The Bare Necessities of Humanity

August

The foyer of St. Mary’s orphanage smells likes lye soap and freshly baked bread.

“Professor Gray, bless you for coming.”

The click of heels echoes through the hallway before I see her face—stoic and smooth, much like her black, unwrinkled dress.

“Are you Sister Marie?”

“Yes, that’s me.” She smiles and extends her hand.

“I came as soon as I received your letter.”

“And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to take this on, Professor.” She exhales in a huff.

“Your letter—I read it three times as I could hardly believe the details.” I lower my voice, lest little ears lurk nearby. “How has the boy been adjusting?”

“Well, Professor, it has not been easy.” She matches my volume. “He possesses a very turbulent nature.”

“And has he spoken? Anything at all?”

“Nothing intelligible, sir. We’ve tried putting him in classes with the youngest children, but we are simply understaffed and not trained to meet his…unique set of needs.” Her eyes grow misty. “So, you can see why you are a godsend.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that. I’ve only heard tales of situations like this, and I must confess, perhaps it is my professional curiosity more than my charitability that has urged me to take the boy on.”

“I applaud your honesty, sir, but I am certain if anyone can help the boy, it’s you.” She places a hand on my elbow and begins down the main hall. “I will show you to your classroom then.”

The building is dimly lit, and the floors creak as we walk, like nervous squeals imitating the anticipation I feel within.

“Sister Marie,” I rush to keep up with her long stride. “You said the hunters who found the boy brought him back to the nearest villages, but tell me, have all attempts been made to locate his family? Is no one looking for a missing child?”

She shakes her head. “If anyone had been looking for a lost child, it appears they gave up many years ago, as we believe he must have been missing for quite some time.” She continues down the hall, speaking in hushed tones. “No one from the village knew anything about him—though some did try to care for him—at first.”

We walk by a classroom full of children silently scratching pencils to paper. Every head turns as we pass. Sister Marie lowers her voice to a whisper. “There was a kind family who took him in—farmers who thought he might take to the work—but the boy was too wild, too unpredictable. He attacked them in the middle of the night and one of their daughters nearly lost an eye.”

“Good heavens.”

 “After that, none of the villagers wanted anything to do with him.”

A round-faced woman greets us in the hall and Sister Marie stops her. “Sister Margaret, will you please prepare Matthan for his lesson with Professor Gray? In the blue classroom.”

“Yes, Sister,” and she walks away.

“Matthan?” I ask.

“It means “hope,” as we are hopeful that he will learn our ways and thrive here.”

“That’s good of you, Sister Marie. But I am curious, how did the boy end up here then?”

“Oh, it was quite providential.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Apparently, the hunters spoke of him all through town when they had gone to trade, and one of our benefactors was there on business. He heard the story—heard about the disaster with the farmers—and said he’d take the boy back with him and establish him here at St. Mary’s.”

“Incredible.”

She takes us deeper through the building, pointing out the dining hall and the kitchen, then steps inside a cramped staff room. She eases herself into a chair and gestures for me to sit in the one across from her.

“Professor, we are grateful the boy has been rescued and brought into our care,” she steeples her fingers, “but he must learn to assimilate—to learn basic communication skills and exhibit civilized behavior—or our directors have informed us that he will not be allowed to remain here.”

“What would happen to him then?”

She looks at her hands. “He would be taken to an asylum—a fate I do not wish upon any of our children.”

“No, of course not. I can’t imagine how isolated the boy—Matthan—must be feeling. To communicate is human, and to be—how old did you say he was?”

“We believe he’s between 8-10 years old, but it’s… difficult to say.”

“Interesting…it’s been theorized that a first language is impossible to acquire beyond the early developmental years, but perhaps, with rigorous training and extended exposure to—”

“You’ll have until the new year, Professor Gray.”

“What? But that’s hardly six months!”

“I’m sorry sir.” She chews her lip. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but this wasn’t up to me. If you can prove by the end of the year that Matthan is at least capable of learning, then we will reevaluate his position at St. Mary’s.”

“Well.” I catch myself rubbing my mustache—a mindless habit. “So be it. I guess theories exist to be tested.” I clap my knees. “Then we shall have to get to work.”

She smiles. “This is why I wrote to you, as I could think of no one better qualified to help him than an expert in linguistics and communication.” She rises from the chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your classroom.”

We walk down the hall and stop at the last door. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches into a pocket, pulls out a silver hand bell, and folds it into my hand. The metal is cool and serious against my skin. Her hazel eyes meet mine. “If there’s any trouble, just ring this and one of the sisters or I will come to you.”

I stare at the bell in my hands until Sister Marie touches my arm. “Don’t worry Professor, everything will be fine; the tonic keeps him somewhat tranquil, just be sure to give him a wide berth.”

She opens the door to a sparsely furnished classroom with peeling blue paint on the walls. “Matthan, this is Professor Gilbert Gray. He’s come to talk to you.”

In the corner, a dark-haired child sits hunched over with his head crooked to one side, chewing at his fingernails.

I clear my throat, nod my thanks to Sister Marie, and step inside. When the door clicks shut behind me, the boy whips his head around and stares at me with a set of wild, frantic eyes.

“Hello.” I say, offering a slight wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Matthan.”

The boy backs away, growling, and I can see a row of yellowed, jagged teeth in his mouth.

And then he barks.

September

“Let’s go over these again, Matthan. One at a time.”

Late morning sun trickles through the room’s single window, and dust dances in its rays. The boy stares, his shoulders hunching inward as I continue.

“Say it with me, A, as in apple.” I hold up a card with a bright red apple drawn on it.

Silence.

“That’s alright. Let’s try the next one. B, as in boy. Like you—boy.”

A gurgling sound claws its way out of Matthan’s throat—a sound that resembles nothing like “b”.

“Alright. What about this one: C, as in cat.” The card shows an orange striped tabby with a long tail.

Matthan shifts in his seat and growls, drool sliding down one corner of his mouth.

“C, C. Just try.”

But Matthan only grows more agitated and begins rocking back and forth.

“It’s alright. We’ll move on.” The next card displays a large capital D drawn above a picture of a scruffy gray dog. “Can you say, D? As in dog?”

Matthan leans toward the card, a strange whine working at the back of his throat. He raises one hand and scratches the dog’s face with a dirty, curling fingernail. He begins to scrape and claw at the card, then throws his head back and howls—a mournful, disturbing wail.

“Matthan! It’s alright!”

He jumps down from the seat and tears at his rumpled shirt. A button breaks away from the fabric and clatters against the floor.

“It’s okay, we’ll stop!”

Matthan thrashes and scratches his own face. I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, desperate to calm his hysterics, but when I do, the boy snarls and lunges at me, sinking sharp teeth into my ink-stained fingers. Drops of blood dribble down his lip and along my hand. My screams must have alerted the sisters, for as I fumble for the silver bell in my coat, round-faced Sister Margaret appears in the doorway with brown bottle and a spoon.

“Help me hold his arms, Professor.” She speaks in a calm, monotone voice, belying no sense of unease at the boy’s outburst.

I do as instructed, looking away as she wrestles the concoction down his throat. When the boy finally calms, I hear the breathlessness in my voice when I speak. “I need a moment.”

I race from the building and onto the front steps. Noise from the bustling streets seems muffled and faraway as I fumble for my pipe and tin. I light the tobacco and watch as it glows. Inhale. Exhale.

How could so much ferocity, so much savagery be trapped inside such a small child?

October

The room holds a chill that seems to wrap itself around my vocal cords.

“Repeat after me, Matthan. A.”

His lips part ever so slightly. “Yeee.”

“No,” I shake my head and lean closer. “Aaay.”

“Yuuuuh.”

“Open your mouth wider.” I make a motion with my fingers like a flower opening. “Aayy. Now you try.”

“Eeeyuh.”

“You’re getting closer. Let’s move on. B.”

Matthan grunts.

“B. B. Look, Matthan, see my lips.” I point to my mouth and smack my lips together.

He touches his own lips.

“Yes, those are your lips. Can you bring them together like this? Now say bee.”

He leans in. “Buuu.”

“Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!”

We move through the alphabet, with Matthan showing decreasing aptitude and attention as we progress, and I start to wonder if any success we’ve had has been coincidental. Matthan struggles at the letter “J,” and grows frustrated. He leaps down from his chair and retreats to a corner.

I rest my head in my hands and try not to think about how fast the end of the year is approaching.

Someone raps on the door. One of the sisters pokes her head in. “It’s time for the children to go outdoors now, Professor.” Then she directs her voice to the corner. “Matthan, we’re going outside.”

The boy turns his head at the word and begins to half run, half crawl to the door. The woman holds a pair of shoes out to him, but he refuses them.

“Professor, you’re welcome to join us.”

I stretch my sore muscles and rise from the desk. “I think it would be good to observe Matthan beyond the classroom.”

We step through a backdoor and into the play yard where Matthan immediately shuffles over to a patch of grass and crouches, watching the children play. A few girls jump rope on one side, a group of boys huddles along the fence, likely plotting a coup against the sisters, and others gather around the swings.

I make my way near Matthan. “Why don’t you play with the others? Look, they have a ball over there.” He doesn’t follow my finger when I point or acknowledge my presence at all, but neither does he flinch or run away.

Soon, a sister returns to collect the children, but Matthan pays her no mind. She tries to guide him back inside, but he bares his teeth and rages at the woman.

“It’s okay. I’ll stay out here with him for a few more minutes—if that’s alright.”

She nods and leaves us alone.

I lower myself to the ground beside Matthan and pull my pipe from my jacket. “You’ve got the whole place to yourself now.” Matthan says nothing, but watches me as I light the pipe and pull air through its slender tip. His eyes follow the wisps of smoke rising into the sky.

“This is a pipe. Pipe.”

He crawls closer and plucks the whole thing from my mouth. “Hey now!”

He puts the narrow end in his own mouth, breathes in, then sputters and coughs, smoke spewing from his lips. I reach for the pipe, but he backs away, taking another pull before I can snatch it away from him.

I can’t help but laugh. “Now don’t you tell the sisters you had a smoke. They’ll have a holy fit.”

Smoke rises from the endless chimneys jutting all around us, billowing into one all-encompassing cloud of smog above the city. I picture families tucked inside their homes, gathered around the fireplace telling stories—communicating as easily as breathing.

We sit in silence a while longer, then Matthan turns to me, his head cocked to one side.

“Sssmoke.”

November

“Moon. Can you say moon?”

Matthan sits at the desk with his legs pulled to his chest, bare toes splayed across the wooden seat. He never wears shoes. He stares at the card, then rasps out the word. “Mooon.”

“Yes! Wonderful, Matthan! What about this one? Can you say sun?” I wait, my pocket watch ticking in the silence.

“Sssun,” he finally utters.

We move through the stack of cards, eventually coming to images of animals, which always pique Matthan’s interest.

“I think you know this one. Come on.”

His mouth works. “Berr. Berr.”

“Yes, you’re almost there.”

“Berrrduh.”

“Yes! Bird! Very good, Matthan!” I feel myself smiling. “Alright, what about this one?” I hold up an image of a green snake coiled in a pile.

Matthan growls, baring his teeth at the card.

“It’s alright, Matthan. It’s only a picture. It can’t hurt you.”

He jumps down from his chair, keeping his distance from the card, and begins to pace around the room.

“Please, talk to me, Matthan. What’s wrong?”

But he moves to the corner and turns his back to me, shutting me out of his world.

I stack the cards in a neat pile and let the hour run out in silence.

December

I have never been to an orphanage Christmas party before. The festivities are humble, but the spirit is wonderfully infectious. Someone has wheeled the piano into the dining hall, and a sister plays Christmas hymns. Children sing and spin about the rooms, laughing and wiping remnants of figgy pudding from their mouths.  

Sister Marie walks around with a heaping basket of parcels wrapped in brown paper and distributes one to each child. She lingers at my table where Matthan sits beside me, licking the crumbs off his plate.

“I see someone enjoyed his meal.” She raises an eyebrow.

I can feel him stiffen when she leans in, see him recoil when she extends a package to him.

“Matthan, it’s alright.” I offer. “It’s a gift—for you.”

He accepts the package, sniffs it, then rips the paper away and removes a blue knitted scarf. I help him drape it loosely over his shoulders. “There Matthan, you look very nice.” He returns to the food on his plate, and I leave him to it.

“Sister Marie,” I rise and follow her as she continues dispersing gifts. “I wanted to ask, well, if it’s been decided whether or not to extend my training with Matthan.” I lower my voice. “If he is staying, that is.”

She pauses, resting the basket on her hip. “I cannot say, as I truly do not know what will be decided. But I’ve certainly seen much improvement in the boy.”

“As have I. I am hopeful that, with just a bit more time, he will begin to—”

My words die under the ear-piercing rattle of a child’s shriek. I instinctually turn to the table where Matthan had been sitting, and my heart sinks when I see he isn’t there.

Sister Marie abandons the basket, and we both race toward the sound. A small girl, maybe three or four, runs between the tables, clutching Matthan’s blue scarf in her hands. He bounds behind her in a crouching shuffle—growling.

“Matthan! Stop!”

Panic rises in my voice. The girl dashes under a table, between the stocking clad legs of other orphans, and Matthan pursues her, toppling chairs and children to squeeze himself into the space with her. Her screams turn my blood to ice.

“Move everyone! Out of the way!” Two women rush to one side of the table, Sister Marie and I to the other. We fling chairs aside and I crawl under to see a tangle of limbs and hair and clothes as Matthan pins the girl underneath him. I grab him by the ankles and rip him away from her, my stomach heaving at the trail of blood his body smears along the floor.

Someone behind me wails. Children whimper. Sister Marie clamps a hand over her mouth. The girl remains still, unmoving in a heap under the table, a row of jagged teeth marks in her neck.

“Matthan.” I whisper. “What have you done.”

***

I pack up my books and cards and stacks of notes and click my case shut. Sister Marie meets me in the foyer.

“Professor Gray, I—”

“I thank you for this opportunity, Sister Marie.” I reach for her hand and fold the silver bell into her palm. “I can assert with some confidence now that if language is not acquired in one’s developmental years, it is too late.”

I pull my pipe from my jacket and step through the open door.

“Matthan never had a chance.”