Chapter IV

By Timmy’s sixth birthday, only his parents’ adamant attitude had saved him from becoming a side show. Once the initial household uproar had died down and some degree of general sanity been restored, Helen and Jerry had another bad fright. They had grudgingly allowed Clancey, the family sawbones, to call in a psychologist friend, Philip Warwick. The combined efforts of these two to find an explanation for Timmy resulted in complete chaos, with Timmy suffering violent and erratic lapses into complete idiocy for varying lengths of time. Standard tests meant nothing, unless mutually exclusive results could be accepted as meaningful in themselves. At length, Timmy suffered a relapse of such duration that the parents became panic-stricken and quietly rebelled. It was obvious that he needed an atmosphere of peace and quiet. Confusion, excitement, or the concentrated attention of several adults simply threw him into a relapse.

The break came when Clancey called at the house and found it empty, deserted. He traced them to a new neighborhood where they had rented a house with a peaceful, walled garden. They were not pleased to see him, but Clancey was a psychologist of sorts himself and a working agreement was arrived at whereby he and Warwick could drop in frequently as friends and quietly observe Timmy, chatting with him when they could win his confidence and submitting him to whatever tests they could adequately disguise. But under pain of permanent excommunication from the Douglas menage they were not to discuss him with outsiders in such a way as to either identify him or draw attention to him. Timmy was to be allowed to set his own pace under their obliquely-watching eyes. He was not to become a subject for newspaper comment, for the speculation of strangers, or for the heated discussion of learned gentlemen calling each other liars in six syllables. For Timmy was something new under the sun.

Two years of observation gave Clancey and Warwick an impressive file of notes on him, and they were prone to sit after office hours with it on the desk between them, giving it morose glances. They were not happy. Sometimes, as now, they concluded an evening visit by sitting in Clancey’s or Warwick’s car parked outside the Douglas fence, holding an impromptu post-mortem on an intellectual corpse that had come to life in complete defiance of all the rules. They didn’t notice the stealthy movement of one of the fence-boards, nor the small form that snaked through the shadows of concealing shrubbery until it was near the open window of the car.

“Take word-association, Clancey. I had a few minutes with him this evening before you got here, so I started him on a ‘game’ where we took turns in saying a word and trying to guess what the other would reply. I believe he thought I was rather a simpleton and needed humoring. Anyway, I tried him with ‘home’ and got a delayed response. It’s happened before. Apparently the concept of home is tied to some deeper disturbance.” There was a slight, uneasy movement from the listening figure. “Well, linking home and family, on my next turn I shot ‘mother’ at him. There was an immediate flash of confusion in his eyes and again a delayed response before he blurted ‘Mom.’ Something else had been on the tip of his tongue, but he choked it back and selected what seemed to him a more suitable reply.

“Now, we both know from two years’ systematic observation that Helen is as well-balanced a mother as you’re likely to find. I’m quite sure she has no unsuspected bad habits or traits that are leaving sensitive spots in Timmy’s mind, making him flinch at the association, nor is there some long-standing or unresolved conflict in their relations. Yet ‘home’ and ‘mother’ both invoke blocks that inhibit response until consciously overcome, or invoke images that he wishes to conceal lest they betray a secret. I doubt very much whether anything that happened in his first four years could have left a deep impression on the completely imbecilic mind he is assumed to have had then. That leaves the past two years--”

_(Confirmation) Game/not game ... Should data have predicted
test? (Indecision) Possibly ... review later. So much to learn
... confusion inevitable. Next time respond “mother--three”
(laughter) Invalid frame of reference--impossible work
with/discard._

“Something else interests me there, Phil. You suggest he selected, deliberately, what seemed an appropriate response to ‘mother.’ Did you take the next logical step and try ‘father?’”

“Yes.”

“And did he anticipate it?”

“I’m sure he did. I see what you mean ... fairly sharp reasoning for a six-year-old supposed to be mentally retarded. When I shot ‘father’ at him he came back promptly with ‘male-Douglas’ almost like one word.”

“Got the sex and identity right. What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing ‘wrong’ or ‘right’ about it. I was hoping for some clue as to how his mind works. Maybe I got it, but I don’t know what to do with it. I didn’t expect a calmly objective cataloguing of the old man as a ‘male-Douglas.’”

_(Surprise) Where is error? Semantics? Sociology? Colloquial
nuance? (Decision) Reject further word-games._

“If that’s a clue, Phil, you can have it.” Clancey hauled a notebook from his pocket and held it up. “Open this thing anywhere--anywhere at all. It’ll open at an unanswered question. At the age of roughly three and one-half, a congenital idiot suddenly displays flashes of alert intelligence. For forty-two months that child was content to sit on his fanny and vegetate. Never crawled, never spoke, never played, seldom even focused his eyes. Then one day his mother sees him study some alphabet blocks with every appearance of curiosity. Awareness! For the first time!

“Later, he suddenly reaches out his hand and piles the blocks in a neat stack. Purposeful activity and perfect muscular control! No trial-and-error, no baby hesitation with hand poised--just a sudden assured, controlled action. Mama leaps for joy, junior relapses into idiocy, and no one--including me--really believes mama when she says it happened. This sort of thing goes on for several months--brief, erratic flashes of extraordinary intelligence, considering the subject. Then, a child who has never spoken a single word says clearly and politely, ‘I want that one, Helen,’ and a child who has never crawled puts his feet under him and stands up steady as a rock. You tell me, Phil--how did he do it?”

“Don’t look to me for an answer. I’m only a lousy fifth-rate psychology teacher, as of the day you brought Timmy into my life. And the curse of Freud be on you for that kindly act of professional assassination. The answer is obvious, of course ... Timmy didn’t and couldn’t do what we’ve seen him do with our own wide-open, innocent eyes. We are the victims of a cunning hoax.”

(Amusement) Difficult to experiment unobserved. Action too precipitate/no choice. (Affection/laughter) “The world is so people.” (Chill) Danger! Madness!

“How does any child learn to speak?”

“Mainly by hearing others. Maybe Timmy learned the same way. Maybe he listened, absorbing the meaning and sound of words, trying them out in the silence of his otherwise vacant little noggin. Maybe his mind awakened gradually to the realization that it was a prisoner in a paralyzed organ, strait-jacketed by blocks or short circuits. Maybe he spent his forty-two months of vegetating driving against those blocks until he partially broke them down and could speak. Maybe.”