Chapter 23
The slow, even cadence of his respiration
filled the room with its rhythmic music. Francisca
listened to her son's breathing, embracing and cuddling
the sounds like soft, dimensional objects. The blanket
of darkness in the room provided her with a different
kind of intimacy from the daily sessions. Although
Robertito slept in another bed, three feet from her,
she experienced an intuitive touching as if the night
linked them together as solidly as a chain. They had
gone through the "good night" ritual, mentioning
everyone's name before separating. Robertito had fallen
asleep quickly, but she had remained awake with her
thoughts. Roby had been gone almost three months and,
although Suzi and I and the others in the program
had bolstered her at every turn, she felt incomplete.
Despite her desire to have her husband next to her
in bed, in this very bed at this very moment, the
image most prevalent in her mind was a living portrait
of Roby running and laughing with his son. Rather
than finding the phone calls and letters unsettling,
she held onto those moments tightly, sensing a peace
and comfort in her husband as she described each event
and milestone in the program. If it had been her,
if they had traded places and she had I returned to
Mexico alone, she didn't think she could have survived
with only the mail and a thin telephone wire to connect
her with everything she loved. The three thousand
miles which separated them seemed unthinkable.
Little-boy laughter interrupted the
somber mood of her thoughts and drew her attention.
Robertito cackled and giggled in his sleep. Francisca
smiled and found herself giggling quietly with him.
Her son laughed in his sleep often. When the merry
burst of sounds subsided, his breathing dominated.
Then the room became quiet. Francisca strained to
hear him. Instead, she heard only her own pulse and
respiration. She turned toward her son's prostrate
form, ready to spring from her bed. At that moment,
she heard him whimper. He turned and twisted, pushing
himself against his pillow. Francisca speculated that
he might be having an unsettling dream, a rarity for
Robertito. The restlessness and guttural sounds escalated.
Rather than wake him and possibly startle him as she
once had, she decided to let him pass through the
dream in his sleep.
Robertito cried out, then bolted
upright in the bed. Wide-eyed and panting, he scanned
the darkness, alert like a frightened animal, holding
himself in a primitive state of readiness. He rolled
to the edge of the mattress and dropped his feet to
the floor. Robertito crossed the short expanse and
climbed into his mother's bed. Francisca heard him
inch across the mattress toward her. Did he want her?
Her son had never solicited comfort from her or any
other person in the face of fear or pain. When his
body touched hers, she felt his arm slip around her
torso. His breathing relaxed immediately. Within seconds,
the child fell asleep. Francisca touched his hand,
trying to quiet the trembling in her own body. Was
it possible? Robertito, frightened in a dream, had
reached through the darkness to find his mother. He
had turned to her instead of curling into a fetal
position and seeking safety inside of himself. "Yes,
I am your mama," she said in a hushed voice to
the sleeping form. "I am Mama." This time
she had no doubts that he understood their relationship.
She had been here for him in this way for over six
years and now, for the first time, he latched onto
her, squeezing his arm tightly around her body. Francisca
continued to pat his hand as her eyelids closed and
she settled into a deep sleep, an umbrella under which
she took another kind of journey with her young son.
*****
The street glistened. The wetness
on the boulevard reflected the lanterns and neon signs
of the stores. Francisca walked proudly beside Robertito,
holding his hand. Her eyes feasted on the various
window displays in her first little excursion in months.
As she paused to admire a long dress, Robertito pulled
his hand from hers. When she turned to him, he stood
on a level about three feet above the sidewalk. He
placed one foot in front of the other as if grounded
on something solid. He took the initiative, indicating
his intention to continue their stroll.
"C'mon, Robertito, walk ...
ah, walk beside me," she said, awed at her own
lack of amazement.
Her son glanced at her, smiled, then
proceeded with his elevated promenade. Rather than
force him to do something he obviously did not want
to do, she tried to maintain a casual attitude as
they paraded down the boulevard. The next time she
looked away for a fraction of a second, his position
changed radically again. Now his portion of the sidewalk
appeared recessed. He walked on a level below hers.
Robertito laughed as he watched his own feet.
"Robertito," she exclaimed,
registering her surprise. "What are you doing?"
He peered up at her and said matter-of-factly: "I
am walking."
His simple, direct answer forced
a smile on her face. Certainly she had a far more
complex, disjointed and confused response to what
she witnessed. Okay, she thought, if he's walking,
he 's walking. On the next street, the levels of cement
rejoined, but Robertito now appeared slightly taller
than usual. When Francisca scrutinized his body, she
realized he glided about five inches off the ground.
He seemed to have the ability to choose any path he
wanted , no longer confined by the rules and realities
which dictated her own limits. As they approached
an antique store, with two bureaus and several chairs
set in front of the shop, she began to walk to the
left, instinctively detouring around the furniture.
Robertito paraded straight ahead.
"This way, my love." No
response. Robertito" she bellowed urgently. Francisca
tried to grab his hand, but missed it, unable to prevent
his collision with the huge oak cabinet. She gasped
as her son walked through the structure, his body
penetrating one side of the wood and reappearing on
the other. What's happening? Is this a dream? Yet
her experience seemed solid, reliable, indisputable.
They proceeded in silence. She stared at the smooth
skin stretched across her son's face. There were no
scratches... no bruises. Even the cabinet appeared
untouched. Francisca experienced neither fear nor
repulsion ... only awe. She had learned to trust Robertito,
even in her dream. As she watched his small form,
she confirmed that awareness.
At the end of the row of shops, they
passed an empty lot, then walked in front of a separate
building housing a huge hardware store. Robertito
made a right turn abruptly. Before Francisca could
catch him, he walked into a Gargantuan display window.
Instead of breaking it, he walked through it, leaving
a distinct imprint of his body in the plate glass.
Francisca shouted to her son, but he didn't respond
as he disappeared in the darkened store. She ran to
the door. Locked. She kept jiggling the handle, hoping
to free the latch magically. She had to get her son.
Francisca banged heavily on the metal frame. The noise
ricocheted through the street. A surly man descended
the exterior metal stairs from the apartment above
the store.
"Yes, what is it?"
"You have to open the door,"
she begged him, pointing to the shop. "Please
help me. My son's inside. He's only a little boy."
"Listen, lady," the man
barked, "I don't know what you're talking about.
I locked up over an hour ago and I can assure you,
no one, except a very mean dog, is in that store.
The panic made her dizzy. A dog!
She hadn't heard a dog. As the man turned from her,
Francisca grabbed his sleeve. "Please, senor.
You must help me get my son."
He pulled away from her. "Try
the police station, lady."
She pursued him halfway up the stairs
to the second floor. She cornered him against the
railing and clutched his arm. "He's only a child.
You can't turn your back on a child."
The man peered into her frantic eyes
and, for reasons he himself did not understand, he
followed her back down the stairs. As he turned off
the alarm and unlatched the locks, he listened for
his dog.
"Hurry," Francisca pressed.
"I'm going as fast as I can."
He struggled with the last mechanism. "Where's
the damn dog?" he muttered.
Once they entered, the owner threw
the master switch, illuminating the entire two floors.
"Robertito," Francisca called as she raced
down the aisles.
"Jesus, lady. Wait for me. You
want to get hurt? There's a guard dog in here,"
he yelled, running after her.
But Francisca ignored the warning.
She searched behind every counter before she climbed
up a flight of stairs to the balcony. There she saw
her son gazing casually at the array of tools. "Oh,
Robertito, thank God." She approached him, then
stopped short as the low, foreboding rumble of a growling
dog reached her ears. Robertito turned to the massive
animal innocently and petted it. The dog relaxed immediately.
Francisca took another step toward her child. Sensing
no opposition, she grabbed his hand and turned to
leave. The man watched them from the top of the stairs.
He couldn't imagine how the child had gotten into
the store. He also could not understand why his guard
dog actually appeared docile with this child and,
now, with its mother.
Robertito smiled warmly at the shopkeeper.
Against every natural impulse to express outrage and
anger at the youngster, the store owner just stared
at the little boy. The muscles in his face eased as
he, too, smiled.
Francisca ushered her son out the
door quickly. When she looked back, she saw the imprint
of Robertito's body still molded in the display window.
Suddenly, everything, absolutely everything, seemed
possible to her. Rather than scold her son, she began
to laugh.
The cackling in her throat reached
her ears, awakening her. Her son's arm still kept
its firm grip around her. A wave of warmth flooded
her body as she reviewed her dream, which confirmed
her own belief that Robertito, indeed, could do whatever
he wanted to do. Yet she still envisioned her own
powers as severely limited. Francisca remembered the
question I had asked her in a dialogue session earlier
in the day. Could she handle the program with Roby?
Could she do it without us? Her hesitant response
still echoed in her head. "Not yet, Bears, but
I'm getting closer to knowing I could." Francisca
knew she had been afraid to say yes. But if Robertito
could do anything he wanted to do, why couldn't she?
She knew she had not been ready before the past summer,
but said she was as part of a pose of confidence.
This time she wanted to be sure ... she had to be
sure. No more role playing. To hell with the appearance
of strength. The surface of dignity she had valued
all her life did not bring her through those frightening
weeks. She had lied to herself and, now, she refused
to do it again.
Francisca kissed the top of her son's
head. "Will I ever be good enough?" she
whispered. "Will I ever really know?"
*****
Suzi held Robertito's hand and I
held Raun's as we all crossed the street and entered
the park. Over my left shoulder, I carried Robertito's
two-wheel bike, equipped with training wheels. As
I watched our little friend, he looked like any other
six-year-old in the playground. He "ismed"
occasionally and for relatively short periods. Today,
he had the appearance of having his two feet planted
in our world. Rather than this being a reflection
of his total presence, it only told us about this
moment, here and now.
Robertito still vacillated between
his internal universe and the one outside of himself.
He responded inconsistently, though his learning process
rocketed forward on a steep inclined curve. His comprehension
of generalized concepts, such as separate versus apart,
yes versus no, opened versus closed, big-small, vertical-horizontal,
same-different, was awesome most of the time. Nevertheless,
we still came upon isolated hours or days where he
had the appearance of not knowing or remembering what
we knew he had once learned. Then, during the next
session, he would demonstrate a sharp and decisive
comprehension of these notions. When Lisa visited
after a three-month absence, he called her name, hugged
and wrestled with her in the special way which had
been a distinct part of their sessions together. In
Chella's presence, he chased a fly around the room.
Previously, an insect could land on his nose and he
would remain passive. We catalogued the growing frequency
of two-word answers and responses: "More, Carol,"
"Hola!, Bears," "Want water."
As part of an over-all design to elevate his cognitive
abilities further, we instituted more sophisticated
questions. "What color are your eyes?" "How
many chairs in the room?" "What do you do
when you're hungry?" His answer to the last question:
"I eat." His receptive and expressive language
capability soared.
Suzi and I lifted both boys onto
the swings. They eyed each other.
"Push, Daddy," Raun instructed.
"Robertito, we're going up-up," he said
in English. Then he shrugged his shoulders and made
a goofy expression, not unlike his mother. I whispered
a Spanish equivalent to him. "I mean, uh ...
arriba," he shouted.
"Quiero arriba," Robertito
grunted, confirming his own desire to go up.
With an even thrust, we sent them
both gliding through the air. Raun laughed, shouting,
"Higher! Higher!" as he pumped with his
legs, Robertito, his feet dangling, stared at the
open field in front of him.
"Where's Raun?" Suzi asked
her student in Spanish.
Robertito pointed emphatically and
said: "Aqui!"
"That's right, Robertito. Fantastic.
Wonderful. Now, can you look at him?" Robertito's
eyes remained fixed.
"Aw, c'mon, Robertito,"
Raun chimed. "I'm your friend. Look at me."
The little boy turned to his smiling
counterpart. He noticed Raun's legs with great interest,
then, spontaneously, began the same movement with
his own limbs. "Look, look..." Raun screamed
in delight. "He's doing it ... see, I told you
guys he was smart."
Later, Raun guided Robertito down
the slide. He held the other boy's chubby hand with
his long, delicate fingers and led him to the monkey
bars. Robertito tugged on Raun's arm, pulling him
back to the slide. Raun giggled. "Well, why didn't
you say so?" Robertito flapped his free hand,
almost as if his "ism" was a response to
the question. Raun imitated his friend's motion.
Suzi and I maintained a low profile.
Our son had become more accomplished as a teacher
and therapist. Perhaps, most significantly, we did
not want to interfere or divert their attention from
each other. We tried not to dilute their special connection
with our presence.
They ran together through the fields
holding hands until they were exhausted. Raun handed
Robertito pieces of bread to feed the ducks, but his
little friend shoved the food directly into his own
mouth. Raun tapped Robertito. "Watch me, he said,
throwing a piece into the water. "Watch me again."
After completing his second illustration, Raun handed
his young charge another piece. Robertito stuffed
it quickly into his mouth. "Hey, that's not fair,"
Raun protested, then he burst out laughing, patting
Robertito on the shoulder as he smiled back at us.
"I like feeding him more than the ducks."
Five minutes later, after his own
stomach had been adequately filled, Robertito threw
his first piece of bread to the ducks. Raun jumped
up and down, applauding. Robertito turned to our son
and applauded back.
A plane passed overhead. Robertito
Soto looked up I and said correctly: "Avion."
"Raunch," Suzi called.
"Want to try the bicycle?" Our son nodded,
took his friend's hand once again and brought him
back to us.
"Maybe you can show him first,"
I said.
"Robertito. Look at me. C'mon,
look at me." He hopped onto the bike and rode
it in a circle. Robertito watched for several seconds,
then looked away, twirling his fingers beside his
head. "He's not watching."
"Call him," Suzi suggested,
"and say mira, which means look. You remember,
don't you?"
Raun nodded. "Robertito. Mira.
Here I am. Mira, Robertito." The boy stopped
his "ism" and watched again.
When they traded places, Robertito
appeared confused on the bicycle. Raun and I pushed
him for a while, hoping that the moving pedals would
aid him in understanding the process. Each time we
stopped, Robertito just sat there, waiting.
"Use your feet," Suzi said.
"Like Raunchy did ... you can do it, sweet boy."
"Yeah, sweet boy," Raun
chimed innocently. "You can do it. I know you
can."
We both looked at our son and laughed.
"Maybe you can show him again,"
I suggested. Raun whizzed around in circles, then
made figure eights. When he delivered the bike back
to Robertito, he stared into the other child's eyes.
I helped our little friend climb back on the seat.
Raun held the handle bars tightly and smiled. Robertito
watched him, then picked up our son's hand and kissed
it. Raun's face registered shock, then surprise. He
appeared flattered and bewildered at the same time.
Without further hesitation, he picked up Robertito's
little hand and kissed him back.
"You're going to do it now,
aren't you?" Raun said softly as he began to
pull on the handle bars, propelling the bike forward.
Still, Robertito did not push on the pedals. Raun
persisted, then suddenly let go. The bike kept moving.
Raun started to jog backward and Robertito followed,
slowly propelling the bicycle forward. After about
twenty feet, he put considerably more energy into
his effort. As the bike moved faster, Raun turned
around and started a slow trot. He waved to his friend,
coaxing him to follow. For the next ten minutes, Raun,
like the pied piper, ran around the playground with
smiling Robertito Soto in hot pursuit on his little
bicycle.
*****
The old buses, painted in garish
greens, yellows and reds, whizzed by. The dust whipped
up from the street like miniature tornadoes and assaulted
his nostrils. Motors sputtered; the incomplete combustion
belched fumes into the narrow corridors between stores.
Roby tried to hold his breath as he zigzagged across
a major intersection. Since the sidewalks were cluttered
with people marching home at the end of a workday,
he walked his own path next to the curb. Roby waved
to familiar faces, nodding a soft hello. Instead of
his usual stop at a small diner, he decided to go
directly home, wanting to be closer to his family.
He swung the door closed briskly
behind him, then stopped, closed his eyes and inhaled
deeply. In the darkness, Roby fumbled for the light
switch, finally flipping it and illuminating both
the dining room and the kitchen. He placed his wallet
and coins in a small metal dish, a present from Francisca.
He checked his watch against the electric clock on
the counter. No matter how many times he performed
these familiar rituals after work, he always had a
three-second fantasy that the house would be filled
with people ... Francisca Robertito, Alicia, perhaps
Francisca's mother, her cousin Jose, their little
niece Chella. Each face came to him as vividly as
if the person stood before him. He reached out to
his wife's and son's images, but they disappeared
before he could touch them. Roby Soto thanked the
universe for the momentary illusion.
He gazed at the photograph of his
son centered on the living room wall. He waved to
the little face. "Hola!, Robertito," he
whispered in the empty house. He proceeded to make
the same gesture in front of his wife's portrait.
The cold, stagnant air in the house
chilled him. He reached for one of Francisca's shawls
in the closet. In an effort to economize so that he
could send the needed funds to New York, Roby had
had the gas line shut off. He had survived the lack
of heat since the temperature outside had not dropped
below forty-five, but he shivered each night when
he forced himself to take a cold shower.
In the kitchen, he scanned the clean
counters. Seven months ago, they might have been filled
with fruits and vegetables as well as hot dishes awaiting
his arrival. When he coughed, he heard his own echo
in the room. He opened the refrigerator and surveyed
the limited selection of items. Three gallons of mineral
water, half a loaf of semi-stale whole wheat bread,
a small piece of cheese and ajar of jam occupied the
otherwise empty shelves. Since he had to work oftentimes
in the days and evenings, he had little opportunity
to shop at the market.
Roby removed a glass from the cabinet
and filled it with water. He made himself a rather
anemic cheese and jam sandwich, then inserted a cassette
into a small tape recorder on the table. His teeth
chewed mechanically as his eyes fixed on the moving
spools in the machine. A smile exploded on his face
the moment he heard Francisca's voice. He mouthed
every word and knew exactly when to pause.
He had recorded every telephone conversation
with his wife in an effort to extend their time together.
In order to be close to her and, in turn, his son,
he played the tapes back each night, sometimes listening
to them three and four times an evening. This particular
one contained Robertito answering simple questions
and singing a short Spanish lullaby. With his mouth
partially filled, Roby stopped chewing and hummed
along with his son.
After dinner, he retreated to his
workshop behind the garage. To match Robertito's burgeoning
vocabulary, Roby fashioned another series of books
to supplement our supply in New York. He sat at the
workbench for hours, cutting out photographs from
the huge pile of magazines in front of him. The tape
recorder filled the room with Francisca's voice. Working
diligently, Roby pasted the pieces neatly, pressing
the edges and holding them until they became fixed.
He did not want the corners to lift. This book was
for his son, for Robertito.
By eleven o'clock, he had finished
ten pages. His eyelids began to fall. Roby rubbed
his hands together as he rose from the chair. The
cold had begun to settle in his bones, The tiny wall
thermometer read fifty-seven degrees. Roby jogged
in place for about five minutes until the rush of
circulation warmed his hands.
He entered the bedroom hesitantly.
For Roby, this was the loneliest room in the house.
He lifted his son's overalls from the chair and smelled
them. He touched the glass covering his wife's portrait,
trying to re-create the sensation of her skin beneath
his finger tips. Roby slipped into a pair of jeans
and a sweat shirt, shivering from the cold again.
Once in bed on his back, he pulled the blankets to
his chin. A vivid image of Francisca working with
Robertito in that second floor room in New York flashed
in front of him. Roby Soto thought he had to be one
of the luckiest men in the world.
Chapter
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