Who's Retarded?

Kids can be so perverse. Seriously. How could we normal, healthy children feel jealousy toward our damaged older sister? Although it was Kathy who had been institutionalized at the age of 8, one might say that we were the retarded ones. Being too young to think it through, or so we later excused ourselves, we resented our weekly visits; ten years worth, give or take.

Our upbringing was thrifty, with seven children and Dad providing the only income working as a meat packer in the city. Life was a constant string of stumbling blocks and financial struggles, yet our house had a ballroom. ‘The Big Room’, as we called it, occupied one end of the 200 year old tenant house we rented from a neighboring farmer. Too big to heat, its deteriorating expanse was useful for little more than a storage and play area. Bags of clothing donated by the church were piled along one wall, where we would often ‘shop’ for outfits.

During one of the drives to visit Kathy, scrunched down beltless and bored, I gazed glumly out the window. Plagued by car sickness, I was painfully aware of each passing mile. My parents were like the damn Postal Service about this trip and God forbid any of us should even think about making a different plan on a Saturday. It steamed me that my three older sisters now had jobs, excusing them from attendance.

My brothers, Frank and Dan, one older and one younger, shared the back seat. They were grimly avoiding contact, so sick of each other that breathing the same air was painful. One can play just so many rounds of ‘Punch Buggy’ and ‘I Spy’ before they take on a crazed life of their own.

At one point my Mom said, “Ruth, you and your brothers would argue over the color of dirt”.

“You betcha, Ma”, I answered flippantly, knowing she hated the name. At 11, my sense of sarcasm was well-developed from years of watching my family in action.

Up ahead, the sign for Wasaic State School signaled an end to our claustrophobic misery. My Dad really needed a break from the combined efforts of trying to drive with one hand, while swinging with the other in a futile attempt to smack someone, anyone. The wheels had barely stopped when we clambered out and raced up the hill, ignoring our Mother’s cries of caution. Dad paused to tidy up his beloved Belair, which we greatly preferred over the pink and white station wagon that sat rusting in the farm junkyard (let it never be resurrected).

My parents strolled behind us as we twirled forward like a trio of drunken gyroscopes. Reaching the main building, red faced and tousled, we slammed through the door at thirty knots, barely missing another family grouped just inside. “Kaaaathyyyyyy” we shouted, spotting her at a stained plastic table.

With a smile so wide that her eyes squinted shut, plump cheeks flushed with color, she clumsily extricated herself from the chair. A group hug knocked her bright blue cat-eye glasses flying, and the ensuing jig almost finished them off. Hurriedly, I grabbed her specs out of harms way, knowing how easily she became worried. Frank and Bernice, as we impertinently referred to our parents, finally reached the lobby. We left them to their own reunion while we darted about becoming reacquainted with the place and its curious inhabitants.

It was mid-afternoon when we settled on a tattered quilt placed under an enormous oak, making short work of the egg salad sandwiches and pickles packed from home. Afterward, replete, my Dad lazed half awake in the dappled sunlight, while Mom’s complete focus settled on my sister. My brothers and I knew that she had never forgiven herself for the decision to send Kathy away, made while on the verge of collapse and feeling cornered. Regardless, feeling ignored, we ran and clambered wildly on the small playground, shouting like heathens, until my mother shrilled for our attention. Now impatient with the visit, we complained and groused for the remainder of the afternoon.

Our departure ritual was a quick stop at the institution’s gift shop. While my brothers and I each picked out one small candy, envy nibbled again as our 15 year old sister chose a coloring book, Necco Wafers, several chocolate bars, and a small plastic doll. That there would be no other purchases was long ago settled, yet often challenged. Frankie, Danny and I chafed, mumbled and glared as Kathy’s things were packed into a bag. Happy grins were replaced by pinched expressions.

“I wish I was retarded”, I muttered, “She gets anything she wants”.

Frank and Dan nodded dourly in agreement. For once united, we stood together in the conviction that being handicapped made Kathy special in a way we could never hope to achieve.