I didn't say anything. He spoke again. "Your mother and I have decided we can no longer tolerate your behavior. So as soon as I can arrange it, you will go once a day to a psychiatrist. If we have to, if you persist in defying us, we will leave you in the care of doctors who can help you to learn how to behave normally."
"You can't make me," I gasped, terrified some shrink would have me locked away behind bars forever. "If you try and force me, I'll kill myself!"
He looked at me sternly. "Bart, you won't kill yourself. So don't you sit there and think you can outwit your mother or me. Your mother and I have faced up to bigger and better than a ten-year-old boy--remember that."
Later that evening when I was in my bed, I heard Momma and Daddy really yelling at each other, yelling like I'd never heard them before.
"Why did you send Bart into the attic, Catherine? Did you have to do that? Couldn't you just have ordered him to stay in his room and wait until I came home?"
"No! He likes being in his room. He has everything in there to make it a pleasant place to be-- and as you know well, the attic is not pleasant. I did what I had to."
"What you had to? Cathy--do you realize who you sound like?"
"Well," she said with ice in her voice, "haven't I been telling you all along that's what I am--a bitch who cares only about herself?"
They took me to a shrink the very next day, shoved me down in a chair and told me to stay there. They sat beside me until a door opened and we were called inside. A woman doctor was behind a big desk. At least they could have chosen a man. I hated her because her hair was slick and black like Madame Marisha's hair when she was young and posing for pictures. Her white blouse bulged in front so I had to turn my eyes away.
"Dr. Sheffield, you and your wife can wait outside, we will talk later." I watched my parents go out the door. Never had I felt so all alone as when that woman turned to me and looked me over with her kind eyes that were hiding mean thoughts. "You don't want to be here, do you?" she asked. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of letting her know I heard. "My name is Dr. Mary Oberman."
So what?
"There are toys over on that table . . . help yourself."
Toys . . . I wasn't a baby. I glared at her. She turned her head and I knew she was uncomfortable, though trying not to let it show. "Your parents have told me you like to play pretend games. Is that because you don't have enough playmates?"
Didn't have any. But darn if that idiot woman was gonna know. I'd be a fool to tell her John Amos was the best friend I had. Once it had been my grandmother, but she had betrayed me.
"Bart, you can sit there and be silent, but you only succeed in hurting those who love you most, and you are hurt more than anyone else. Your parents want to help you. That's why they brought you here. You have to cooperate and try. Tell me if you're happy. Tell me if you feel frustrated, and if you like the way your life is going."
Wouldn't say yes, wouldn't say no. Wouldn't say anything and she couldn't make me. Then she talked about people who kept themselves locked up, and how that could ruin them emotionally. All her words were like rain on the windowpane I made myself into.
"Do you hate your mother and father?"
Wouldn't answer.
"Your brother Jory, do you like him?"
Jory was okay. He'd be better if he was more clumsy than me, and ugly too.
"Your adopted sister Cindy . . . what do you think of her?"
Maybe my eyes told her something, for she scribbled away on her notepad. "Bart," she began when she put her pen aside, her face trying to look motherly and kind, "if you refuse to cooperate, we will have no choice but to put you in a hospital where many doctors can try to help you regain control of your emotions. You won't be mistreated, but it won't be as nice as being at home. You won't have your own room, your own things, your own parents except once a week for an hour. So don't you think it would be much nicer to try and help yourself before this goes any further? What is it that changed you from the boy you were last summer?"
Didn't want to be locked in some crazy house with lots of nuts who might be bigger and meaner than me, and I wouldn't be able to visit John Amos and Apple.
What could I do? I remembered words from Malcolm's book, and how he made people think he was "giving in," all the time going his own way.
I'd cry, I'd say how sorry I was, and when I did this, even I thought I was sincere. I said, "It's Momma . . . she loves Jory more than me. She loves Cindy better too. I don't have anybody. I hate not having anybody."
It went on and on. Even after I really blabbed, she told my parents I'd have to continue seeing her for a year or more. "He's a very confused little boy." She smiled and touched my mother's shoulder. "Don't blame yourself. Bart seems programmed for selfloathing, and though he might seem to hate you for not loving him enough, he doesn't like himself. Therefore he believes anyone who does love him is a big fool. It's a sickness all right. As real as any physical disease, and worse in many ways, for Bart cannot find himself."
I was hiding, eavesdropping, surprised to hear her say what she did.
"He loves you, Mrs. Sheffield, with a love almost religious. Therefore he expects you to be perfect, at the same time knowing he is unworthy of your attention; and still, paradoxically, he wants you to see him and acknowledge him as the best son you have."
"But I don't understand," said Momma, leaning her head on Daddy's shoulder. "How can he love me and want to hurt me so much?"
"Human nature is very complex. Your son is very complex. The good and the bad are fighting to dominate his personality. He is unconsciously awar