Bad Games

49



October 1986



Hamilton Elementary

Guidance and Counseling Office

Philadelphia, PA



Joanne Lynch, the school psychologist and guidance counselor at Hamilton Elementary, was young for her accomplishments at just over thirty, and was as passionate about her job as an artist to his craft.

Today she would be taking a shot at the Fannelli brothers. Three months ago their father died in a horrible boating accident in Downingtown, Pennsylvania. The reason Joanne Lynch was taking time after school hours to sit down and talk with these boys was because in the two months since they’d returned to Hamilton, the boys had exhibited no signs of children coping with the loss of a parent. No signs whatsoever.

This behavior concerned their teachers, and more notably, their mother. And it was only their mother’s concern that made the brothers agree to stay after school and listen to what this woman had to say.



* * *



“Can I get you boys a soda or something?” Joanne Lynch asked once the brothers were seated.

The office was blatantly inviting. Posters were wallpaper, most inspirational, a few showcasing the current teen celebrities being worshipped worldwide. Shelves held books in addition to popular toys—Transformers, a Cabbage Patch Doll, stuffed animals, games—strategically placed for all to see. A bowl of good candy (Joanne Lynch knew what the kids currently liked) was on her desk. This is not a dull place, the room pleaded. This is a cool place, kids—a place you can “chill” and “rap” with me whenever you want.

In front of Joanne Lynch’s desk were four cushy chairs positioned in a semicircle. Arty and Jim did not sit next to each other. They took a chair on each end of the half-circle so they could face one another. Arty had suggested this to Jim beforehand so that Jim could take cues from his older brother during the course of the session.

Jim looked at Arty as soon as the soda question was asked, and Arty shook his head with a subtlety that was invisible to anyone but Jim.

“No thank you,” Jim said.

Joanne looked at Arty. “Arthur?”

“Arty,” Arty said. Now, only one person on Earth was allowed to call him Arthur.

Joanne looked genuinely sorry. “I’m sorry. Arty. Would you like a soda?”

Arty shook his head slowly and said, “No thank you.”

Joanne smiled and took a seat behind her desk. She started to dig with a delicate blade. “So how does it feel to be back in the swing of things now?” she asked.

Both boys mumbled affirmative replies.

“Are you doing well in your classes?”

More hollow affirmatives.

“Arty, you’re the big man on campus now. A fifth grader. How are you liking it?”

“It’s fine.”

“Jim? How about you? You liking third grade?”

“Yeah.”

Joanne looked down at her desk and rubbed the nape of her neck. She was chipping at granite with a toothpick.

“Okay, boys…” She raised her head, breathed in. Time for a different approach. “I’m sure you know that your mother asked me to speak to you. And, well…that’s why we’re here. Your mother, and myself for that matter, are a little concerned about your behavior as of late.”

Arty frowned, and then Jim frowned.

“Were we bad?” Arty asked.

“No, no.” Joanne’s eyes widened, her hands waving in front of her. “My goodness no. You’ve both been fine. Please don’t think you’re in trouble here. In fact, the problem has been that you’ve been a little too fine…considering all you’ve been through.”

The brothers gave the woman a blank stare.

“Boys, you suffered a very serious loss, yet you’ve exhibited no signs of anguish or grieving whatsoever. You’re showing classic signs of denial and suppression—” Joanne quickly stopped, shook her head as though scolding herself, then repeated her words with more juvenile clarity. “What I mean is, you don’t seem to be bothered by your father’s death at all. Your mother and I think you might be holding it all in, and that maybe you’re afraid to let it out.”

Arty knew what to say. Even at the age of ten, he knew what this woman wanted to hear. He fed her. “I don’t think we understand.”

Joanne Lynch looked almost too eager to explain. “Well, you see, boys, it’s not uncommon for people—children especially—to hold very sad memories deep down inside so they can go on with their lives. It’s something called suppression.”

She paused a moment. When Arty realized she was gauging a response, he feigned interest and nodded understandingly. Joanne continued.

“I think witnessing your father’s death was so upsetting for you boys that you’ve almost pretended it never happened. You might even be thinking that your father may return someday.”

Arty envisioned his dead father reappearing on their doorstep, soaking wet and asking his sons why they decided to drown him with a large wooden oar. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.



* * *



A minute of silence followed. Joanne Lynch had said her bit and seemed content to wait in that silence, perhaps hoping that tears would soon follow—a sure indicator that she had not only scratched the surface of the Fannelli boys, but made a sizeable crack to boot.

Arty knew the next move. He shot a quick glance at Jim that carried flared nostrils and a clenched jaw. Do as I’m about to do, Jim, it read.

And Jim took the cue perfectly. As soon as Arty dropped his head into his hands and started to cry, Jim did exactly the same.

Joanne Lynch hurried from behind her desk and pulled both boys in for the hug. As each boy took a shoulder, pretending to sob, they periodically exchanged goofy faces behind the woman’s back. Arty even pretended to squeeze Miss Lynch’s butt.

When Joanne released her hold on the boys, they did have tears in their eyes, but the culprit was hardly suppressed feelings of loss.

When the sniffling died down, Joanne spoke first. “How are you boys feeling?” she asked.

Arty nodded and muttered, “Fine.”

Jim did likewise.

“I think we might have had a real breakthrough here today,” she said. “I would really like it if we could meet again. We can talk about anything you want. Anything at all. What do you say?”

Jim looked at Arty who said, “Okay.”

“This meant a lot to me, boys. I hope it did to you too.”



* * *



Arty and Jim walked slowly out of Miss Lynch’s office, heads down. As their distance accumulated, so did their speed. When they rounded the corner and saw a clear path towards the boys’ room they started to sprint, ultimately bursting through the bathroom door where they fell to their knees in hysterics.

They laughed at how “concerned” Miss Lynch was. They laughed at the mention of Dad ever returning (Arty shared the image he envisioned in the office and Jim nearly wet himself). And they damn near laughed their lungs out recalling how Arty pretended to grab Miss Lynch’s ass.

But mostly, they laughed at the absolute absurdity of it all. Why aren’t you sad boys? Why aren’t you doing poorly in class, sulking up and down the hallways, being antisocial? How about this, lady: why do you give a shit? Because we sure don’t.



* * *



The two boys were still snickering when they walked outside and into the school’s parking lot. When they saw the gray Toyota pull up, any and all laughter stopped. Their anchor was here. The one whose unconditional love and purity had given them—and would continue to give for many years to come—the necessary social skills needed to behave…normally.

They didn’t truly know it just then, but they sensed it. They sensed that their mother, their bedrock, would play that pivotal role in the development of their lives, and at that moment the love and devotion they felt for her was almost paralyzing.



* * *



Both boys climbed into the Toyota, kissed their mother a big hello, and told her how well things had gone. More than a little pleased, Maria Fannelli drove off thinking she had done some serious good for her beloved boys.