Christopher sat on the kitchen floor, playing, while Margaret prepared dinner. He had stacked his blocks precariously, one on top of another, and now he planned to ram his stuffed doggy into the side of the structure. This was a game he enjoyed and would repeat time and again.
As Margaret worked in the kitchen, she usually would take some time to stop and play with Christopher. Today would be different.
Jack was having a prospective client over that evening to discuss a contract for building a science center in Dallas, Texas. This one account could establish him as the most reputable glass manufacturer in the Midwest.
Stan Pratt, sole architectural designer for the city of Dallas and designer for a handful of other Midwestern cities, was a man from the big land of Texas. Whenever cities needed advice on how to expend their funds on city enhancement . . . Stan was their man. Serving on a number of building committees, he was hired for his name alone. He merely had to offer a few minutesof counseling and recommend a few nationally known contractors, and the project would be underway. Stan was well established in the field and was as dependable as any building with which his name was associated.
Now Jack was becoming involved with Stan. Jack had been chosen for his zeal in pioneering more durable types of glass while preserving aesthetics.
By four o’clock, Margaret had dinner ready. She wanted to have everything done before Jack came home. She planned to transfer the food to serving dishes which she then covered with foil, place the dishes in the oven, and then turn the oven on warm to keep the food ready until time for the meal to be served. She would then dry the preparation dishes and set the table, and all would be ready when Jack got home.
She had washed the preparation dishes and stacked them in the dish drainer earlier. Now, after spooning the contents of each pan onto a serving plate, she had washed each empty pan and piled each on top of the rest of the dishes in the drainer. The resulting mountain of pots and pans had grown so high, in fact, that it almost touched the cabinets just above. As Margaret reached to get out the last serving dish, she opened one of the cabinets and brushed against the spire of stainless steel. It toppled over, crashing into the sink.
Margaret, startled by all the noise, ran over to Christopher, expecting him to have been frightened by all the clanging of pots and pans . . . but he was oblivious.
Puzzled, Margaret sat down at the table and watched Christopher as he played. “Was he so preoccupied with his blocks that he wasn’t aware of all the noise?” she wondered. She called, “Christopher. Christopher, darling, look at Mommy.”
There was no response.
Margaret became uneasy as she wondered what could be wrong with her Christopher. She called him again, louder this time, “Christopher!”
He continued playing.
Margaret walked quietly over to the sink, where the pots were still strewn about. She picked up her frying pan and a wooden spoon and casually walked to a position behind her son. Clutching the pan’s handle firmly, she lowered it so that it was directly behind Christopher’s head, just inches from his ears. She struck the pan, hoping that the sound would surprise Christopher, but it didn’t. She struck the pan again and again.
Christopher continued playing, unaware of what was happening behind him.
For a moment, reality escaped Margaret. She sat back down on her chair and reflected on Christopher’s progress in the past eighteen months since his birth. “Although he hasn’t yet learned how to say ‘Mama,’ everything else he has accomplished—rolling over, sitting up, teething, walking—has been the same as other kids his age,” she thought. “He always seems so engrossed with other things that he just doesn’t listen when I speak to him . . . or maybe . . . he just isn’t able to hear me.”
That revelation hit Margaret like a runaway train. She fell down to her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around Christopher, and cried.
“Oh my baby, this can’t be happening! Oh baby, don’t worry.” She looked at Christopher and whispered, “Mommy is here.” They were words like those she often spoke to soothe Christopher, but she would soon come to realize that her words could only calm herself.
Christopher, startled by the tightness and quickness of his mother’s grasp, jumped, and as his big blue eyes snapped toward her face, she could see his fear as he began to cry.
“I’m sorry Christopher. Mommy didn’t mean to scare you.”
Margaret carried Christopher into the living room, where they sat on the couch, holding one another. She rocked him and began to sing, “Hush little baby, don’t say a word—” She stopped. Her son couldn’t hear her singing . . . and . . . “what if he never does say a word?” Margaret thought. She couldn’t sing any longer. They sat in silence . . . rocking . . . until Christopher fell asleep.
Half an hour had passed. Pots and pans were still scattered about in the sink, the table had not been set, and dinner had not received the benefit of a warm oven. The meeting with Stan Pratt had been forgotten. Margaret’s only concern now was for her son.
Jack arrived home thirty minutes before Stan was scheduled to arrive. This meeting was the opportunity of a lifetime for Jack. The only thing running through his mind was how he would present his designs for the new science center. He had drawings, window specifications, and numerous other papers to support his presentation.
As Jack entered his home, he had no idea what was in store for him. “Margaret, I’m home!”
With that introduction, Margaret usually came running with Christopher in her arms to greet Jack, but today everything was quiet.
“Margaret?” Jack walked through the kitchen noticing the pots and pans in the sink, one on the stove, a frying pan on the kitchen table, and Christopher’s blocks still in the middle of the kitchen floor.
“Jack! Jack! Come here!” Margaret’s fearful call from the living room was alarming.
Jack ran to the living room. “What is it, honey? Where’s dinner? What’s going on?”
“Jack, something is wrong with Christopher. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner and . . .”
As Margaret was explaining what had happened just an hour earlier, Jack experienced the full spectrum of emotions from anger, to confusion, to shock, to guilt, and back to anger.
“I thought Doctor Gracie did a thorough examination of Christopher at birth! He’s a doctor. He should have picked up on something like this! What is it with these incompetent doctors? Didn’t you take Christopher to the pediatrician for his check-ups?” Jack demanded.
“Yes. Yes I did! I don’t understand how this could happen. Maybe he has an ear infection. I don’t know!”
“Are you sure he can’t hear?”
“Jack! I told you. I did it inches from his ears, and he didn’t flinch.”
By now Margaret’s demeanor was no longer that of a concerned mother. She was becoming more agitated and tense with each of Jack’s accusations. Christopher, sensing his mother’s emotional distress, was roused from sleep.
Now that Christopher was awake, Jack wanted to see for himself how loud noises would affect his son. Reaching out, he snatched Christopher from his mother’s arms.
“Jack, what are you going to do?”
“Come on,” Jack said, as he grabbed Margaret’s hand and practically dragged her off the couch. “Show me what you were saying.”
“Jack, please! Calm down. You’re going to upset Christopher.”
Jack hurried to the kitchen and set Christopher on the kitchen floor. He picked up the frying pan off of the table and began beating it with the wooden spoon.
Christopher, still drowsy and very flustered at his father’s abrupt actions, couldn’t understand why he had been snatched from his mother’s warm embrace and plopped so unceremoniously onto the cold kitchen floor. He began to scream.
“Jack! Jack! Please stop! You’re scaring him! Stop! Please!”
Jack stepped back and watched his son, who was sitting in the middle of the floor, screaming, with arms and legs flailing. He ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and looked Margaret straight in the eye. “Margaret, I’m not going to have a retard for a son!”
Scooping Christopher up in her arms to console him, Margaret hushed, “Jack! How could you say such a thing? We don’t even know what’s wrong with him!”
Feeling frustrated, Jack announced, “I don’t want to continue this discussion. Stan is going to be here any minute, and I don’t want to lose this deal!”
“Is that all you care about . . . ‘your deal’? Christopher is your SON!”
At that moment, the doorbell rang. It was Stan.
“Jack, tell him this isn’t a good time.”
“Cancel my meeting with Stan Pratt? Margaret, I can’t do that. This is important!”
“And your son is not important?”
“Margaret, don’t do this to me!”
“Don’t do this to you? Jack, something is wrong with our Christopher!”
The doorbell rang again.
Jack walked toward the front door. As he opened the door, he looked back at Margaret and then turned to Stan, standing expectantly outside. “Hi Stan . . . "
