Elizabeth Moon - The Speed of Dark

All my life I’ve been told how lucky I was to be born when I was — lucky to benefit from the improvements in early intervention, lucky to be born in the right country, with parents who had the education and resources to be sure I got that good early intervention. Even lucky to be born too soon for definitive treatment, because — my parents said — having to struggle gave me the chance to demonstrate strength of character.

What would they have said if this treatment had been available for me when I was a child? Would they have wanted me to be stronger or be normal? Would accepting treatment mean I had no strength of character? Or would I find other struggles?

I am still thinking about this the next evening as I change clothes and drive to Tom and Lucia’s for fencing. What behaviors do we have that someone could profit from, other than the occasional savant talents? Most of the autistic behaviors have been presented to us as deficits, not strengths. Unsocial, lacking social skills, problems with attention control… I keep coming back to that. It is hard to think from their perspective, but I have the feeling that this attention control issue is at the middle of the pattern, like a black hole at the center of a space-time whirlpool. That is something else we are supposed to be deficient in, the famous Theory of Mind.

I am a little early. No one else is parked outside yet. I pull up carefully so that there is the most room possible behind me. Sometimes the others are not so careful, and then fewer people can park without inconveniencing others. I could be early every week, but that would not be fair to others.

Inside, Tom and Lucia are laughing about something. When I go in, they grin at me, very relaxed. I wonder what it would be like to have someone in the house all the time, someone to laugh with. They do not always laugh, but they seem happy more often than not.

“How are you, Lou?” Tom asks. He always asks that. It is one of the things normal people do, even if they know that you are all right.

“Fine,” I say. I want to ask Lucia about medical things, but I do not know how to start or if it is polite. I start with something else. “The tires on my car were slashed last week.”

“Oh, no!” Lucia says. “How awful!” Her face changes shape; I think she means to express sympathy.

“It was in the parking lot at the apartment,” I say. “In the same place as usual. All four tires.”

Tom whistles. “That’s expensive,” he says. “Has there been a lot of vandalism in the area? Did you report it to the police?”

I cannot answer one of those questions at all. “I did report it,” I say. “There is a policeman who lives in our apartment building. He told me how to report it.”

“That’s good,” Tom says. I am not sure if he means it is good that a policeman lives in our building or that I reported it, but I do not think it is important to know which.

“Mr. Crenshaw was angry that I was late to work,” I say.

“Didn’t you tell me he’s new?” Tom asks.

“Yes. He does not like our section. He does not like autistic people.”

“Oh, he’s probably…” Lucia begins, but Tom looks at her and she stops.

“I don’t know why you think he doesn’t like autistic people,” Tom says.

I relax. It is so much easier to talk to Tom when he says things this way. The question is less threatening. I wish I knew why.

“He says we should not need the supportive environment,” I say. “He says it is too expensive and we should not have the gym and… and the other things.” I have never actually talked about the special things that make our workplace so much better. Maybe Tom and Lucia will think the same way as Mr. Crenshaw when they find out about them.

“That’s…” Lucia pauses, looks at Tom, and then goes on. “That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what he thinks; the law says they have to provide a supportive work environment.”

“As long as we’re as productive as other employees,” I say. It is hard to talk about this; it is too scary. I can feel my throat tightening and hear my own voice sounding strained and mechanical. “As long as we fit the diagnostic categories under the law…”

“Which autism clearly does,” Lucia says. “And I’m sure you’re productive, or they wouldn’t have kept you this long.”

“Lou, is Mr. Crenshaw threatening to fire you?” Tom asks.

“No… not exactly. I told you about that experimental treatment. They didn’t say anything more about it for a while, but now they — Mr. Crenshaw, the company — they want us to take that experimental treatment. They sent a letter. It said people who were part of a research protocol were protected from cutbacks. Mr. Aldrin talked to our group; we are having a special meeting on Saturday. I thought they could not make us take it, but Mr. Aldrin says that Mr. Crenshaw says they can shut down our section and refuse to rehire us for something else because we are not trained in something else. He says if we do not take the treatment they will do this and it is not firing because companies can change with the times.”

Tom and Lucia both look angry, their faces knotted with tight muscle and the shiny look coming out on their skin. I should not have said this now; this was the wrong time, if anything was the right time.

“Those bastards ,” Lucia says. She looks at me and her face changes from the tight knots of anger, smoothing out around the eyes. “Lou — Lou, listen: I am not angry with you. I am angry with people who hurt you or do not treat you well… not with you.”

“I should not have said this to you,” I say, still uncertain.

“Yes, you should,” Lucia says. “We are your friends; we should know if something goes wrong in your life, so that we can help.”

“Lucia’s right,” Tom says. “Friends help friends — just as you’ve helped us, like when you built the mask rack.”

“That is something we both use,” I say. “My work is just about me.”

“Yes and no,” Tom says. “Yes in that we are not working with you and cannot help you directly. But no when it is a big problem that has general application, like this one. This isn’t just about you. It could affect every disabled person who’s employed anywhere. What if they decided that a person in a wheelchair didn’t need ramps? You definitely need a lawyer, all of you. Didn’t you say that the Center could find one for you?”

“Before the others get here, Lou,” Lucia says, “why don’t you tell us more about this Mr. Crenshaw and his plans?”

I sit down on the sofa, but even though they have said they want to listen it is hard to talk. I look at the rug on their floor, with its wide border of blue-and-cream geometric patterns — there are four patterns within a frame of plain blue stripes — and try to make the story clear.

“There is a treatment they — someone — used on adult apes,” I say. “I did not know apes could be autistic, but what they said was that autistic apes became more normal when they had this treatment. Now Mr. Crenshaw wants us to have it.”

“And you don’t want it?” Tom asks.

“I do not understand how it works or how it will make things better,” I say.

“Very sensible,” Lucia says. “Do you know who did the research, Lou?”

“I do not remember the name,” I say. “Lars — he’s a member of an international group of autistic adults — e-mailed me about it several weeks ago. He sent me the journal Web site and I went there, but I did not understand much of it. I did not study neuroscience.”

“Do you still have that citation?” Lucia asks. “I can look it up, see what I can find out.”

“You could?”

“Sure. And I can ask around in the department, find out if the researchers are considered any good or not.”