wouldn’t do any good. She’s in trial. So for now, I don’t see any reason to take up any more of your time,” he said as he started to rise. Then he sat back down. “But—by any chance, is your son at home?”
“Yes,” said Paul. “He’s upstairs in his room.”
“I have a few questions for him, too.”
Rachel sat up, and Paul could almost see her mother-bear protective claws emerging. “What kind of questions?” she said.
“Along the same lines I asked you.”
“I’m sure Babes doesn’t know anything,” she said.
Benjamin gave her a polite but firm smile.
“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d like to hear it from his own mouth. It’s just me—I do things by the book.”
Rachel matched his smile with a polite but firm one. “You obviously don’t understand. Babes—Daniel—has Asperger’s syndrome.”
“So…is he deaf?”
“No.”
“Mute?”
“No.”
“Mentally incompetent?”
“Not at all.”
Benjamin shrugged. “Then what’s the problem?”
Rachel was now at the edge of her seat, almost leaning over the coffee table. “The problem is that—”
“There is no problem,” said Paul.
Rachel raised a hand, blinking slowly to emphasize her annoyance at the interruption. When it was clear she had the floor, she continued. “Asperger’s syndrome is a pervasive development disorder that is often grouped under the unofficial term autism spectrum disorder. Daniel was not diagnosed until…”
Blah, blah, blah. Paul Townsend had heard Rachel’s speech a thousand times, and he’d been tuning it out for as long as he could remember.
“As a child with higher-than-average intelligence,” said Rachel, “he appeared to be progressing normally in terms of expressive speech and motor development: sitting, crawling, standing, walking. He was on schedule for basic self-help skills, toilet training, self-feeding, and manipulation of common objects.”
Good Lord, the woman talks like a textbook.
Paul longed for the fun and spontaneous Rachel who used to tell jokes and make him laugh. Not that they hadn’t enjoyed Babes. When their little boy stood up at his third birthday party and not only recited but spelled the names of all fifty states, Paul was the proud daddy. When Babes heard the story of the infamous Chicago “Black Sox” and transformed part of the Shoeless Joe Jackson dialogue—It ain’t so, Joe—into “Is too, Jane,” Paul laughed right along with everyone else. Paul even went out and bought baseball equipment. That didn’t fly. None of the plans Paul had for his son worked out. By elementary school it was obvious that something was different— really different—and that Babes was never going to change. Rachel changed. The life that Paul, Rachel, and Chelsea had known and hoped for was forever changed.
“Babes!” Paul shouted.
“What are you doing?” said Rachel. “I haven’t finished.”
“Yes, you have,” said Paul. “Babes, come down here!”
“Leave him be,” said Rachel.
“If Detective Benjamin wants to talk to him, he can talk to him.”
“What, Dad?” asked Babes. He was standing in the hallway, as if afraid to enter the room.
“Come in here,” said Paul.
Babes took a half step forward.
“All the way in. Sit down.”
Babes shuffled more than walked across the room, his head down and making eye contact with no one. He went to the armchair closest to his mother and almost slid into the sitting position, his posture perfectly erect, his knees together, the palms of his hands flat atop his thighs.
“Babes, this is Detective Benjamin,” said Paul. “He has a few questions he’d like to ask you.”
Babes was silent.
Benjamin looked at Paul and said, “I hope this isn’t a problem, but I’d really prefer to talk to Babes one on one. Man to man, so to speak, just the two of us.”
Rachel dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Well, I’m afraid that just isn’t poss—”
“It’s fine,” said Paul.
“Yes,” said Paul. “He’s upstairs in his room.”
“I have a few questions for him, too.”
Rachel sat up, and Paul could almost see her mother-bear protective claws emerging. “What kind of questions?” she said.
“Along the same lines I asked you.”
“I’m sure Babes doesn’t know anything,” she said.
Benjamin gave her a polite but firm smile.
“If it’s all the same to you, ma’am, I’d like to hear it from his own mouth. It’s just me—I do things by the book.”
Rachel matched his smile with a polite but firm one. “You obviously don’t understand. Babes—Daniel—has Asperger’s syndrome.”
“So…is he deaf?”
“No.”
“Mute?”
“No.”
“Mentally incompetent?”
“Not at all.”
Benjamin shrugged. “Then what’s the problem?”
Rachel was now at the edge of her seat, almost leaning over the coffee table. “The problem is that—”
“There is no problem,” said Paul.
Rachel raised a hand, blinking slowly to emphasize her annoyance at the interruption. When it was clear she had the floor, she continued. “Asperger’s syndrome is a pervasive development disorder that is often grouped under the unofficial term autism spectrum disorder. Daniel was not diagnosed until…”
Blah, blah, blah. Paul Townsend had heard Rachel’s speech a thousand times, and he’d been tuning it out for as long as he could remember.
“As a child with higher-than-average intelligence,” said Rachel, “he appeared to be progressing normally in terms of expressive speech and motor development: sitting, crawling, standing, walking. He was on schedule for basic self-help skills, toilet training, self-feeding, and manipulation of common objects.”
Good Lord, the woman talks like a textbook.
Paul longed for the fun and spontaneous Rachel who used to tell jokes and make him laugh. Not that they hadn’t enjoyed Babes. When their little boy stood up at his third birthday party and not only recited but spelled the names of all fifty states, Paul was the proud daddy. When Babes heard the story of the infamous Chicago “Black Sox” and transformed part of the Shoeless Joe Jackson dialogue—It ain’t so, Joe—into “Is too, Jane,” Paul laughed right along with everyone else. Paul even went out and bought baseball equipment. That didn’t fly. None of the plans Paul had for his son worked out. By elementary school it was obvious that something was different— really different—and that Babes was never going to change. Rachel changed. The life that Paul, Rachel, and Chelsea had known and hoped for was forever changed.
“Babes!” Paul shouted.
“What are you doing?” said Rachel. “I haven’t finished.”
“Yes, you have,” said Paul. “Babes, come down here!”
“Leave him be,” said Rachel.
“If Detective Benjamin wants to talk to him, he can talk to him.”
“What, Dad?” asked Babes. He was standing in the hallway, as if afraid to enter the room.
“Come in here,” said Paul.
Babes took a half step forward.
“All the way in. Sit down.”
Babes shuffled more than walked across the room, his head down and making eye contact with no one. He went to the armchair closest to his mother and almost slid into the sitting position, his posture perfectly erect, his knees together, the palms of his hands flat atop his thighs.
“Babes, this is Detective Benjamin,” said Paul. “He has a few questions he’d like to ask you.”
Babes was silent.
Benjamin looked at Paul and said, “I hope this isn’t a problem, but I’d really prefer to talk to Babes one on one. Man to man, so to speak, just the two of us.”
Rachel dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Well, I’m afraid that just isn’t poss—”
“It’s fine,” said Paul.
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