Free The White House Boys: An American Tragedy by Roger Dean Kiser Page B

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Can You Laugh for Me?
    A t the end of a day of work or schooling and before we went to the dining hall, each of us boys from Cottage 11 would grab one of the many sickles or rakes that were lined up against the back of the building to begin the daily ritual of either raking up the pine straw or cutting the grass with the sickles.
    This particular day, I was leaning my chin on my hand and the rake handle, gazing out across the grounds. I watched the entertaining antics of the squirrels as they chased one another through the tree branches.
    “You had better rake or you won’t get no supper,” one of my cottage mates said.
    I shrugged, dropped my rake, and walked toward the edge of our dormitory boundary. I looked across the way toward the field where some of the boys were gathering for an organized activity. A few of them were goofing around and laughing, but that quickly ended with a reprimand, which I didn’t have to hear to understand.
    What even makes kids want to laugh? I thought, clutching my fists.
    “I’m getting out tomorrow,” a familiar voice came from behind.
    My heart dropped. I turned to see Joseph standing there. He walked closer to me and placed his hands on top of his head. We stood there silently, watching the boys on the field.
    “Where are you going to go?” I finally asked.
    “Don’t know,” he said. Then, as if he really didn’t want to think about where he might end up, he added, “We better start raking if we wanna eat tonight.”
    I nodded in agreement, and we went back to our rakes. I watched Joseph as he worked. He liked to make even lines in the dirt with his rake. I could tell he was not excited about leaving. He had left on other occasions but always ended up back here.
    The next morning, I helped him gather his few belongings before walking him to the cement walk at the edge of our dormitory.
    “Can you do me a favor when you get out?” I asked.
    He looked at me and waited to hear the favor before responding.
    “Can you laugh real loud for me when you get a chance?” I said. “Real loud, like no one will tell you to pipe down?”
    “I don’t feel like laughin’ no more, Roger,” he mumbled apologetically.
    I watched Joseph as he slowly headed toward the main office. He disappeared through the doorway, and that was the last time I ever saw him.
    Over the years I have often thought of Joseph— about the beating he took for me and about the quiet comfort we had with each other. I have never stopped wondering if he was ever able to laugh for me . . . or for himself.

You Are Butter Off Dead
    I t was at least a quarter mile from our cottage to the dining hall. Three times a day, we lined up and marched to eat our meals. After receiving our meal, we sat down at one of the tables around the large room. At each seat was a six-inch-tall bottle of milk. On top of the milk rested about three-quarters of an inch of cream. We would remove the cream with a utensil, then one of the boys would drink his milk, leaving about one-half inch of milk at the bottom. Next, we’d all place our cream into the near-empty bottle and replace the paper cap. One boy would continuously shake the bottle secretly beneath the table until the cream and milk had been formed into a lump of butter. Then, we’d all spread the butter on our toast or bread.
    During this particular meal and butter-churning process, several adults—three women and two men—stepped into the dining hall doorway. (Of course, anytime a woman was at the facility, every teenage eye in the vicinity went directly to her for a personal inspection. If, by chance, the top of a female breast might be seen, the image was captured in our minds and saved for later use.)
    I looked over and noticed that the boy shaking the milk bottle had not noticed the adults or that they were walking toward our table. As they neared us, one of the women let out a terrified scream. “Oh, my God!” she shouted. “He is masturbating.”
    Mr. Hatton