He slapped me. I fell back into the chair. I still had the damn sheet wrapped around my neck and couldn’t even get my hands up to defend myself.
“Get up, old man. Get up, so I can knock your ass back down.” He leaned in and spoke right in my ear. “You made Angie cry, so I will fuckin’ hurt you. You will beg me to kill you before I’m done. You got that, old man?”
He put one very large hand on my throat, squeezing just enough to hold me steady, and began backhand slapping me. I was gasping like a landed trout. I tasted blood.
One of the first lessons I learned while in the care of our government was this: real hard guys don’t tell you all about it first—only the bullies do that. But if you don’t take the bullies down right away, they can hurt you almost as much as the quiet psychos.
I reached out from underneath the sheet and grabbed Tino’s scissors. Then I stabbed them into Bubba’s leg. Straight in. I was careful. I didn’t want to hit an artery.
He took two deep breaths like he was sucking his soul back into his body, then his eyes rolled back and went white and he fell back off the porch. He landed in the front yard like a sack of feed.
Angie dropped her Evian and started screaming. No words, just sounds, but I wasn’t paying attention. The cowboy came to and looked up at me with surprise. I would have bet it was the first time he had ever felt real pain.
“You better get that looked at,” I told him.
“You killed him!” Angie had found her voice again, but she was two steps behind.
“He goddamn fainted, Angie. Get him a band-aid or something.” I looked around. Tino and Mamma had run out onto the porch. “Sorry about your scissors, Tino.”
He looked over the situation and gave me a small smile. “No problem, Jason. They’ll clean up just fine. It was a good cause.”
I looked for the Kid. He was still inside. I realized a bit belatedly that I should have been thinking of him all along.
Tino bent down and helped Angie get her Galahad to his feet. “Come on, sister. This boy needs a doctor.” They hobbled off to the Silverado and seconds later peeled out of the driveway, Tino at the wheel.
“I’m sorry about this, Mamma.” I pulled off the sheet and shook out the remaining hairs. “I should go.”
“Blood is blood, Jason. I got to stand by my girl, you know that.”
“I know. I understand.” I did. I was somewhere way out in Wonderland or Oz or Middle Earth for all I knew, but rules still applied. It was time for me to get back to New York City. “I’ll pack and be gone in no time. I’m sorry.”
The Kid walked out to the porch working on a mini vanilla ice cream cone. He sat down and began driving his cars into a tightly packed square. Mamma stood watching him, her shoulders stooped with too many years of fighting too many demons. I have never seen eyes so sad, so pained.
I made a decision. I have reconsidered it many times, but I always come up with the same conclusion. I have never regretted it.
“He’ll come with me, Mamma. I’m taking my son. Back to New York. I’ll get him help.” I didn’t know why I was saying all those things. Part of me didn’t know it was me talking. But part did.
She looked at me for a long time.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, son. Angie is right. You don’t know.”
“Maybe I’m ready to start learning, Mamma. Angie can’t do it, we both know that. I don’t know if I can, but I want to try. That’s the best shot he’s going to get right now.”
And maybe I just couldn’t leave without taking a piece of Angie with me.
I packed my things quickly, put together a bag for the Kid, and was back down on the porch in minutes.
“Hey, Kid. Let’s pack up your cars. You and me are going on a trip.”
“Can’t.” He wasn’t angry or stubborn, he was just making it clear to me that he couldn’t go.
I gave a big sigh of impatience. “All right. Tell me why you can’t go.”
He gave a big sigh back. “Bath,” he explained, as though to an idiot.
It had been years since I had witnessed the Kid in one of his monumental breakdowns—where, in total terror, he would fight like a cornered bobcat, screaming, scratching, and biting to get his way, even if the thing in question seemed as inconsequential as whether or not he got to clean the ice cream off himself before going on a trip.
I bent to pick him up.
“Later for the bath, my man. We have to hit the road.”
He howled and gnashed his teeth. It was feral. I pulled back.
Something told me that going back to prison for stabbing a man while violating parole was the easier path. I hoped Tino and Angie would keep the police off my back long enough for a short bath.
“I’ll run the bath. You get undressed.”
Mamma helped without hovering or taking over. “You’ll be doing this yourself tomorrow. Best you find out how right now.”
The Kid had a disconcerting trick of sinking below the surface and holding his breath until I was ready to panic, but otherwise he seemed to enjoy himself.
I told him we would be flying for real that day—in an airplane. I had a rental car that would take us there.
“We Try Harder?”
“No, it’s from Enterprise.”
“Featuring cars from Dodge and Chrysler.”
“It’s a Charger.”
“The Dodge Charger.” He didn’t smile—he almost never smiled—but I could tell he was pleased and excited. “The Dodge Charger comes equipped with a 2.7-liter V-6 and a four-speed automatic transmission.”
That was the first full sentence I heard from my son—one that was not a quote from some advertising copy.
“I bet you’re right,” I said. “Now stand up and let me get you dried off.”
He sank beneath the surface again.
I waited. Bubbles rose up and burst. The moment my will gave out and I decided to risk hauling him out, he sat up.
“The SRT8 model has the 425 horsepower V-8, the most powerful American-made powerhouse of its time. . . .”
He went on. He described the history of the Dodge Charger and its full specs. I couldn’t get him to stop—or get out of the tub. His voice lost its usual harsh bark and became the soft, syrupy sounds of his grandmother.
“Mamma, does anyone know he can talk like this?”
“Boy’ll talk your ear off, as long as he’s talking about cars.” She whisked him out of the tub and wrapped him tightly in a towel before he had a chance to complain. “He doesn’t like nappy towels. You got to get him the smooth ones. I put those I got in your bag. And don’t brush his hair—he thinks the brush is stealing his hair. Just let it dry on its own. And when its time to get him a haircut, you call Tino and he’ll walk you through it. Tino tricks him into it somehow. The boy thinks his hair hurts when it gets cut.”
“He was talking.” I was still in awe.
She glared. “About cars.” She started dressing him in blue shorts and T-shirt—identical to the ones he had been wearing all morning. “Now today is Monday,” she said. “He will only wear blue on Monday.”
I felt myself beginning to drift. I knew so little. How could someone so small have so many rules?
“Listen, Jason. That’s how you’ll get by. You listen to him. Let him tell you what he needs and you’ll do fine.” She hustled us down to the front porch and sat on the bottom step to say her good-byes to the Kid. She loved him. She would miss him. He was always welcome to come back and stay with her if that’s what he really wanted.
The Kid responded to all this outpouring of love with a quick, “Okay.” He turned and walked down the driveway.
I kissed her cheek and hurried to catch up.
All the way to New Orleans, he chattered about the Dodge Charger. I tried t
o remind him when he was repeating himself—to no effect. The technical history was lost on me, so I let him rattle on. He was happy talking about it, and I had my own thoughts to conquer.
Arrogance, spite, and anger weren’t going to be enough to raise my child. Angie and her mother were right—I didn’t know much. And what I knew scared me. Doctors, babysitters, other helpers, special schools, diets, treatments. It was all going to cost a fortune. The Kid’s trust fund would help, but I was afraid we could run through that in the first two years. I had work coming at a great daily rate, but it wasn’t going to last more than two weeks. And time! How was I going to be able to work if I was caring for the Kid? I focused on the money so I wouldn’t think about the rest of it. A co-dependent’s cowardice.
The Kid started crying the minute he realized we were not going to keep the Charger. All the way from the rental lot to the check-in desk he sobbed and hung from my arm like an anchor. I made the mistake of bribing him with the promise of an ice cream, only to find, once we were past security, there was none for sale. I tried picking him up and he screamed like I’d set him on fire. When I put him back down, he wrapped all four limbs around my left leg and sat on my foot. I limped along, swinging the encumbered leg in an exaggerated arc to cover as much ground as possible with each painful step. He cried all the way to the gate, sobbing, “’Nilla, ’nilla.”
We finally arrived at the waiting area and I collapsed onto the nearest available seat. The Kid wriggled up into my lap, pulled out one of his car books, and began flipping pages frantically. I tried shifting my weight in an attempt to make us both more comfortable and he snapped his head back and pounded me in the nose. The pain was horrible. I wanted to toss him across the aisle. I didn’t. I maintained.
Then the overhead announcements began.
“Will the passengers Everett Unintelligible and Lortel Mumble-Crackle report to Gate B-Four. Your flight is boarded.” Or it could have been Gate C, D, or E-Four. And Everett could have been Edward. The booming voice was accompanied by blasts of static and electronic squeals. The Kid threw himself off my lap and onto the floor, hands pinned over his ears, eyes squinted shut, and emitted a hideous, high-pitched shriek. I tried rubbing his back to soothe him, but my touch sent him instantly into an even bigger fit.
“I want you to know, sir, that I have reported you to airport security. I have been watching. The way you treat that boy is shameful.” A heavyset, older woman in a floral-patterned summer dress was standing over me. Her fists were clenched. She looked like Barbara Bush, only meaner. An embarrassed-looking twenty-something man in a seersucker suit and white buck shoes was pulling ineffectually on her arm.
“Come on, Grandma. You’ve done your good turn. Let the police deal with this.”
“I’m going to pray for that boy,” she hissed at me. It was a threat.
The garbled announcements came to an abrupt end. The Kid stopped screaming and sat up.
“Looks like it’s working,” I said.
“Jesus is watching you.”
I let her have the last word.
The gate attendants called our flight and we queued up with the other families traveling with children. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two uniforms approaching the gate—security. They didn’t look like they were interested in long explanations.
“Excuse me, sir. Is that your child?”
We were steps away from boarding.
“Would you step out of line, please?”
The Kid shuffled along at my side, head down, shoulders slumped, looking just like what I imagined a battered child would look like.
“What’s the problem?” I tried to give them a pleasant smile. It is not what I do best.
“We had a report of a child being physically abused.”
“My son is fine. Take a look.” I silently cursed all meddling grandmothers.
The cop got down on his haunches and inspected him. The Kid scowled back at him.
“Tell me, boy, are you all right? Has anyone been hurting you? We’re here to help.”
The Kid’s eyes rolled up toward the ceiling and he moaned with the force of a ghoul in an Irish fairy tale, “’Nilla! ’Nilla!” Then he gave a sigh of immense heartbreak. It was a Tony-winning performance.
The cop looked up at me.
“Ice cream,” I said. “He wants ice cream.”
“Oh.” He stood up. “Sorry.” His partner was trying not to smile.
“Can we go now?” I said.
They waved me through.
I thought I was in the clear. I was proud of us. We had weathered our first storm together. The Kid and I were struggling, but we were making it work. No problem.
That sense of well-being lasted all the way through the boarding bridge. The step from there to the plane itself involved crossing a half-inch gap. The Kid began shrieking.
In the few seconds it took me to identify the Kid’s problem, he managed to terrify all of the other children who were in line with us. He also wet himself, soaking not just his pants and underpants, but his sock and one shoe as well. And he broke out into a slimy sweat all over, so that when I grabbed him and propelled him over the crack and into the plane, it was like wrestling a greased piglet.
I don’t think pigs bite as readily as he did, though. He didn’t bite the flight attendant who reached forward to help me, which would probably have had us ejected on the spot, if not arrested. He bit me—hard enough to put two holes in my Ralph Lauren blazer. He also bit himself, but that was later.
He fought me as I changed him, pulling clothes out of his carry-on while annoyed passengers pushed by us. At first, he refused to wear the seat belt, but once it was locked in, he kept pulling it tighter until I became afraid he was going to cut himself in two. I was ready for an in-flight vodka on the rocks and we were still at the gate.
The shrieking didn’t start up again until we were in the air and the pilot came over the overhead talking about what time we should expect to land and what the weather was going to be like. The Kid looked around wildly for the source of the annoying hum that accompanied the pilot’s voice, and then, without warning, started screaming. The man in the seat immediately in front of the Kid reacted as though he had been slapped in the back of the head with a shovel. People wearing earbuds, blasting music into their heads, heard the shriek and turned to look. It was a scream of both pain and terror so powerful that it set off ancillary, less resonant cries from the other toddlers seated near us. Everyone on board under six started crying.
The Kid fought back against the Powers of Chaos. He bit my other arm, giving the jacket matching holes. He attacked the wall of the plane as hard as he could, using his head as his weapon. He managed to do this at least half a dozen times before I was able to get an arm around and restrain him.
For the next hour, the Kid alternated his behavior between hysterical, nausea-inducing, gasping, sobbing tears of helpless rage, and ear-splitting shrieks of rage that didn’t need any help. He grunted, barked, and hissed.
Then he bit himself. He latched onto his own hand, shaking his head like a pit bull with a shih tzu. I wrapped one arm around him and pulled him to me as tight as I could, while with the other hand I reached over and pinched his nose. He had to open his mouth to take his next breath, and I got his hand away from him. I held him while he gnashed at me, until with a great sigh he fell back against the seat. He was instantly asleep.
My heartbeat returned to normal. I was exhausted. In prison, I had seen a huge man go berserk in the yard one day. He moved through the crowd, punching, gouging, and kicking. He seemed to pick men up and throw them. I didn’t see what had set him off, but found myself staring at him, mesmerized as though watching a distant tornado. Then he suddenly veered in my direction and I was sure I felt Death approaching.
The guards stopped him with repeated charges from a Tas
er. The relief I felt as he fell at my feet that day was nothing compared to what I was going through as the Kid fell asleep.
I put my head back, and in seconds I was asleep as well.
A half-hour before landing in New York, I awoke to find the Kid slumped next to me, his head pillowed on my arm. It felt good.
—
THE KID SPENT the week visiting Park Avenue doctors, early-childhood specialists at Columbia and NYU, and school admissions officers—public and private—in three boroughs. I trotted behind, writing checks.
By Saturday afternoon, he was enrolled in school—private and specializing in teaching autistic children—and his trust fund had dropped by an equivalent of more than two full years at Harvard. He had a host of doctors, all of whom gave me variations on the same theme—the Kid might improve, he might not, have hope, not expectations—and all of whom charged as much per fifteen-minute visit as I was going to be earning in an hour. And he had Heather.
Almost as round as she was tall, tattooed and with more facial jewelry than the entire front row of a Marilyn Manson concert, Heather was the Kid’s shadow, his minder, his behavioral tutor. A wizard. She was finishing a Ph.D. program at Columbia in early-childhood development and was glad to get firsthand experience working one-on-one with an autistic child. She was so glad, in fact, that she was willing to work twenty hours a week for a mere forty-eight dollars an hour. She was my guide in the wilderness that was my son.
Meanwhile, the Kid and I were discovering each other’s boundaries and needs. The days of the week were marked by what was allowed for breakfast, and what color scheme was acceptable for the way he dressed. Blue was reserved for Monday. Yellow never. Beige was best on Wednesday and Saturday, Friday was always black. No plaids. Ever.
Eggs were scrambled, never fried. Pancakes must be served with corn syrup, not maple, and only on Friday and Sunday. Mustard, he had convinced me, was an abomination, never to be allowed anywhere near his food. He called it “Poo,” a word he would scream very loudly in any setting, including the coffee shop across Amsterdam. I was beginning to get him to accept food that was not just white or yellow. Green was still in the long-term-planning stage.
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