Cletus's Family

“How did the parents manage this?” I asked, ready to blow my top seven stories high. 

Four-year-old Cletus sat in his highchair, lungs at full throttle, wailing like a fire alarm. His food—a colorful array of rejected options—was flung across the preschool dining room like confetti.

“They gave him whatever he wanted,” my coworker Lisa said with a shrug, barely glancing up from the mess.

It didn’t take a detective to figure out his primary diet. Oreo cookies were his currency, the only thing he wouldn’t launch across the room. Anything else? Immediate rejection by airborne delivery.

“Yeah, but even so…” I said, throwing up my hands. “How could they handle a kid this defiant?”

“They didn’t,” Lisa replied. “That’s why he’s here.”

She handed him a piece of banana with peanut butter, and without missing a beat, he launched it across the room like a tiny, furious catapult. “He has no training.” 

And then there were his siblings. His older sister, stationed in the juniors’ house, was reportedly worse—a medium-sized hurricane. Their oldest brother, though quieter, was equally challenging. Severely autistic, nonverbal, and in diapers, he had no smile except for an occasional, fleeting grimace that flickered across his face like a newborn’s reflex - and it certainly wasn’t directed at us.

“How on earth did the parents survive this?” I muttered.

Cletus’s teeth were in terrible condition when he came in three weeks ago—rotten beyond saving. We took him to the dentist, who did root canals with silver caps and pulled the rest. 

His mom frequently called to check in. I put her on speakerphone, chasing her son as he careened around the room like a rogue pinball. He wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak back, so she sang the ABCs to the open air.

He showed no gratitude for her efforts. Once, he snatched the phone from my hand, stuffed it into the back of a toy dumpster truck, and slammed the doors shut. Then, as if to make sure her voice was truly silenced, he piled more toys on top, burying her under layers of plastic chaos.

Still, her voice filtered through the truck’s innards. “My baby. How’s my baby doing? A, B, C, D…”

“She’s so patient,” I said, shaking my head.

“She’s high,” my coworker deadpanned.

The piercing shrieks dragged me back to the present. Nap time was next, and with Cletus, that was a pipe dream. He was the Energizer Bunny, relentless and tireless.

“How did they do it?” I repeated, running a hand through my hair.

The phone rang, and Lisa answered. Relief washed over her face. “Cletus’s parents are here,” she said. “They’re taking him till 7 p.m., per social worker Martinez.”

Hallelujah. There is a God.

I wiped Cletus’s sticky fingers with a damp rag. “You’re going with Mommy and Daddy,” I told him. 

His face lit up.

“And you’ll come back later,” I added, lest he think he’s going for good and be sorely disappointed. 

He nodded with enthusiasm and cooperated as I changed his diaper. For the first time all day, he seemed... calm. Even obedient. He slipped his hand into mine and walked beside me without a fuss.

In the reception area, I glanced curiously at the couple as I handed Cletus over to them. 

They didn’t look healthy. The dad slumped in his chair, his expression flat. The mom smiled, all gums—no teeth left at all. Her round, blotchy face was covered in dark, fleshy growths that clung to her cheeks like barnacles.

Cletus’s autistic older brother appeared, moving briskly, eyes focused. He didn’t smile, but there was an eagerness in his step as he walked straight to them. And then the terror herself—the sister—came barreling through the door, grinning ear to ear.

She rushed to her parents and the family was complete. They certainly weren’t a good looking bunch, but they looked happy, whole and at peace.

After handing them Cletus’s diaper bag, I turned to leave but paused at the door, drawn in by the family’s reunion. 

The dad slowly rubbed the oldest boy's back, as the boy sat there, eyes closed, lost in the quiet warmth of the moment. 

The little hurricane of a girl had tucked her head into her mom’s shoulder, her hands curling into the softness of her mom’s sweater. And young Cletus rested in his mother’s arms, his wide eyes sleepy yet serene. 

Family—even if broken and cuckoo—is still family.