16

If we'd been standing outdoors he would have blocked the sun.

He was six - and - a - half feet tall and weighed well over three hundred pounds, a pear - shaped mountain of pale flesh in a fawn - colored suit, white shirt, and black silk tie the breadth of a hotel hand towel. His tan oxfords were the size of small sailboats, his hands, twin sandbags. He filled the doorway. Black horn - rimmed glasses perched atop a meaty nose that bisected a face as lumpy as tapioca pudding. Wens, moles and enlarged pores trekked their way across the sagging cheeks. There was a hint of Africa in the flatness of his nose, the full lips as dark and moist as raw liver, and the tightly kinked hair the color of rusty pipes. His eyes were pale, almost without color. I'd seen eyes like that before. On mullet, packed in ice.

"Dr. Delaware, I'm Augustus McCaffrey."

His hand devoured mine then released it. His voice was strangely gentle. From the size of him I'd expected something along the lines of a tug horn. What came out was surprisingly lyrical, barely baritone, softened by the lazy cadence of the Deep South - Louisiana, I guessed.

"Come in, won't you?"

I followed him, a Hindu trailing an elephant, into his office. It was large and well - windowed but no more elegantly turned out than the waiting room. The walls were sheathed with the same false oak and were devoid of decoration save for a large wooden crucifix above the desk, a Formica - and - steel rectangle that looked like government surplus. The ceiling was low, perforated white squares suspended in a grid of aluminum. There was a door behind the desk.

I sat in one of a trio of vinyl upholstered chairs. He settled himself in a swivel chair that groaned in protest, laced his fingers together and leaned forward across the desk, which now looked like a child's miniature.

"I trust Tim has given you a comprehensive tour and has answered all of your questions."

"He was very helpful."

"Good," he drawled, giving the word three syllables. "He's a very capable young man. I handpick our staff." He squinted. "Just as I handpick all volunteers. We want only the best for our children."

He sat back and rested his hands on his belly.

"I'm extremely pleased that a man of your stature would consider joining us, Doctor. We've never had a child psychologist in the Gentleman's Brigade. Tim tells me you're retired."

He gazed at me jovially. It was clear I was expected to explain myself.

"Yes. That's true."

"Hmm." He scratched behind one ear, still smiling. Waiting. I smiled back.

"You know," he finally said, "when Tim mentioned your visit I thought your name was familiar. But I couldn't place it. Then it came to me, just a few moments ago. You ran that program for those children who were the victims of that day - care scandal, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Wonderful work. How are they doing, the children?"

"Quite well."

"You - retired soon after the program was over, did you?"

"Yes."

The enormous head shook sadly.

"Tragic affair. The man killed himself, if I recall."

"He did."

"Doubly tragic. The little ones abused like that and a man's life wasted with no chance of salvation. Or," he smiled, "to use a more secular term, with no chance of rehabilitation. They're one and the same, salvation and rehabilitation, don't you think, Doctor?"

"I can see similarity in the two concepts."

"Certainly. It depends upon one's perspective. I confess," he sighed, "that I find it difficult, at times, to divorce myself from my religious training when dealing with issues of human relations. I must struggle to do so, of course, in view of our society's abhorrence of even a minimal liaison between church and state."

He wasn't protesting. The broad face was suffused with calm, nourished by the sweet fruit of martyrdom. He looked at peace with himself, as content as a hippo sunning in a mudhole.

"Do you think the man - the one who killed himself - could have been rehabilitated?" he asked me.

"It's hard to say. I didn't know him. The statistics on treatment of lifelong pedophiles aren't encouraging." "Statistics." He played with the word, letting it roll slowly off his tongue. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice. "Statistics are cold numbers, aren't they? With no consideration for the individual. And, Tim in forms me, on a mathematical level, statistics have no relevance for an individual. Is that correct?"

"That's true."

"When folks quote statistics, it reminds me of the joke about the Okie - Okie jokes were fashionable before your time - woman who had borne ten children with relative equanimity but who became very agitated upon learning she was pregnant with the eleventh. Her doctor asked her why, after having gone through the travails of pregnancy, labor and delivery ten times she was suddenly so distraught. And she told him she had read that every eleventh child born in Oklahoma was an Indian, and durned if she was going to raise a redskin!"

He laughed, the belly heaving, the eyes black slits. His glasses slid down his nose and he righted them.

"That, Doctor, sums up my view of statistics. You know, most of the children at La Casa were statistics prior to their coming here - doctor numbers in the Dependency Court files, codes for the D.P.S.S. caseworkers to catalogue, scores on IQ tests. And those numbers said they were beyond hope. But we take them and we work strenuously to transform those numbers into little individuals. I don't care about a child's IQ score, I want to help him claim his birthright as a human being - opportunity, basic health and welfare, and, if you'll permit a clerical lapse, a soul. For there is a soul in every single one of those children, even the ones functioning at a vegetative level."

"I agree that it's good not to be limited by numbers." His man, Kruger, had been pretty handy with statistics when they served his purpose and I was willing to bet La Casa made use of a computer or two to churn out the right numbers when the occasion called for it.

"Our work is effecting change. It's an alchemy of sorts. Which is why suicide - any suicide - saddens me deeply. For all men are capable of salvation. That man was a quitter, in the ultimate sense. But of course," he lowered his voice, "the quitter has become the archetype of modern man, hasn't he, Doctor? It has become fashionable to throw up one's hands after the merest travesty of effort. Everyone wants quick and easy solutions."

Including, no doubt, those who retired at thirty two.

"There are miracles happening every day, right on these grounds. Children who've been given up on gain a new sense of themselves. A youngster who is incontinent learns to control his bowels." He paused, like a politician after an applause line. "So - called retarded children learn to read and write. Small miracles, perhaps, when measured against a man walking on the moon, or perhaps not." His eyebrows arched, the thick lips parted to reveal widely - spaced, horsey teeth. "Of course, Doctor, if you find the word miracle unduly sectarian, we can substitute success. That is a word the average American can relate to. Success."

Coming from someone else it could have been a cheap throwaway oration worthy of a Sunday morning Jesus - huckster. But McCaffrey was good and his words carried the conviction of one ordained to carry out a sacred mission.

"May I ask," he inquired pleasantly, "why you retired?"

"I wanted a change of pace, Reverend. Time to sort out my values."

"I understand. Reflection can be profoundly valuable. However I trust you won't absent yourself from your profession for too long. We need good people in your field."

He was still preaching, but now mixing it with an ego massage. I understood why the corporate honchos loved him.