Yet the policeman who lives in our building has always been pleasant to me. His name is Daniel Bryce, but he says to call him Danny. He says good morning and good evening when he sees me, and I say good morning and good evening. He complimented me on how clean I keep my car. We both helped Miss Watson move when she had to go to Assisted Living; we each had one end of her coffee table carrying it downstairs. He offered to be the one to go backward. He doesn’t yell at anyone that I know of. I do not know what he thinks about me, except that he likes it that my car is clean. I do not know if he knows that I am autistic. I try not to be scared of him, because I have not done anything wrong, but I am, a little.
I would like to ask him if he thinks people are scared of him, but I do not want to make him angry. I do not want him to think I am doing something wrong, because I am still scared a little.
I tried watching some police shows on TV, but that scared me again. The police seemed tired and angry all the time, and the shows make it seem that this is all right. I am not supposed to act angry even when I am angry, but they can.
Yet I do not like to be judged by what others like me do, and I do not want to be unfair to Danny Bryce. He smiles at me, and I smile back. He says good morning and I say good morning back. I try to pretend that the gun he carries is a toy, so that I do not sweat too much when I am around him and make him think I am guilty of something I did not do.
Under the blankets and pillows, I am sweaty now as well as calm. I crawl out, replace the pillows, and take a shower. It is important not to smell bad. People who smell bad make other people angry or scared. I do not like the smell of the soap I use—it is an artificial scent, too strong—but I know it is an acceptable smell to other people.
It is late, after nine, when I get out of the shower and dress again. Usually I watch Cobalt 457 on Thursdays, but it is too late for that now. I am hungry; I put water on to boil and then drop some noodles into it.
The phone rings. I jump; no matter which of the choice of ringers I use, the phone always surprises me, and I always jump when I am surprised.
It is Mr. Aldrin. My throat tightens; I cannot speak for a long moment, but he does not go on talking. He waits. He understands.
I do not understand. He belongs at the office; he is part of the office cast. He has never called me at home before. Now he wants to meet with me. I feel trapped. He is my boss. He can tell me what to do, but only at work. It feels wrong to hear his voice on the phone at home.
“I—I did not expect you to call,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I called you at home because I needed to talk to you away from the office.”
My stomach feels tight. “For what reason?” I ask.
“Lou, you need to know before Mr. Crenshaw calls you all in. There’s an experimental treatment that may reverse adult autism.”
“I know,” I say. “I heard about it. They have tried it on apes.”
“Yes. But what’s in the journal is over a year old; there’s been… progress. Our company bought out the research. Crenshaw wants all of you to try the new treatment. I don’t agree with him. I think it is too early, and I think he is wrong to ask you. At least it should be your choice; no one should pressure you. But he is my boss, and I can’t keep him from talking to you about it.”
If he cannot help, why is he calling? Is this one of those maneuvers I have read about normal people doing when they want sympathy for doing wrong because they could not help it?
“I want to help you,” he says. I remember my parents saying that wanting to do something was not the same thing as doing… that trying was not the same thing as doing. Why doesn’t he say, “I will help you,” instead?
“I think you need an advocate,” he says. “Someone to help you negotiate with Crenshaw. Someone better than me. I can find that person for you.”
I think he does not want to be our advocate. I think he is afraid Crenshaw will fire him. This is reasonable. Crenshaw could fire any of us. I struggle with my stubborn tongue to get the words out. “Shouldn’t… wouldn’t it… I think… I think I—we—should find our own person.”
“Can you?” he asks. I hear the doubt in his voice. Once I would have heard only something other than happiness and I would have been afraid he was angry with me. I am glad not to be like that anymore. I wonder why he has that doubt, since he knows the kind of work we can do and knows I live independently.
“I can go to the Center,” I say.
“Maybe that would be better,” he says. A noise starts at his end of the telephone; his voice speaks, but I think it is not for me. “Turn that down; I’m on the phone.” I hear another voice, an unhappy voice, but I can’t hear the words clearly. Then Mr. Aldrin’s voice, louder, in my ear: “Lou, if you have any trouble finding someone… if you want me to help, please let me know. I want the best for you; you know that.”
I do not know that. I know that Mr. Aldrin has been our manager and he has always been pleasant and patient with us and he has provided things for us that make our work easier, but I do not know that he wants the best for us. How would he know what that is? Would he want me to marry Marjory? What does he know of any of us outside work?
“Thank you,” I say, a safe conventional thing to say at almost any occasion. Dr. Fornum would be proud.
“Right, then,” he says. I try not to let my mind tangle on those words that have no meaning in themselves at this time. It is a conventional thing to say; he is coming to the end of the conversation. “Call me if you need any help. Let me give you my home number…” He rattles off a number; my phone system captures it, though I will not forget. Numbers are easy and this one is especially so, being a series of primes, though he probably has never noticed it. “Good-bye, Lou,” he says at the end. “Try not to worry.”
Trying is not doing. I say good-bye, hang up the phone, and return to my noodles, now slightly soggy. I do not mind soggy noodles; they are soft and soothing. Most people do not like peanut butter on noodles, but I do.
I think about Mr. Crenshaw wanting us to take the treatment. I do not think he can make us do that. There are laws about us and medical research. I do not know exactly what the laws say, but I do not think they would let him make us do it. Mr. Aldrin should know more about this than I do; he is a manager. So he must think Mr. Crenshaw can do it or will try to do it.
It is hard to go to sleep.
On Friday morning, Cameron tells me that Mr. Aldrin called him, too. He called everyone. Mr. Crenshaw has not said anything to any of us yet. I have that uncomfortable sick feeling in my stomach, like before a test that I do not expect to pass. It is a relief to get on the computer and go to work.
Nothing happens all day except that I finish the first half of the current project and the test runs all come out clean. After lunch, Cameron tells me that the local autism society has posted a meeting at the Center about the research paper. He is going. He thinks we should all go. I had not planned anything this Saturday other than cleaning my car, and I go to the Center almost every Saturday morning anyway.
On Saturday morning, I walk over to the Center. It is a long walk, but it is not hot this early in the morning and it makes my legs feel good. Besides, there is a brick sidewalk on the way, with two colors of brick—tan and red—laid in interesting patterns. I like to see it.
At the Center, I see not only people from my work group but also those who are dispersed elsewhere in the city. Some, mostly the older ones, are in adult day care or sheltered workshops with a lot of supervision and live in group homes. Stefan is a professor at the smaller university here; he does research in some area of biology. Mai is a professor at the larger university; her field is in some overlap of mathematics and biophysics. Neither of them comes to meetings often. I have noticed that the people who are most impaired come most often; the young people who are like Joe Lee almost never show up.
I chat with some of the others I know and like, some from work and some from elsewhere, like Murray, who works for a big accounting firm. Murray wants to hear about my fencing; he studies aikido and also hasn’t told his psychiatrist about it. I know that Murray has heard about the new treatment, or for what reason would he be here today, but I think he does not want to talk about it. He doesn’t work with us; he may not know it is near human trials. Maybe he wants it and wishes it were. I do not want to ask him that, not today.
The Center isn’t just for autistic people; we see a lot of people with various other disabilities, too, especially on weekends. I do not know what all of the disabilities are. I do not want to think about all the things that can be wrong with someone.
Some are friendly and speak to us, and some do not. Emmy comes right up to me today. She is nearly always there. She is shorter than I am, with straight dark hair and thick glasses. I do not know why she has not had eye surgery. It is not polite to ask. Emmy always seems angry. Her eyebrows bunch together, and she has tight little wads of muscle at the corners of her mouth, and her mouth turns down. “You have a girlfriend,” she says.
“No,” I say.
“Yes. Linda told me. She’s not one of us.”
“No,” I say again. Marjory isn’t my girlfriend—yet—and I do not want to talk about her to Emmy. Linda should not have told Emmy anything, and certainly not that. I did not tell Linda Marjory was my girlfriend because she is not. It was not right.
“Where you go to play with swords,” Emmy says. “There’s a girl—”
“She is not a girl,” I say. “She is a woman, and she is not my girlfriend.” Yet, I think. I feel heat on my neck, thinking of Marjory and the look on her face last week.
“Linda says she is. She’s a spy, Lou.”
Emmy rarely uses people’s names; when she says my name it feels like a slap on the arm. “What do you mean, ‘spy’?”
“She works at the university. Where they do that project, you know.” She glares at me, as if I were doing the project. She means the research group on developmental disabilities. When I was a child, my parents took me there for evaluation and for three years I went to the special class. Then my parents decided that the group was more interested in doing research papers to get grant money than in helping children, so they put me in another program, at the regional clinic. It is the policy of our local society to require researchers to disclose their identity; we do not allow them to attend our meetings.
Emmy works at the university herself, as a custodian, and I suppose this is how she knows Marjory works there.
“Lots of people work at the university,” I say. “Not all are in the research group.”
“She is a spy, Lou,” Emmy says again. “She is only interested in your diagnosis, not in you as a person.”
I feel a hollow opening inside me; I am sure that Marjory is not a researcher, but not that sure.
“To her you are a freak,” Emmy says. “A subject.” She made subject sound obscene, if I understand obscene. Nasty. A mouse in a maze, a monkey in a cage. I think about the new treatment; the people who take it first will be subjects, just like the apes they tried it on first.
“That’s not true,” I say. I can feel the prickling of sweat under my arms, on my neck, and the faint tremor that comes when I feel threatened. “But anyway, she is not my girlfriend.”
“I’m glad you have that much sense,” Emmy says.
I go on to the meeting because if I left the Center Emmy would talk to the others about Marjory and me. It is hard to listen to the speaker, who is talking about the research protocol and its implications. I hear and do not hear what he says; I notice when he says something I have not heard before, but I do not pay much attention. I can read the posted speech on the Center Web site later. I was not thinking about Marjory until Emmy said that about her, but now I cannot stop thinking about Marjory.
Marjory likes me. I am sure she likes me. I am sure she likes me as myself, as Lou who fences with the group, as Lou she asked to come to the airport with her that Wednesday night. Lucia said Marjory liked me. Lucia does not lie.
But there is liking and liking. I like ham, as a food. I do not care what the ham thinks when I bite into it. I know that ham doesn’t think, so it does not bother me to bite into it. Some people will not eat meat because the animals it came from were once alive and maybe had feelings and thoughts, but this does not bother me once they are dead. Everything eaten was alive once, saving a few grams of minerals, and a tree might have thoughts and feelings if we knew how to access them.
What if Marjory likes me as Emmy says—as a thing, a subject, the equivalent of my bite of ham? What if she likes me more than some other research subject because I am quiet and friendly?
I do not feel quiet and friendly. I feel like hitting someone.
The counselor at the meeting does not say anything we have not already read on-line. He cannot explain the method; he does not know where someone would go to apply to be in the study. He does not say that the company I work for has bought up the research. Maybe he does not know. I do not say anything. I am not sure Mr. Aldrin is right about that.
After the meeting the others want to stay and talk about the new process, but I leave quickly. I want to go home and think about Marjory without Emmy around. I do not want to think about Marjory being a researcher; I want to think about her sitting beside me in the car. I want to think about her smell, and the lights in her hair, and even the way she fights with a rapier.
It is easier to think about Marjory while I am cleaning out my car. I untie the sheepskin seat pad and shake it out. No matter how careful I am, there are always things caught in it, dust and threads and—today—a paper clip. I do not know where that came from. I lay it on the front of the car and sweep the seats with a little brush, then vacuum the floor. The noise of the vacuum hurts my ears, but it is quicker than sweeping and less dust gets up my nose. I clean the inside of the windshield, being careful to go all the way into the corners, then clean the mirrors. Stores sell special cleaners for cars, but they all smell very bad and make me feel sick, so I just use a damp rag.
I put the sheepskin back on the seat and tie it snugly in place. Now my car is all clean for Sunday morning. Even though I take the bus to church, I like to think of my car sitting clean in its Sunday clothes on Sunday.
I take my shower quickly, not thinking about Marjory, and then I go to bed and think of her. She is moving, in my thoughts, always moving and yet always still. Her face expresses itself more clearly to me than most faces. The expressions stay long enough that I can interpret them. When I fall asleep, she is smiling.
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
I would like to ask him if he thinks people are scared of him, but I do not want to make him angry. I do not want him to think I am doing something wrong, because I am still scared a little.
I tried watching some police shows on TV, but that scared me again. The police seemed tired and angry all the time, and the shows make it seem that this is all right. I am not supposed to act angry even when I am angry, but they can.
Yet I do not like to be judged by what others like me do, and I do not want to be unfair to Danny Bryce. He smiles at me, and I smile back. He says good morning and I say good morning back. I try to pretend that the gun he carries is a toy, so that I do not sweat too much when I am around him and make him think I am guilty of something I did not do.
Under the blankets and pillows, I am sweaty now as well as calm. I crawl out, replace the pillows, and take a shower. It is important not to smell bad. People who smell bad make other people angry or scared. I do not like the smell of the soap I use—it is an artificial scent, too strong—but I know it is an acceptable smell to other people.
It is late, after nine, when I get out of the shower and dress again. Usually I watch Cobalt 457 on Thursdays, but it is too late for that now. I am hungry; I put water on to boil and then drop some noodles into it.
The phone rings. I jump; no matter which of the choice of ringers I use, the phone always surprises me, and I always jump when I am surprised.
It is Mr. Aldrin. My throat tightens; I cannot speak for a long moment, but he does not go on talking. He waits. He understands.
I do not understand. He belongs at the office; he is part of the office cast. He has never called me at home before. Now he wants to meet with me. I feel trapped. He is my boss. He can tell me what to do, but only at work. It feels wrong to hear his voice on the phone at home.
“I—I did not expect you to call,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “I called you at home because I needed to talk to you away from the office.”
My stomach feels tight. “For what reason?” I ask.
“Lou, you need to know before Mr. Crenshaw calls you all in. There’s an experimental treatment that may reverse adult autism.”
“I know,” I say. “I heard about it. They have tried it on apes.”
“Yes. But what’s in the journal is over a year old; there’s been… progress. Our company bought out the research. Crenshaw wants all of you to try the new treatment. I don’t agree with him. I think it is too early, and I think he is wrong to ask you. At least it should be your choice; no one should pressure you. But he is my boss, and I can’t keep him from talking to you about it.”
If he cannot help, why is he calling? Is this one of those maneuvers I have read about normal people doing when they want sympathy for doing wrong because they could not help it?
“I want to help you,” he says. I remember my parents saying that wanting to do something was not the same thing as doing… that trying was not the same thing as doing. Why doesn’t he say, “I will help you,” instead?
“I think you need an advocate,” he says. “Someone to help you negotiate with Crenshaw. Someone better than me. I can find that person for you.”
I think he does not want to be our advocate. I think he is afraid Crenshaw will fire him. This is reasonable. Crenshaw could fire any of us. I struggle with my stubborn tongue to get the words out. “Shouldn’t… wouldn’t it… I think… I think I—we—should find our own person.”
“Can you?” he asks. I hear the doubt in his voice. Once I would have heard only something other than happiness and I would have been afraid he was angry with me. I am glad not to be like that anymore. I wonder why he has that doubt, since he knows the kind of work we can do and knows I live independently.
“I can go to the Center,” I say.
“Maybe that would be better,” he says. A noise starts at his end of the telephone; his voice speaks, but I think it is not for me. “Turn that down; I’m on the phone.” I hear another voice, an unhappy voice, but I can’t hear the words clearly. Then Mr. Aldrin’s voice, louder, in my ear: “Lou, if you have any trouble finding someone… if you want me to help, please let me know. I want the best for you; you know that.”
I do not know that. I know that Mr. Aldrin has been our manager and he has always been pleasant and patient with us and he has provided things for us that make our work easier, but I do not know that he wants the best for us. How would he know what that is? Would he want me to marry Marjory? What does he know of any of us outside work?
“Thank you,” I say, a safe conventional thing to say at almost any occasion. Dr. Fornum would be proud.
“Right, then,” he says. I try not to let my mind tangle on those words that have no meaning in themselves at this time. It is a conventional thing to say; he is coming to the end of the conversation. “Call me if you need any help. Let me give you my home number…” He rattles off a number; my phone system captures it, though I will not forget. Numbers are easy and this one is especially so, being a series of primes, though he probably has never noticed it. “Good-bye, Lou,” he says at the end. “Try not to worry.”
Trying is not doing. I say good-bye, hang up the phone, and return to my noodles, now slightly soggy. I do not mind soggy noodles; they are soft and soothing. Most people do not like peanut butter on noodles, but I do.
I think about Mr. Crenshaw wanting us to take the treatment. I do not think he can make us do that. There are laws about us and medical research. I do not know exactly what the laws say, but I do not think they would let him make us do it. Mr. Aldrin should know more about this than I do; he is a manager. So he must think Mr. Crenshaw can do it or will try to do it.
It is hard to go to sleep.
On Friday morning, Cameron tells me that Mr. Aldrin called him, too. He called everyone. Mr. Crenshaw has not said anything to any of us yet. I have that uncomfortable sick feeling in my stomach, like before a test that I do not expect to pass. It is a relief to get on the computer and go to work.
Nothing happens all day except that I finish the first half of the current project and the test runs all come out clean. After lunch, Cameron tells me that the local autism society has posted a meeting at the Center about the research paper. He is going. He thinks we should all go. I had not planned anything this Saturday other than cleaning my car, and I go to the Center almost every Saturday morning anyway.
On Saturday morning, I walk over to the Center. It is a long walk, but it is not hot this early in the morning and it makes my legs feel good. Besides, there is a brick sidewalk on the way, with two colors of brick—tan and red—laid in interesting patterns. I like to see it.
At the Center, I see not only people from my work group but also those who are dispersed elsewhere in the city. Some, mostly the older ones, are in adult day care or sheltered workshops with a lot of supervision and live in group homes. Stefan is a professor at the smaller university here; he does research in some area of biology. Mai is a professor at the larger university; her field is in some overlap of mathematics and biophysics. Neither of them comes to meetings often. I have noticed that the people who are most impaired come most often; the young people who are like Joe Lee almost never show up.
I chat with some of the others I know and like, some from work and some from elsewhere, like Murray, who works for a big accounting firm. Murray wants to hear about my fencing; he studies aikido and also hasn’t told his psychiatrist about it. I know that Murray has heard about the new treatment, or for what reason would he be here today, but I think he does not want to talk about it. He doesn’t work with us; he may not know it is near human trials. Maybe he wants it and wishes it were. I do not want to ask him that, not today.
The Center isn’t just for autistic people; we see a lot of people with various other disabilities, too, especially on weekends. I do not know what all of the disabilities are. I do not want to think about all the things that can be wrong with someone.
Some are friendly and speak to us, and some do not. Emmy comes right up to me today. She is nearly always there. She is shorter than I am, with straight dark hair and thick glasses. I do not know why she has not had eye surgery. It is not polite to ask. Emmy always seems angry. Her eyebrows bunch together, and she has tight little wads of muscle at the corners of her mouth, and her mouth turns down. “You have a girlfriend,” she says.
“No,” I say.
“Yes. Linda told me. She’s not one of us.”
“No,” I say again. Marjory isn’t my girlfriend—yet—and I do not want to talk about her to Emmy. Linda should not have told Emmy anything, and certainly not that. I did not tell Linda Marjory was my girlfriend because she is not. It was not right.
“Where you go to play with swords,” Emmy says. “There’s a girl—”
“She is not a girl,” I say. “She is a woman, and she is not my girlfriend.” Yet, I think. I feel heat on my neck, thinking of Marjory and the look on her face last week.
“Linda says she is. She’s a spy, Lou.”
Emmy rarely uses people’s names; when she says my name it feels like a slap on the arm. “What do you mean, ‘spy’?”
“She works at the university. Where they do that project, you know.” She glares at me, as if I were doing the project. She means the research group on developmental disabilities. When I was a child, my parents took me there for evaluation and for three years I went to the special class. Then my parents decided that the group was more interested in doing research papers to get grant money than in helping children, so they put me in another program, at the regional clinic. It is the policy of our local society to require researchers to disclose their identity; we do not allow them to attend our meetings.
Emmy works at the university herself, as a custodian, and I suppose this is how she knows Marjory works there.
“Lots of people work at the university,” I say. “Not all are in the research group.”
“She is a spy, Lou,” Emmy says again. “She is only interested in your diagnosis, not in you as a person.”
I feel a hollow opening inside me; I am sure that Marjory is not a researcher, but not that sure.
“To her you are a freak,” Emmy says. “A subject.” She made subject sound obscene, if I understand obscene. Nasty. A mouse in a maze, a monkey in a cage. I think about the new treatment; the people who take it first will be subjects, just like the apes they tried it on first.
“That’s not true,” I say. I can feel the prickling of sweat under my arms, on my neck, and the faint tremor that comes when I feel threatened. “But anyway, she is not my girlfriend.”
“I’m glad you have that much sense,” Emmy says.
I go on to the meeting because if I left the Center Emmy would talk to the others about Marjory and me. It is hard to listen to the speaker, who is talking about the research protocol and its implications. I hear and do not hear what he says; I notice when he says something I have not heard before, but I do not pay much attention. I can read the posted speech on the Center Web site later. I was not thinking about Marjory until Emmy said that about her, but now I cannot stop thinking about Marjory.
Marjory likes me. I am sure she likes me. I am sure she likes me as myself, as Lou who fences with the group, as Lou she asked to come to the airport with her that Wednesday night. Lucia said Marjory liked me. Lucia does not lie.
But there is liking and liking. I like ham, as a food. I do not care what the ham thinks when I bite into it. I know that ham doesn’t think, so it does not bother me to bite into it. Some people will not eat meat because the animals it came from were once alive and maybe had feelings and thoughts, but this does not bother me once they are dead. Everything eaten was alive once, saving a few grams of minerals, and a tree might have thoughts and feelings if we knew how to access them.
What if Marjory likes me as Emmy says—as a thing, a subject, the equivalent of my bite of ham? What if she likes me more than some other research subject because I am quiet and friendly?
I do not feel quiet and friendly. I feel like hitting someone.
The counselor at the meeting does not say anything we have not already read on-line. He cannot explain the method; he does not know where someone would go to apply to be in the study. He does not say that the company I work for has bought up the research. Maybe he does not know. I do not say anything. I am not sure Mr. Aldrin is right about that.
After the meeting the others want to stay and talk about the new process, but I leave quickly. I want to go home and think about Marjory without Emmy around. I do not want to think about Marjory being a researcher; I want to think about her sitting beside me in the car. I want to think about her smell, and the lights in her hair, and even the way she fights with a rapier.
It is easier to think about Marjory while I am cleaning out my car. I untie the sheepskin seat pad and shake it out. No matter how careful I am, there are always things caught in it, dust and threads and—today—a paper clip. I do not know where that came from. I lay it on the front of the car and sweep the seats with a little brush, then vacuum the floor. The noise of the vacuum hurts my ears, but it is quicker than sweeping and less dust gets up my nose. I clean the inside of the windshield, being careful to go all the way into the corners, then clean the mirrors. Stores sell special cleaners for cars, but they all smell very bad and make me feel sick, so I just use a damp rag.
I put the sheepskin back on the seat and tie it snugly in place. Now my car is all clean for Sunday morning. Even though I take the bus to church, I like to think of my car sitting clean in its Sunday clothes on Sunday.
I take my shower quickly, not thinking about Marjory, and then I go to bed and think of her. She is moving, in my thoughts, always moving and yet always still. Her face expresses itself more clearly to me than most faces. The expressions stay long enough that I can interpret them. When I fall asleep, she is smiling.
Chapter Four
From the street Tom watched Marjory Shaw and Don Poiteau walk across the yard. Lucia thought Marjory was becoming attached to Lou Arrendale, but here she was walking with Don. Granted, Don had grabbed her gear bag from her, but—if she didn’t like him, wouldn’t she take it back?
He sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. He loved the sport of fencing, loved having people over, but the constant burden of the interpersonal intrigues of the group exhausted him more as he got older. He wanted his and Lucia’s home to be a place where people grew into their potential, physical and social, but sometimes it seemed he was stuck with a yardful of permanent adolescents. Sooner or later, they all came to him with their complaints, their grudges, their hurt feelings.
Or they dumped on Lucia. Mostly the women did that. They sat down beside her, pretending an interest in her needlework or her pictures, and poured out their troubles. He and Lucia spent hours talking about what was going on, who needed which kind of support, how best to help without taking on too much responsibility.
As Don and Marjory came closer, Tom could see that she was annoyed. Don, as usual, was oblivious, talking fast, swinging her bag in his enthusiasm for what he was saying. Case in point, Tom thought. Before the night was out, he was sure he’d hear what Don had done to annoy Marjory and from Don he’d hear that Marjory wasn’t understanding enough.
“He has to have his stuff in exactly the same place every time, can’t put it anywhere else,” Don was saying as he and Marjory came within earshot.
“It’s tidy,” Marjory said. She sounded prissy, which meant she was more than just annoyed. “Do you object to tidy?”
“I object to obsessive,” Don said. “You, my lady, exhibit a healthy flexibility in sometimes parking on this side of the street and sometimes on that and wearing different clothes. Lou wears the same clothes every week—clean, I’ll give him that, but the same—and this thing he has about where to store his gear…”
“You put it in the wrong place and Tom made you move it, didn’t he?” Marjory said.
“Because Lou would be upset,” Don said, sounding sulky. “It’s not fair—”
Tom could tell Marjory wanted to yell at Don. So did he. But yelling at Don never seemed to do any good. Don’d had an earnest, hardworking girlfriend who put eight years of her life into parenting him, and he was still the same.
“I like the place tidy, too,” Tom said, trying to keep the sting out of his voice. “It’s much easier for everyone when we know where to find each person’s gear. Besides, leaving things all over the place could be considered just as obsessive as insisting on having the same place.”
“C’mon, Tom; forgetful and obsessive are opposites.” He didn’t even sound annoyed, just amused, as if Tom were an ignorant boy. Tom wondered if Don acted that way at work. If he did, it would explain his checkered employment history.
“Don’t blame Lou for my rules,” Tom said. Don shrugged and went into the house to get his equipment.
A few minutes of peace, before things started… Tom sat down beside Lucia, who had begun her stretches, and reached for his toes. It used to be easy. Marjory sat on Lucia’s other side and leaned forward, trying to touch her forehead to her knees.
“Lou should be here tonight,” Lucia said. She gave Marjory a sideways look.
“I wondered if I’d bothered him,” Marjory said. “Asking him to come with me to the airport.”
“I don’t think so,” Lucia said. “I’d have said he was very pleased indeed. Did anything happen?”
“No. We picked up my friend; I dropped Lou back here. That was all. Don said something about his gear—”
“Oh, Tom made him pick up lots of the gear, and Don was going to just shove it in the racks anyhow. Tom made him do it right. As many times as he’s seen it done, he ought to have the way of it by now, but Don… he just will not learn. Now that he’s not with Helen anymore, he’s really backsliding into the slapdash boy we had years back. I wish he’d grow up.”
Tom listened without joining in. He knew the signs: any moment now Lucia would tackle Marjory about her feelings for Lou and for Don, and he wanted to be far away when that happened. He finished stretching and stood up just as Lou came around the corner of the house.
As he checked the lights and made a final sweep of the area for possible hazards that might cause injury, Tom watched Lou stretching… methodical as always, thorough as always. Some people might think Lou was dull, but Tom found him endlessly fascinating. Thirty years before, he might well never have made it in the ordinary way; fifty years before, he would have spent his life in an institution. But improvements in early intervention, in teaching methods, and in computer-assisted sensory integration exercises had given him the ability to find good employment, live independently, deal with the real world on near-equal terms.
A miracle of adaptation and also, to Tom, a little sad. Younger people than Lou, born with the same neurological deficit, could be completely cured with gene therapy in the first two years of life. Only those whose parents refused the treatment had to struggle, as Lou had done, with the strenuous therapies Lou had mastered. If Lou had been younger, he’d not have suffered. He might be normal, whatever that meant.
Yet here he was, fencing. Tom thought of the jerky, uneven movements Lou had made when he first began—it had seemed, for the longest time, that Lou’s fencing could be only a parody of the real thing. At each stage of development, he’d had the same slow, difficult start and slow, difficult progression… from foil to épée, from épée to rapier, from single blade to foil and dagger, épée and dagger, rapier and dagger, and so on.
He had mastered each by sheer effort, not by innate talent. Yet now that he had the physical skills, the mental skills that took other fencers decades seemed to come to him in only a few months.
Tom caught Lou’s eye and beckoned him over. “Remember what I said—you need to be fencing with the top group now.”
“Yes…” Lou nodded, then made a formal salute. His opening moves seemed stiff, but he quickly shifted into a style that took advantage of his more fractal movement. Tom circled, changed direction, feinted and probed and offered fake openings, and Lou matched him movement for movement, testing him as he was tested. Was there a pattern in Lou’s moves, other than a response to his own? He couldn’t tell. But again and again, Lou almost caught him out, anticipating his own moves… which must mean, Tom thought, that he himself had a pattern and Lou had spotted it.
“Pattern analysis,” he said aloud, just as Lou’s blade slipped his and made a touch on his chest. “I should have thought of that.”
“Sorry,” Lou said. He almost always said, “Sorry,” and then looked embarrassed.
“Good touch,” Tom said. “I was trying to think how you were doing what you were doing, rather than concentrating on the match. But are you using pattern analysis?”
“Yes,” Lou said. His tone was mild surprise, and Tom wondered if he was thinking, Doesn’t everyone?
“I can’t do it in real time,” Tom said. “Not unless someone’s got a very simple pattern.”
“Is it not fair?” Lou asked.
“It’s very fair, if you can do it,” Tom said. “It’s also the sign of a good fencer—or chess player, for that matter. Do you play chess?”
“No.”
“Well… then let’s see if I can keep my mind on what I’m doing and get a touch back.” Tom nodded, and they began again, but it was hard to concentrate. He wanted to think about Lou—about when that awkward jerkiness had become effective, when he’d first seen real promise, when Lou had begun reading the patterns of the slower fencers. What did it say about the way he thought? What did it say about him as a person?
Tom saw an opening and moved in, only to feel the sharp thud on his chest of another touch.
“Shoot, Lou, if you keep doing this we’ll have to promote you to tournaments,” he said, only half joking. Lou stiffened, his shoulders hunching. “Does that bother you?”
“I… do not think I should fence in a tournament,” Lou said.
“It’s up to you.” Tom saluted again. He wondered why Lou phrased it that way. It was one thing to have no desire for competition but another to think he “shouldn’t” do it. If Lou had been normal—Tom hated himself for even thinking the word, but there it was—he’d have been in tournaments for the past three years. Starting too early, as most people did, rather than keeping to this private practice venue for so long. Tom pulled his mind back to the bout, barely parried a thrust, and tried to make his own attacks more random.
Finally, his breath failed and he had to stop, gasping. “I need a break, Lou. C’mon over here and let’s review—” Lou followed him obediently and sat on the stone ledge bordering the patio while Tom took one of the chairs. Lou was sweating, he noticed, but not breathing particularly hard.
Tom finally stops, gasping, and declares himself too tired to go on. He leads me off to one side while two others step onto the ring. He is breathing very hard; his words come spaced apart, which makes it easier to understand them. I am glad he thinks I am doing so well.
“But here—you’re not out of breath yet. Go fight someone else, give me a chance to catch mine, and we’ll talk later.”
I look over at Marjory sitting beside Lucia. I saw her watching me while Tom and I fought. Now she is looking down and the heat has brought more pink into her face. My stomach clenches, but I get up and walk over to her.
“Hi, Marjory,” I say. My heart is pounding.
She looks up. She is smiling, a complete smile. “Hi, Lou,” she says. “How are you tonight?”
“Fine,” I say. “Will you… do you want to… will you fence with me?”
“Of course.” She reaches down to pick up her mask and puts it on. I cannot see her face as well now, and she will not be able to see mine when I’m masked; I slide it back over my head. I can look without being seen; my heart steadies.
We begin with a recapitulation of some sequences from Saviolo’s fencing manual. Step by step, forward and sideways, circling and feeling each other out. It is both ritual and conversation, as I balance parry against her thrust and thrust against her parry. Do I know this? Does she know that? Her movements are softer, more tentative, than Tom’s. Circle, step, question, answer, a dialogue in steel to music I can hear in my head.
I make a touch when she does not move as I expect. I did not want to hit her. “Sorry,” I say. My music falters; my rhythm stumbles. I step back, breaking contact, blade tip grounded.
“No—a good one,” Marjory says. “I know better than to let down my guard…”
“You’re not hurt?” It felt like a hard touch, jarring the palm of my hand.
“No… let’s go on.”
I see the flash of teeth inside her mask: a smile. I salute; she answers; we move back into the dance. I try to be careful, and through the touch of steel on steel I can feel that she is firmer, more concentrated, moving faster. I do not speed up; she makes a touch on my shoulder. From that point, I try to fence at her pace, making the encounter last as long as it can.
Too soon I hear her breathing roughen and she is ready to stop for a rest. We thank each other, clasping arms; I feel giddy.
“That was fun,” she says. “But I’ve got to quit making excuses for not working out. If I’d been doing my weights, my arm wouldn’t hurt.”
“I do weights three times a week,” I say. Then I realize she might think I am telling her what to do or boasting, but all I meant was that I do weights so my arms don’t hurt.
“I should,” she says. Her voice sounds happy and relaxed. I relax too. She is not unhappy that I said I do weights. “I used to. But I’m on a new project and it’s eating my time.”
I picture the project as something alive gnawing at a clock. This must be the research Emmy mentioned.
“Yes. What project is that?” I can hardly breathe as I wait for the answer.
“Well, my field is neuromuscular signal systems,” Marjory said. “We’re working on possible therapies for some of the genetic neuromuscular diseases that haven’t yielded to gene therapy.” She looks at me, and I nod.
“Like muscular dystrophy?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s one,” Marjory says “It’s how I got involved in fencing, actually.”
I feel my forehead wrinkling: confusion. How would fencing and muscular dystrophy be connected? People with MD don’t fence. “Fencing…?”
“Yes. I was on my way to a departmental meeting, years ago, and cut through a courtyard just as Tom was giving a fencing demo. I had been thinking of good muscle function from a physician’s perspective, not from a user’s perspective… I remember I was standing there, watching people fence and thinking of the biochemical behavior of muscle cells, when Tom suddenly asked me if I’d like to try it. I think he mistook the look on my face for interest in fencing when it was the leg muscles I’d been watching.”
“I thought you fenced in college,” Lou said.
“That was college,” Marjory said. “I was a grad student at the time.”
“Oh… and you’ve always worked on muscles?”
“In one sense or another. With the success of some gene therapies for pure muscle diseases I’ve shifted more toward neuromuscular… or my employers have, I should say. I’m hardly a project director.” She looks at my face a long time; I have to look away because the feeling is too intense. “I hope you didn’t mind my asking you to ride with me to the airport, Lou. I felt safer with you along.”
I feel myself getting hot. “It’s not… I didn’t… I wanted—” A gulp and a swallow. “I am not upset,” I say when I get my voice under control. “I was glad to go with you.”
“That’s good,” Marjory says.
She says nothing more; I sit beside her feeling my body relax. If it were possible, I would just sit here all night. As my heart slows, I look around at the others. Max and Tom and Susan are fencing two-on-one. Don is slouched in a chair across the patio; he is staring at me but looks away when I look at him.
Tom waved good-bye to Max, Susan, and Marjory, who all walked out together. When he turned around, Lou was still there. Lucia had gone inside, trailed as usual by those who wanted to talk.
“There’s research,” Lou said. “New. A treatment, maybe.”
Tom listened more to the jerkiness of Lou’s voice, the strain obvious in the pitch and tonality, than to the actual words. Lou was frightened; he sounded like this only when he was anxious.
“Is it still experimental, or is it available?”
“Experimental. But they, the office, they want—my boss said… they want me to… to take it.”
“An experimental treatment? That’s odd. Usually those aren’t open to commercial health plans.”
“It’s—they—it is something developed at the Cambridge center.” Lou said, his voice even more jerky and mechanical. “They own it now. My boss says his boss wants us to take it. He does not agree, but he cannot stop them.”
Tom felt a sudden desire to slam his fist into someone’s head. Lou was scared; someone was bullying him. He’s not my child, Tom reminded himself. He had no rights in this situation, but as Lou’s friend, he did have responsibilities.
“Do you know how it’s supposed to work?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Lou shook his head. “It just came out on the Web this past week; the local autism society had a meeting about it, but they didn’t know… They think it’s still years from human use. Mr. Aldrin—my supervisor—said it could be tested now, and Mr. Crenshaw wants us to take it.”
“They can’t make you use experimental stuff, Lou; it’s against the law to force you—”
“But they could take my job—”
“Are they threatening to fire you if you don’t? They can’t do that.” He didn’t think they could. They couldn’t at the university, but the private sector was different. That different? “You need a lawyer,” he said. He tried to think of lawyers he knew. Gail might be the right lawyer for this, Tom thought. Gail had done human rights work for a long time and, more than that, had made it pay. He would think about who might help, rather than his own increasing desire to smash someone’s head in.
“No… yes… I do not know. I am worried. Mr. Aldrin said we should get help, a lawyer—”
“That’s exactly right,” Tom said. He wondered if giving Lou something else to think about would be a help or not. “Look, you know I mentioned tournaments to you—”
“I am not good enough,” Lou said quickly.
“Actually, you are. And I’m wondering if maybe fighting in a tournament would help you with this other problem—” Tom scrambled through his own thoughts, trying to clarify why he thought it might be a good idea. “If you end up needing to go to court against your employer, that’s kind of like a fencing match. The confidence you get from fencing could help.”
Lou just looked at him, almost expressionless. “I do not understand why it would help.”
“Well… maybe it wouldn’t. I just thought having some other experience, with more people than us, might.”
“When is a tournament?”
“The next one locally is a couple of weeks away,” Tom said. “Saturday. You could ride with us; Lucia and I would be around to back you up, make sure you met the nice people.”
“There are not-nice people?”
“Well, yes. There are not-nice people everywhere, and a few always manage to get into the fencing groups. But most of them are nice. You might enjoy it.” He shouldn’t push, even though he felt more and more that Lou needed more exposure to the normal world, if you could call a bunch of historical re-creation enthusiasts normal. They were normal in their everyday lives; they just liked to wear fancy costumes and pretend to kill each other with swords.
“I do not have a costume,” Lou said, looking down at his old leather jacket with the cut-off sleeves.
“We can find you something,” Tom said. Lou would probably fit into one of his costumes well enough. He had more than he needed, more than most seventeeth-century men had owned. “Lucia could help us out.”
“I am not sure,” Lou said.
“Well, let me know next week if you want to try it. We’ll need to get your entry money in. If not, there’s another one later on.”
“I will think about it,” Lou said.
“Good. And about this other—I may know a lawyer who could help you. I’ll check with her. And what about the Center—have you talked to them?”
“No. Mr. Aldrin phoned me, but no one has said anything official and I think I should not say anything until they do.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to find out what legal rights you have ahead of time,” Tom said. “I don’t know for sure—I know the laws have changed back and forth, but nothing I do involves research with human subjects, so I’m not up on the current legal situation. You need an expert.”
“It would cost a lot,” Lou said.
“Maybe,” Tom said. “That is something else to find out. Surely the Center can get you that information.”
“Thank you,” Lou said.
Tom watched him walk away, quiet, contained, a little frightening sometimes in his own harmless way. The very thought of someone experimenting on Lou made him feel sick. Lou was Lou, and fine the way he was.
Inside, Tom found Don sprawled on the floor under the ceiling fan talking a blue streak as usual while Lucia stitched on her embroidery with that expression that meant “Rescue me!” Don turned to him.
“So… you think Lou’s ready for open competition, huh?” Don asked.
Tom nodded. “You overheard that? Yes, I do. He’s improved a lot. He’s fencing with the best we have and holding his own.”
“It’s a lot of pressure for someone like him,” Don said.
Someone like him’… you mean autistic?”
“Yeah. They don’t do well with crowds and noise and stuff, do they? I read that’s why the ones who are so good at music don’t become concert performers. Lou’s okay, but I think you shouldn’t push him into tournaments. He’ll fold.”
Tom choked back his first thought and said instead, “Do you remember your first tournament, Don?”
“Well, yeah… I was pretty young… It was a disaster.”
“Yes. Do you remember what you told me after your first bout?”
“No… not really. I know I lost… I just fell apart.”
“You told me you’d been unable to concentrate because of the people moving around.”
“Yeah, well, it’d be worse for someone like Lou.”
“Don—how could he lose worse than you did?”
Don’s face turned red. “Well, I—he—it would just be worse for him. Losing, I mean. For me—”
“You went and drank a six-pack and threw up behind a tree,” Tom said. “Then you cried and told me it was the worst day of your life.”
“I was young,” Don said. “And I let it all out, and it didn’t bother me after that… He’ll brood.”
“I’m glad you’re worried about his feelings,” Lucia said. Tom almost winced at the sarcasm in her voice, even though it wasn’t directed at him.
Don shrugged, though his eyes had narrowed. “Of course I worry,” he said. “He’s not like the rest of us—”
“That’s right,” Lucia said. “He’s a better fencer than most of us and a better person than some.”
“Jeez, Luci, you’re in a bad mood,” Don said, in the jokey tone that Tom knew meant he wasn’t joking.
“You’re not improving it,” Lucia said, folding her needlework and standing; she was gone before Tom could say anything. He hated it when she said what he was thinking and then he had to cope with the aftermath, knowing that she had expressed the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. Now, predictably, Don was giving him a complicit man-to-man look that invited a shared view of women that he didn’t share.
“Is she getting… you know… sort of midlife?” Don asked.
“No,” Tom said. “She’s expressing an opinion.” Which he happened to share, but should he say that? Why couldn’t Don just grow up and quit causing these problems? “Look—I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Don said, clambering up with a dramatic wince and a hand to his back.
The problem was, he couldn’t take a hint. It was another fifteen minutes before he finally left; Tom locked the front door and turned off the lights before Don could think of something else to say and come back, the way he often did. Tom felt bad; Don had been a charming and enthusiastic boy, years ago, and surely he should have been able to help him grow into a more mature man than he’d become. What else were older friends for?
“It’s not your fault,” Lucia said from the hall. Her voice was softer now, and he relaxed a little; he had not been looking forward to soothing a furious Lucia. “He’d be worse if you hadn’t worked on him.”
“I dunno,” Tom said. “I still think—”
“Born teacher that you are, Tom, you still think you should be able to save them all from themselves. Think: there’s Marcus at Columbia, and Grayson at Michigan, and Vladianoff in Berlin—all your boys once and all better men for knowing you. Don is not your fault.”
“Tonight I’ll buy that,” Tom said. Lucia, backlit by the light from their bedroom, had an almost magical quality.
“That’s not all I’m selling,” she said, her voice teasing, and she dropped the robe.
It does not make sense to me that Tom would ask me again about entering a fencing tournament when I was talking about an experimental treatment for autism. I think about that on the drive home. It is clear that I am improving in my fencing and that I can hold my own with the better fencers in the group. But what does that have to do with the treatment or with legal rights?
People who fence in tournaments are serious about it. They have practiced. They have their own equipment. They want to win. I am not sure I want to win, though I do enjoy understanding the patterns and finding my way through them. Maybe Tom thinks I should want to win? Maybe Tom thinks I need to want to win in fencing so that I will want to win in court?
These two things are not connected. Someone can want to win a game or want to win a case in court without wanting to do both.
What is alike? Both are contests. Someone wins and someone else loses. My parents emphasized that everything in life is not a contest, that people can work together, that everyone can win when they do. Fencing is more fun when people are cooperating, trying to enjoy it with each other. I do not think of making touches on someone as winning but as playing the game well.
Both require preparation? Everything requires preparation. Both require—I swerve to avoid a bicyclist whose taillight is out; I barely saw him.
Forethought. Attention. Understanding. Patterns. The thoughts flick through my head like flash cards, each with its nested concepts topped by a neat word that cannot say everything.
I would like to please Tom. When I helped with the fencing surface and the equipment racks, he was pleased. It was like having my father back again, on his good days. I would like to please Tom again, but I do not know whether entering this tournament will do it. What if I fence badly and lose? Will he be disappointed? What does he expect?
It would be fun to fence with people I’ve never seen before. People whose patterns I do not know. People who are normal and will not know that I am not normal. Or will Tom tell them? Somehow I do not think he will.
Next Saturday I am going to the planetarium with Eric and Linda. The following Saturday, it is the third of the month, and I always spend extra time cleaning my apartment on the third Saturday of the month. The tournament is the Saturday after. I do not have anything planned for then.
When I get home I pencil in “fencing tournament” on the fourth Saturday of the month. I think about calling Tom, but it is late and, besides, he said to tell him next week. I put a reminder sticky on the calendar: “Tell Tom yes.”
He sighed, running a hand through his thinning hair. He loved the sport of fencing, loved having people over, but the constant burden of the interpersonal intrigues of the group exhausted him more as he got older. He wanted his and Lucia’s home to be a place where people grew into their potential, physical and social, but sometimes it seemed he was stuck with a yardful of permanent adolescents. Sooner or later, they all came to him with their complaints, their grudges, their hurt feelings.
Or they dumped on Lucia. Mostly the women did that. They sat down beside her, pretending an interest in her needlework or her pictures, and poured out their troubles. He and Lucia spent hours talking about what was going on, who needed which kind of support, how best to help without taking on too much responsibility.
As Don and Marjory came closer, Tom could see that she was annoyed. Don, as usual, was oblivious, talking fast, swinging her bag in his enthusiasm for what he was saying. Case in point, Tom thought. Before the night was out, he was sure he’d hear what Don had done to annoy Marjory and from Don he’d hear that Marjory wasn’t understanding enough.
“He has to have his stuff in exactly the same place every time, can’t put it anywhere else,” Don was saying as he and Marjory came within earshot.
“It’s tidy,” Marjory said. She sounded prissy, which meant she was more than just annoyed. “Do you object to tidy?”
“I object to obsessive,” Don said. “You, my lady, exhibit a healthy flexibility in sometimes parking on this side of the street and sometimes on that and wearing different clothes. Lou wears the same clothes every week—clean, I’ll give him that, but the same—and this thing he has about where to store his gear…”
“You put it in the wrong place and Tom made you move it, didn’t he?” Marjory said.
“Because Lou would be upset,” Don said, sounding sulky. “It’s not fair—”
Tom could tell Marjory wanted to yell at Don. So did he. But yelling at Don never seemed to do any good. Don’d had an earnest, hardworking girlfriend who put eight years of her life into parenting him, and he was still the same.
“I like the place tidy, too,” Tom said, trying to keep the sting out of his voice. “It’s much easier for everyone when we know where to find each person’s gear. Besides, leaving things all over the place could be considered just as obsessive as insisting on having the same place.”
“C’mon, Tom; forgetful and obsessive are opposites.” He didn’t even sound annoyed, just amused, as if Tom were an ignorant boy. Tom wondered if Don acted that way at work. If he did, it would explain his checkered employment history.
“Don’t blame Lou for my rules,” Tom said. Don shrugged and went into the house to get his equipment.
A few minutes of peace, before things started… Tom sat down beside Lucia, who had begun her stretches, and reached for his toes. It used to be easy. Marjory sat on Lucia’s other side and leaned forward, trying to touch her forehead to her knees.
“Lou should be here tonight,” Lucia said. She gave Marjory a sideways look.
“I wondered if I’d bothered him,” Marjory said. “Asking him to come with me to the airport.”
“I don’t think so,” Lucia said. “I’d have said he was very pleased indeed. Did anything happen?”
“No. We picked up my friend; I dropped Lou back here. That was all. Don said something about his gear—”
“Oh, Tom made him pick up lots of the gear, and Don was going to just shove it in the racks anyhow. Tom made him do it right. As many times as he’s seen it done, he ought to have the way of it by now, but Don… he just will not learn. Now that he’s not with Helen anymore, he’s really backsliding into the slapdash boy we had years back. I wish he’d grow up.”
Tom listened without joining in. He knew the signs: any moment now Lucia would tackle Marjory about her feelings for Lou and for Don, and he wanted to be far away when that happened. He finished stretching and stood up just as Lou came around the corner of the house.
As he checked the lights and made a final sweep of the area for possible hazards that might cause injury, Tom watched Lou stretching… methodical as always, thorough as always. Some people might think Lou was dull, but Tom found him endlessly fascinating. Thirty years before, he might well never have made it in the ordinary way; fifty years before, he would have spent his life in an institution. But improvements in early intervention, in teaching methods, and in computer-assisted sensory integration exercises had given him the ability to find good employment, live independently, deal with the real world on near-equal terms.
A miracle of adaptation and also, to Tom, a little sad. Younger people than Lou, born with the same neurological deficit, could be completely cured with gene therapy in the first two years of life. Only those whose parents refused the treatment had to struggle, as Lou had done, with the strenuous therapies Lou had mastered. If Lou had been younger, he’d not have suffered. He might be normal, whatever that meant.
Yet here he was, fencing. Tom thought of the jerky, uneven movements Lou had made when he first began—it had seemed, for the longest time, that Lou’s fencing could be only a parody of the real thing. At each stage of development, he’d had the same slow, difficult start and slow, difficult progression… from foil to épée, from épée to rapier, from single blade to foil and dagger, épée and dagger, rapier and dagger, and so on.
He had mastered each by sheer effort, not by innate talent. Yet now that he had the physical skills, the mental skills that took other fencers decades seemed to come to him in only a few months.
Tom caught Lou’s eye and beckoned him over. “Remember what I said—you need to be fencing with the top group now.”
“Yes…” Lou nodded, then made a formal salute. His opening moves seemed stiff, but he quickly shifted into a style that took advantage of his more fractal movement. Tom circled, changed direction, feinted and probed and offered fake openings, and Lou matched him movement for movement, testing him as he was tested. Was there a pattern in Lou’s moves, other than a response to his own? He couldn’t tell. But again and again, Lou almost caught him out, anticipating his own moves… which must mean, Tom thought, that he himself had a pattern and Lou had spotted it.
“Pattern analysis,” he said aloud, just as Lou’s blade slipped his and made a touch on his chest. “I should have thought of that.”
“Sorry,” Lou said. He almost always said, “Sorry,” and then looked embarrassed.
“Good touch,” Tom said. “I was trying to think how you were doing what you were doing, rather than concentrating on the match. But are you using pattern analysis?”
“Yes,” Lou said. His tone was mild surprise, and Tom wondered if he was thinking, Doesn’t everyone?
“I can’t do it in real time,” Tom said. “Not unless someone’s got a very simple pattern.”
“Is it not fair?” Lou asked.
“It’s very fair, if you can do it,” Tom said. “It’s also the sign of a good fencer—or chess player, for that matter. Do you play chess?”
“No.”
“Well… then let’s see if I can keep my mind on what I’m doing and get a touch back.” Tom nodded, and they began again, but it was hard to concentrate. He wanted to think about Lou—about when that awkward jerkiness had become effective, when he’d first seen real promise, when Lou had begun reading the patterns of the slower fencers. What did it say about the way he thought? What did it say about him as a person?
Tom saw an opening and moved in, only to feel the sharp thud on his chest of another touch.
“Shoot, Lou, if you keep doing this we’ll have to promote you to tournaments,” he said, only half joking. Lou stiffened, his shoulders hunching. “Does that bother you?”
“I… do not think I should fence in a tournament,” Lou said.
“It’s up to you.” Tom saluted again. He wondered why Lou phrased it that way. It was one thing to have no desire for competition but another to think he “shouldn’t” do it. If Lou had been normal—Tom hated himself for even thinking the word, but there it was—he’d have been in tournaments for the past three years. Starting too early, as most people did, rather than keeping to this private practice venue for so long. Tom pulled his mind back to the bout, barely parried a thrust, and tried to make his own attacks more random.
Finally, his breath failed and he had to stop, gasping. “I need a break, Lou. C’mon over here and let’s review—” Lou followed him obediently and sat on the stone ledge bordering the patio while Tom took one of the chairs. Lou was sweating, he noticed, but not breathing particularly hard.
Tom finally stops, gasping, and declares himself too tired to go on. He leads me off to one side while two others step onto the ring. He is breathing very hard; his words come spaced apart, which makes it easier to understand them. I am glad he thinks I am doing so well.
“But here—you’re not out of breath yet. Go fight someone else, give me a chance to catch mine, and we’ll talk later.”
I look over at Marjory sitting beside Lucia. I saw her watching me while Tom and I fought. Now she is looking down and the heat has brought more pink into her face. My stomach clenches, but I get up and walk over to her.
“Hi, Marjory,” I say. My heart is pounding.
She looks up. She is smiling, a complete smile. “Hi, Lou,” she says. “How are you tonight?”
“Fine,” I say. “Will you… do you want to… will you fence with me?”
“Of course.” She reaches down to pick up her mask and puts it on. I cannot see her face as well now, and she will not be able to see mine when I’m masked; I slide it back over my head. I can look without being seen; my heart steadies.
We begin with a recapitulation of some sequences from Saviolo’s fencing manual. Step by step, forward and sideways, circling and feeling each other out. It is both ritual and conversation, as I balance parry against her thrust and thrust against her parry. Do I know this? Does she know that? Her movements are softer, more tentative, than Tom’s. Circle, step, question, answer, a dialogue in steel to music I can hear in my head.
I make a touch when she does not move as I expect. I did not want to hit her. “Sorry,” I say. My music falters; my rhythm stumbles. I step back, breaking contact, blade tip grounded.
“No—a good one,” Marjory says. “I know better than to let down my guard…”
“You’re not hurt?” It felt like a hard touch, jarring the palm of my hand.
“No… let’s go on.”
I see the flash of teeth inside her mask: a smile. I salute; she answers; we move back into the dance. I try to be careful, and through the touch of steel on steel I can feel that she is firmer, more concentrated, moving faster. I do not speed up; she makes a touch on my shoulder. From that point, I try to fence at her pace, making the encounter last as long as it can.
Too soon I hear her breathing roughen and she is ready to stop for a rest. We thank each other, clasping arms; I feel giddy.
“That was fun,” she says. “But I’ve got to quit making excuses for not working out. If I’d been doing my weights, my arm wouldn’t hurt.”
“I do weights three times a week,” I say. Then I realize she might think I am telling her what to do or boasting, but all I meant was that I do weights so my arms don’t hurt.
“I should,” she says. Her voice sounds happy and relaxed. I relax too. She is not unhappy that I said I do weights. “I used to. But I’m on a new project and it’s eating my time.”
I picture the project as something alive gnawing at a clock. This must be the research Emmy mentioned.
“Yes. What project is that?” I can hardly breathe as I wait for the answer.
“Well, my field is neuromuscular signal systems,” Marjory said. “We’re working on possible therapies for some of the genetic neuromuscular diseases that haven’t yielded to gene therapy.” She looks at me, and I nod.
“Like muscular dystrophy?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s one,” Marjory says “It’s how I got involved in fencing, actually.”
I feel my forehead wrinkling: confusion. How would fencing and muscular dystrophy be connected? People with MD don’t fence. “Fencing…?”
“Yes. I was on my way to a departmental meeting, years ago, and cut through a courtyard just as Tom was giving a fencing demo. I had been thinking of good muscle function from a physician’s perspective, not from a user’s perspective… I remember I was standing there, watching people fence and thinking of the biochemical behavior of muscle cells, when Tom suddenly asked me if I’d like to try it. I think he mistook the look on my face for interest in fencing when it was the leg muscles I’d been watching.”
“I thought you fenced in college,” Lou said.
“That was college,” Marjory said. “I was a grad student at the time.”
“Oh… and you’ve always worked on muscles?”
“In one sense or another. With the success of some gene therapies for pure muscle diseases I’ve shifted more toward neuromuscular… or my employers have, I should say. I’m hardly a project director.” She looks at my face a long time; I have to look away because the feeling is too intense. “I hope you didn’t mind my asking you to ride with me to the airport, Lou. I felt safer with you along.”
I feel myself getting hot. “It’s not… I didn’t… I wanted—” A gulp and a swallow. “I am not upset,” I say when I get my voice under control. “I was glad to go with you.”
“That’s good,” Marjory says.
She says nothing more; I sit beside her feeling my body relax. If it were possible, I would just sit here all night. As my heart slows, I look around at the others. Max and Tom and Susan are fencing two-on-one. Don is slouched in a chair across the patio; he is staring at me but looks away when I look at him.
Tom waved good-bye to Max, Susan, and Marjory, who all walked out together. When he turned around, Lou was still there. Lucia had gone inside, trailed as usual by those who wanted to talk.
“There’s research,” Lou said. “New. A treatment, maybe.”
Tom listened more to the jerkiness of Lou’s voice, the strain obvious in the pitch and tonality, than to the actual words. Lou was frightened; he sounded like this only when he was anxious.
“Is it still experimental, or is it available?”
“Experimental. But they, the office, they want—my boss said… they want me to… to take it.”
“An experimental treatment? That’s odd. Usually those aren’t open to commercial health plans.”
“It’s—they—it is something developed at the Cambridge center.” Lou said, his voice even more jerky and mechanical. “They own it now. My boss says his boss wants us to take it. He does not agree, but he cannot stop them.”
Tom felt a sudden desire to slam his fist into someone’s head. Lou was scared; someone was bullying him. He’s not my child, Tom reminded himself. He had no rights in this situation, but as Lou’s friend, he did have responsibilities.
“Do you know how it’s supposed to work?” he asked.
“Not yet.” Lou shook his head. “It just came out on the Web this past week; the local autism society had a meeting about it, but they didn’t know… They think it’s still years from human use. Mr. Aldrin—my supervisor—said it could be tested now, and Mr. Crenshaw wants us to take it.”
“They can’t make you use experimental stuff, Lou; it’s against the law to force you—”
“But they could take my job—”
“Are they threatening to fire you if you don’t? They can’t do that.” He didn’t think they could. They couldn’t at the university, but the private sector was different. That different? “You need a lawyer,” he said. He tried to think of lawyers he knew. Gail might be the right lawyer for this, Tom thought. Gail had done human rights work for a long time and, more than that, had made it pay. He would think about who might help, rather than his own increasing desire to smash someone’s head in.
“No… yes… I do not know. I am worried. Mr. Aldrin said we should get help, a lawyer—”
“That’s exactly right,” Tom said. He wondered if giving Lou something else to think about would be a help or not. “Look, you know I mentioned tournaments to you—”
“I am not good enough,” Lou said quickly.
“Actually, you are. And I’m wondering if maybe fighting in a tournament would help you with this other problem—” Tom scrambled through his own thoughts, trying to clarify why he thought it might be a good idea. “If you end up needing to go to court against your employer, that’s kind of like a fencing match. The confidence you get from fencing could help.”
Lou just looked at him, almost expressionless. “I do not understand why it would help.”
“Well… maybe it wouldn’t. I just thought having some other experience, with more people than us, might.”
“When is a tournament?”
“The next one locally is a couple of weeks away,” Tom said. “Saturday. You could ride with us; Lucia and I would be around to back you up, make sure you met the nice people.”
“There are not-nice people?”
“Well, yes. There are not-nice people everywhere, and a few always manage to get into the fencing groups. But most of them are nice. You might enjoy it.” He shouldn’t push, even though he felt more and more that Lou needed more exposure to the normal world, if you could call a bunch of historical re-creation enthusiasts normal. They were normal in their everyday lives; they just liked to wear fancy costumes and pretend to kill each other with swords.
“I do not have a costume,” Lou said, looking down at his old leather jacket with the cut-off sleeves.
“We can find you something,” Tom said. Lou would probably fit into one of his costumes well enough. He had more than he needed, more than most seventeeth-century men had owned. “Lucia could help us out.”
“I am not sure,” Lou said.
“Well, let me know next week if you want to try it. We’ll need to get your entry money in. If not, there’s another one later on.”
“I will think about it,” Lou said.
“Good. And about this other—I may know a lawyer who could help you. I’ll check with her. And what about the Center—have you talked to them?”
“No. Mr. Aldrin phoned me, but no one has said anything official and I think I should not say anything until they do.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to find out what legal rights you have ahead of time,” Tom said. “I don’t know for sure—I know the laws have changed back and forth, but nothing I do involves research with human subjects, so I’m not up on the current legal situation. You need an expert.”
“It would cost a lot,” Lou said.
“Maybe,” Tom said. “That is something else to find out. Surely the Center can get you that information.”
“Thank you,” Lou said.
Tom watched him walk away, quiet, contained, a little frightening sometimes in his own harmless way. The very thought of someone experimenting on Lou made him feel sick. Lou was Lou, and fine the way he was.
Inside, Tom found Don sprawled on the floor under the ceiling fan talking a blue streak as usual while Lucia stitched on her embroidery with that expression that meant “Rescue me!” Don turned to him.
“So… you think Lou’s ready for open competition, huh?” Don asked.
Tom nodded. “You overheard that? Yes, I do. He’s improved a lot. He’s fencing with the best we have and holding his own.”
“It’s a lot of pressure for someone like him,” Don said.
Someone like him’… you mean autistic?”
“Yeah. They don’t do well with crowds and noise and stuff, do they? I read that’s why the ones who are so good at music don’t become concert performers. Lou’s okay, but I think you shouldn’t push him into tournaments. He’ll fold.”
Tom choked back his first thought and said instead, “Do you remember your first tournament, Don?”
“Well, yeah… I was pretty young… It was a disaster.”
“Yes. Do you remember what you told me after your first bout?”
“No… not really. I know I lost… I just fell apart.”
“You told me you’d been unable to concentrate because of the people moving around.”
“Yeah, well, it’d be worse for someone like Lou.”
“Don—how could he lose worse than you did?”
Don’s face turned red. “Well, I—he—it would just be worse for him. Losing, I mean. For me—”
“You went and drank a six-pack and threw up behind a tree,” Tom said. “Then you cried and told me it was the worst day of your life.”
“I was young,” Don said. “And I let it all out, and it didn’t bother me after that… He’ll brood.”
“I’m glad you’re worried about his feelings,” Lucia said. Tom almost winced at the sarcasm in her voice, even though it wasn’t directed at him.
Don shrugged, though his eyes had narrowed. “Of course I worry,” he said. “He’s not like the rest of us—”
“That’s right,” Lucia said. “He’s a better fencer than most of us and a better person than some.”
“Jeez, Luci, you’re in a bad mood,” Don said, in the jokey tone that Tom knew meant he wasn’t joking.
“You’re not improving it,” Lucia said, folding her needlework and standing; she was gone before Tom could say anything. He hated it when she said what he was thinking and then he had to cope with the aftermath, knowing that she had expressed the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. Now, predictably, Don was giving him a complicit man-to-man look that invited a shared view of women that he didn’t share.
“Is she getting… you know… sort of midlife?” Don asked.
“No,” Tom said. “She’s expressing an opinion.” Which he happened to share, but should he say that? Why couldn’t Don just grow up and quit causing these problems? “Look—I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Don said, clambering up with a dramatic wince and a hand to his back.
The problem was, he couldn’t take a hint. It was another fifteen minutes before he finally left; Tom locked the front door and turned off the lights before Don could think of something else to say and come back, the way he often did. Tom felt bad; Don had been a charming and enthusiastic boy, years ago, and surely he should have been able to help him grow into a more mature man than he’d become. What else were older friends for?
“It’s not your fault,” Lucia said from the hall. Her voice was softer now, and he relaxed a little; he had not been looking forward to soothing a furious Lucia. “He’d be worse if you hadn’t worked on him.”
“I dunno,” Tom said. “I still think—”
“Born teacher that you are, Tom, you still think you should be able to save them all from themselves. Think: there’s Marcus at Columbia, and Grayson at Michigan, and Vladianoff in Berlin—all your boys once and all better men for knowing you. Don is not your fault.”
“Tonight I’ll buy that,” Tom said. Lucia, backlit by the light from their bedroom, had an almost magical quality.
“That’s not all I’m selling,” she said, her voice teasing, and she dropped the robe.
It does not make sense to me that Tom would ask me again about entering a fencing tournament when I was talking about an experimental treatment for autism. I think about that on the drive home. It is clear that I am improving in my fencing and that I can hold my own with the better fencers in the group. But what does that have to do with the treatment or with legal rights?
People who fence in tournaments are serious about it. They have practiced. They have their own equipment. They want to win. I am not sure I want to win, though I do enjoy understanding the patterns and finding my way through them. Maybe Tom thinks I should want to win? Maybe Tom thinks I need to want to win in fencing so that I will want to win in court?
These two things are not connected. Someone can want to win a game or want to win a case in court without wanting to do both.
What is alike? Both are contests. Someone wins and someone else loses. My parents emphasized that everything in life is not a contest, that people can work together, that everyone can win when they do. Fencing is more fun when people are cooperating, trying to enjoy it with each other. I do not think of making touches on someone as winning but as playing the game well.
Both require preparation? Everything requires preparation. Both require—I swerve to avoid a bicyclist whose taillight is out; I barely saw him.
Forethought. Attention. Understanding. Patterns. The thoughts flick through my head like flash cards, each with its nested concepts topped by a neat word that cannot say everything.
I would like to please Tom. When I helped with the fencing surface and the equipment racks, he was pleased. It was like having my father back again, on his good days. I would like to please Tom again, but I do not know whether entering this tournament will do it. What if I fence badly and lose? Will he be disappointed? What does he expect?
It would be fun to fence with people I’ve never seen before. People whose patterns I do not know. People who are normal and will not know that I am not normal. Or will Tom tell them? Somehow I do not think he will.
Next Saturday I am going to the planetarium with Eric and Linda. The following Saturday, it is the third of the month, and I always spend extra time cleaning my apartment on the third Saturday of the month. The tournament is the Saturday after. I do not have anything planned for then.
When I get home I pencil in “fencing tournament” on the fourth Saturday of the month. I think about calling Tom, but it is late and, besides, he said to tell him next week. I put a reminder sticky on the calendar: “Tell Tom yes.”
Chapter Five
By Friday afternoon Mr. Crenshaw has still not said anything to us about the experimental treatment. Maybe Mr. Aldrin was wrong. Maybe Mr. Aldrin talked him out of it. On-line, there’s a flurry of discussion, mostly on the private news groups, but nobody seems to know when or where human trials are scheduled.
I do not say anything on-line about what Mr. Aldrin told us. He did not say not to talk about it, but it does not feel right. If Mr. Crenshaw has changed his mind and everyone gets upset, then he will be angry. He looks angry much of the time anyway when he comes to check on us.
The show at the planetarium is “Exploring the Outer Planets and Their Satellites.” It has been on since Labor Day, which means it is not too crowded now, even on Saturday. I go early, to the first showing, which is also less crowded even on days when it is crowded. Only a third of the seats are occupied, so Eric and Linda and I can take up a whole row without being too close to anyone.
The amphitheater smells funny, but it always does. As the lights dim and the artificial sky darkens, I feel the same old excitement. Even though these pinpricks of light that begin to show on the dome are not really stars, it is about stars. The light is not as old; it has not been worn smooth by its passage through billions and billions of miles—it has come from a projector less than a ten-thousandth of a light-second away—but I still enjoy it.
What I don’t enjoy is the long introduction that talks about what we knew a hundred years ago, and fifty years ago, and so on. I want to know what we know now, not what my parents might have heard when they were children. What difference does it make if someone in the distant past thought there were canals on Mars?
I do not say anything on-line about what Mr. Aldrin told us. He did not say not to talk about it, but it does not feel right. If Mr. Crenshaw has changed his mind and everyone gets upset, then he will be angry. He looks angry much of the time anyway when he comes to check on us.
The show at the planetarium is “Exploring the Outer Planets and Their Satellites.” It has been on since Labor Day, which means it is not too crowded now, even on Saturday. I go early, to the first showing, which is also less crowded even on days when it is crowded. Only a third of the seats are occupied, so Eric and Linda and I can take up a whole row without being too close to anyone.
The amphitheater smells funny, but it always does. As the lights dim and the artificial sky darkens, I feel the same old excitement. Even though these pinpricks of light that begin to show on the dome are not really stars, it is about stars. The light is not as old; it has not been worn smooth by its passage through billions and billions of miles—it has come from a projector less than a ten-thousandth of a light-second away—but I still enjoy it.
What I don’t enjoy is the long introduction that talks about what we knew a hundred years ago, and fifty years ago, and so on. I want to know what we know now, not what my parents might have heard when they were children. What difference does it make if someone in the distant past thought there were canals on Mars?