The Practical Navigator by Stephen Metcalfe

thought of it scares me to death.”
    â€œIt should,” says Michael. “And you can forget about coming anywhere near him.”
    â€œShe’s watching,” Anita says quietly. Michael follows her gaze. Tisha Beacham is at an upstairs window, looking down over the courtyard at them. Without expression, she turns away. And then Michael’s hand is on Anita’s shoulder and he’s aiming her, pushing her toward the truck.
    â€œGet in.”
    â€œAre we going somewhere?”
    â€œJust get —in the truck .”
    She does. Gratefully.
    *   *   *
    Stepping to a window in the guest bedroom, Tisha Beacham watches as the pickup starts with a roar and then pulls out of the courtyard and moves down the drive and through the open gate into the street. Her head is pounding and her throat feels swollen. She hopes she isn’t coming down with something. There’s a lot going around these days.
    *   *   *
    They drive in silence, not looking at each other. The narrow winding road that takes them out of the Upper Muirlands was originally built for mules not cars and the tires of the truck squeal as they come around a curve. The truck veers into the opposing lane and then back again. A car is approaching. There is some space on the shoulder and etiquette would dictate that Michael pull to the side and let the oncoming car pass. He will have none of it. He hits both the horn and the gas. The truck surges forward. Horn blaring back, the car is forced to swerve hard into a driveway.
    â€œIf you’re going to kill me,” says Anita, “please don’t do it with a truck.”
    Ignoring her, Michael runs the red light onto Nautilus.
    â€œSo how you been?” Anita says. Casually. Michael answers her with a derisive snort. His lips are clenched. He seems to be chewing on his inner cheek. As good a reason as any to answer the question herself. “Why, just fine, Anita, thanks. How have you been? Oh, just peachy as well, thank you. Just swell.” She hesitates. “Actually I’m a mess,” she says softly.
    â€œStill?” Michael, biting the word.
    He turns the wheel hard. With a squeal of tires, the truck veers to the side of the road and comes to an abrupt halt. Michael slams the truck into park. He’s breathing fast and hard, sucking air as if from the mask in a falling airplane.
    â€œHit me if it’ll make you feel better.” She watches Michael shake his head. “Then tell me about Jamie.” She waits as he puts the palms of his hands to his eyes. He inhales, then exhales deeply. He lowers his hands. His face still looks brittle but there is a semblance of composure now.
    â€œWhat do you want to know?”
    â€œMy mother says he’s not quite right.”
    â€œYour mother’s the one who’s not quite right.” Michael stares straight ahead, not looking at her. “He has Asperger’s,” he says quietly.
    It’s a word that Anita has heard before but doesn’t quite recognize. “I don’t know what that—”
    â€œIt’s autism.”
    She feels her body clench. She’s read about this in newspapers. Children who don’t speak, can’t function, won’t survive alone.
    Rain Man.
    â€œHe’s autistic?”
    â€œDid I say that?” Michael says sharply. Inhale again—exhale again. Control is a good thing. “He’s wired different, that’s all. He learns different. He has a hard time with people he doesn’t know or trust. He doesn’t like to play with other kids. When he doesn’t want to do something, he screams his head off for help.”
    â€œSounds pretty normal to me,” says Anita, already convinced it’s not.
    â€œHe’s a great kid,” says Michael, and in doing so, puts Anita’s fears momentarily to rest. “If you’d ever been in touch, you’d know that.”
    She looks away.