phil wasn’t a very good son, it caused Phil’s father a lot of worry. He used that word “inheritance” sometimes when he complained about Phil to his mother.

Phil had stopped listening, lost in his own thoughts. He willed himself to focus again.

“. . . he journeyed to a far country and wasted his money,” Brother Ron said. That’s what Phil’s father had said! That the tutors, special schools, and extra help for Phil was just wasting money. And though King’s Academy wasn’t in a far country, it was in another state.

“About the time he had spent all his money, none of the crops would grow in the land as a result of a mighty famine. The younger son had nothing to eat, so he went to work as a hired servant. He had a very lowly job, feeding pigs.”

Phil had never had a job, but he would get one if his family needed it. Feeding pigs didn’t sound like such a bad job. Wouldn’t the pigs
like
the person who fed them? It might be fun having a lot of big, muddy pets.