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Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
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Burlington, Vermont. When he started as my assistant, Macguire confessed that he was reluctantly trying to decide what to do with his life. What he wanted to do with his life wasn’t catering,I discovered after he’d been working in the business a few weeks. Then Macguire made the announcement that he’d decided to become a police detective. Unfortunately, he’d run amok.
Against all advice, Macguire had tried to solve a case on his own. The result was that a criminal had savagely beaten him and—in a raging storm, by the side of the road—left him for dead. Macguire had ended up in the hospital with multiple bruises and lacerations. Unfortunately, that was just the beginning of his medical troubles. After being discharged from the hospital, he’d gone home to Elk Park, where he immediately developed strep throat that quickly evolved into full-blown infectious mononucleosis.
Headmaster Perkins had flown home and asked for my help. Macguire was unable to swallow anything more than liquids and began to shed weight at an alarming rate. During the first three weeks of July, he lost twenty pounds. His doctor said when Macguire finished his antibiotics, he needed rest, support, nutritious food, and very moderate exercise. But Headmaster Perkins couldn’t picture trying to help his son get better while the two of them lived out of suitcases in a Vermont bed-and-breakfast, no matter how quaint the setting. That was when Perkins senior begged me to allow Macguire to live with us for the remainder of the summer.
“Just give the kid three squares a day. Or even three cubes. You know, steaks,” he’d told me. A square meal or a cube steak? The headmaster thought he was hilarious. For the most part, Perkins senior was merely ridiculous. “Under your care, Goldy dear,” he’d announced airily, “I have nodoubt my son should recover nicely in a week or two.”
I’d said yes, and as a result Macguire Perkins had been living with us since mid-July. But
recover nicely
was exactly what the teenager hadn’t done. Of course, our observation of Macguire was inevitably colored by our experience with the now-absent Julian Teller, whose high energy, intellectual sharpness, and enthusiastic affection for our family had been hallmarks of his time with us. Julian had done everything from loving Arch as if the two were the closest of brothers to cooking wildly inventive vegetarian dishes for our family meals. To Julian’s surprise but not to ours, he’d been offered a great summer job working in the kitchen of a chic hotel in upstate New York. We felt his absence deeply.
When Tom and Arch and I had agreed to take Macguire in, I’d secretly hoped that Arch would somehow be the beneficiary, because he would have a new friend Julian’s age.
Arch, sensing my motive, had mumbled, “It’s like when your dog dies, you can’t just go out and buy a new dog.”
“Arch, give him a chance,” I’d protested.
“Trust me, Mom, it’s not the same.”
But despite Arch’s initial reluctance, he’d grudgingly accepted having Macguire as a boarder. Macguire was slow-moving, honest, and sweet. Furthermore, he presented a much more challenging rehabilitation situation than we’d ever faced with Jake, Arch’s beloved bloodhound, who’d been fired from law enforcement for being suspected of being unreliable. Which the dear dog wasn’t, as it turned out.
The problem with Macguire, however, was thathe would not eat. He said he couldn’t—he wasn’t hungry. Wouldn’t or couldn’t, the result was the same. The boy would not take nourishment.
In the breakfast department Macguire shunned bacon and sausage; scrambled, poached, boiled, or fried eggs; toast or English muffins; ready-to-eat cereal, oatmeal, or granola; yogurt shakes; fresh fruit of any kind. I had yet to convince him to swallow anything more than orange juice. He claimed his stomach hurt whenever he ate even the smallest morsels. His doctor had proclaimed, “When he gets
Against all advice, Macguire had tried to solve a case on his own. The result was that a criminal had savagely beaten him and—in a raging storm, by the side of the road—left him for dead. Macguire had ended up in the hospital with multiple bruises and lacerations. Unfortunately, that was just the beginning of his medical troubles. After being discharged from the hospital, he’d gone home to Elk Park, where he immediately developed strep throat that quickly evolved into full-blown infectious mononucleosis.
Headmaster Perkins had flown home and asked for my help. Macguire was unable to swallow anything more than liquids and began to shed weight at an alarming rate. During the first three weeks of July, he lost twenty pounds. His doctor said when Macguire finished his antibiotics, he needed rest, support, nutritious food, and very moderate exercise. But Headmaster Perkins couldn’t picture trying to help his son get better while the two of them lived out of suitcases in a Vermont bed-and-breakfast, no matter how quaint the setting. That was when Perkins senior begged me to allow Macguire to live with us for the remainder of the summer.
“Just give the kid three squares a day. Or even three cubes. You know, steaks,” he’d told me. A square meal or a cube steak? The headmaster thought he was hilarious. For the most part, Perkins senior was merely ridiculous. “Under your care, Goldy dear,” he’d announced airily, “I have nodoubt my son should recover nicely in a week or two.”
I’d said yes, and as a result Macguire Perkins had been living with us since mid-July. But
recover nicely
was exactly what the teenager hadn’t done. Of course, our observation of Macguire was inevitably colored by our experience with the now-absent Julian Teller, whose high energy, intellectual sharpness, and enthusiastic affection for our family had been hallmarks of his time with us. Julian had done everything from loving Arch as if the two were the closest of brothers to cooking wildly inventive vegetarian dishes for our family meals. To Julian’s surprise but not to ours, he’d been offered a great summer job working in the kitchen of a chic hotel in upstate New York. We felt his absence deeply.
When Tom and Arch and I had agreed to take Macguire in, I’d secretly hoped that Arch would somehow be the beneficiary, because he would have a new friend Julian’s age.
Arch, sensing my motive, had mumbled, “It’s like when your dog dies, you can’t just go out and buy a new dog.”
“Arch, give him a chance,” I’d protested.
“Trust me, Mom, it’s not the same.”
But despite Arch’s initial reluctance, he’d grudgingly accepted having Macguire as a boarder. Macguire was slow-moving, honest, and sweet. Furthermore, he presented a much more challenging rehabilitation situation than we’d ever faced with Jake, Arch’s beloved bloodhound, who’d been fired from law enforcement for being suspected of being unreliable. Which the dear dog wasn’t, as it turned out.
The problem with Macguire, however, was thathe would not eat. He said he couldn’t—he wasn’t hungry. Wouldn’t or couldn’t, the result was the same. The boy would not take nourishment.
In the breakfast department Macguire shunned bacon and sausage; scrambled, poached, boiled, or fried eggs; toast or English muffins; ready-to-eat cereal, oatmeal, or granola; yogurt shakes; fresh fruit of any kind. I had yet to convince him to swallow anything more than orange juice. He claimed his stomach hurt whenever he ate even the smallest morsels. His doctor had proclaimed, “When he gets
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