Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Memories of the Body Broken Review of Ambition Is Not a Dirty Word Review of The Blood of Flowers Review of The Girl Who Stopped Swimming Review of The Poet Laureate of People Who Hate Poetry Creative Nonfiction My Boo Radley By Rebecca Ward A Walk in the Park By Madonna Dries Christensen Poetry Hearts and Diamonds By Andrena Zawinski It Was Then I Kissed Her By Andrena Zawinski In By Andrena Zawinski Death of Word By Tony Brown Fiction Being Caught Up With My Ego By David Landrum A Voice In My Head Screamed By J. A. Tyler About the Contributors © 2008, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Editor - Elizabeth Murray Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
My Boo Radley By Rebecca Ward Adam (not his real name) played with Fisher Price guns years past his 16th birthday. It was less than surprising to see Adam diving through his backyard flowerbed while making automatic weapon noises. The scenery of bleeding geraniums and crippled grass created his imaginary battleground. I frequently watched my neighbor, who was twice my age, through my family room window, a bird eye’s view of Adam’s war zone. Coated with gooey fingerprints and snot streaks, the quarter-inch glass barrier divided our worlds. Adam was an unknown species to the people of Jackson Drive. At the time, I had thought he was the only one of his kind. Glasses slid down from the bridge of Adam’s freckled nose, and sweatpants engulfed his matchstick body. Jet black hair clashed angrily with his pale, translucent skin. In his attempt to shield his skin from any exposure to ultra-violet rays, Adam wore a large, floppy sombrero that produced more curiosity than protection. Barely over five feet tall, Adam appeared to be much younger than his actual age. Further stunting his growth, he constantly lowered his head to stare at his russet, dirty shoes, developing the appearance of a hunchback. To put it mildly, Adam was a chipped fingernail on a manicured hand. Most of the kids who lived in our neighborhood were healthy, athletic, and surrounded by friends. (Even my older brother, Tim (not his real name), had friends. Although Tim is not athletic, he was always welcomed to play in neighborhood “Tag and Release.” Sadly, Tim spent most of the time chasing anybody slow enough for him to catch.) Adam lacked the social growth the other children had experienced. He was exposed and vulnerable, and was perceived as an imperfect oddity. When Adam did go outside, and was not involved in alien warfare, he was spying. He watched my friends and my every movement. Whether from behind a tree, a car, or even a broomstick, Adam was watching…constantly. Oddly, his actions were painfully obvious. “I see you, Adam!” was my original reaction. As his sightings became more frequent, they became more ignored. His spying was meant to be evident, unlike mine, where I hid behind my foggy window. Adam also enjoyed watching hired landscapers rake leaves in his front yard. He would lie on his stomach, watching them work at ground level. Sometimes he would talk to them, mainly to complain that they missed a spot. (My brother also points out the obvious. When eating, Tim describes in great detail how he is examining, separating, cutting, and chewing his food.) Adam behaved in ways he did not realize were antisocial. For instance, Adam enjoyed throwing rocks, not understanding or caring that he was being destructive. He seemed so delighted to hear the “tink” a pebble makes when it hits glass. Adam heard only the unique sound created by the collision; he was oblivious to the crack in the window. Moreover, Adam enjoyed throwing stones, baseball bats, and water guns at birds and squirrels. I wondered if he did this because he liked the noise or disliked the animals. Similarly, Tim disliked and feared all animals and insects. Preparing for the two-minute walk to his piano lesson, Tim would douse himself with OFF bug spray, even wearing a special, bug-repelling button on his shirt that was the size of a drink coaster. We stopped going to the beach for summer vacation because Tim hated the sand flies, mosquitoes, beetles, and other insects. During our later trips to West Virginia for vacation, we blamed our family’s fair skin for our retreat from the beach. Unfortunately, West Virginia’s insects also tormented Tim. When Adam took walks with his dad, Adam would veer off the sidewalk to explore a gas pipe beneath discolored grass, beeping like a metal detector. Adam’s noises became normal to me, but the other neighborhood kids mocked him. As a child, Tim also was vocal in a unique way. When Tim took a shower he entered into a parallel universe known only to him. Walking past the bathroom door and hearing my brother speaking fluent Klingon or imitating the sound of a nuclear explosion became common to me. When Tim was seven, he dressed as a robot for Halloween. His beepings seemed completely normal for his new exterior, but they continued long after he returned home. My parents disliked Adam because he encouraged my brother and me to swear and talk back to our parents. One day after my brother played with Adam, Tim screamed “PISS!” at the top of his lungs in a Giant Eagle parking lot. Of course, this was a new word taught to Tim by the much-older Adam. One time after elementary school, Tim and I went over to Adam’s basement. We examined his desk the entire time, and he ended the visit by giving me a bag of dried peas. After that day, my parents said we were not allowed back in Adam’s house. At the time, I wondered if the peas were poisonous or drugs. My mom later told me she did not like Adam’s influence on us and explained that it was not because of the peas. She also talked to Adam’s dad and told him that Tim and I could not play with Adam anymore because of the age difference between us. “They were his only friends,” Adam’s dad murmured sadly. In late August, Jackson Drive holds its annual block party. Adults talk business, and kids bob for apples like chickens pecking frantically for grain. The summer heat is always scalding, and melted popsicles sticky-glue fingers together. Neighbors talk for the first time in 12 months while dodging the torrential downpour of water balloons launched by wild pre-teens. Every year the children seem to multiply, looking like a swarm of angry bees. Some of the children’s faces are new; some are old, but only Adam’s face is nowhere to be found. Before the block party of 1999, Adam had never attended the greatly anticipated Jackson Drive event. His parents came, but Adam stayed at home. Due to the fact that Star Trek and Stargate marathons were not featured on the Sci-Fi Channel in August, Adam’s absence puzzled me. (Even my Tim, also a dedicated Trekkie, managed to attend the block party.) Adam was a prisoner in his own home. A Boo Radley. I was eight years old at the time. The usual activities of the block party were going full-throttle. At the time, I was exploring the interior of our township’s new, shiny, cardinal-red fire engine. Suddenly, my best friend, Erin, blabbered, “Hey look, there’s a new kid!” A nervous excitement rushed my body. “It’s Adam,” I stuttered. My tongue was a foreigner in my mouth, helplessly searching the back of my teeth and the roof of my mouth for unknown words. I had to remind my heart to beat and my lungs to breathe. I was face to face with Adam, and there was no glass between us. Unexpectedly, my brother’s frightened yelling restored my senses. A bee had landed on his honey-colored polo shirt, and the other children had made stinging comments about his excessive reaction. As I tried to help calm Tim, a blood-curdling scream, not belonging to Tim, devoured my ears. It felt like a sniper had pumped a bullet deep into my head, shattering my eardrums. Then, the entire neighborhood became as quiet as a library. Seconds, minutes, an eternity passed. Finally, a woman wise-cracked, “Who does that kid think he is, screaming like someone ripped his arm out of his socket?” That kid was Adam. Nobody ever learned why he had screamed like that, nor did they care. Adam’s parents shuffled him home, and the block party resumed without delay. As the children began to laugh and the adults began to gossip, I began to cry. How could my neighbor make such a cruel comment? She did not understand Adam. But through a window or not, I did. Through my window, where I once saw only Adam’s oddities, I began to see his talents. I later learned that Adam, a student at the University of Pittsburgh, was exceptionally smart and an expert with computers. Adam and Tim shared a common passion and talent for information technology, and other similarities I once was not capable of seeing. At age seven, Tim was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome, a mild form of autism. I was not told about his disability until I was 11. I realize now why he was socially inappropriate, with his impulsive behavior, sensory integration conflicts, and anger management problems. Tim doesn’t like to be hugged and hates when it rains. He’s not odd, he’s just Tim, and it took me years to understand that. Forever he will be my older brother, and forever I will love him. And now, when I look through the window on those rare occasions when Adam leaves his home, perhaps struggling with his own autistic limitations, I realize that I know so much more about Adam and Tim, as well as myself. |