Parent's Day

   The Center Hall is calm, the children still sleep on their orderly rows of duplex bunks upstairs. Cauldrons of oatmeal bubble sluggishly in the kitchen, steaming up all the windows on all the floors of the building. In a few minutes a bugle will sound a version of "Reveille".
   The somnolent children's lengths range from three to seven feet. Some are blind. Some have committed crimes. Armed robbery. Parenticide. Incontinence. Floyd once leaped from the roof of a five story building and glided. He landed on his chest, his arms spread like airplane wings, and slid to rest on fresh lawn. He still has the grass-stained pajamas in a drawer. Some of the counselors claim they have seen Olivier cause pictures to drop from walls by staring at them. Counselor Ed wants to   find out if she can strip wallpaper the same way. None of the children walk in their sleep but some laugh. Almost all the children like to hear glass shatter. If Malcolm doesn't like you he will shit in his hand and hurl the moist missile at you overhand, like a hand grenade, and Natalie can hock lungers, with accuracy, more than ten feet. There are two hundred children here.
   Many construction specialists have been retained to maintain the building. Hungover, with cigarettes drooping from the corners of their mouths, they lean together in corners and appraise fractured toilet bowls, urinals torn from the wall swaying gently on their plumbing, razed partitions. The children are terribly destructive. Clear, bulletproof Lexan has been installed in place of window glass, plate steel is used to reconstruct shower stalls.
   The counselors at their posts, the bugler bugles. Some of the children hit the floor in a running crouch, occasionally executing neat shoulder rolls on their way to the Dining Hall. Small children ride counselors to breakfast, using knee socks like quirts to lash their steeds faster. They take the stairs at breakneck speed. Other children are carried in the arms of counselors and some are dragged, kicking and screaming, from their beds.
   The morning repast is actually pleasant today. The serving children perform flawlessly and with aplomb. Much of the cereal is eaten. Counselor Ruth has discovered and dismantled the cereal bowl launcher. All of the children brush their teeth after eating although some of them flush their toothbrushes down toilets when they are done with them. Somehow the air is loaded with tension. Today is Parent's Day.
   It is late morning when rumors begin to sprout among the children concerning the arrival of parents. The parents are said to be traveling in a cavalcade, heavily armed, although this is not true. Ralph, Bogart and Leanora wander about the grounds, hesitantly clapping their hands.Their counselor follows some distance behind, kicking a styrofoam cup. Tiny Glynnis traces designs, mandalas mostly, on still fogged windows. Marshall ditches his counselor and sneaks up to the attic where he examines his bootlegged collection of matches. He has kept them dry. Seven foot Luther murdered his parents when he was nine. While they were sleeping he filled the house with gas from the oven, then from outside he fired a lit Zippo through a closed window. He claims the force of the explosion threw him three city blocks. Luther, carefree, putts squash balls with a driver into overturned cans on the carpet.
    Violence breaks out in Boys Gym Group I\/. Stewart argues with Counselor Norman over whether or not the basketball will even fit through the hoop and a fight ensues. Burly medics sedate Stewart and Counselor Norman is taken to the hospital with broken teeth and to have his right ear sewn back on. Some of the counselors begin filling out purchase orders for crash helmets.
   The construction specialists hurriedly check rooms spackling cracks in plaster, regluing curly linoleum, seating new washers in leaky faucets. Misdirected sprays of water make them leap and swear. The building must withstand the parent's scrutiny.
   Early arriving parents, avoiding each other's glances, drink coffee in the Dining Hall. Punctual arrivals follow their lead.
   Marshall in the attic begins lighting matches and holds them up to the aged rafters. The wood will not kindle. Marshall has forgotten tinder. He thinks, "I'm capable of doing much better."
   Counselor Ruth reports to Luther, still honing his short game, that an uncle is here to see him. Luther thinks, "Shit," and walks out with his golf club.
   Malcolm has been disarmed with strong laxatives. Hands in pockets, he stares at the blunt, shiny points of his father's shoes. His father, prolix with nerves, rambles on about Malcolm's sister's grades and the lawn.
   Natalie clears her throat. Her mother ducks as the clot of phlegm whistles past. The tail of it is like the tail of a comet or of a sperm, but misses its mark. Natalie thinks, "Damn."
   Ralph does not know that his parents will not come today. On a silent, unseen cue he, Bogart and Leanora sprint for the woods. Their counselor, a heavy smoker, is outdistanced and the trio vanishes in undergrowth.
   After an hour or so the parents disembark. They wave from their cars (except Luther's uncle who gingerly massages the welt on the back of his head) at the disorderly ranks of children assembled in the parking lot. None of the children wave back.
   Floyd's successful freefall is disbelieved, his grass-stained pajamas attributed to some less spectacular lark. Olivier's levitation is called acausal synchronicity and the various distasteful and violent habits of the children are viewed as symptoms of neurosis and psychosis.The parents do not know that their children's peculiarities are intentional and self-conscious. The parents think while driving back to where they came from, "We wonder why Glynnis is mute, why Ralph, Bogart and Leanora shun our company, why Malcolm chucks shit," and so on. "Was it something we said? Implied?" Except for Luther's uncle, they scratch their heads.