One of Many Mutants

         It had been a long day, but a good one. Perhaps the best yet. They were all long days, but it seemed the longer and harder they were, the better Fiona felt at night as she cooked a small supper, and discussed the next day’s lesson plans with her cat, Lois. October 14th was something more than a dinner-with-Lois night, however. October 14th was when Fiona learned what home, family, and belonging truly meant. That night, she was truly one of them.

         Jerry McGee was a jerk, plain and simple, but maybe she had Jerry to thank for this unexpected gift. Jerry walked his son, Rupert, to school every day. Rupert attended High Dale Kindergarten, just across the street from Our Daily Bread School for the Differently Abled.

         Rupert was learning to tie his shoes. Fiona knew this for two reasons: one, his shoes were always untied, a dead giveaway that daddy-dearest hadn’t tied them; and two, Jerry verbally beat the hell out the kid every day for not being able to keep them tied.

         “God damn it, Rupert! What is wrong with you?! You got a touch o’ the Downs today?”

         Five-year-old Rupert would look up at his father with equal parts fear and shame. He wasn’t sure if he was down or not, but he knew Daddy was mad again. He felt bad when Daddy got mad. He felt like a retard. That’s what Daddy said when Rupert did something wrong, like when he couldn’t tie his shoes a few days ago. Daddy said he was a retard. Rupert didn’t know what a retard was, but he felt bad when Daddy said it, so it probably wasn't good.

         Fiona watched some variation on this scene at least three days a week. Jerry didn’t cross any legal lines, though, with regard to actual abuse. So there was nothing Fiona could do except hurt along with the boy, and pray for him at night, as she prayed for the rest of her charges.

         This morning, Bethany had tried to comfort Rupert. Bethany was fourteen, with long silky black hair and a beautiful voice. Her eyes were set quite far apart, and her forehead protruded a bit more than one would find usual. Bethany had Down’s Syndrome, had trouble speaking clearly, had the emotional maturity of a seven-year-old, and had the purity of heart of Jesus Christ, himself.

         She stood at the fence of the “play yard;” Our Daily Bread actually had to stretch and scratch to get their daily bread, and could not afford a location with more land. So the children essentially played in a small fenced-in section of sidewalk, and quite happily called it their play yard. Bethany was trying to tell Rupert he was doing great, that he would get it. Rupert didn’t understand her through her speech impediment, but he understood her unassuming smile instinctively; he smiled back at her and waved.

         Jerry was instantly furious. “You wanna mutate into one o’ them, boy?! Leave them alone, you’ll probably get more retarded just standing next to them!” He looked toward Bethany and hollered angrily: “Get back in the pen, Mongoloid!” He yanked Rupert’s arm harshly, and the boy yelped. Then the two were across the street and entering the kindergarten.

         Fiona went to Bethany to see if the younger girl was alright. Bethany was unfazed by Jerry’s cruelty; but she was not unaware of it. When Fiona asked her how she was, she replied: “I’d wuv em boaf if ee’d let me.” Then she smiled her radiance at Fiona, and went over to play with her friend, David.

         David was a little worse off than Bethany, but Fiona knew she was thinking in matters of degrees. Of her fifteen “students,” eleven had Down’s Syndrome, two had Autistic spectrum disorders, and two were severely physically and mentally disabled. Fiona thought of them all as her children, and felt each insult, each rebuff, and petty hatred that Jerry threw at them as if he had cast a stone at her.

         His constant dominance of his son was terrible to watch, but his redress to Bethany was an attack Fiona could not accept.

         As Jerry came trudging out of the Kindergarten building and began to cross the street, Fiona stepped out from the doorway of Our Daily Bread to confront him.

         "What’d’you want?” Jerry scowled down at Fiona. Jerry was about eight inches taller, and built like a sportsman; Fiona was slight, pale, and graying prematurely. Ironically, an onlooker might well have imagined the two as a circus trainer and her unruly bear.

         “Bethany is a very special girl, sir,” Fiona said across her folded arms.

         Jerry poked his head down at her. “Look,” he said fiercely. “You keep the animals in the zoo, and we will get along fine. But whatever you do, keep em away from my boy; god only knows what those cretins could pass on to him.” Jerry’s face and body were tense. He wanted this confrontation, he wanted a fight, he wanted more victims.

         Fiona remained calm. It was not an effort or a discipline for her; if anything, it was habit, instinct. She dealt with stronger outbursts than this on a daily basis. “They are treasures, as surely as Rupert a is treasure. If you must see them as animals, think of how much stronger you must be to care of animals, of children, of our disabled. To truly care for them. How much higher you can set yourself among your peers because you can find a way to give to someone--or something, if you must--that can’t give back. Don’t set yourself on fire with hatred for them; they swim in their love for you, for me, for everything they see and do. Treasure them.” She delivered this soliloquy in a calm, even voice, but her eyes brimmed emotion and honesty. Fiona didn’t hate this man, either, one more thing she was sure she had learned from her “children.”

         Jerry’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to hear this. He didn’t want to recognize truths about himself or anyone else. He just wanted to fight, wanted to win.

         Except...Fiona thought she saw something in his eyes, something that was tired of winning, tired of fighting, tired of hating. Through her twelve years at Our Daily Bread, she had grown very adept at reading eyes; for some of these children, their eyes were the only means of communication they had. And right now, Jerry’s eyes were speaking volumes to her.

         Fiona stood there in the street, toe to toe with him. She didn’t blink. The street seemed to hold its breath; no cars were honking, no radios bumping and thumping, no children playing or laughing or crying. Everything was just...waiting.

         Jerry was waiting, too: red in the face, nostrils flaring wide with each breath, pupils wide with adrenaline, daring Fiona with his eyes, daring her to do anything at all.

         So she did.

         Fiona flung both her arms wide, and in the split second it took Jerry to calculate his next move, she wrapped him in a tight, safe hug of warmth and concern, of selflessness and prayer. Jerry stood stock still; this was not an attack, not a fight. He was out of his abusive, combative context, unsure of the next move.

         Then he saw the children from Our Daily Bread leaving their pitiful concrete play yard and moving toward Fiona and him in the street--saw them, but did not hear them; they were silent, and their sincere, unfocused, pinched eyes and gawping, off-kilter mouths frightened Jerry.

         The first child reached the two adults and looked at them for about a second, then wrapped his own arms around both Fiona and Jerry. It was David. Bethany followed in suit, then Jenna, then another, then all of them.

         They were silent; they were sincere. They did not hate Jerry, nor judge him. They stood encircling with their physical, palpable emotion--not scared, not obsequious, not asking for anything in return--just loving him, in spite of himself, as the shepherds come together to care for the sickened lamb. The staggering reality of these ill-figured children dawned on Jerry, and the reality of his own disfigured nature. He felt his lip start to quiver. He was going to cry, by God, right here in the street, in front of everybody! The thought brought him back from the brink, and he started to struggle.

         Then the sight of one more child joining them in the street stilled Jerry. This young boy came from the other side of the street, from High Dale. He was as silent as the rest, but tears showed in his eyes and on his cheeks.

         Fiona felt Jerry lose the fight against himself, felt him give in and begin to cry. She heard the wracking sobs of shame and pent-up emotion boil up from this bull of a man, and she hugged him tighter. Fiona did not feel she had trumped Jerry, or won some battle. She was simply offering love, because she could. And from inside this impromptu huddle, through the press of bodies, Fiona could see what had tipped the scales for Jerry..

         The final child to seize the opportunity to hug Jerry was Rupert. And his shoes were still untied.