There were too many children and not enough resources and never enough time. We had to make it work anyway, because there wasn't any alternative. Looked at like that, Betty-John's approach seemed the only rational and appropriate one. So what if it was hard and competitive and mechanical? It worked. Sort of. It let us survive.
Anyway.
We played the Living Game.
Sometimes it was about how many dishes we could wash or how much laundry we could fold or how much litter we could pick up. It was never about doing chores. If some of it didn't get done, nobody said anything. It wasn't about chores, it wasn't about work. It was about winning. It was always about winning. Sometimes Betty-John or Birdie would talk to us about "winning the other war, the grown-up war."
"Nobody ever won a war by accident," Betty-John would say. "Winning isn't a habit. It's a commitment. It's a way of life. Vverything you do-whether it's washing the dishes or sweeping ihc floor or picking up litter-is a game to be won. It's not a problem. It's not a chore. It's not a burden. It's an interesting challenge, with a definite goal. When you accomplish the goal, you win. This is the game: get yourself addicted to winning. That's the only way we're going to win the big war. We have to learn how to win all the little battles between here and there. I promise you, washing the dishes and picking up after yourselves and cleaning your plate and raking the leaves-all of it is all part od winning the big war.
"It's this simple," said Betty-John, "I will live every moment of every day as if the whole outcome of the war depends upon my commitment to victory. Everything I do shall produce a victory over chaos of every kind."
The kids ate it up. Of course.
So did I. It became mantra. Don't stop. This is part of the game.
Every so often, Big Ivy would hold a special game for the girls and Jack Balaban would hold a special game for the boys. When I asked, Betty-John told me that those classes were about bodies. Their own and others. And shame and curiosity and fear. Yes, there was some nudity. Later, they would be about masturbation, if necessary, and even about sexual expression, if necessary. I didn't ask the details. What I did ask was, "Are the kids that far gone?"
B-Jay nodded. "Some of them are. I'm hoping that appropriate role-modeling will help them find an avenue back, and I'm not above using whatever tools are available." She must have seen the look on my face, because she said, "Don't worry about it, Jim. Most of this is pretty innocent stuff. The girls need to be taught about menstruation and personal hygiene. The boys need to learn that an erection doesn't mean you're going to die. Remember poor Marty Christian?"
Marty Christian would have been funny, if he hadn't been so pathetic. He was a perfect example of how the mind makes inappropriate connections between one fact and another.
I participated, at first reluctantly, then with a kind of alacrity that was as much performance as anything else, and finally with a real enthusiasm, because I could see the difference the games meant to the kids.
One day, B-Jay asked me to lead the next night's game. I tried to beg off, but she insisted. "Jim," she said meaningfully, "first Thursday is when we have the Directors' meeting, remember?"
"Uh, right."
"You may not have noticed, but this is still a corporation, and we do have a budget and expenses and taxes and a lot of other paper concerns that need to be addressed." She didn't mention the worm fence. She didn't have to.
Just the same: "B-Jay, I don't know how to do this."
"Yes, you do. You just don't know it."
"I don't know what to do!"
"Make something up. That's what everybody else does. Just have a clear goal in mind so that when you win, everybody can experience a victory. But don't make it too easy. It isn't a victory unless you have to work a little for it. Or a lot."
Sigh. I thought of my worm fences. This was another test, wasn't it? "Okay." I gave in.
I spent most of the afternoon clearing the brush from the base of the peninsula, where I wanted to install the worm fence. It wasn't quite the narrowest part; I would have preferred to work at the very base of the peninsula, but it was too rocky. There was no easy way to get onto the rocks, let alone anchor the fences. No, we'd have to do it higher up, where we had enough good soil to anchor the spikes. If I could get a gas-hammer we could shoot the spikes right into the ground and the job would be a lot easier; otherwise, we'd have to use the screw-in kind and do it by hand.
While I worked, I tried to figure out what kind of a game I would have the children play. I wanted to do something more than just wash dishes or pick up litter; I wanted to give these kids something that they weren't getting anywhere else-hell, even a chance to scream out their frustration might be a welcome break.
It was while I was working on a particularly well-rooted bush that I noticed a little boy watching me. I didn't recognize him immediately; there were a lot of kids around I didn't know; but he shouldn't be out here alone either.
This was a continual problem with some of the kids, they weren't socialized enough to be bonded to any specific person or place. Some of them were near-feral and wandered off a lot. We knew who most of our problem children were and we kept them on tight leashes; but this must have been one of the new ones.
"Hi," I said.
"Hi, back," he said.
He was about eight years old, maybe ten. Hard to tell. Short pants that didn't quite fit him, a bulky sweater. Needed a haircut. Black hair. Missing a tooth.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Clearing the bushes."
"Why? Don't you like the bushes?"
"I like the bushes fine. We just don't need them here."
"Oh. How come?"
"We're putting up a fence. A big strong one. To keep the worms out. That's so we can sleep well at night."
"Oh," said the boy. He watched me silently for a while, then he said, "You're really scared of worms, aren't you?"
"Everybody is," I said, without thinking.
"I'm not," he said.
I gave him my best indulgent smile. Childhood bravado. I wanted to say, "Wait till you see one up close," but Betty-John wasn't particularly fond of scaring the hell out of the children for no reason at all.
For no reason at all. Hm.
An idea occurred to me.
To the boy, I said, "You'd better get back. You don't want to wiss lunch. I think Little Ivy is making Chocolate Disaster for dessert today."
"I don't like chocolate," he said. "What's your name?"
"Jim. What's yours?"
"Jim who?"
"Jim McCarthy. And you're really not supposed to be here now. Somebody is probably looking for you. Come on, I'll take you back." I held out my hand.
"I don't need your help." He backed away.
"Okay." I held up my hands to show I meant no harm. "Have it your own way." I bent back to the task at hand. The kid looked skittish enough already. When I looked up again, he was gone. No matter. He couldn't go far.
Just as well. I wanted to think.
I had an idea for a game we could play.
Maybe one of the reasons we were having so much trouble making contact with these children was that they were so terrified. Dogs, darkness, people, worms, their own bodies-these kids were psychological disaster areas. The ones who knew what they were afraid of were the lucky ones; the rest of them were afraid of things that could only be found in a catalog of Nameless Horrors. (How do you alphabetize a catalog of Nameless Horrors anyway?) Or worse.