The Practical Navigator (13 page)

It's not fair.

Lord God Almighty, keep us faithful to your law in thought, word, and deed. Be our helper, now and always, free us from sin.

Perhaps the problem, Tisha thinks, is that she doesn't like asking anyone, even God, for wisdom and advice about anything.

No. More likely the problem is that even here in church, surrounded by the conservative faithful and all their religious fervor, her mind still has a tendency to wander as she prays. Anita. What
is
she going to do with Anita. Given every advantage and opportunity and such a mess. And Anita's child, the little boy, this autistic thing. The subject not the boy. The boy is sweet. And obviously he would have mental and emotional problems what with Anita running off on him like that. Thank goodness for Michael who is steady and dependable. Still, the boy shouldn't be coddled. Children need a firm hand. Look at her daughter Beth's children. Rude, tantrum-throwing, hyperactive animals. And God forbid her son, Neal Jr., should ever have children. Neal couldn't raise string beans in a hothouse. All the young people these days. Spoiling their offspring. Enabling them. Wanting to be their friends. The women especially. With their nannies and sitters. Even with housekeepers, not keeping proper houses. No excuses. None of them ever having to deal with what
she
did.

Lord, sustain faith within us and make us ever loyal to Christ. Let your church be the sign of salvation for all the nations of the world.

I had to protect them from
him
. The temper, the drinking, the constant demands, the
entitlement.
No wonder they're damaged goods. You should have known better. But how? It was time. No. It was a way out. And Neal Beacham was handsome. Ambitious. A USC boy. Father approved. Neal reminded him of Robert. Of course he did. Her brother, Robert Warren Scribner, who slipped into her bed when she was fifteen and kept at it until he toddled off to Stanford. The relief she felt when he was drafted and subsequently killed in Vietnam a year later was palpable. Good riddance. But her mother, a borderline hysteric under the best of circumstances, effectively lost it. She's checked out, we need you at home, Patricia. She needs someone to look after her. What about you, Father? No. Ridiculous question. Fine then. Go drink and whore yourself to death.
I'm
in charge.
I
will run this house.
I
will pay the bills and arrange the dinner parties.
I
will tend to your insane wife.

Increase in us, Lord, the faith you have given us and bring to a harvest worthy of heaven the praise we offer you at the beginning of this new day.

Mother, you tried to warn me about Neal. Common, you said. Which, coming from a crackpot like you, only made him more attractive. Again, not fair. By the time you realize there are fissures in the façade it's too late. You're married to a self-centered shit who thinks he actually earned everything your family gave him.

God our Father, you conquer the darkness of ignorance by the light of your Word. Strengthen within our hearts the faith you have given us; let not temptation ever quench the fire that your love has kindled within us.

Oh, God, if you are listening, please give me your light. I am not filled with fire so much as I am anger. Still. Anger at my brother for what he did to me. Anger at Mother and Father. At Neal. At you. Is that why you've cursed me? Cursed my Anita? Cursed my family? No, no. Stop that, stop it. Ridiculous. You are not a God of curses. You are a God of forgiveness.

Lord God Almighty, keep us faithful to your law in thought, word, and deed. Be our helper, now and always, free us from
—

Tell me that you are. Tell me you're here to save me. You will, won't you? Save me? Of course you will. It's what you do. You who sacrificed your only son.

Almighty God, every good thing comes from you. Fill our hearts with love for you, increase our
—

Oh, I'm full of it today. These simple, stupid people, with their fat-faced offspring, mumbling to themselves with their eyes closed. They look like they live in trailer parks and eat doughnuts for dinner. And you should get off your high horse. This is why God won't talk to you. Such ego. You were lucky, that's all. Privileged. Never had to worry a day in your life. Though if you'd had to do it on your own, you'd have done very well. One smart cookie. Smarter than Robert. Smarter than Father. Smarter than your husband who would just love to get his hands on the rest of your money. And you've never been afraid of work. And it's work keeping a home and a family, raising children the right way.

God of power and mercy, may we live the faith we profess and trust your promise of eternal
—

And you've failed at it. Admit it. Each of your children is a disaster. They're a reflection of you, not God. They are flesh made from the damage done to you and you know it. Oh, I pray to you, dear God, our Father, who conquers the darkness of ignorance by the light of your Word, strengthen within my heart the faith you have given me. Let it temper the rage. Let it soften this all-consuming bitterness. Answer me. Talk to me just once—
once
—and in return, I will suck you off and spit the cum in your ruthless, unforgiving face. I ask this through your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.

*   *   *

Her fellow parishioners have noted that Tisha Beacham often weeps as she prays. She's a beautiful, generous woman, Mrs. Beacham. She'll sometimes put as much as one hundred dollars in the donation plate. God must surely answer her prayers.

 

23

If there is parking anywhere on the twelve-hundred-acre campus of the University of California at San Diego, Michael has yet to find it. There are parking lots, yes. There are metered parking spaces. There are a number of parking garages. There are parking enforcement officers everywhere, buzzing around in their little carts, stopping so often to write tickets, they could be working on commission. What there doesn't seem to be in the nearly forty minutes that he searches, unfolded map in his lap, is any kind of legal, available, suitable space that isn't already taken, claimed, or occupied.

He finally gives up and crosses the boulevard to park in the shopping center a quarter of a mile away. As he reenters and walks across the campus, passing students and what he assumes by their briefcases, beards, and bad haircuts are faculty, he wonders what he missed out on, not going to college. Certainly a degree. What that might have been in, Michael has no idea. His mother was in love with words, Thomas Hodge with math and science, and their opposing passions seemed to cancel each other out in Michael. A decent student until his father died, he drifted through high school, uninterested in anything but wave conditions. A social life? If a social life was parties thrown in holy spots of hedonism worldwide, Michael more than tipped the bartender. Time to think? To grow up? Maybe but probably not. From what Michael has seen most people don't grow up until they have to. Ironic that now, in his thirties, Michael finds himself interested in everything. Science, business, global politics. He's bought an iPad so he can read newspapers and periodicals online and he follows up on things that intrigue him. He is addicted to TED talks. Ideas worth spreading. Suicidal crickets, zombie roaches, and other parasite tales. Are we designed to be sexual omnivores?

Too cool for school.

Youth is definitely wasted on the young. Even so, Michael has to admit that the students he's passing as he makes his way toward the building that houses the Department of Neuroscience appear very mature and serious-minded indeed. But then Neuroscience is part of the School of Medicine and the majority of these doctors-in-training are Indian and Asian.

*   *   *

The children are sitting on a carpeted floor and are in a circle. The youngest, a girl, appears to be about five, the oldest, a boy, around twelve. There are toys. There are stuffed animals and figures. Standing at the one-way mirror of the observation room, Michael recognizes some of them from Jamie's collection. A plush, light blue Sulley from
Monsters, Inc.
Any number of cuddly Uglydolls. Jack Skellington from
The Nightmare Before Christmas
. Michael suddenly wonders if it's autistic kids or kids in general who gravitate to the cutely grotesque.

“Okay, okay!”

Calling for attention, the lone adult in the room, a plain-faced, deep-breasted young woman, pops her eyes open wide and smiles hugely.

“Tell me, tell me! What is my face saying? Austin!”

A boy, perhaps eight, is delighted to know the answer. His hands, drawn into little fists, shake in front of him with excitement.

“Happy!”

“Yes!” the young woman says, smiling normally now. “Gimme five!” She holds out an open hand and the boy, Austin, lurches forward to slap at it—and misses.

“No! Again!”

The boy is successful this time and he hugs himself with pleasure. “Way to go! Who can make a happy face for Austin? Happy faces, show me!”

As Michael watches, the kids make happy faces, bug-eyed grins and joker smiles, complete with sound effects, gurgles and beeps, giggles and barks.

“Those are the happiest faces!”

Jamie didn't smile until he was three. Jamie, when pleased and happy, can look as if he has no explanation or definition for feelings of delight.

The therapist curls her mouth down. She feigns melodramatic tears. “And now what's my face saying? Bridget?”

“Sad face!” says the blond little girl.

“Yes! And how do we make a sad face?”

How indeed? The children weep piteously. They cry and moan.

“Oooh, those are so sad!” says the young woman. As if sad is a good thing. As if sad is the most wonderful thing in the world.

When unhappy or in pain, when bumped, cut, or bruised, Jamie stares silently into space, unmoving. Unless he runs and hides.

“Michael Hodge?”

Michael turns with a start. Watching the children, wishing he could take this patient, young earth mother home with him to care for his son, he wasn't even aware of the man entering the observation booth behind him.

“Yes?”

“I'm Walter Seskin.”

The man Michael is supposed to see. Thirty minutes ago. “Hi, yeah. I'm late, sorry, the parking—”

“Sucks. Always give yourself extra time.”

In his mid-forties, the man is short and stocky and wears rumpled khakis and a long-sleeved cotton shirt with ink-stained cuffs. The New Balance running shoes on his feet look like they see pavement. He peers past Michael into the room, where the children and the young woman are still engaged in happy lamentation.

“Pretty neat, huh? We're working on social communication, teaching them body language, facial expressions. It's like introducing them to a foreign language.”

“Is that what it is?” To Michael's eye, it's now a competition as to which child can feign the most melodramatic death.

“Oh, yeah. Things most people take for granted. Plus they're having a hell of a lot of fun.” Without waiting for a reply, Seskin abruptly turns from the window. “Come on.”

Michael takes a last look into the room.

“Who can give me … an
angry
face?” says the young woman to her brood of stricken children.

Michael can. Jamie can too. Angry is easy. Angry is open wide and scream.

*   *   *

“Are you a medical doctor?” asks Michael.

Seskin's small office is as comfortably untidy as the man himself, filled with books, papers, pamphlets, and toys.

“Yeah, yeah, pediatrics and neuropsychiatry, I'm a very big deal. C'mon, sit down, sit down.” Seskin moves behind his cluttered desk, drops into a chair, and begins sifting through the piles of papers in front of him. “You want something to drink? Coffee, some water? There's a machine just down the hall.”

“I'm fine.”

“Good. Me too. C'mon, c'mon,
sit
.” Seskin gestures at the single chair, the one with the stack of books in it.

Michael pointedly pushes the books—boom, thud—onto the floor and sits. “But you're a teacher too?”

“Please. Academician. Mere teachers get half as many vacation days. Mostly I do research.” Somehow finding the specific sheet of paper he wants in the mess, Seskin grabs a pen and begins scribbling. “Your son, what's his name?”

“Jamie.”

“Nice. How old?”

“Seven going on eight.”

“What's he like?”

“He has Asperger's.”

“Nah, that's just a label. Tell me about
him
.” The pen doesn't seem to be working properly and Walter Seskin begins searching through the mess for another one. “Let's see. He's bright but maybe a little quiet. Kindergarten teachers said he wasn't interacting with the other kids, there might be some ADD, some nonverbal learning disorder, they recommended an evaluation. You went, had some tests done. The tests suggested Asperger's or high-functioning autism. Right so far?”

Michael wishes this man would make eye contact. It's like talking to Jamie, except Seskin talks as if he's running a race. “It was nursery school.”

“Uh-huh. They tell you what it meant? Asperger's? Autism? The whole big shebang?”

“They didn't tell me shit.”

“They don't. So you, obviously not an unintelligent guy, did a little research, maybe went online, got yourself some information, figured it meant retard and freaked out completely.”

“He's not retarded.” Michael would now like to hit this man, this babbling
village idiot.

“I didn't say he was. Though retardation can sometimes be associated with autism. You ought to see some of the head bangers we get in here.”