William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

“Hey, Darcy,” I said, flashing my best smile.

“Do I know you?” he said, but his expression almost immediately brightened. He remained stiff. “I like your voice. You’re Dad’s friend from work.”

“Yup. He inside?”

“Yes…”

“Shall we go see him?”

It was difficult for him to speak, but when he finally started, the words burbled out in that strange voice of his, too loud, the inflection all askew. “Would you be afraid of spiders? Because some girls are afraid of spiders. Did you know some, a lot, a lot of girls are afraid of spiders?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So, if, then, are you afraid of spiders?”

“Nah. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Do you think that would be poisonous?”

He pointed downward. I didn’t see anything. “Can you be more specific?” I moved in closer and eventually realized there was a small gray spider on the front porch, barely noticeable. “I don’t think it can hurt us, Darcy.”

“Did you know there are four kinds of poisonous spiders indigenous to North America?” He was lecturing me, but he never made eye contact. “The widow spiders, the recluse spiders, the hobo spiders, and the yellow sac spider.”

“I’m fairly certain this little fella is none of the above.”

“You can never be sure. Sometimes they can trick you. Did you know that sometimes spiders can try to trick you?”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I think that maybe we should go around to the back door.”

“Not necessary. I’ll take care of it.” I raised my foot, hovering over the offending obstacle.

“No!” Darcy fairly screamed. He raised his hands, flapping them in the air. “Don’t kill it!”

“I thought you were afraid…”

“I don’t like to hurt things. I don’t think anyone should hurt anyone, do you?”

“But… it’s a spider.”

“It’s still alive. Isn’t it still alive?”

“But eventually we need to get inside. Don’t we?”

“Maybe you could just… just…”

“Capture and release?”

“That would be good.”

I picked up a fallen leaf, slid one edge under the spider, and tossed it into the hedges.

“Will he be all right there?” Darcy asked.

“That’s its natural environment,” I assured him. “It’ll be like a kid in a candy store.” Judging from Darcy’s nonresponsive expression, I needed to modify my cliché. Abstract language was lost on him. “It’ll be like-what’s your favorite room in the house, Darcy?”

“The library.”

“It’ll be like you with a good book in the library.”

“Oh.” His head twitched a couple of times. “Good.”

“Can we go in now?” I looked back at the front door and found O’Bannon standing there, watching. “Chief.”

He pushed open the screen door. “Come on in. Darcy, why don’t you go finish your book?”

“Oh.” He seemed reluctant to leave. “Okay.”

Once we were alone, O’Bannon showed me into his den.

“Sweet boy you’ve got.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Wouldn’t even hurt a spider. That’s pretty endearing, in this day and age. Most guys his age spend the evening pretending to blow people to smithereens in video games.”

“He’s always been like that. Entirely nonaggressive. Doesn’t want to hurt anyone. Kids at school used to rough him up pretty bad. But he never struck back. Never did anything to anyone. Practically a saint.” He stopped by his desk and gave me a searching look.

“You going to sniff my breath?”

“Don’t have to.”

“Because you trust me?”

“Because I’ve been on the police force thirty-four years, which unfortunately gives a man a lot of experience with alcoholism. I can spot a drunk at ten paces.”

“Ooh. Scary.” I jerked my thumb toward the other room. “So, that boy of yours. Autistic?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, Pulaski. Most people think he’s retarded. Or just weird.”

“Well, I am a trained professional. I’ve worked with autistic children.”

“I guess that gives you an advantage.” I could tell this wasn’t something he talked about often. At the same time, I got the impression that while he was accustomed to keeping it private, it might be a comfort to talk about it with someone who had some understanding of the condition. “Most people, all they know about autism is what they got from that Dustin Hoffman movie, where he acted all weird and twitchy-but not particularly autistic. People looking for a hyperactive toothpick counter aren’t going to peg Darcy.”

“He must be very high-functioning. He’s obviously smart, and he speaks clearly enough. He interacts. He’s in our world, at least to some extent.”

O’Bannon nodded, dropping onto the large sofa. “It wasn’t always that way. At the age of three he was profoundly autistic. Didn’t answer questions, showed no emotions, was totally withdrawn. Took years of aggressive behavioral intervention programs to get him where he is today. Worked with a guy named Dr. Lovaas out in L.A. for years. Made a huge difference.”

“That’s controversial therapy, isn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t be. Got too many damned romantics trying to pretend that there’s something special or magical about an autistic kid’s private world. He’s in his own little paradise, they say. Why do we have to force him to conform, to live in our world? What bullshit. Anybody who’s ever spent time with a seriously autistic kid knows better. They’re confused, frustrated, unhappy, isolated. Bringing them into our world, trying to make it possible for them to interact, to be productive, is a gift.”

“I’m sure you’re right. He seems very knowledgeable.”

“Well, he remembers everything he ever read. Wish I could say the same for myself. Autistics are known for their prodigious memories. When Darcy’s focused, he’s incredible. The trouble is getting him to focus, getting him interested, giving him the proper incentive. He’s flooded with stimuli. His head is like a radio receiver getting messages from fifty different places at once. It takes a lot of concentration to sift through that, to focus on one particular line of thought.”

“Aren’t there drugs that could help him?”

“No. Everything his docs ever tried just made him listless. Dreary. I’d rather have an autistic boy than a zombie.” He drew in his breath. “I’ve had to face facts. He’ll never be normal, no matter what I do.”

“Well,” I said, depositing myself on the sofa, “normal is overrated.”

O’Bannon’s gaze turned inward. “You can’t imagine how hard it was on Connie and me. Our first child. By the time he was two, he was reading. Honest to God. Knew the alphabet, could count as high as you want, remembered everything you told him. Sang, even played the piano a little. Had perfect pitch. We thought we had a little genius on our hands. Then somewhere around his third birthday, it all started to go south. He didn’t come when called. He disappeared, hid. All his incredible speech disappeared.”

“That’s frequently the way neurological disorders work. At first they manifest as prodigious intellectual abilities. Then the other shoe drops.”

“Yeah.” O’Bannon kept his face stoic; everything I got, I got from the eyes. He did a good job of keeping it in. But I suppose he’d had a lot of practice. “He does have some special abilities. Memory. Math. Reads fast. Plays the piano-and he never had lessons. Does the whole puzzle page in the Courier in less than five minutes.”

“Okay, now I’m starting to hate him.”

O’Bannon grinned. “He really tries to get along in the world, to understand what’s going on around him, hard as it is for him. He’s done a hell of a lot with the hand he’s been dealt.”