In Hiding Read online

  In Hiding

  Wilmar H. Shiras

  In Hiding

  by Wilmar H. Shiras

  Peter Welles, psychiatrist, eyed the boy thoughtfully. Why had Timothy Paul’s teacher sent him for examination?

  “I don’t know, myself, that there’s really anything wrong with Tim,” Miss Page had told Dr. Welles. “He seems perfectly normal. He’s rather quiet as a rule, doesn’t volunteer answers in class or anything of that sort. He gets along well enough with other boys and seems reasonably popular, although he has no special friends. His grades are satisfactory—he gets B faithfully in all his work. But when you’ve been teaching as long as I have, Peter, you get a feeling about certain ones. There is a tension about him—a look in his eyes sometimes— and he is very absentminded.”

  “What would your guess be?” Welles had asked. Sometimes these hunches were very valuable. Miss Page had taught school for thirty-odd years; she had been Peter’s teacher in the past, and he thought highly of her opinion.

  “I ought not to say,” she answered. “There’s nothing to go on— yet. But he might be starting something, and if it could be headed off—”

  “Physicians are often called before the symptoms are sufficiently marked for the doctor to be able to see them,” said Welles. “A patient, or the mother of a child, or any practiced observer, can often see that something is going to be wrong. But it’s hard for the doctor in such cases. Tell me what you think I should look for.”

  “You won’t pay too much attention to me? It’s just what occurred to me, Peter; I know I’m not a trained psychiatrist. But it could be delusions of grandeur. Or it could be a withdrawing from the society of others. I always have to speak to him twice to get his attention in class—and he has no real chums.”

  Welles had agreed to see what he could find, and promised not to be much influenced by what Miss Page herself called “an old woman’s notions.”

  Timothy, when he presented himself for examination, seemed like an ordinary boy. He was perhaps a little small for his age, he had big dark eyes and close-cropped dark curls, thin sensitive fingers and— yes, a decided air of tension. But many boys were nervous on their first visit to the—psychiatrist. Peter often wished that he was able to concentrate on one or two schools, and spend a day a week or so getting acquainted with all the youngsters.

  In response to Welles’ preliminary questioning, Tim replied in a clear, low voice, politely and without wasting words. He was thirteen years old, and lived with his grandparents. His mother and father had died when he was a baby, and he did not remember them. He said that he was happy at home, and that he liked school “pretty well,” that he liked to play with other boys. He named several boys when asked who his friends were.

  “What lessons do you like at school?”

  Tim hesitated, then said: “English, and arithmetic… and history… and geography,” he finished thoughtfully. Then he looked up, and there was something odd in the glance.

  “What do you like to do for fun?”

  “Read, and play games.”

  “What games?”

  “Ball games… and marbles… and things like that. I like to play with other boys,” he added, after a barely perceptible pause, “anything they play.”

  “Do they play at your house?”

  “No; we play on the school grounds. My grandmother doesn’t like noise.”

  Was that the reason? When a quiet boy offers explanations, they may not be the right ones.

  “What do you like to read?”

  But about his reading Timothy was vague. He liked, he said, to read “boys’ books,” but could not name any.

  Welles gave the boy the usual intelligence tests. Tim seemed willing, but his replies were slow in coming. Perhaps, Welles thought, I’m imagining this, but he is too careful—too cautious. Without taking time to figure exactly, Welles knew what Tim’s I.Q. would be—about 120.

  “What do you do outside of school?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “I play with the other boys. After supper, I study my lessons.”

  “What did you do yesterday?”

  “We played ball on the school playground.”

  Welles waited a while to see whether Tim would say anything of his own accord. The seconds stretched into minutes.

  “Is that all?” said the boy finally. “May I go now?”

  “No; there’s one more test I’d like to give you today. A game, really. How’s your imagination?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cracks on the ceiling—like those over there—do they look like anything to you? Faces, animals, or anything?”

  Tim looked.

  “Sometimes. And clouds, too. Bob saw a cloud last week that was like a hippo.” Again the last sentence sounded like something tacked on at the last moment, a careful addition made for a reason.

  Welles got out the Rorschach cards. But at the sight of them, his patient’s tension increased, his wariness became unmistakably evident. The first time they went through the cards, the boy could scarcely be persuaded to say anything but, “I don’t know.”

  “You can do better than this,” said Welles. “We’re going through them again. If you don’t see anything in these pictures, I’ll have to mark you a failure,” he explained. “That won’t do. You did all right on the other things. And maybe next time we’ll do a game you’ll like better.”

  “I don’t feel like playing this game now. Can’t we do it again next time?”

  “May as well get it done now. It’s not only a game, you know, Tim; it’s a test. Try harder, and be a good sport.”

  So Tim, this time, told what he saw in the ink blots. They went through the cards slowly, and the test showed Tim’s fear, and that there was something he was hiding; it showed his caution, a lack of trust, and an unnaturally high emotional self-control.

  Miss Page had been right; the boy needed help.

  “Now,” said Welles cheerfully, “that’s all over. We’ll just run through them again quickly and I’ll tell you what other people have seen in them.”

  A flash of genuine interest appeared on the boy’s face for a moment.

  Welles went through the cards slowly, seeing that Tim was attentive to every word. When he first said, “And some see what you saw here,” the boy’s relief was evident. Tim began to relax, and even to volunteer some remarks. When they had finished he ventured to ask a question.

  “Dr. Welles, could you tell me the name of this test?”

  “It’s sometimes called the Rorschach test, after the man who worked it out.”

  “Would you mind spelling that?”

  Welles spelled it, and added: “Sometimes it’s called the inkblot test.”

  Tim gave a start of surprise, and then relaxed again with a visible effort.

  “What’s the matter? You jumped.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Oh, come on! Let’s have it,” and Welles waited.

  “Only that I thought about the ink-pool in the Kipling stories,” said Tim, after a minute’s reflection. “This is different.”

  “Yes, very different,” laughed Welles. “I’ve never tried that. Would you like to?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” cried Tim earnestly.

  “You’re a little jumpy today,” said Welles. “We’ve time for some more talk, if you are not too tired.”

  “No, I’m not very tired,” said the boy warily.

  Welles went to a drawer and chose a hypodermic needle. It wasn’t usual, but perhaps—“I’ll just give you a little shot to relax your nerves, shall I? Then we’d get on better.”

  When he turned around, the stark terror on the child’s face stopped Welles in his tracks.

  “Oh, no! Don’t! Please, please, please, don’t!”

&n
bsp; Welles replaced the needle and shut the drawer before he said a word.

  “I won’t,” he said, quietly. “I didn’t know you didn’t like shots. I won’t give you any, Tim.”

  The boy, fighting for self-control, gulped and said nothing.

  “It’s all right,” said Welles, lighting a cigarette and pretending to watch the smoke rise. Anything rather than appear to be watching the badly shaken small boy shivering in the chair opposite him. “Sorry. You didn’t tell me about the things you don’t like, the things you’re afraid of.”

  The words hung in the silence.

  “Yes,” said Timothy slowly. “I’m afraid of shots. I hate needles. It’s just one of those things.” He tried to smile.

  “We’ll do without them, then. You’ve passed all the tests, Tim, and I’d like to walk home with you and tell your grandmother about it. Is that all right with you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll stop for something to eat,” Welles went on, opening the door for his patient. “Ice cream, or a hot dog.”

  They went out together.

  Timothy Paul’s grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Davis, lived in a large old-fashioned house that spelled money and position. The grounds were large, fenced, and bordered with shrubbery. Inside the house there was little that was new, everything was well-kept. Timothy led the psychiatrist to Mr. Davis’s library, and then went in search of his grandmother.

  When Welles saw Mrs. Davis, he thought he had some of the explanation. Some grandmothers are easy-going, jolly, comparatively young. This grandmother was, as it soon became apparent, quite different.

  “Yes, Timothy is a pretty good boy,” she said, smiling on her grandson. “We have always been strict with him, Dr. Welles, but I believe it pays. Even when he was a mere baby, we tried to teach him right ways. For example, when he was barely three I read him some little stories. And a few days later he was trying to tell us, if you will believe it, that he could read! Perhaps he was too young to know the nature of a lie, but I felt it my duty to make him understand. When he insisted, I spanked him. The child had a remarkable memory, and perhaps he thought that was all there was to reading. Well! I don’t mean to brag of my brutality,” said Mrs. Davis, with a charming smile. “I assure you, Dr. Welles, it was a painful experience for me. We’ve had very little occasion for punishments. Timothy is a good boy.”

  Welles murmured that he was sure of it.

  “Timothy, you may deliver your papers now,” said Mrs. Davis. “I am sure Dr. Welles will excuse you.” And she settled herself for a good long talk about her grandson.

  Timothy, it seemed, was the apple of her eye. He was a quiet boy, an obedient boy, and a bright boy.

  “We have our rules, of course. I have never allowed Timothy to forget that children should be seen and not heard, as the good old-fashioned saying is. When he first learned to turn somersaults, when he was three or four years old, he kept coming to me and saying, ‘Grandmother, see me!’ I simply had to be firm with him. Timothy,’ I said, ‘let us have no more of this! It is simply showing off. If it amuses you to turn somersaults, well and good. But it doesn’t amuse me to watch you endlessly doing it. Play if you like, but do not demand admiration.’”

  “Did you never play with him?”

  “Certainly I played with him. And it was a pleasure to me also. We—Mr. Davis and I—taught him a great many games, and many kinds of handicraft. We read stories to him and taught him rhymes and songs. I took a special course in kindergarten craft, to amuse the child—and I must admit that it amused me also!” added Tim’s grandmother, smiling reminiscently. “We made houses of toothpicks, with balls of clay at the corners. His grandfather took him for walks and drives. We no longer have a car, since my husband’s sight has begun to fail him slightly, so now the garage is Timothy’s workshop. We had windows cut in it, and a door, and nailed the large doors shut.”

  It soon became clear that Tim’s life was not all strictures by any means. He had a workshop of his own, and upstairs beside his bedroom was his own library and study.

  “He keeps his books and treasures there,” said his grandmother, “his own little radio, and his schoolbooks, and his typewriter. When he was only seven years old, he asked us for a typewriter. But he is a careful child, Dr. Welles, not at all destructive, and I had read that in many schools they make use of typewriters in teaching young children to read and write and to spell. The words look the same as in printed books, you see; and less muscular effort is involved. So his grandfather got him a very nice noiseless typewriter, and he loved it dearly. I often hear it purring away as I pass through the hall. Timothy keeps his own rooms in good order, and his shop also. It is his own wish. You know how boys are—they do not wish others to meddle with their belongings. ‘Very well, Timothy,’ I told him, ‘if a glance shows me that you can do it yourself properly, nobody will go into your rooms; but they must be kept neat.’ And he has done so for several years. A very neat boy, Timothy.”

  “Timothy didn’t mention his paper route,” remarked Welles. “He said only that he plays with other boys after school.”

  “Oh, but he does,” said Mrs. Davis. “He plays until five o’clock, and then he delivers his papers. If he is late, his grandfather walks down and calls him. The school is not very far from here, and Mr. Davis frequently walks down and watches the boys at their play. The paper route is Timothy’s way of earning money to feed his cats. Do you care for cats, Dr. Welles?”

  “Yes, I like cats very much,” said the psychiatrist. “Many boys like dogs better.”

  “Timothy had a dog when he was a baby—a collie.” Her eyes grew moist. “We all loved Ruff dearly. But I am no longer young, and the care and training of a dog is difficult. Timothy is at school or at the Boy Scout camp or something of the sort a great part of the time, and I thought it best that he should not have another dog. But you wanted to know about our cats, Dr. Welles. I raise Siamese cats.”

  “Interesting pets,” said Welles cordially. “My aunt raised them at one time.”

  “Timothy is very fond of them. But three years ago he asked me if he could have a pair of black Persians. At first I thought not; but we like to please the child, and he promised to build their cages himself. He had taken a course in carpentry at vacation school. So he was allowed to have a pair of beautiful black Persians. But the very first litter turned out to be short-haired, and Timothy confessed that he had mated his queen to my Siamese torn, to see what would happen. Worse yet, he had mated his torn to one of my Siamese queens. I really was tempted to punish him. But, after all, I could see that he was curious as to the outcome of such crossbreeding. Of course I said the kittens must be destroyed. The second litter was exactly like the first—all black, with short hair. But you know what children are. Timothy begged me to let them live, and they were his first kittens. Three in one Utter, two in the other. He might keep them, I said, if he would take full care of them and be responsible for all the expense. He mowed lawns and ran errands and made little footstools and bookcases to sell, and did all sorts of things, and probably used his allowance, too. But he kept the kittens and has a whole row of cages in the yard beside his workshop.”

  “And their offspring?” inquired Welles, who could not see what all this had to do with the main question, but was willing to listen to anything that might lead to information.

  “Some of the kittens appear to be pure Persian, and others pure Siamese. These he insisted on keeping, although, as I have explained to him, it would be dishonest to sell them, since they are not purebred. A good many of the kittens are black short-haired and these we destroy. But enough of cats, Dr. Welles. And I am afraid I am talking too much about my grandson.”

  “I can understand that you are very proud of him,” said Welles.

  “I must confess that we are. And he is a bright boy. When he and his grandfather talk together, and with me also, he asks very intelligent questions. We do not encourage him to voice his opinions—I detest the
smart-Aleck type of small boy—and yet I believe they would be quite good opinions for a child of his age.”

  “Has his health always been good?” asked Welles.

  “On the whole, very good. I have taught him the value of exercise, play, wholesome food and suitable rest. He has had a few of the usual childish ailments, not seriously. And he never has colds. But, of course, he takes his cold shots twice a year when we do.”

  “Does he mind the shots?” asked Welles, as casually as he could.

  “Not at all. I always say that he, though so young, sets an example I find hard to follow. I still flinch, and really rather dread the ordeal.”

  Welles looked toward the door at a sudden, slight sound.

  Timothy stood there, and he had heard. Again, fear was stamped on his face and terror looked out of his eyes.

  “Timothy,” said his grandmother, “don’t stare.”

  “Sorry, sir,” the boy managed to say.

  “Are your papers all delivered? I did not realize we had been talking for an hour, Dr. Welles. Would you like to see Timothy’s cats?” Mrs. Davis inquired graciously. “Timothy, take Dr. Welles to see your pets. We have had quite a talk about them.”

  Welles got Tim out of the room as fast as he could. The boy led the way around the house and into the side yard where the former garage stood.

  There the man stopped.

  “Tim,” he said, “you don’t have to show me the cats if you don’t want to.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.”

  “Is that part of what you are hiding? If it is, I don’t want to see it until you are ready to show me.”

  Tim looked up at him then.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I don’t mind about the cats. Not if you like cats really.”

  “I really do. But, Tim, this I would like to know: You’re not afraid of the needle. Could you tell me why you were afraid… why you said you were afraid … of my shot? The one I promised not to give you after all?”

  Their eyes met.

  “You won’t tell?” asked Tim.

  “I won’t tell.”