by Chris Beakey
Kenneth shrugged, but smiled as the scent wafted through the air.
“So let’s clear some space.” Stephen took the pizza over to the desk, then turned and gave Kenneth the Coke and made a toasting motion with his wineglass.
“Cheers.”
Kenneth raised the bottle. “Cheers dad. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, tough guy.”
Kenneth frowned. The attempt at humor had obviously fallen flat. Stephen knew the talk wouldn’t go well if his son was feeling the least bit defensive.
“I’m just kidding—joking about the fight you got into today.” He made a nonchalant shooing motion with his hand. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to talk about it right now if you don’t want to. Come on, dig in.”
He saw the tension easing in Kenneth’s shoulders as he took a slice and sat on the edge of the bed. As a baby and toddler Kenneth had been a fussy eater—a fussy kid in general—but over the years his appetite had become much healthier. Stephen felt good seeing the pleasure he got from the pizza, eaten now in the safety of his bedroom, the one room of the house that was fully finished. Kenneth had painted the walls a pleasant khaki and the trim a semi-gloss white two days after they had taken possession of the place. The ceiling fan and light fixtures had a nautical art deco design, and the carpet was a light tan and periwinkle plaid that tied in nicely to the slate blue bedspread and curtains. Two walls were covered with reprints of black and white photos made by twentieth century masters. Thanks to nearly twenty years with Lori, whose own talent had always amazed him, Stephen recognized the landscapes of Ansel Adams, the surreal arboreal compositions by Blossfeldt, the erotically charged Mapplethorpes, and the Diane Arbus works that had always reminded him of carnival sideshows, all the more striking because the odd people she photographed were real.
It was a highly personal space—a private place complete with a Mac computer equipped with more gadgetry than Stephen would ever understand. Lying beside him late at night at the old house, Lori had told him she was worried about what was “out there” in cyberspace and suggested that as parents they should establish their right to inspect Sara and Kenneth’s computers at will. At the time Stephen had disagreed. He was already beginning to feel a distance between himself and his children and worried that laying down the law would only make it worse.
But now he thought he might have been wrong. Kenneth had been buying his own software and accessories for years now. Stephen knew that at a minimum he had a Web camera and enough know-how to find his way to pretty much anything the Internet had to offer.
All that and so few real friends. He took a long hit of the wine and looked closer at the bed. To Kenneth’s right and left were several fabric samples, set out in what looked like an organized order around color strips from Behr paints. Months earlier Lori and Kenneth had made a pact to decorate the house together. “Something that will be good for both of us,” Lori had told him. “So your son can prove his creative genius and I can find something to do with my time.”
The statement had troubled him. It was a subtle reminder that Lori’s decision to abruptly end her career “for the sake of our family” had been weighing hard on her mind.
Her decision, not yours.
He sipped some more of the wine, reminding himself to keep the guilt at bay.
You didn’t force her to do anything.
He took a deep breath to gather his courage, and wished he hadn’t started drinking so early.
“I actually do need to know what happened at school today Kenny.”
Kenneth tensed. “You just said we don’t have to talk about it.”
Stephen squeezed his shoulder. “But we do.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter, because it isn’t right.”
“So what? There’s nothing you can do.”
“I need to know who did this to you.”
“Some jerk named Marco Niles.”
Stephen frowned, his memory jogged by the last name. Detective Niles’ son, he thought, remembering the conversations that he had had with Joseph Niles after Lori’s death.
Kenneth was blushing, as if he had been forced to relive the incident again.
“I know this is hard to talk about Kenny, but I have to meet with the principal at your school on Monday. I need to know how it started.”
“It came out of nowhere. I was sitting there minding my own business and the guy walked up with a bunch of his dumb jock friends and beat the crap out of me.”
“Just like that? For no reason?”
“Oh yeah, he had a reason. He called me a faggot.”
Stephen felt a clenching in his gut. He did his best to maintain eye contact; to look unthreatening, non-judgmental.
“That’s terrible, Kenny. I mean, hell, no one should be subjected to that. Someone—a teacher or whatever—should have stopped it right away. Someone should have dealt with it.”
He realized he was stammering, talking around the issue instead of addressing it. His mind raced with questions: Is it true? When did you know? What did we do wrong?
“It’s not true,” Kenny stared down at the floor. Stephen remembered reading that denial was part of the initial process of self-acceptance that some adolescents went through, and said in a gentle voice:
“Don’t worry…I’m not going to judge you.”
“You didn’t hear me.” Kenny raised his head and met his eyes. “It isn’t true. I’m not.”
Stephen nodded, and wondered if the denial would make everything even more difficult. Focus on helping him, he thought, giving him everything he needs to get through this.
“So you’re not,” he said. “But I’ll tell you right now that I’m extremely proud of everything that makes you different from other kids, Kenny. Your mom would have told you the same thing.”
Kenneth’s cheeks took on a deeper shed of red. “Yeah, right.”
“I’m serious.”
“I doubt she really felt that way.”
Stephen frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Sometimes people say things because they want to believe them.”
“Not in this case.”
“She knew it wasn’t easy.”
Stephen stared at him, unsure of how to respond.
“What wasn’t easy? Being an artist?”
“No. Being unhappy, like her.”
“Your mom wasn’t unhappy.”
“Sometimes she was, dad.” Kenneth’s voice was quiet. “Sometimes you both were, together.”
A chill shot down the back of Stephen’s neck. “Where did you get that idea?”
Kenneth’s shoulders slumped as he sat down on the bed and stared down at the floor. Stephen considered the underlying message in what his son was telling him. He had believed that neither Kenneth nor Sara had any idea of the troubles he and Lori had faced; believed their secrets had been safe.
“Did mom say something to you?”
“No,” Kenneth met his eyes. “But I knew.”
Stephen sat down next to him. The buzz from the bourbon and the wine made it more difficult to determine how to respond.
And then he answered, with the truth: “We did have some problems Kenny, but they were in the past. We were happy together in the last few months. You know that, don’t you?”
Kenneth shrugged again. Stephen felt an urge to argue with him, to somehow convince him to agree, but he knew his son’s mind was made up.
The silence lengthened, becoming awkward as the call with the insurance agent drifted back into his mind. Weeks earlier Sara had told him there were rumors at school about Lori’s death. At some point soon he would have to tell his kids about the decision. And now, with Kenneth’s state of mind, the whole prospect seemed more precarious.
You have to help him, he thought. But you can’t do it alone.
“I’ll do everything I can to get you through this Kenny. I’ll find you a counselor or a psychologist, or just someone to talk to—”
“A psychologist?”
Kenneth’s voice was hoarse, anxious.
“You think I need a shrink?”
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“You think I’m some kind of freak?”
“Kenny.” Stephen touched his arm.
Kenneth sprang back as if he’d been jolted by an electric shock. “Get away from me!”
“I’m trying to support you.”
“You can’t do anything to support me!”
“Yes—I’ll talk to the kid’s father. I know him. He’s one of the detectives—”
“No!”
“Kenny.”
“Leave…me…alone.”
A visible shudder ran through Kenneth’s upper body. He looked as if he was about to burst into tears as he crossed his arms, defensively tight against his chest.
Stephen stood up, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He felt completely powerless to break through the invisible wall between them. But then from the back of his mind he heard Lori’s voice in a conversation from the past—“He’s so vulnerable. So alone” and without another thought he sat down on the bed and wrapped Kenneth in a hug.
“It’s okay Kenny-boy. Really okay.”
He felt the heat from his son’s body and hazarded a kiss to the top of his head. He was suddenly immobilized by the gravity of being alone; one parent to take care of both of his children. He tried to summon the mantra all you need to do is love them and they’ll be all right but the weight on his chest made it seem as if all three of them were doomed.
“I miss mom.”
Kenneth began to sob, but remained stiff in Stephen’s arms.
“I miss her so much.”
Sara stopped worrying about the Jeep and barely thought about the winding mountain roads as she sipped her second glass of the lovely red wine Kieran had poured for her and went through the reading lesson she had pulled from the web site for teachers of autistic kids. Aidan was rocking back and forth in the bentwood chair across from her, the physical motion enhancing his ability to focus as he described key parts of the narrative in the book she held on her lap.
Aidan barely resembled Kieran. His eyes were a darker blue and his hair was sandy-colored and his stocky body had a doughy softness that she had felt tonight for the first time. He had surprised her first by not jerking away from her touch and then by actually allowing her a brief hug.
“The cows are low and they get scared,” Aidan said, with a certainty that showed he almost understood.
“You mean what they see is low,” Sara gently corrected him. Together, they had read through a chapter of a book written by an autistic—and highly accomplished—woman who designed cattle pens and routing systems for the beef industry. The book had been Sara’s idea—reading to strengthen comprehension skills and reinforce the fact that people with autism could do great things. And although the idea still seemed to have merit, she couldn’t help feeling queasy with the knowledge that the cows walked single-file through the woman engineer’s brilliantly designed chutes so they could be killed.
Slaughtered humanely, the book said. As if that could actually happen.
“Remember what the engineer said about the cow’s field of vision.” She spoke carefully to keep from undermining his confidence. “They see straight ahead but not sideways. So the way the channels are designed in the pen makes them feel more comfortable as they move forward.”
“Oh.” Aidan’s gaze shifted to a spot over her head, a sign he might be drifting.
“Do you understand, Aidan?”
“The cows are in a pen.” Aidan’s rocking slowed.
“That’s right.”
“With cowboys.”
“Well…” she hesitated. “Sort of.”
“Cowboys ride horses. Mustangs.”
“Um yes, a Mustang is a kind of horse but—”
“The 1968 Mustang GT has a 157 horsepower with four-speed overdrive.”
She sighed; the mental trajectory that took him from cow to cowboy to horse to horsepower was a sure sign she was losing him.
“Aidan?” She held up her index finger to focus his attention, and placed it just above the bridge of her nose, directly between her eyes. She had come up with the gesture at the tutoring lab at school and for some reason it had worked. “You’re doing well. You understood a lot.”
“I understood a lot.”
The repeating means he’s still off-task, she thought. Get him back with a question.
She held up the book, and pointed to the title. “What’s the name of the book, Aidan?”
He narrowed his eyes, and focused on the cover.
“This book is named Thinking in Pictures. It is written by Temple Grandin. Temple Grandin likes cows.”
“I think our boy’s getting tired,” Kieran said.
She sighed, and rested her left hand on Kieran’s knee. He was lying back on the sofa, looking comfortable and pleased with the way she had handled the lesson. The slight stubble she had felt on his pale, beautiful skin this morning had thickened, and it gave him a soulful look in the light of the candelabra beside him. She gazed at the length of his body, imagined herself draped over him, her hands gently caressing the wonderful planes of his face as they kissed.
“You think so?” she asked.
“It’s past his bedtime.”
“No it’s NOT past my bedtime!” Aidan yelled. “Today is Friday and I stay up late on Friday!”
“Hey. Aidan. Look at me.” Kieran raised his index finger and used the same gesture she had used to get Aidan’s attention, but he looked sterner, more authoritative. “We have company in the house. A beautiful girl. You have to use your manners around company. And around beautiful girls.”
Kieran’s words filled her with a sense of euphoria. He smiled slightly, from the corner of his mouth; then met her eyes as if they were sharing a secret. She looked past him as she remembered the almost unbearably erotic memory of her first secretive visit to his office, when he had slipped his hands up underneath her blouse, and touched her nipples, gently at first, until they stiffened.
“You okay Sara?”
Her face was hot, flushed. Kieran was still smiling at her, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. For a long, surreal moment it felt as if the two of them were already joined, already experiencing the inevitable sexual connection.
“I’m a good boy,” Aidan said.
“Yes you’re a good boy.” Kieran stood up and placed his wine glass on the side table and then leaned over and laid his hands on Aidan’s shoulders. “And a good brother. Right?”
“Right!”
“And good brothers always get along.”
“Yes!”
Kieran made a growling sound deep in his throat. Aidan’s face was suffused with delight as he mimicked it back.
Kieran growled again, and then playfully pressed his forehead against Aidan’s. “And if we don’t, we rumble.”
“SO WE’RE GONNA RUMBLE NOW!” Aidan yelled, and then suddenly they were wrestling; Aidan playfully swatting his forearms against Kieran’s face, then butting his head against Kieran’s chest, both of them growling louder now, like dogs.
“No NO NO!” Aidan yelled, and Kieran suddenly froze, tilting his head forward so Aidan could pound him with more playful blows, his fists hitting Kieran’s shoulders as Kieran lowered himself into a sitting position.
Sara recognized what Kieran was doing; sending a signal of calm retreat, easing out of the wrestling match by giving up his ground. After a moment Aidan got the signal and stopped the punching but kept Kieran wrapped in his arms. Kieran had told her once that bedtime was one of the most challenging points i
n the day. Aidan could be so full of nervous, pent-up energy that getting him into bed was “like pushing a Jack-in-the-Box back into the can.”
Kieran’s body language seemed to be working, at least temporarily; Aidan was standing still but looking tense, as if there were springs coiled in his body.
“You wanna talk about cars?” Kieran spoke quietly, his voice just above a whisper, another tack for drawing Aidan’s focus.
“I know all about cars,” Aidan said.
Kieran eased himself out of the embrace. “How about car movies? Tell me the best car movies—top three.”
“Top three!” Aidan said.
Kieran nodded. “Sara Porter you’re about to see something really amazing from my brother Aidan here. Aidan, tell us about the best car movies ever made, starting with Thunder Road. Ready…” Kieran palmed a rapid beat against the seat cushion. “Go!”
Aidan’s voice rose to a theatrical level. “Thunder Road 1958 has the 1950 Ford Coupe V8 flathead engine with three-speed overdrive and a 1957 Ford Fairlane Skyline V8 190 horsepower.”
“What about The Fast and the Furious?”
“The Fast and the Furious has a 1994 Toyota Supra custom T-66 turbocharged 544 horsepower and 6800 rpms in Lamborghini Candy Pearl Orange, with a Bomex front spoiler and a Gertag Six-Speed gearbox with a Stillway sequential adapter!”
“Gone in 60 Seconds!”
“Gone in 60 Seconds has a 1967 Mustang GT 500 Fastback with a 289 four-on-the-floor top loader transmission.”
“YO AIDAN O’SHEA!”
Kieran raised his right hand for a high-five gesture that stopped in midair. There was a sudden change in his expression—a rapid, nervous blinking of his eyes. He tilted his head and looked toward the trailer section of the house, as if there was someone standing there.
And then he shook his head, with quick, jerking motions.
Sara felt a strange tension in the air, as if Kieran was suddenly unable to see or hear Aidan or herself.
And then Kieran flinched, as if he had been slapped.
She reached over and touched his arm. “Are you okay?”
The motion seemed to bring him back, but his eyes still looked dazed. After a moment he squinted, as if he was forcing himself to concentrate.
