by Chase Connor
“Quicker is better.”
Smiling, I gave him a nod. Together, we ventured deeper into the thrift shop, my eyes scanning the room for any hint of blue. Hoping against hope, I knew that finding a blue jacket that fit Noe’s frame that he would actually like would be a miracle. Noe was particular—at least that was how most people would say it—but I knew that my brother simply liked the things he liked and disliked the things he disliked. He never tried to be difficult; he just presented unique challenges that were different than those posed by people who were not autistic. Regardless of his requirements for a coat, I did my best to stay optimistic and hopeful as we walked through the shop, Noe either at my side or a breath’s space behind me.
When we were in public, where strange people or a crowd might affect him in a way that was not ideal, Noe stayed nearby. He had trained himself—with no direction from me—to stay at my side so that if he felt overwhelmed, he could grab onto me for comfort. Never my hand. Hands were not to be touched. But he could grab my shoulder or forearm, or even just place his hand against my back, and he felt calmer. Those touches let him know that he had someone who would advocate for his safety and comfort no matter the circumstances.
Walking through the thrift shop, I was glad that we seemed to be the only customers. Not because I didn’t want Noe holding onto me for support, that didn’t bother me in the slightest, no matter what looks we got from strangers. Not having to worry about Noe becoming anxious made me happy because he could just be Noe. Anytime that Noe didn’t have to worry about what the next challenge presented to him would be made my heart soar. People without autism—or other unique challenges—took for granted the simple pleasure of merely walking through a store, looking for a blue coat, and not becoming overwhelmed by stimuli. Not having strangers in the store meant that Noe could simply live and focus solely on that.
“It smells worse,” Noe said as we walked deeper into the store.
“I think that many of these clothes have not been washed well.”
“I know.”
“Do you want—”
Suggesting that maybe I take Noe home so that he could relax and I could come back to the thrift shop alone to search for a coat had been the first idea that popped into my mind. It wasn’t the best idea, as it was a risk to purchase a coat without Noe’s approval first, but I didn’t want him to become distressed by the smell of the store, which was, admittedly, pungent. However, before the entire thought could travel from my brain and off of my tongue, a flash of sky-blue caught my eye. Turning to the clothing rack to my right, I immediately knew I had found what we were looking for in the shop.
“Look,” I said to Noe, pointing at the coat.
Noe turned and found the sky-blue coat immediately, with its puffy sleeves and panels. It was like a giant marshmallow. Except it was blue. Without asking, I could tell from Noe’s face that he was enamored with the idea of the coat immediately.
“It’s a good blue.” He said simply.
I pulled the coat off of the hanger it was dangling from and held it up against my chest. It was a little too big for me, but it would work perfectly for Noe, who was always thicker in the torso than I.
“Do you want to try it on?”
“I want you to wash it first.”
That was Noe’s way of saying that this was the perfect coat, and he wanted to wear it as soon as it was clean enough to do so.
“Are you sure? We can look to see if there is something you like better.”
“It’s a pretty blue.”
“All right.” The coat was perfect, and that was all there was to say about it.
It took some doing, finding the person actually running the shop—she had been in the back alley having a cigarette and not paying attention to the store for some reason—but we finally purchased the coat. She gave it to us for five dollars. Noe was ecstatic—in his own way—and I was thrilled that we had spent a mere tenth of the money in my pocket. As we left the store, Noe carrying the bag containing his new coat, my heart felt full. Feeling immense happiness from simply finding a cheap, decent coat for Noe made the previous months and years fade away for the briefest of moments. So, when we stepped out into the warm breeze of summer in the city, I was able to merely exist. Instead of survive.
“It looks like a cloud.”
Noe didn’t have to tell me he was talking about his coat.
“A blue cloud,” I responded with a smile.
“Clouds aren’t blue.” He gave an incredulous laugh.
“They aren’t, are they?” I laughed with him. “We have money left over. Do you want to go get some donuts?”
“Can we take some to Maman?”
“Absolutely. I think we will take the bus. Is that okay?”
“Okay.”
So, Noe and I had a coat made of blue clouds. And we got an entire box of donuts, along with a few to take home to our maman. We rode the bus there and back to our apartment. It was a good day. The best we’d had in…I couldn’t remember. A coat made of blue clouds that cost five dollars had given us the best day we’d had as a family in a very long time. When we got home, Noe showed Maman his coat and explained how I had found it in less than seven minutes. Then, when Noe had left Maman’s room to put his coat in the kitchen for me to wash, I presented the donuts we had brought for her. I explained that we had only spent five dollars on the coat, so we spent some more on donuts and the bus, hoping that she would not be cross with me for making those financial decisions on my own.
She was far from cross. She was thrilled. And she ate her donuts as I sat on the edge of her bed and talked to her about how well she was feeling, even though she was still tired after her nap.
When my father had died, it seemed sudden. Maybe because of what he had said to me and the fact that we never made amends while he was able to speak. When my mother died, a month after we found Noe’s coat made of blue clouds, it seemed slow. Maybe because the process was torturous for her, the dying. She didn’t go to sleep and not wake up like my grandmother or Ila after her surgery. She didn’t fall sick one day and die the next. Incrementally, over the days in her final month, she got sicker, frailer, and suffered through it all. She didn’t live in that final month. She slowly died.
The thing is, no matter how sudden or gradual a family member’s death is, there never seems to be enough time to say: “Goodbye.”
But, then again, how does one say “goodbye” to a person who loves you, sins and all?
Fury
“No one would want your brother anyway. No one wants a black autistic teenager as a permanent ward. You may as well be his guardian until we can figure something out. He will be an adult in a few years. Just keep him out of trouble as best you can. They’re going to cut off your assistance. You’re an adult, white male. Noe has no real legal guardian. It will be difficult to approve assistance in your case. Maybe if you were real brothers—"
Noe had been sitting next to me the entire time.
And I wasn’t allowed to show my fury.
Because then I never would have seen my brother again.
Even more so than dealing with the death of your family members, one by one, choosing between defending your brother and being able to see him every day is the greatest torture one can endure.
Fury, like any other emotion, demands to be shown. But, unlike other emotions, fury is the one that most often leads to trouble. And a choice has to be made. I had to make a choice I didn’t agree with, but was safest, for what was left of our little family.
A soul is permanently fractured by such a thing.
And nothing will ever fix it.
A Lifetime of Perfect Sundays
“We have to be very quiet,” I whispered as we sat on the edge of the fountain in Carré Saint-Louis. “We do not want anyone to call the police.”
Gesturing vaguely at the Victorian and Second Empire homes that surrounded St. Louis Square as Peter eased himself down beside me, I knew that we could easily get in trou
ble. Someone could phone in a noise disturbance or say we were vagrants. They could easily convince the police that we were vandals. Regardless of Peter’s belief that the police would be more lenient with an American tourist, he was wrong. The police would gladly arrest an American tourist they suspected of disrespecting one of the city’s famous landmarks.
“Of course not.” Peter leaned in and wriggled his eyebrows at me. “There is nothing worse than handcuffs on a first date—if police are involved, anyway.”
“You are awful.” I cupped a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing.
“I’m not nearly as awful as I make myself out to be.” Peter shrugged, an impish grin on his face. “I talk a big game, but I am really quite sweet.”
“In general—or in the bedroom?”
“Well, in general.” He agreed, keeping his voice low as well. “In the bedroom…well, it depends on who I am with.”
“What—what if it was with me?” I was emboldened to ask, feeling safe in the quiet and stillness of the square and the beautiful homes that surrounded us.
Peter considered me for a long time, which should have made me feel self-conscious, but it didn’t. Something about Peter made me feel as if, when he looked at me, he was really considering his answers to my questions, as though he took everything I asked seriously. It made me feel important. Not in the way that causes arrogance or delusions of grandeur. It was in the way that someone who cares about you makes you feel important. Just to them.
“I feel that with you,” Peter replied evenly, “I would be happy with whatever you were happy with.”
I blushed.
“Though I’m sure you are not always sweet.” He leaned to bump his shoulder against mine.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Everyone knows, Enzo.” Peter was grinning again. “Even if you’ve never had sex, you have an image in your mind of how you would like things to go once you do it.”
“I suppose.”
“So,” Peter prodded me, “do you think you’re always sweet?”
“Stop it.” I chuckled nervously.
“Not until you answer me.”
“No.” I sighed, pretending to be put out. “I would not be sweet always.”
Peter’s grin grew.
“Stop it.”
“Okay.” He couldn’t stop grinning.
So, I grinned with him.
“It’s very quiet here,” Peter said, mercifully changing the subject.
“Yes.” I agreed, clearing my throat as quietly as possible. “It is one of my favorite places in the city. When it is not full of people.”
“What’s with all of the houses?” Peter asked as he leaned to reach into his pocket, extracting his cigarettes. “I mean…they’re nice, though.”
“It is very European, yes?” I asked, taking a cigarette from Peter’s pack when he offered one.
“You would know better than me.” He lit his cigarette and then held the lighter out, a cupped hand around it so that I could light my own. “But, yeah, I would agree. It looks very European, anyway.”
“It is.” I pulled in a lungful of smoke and blew it out, blue and fragrant into the dark night and crisp autumn air. “I would love to live in one of these houses. Wake up each morning and open my curtains and look out onto the square.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I nodded slowly, my eyes scanning the houses. “Obviously, with my partner. We would kiss each other good morning and then sit at the window in our bedroom and eat breakfast and drink coffee on a Sunday morning. And we would talk.”
“What would you talk about?” Peter’s voice sounded dreamy.
“Life. Art. Books. Politics. How much we love our life together.”
“Then what?” Peter was leaning in, his eyes far away.
“Then,” I chewed at my lip with a grin, “maybe we would be not so sweet. Or maybe sweet. Whatever our mood was that day.”
Peter sighed, shaking his head, his eyes looking clearer.
“That sounds like a nice Sunday.”
I sat up straight, bringing my cigarette to my lips.
“Then,” I took a puff of my cigarette and blew it out quickly, turning to face Peter, “we would walk to the market and find the perfect food for dinner. Which we would cook together while music played and we danced slowly in the kitchen. And we would eat together at the table and talk more. Maybe we would have a dog who would be begging for scraps.”
Peter chuckled.
“That sounds amazing.”
“And we would not let the world intrude upon our life for that day.” I declared. “Every Sunday would be like that.”
“I would love your Sundays.”
“We are very stupid.” I sighed, the cigarette coming to my lips.
“Are we?” Peter frowned. “Why?”
“We do not really know each other at all,” I replied. “We are like teenagers. Our eyes have stars in them, and we will only know each other for tonight.”
“Do you want to love Sundays with me or not?” Peter ignored me.
“That is a pointless question.” I shrugged. “I—”
Suddenly, Peter leapt up from his seated position on the fountain wall, coming to stand upright upon it. He held his arms out wide, gesturing grandly at the neighborhood that surrounded us.
“Pick a house, Enzo!” He declared loudly. “Tell me which is your favorite, and I will make it yours! I will buy you your castle, and we will rule over our dominion together! Every Sunday will be ours to drink coffee and be not so sweet and cook dinners together! Anything you wish, I will make it my life’s work to make it happen for you! I am your servant!”
“You have gone mad.” I gasped, though a laugh escaped my throat. “Sit down. We will get in trouble.”
“No! I refuse!” Peter stated in a manner that you usually would expect from a drunk person, though I supposed he was drunk in a way. “I will not sit down until you tell me which house will become your castle! I will not rest until every dream of yours comes true! Until you allow me to make your dreams come true! Grant me the honor of making your dreams come true!”
Quickly, I reached up and pulled Peter down until he was seated beside me again. I was stifling my laughter as I glanced around, making sure none of the houses’ porch lights were flickering to life. Peter was calmly smoking his cigarette when I turned to him again. A dog was barking in one of the distant yards.
“You are insane.”
“You caused it.”
“Me?” I gasped. “How is your madness my fault?”
“You said asking you if you wanted to spend Sundays with me was pointless,” Peter explained calmly. “I could not abide that.”
“Yes, but—”
“Would you want to spend your perfect Sundays with me or not?” Peter asked.
“Peter, that is—”
He started to stand again. I grabbed his arm, holding him back.
“I would want to spend perfect Sundays with you,” I said urgently. “Sundays with you would be wonderful. I would want to spend a lifetime of perfect Sundays with you. Is that what you want to hear?”
“If that’s what you want to say.”
“It is.”
Peter nodded and settled back on the edge of the fountain, bringing his cigarette to his lips with a grand gesture.
“You are happy with yourself?” I rolled my eyes, though a smile came to my face.
“Immensely.”
“Good.”
“So, which house?” He asked.
“Could you really buy one of these houses?”
“Of course, not.” He chuckled. “They probably want millions of dollars for the smallest one. But if I could, I would do that for you. However, we can pretend.”
Nodding slowly, I scanned the neighborhood. Finally, I found my answer.
“I would want the smallest one,” I answered. “As long as you are in it.”
Peter turned his head to me, a shy smile pulling at the corners of
his mouth.
“I’ve never heard a more perfect answer to a question.”
“This is stupid.”
“You said that before. But is it?”
“Yes. Well, no. I do not know.”
“I don’t think it is,” Peter said. “If you lived in the U.S.—”
“But, I do not.”
“—I would take you on dates.” Peter continued, ignoring me. “I would woo you in every way that you deserved to be wooed.”
“Woo?”
“It’s not sexual like it sounds. It’s very sweet.” He replied, then continued. “And I would make you realize that living is so much better than existing. And I would let you turn my house into your castle. I would love having a relationship with you—even though I would have to do my part to keep that relationship strong.”
“You do not know me.”
“I think I do.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because you’re trying to convince a really awesome guy like me that you are not worth my time.” Peter grinned wickedly. “Only someone who wants nothing but someone to love would convince a great guy to have nothing to do with them.”
Love.
No one had ever said that word with a tinge of possibility to me before.
No man had ever suggested that maybe one day they would love me and I would love them.
“You are great?” I teased, pushing that word to the corner of my mind.
“Amazing.”
“How do I know that you are not lying to me?”
“Why would I lie to you?” Peter countered. “If we will only know each other for tonight, what purpose would lying to you serve?”
“Maybe you are crazy?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Maybe you are a narcissist.”
“I have my moments.”
“Maybe you are just trying to get me into bed.”
“Eventually.”
“You are crazy.”
“You love it.”
“I thought that I was too young for you?” I asked. “Or, you are too old for me?”
“You make me feel young.”
“You do not make me feel old.”
