The Speed of Dark

by Elizabeth Moon

  Do normal people really perform all these tasks? If so, it’s no wonder they can recognize one another so easily, at such distances, in different clothes.

  WE DO NOT HAVE A COMPANY MEETING THIS SATURDAY. I GO to the Center, but the assigned counselor is out sick. I look at the number for Legal Aid posted on the bulletin board and memorize it. I do not want to call it by myself. I do not know what the others think. After a few minutes, I go home again and continue reading the book, but I do take the time to clean my apartment and my car to make up for last week. I decide to throw away the old fleece seat cover, because I can still feel occasional pricks from glass fragments, and buy a new one. The new one has a strong leathery smell and feels softer than the old one. On Sunday I go to the early service at church, so that I have more time to read.

  Monday a memo arrives for all of us, giving the dates and times of preliminary tests. PET scan. MRI scan. Complete physical. Psychological interview. Psychological testing. The memo says we can take time off from work for these tests without penalty. I am relieved; I would not want to make up all the hours these tests will take up. The first test is Monday afternoon, a physical exam. We all go over to the clinic. I do not like it when strangers touch me, but I know how to behave in a clinic. The needle to draw blood doesn’t really hurt, but I do not understand what my blood and urine have to do with how my brain functions. No one even tries to explain.

  On Tuesday, I have a baseline CT scan. The technician keeps telling me it won’t hurt and not to be frightened when the machine moves me into the narrow chamber. I am not frightened. I am not claustrophobic.

  After work, I need to go grocery shopping because last Tuesday I met with the others in our group instead. I am supposed to be careful about Don, but I do not think he is really going to hurt me, anyway. He is my friend. By now he is probably sorry for what he did… if he is the one who did those things. Besides, it is my day for shopping. I look around the parking lot when I leave and do not see anyone I should not see. The guards at the campus gates would keep out intruders.

  At the store, I park as near to one of the lights as I can, in case it is dark when I come out. It is a lucky space, a prime: eleven out from the end of the row. The store is not too busy tonight, so I have time to get everything on my list. Even though I do not have a written list, I know what I need, and I do not have to double back anywhere to find something I forgot. I have too much for one of the express lanes, almost a full basket, so I pick the shortest regular lane.

  When I come out it is darker already but not really dark. The air is cool, even above the parking lot pavement. I push the basket along, listening to the rattling rhythm made by the one wheel that only touches the pavement now and then. It is almost like jazz, but less predictable. When I get to the car, I unlock the door and start putting the grocery sacks in carefully. Heavy things like laundry detergent and juice cans on the floor where they cannot fall off and crush something. Bread and eggs on the backseat.

  Behind me, the cart suddenly rattles; I turn and do not recognize the face of the man in the dark jacket. Not at first, anyway, and then I realize it is Don.

  “It’s all your fault. It’s your fault Tom kicked me out,” he says. His face is all bunched up, the muscles sticking out in knots. His eyes look scary; because I do not want to see them I look at other parts of his face. “It’s your fault Marjory told me to go away. It’s sick, the way women fall for that disability stuff. You probably have dozens of ’em, perfectly normal women all falling for that helpless act you do.” His voice goes high and squeaky and I can tell he is quoting someone or pretending to. “ ‘Poor Lou, he can’t help it,’ and, ‘Poor Lou, he needs me.’ ” Now his voice is lower again. “Your kind doesn’t need normal women,” he says. “Freaks should mate with freaks, if they have to mate at all. The very thought of you taking out your—being that way—with a normal woman just makes me puke. It’s disgusting.”

  I cannot say anything. I think I should be frightened, but what I feel is not fear but sadness, sadness so great it is like a heavy weight all over me, dark and formless. Don is normal. He could have been—could have done—so much, so easily. Why did he give it up to be this way?

  “I wrote it all down,” he says. “I can’t take care of all your sort, but they’ll know why I did this when they read it.”

  “It is not my fault,” I say.

  “The hell it’s not,” he says. He moves closer. His sweat has an odd smell. I do not know what it is, but I think he ate or drank something that gave it that smell. The collar on his shirt is crooked. I glance down. His shoes are scuffed; the lace of one is loose. Good grooming is important. It makes a good impression. Right now Don is not making a good impression, but no one seems to be noticing. From the corner of my eye I see other people walking to their cars, walking to the store, ignoring us. “You’re a freak, Lou—you understand what I’m saying? You’re a freak and you belong in a zoo.”

  I know that Don is not making sense and that what he says is objectively not fact, but I feel bruised anyway by the force of his dislike of me. I feel stupid, too, that I did not recognize this in him earlier. He was my friend; he smiled at me; he tried to help me. How could I know?

  He takes his right hand out of his pocket, and I see the black circle of a weapon pointing at me. The outside of the barrel gleams a little in the light, but the inside is dark as space. The dark rushes toward me.

  “All that social-support crap—hell, if it weren’t for you and your kind, the rest of the world wouldn’t be sliding into another depression. I’d have the career I should have, not this lousy dead-end job I’m stuck in.”

  I do not know what kind of work Don does. I should know. I do not think what is happening with money is my fault. I do not think he would have the career he wants if I were dead. Employers choose people who have good grooming and good manners, people who work hard and get along with others. Don is dirty and messy; he is rude and he does not work hard.

  He moves suddenly, his arm with the weapon jerking toward me. “Get in the car,” he says, but I am already moving. His pattern is simple, easy to recognize, and he is not as fast or as strong as he thinks. My hand catches his wrist as it moves forward, parries it to the side. The noise it makes is not much like the noise of weapons on television. It is louder and uglier; it echoes off the front of the store. I do not have a blade, but my other hand strikes in the middle of his body. He folds around the blow; bad-smelling breath gusts out of him.

  “Hey!” someone yells. “Police!” someone else yells. I hear screams. People appear from nowhere in a lump and land on Don. I stagger and almost fall as people bump into me; someone grabs my arms and whirls me around, pushing me against the side of the car.

  “Let him go,” another voice says. “He’s the victim.” It is Mr. Stacy. I do not know what he is doing here. He scowls at me. “Mr. Arrendale, didn’t we tell you to be careful? Why didn’t you go straight home from work? If Dan hadn’t told us we should keep an eye on you—”

  “I… thought… I was careful,” I say. It is hard to talk with all the noise around me. “But I needed groceries; it is my day to get groceries.” Only then do I remember that Don knew it was my day to get groceries, that I had seen him here before on a Tuesday.

  “You’re damned lucky,” Mr. Stacy says.

  Don is facedown on the ground, with two men kneeling on him; they have pulled his arms back and are putting on restraints. It takes longer and looks messier than it does on the news. Don is making a strange noise; it sounds like crying. When they pull him up, he is crying. Tears are running down his face, making streaks in the dirt. I am sorry. It would feel very bad to be crying in front of people like that.

  “You bastard!” he says to me when he sees me. “You set me up.”

  “I did not set you up,” I say. I want to explain that I did not know the policemen were here, that they are upset with me for leaving the apartment, but they are taking him away.

  “When I say it’s pe
ople like you who make our job harder,” Mr. Stacy says, “I do not mean autistic people. I mean people who won’t take ordinary precautions.” He still sounds angry.

  “I needed groceries,” I say again.

  “Like you needed to do your laundry last Friday?”

  “Yes,” I say. “And it is daylight.”

  “You could have let someone get them for you.”

  “I do not know who to ask,” I say.

  He looks at me strangely and then shakes his head.

  I do not know the music that is pounding in my head now. I do not understand the feeling. I want to bounce, to steady myself, but there is nowhere here to do it—the asphalt, the rows of cars, the transit stop. I do not want to get in the car and drive home.

  People keep asking me how I feel. Some of them have bright lights they shine in my face. They keep suggesting things like “devastated” and “scared.” I do not feel devastated. Devastated means “made desolate or ravaged.” I felt desolate when my parents died, abandoned, but I do not feel that way now. At the time Don was threatening me, I felt scared, but more than that I felt stupid and sad and angry.

  Now what I feel is very alive and very confused. No one has guessed that I might feel very happy and excited. Someone tried to kill me and did not succeed. I am still alive. I feel very alive, very aware of the texture of my clothes on my skin, of the color of the light, of the feel of the air going in and out of my lungs. It would be overwhelming sensory input except that tonight it is not: it is a good feeling. I want to run and jump and shout, but I know that is not appropriate. I would like to grab Marjory, if she were here, and kiss her, but that is very inappropriate.

  I wonder if normal people react to not dying by being devastated and sad and upset. It is hard to imagine anyone not being happy and relieved instead, but I am not sure. Maybe they think my reactions would be different because I am autistic; I am not sure, so I do not want to tell them how I really feel.

  “I don’t think you should drive home,” Mr. Stacy says. “Let one of our guys drive you, why don’t you?”

  “I can drive,” I say. “I am not that upset.” I want to be alone in the car, with my own music. And there is no more danger; Don can’t hurt me now.

  “Mr. Arrendale,” the lieutenant says, putting his head close to mine, “you may not think you’re upset, but anyone who’s been through an experience like this is upset. You will not drive as safely as usual. You should let someone else drive.”

  I know I will be safe to drive, so I shake my head. He jerks his shoulders and says, “Someone will come by to take your statement later, Mr. Arrendale. Maybe me, maybe someone else.” Then he walks off. Gradually the crowd scatters.

  The grocery cart is on its side; sacks are split, the food scattered and battered on the ground. It looks ugly and my stomach turns for a moment. I cannot leave this mess here. I still need groceries; these are spoiled. I cannot remember which are in the car, and safe, and which I will need to replace. The thought of going back into the noisy store again is too much.

  I should pick up the mess. I reach down; it is disgusting, the bread smashed and trodden into the dirty pavement, the splattered juice, the dented cans. I do not have to like it; I only have to do it. I reach, lift, carry, trying to touch things as little as possible. It is a waste of food and wasting food is wrong, but I cannot eat dirty bread or spilled juice.

  “Are you all right?” someone asks. I jump, and he says, “Sorry… you just didn’t look well.”

  The police cars are gone. I do not know when they left, but it is dark now. I do not know how to explain what happened.

  “I am all right,” I say. “The groceries aren’t.”

  “Want some help?” he asks. He is a big man, going bald, with curly hair around the bald spot. He has on gray slacks and a black T-shirt. I do not know if I should let him help or not. I do not know what is appropriate in this situation. It is not something we were taught in school. He has already picked up two dented cans, one of tomato sauce and one of baked beans. “These are okay,” he says. “Just dented.” He reaches out to me, holding them.

  “Thank you,” I say. It is always appropriate to say thank you when someone hands you something. I do not want the dented cans, but it does not matter if you want the present; you must say thank you.

  He picks up the flattened box that should have had rice in it and drops it in the waste container. When everything we can pick up easily is in the waste container or my car, he waves and walks off. I do not know his name.

  WHEN I GET HOME, IT is NOT EVEN 7:00 P.M. YET. I DO NOT know when a policeman will come. I call Tom to tell him what happened because he knows Don and I do not know any other person to call. He says he will come to my apartment. I do not need him to come, but he wants to come.

  When he arrives, he looks upset. His eyebrows are pulled together and there are wrinkles on his forehead. “Lou, are you all right?”

  “I am fine,” I say.

  “Don really attacked you?” He does not wait for me to answer; he rushes on. “I can’t believe—we told that policeman about him—”

  “You told Mr. Stacy about Don?”

  “After the bomb thing. It was obvious, Lou, that it had to be someone from our group. I tried to tell you—”

  I remember the time Lucia interrupted us.

  “We could see it,” Tom went on. “He was jealous of you with Marjory.”

  “He blames me about his job, too,” I say. “He said I was a freak, that it was my fault he didn’t have the job he wanted, that people like me should not have normal women like Marjory for friends.”

  “Jealousy is one thing; breaking things and hurting people is something else,” Tom says. “I’m sorry you had to go through this. I thought he was angry with me.”

  “I am fine,” I say again. “He did not hurt me. I knew he did not like me, so it was not as bad as it could have been.”

  “Lou, you’re… amazing. I still think it was partly my fault.”

  I do not understand this. Don did it. Tom did not tell Don to do it. How could it be Tom’s fault, even a little bit?

  “If I had seen it coming, if I had handled Don better—”

  “Don is a person, not a thing,” I say. “No one can completely control someone else and it is wrong to try.”

  His face relaxes. “Lou, sometimes I think you are the wisest of all of us. All right. It wasn’t my fault. I’m still sorry you had to go through all that. And the trial, too—that’s not going to be easy for you. It’s hard on anyone involved in a trial.”

  “Trial? Why do I need to be on trial?”

  “You don’t, but you’ll have to be a witness at Don’s trial, I’m sure. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “No.” I do not know what a witness at a trial does. I have never wanted to watch shows about trials on TV.

  “Well, it won’t happen anytime soon, and we can talk about it. Right now—is there anything Lucia and I can do for you?”

  “No. I am fine. I will come to fencing tomorrow.”

  “I’m glad of that. I wouldn’t want you to stay away because you were afraid someone else in the group would start acting like Don.”

  “I did not think that,” I say. It seems a silly thought, but then I wonder if the group needed a Don and someone else would have to step into that role. Still, if someone who is normal like Don can hide that kind of anger and violence, maybe all normal people have that potential. I do not think I have it.

  “Good. If you have the slightest concern about it, though—about anyone—please let me know right away. Groups are funny. I’ve been in groups where when someone that everybody disliked left we immediately found someone else to dislike and they became the outcast.”

  “So that is a pattern in groups?”

  “It’s one pattern.” He sighs. “I hope it’s not in this group, and I’ll be watching for it. Somehow we missed the problem with Don.”

  The buzzer goes off. Tom looks around, then at me. “
I think it will be a policeman,” I say. “Mr. Stacy said someone would come to take my statement.”

  “I’ll go on, then,” Tom says.

  THE POLICEMAN, MR. STACY, SITS ON MY COUCH. HE is WEARING tan slacks and a checked shirt with short sleeves. His shoes are brown, with a pebbly surface. When he came in he looked around and I could tell that he was seeing everything. Danny looks at things the same way, assessing.

  “I have the reports on the earlier vandalism, Mr. Arrendale,” he says. “So if you’ll just tell me about what happened this evening…” This is silly. He was there. He asked me at the time and I told him then, and he put things in his pocket set. I do not understand why he is here again.

  “It is my day to go grocery shopping,” I say. “I always go grocery shopping at the same store because it is easier to find things in a store when someone has been there every week.”

  “Do you go at the same time every week?” he asks.

  “Yes. I go after work and before fixing supper.”

  “And do you make a list?”

  “Yes.” I think, Of course, but maybe Mr. Stacy doesn’t think everyone makes a list. “I threw the list away when I got home, though.” I wonder if he wants me to get it from the trash.

  “That’s all right. I just wondered how predictable your movements were.”

  “Predictable is good,” I say. I am beginning to sweat. “It is important to have routines.”

  “Yes, of course,” he says. “But having routines makes it easier for someone who wants to hurt you to find you. Remember I warned you about that last week.”

  I had not thought of it like that.

  “But go on—I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Tell me everything.”

  It feels strange to have someone listening so intently to such unimportant things as the order in which I buy groceries. But he said to tell him everything. I do not know what this has to do with the attack, but I tell him anyway, how I organized my shopping and did not have to retrace my steps.