Stevens School Runaways -- Part 16

“Returning to the New Normal”

Alfred Cousins lived a bachelor’s life alone in Perkins – just north of town. A winterized log cabin was his humble abode, rented by the month. “The man’s a recluse – a strange one,” his landlord said, but she disliked him more because of his bookish nature than because he was a loner. While Cousins didn’t mix much with the locals, he commuted the fifty-two miles daily to and from Stevens. His mode of transportation – a battle-scarred 1970 Chevrolet van, beige, with darkened windows so the curious couldn’t see much of anything recognizable when they peeked inside.

The boys at Stevens were curious – as were the man’s colleagues. Although he was widely suspected of being gay, a pederast or worse, he was retained mostly because of his mathematics skills and credentials (he’d be difficult to replace due to the reform school’s remote location) and had even earned tenure. It was a tenuous tenure, liable to be revoked at any time – certainly for any major infraction such as searching through inmate records without authorization, or worse, contacting an inmate’s biological parents without permission from headmaster Taylor or security chief Mueller. There were other facets of the math teacher’s character deemed irritating to the Stevens School administration. It was obvious to many that he wasn’t in full agreement with the school’s occasional punishment regimes, especially those severe regimes meted out to absconders. He’d frequently spoken out at such “festivities” – even against those school-approved pain threshold procedures that were government-sanctioned and considered vital to interests of national security. Twice in the last month, boys from Stevens had secretly broken into his van – perhaps as part of an unofficial scouting mission approved by someone on the reform school’s staff or faculty -- looking to see what they might find, maybe something incriminating, so that headmaster Taylor might fire Mr. Cousins. But nothing out of the ordinary turned up. There was also another element to the entire situation that Alfred Cousins wasn’t privy to. For more than a decade, The Stevens School had been the beneficiary of an extraordinary endowment from the government. Although these payments were masked under assorted pretenses, the compensation was known by a select few to be explicitly in exchange for the school’s cooperation in conducting “pain threshold” experiments on inmates. Without that monthly stipend, Stevens would be placed, to some unknown extent, in serious financial jeopardy. All of these circumstances were to come into play in due course.

*

Tom was dressed in pajamas and slippers while sitting up in a chair during his eagerly awaited counseling session with Dr. Sally Allred, a child psychiatrist who seemed friendly enough. The boy was getting ready to drop what he still assumed, despite Rich’s earlier negativity about such disclosure, was a bombshell. Still full of anger, he wished to unburden himself about the brutal punishment regime he’d endured. The affable Allred, a wig-wearing shrink with only the wispiest of eyebrows, seemed to be listening, up to that point – while demonstrating an encouraging degree of empathy. “I know that you’ve experienced a minor ordeal, but you must feel a certain amount of pride in getting through it. I think that it would help if you compared your weekend experience to an adolescent initiation, like they used to have boys undergo in certain primitive tribal groups. I bet you’ve read about the aborigines in Australia’s outback – although what you experienced had to be a much milder version of such a ceremony – and without much of the ritual entailed.” While this was a take on the experience that Rich had decided to stick with, as a method of coping with the emotional aftermath of what HE’D endured, Tom was more keen on developing his own slant. Feigning mild interest in the shrink’s comparison, he really wanted to interject something entirely different, something that seemed more normal in his opinion – even if it was within the realm of victimization. The shrink reminded Tom of comedienne Joan Rivers, he’d watched her show once.

“Doctor Allred, can we talk?”

“Yes, of course, young man. Go right ahead.”

“It was torture – not just a few little dumb-ass punishments or even an initiation. Those bastards at this school tortured me and Rich.”

“Oh c’mon now. Torture is a strong word – I know you were spanked, both on the bare bottom and on the soles of your feet – but those punishments are long established traditions at this reform school – corporal punishments that are well-known – and never performed to excess. Your headmaster Mr. Taylor tells me that it’s against the school’s charter to inflict permanent injury on a juvenile inmate and that your school’s resident physician, Dr. Thompson, was always present during your punishment sessions.”

“Yes, some of that’s true. But they did a lot more things to us. I could strip and show you all the marks on me – even on my privates. I don’t mind. I’m not so bashful anymore. At least let me show you what they did to my feet. I can still barely walk – and it’s been almost a week!”

The shrink looked at the boy with some mock concern, returning to her mild manner as if unfazed by Tom’s odd remarks. She was also condescending. “I know you’re feeling angry right now,” she said, “but you deserved to be punished. You and your friend broke the school’s greatest commandment. I think – like I told your friend Rich earlier – and I will say he’s more realistic about what happened – he knew all about the Australian aborigines and in fact – volunteered the comparison himself – I think that you need to move on. It’s not healthy for you to hang on to this – dangerous repressed anger towards your teachers at this school. It behooves you to adjust here – you’ll be leaving the infirmary and attending classes again – except for occasional follow-up sessions with Dr. Thompson -- everything will soon be back to normal. Let it be boy, let it be. That’s my sincere advice.” The part about “follow-up sessions” wasn’t clearly understood and went right over Tom’s head. Tom assumed that Thompson would just keep coming by to cursorily “check him out” while he remained in the infirmary. Wrong.

Otherwise Tom was persistent. “Can I show you what they did to my feet?”

“Umm. I don’t think that’d be appropriate.”

“Can I pull my pajama bottoms down and show you my cock?”

“I’m not here to physically examine you. That’s not my job.”

“What is your job?” Tom had been very calm and collected up to this point, but now his voice was rising, and his anger was beginning to redirect toward the shrink. She’s such a dumb shit, Tom mused, Rich was right. They don’t give a flying fuck about me!

“Can I at least describe what they did?” Tom asked more plaintively, and with an exaggerated deference.

The good shrink smiled again. “I think that’s within bounds. I’ll get you some paper to write down your thoughts – while they’re still fresh.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that Dr. Allred, they’re going to be fresh for a long time. Like forever.”

The psychiatrist peered intently at this boy she now considered dangerously angry. She would write that down in her evaluation -- notwithstanding the unfortunate and accusatory fantasy drivel that she expected the boy would write. Tom would almost certainly exaggerate in her opinion. She’d seen his ilk before – a lot of such boys went on to become murderers. She sincerely hoped that the boy would not “act out” – by attempting to injure himself or, of more concern, a staff member. I am very glad that I don’t have to work with kids like this every day, she mused. She would indeed recommend a full regimen of follow-up procedures – including work on the boy’s genitalia -- all complementary to a continued regime of "pain threshold" experiments. Even castration wasn’t out of the question with this one, although that wasn’t really her decision, and if such a procedure was performed, she would suggest the use of a local anesthetic. “You may think so now, but forever is a long time,” she said between her musings, while plopping a pencil and two sheets of plain paper within the runaway’s reach. “Go ahead. Write – whatever you want. It’s good therapy.”

As Tom began writing, his fingernails throbbed slightly. He recalled the sharp needle thrust under each of them – and under his toenails too. There’s a reminder, he mused, a good place to begin. But could he get it all down on just two pages? “I might need more paper.”

“Try to be concise,” Doctor Sally said. She wasn’t about to hang around forever while this bitter kid scribed out his life story.

*

Alfred Cousins had been summoned into headmaster Taylor’s office. Mueller was there too. Taylor came right to the point. “Mr. Cousins. Tom Bridges’ parents were contacted by someone at this school claiming to be a member of our staff.”

“Oh,” replied Cousins.

“Would you know anything about this?” Taylor added.

“Whoever did this had to go into the inmate files to get the family's number – as well as make the call – both major infractions by any staff or faculty,” Mueller said.

“Are you accusing me?” Cousins defended himself while peering straight into the eyes of both men.

“Everyone is suspect in this security leak, Mr. Cousins – not just yourself. But your views toward leniency with the boys – especially boys who’ve breached our rules – are well known. I hope and trust that you haven’t betrayed your position of trust here.”

“We WILL find out who did this,” Mueller repackaged.

Later, upon leaving the office, Mueller glared at Cousins and was even more direct. “If we find out that it was you, your tenure won’t be worth snot,” he hissed.

End of Part 16 –

Part 17 – “The Second Great Escape”