I wonder if normal people react to not dying by being devastated and sad and upset. It is hard to imagine anyone not being happy and relieved instead, but I am not sure. Maybe they think my reactions would be different because I am autistic; I am not sure, so I do not want to tell them how I really feel.
“I don’t think you should drive home,” Mr. Stacy says. “Let one of our guys drive you, why don’t you?”
“I can drive,” I say. “I am not that upset.” I want to be alone in the car, with my own music. And there is no more danger; Don can’t hurt me now.
“Mr. Arrendale,” the lieutenant says, putting his head close to mine, “you may not think you’re upset, but anyone who’s been through an experience like this is upset. You will not drive as safely as usual. You should let someone else drive.”
I know I will be safe to drive, so I shake my head. He jerks his shoulders and says, “Someone will come by to take your statement later, Mr. Arrendale. Maybe me, maybe someone else.” Then he walks off.
Gradually the crowd scatters.
The grocery cart is on its side; sacks are split, the food scattered and battered on the ground. It looks ugly and my stomach turns for a moment. I cannot leave this mess here. I still need groceries; these are spoiled. I cannot remember which are in the car, and safe, and which I will need to replace. The thought of going back into the noisy store again is too much.
I should pick up the mess. I reach down; it is disgusting, the bread smashed and trodden into the dirty pavement, the splattered juice,the dented cans. I do not have to like it; I only have to do it. I reach, lift, carry, trying to touch things as little as possible. It is a waste of food and wasting food is wrong, but I cannot eat dirty bread or spilled juice.
“Are you all right?” someone asks. I jump, and he says, “Sorry… you just didn’t look well.”
The police cars are gone. I do not know when they left, but it is dark now. I do not know how to explain what happened.
“I am all right,” I say. “The groceries aren’t.”
“Want some help?” he asks. He is a big man, going bald, with curly hair around the bald spot. He has on gray slacks and a black T-shirt. I do not know if I should let him help or not. I do not know what is appropriate in this situation. It is not something we were taught in school. He has already picked up two dented cans, one of tomato sauce and one of baked beans. “These are okay,” he says. “Just dented.” He reaches out to me, holding them.
“Thank you,” I say. It is always appropriate to say thank you when someone hands you something. I do not want the dented cans, but it does not matter if you want the present; you must say thank you.
He picks up the flattened box that should have had rice in it and drops it in the waste container. When everything we can pick up easily is in the waste container or my car, he waves and walks off. I do not know his name.
WHEN I GET HOME, IT IS NOT EVEN 7:00 P. M. YET. I DO NOT know when a policeman will come. I call Tom to tell him what happened because he knows Don and I do not know any other person to call. He says he will come to my apartment. I do not need him to come, but he wants to come.
When he arrives, he looks upset. His eyebrows are pulled together and there are wrinkles on his forehead. “Lou, are you all right?”
“I am fine,” I say.
“Don really attacked you?” He does not wait for me to answer; he rushes on. “I can’t believe—we told that policeman about him—”
“You told Mr. Stacy about Don?”
“After the bomb thing. It was obvious, Lou, that it had to be someone from our group. I tried to tell you—”
I remember the time Lucia interrupted us.
“We could see it,” Tom went on. “He was jealous of you with Marjory.”
“He blames me about his job, too,” I say. “He said I was a freak, that it was my fault he didn’t have the job he wanted,that people like me should not have normal women like Marjory