Chapter 12
Roby sipped on the chamomile tea
he had just expertly brewed. His eyebrows lifted comically,
giving further evidence of his increased skill. Before
coming to New York, he had never heard of herbal teas,
nor had he ever imagined himself taking pride in developing
domestic capabilities. Despite a lifetime characterized
by serious concerns, none more serious than the plight
of his young son, Roby began to break his own tradition
of somber expressions, allowing the flesh around his
eyes and mouth to wrinkle more freely with smiles.
Slowly, as he watched others clown and giggle without
being self-conscious and without compromising the
intent of the program, he experimented. During the
previous Wednesday night conference, Roby related
an incident about Robertito. His face contorted in
perfect imitation of his son's bizarre and often funny
facial gestures. Everyone laughed. Startled, he looked
around at his audience. Laura begged him to repeat
the story. When he did, the room became engulfed in
hysterics. Rather than subdue his pantomime, Roby
increased his contortion to his and our delight.
"Bears, I am ready to continue,"
he said as he folded a page carefully in his notebook.
Charlotte, seemingly distracted, translated his words
abruptly. Bryn, who had worked an earlier session
with me and Robertito, curled her body comfortably
into the corner of the couch and listened.
"I noticed you tend to work
with toys on the floor," I began. "Let's
see ... you did it with the puzzles, the insertion
box and the colored blocks. I think if you could remember
to lift everything up to eye level or use the table
as a work area, you'll increase your chance for more
spontaneous eye contact." He nodded and made
notations.
The phone rang. Charlotte bolted
from her chair and flew into the kitchen. When she
returned, she appeared even more distracted than before.
"Ready?" I asked her. She
flashed a curt grin. "Okay. Once, during yesterday
morning's session, Robertito touched the xylophone
and another time he picked up the drum. Those are
great opportunities to follow his cue, to let him
see that he can control his environment and use us.
Part of the key is to continually show him how we
can help him."
Roby's eyes clouded. "I do not
know how I missed that. I remember him with the drum.
It didn't register." He turned away from my eyes.
"You do so many wonderful things
for your son, Roby. The idea is not to be concerned
with what you missed or we missed, but to use the
awareness to help us focus even more sharply. They
become opportunities for us to learn ... opportunities
- that's all."
His forehead ruffled with deep creases.
"I have much to learn."
"We all do," I said as
I squeezed his arm gently. He suppressed a little-boy
smile. For a moment, I imagined Roby as a child in
the fields with his bull. Determined, yet vulnerable.
This time, I wanted to be sure he knew he was not
alone. I tightened my grip on his arm a second time.
He riveted his eyes on mine and nodded.
"Okay," I said. "Next
subject. Let's talk about Robertito's hands. I want
to not only increase the stimulation, but diversify
it. In addition to massaging, tomorrow we introduce
sandpaper, brushes, feathers, velvet and a vibrator.
Perhaps we can start expanding the dimensions of his
sensory intake with his hands. Hot water. Cold water.
Mud. Clay. Ice cubes. Maybe you can come up with additional
ideas. I somehow know that as his mind initiates more
activities, his hands improve. It's like a complete
circle and there are many points of entry. We want
to take advantage of all of them."
"Suppose he doesn't want to
take advantage of them," Charlotte interjected.
"Then we wait and try again.
He has to open the channel if he can and if he wants
to," I replied.
"And if he doesn't?' Charlotte
probed.
"He doesn't," I answered
directly. "Please translate that for Roby."
I watched his face as he listened to each word. My
answer did not startle him. He smiled a warm, rich,
wonderful smile.
"I have learned to love my son
for who he is," he said. "Not for what we
can teach him to do." Charlotte shrugged her
shoulders.
Bryn touched Roby's arm. "Isn't
he wonderful, Daddy?"
When Charlotte interpreted Bryn's
words, Roby dipped his chin self-consciously. Bryn
shook her head emphatically, grinning confidently,
refusing to accept his modesty. She never felt embarrassed
in expressing her protests or her caring. We never
held discussions in our home where she, Thea or Raun
would be excluded. Whether we spoke about love, hate,
death or sex, we never modified our words or camouflaged
our ideas in their presence. We never asked them to
leave the room. As we had learned to trust ourselves,
we had learned to trust the little people who shared
our lives. Often their questions and pristine insights
enriched our perspective. At twelve years old, Bryn
conversed comfortably with five-year-olds and fifty-year-olds.
She loved people and ideas, though her outspokenness
sometimes alienated her from her friends.
The thud of footsteps lumbering down
the stairs attracted everyone's attention. Rita had
observed Laura initially, then stayed to watch Francisca
work with Robertito. Her wrists ached from writing
continuously. The process more than simply intrigued
her. Rita Corwin had taught Option at several universities,
had developed her own practice and counseled at a
child guidance center. She suspected something crucial
might happen here, further validating a vision which
encompassed all her activities. Refusing to remain
separate, an observer at the sidelines, as she had
been with the journey of Raun, she pushed for more.
She volunteered to come each month and catalogue her
impressions, footnoting them with contrasting data
accumulated from her more traditional clinical experiences.
The first visit, more than a month
ago, registered ground zero. Robertito's infantile
manners and extreme dysfunctions startled her, for
she, too, had never encountered such a low functioning
child. He appeared so inaccessible. As she watched
him now, during her second visit, the staggering changes
during the first six weeks defied her wildest fantasies.
Tears streamed down her face as she witnessed eye
contact, participation in simple tasks, as well as
a real exchange of affection.
When she entered the living room,
she stretched her arms out with her palms facing the
ceiling. "I'm ... I'm speechless." Suddenly,
a loud, jolly, three-second laugh burst from her throat.
Rita hugged me, then Roby, Bryn and Charlotte.
"Well?" I asked of the
breathless figure.
"Have you any idea what has
happened?" She picked up a piece of my carob
danish from the coffee table and stuffed it mechanically
into her mouth. "I know, in some ways, it's going
slower than the first time when the Sotos were here
... but from where you began this time, it's unbelievable."
She laughed again. "That's it, you know, nobody
will believe this. Do you know what I saw Robertito
do with Francisca? When he began to do his hand-over-mouth
"ism," he side-glanced at her, waiting for
her to imitate him. When she took too long, he seized
her hand and placed it over her mouth, indicating
that she mimic him. Someone else might consider that
lunacy, but he's more in touch. I noticed he searched
for food on the window sill with his fingers ... food
he couldn't see. That's a giant step from before.
He's made memory connections." Rita sipped some
of my tea, then downed another pastry. "I guess
you don't want to hear all this. I'm just repeating
what you already know."
"When you see it on a day-to-day
basis, the changes are inch by inch ... no, maybe
only a quarter of an inch at a time. Rita, you offer
us a different perspective, not to mention forty gallons
of enthusiasm." I asked Charlotte to translate,
then I added, "I'm glad for the comfort I see
in our little friend as well as for his increased
abilities."
"Increased abilities?"
Rita blurted. She shook her head and consulted her
list. "He made a twenty-five block tower, used
the insertion box with four different shapes, put
in eight puzzle pieces instead of just removing them
and watched himself in the mirror. He hugged Laura
twice, his mother once. He put his head in Francisca's
lap three times. Robertito even gave me a couple of
looks."
"How'd you feel about that?"
I asked
Her eyes filled with tears. "Very,
very humble." She hugged me again.
"Thanks for letting us peak
through your eyes," I said. "And thanks
for recruiting Paul Goodman for us."
"I can't wait to tell Paul,"
Rita exclaimed.
"I'd rather you didn't talk
with him about Robertito," I cautioned. "I
want him completely external to the program so that
his psychiatric reports remain unbiased."
She put her arm around Bryn and nodded
her agreement.
After Rita left, Bryn and I observed
Francisca for the next hour. In the midst of the session,
Robertito strolled over to me and played with my hair.
Then he collapsed into my lap and stayed there while
I rubbed his back. Bryn crawled next to me and stroked
his legs. Later, I tried to lift him up with the pole.
Though he gripped the bar tightly, he continually
opened his hands when I pulled upward. But on the
fifth try, with great difficulty and determination,
he held on for several seconds. His feet cleared the
ground by six inches before his fingers opened. Robertito
Soto had supported his own weight.
During the same session, he turned
the knob of an infant's music box without assistance.
Francisca still worked on teaching him parts of his
face. He almost touched his nose two times on request.
He put his hand up to his face, then stopped as if
confused about what to do next. I also noted his level
of attention elevated dramatically in the presence
of food.
Bryn tucked her arm around my waist
as we walked toward the truck. I put my hand on her
shoulder and tugged her close to me.
"Daddy, the way you guys are
isn't like the real world," she stated matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean?" I asked,
withholding a smile.
She pushed her long, dark brown hair
behind her head and rubbed her index finger between
her lips. Her eyes twinkled as she processed my question.
"Well, you know we talk about being open and
trusting. Last week my friend Cynthia got mad at me
for some crazy reason and told all my friends the
secrets I told her. Now about six people are mad at
me."
"How do you feel about that?"
"Not too good. I didn't mean
to do anything to hurt anybody. And when I apologized,
they all called me names. How do you love somebody
that's busy calling you names?"
"You know, Bryn, I once worked
with a man who beat his wife and children. Now you'd
think he was an awful person ... this big man hitting
a woman and little kids, even to the point of sending
his daughter to the hospital with a broken leg. Yet,
when he talked during one of our sessions and I asked
him questions without judging him, he cried and explained
how he was trying to control his family, to make them
be good. From his point of view, he thought he had
lots of good reasons for his actions, but his unhappiness
and fears had blinded him. Whether you love your friends
or not when they call you names is your decision,
but you certainly don't have to hate them. Cynthia
and the others, like the man who hit his wife and
children, are telling you how unhappy they are by
their actions."
"Yeah, when I see it that way,
I don't feel mad at anybody ... only sometimes, I
forget they're unhappy." She smiled. "Well,
I'll work on it."
"Any time you want, we can work
on it, together."
"I think I have your phone number,"
she replied, feigning an imperfect English accent.
As I drove toward, our home, Bryn
flipped through her schoolbooks before piling them
on the seat beside her.
"Bears," she said, tapping
my arm, "could I take tennis lessons with Jerri?"
"I don't think so, hutch."
I scanned her expectant face. "We're a little
tight for money right now."
Bryn scratched her head. "Maybe
I could get a job after school."
"No," I said abruptly,
feeling a touch self-conscious about Bryn's offer.
"You sound like your brother. The other day Raun
asked me to buy him a cello. Could you imagine ...
not a guitar, not a piano, not a set of drums. He
chooses the cello. I thought his choice was fabulous,
but I asked him why. Would you believe that little
guy wanted to be a street musician and use one of
my hats to collect money so he could help us."
"Oh, Daddy," Bryn sighed.
Like Thea, she would always be motherly to Raun. A
deep caring and appreciation for him had blossomed
during the three years that she worked with us in
facilitating his rebirth.
"We'll do all right," I
said. "And if we don't that'll be a sign for
us to do something else. I spent all my life, Bryn,
learning to hold on real tight. Now, I'm learning
how to let go."
"Suppose..." She stopped
herself.
"Suppose what?"
"Suppose it doesn't work out."
"Then we all sit down together
and talk about it. We didn't choose to do this forever.
We only chose it for now. We can always make a different
choice." I felt clearer, having again put the
old money demon to rest.
"Brynny-babes ... thanks."
She peered at me quizzically. "I
didn't do anything, Daddy."
"Yes you did. You gave me the
gift of your questions."
*****
During the next three days, Robertito
withdrew or, perhaps, more accurately, returned to
the home inside of himself. His "isms" escalated.
As his rituals intensified, the rhythms frantically
peaked, forcing his body to stiffen. He banged his
chest in a style reminiscent of his earlier days in
Mexico. Eye contact diminished. With the exception
of a growing fascination with himself in the mirror,
his behavior duplicated that of the first week of
his arrival. Like the hiker who paused many times
on his journey up the mountain, perhaps Robertito
found the only way he knew to rest. The energy, the
push and the tremendous concentration required to
overcome his dysfunctions taxed every last resource
in himself. Unlike most children, who would find building
with blocks or playing with a puzzle to be an easy
affair, Robertito had to move along unplowed roads
to do the simplest task. The psychic fatigue involved
had to be enormous.
For no apparent reason, on the fourth
day, the little boy resumed climbing the mountain.
My brother, Steve, a psychologist,
and his wife, Laurie, visited us on the following
weekend. We took them to meet the Sotos. We let them
observe Robertito separately. Steve found himself
fascinated with the insistent repetitive motions and
internalized focus of the little boy. "The intensity
of the one-to-one format is mind-boggling," he
said pensively as he stroked his beard.
The highly charged energy mixed with
periods of intense calm left Laurie drained. The beauty
of this child combined with his bizarre motions created
an incomprehensible portrait. In one respect, he reminded
her of her own sons. In another way, he scared her
as Raun had scared her years before. "I'm not
used to this," she mumbled to herself. The stark
reality threatened her equilibrium. Images of a young
Raun haunted her. The door opened to an era she had
left behind. Initially, her nephew's problem had seemed
so insurmountable that whenever she would see him,
she viewed him through a soft lens, in her attempt
to see him as a healthy child. It will go away. It
will disappear and he'll be all right. As she watched
Robertito, old questions flooded her mind. What would
she have done? What would she do? She knew she did
not have to answer either question. Her children had
been born fully equipped.
Suddenly, she felt relieved and incredibly
blessed by so many things she had experienced as casual,
everyday occurrences. Laurie wanted to run home and
hug her children. When she kissed Francisca good-by,
she squeezed her tightly and avoided her eyes. She
wanted to leave only her love, not her fear, with
this lady. Deep within, she heard herself say: "If
there were miracles, Francisca Soto, I'd give them
to you."
When Suzi and I later returned to
the Soto house, Francisca was standing alone on the
front steps. Her hands covered her face.
"Francisca," Suzi shouted,
"are you okay?"
Francisca walked briskly away from
us down the driveway.
"C'mon," I said to Suzi
as we pursued her. By the time we came alongside of
Francisca, she had wiped her tearstained face, straightened
her blouse and jerked her head in that funny way,
throwing her hair off her forehead.
"Do you want to talk?"
Suzi asked in perfect Spanish. Francisca shook her
head.
"Okay," I said, "then
we'll stay with you. We don't have to talk."
Francisca avoided our eyes. The muscles
around her mouth quivered as she tried desperately
to control herself, to be dignified, to fulfill the
expectation of her upbringing. At the same time, she
choked on her impulse to fight herself.
I wanted to hug her, but stopped
myself. Like her son, she, too, had to find her way.
"Francisca, there's nothing wrong with being
unhappy." She pressed her hands against her mouth.
"It's okay to cry, my girl friend,"
Suzi whispered.
Francisca turned away, held her chest
as if it were going to burst and coughed uncontrollably,
finally giving in to her body and sobbing heavily.
When we tried to touch her, she moved away. We stood
there, apart, but together, for almost five minutes
until she finished and her breathing returned to a
more normal rhythm.
"How about a walk?" I suggested.
The three of us moved slowly down
Thelma Street. This time, Francisca did not hide her
tears. She did not fix her hair or her rumpled blouse.
At the end of the block, we turned around and retraced
our steps.
"I feel stupid," she said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, look at me! I should
be stronger"
"You're allowed to cry. And
crying doesn't mean you're weak," Suzi countered.
"You have to see me when I cry ... much more
dramatic than you."
Francisca managed a smile. She related
her growing discomfort with Charlotte. The young woman's
recent preoccupation with dating dominated her to
such an extent that Francisca felt it affected her
sessions with Robertito. He's lethargic with her.
But all this did not have the impact of her most recent
experience.
Since the house had been heated through
a forced hot-air system, ducts connected room to room.
Francisca's bedroom duct fastened into the same pathway
as the kitchen duct. When Charlotte spoke boisterously
on the phone with one of her men friends, Francisca
heard every word.
"What did she say that's so
upsetting.?" I asked, fumbling in Spanish.
Tears cascaded down her face again.
"Charlotte cursed all of us, called me and Roby
all kinds of names. I didn't understand them all,
but I knew she used bad words." When I asked
her to recall some of the words, she rattled off several
unmistakable phrases. "I don't understand. We
treat her like part of the family," Francisca
said. "Yesterday, she told me I was a tyrant
because I asked her not to stop working with Robertito
if the phone rang." She paused. "We need
her."
"We don't need anyone,"
Suzi asserted. "A translator is important, but
Charlotte's not the only bilingual person in the world.
And I'm getting pretty good at Spanish."
"I know that ... but the others
need a translator. Suzi, where do we find someone
else?" Francisca asked.
"New York has a huge Hispanic
community," I assured her. "We can call
schools, churches, community centers."
"Maybe we should wait,"
Francisca said.
"Why?" Suzi asked.
"It's very important to have
someone here who can interpret for us. I don't know
about somebody new," she said.
"Francisca, you can't give Charlotte
what she doesn't want. If she wants to go out, if
she feels annoyed with you and us, then all that will,
unfortunately, affect Robertito. He knows. From what
you described, you know that he knows." She nodded
her head. "She's not a bad person," I continued.
"She's simply not ready to do this. We'll be
okay for a couple of days or, if need be, a couple
of weeks, without a translator."
"I have to be able to communicate
for my son's sake. We have to keep her. Maybe we could
look; then if we find somebody, we can ask her to
leave."
"Does that really feel right
to you, Francisca?" Suzi asked.
She never answered the question.
*****
Roby followed his son around the
room, tapping the wall in the same cadence as Robertito.
They jumped together. They danced together. Each move
brought father and child into a closer harmony. When
Roby introduced the insertion box, his son took the
red cube and turned the box until he located the correct
slot. He repeated this minor miracle with a triangle
shape and a star shape. Then he laid his head into
his father's lap. Roby stroked his son's back and
arms. He walked his fingers like little feet to the
underside of Robertito's body and tickled his abdomen.
The little boy giggled and hunched himself into a
ball.
The reinforcement of contact became
most pronounced during meals. Robertito watched his
father's mouth chew in the same cadence as his own.
Yet he still maintained side-glancing as his format
for visually ingesting his environment. After finishing
the last morsel of food, Robertito climbed on his
father and flopped over his shoulder. Roby stood up
and spun him around. Robertito did not grab onto his
father's body. He did not support himself or secure
his own safety. But he laughed ... not the self-stimulating
laughter often seen in sessions, but a deep and hearty
cackle. Each time his father embraced him, he pulled
him close, then pushed him away ... somehow trying
to decide. Roby molded to his son's cues. He knew,
though the touching might be pleasurable and alluring,
it could not be as safe for Robertito as his internal
world. He did not want to scare him. Sensing Robertito's
alternate relaxing and tightening, he backed off and
lessened the bombardment of activity.
"Bien, papito," he said
softly, often calling him "the little papa"
in Spanish. He stood up and surveyed the room. Just
as he turned toward the tape recorder, he felt a tugging
on his loose shirt. Roby looked at his son's little
hand. Awed and flattered in the most profound way,
Roberto Soto sat by his son. When the boy began to
rock, he let his body trust his child's rhythm.
*****
At the same time that Roberto Soto
worked with his son, John Stringer, according to newspaper
reports, paced the rain-swept street of another American
city. His sandy blond hair darkened from the little
pellets of rain. He dug his right hand deeply into
his raincoat pocket and fondled the metal instrument
which had been a gift from his father. As he dodged
puddles in crossing the street, he gawked enviously
at a young family exiting their parked station wagon.
A little boy accompanied by his sister waited politely
on the sidewalk until their parents ushered them into
a nearby store.
"So simple," John Stringer
muttered to himself. "A family ... it was supposed
to be so simple."
His car waited in the parking lot,
but instead of driving home, he trudged four miles
in the rain, having left his office at precisely five
o'clock. He could always change his mind. Stringer
thought about his wife. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't!
Yet the doctors had inferred that their child's withdrawal
was caused by a cold and hostile environment. They
had leveled their sights on both parents, placing
the blame squarely on their shoulders.
He remembered his son's first birthday
vividly. His wife, Sally, had invited all their relatives
and half the neighborhood. Toys, music, laughter and
love cluttered every room in the house, landmarks
of a happy, thriving young family. Two months later,
Tommy started to act very peculiar. He ignored his
parents and developed a complex repertoire of rocking
and spinning motions. At first the word autism meant
nothing to him. Except for cancer, he thought most
diseases could be cured. Even when he heard the prognosis,
he would not believe it. "What do they know?"
he argued with himself. "They sit in their offices
with secretaries and assistants, telling you your
son won't get better and you're responsible. What
do they know? We love our son ... more than most."
After a second and third consultation,
his optimism faded. Institutionalize him, one physician
suggested with considerable pathos. "Frankly,
Mr. Stringer, if Tommy was mine, that's what I would
do." How could he institutionalize his son, his
own flesh and blood? The Stringers requested assistance
from the social services department, but the social
workers refused to deal with their dilemma. No existing
programs suited their son's profound dysfunction.
All the doors closed. Finally, one clinic offered
to incorporate them into a therapy series which provided
thirty minutes of service per week. Tommy drifted
further away.
Two years later, Jamie was born.
She didn't become autistic, didn't reject the supposedly
cold and hostile environment. John wanted to love
his daughter more, but his son demanded increased
attention as he became increasingly unmanageable.
He never wanted to hit the boy, but he lost his patience
when Tommy destroyed all their dishes.
John Stringer saw himself as a decent
human being with all the normal sensibilities. Now,
in a less than normal situation, his ability to cope
and survive became threatened. Anger polluted the
love. Self-pity compromised the confidence. The confusion
of dealing with his son kept his life buried under
a dark cloud. He hated going home after work. He hated
listening to his wife cry on the phone every day.
He hated the alarm clock beside his bed. The dreams
had crumbled. No more vacations. No more weekend trips
into the mountains. Their life revolved around Tommy,
because Tommy rampaged through the house on a daily
basis. They had tried to love him, but did not know
how.
The large elms guarding the entrance
to his street no longer generated a sense of comfort
in him. Sally would barely greet him. At twenty-seven,
she looked like a forty-year-old woman, her face lined,
her eyes puffed, her lips shriveled from the insidious
tension. He did not blame her, though some others
viewed them accusingly. John Stringer couldn't stand
it any more, not for himself, not for his wife, not
for his daughter, not for Tommy. His son's staring
eyes frightened him. What demon possessed this child?
What happened to his brain to have made him so crazy?
Yes, he could admit to himself. His son, named after
his favorite grandfather, was mentally disturbed without
any hope for a cure. He felt profoundly sorry for
the little boy who could not talk or dress himself
or keep his pants clean. What a miserable life his
son had been cursed with ... miserable! The word echoed
in his brain as he stopped at the stoop in front of
his house. He could change his mind. He could.
John Stringer entered nervously.
"What happened to you?"
Sally asked, putting her hands on her hips. "My
God, Johnny, you're a sight."
"The car," he mumbled.
"The car wouldn't start so I had to walk home."
She snapped her head back and marched off to the kitchen.
Though they had been married for less than eight years,
she no longer greeted him with a kiss or even a light
embrace. She wanted to be affectionate, but his escape
to the office each morning annoyed her. She had to
be the jailer. Sally tried to help her son for years,
finally giving up, locking him in his room for short
periods in an effort to maintain her own sanity. He
had been put in his room today, especially today,
after he rubbed his feces all over the living room
wall. It had not always been like this. Once, although
strange and withdrawn, he exuded an awesome calm.
They wanted more co-operation from him so they instituted
some standard methods of discipline, sometimes in
the form of a reprimand, sometimes in the form of
a whack on his hand or buttocks. Tommy changed.
When the doctors hinted at her responsibility
for her son's autism, John became the inquisitioner,
questioning every move she made with the child every
day. He never accused her, but his suspicions became
transparent. She would never forgive him ... never.
The television blared in his ears.
"Damn," he muttered. When he tapped his
daughter on the head, she did not even look up. Her
eyes remained glued to the action on the set. He meandered
through the dining room before entering the short
hallway. His feet moved slowly. His hands perspired.
He kept reminding himself he could choose differently.
He could change his mind.
John Stringer removed the keys off
the nail and opened the locked door to his son's bedroom.
Tommy lay on the orange carpet, his feet tucked under
the bed. He hummed in a high-pitched voice and twirled
his fingers in front of his eyes. They had requested
a homeworker, but the county said it could not provide
one in these types of cases because of a limited budget.
John had even tried to hire a babysitter to free his
wife at least one afternoon a week. Nobody wanted
to say with Tommy Stringer.
"Hello, Tommy," he said
in a voice so soft and gentle that he surprised himself.
The little boy continued his self-stimulating ritual
without interruption. John Stringer knelt down. Water
dripped from his hair and coat. He petted his son
like he would pet a dog. He began to cry for the first
time in four years. He could change his mind. He could.
He removed his coat and put it on
the chair. He sat beside Tommy. When you left him
alone, he thought to himself, his son always seemed
so calm and peaceful. But you couldn't leave him alone.
"C'mon, Tommy, do you want to
look at your daddy?" he said in a child-like
voice. He no longer knew how to address him. "C'mon,
Tommy, look at Daddy." His son stared at his
own fingers. John Stringer wanted a sign, any sign.
"Damn it, look at me!" The boy held his
Buddha-like concentration, never once turning his
head.
John scraped his finger along the
edge of his teeth until it hurt. He rattled his toes,
trying to distract himself. Finally, he dug deep into
his raincoat and withdrew the metal instrument, a
chrome-plated target pistol. Its menacing barrel loomed
at him. John Stringer stared at Tommy. He knew he
would never have another son. He wanted to do this
for his wife, for his daughter ... most of all, for
Tommy.
As he lowered the gun toward his
son, his hand trembled. The light bouncing off the
silver barrel attracted Tommy's attention. The boy
looked at the gun the same way he looked at a doorknob.
He touched it with his hand and felt its smooth surface.
He smiled a peculiar smile, pulling the pistol toward
him. John Stringer watched his own hand through a
fog. Tommy tried to flap the metal instrument, but
his father's grip held it steady.
The gun had been lowered to the side
of his son's temple. John Stringer began to talk to
God. He would understand. He would know he loved his
son. His fingers felt paralyzed. Tommy began humming
a tune he heard on the radio. "That's something,"
a voice inside said. "A tune from the radio.
He hummed a tune from the radio." His trembling
fingers removed the safety. He could change his mind.
He could. John Stringer screamed at the exact moment
he pulled the trigger.
Chapter
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