"Here he is, folks.
None the worse for the experience.
A good boy.
I think we're going to be good friends, eh, Charlie?"
Charlie nods.
He wants Dr. Guarino to like him, but he is terrified when he sees the expression on his mother's face.
"Charlie!
What did you do?"
"Just an accident, Mrs. Gordon. He was frightened the first time.
But don't blame him or punish him.
I wouldn't want him to connect punishment with coming here."
But Rose Gordon is sick with embarrassment.
"It's disgusting.
I don't know what to do, Dr. Guarino.
Even at home he forgets—and sometimes when we have people in the house. I'm so ashamed when he does that."
The look of disgust on his mother's face sets him trembling.
For a short while he had forgotten how bad he is, how he makes his parents suffer.
He doesn't know how, but it frightens him when she says he makes her suffer, and when she cries and screams at him, he turns his face to the wall and moans softly to himself.
"Now don't upset him, Mrs. Gordon, and don't worry.
Bring him to me on Tuesday and Thursday each week at the same time."
"But will this really do any good?" asks Matt.
"Ten dollars is a lot of—"
"Matt!" she clutches at his sleeve.
"Is that anything to talk about at a time like this?
Your own flesh and blood, and maybe Dr.
Guarino can make him like other children, with the Lord's help, and you talk about money!"
Matt Gordon starts to defend himself, but then, thinking better of it, he pulls out his wallet.
"Please…" sighs Guarino, as if embarrassed at the sight of money.
"My assistant at the front desk will take care of all the financial arrangements. Thank you."
He half bows to Rose, shakes Matt's hand and pats Charlie on the back
"Nice boy. Very nice." Then, smiling again, he disappears behind the door to the inner office.
They argue all the way home, Matt complaining that barber supply sales have fallen off, and that their savings are dwindling, Rose screeching back that making Charlie normal is more important than anything else.
Frightened by their quarreling, Charlie whimpers.
The sound of anger in their voices is painful to him.
As soon as they enter the apartment, he pulls away and runs to the corner of the kitchen, behind the door and stands with his forehead pressed against the tile wall, trembling and moaning.
They pay no attention to him.
They have forgotten that he has to be cleaned and changed.
"I'm not hysterical.
I'm just sick of you complaining every time I try to do something for your son.
You don't care.
You just don't care."
"That's not true!
But I realize there's nothing we can do.
When you've got a child like him it's a cross, and you bear it, and love it.
Well, I can bear him, but I can't stand your foolish ways.
You've spent almost all our savings on quacks and phonies—money I could have used to set me up in a nice business of my own.
Yes.
Don't look at me that way.
For all the money you've thrown down the sewer to do something that can't be done, I could have had a barbershop of my own instead of eating my heart out selling for ten hours a day.
My own place with people working for me!"