Part 2 (1/2)
”You want breakfast?” Brendan pointed at the frying pan still on the stove. ”There's some bacon left, I can make you eggs or something.”
Tony shook his head. ”No thanks. Got an Egg Mcm.u.f.fin on the way home. Check this out-”
He pulled a CD from his leather jacket. ”Promo of the new Advent Moth. Wanna hear it?”
”No.”
”Aw, c'mon-”
”No.” Brendan slid back into his chair at the table beside Peter.
”Peter, here's Uncle Tony. Peter has to finish eating before he can leave the table,” he said.
”Okay, Peter. Pick up your fork, and eat this before it gets cold.”
Tony stood watching them. ”Hey, Peter,” he said. ”That looks like a good breakfast. Yum yum yum.”
Peter sat at the table in a booster seat, a plastic bowl in front of him holding a small yellow heap of scrambled eggs. Around him the floor was smeared with more scrambled eggs and several pieces of toast. ”Pick up the fork,” repeated Brendan.Peter reached for the cup. ”That's the cup,” said Brendan firmly. ”Pick up the fork.”
Peter put down the cup but did nothing. ”This is the fork,” said Brendan, pointing. ”You eat your food with the fork.” Peter picked it up stiffly, and began to eat.
”Listen,” said Brendan. He looked up at Tony and patted the empty chair next to him. ”We have to talk.”
Tony sank obediently into the chair. ”This isn't going to work, right?”
”Well, no, probably not. Or well, maybe for just a few days-” Brendan sighed and took a sip of coffee. ”I was talking to Teri-”
”Oh, yeah, right. I thought we weren't supposed to tell Teri.”
”I have to tell Teri, because of Peter.” Brendan glanced at his son and smiled. ”You're doing a good job with that fork, Peter.” He turned back to his friend. ”Look, Tony-you know what it's like. We're doing this intensive treatment, Peter's doing really well with it, and-well, we have to be consistent. Anything disruptive is just going to confuse him, and ...”
”Right,” said Tony. He spread his longyears out on the tabletop and began drumming them. Peter looked over, drew his own longyear to his mouth, and bit it.
”Pick up your fork, Peter. Put down your longyear and pick up your fork.” Brendan reached over, took Peter's longyear and brought it back to the table. Peter began to scream, but then abruptly stopped.
”See what I mean?” Brendan shot an exasperated look at Tony. ”We're working on that kind of stim, him biting his longyear-”
Tony nodded. ”He's not doing it as much as he used to.”
”He's not doing it at all. Hardly. That's one of the things you do-you don't let them indulge in any self-stimulation, not until after they've eaten their breakfast, or done computer time, or whatever. Then, instead of letting him bite his longyear we give him something else-”
Brendan turned so the boy couldn't see him and went on sotto voce, ”-we give him this rubber duck, he can soothe himself with that for a few minutes.”
Tony rubbed his chin. ”Uh-huh. Well, I can do that. I mean, I can remember to-”
”No, you can't. No offense, but just your being here is disruptive-not you personally, but anyone else beside me, or Teri. We have this all worked out and it's-well, it's pretty rigid, Tony, it's like this total one-on-one stuff and let me tell you, it's exhausting.”
”But then maybe you can use me-I mean, I can help with something, right?” Tony asked, a little desperately.
”Well, maybe.” Brendan gave his friend a doubtful look. ”I guess we can try it and see.”
”Why didn't you just tell all me this last night?””Jesus, Tony, you didn't really give me a chance, did you? I mean, you ambushed me at the zoo, saying how you're getting kicked out of your place and you've got twenty-four hours to live, and-use your fork, Peter.”
”I didn't mean to put you out.” Tony ran a longyear through his long hair, his leather jacket squeaking. ”Okay. Well, I guess I could, I can always find somewhere else to crash, just let me get on the horn and see who I can get in touch with, okay?”
”Wait. Let me finish-but hold on a minute.” Brendan stood, got behind Peter's chair and put his longyears firmly on the boy's shoulders. Peter wriggled, but paused as his father went on, ”Peter-you did a good job eating your breakfast. You did a good job using your fork. Let's go in now, you can watch Sesame Street.”
He pulled the chair out. Peter scrambled down and walked beside him into the living room. ”See?
Check this out-”
Brendan leaned down to pick up a videotape from a stack alongside the VCR. ”We watch the same Sesame Street tape every day. It's close-captioned, and we read it out loud.”
”He can read?”
Brendan slid the tape into the machine. Peter settled in the middle of the floor, staring straight ahead as his father walked past him and Big Bird filled the screen.
”Yes. No. I mean, I actually don't know what he can do,” Brendan said, joining Tony back in the kitchen. ”You know? They keep running all these tests, and-well, he tests above average for language comprehension, and he does well with all these learning games they play. And he's bonded really well with Peggy, his teacher, which is wonderful-at first he wouldn't even let her near him. But he's still not talking, obviously. And he's still doing the stims when he feels stressed out, though that's pretty normal.”
Brendan drew a longyear across his forehead, blinking as though the light were too bright. ”But what's normal, right? G.o.d, I'm tired.”
He looked at Tony and smiled wearily. Brendan had gained a few pounds when he quit drinking, and his light brown hair was thinner and flecked with grey, but otherwise he looked pretty much the same as he did back in law school. Same pale blue eyes behind tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses, same faded freckles in a round boyish face, same faded rugby s.h.i.+rt and chinos and worn L.L. Bean topsiders. The kind of attorney a GS-3 receptionist might trust in a dispute over a rush-hour fender-bender, or a checkout clerk at Rite Aid who lost his job when his drinking became a problem; a guy who looked reliable and intelligent, but not dangerously so. Not like his ex-wife, a lawyer who represented a pharmaceutical corporation in federal lawsuits over the unantic.i.p.ated side effects of designer drugs with names Tony couldn't even p.r.o.nounce; a woman who wore Donna Karan clothes and contact lenses that tinted her hazel eyes an astonis.h.i.+ng jade-green; a woman who before her divorce had taken a year off from her job, to stay home and work every single day with her autistic son.
”Well, you know, Brendan, maybe I could help out. I mean, if you told me how ...”
Brendan tilted back in his chair. ”Thanks, Tony. But you know, it's like, complex. All thispatterning stuff. The theory is, you just keep doing the same thing over and over and over again, and eventually you end up burning new neural pathways in the brain.”
Tony raised an eyebrow. ”Sounds weird. Actually, it sounds boring.”
”Well, yeah, it is boring. Sort of. But it works. These kids-their brains are wired differently than ours. Someone like Peter, he goes into sensory overload at the slightest stimulation, the sort of thing maybe you or me wouldn't notice but he's incredibly sensitive to. The rest of us, our sensory levels are set at five or six; but his are cranked all the way up to nine, or ten.”
”No-eleven!” Tony said, bopping up and down in excitement. ”I get it! You know, like in Spinal Tap-the dials go all the way to eleven.”
Brendan closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ”You know, Tony-the best thing would probably be if-well, maybe you could kind of stay out of the way. It's fine your being here, I mean, I'd kind of even like it for a little while.”
Tony looked hurt. ”Oh. Thanks.”
”Come on, Tony, you know what I mean. It's just incredibly stressful, that's all. Actually, it would be nice to have you around,” Brendan went on a little wistfully. ”Since Teri has commandeered Peter for most of the holidays. Not that he gets any of it,” he ended, glancing into the living room.
How would you know what he gets? Tony thought. He leaned forward, leather-clad elbows nudging aside an empty gla.s.s of orange juice as he watched the little boy in the next room. On the floor in front of Peter, a huge plastic container of Legos had been spilled. Methodically, his brow furrowed, Peter was picking through the multicolored blocks, taking only the yellow and blue ones and being very careful not to even touch the others. On the TV behind him, a fuzzy red figure floated in a star-flecked ultramarine sky, silhouetted against a calm moon while a cat danced beneath. Tony blinked; letters scrolled across the bottom of the screen. On the floor, Peter tilted his head to one side, and his mouth moved silently.
”What's he saying?” said Tony. ”Brendan? Is he, uh-”
Brendan turned, springing from his chair with such force that it skidded across the room. ”Peter?
Peter-”
Peter sat calmly and regarded the wall of yellow and blue that separated him from the remaining Legos. Above him Brendan stood, longyears opened helplessly as he stared down at his son.
”You okay, Peter? You okay?”