Orphans through My Window

By Thomas Kent

Some stories have to be told. It took these unique characters to bring such a tale to life.Spencer Helms and a squirrel named Dell develop a magical telepathic way of communicating. Spencer, an only child, was born with a malady, which caused him to be unable to speak. As a result of Spencer's problem, his parents decided to school him at home. Along the way, Spencer discovers he has a natural talent as a sketch artist. This will prove to have profound consequences.The story takes place between the politically turbulent years of 1962 and 1963. Together, Spencer and Dell's world is filled with the unexpected life experiences of their neighbors, as well as the dramatic events occurring historically, some of which are very disturbing.Although this is not a children's book, readers, from teens to grandparents, will be taken in by the story's compelling, dramatic events. This novel is a must-read for the detective in all of us. If you enjoy a good mystery with a surprise ending, this book is for you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781645440321

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Orphans through My Window

Thomas Kent

Copyright © 2020 Thomas Kent

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopies, recording or otherwise, without the prior written consent from the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Lyrics Goodbye World Goodbye by Mosie Lister

ISBN 978-1-64544-031-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64544-032-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

The Realization

Summer of Heartbreak

Another Summer Has Come and Gone

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to my wife, Cynthia, without whom I would never have been able to pursue this project. Her life experiences were the impetus that inspired me to write this story.

Cynthia, thank you for all the time you lovingly offered me to complete this book. Also, thank you for your relentless support and encouragement to always keep moving forward. But most of all, I thank you for sharing your secret life so others may find hope.

You are my everything!

Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Lorna Wuertz for all her editing expertise. I would also like to thank Sue Rostoni for her contributions in the editing process. My special thanks to Richard Nico for his assistance with the formatting process in getting this story to print. Lastly, I would like to thank Diamond, my border collie, for all her character inspirations.

Introduction

My name is Spencer Helms, a young guy that was dealt some bad luck from the start. My particular malady is that from birth, I’ve not been able to speak or make sounds. I was examined by many specialists, doctors, speech therapists, even a number of surgeons—anyone of note my parents thought might be able to help. After as much testing as possible, it’s been deemed that I would not be a candidate for any procedure that could redeem my speech. My mother and father were heartbroken and utterly devastated in the beginning.

Of course, early on, I had no idea how this would affect my life; I was just a baby. My parents, however, suffered deep despair and tortured confusion over my condition. Gradually, their love for me helped them overcome any obstacles that were created by my silence. As time passed, my quiet presence became a natural part of their lives, although I found many other ways to express myself.

I have always been an observer. Inspecting and exploring are part of my nature from a very early age. Not speaking, of course, nurtured this observational gift. My curiosity has been boundless ever since I began crawling. In every other way, I’m a normal, healthy kid with plenty of energy to burn. I have a full head of blondish hair, blue eyes, and a spattering of freckles. I’m a born climber, so I’m wiry and athletic. I love to ice-skate and can spend hours cruising around on the local outdoor ice rinks or on a frozen pond at the edge of town. Like most guys just entering their teens, my imagination runs wild, while in my heart, I begin to feel a whole new ocean of experiences.

It’s early October in Michigan. I’m standing in front of one of my bedroom windows, watching a huge oak tree bend and twist with the power of the wild autumn wind. It’s as if the tree is wrestling with the wind, getting in shape for the onset of a long and arduous winter’s battle, digging its roots deeper and deeper before the ground is frozen. Over the hot, humid summer, the ancient oak has grown another thicker layer of bark, a warm overcoat against the freezing wind and snow.

There’s a crew of squirrels scrambling in every direction. You would think there’s a game being played and no one wants to be left out. They’re gathering acorns and chestnuts from all over the neighborhood as they run down from the trees. The wind is being very helpful in shaking them loose. It looks like a big team effort, stocking up for the winter as fast as they can before the birds pluck the acorns away.

My family’s house sits on the corner of Bartlett and Shiawassee Streets. This is a part of town with two-story homes and screened-in porches for hot, muggy summer nights. They say some trees in the area are at least a hundred years old or more. It’s the kind of neighborhood that’s been developed and cared for over time; the hedges and rosebushes and backyard summer gardens are teeming with fruit and vegetables for canning.

Once again, curiosity has lured me into spending the last hour in the family’s communal walk-in closet right next to my bedroom, a solitary place that has all sorts of hats and boots, coats and shoes, and silk neckties of all colors. There are warm mufflers and scarves, jackets with secret pockets, and hatboxes filled with old pictures and papers. I snoop through everything, always in search of new hidden treasures!

On certain days, when the world feels comfortable with steam-filled radiators and the smell of burning leaves, I’m drawn to the mysterious and heart-thumping experience of total darkness and complete quiet inside the closet. At first, the door is cracked with just a sliver of light streaming into the room. I wait until my eyes adjust to the light. Then I close the cedar-lined vault and open up a vacuum of inky-black space.

My eyes reach out where gray shadows form and thoughts come from nowhere. The stillness is like a magic cloak that lets me begin to see what’s going on inside my mind. When I dare to dive into the mystery of so dark a place, it feels like an endless pool and I’m treading water and watching what’s going on inside myself. Sometimes my feelings are clear. I may be thinking about my parents, whom I love dearly. But sometimes a wave of understanding settles in my head, and I can’t put a name to it. It’s a knowing feeling that springs from inside me, like the spirit that lives in all creatures that can’t really be explained but can be felt. It’s like the many feelings one has while sitting in front of a roaring fire with the wind and rain pouring over the roof outside. The closet is a place I retreat in order to understand my feelings and sort out the mysteries in my life.

So now I, along with my friends and family, shall reveal the stories and incidents that occurred in my neighborhood and my life during the period of October 1962 through 1963.

~~~~~~

As the doctor described it, what happened was that I had a biological malfunction that complicated things and in turn caused me to be born mute. The medical word for it is dysarthria, which means the nerves in my brain aren’t connected to the muscles I use to make sounds. Most people look upon this as a terrible handicap. In my case, I don’t feel too left out, although once in a while it can get in the way. My ability to hear and listen is more finely tuned than the average person’s. My eyesight is crystal sharp, and my nose knows. I don’t utter any and every little thing that comes to my mind, which is just fine with me. I think a lot of people talk too much and say too little anyway.

It was 1949 when I was born on a January morning and christened Spencer Fields Helms. Fields is my mom’s maiden name. Before she married, she was Madeline May Fields. My dad, Joe Patrick Helms, was named after his dad. All our family and friends know them as Joe and Maddy.

In the early 1950s, if you were born with a handicap, your parents would usually put you in an institution for people nobody knew what to do with. Otherwise, you’d spend a lot of time hanging around the house. Luckily, I fall into the second category. My parents love me. They don’t think of me as a freak, just different. Most of the kids in the neighborhood don’t know how to handle my constant silence. They get bored and drift away after a while. It doesn’t really bother me as much as it used to. I’m used to it by now. Besides, it gives me plenty of time to explore the world around me.

A crew of squirrels scours the neighborhood for nuts and seeds. They live in the oak tree outside my window. We’re like friends in a way. You see, there are lots of hours in a day that I spend in my bedroom, during the winter months especially, so the squirrels visit me every day on the windowsill. They seem to know when I’m there. The eye contact is amazing when they peer into my room. Sometimes for an hour or more, they’ll sit and watch me while they nibble away at acorns on my window ledge. They’re a jolly group—gathering their supplies for the winter, racing after one another through the trees, scrambling over chimneys and along rooftops and power lines all connected in a huge maze.

The den of the family of squirrels in the old oak tree has a narrow knothole for a door that no cat or raccoon can fit through, and it’s positioned perfectly to avoid the lung-freezing winds and driving snowstorms of Michigan winters. I’m always surprised at the squirrels’ tightrope agility and blink-of-an-eye speed. I wish I could get close enough to touch their beautiful coats and tails.

Spencer, it’s lunchtime, and don’t make me have to call after you again!

That’s Geneva. She’s a black lady from South Carolina who lives with us and has been part of our family longer than I have. Geneva is as close to me as my dad and mom, and in some ways, she’s closer because of all the time we spend together. My folks travel a lot and are sometimes called away unexpectedly. With Geneva here, I don’t get too lonely or feel forgotten. We get along really well, partly because I can’t give her no back talk, as she would say, then she winks and smiles brighter than a full moon on a clear meadow of snow. Geneva runs the house, and I help her whenever I can.

Charging down the steps, I perceive the smell of toast and peanut butter, along with that of fresh bananas and hot butter, traveling up the stairway and rounding the corner. Geneva has made my favorite lunch, a grilled peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich with a tall glass of cold chocolate milk. Usually, at lunchtime, Geneva will sit with me and carry on a bit; what I mean by that is, she will talk, and I’ll respond through facial expressions and gestures. We know how to use sign language, but Geneva and I have been together since I was born. We have our own way of communicating.

I hope to high heaven your lessons are done! Your mom will be calling later today, and I need to see some paperwork! Geneva tries to look serious as she patiently works on a pile of snap beans.

I look over at the folder lying on the chair. She picks up the papers to examine my Math and English assignments for the last three days. Everything looks fine except that my history lesson is missing. Instead she finds a finished sketch of a squirrel standing on a tree limb, looking right at her, with its tale curved in a perfect S shape.

How you do love those squirrels, Spencer! This one looks like it’s ready to jump right off the page! You know you’ve got the gift when it comes to drawing these rascals, but that doesn’t get your history lesson done.

I scratch my head and shrug my shoulders, pretending I lost the lesson.

I’m not going to say anything this time, but don’t make me have to check up on you, mister.

Geneva loves my pencil sketches. She has sent pictures to her mother and sisters, and they have all sent me letters saying how much they’ve enjoyed my drawings and encouraging me to do more. Needless to say, the whole family is charmed by my sketches.

My dad, however, will point out from time to time, There is more to be learned than sketching squirrels, Spencer.

Squirrels, by the way, are all I ever draw. That’s right. I draw only squirrels in all sorts of poses and using all sorts of settings—a tree or a landscape or sometimes just a window or a fence post. The scene changes all the time, but squirrels are my subject. Don’t ask me why, because I don’t know. I’ve often tried to draw a bird coming in for a landing or maybe some kids having a snowball fight, but they just never come out quite right. I don’t get the connection that I feel with the squirrels, so the scenes don’t really come to life. They don’t reach out and touch you or talk to you. Nobody has to say much when they look at them. I’m well aware of the difference in the pictures. They don’t have the same lifelike quality that my pictures of squirrels do. To tell you the truth, I don’t really care about drawing different subjects as long as my sketches appear to be alive, I’m happy.

Lately, with each new sketch, something has been growing inside me that I guess could be called a voice. I’m beginning to hear phrases inside my head coming from somewhere, and they aren’t my thoughts.

One day, I’m drawing my most beautiful and reliable squirrel sitting in the tree near my window when I hear this voice inside me.

We don’t often transmit with humans. However, in special cases, it has been allowed.

I think, Whaaaaat?

And then I hear the reply: You don’t mean what. You mean how!

Then the squirrel turns on the branch and watches me for a long time while she slowly moves down the limb, keep­ing my attention by flicking her tail. Before the squirrel enters her home, she looks up at me.

Then I hear in my head: See ya!

At that precise moment, she lifts her little left paw to wave at me. She slips through the door, leaving her tail in full view and unfurled straight out. Then she shakes the tip playfully and vanishes through the knothole.

I sit scratching my head, wondering what the heck is going on!

At first, I don’t believe my ears, but it isn’t my ears that are hearing this voice. It’s coming from inside my head and my heart, and it’s like no other voice I have ever heard before! The warm female tone has an instant magnetic effect. Her voice is so alert and watchful. It has a way of encouraging and questioning at the same time.

Most of all, I’ve been in love with the sound from the first moment I heard her. Her two words See ya! ringing in my head feels like the sun rising out of my stomach, warming my heart. There’s also a relaxing, tingling warmth that runs through me and puts me in a trance. It’s a feeling like perfectly warm wax flowing over me.

I sit staring out the window in amazement, having no sense of time. I’m overwhelmed with the realization of what has just occurred. Tears of joy begin running down from the corners of my eyes, and I can’t stop smiling!

Unbelievable! Truly unbelievable!

For a while, I’m flabbergasted by the whole experience, and I quit sketching for a week or so. I spend a lot of time in the closet, trying to understand the voice. Is it real? I can’t figure out what in the world has happened! But the need to draw puts an itch in my fingers. I can’t resist. I truly love to draw.

So today I feel like starting a new sketch. Lunch is over, and my studies have almost caught up. Geneva has some errands to run, and she wants to know if I’ll be okay here alone.

I give her that look that says, What do you think I am, a baby?

Sliding her purse over her shoulder with car keys in hand, Geneva is ready to go. All right then, mister. If you do need anything, you can always go over to Mrs. Lovell’s house.

I give her a thumbs-up and a little wave then climb the stairs to my bedroom. I place my chair near the window along with a small table for supplies and begin to draw the massive trunk of the oak tree. As I begin to pencil in the knothole door, the mom squirrel emerges, with two younger squirrels bringing up the rear. The kids take off, chasing after each other, while this beautiful reddish, nut-brown squirrel slowly walks to perch on a limb right in front of me.

For a while, she watches the two furry rascals below playing a game in the street, making cars swerve as they zigzag from curb to curb. Then as if directed, the two of them look up at her. She lifts up on her hind legs, crosses her delicate little arms over her chest, and glares at them. The kids unfurl their tails a few times like a paper snake party whistle. Then they become invisible, foraging for nuts among the leaves.

They practice being still as stones when someone walks by. Hiding in plain sight is their specialty. It can save them from the jaws of an unfriendly dog someday.

Then this curious squirrel very carefully, almost shyly, looks at me. My name is Dell. How are you today, Spencer Helms?

I can’t believe it. How can this be? But I know it is happening.

I…I…I’m fine, I think. Spencer ventures a thought.

Is that you out there? She unfurls her tail and then makes a striking S with it. We don’t often transmit with humans, although in special cases it has been allowed.

I begin to get weak. She has said it again, and it’s the voice… I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! Yikes!

"This is amazing, Dell! I don’t know what to say! What’s going on here? Very nice to meet you. And I’ve never said that to anyone before! Is this really happening?"

Yes, I know, Spencer. That’s one of the reasons why I’m transmitting—so we can talk and you can know your voice. Please understand that only inside your mind can we talk. I can hear your thoughts, and I will transmit mine so you can hear them inside you. No one else will ever hear you but me. Do you understand?

Dell, I feel so scatterbrained! I just can’t believe it!

I was afraid I had scared you off. But you can believe it, Spencer. This is really happening. I know you feel overwhelmed and confused. The fact is, I’ve been watching and meeting with you on your windowsill for many years to prepare you for this day. I know you must be afraid of what you’re hearing and feeling, but there is no need to worry. I have known you for a long time, longer than you can remember. I’ve been peeking through your windows since you were born. So think of us as good friends. And as you know, good friends are hard to come by. Now we can get to know each other much better. Remember, this is our secret to treasure. It’s the gift of a lifetime, Spencer.

After the last phrase, she moves slowly down the branch and signals for the two young ones to come. She lifts her little paw and waves goodbye. Then that same phrase comes to me.

See ya!

I’m staring wide-eyed as she disappears through the knothole into her den with the two little ones right behind. I feel like I’m in a dream, watching from my window while the wind tears away the leaves from the old tree.

In a matter of a few minutes, my life has been totally changed. I can actually talk to someone. Well, in a manner of speaking, I can say that. I don’t know what I’m saying. Everything is upside down. I’ve never heard anyone speak of something like this. Everything inside of me is crying out to tell someone, I’ve got a new friend, and we talk to each other! Lordy, lordy, it’s hard to get a grip on the fact that it’s real. How can it be? But it is real! Of course, I can’t tell anyone. They’ll think I’m bonkers! Most people think I’m strange enough already.

After staring out the window for a long time, I feel like a limp noodle. My mind is racing with excitement, but I’m weak from the realization. I should lie down for a bit. I feel exhausted. I pull my blanket up over me, and sleep comes quickly even as my thoughts continue to spin out of control. I keep seeing Dell disappear through the knothole as I begin to dream.

~~~~~~

I dozed off for a while, and my nose wakes me up as I smell the aroma of pork chops fryin’. I can hear the sounds of Geneva cooking. Sleepily walking downstairs into the kitchen, I give her a big hug.

Did you have a bad dream? Geneva is looking into my face, searching for clues. You slept till late. Are you feeling all right?

I give her a wide smile, shrug my shoulders, and begin sniffin’ after those pork chops. She’s got mashed potatoes with her special gravy and all kinds of goodies. Geneva is a wonderful cook, and you can tell it pleases her to know her cooking makes people happy. I’m her biggest fan!

We have TV trays in front of the tube on nights when my folks are gone. We watch our favorite television programs while eating dinner. My parents won’t allow it, so it’s our little secret. Tonight we’ve got Walter Cronkite with the news, The Honeymooners with Norton, and The Perry Mason Show, one of my all-time favorites. Geneva has always commented on the world around her, and that includes what she sees on the tube. If something needs commenting on, she’ll give her opinion. She talks to the television just like it’s a person in the room, agreeing or disagreeing as she sees fit.

Brylcream, a little dab’ll do ya! Brylcream, you look so debonair! Brylcream, the gals will all pursue ya! They love to put their fingers in your hair! Geneva speaks right up. No, I don’t care for it, but, Spencer, you may like some.

I look at her and shrug my shoulders. Then I have to dam up the gravy escaping from my mashed potatoes.

Look, Spencer! There goes Dr. Stiffler in that new Oldsmobile. I sure do like the looks of that car!

Both of us move to the big windows in the living room that face the street to watch as he pulls in the driveway with his new midnight-blue Oldsmobile 98.

The Stifflers live next door to us on Shiawassee Street. Al and Virginia Lovell are next door to us on Bartlett Street. We’re on the corner. Henry and Margaret Stiffler have two kids, Paul and Ellen. Paul is sixteen, and Ellen is thirteen, the same age as me. Both children are adopted.

Somehow he just doesn’t seem like the type to buy a new car every year, Spencer.

Geneva has her opinions about the Stifflers. She thinks Margaret is a little haywire, as she puts it. Henry Stiffler has a reputation as an excellent surgeon, one of the best in the city. He served as a doctor in WWII and is now chief of staff at Sparrow Hospital. Margaret Stiffler is very regimented. She was a nurse when they met. They married later in life, and they’re both used to a strict routine. She attends the six thirty mass every morning at Holy Cross Catholic Church and then the rosaries in the evening. Ellen goes with Margaret and plays the organ and sings with the church choir almost every morning before school. Paul was an altar boy, but I don’t think he’s doing that anymore. Paul is tall for his age and kind of lanky like Dr. Stiffler. Ellen is a serious girl and very pretty but painfully shy.

Margaret Stiffler maintains a pin perfect household with the help of Ellen and Paul. She waits for the school bus every afternoon, sitting on a bench across the street from the bus stop. Margaret always brings pencil and paper to make her list of afternoon chores for her two kids. When the school bus arrives, Mrs. Stiffler crosses the street to meet them, and as they walk home, Margaret goes over the list of jobs to be done that afternoon. She performs these ritual five days a week during the school year, unless it’s raining. I’ve always thought it a weird thing for a mom to do, but no one else has ever mentioned her behavior as peculiar.

There was one time when Geneva said, I think Margaret Stiffler could at least wait until they get home before giving them orders.

But my folks and all the neighbors treat the Stifflers with great respect. Mr. Stiffler is an excellent doctor and had seen many terrible things in WWII. Margaret is also a real socialite. She loves to hobnob at all the country club parties, and she plays bridge on Wednesday and Friday afternoons. But they’re a very closed-mouth family, except for Paul, who has always been friendly and fun to be around. I don’t know Ellen as well, but she’s always been nice.

"Spencer, let’s change to channel 6. The Honeymooners are on next. I’ll get some chocolate ice cream."

Everything is back to normal as we relax together and enjoy the rest of the evening. Mom and dad call later, and we all talk through Geneva. Dad has bought me a crystal radio kit for my tree house. He’s going to help me put it together this weekend. Mom’s got a new recipe for pumpkin pie (my favorite) she can’t wait for me to try. After the late news, Geneva goes to bed. She gives me a kiss on the top of my head and reminds me not to stay up too late.

I stay up to watch the Night Owl Theatre. I’ve taken such a long nap, and I’m not even close to being tired. But my mind is not on the movie. I keep going back to my experience with Dell this afternoon. She seems like a dream, but I know I’m awake, just mind-boggled and amazed. Before going to bed, I find myself wondering and watching Dell’s home in the moonlight, trying to understand. Finally, I drift off to sleep while counting the stars through my window.

For the next few weeks, Dell and I meet almost every day. I work on my sketches of her while we’re transmitting, as Dell calls it, and getting to know each other. Dell is full of information when it comes to the neighborhood. She’s the first one to know if someone’s having a baby, even before Geneva. She tells me about Charlie Foster, who is sneaking out of his bedroom at night to meet his buddies at the park and drink beer. The Roosas are thinking of selling their house in the spring because they hate the Michigan winters and want to move to Florida. Mrs. Lindenfield’s mother is getting quite old, so the family is thinking