contained, a little frightening sometimes in his own harmless way.
The very thought of someone experimenting on Lou made him feel sick. Lou was Lou, and fine the way he was.
Inside, Tom found Don sprawled on the floor under the ceiling fan talking a blue streak as usual while Lucia stitched on her embroidery with that expression that meant “Rescue me!” Don turned to him.
“So… you think Lou’s ready for open competition, huh?” Don asked.
Tom nodded. “You overheard that? Yes, I do. He’s improved a lot. He’s fencing with the best we have and holding his own.”
“It’s a lot of pressure for someone like him,” Don said.
“‘Someone like him’… you mean autistic?”
“Yeah. They don’t do well with crowds and noise and stuff, do they? I read that’s why the ones who are so good at music don’t become concert performers. Lou’s okay, but I think you shouldn’t push him into tournaments. He’ll fold.”
Tom choked back his first thought and said instead, “Do you remember your first tournament, Don?”
“Well, yeah… I was pretty young… It was a disaster.”
“Yes. Do you remember what you told me after your first bout?”
“No… not really. I know I lost… I just fell apart.”
“You told me you’d been unable to concentrate because of the people moving around.”
“Yeah, well, it’d be worse for someone like Lou.”
“Don—how could he lose worse than you did?”
Don’s face turned red. “Well, I—he—it would just be worse for him. Losing, I mean. For me—”
“You went and drank a six-pack and threw up behind a tree,” Tom said. “Then you cried and told me it was the worst day of your life.”
“I was young,” Don said. “And I let it all out, and it didn’t bother me after that… He’ll brood.”
“I’m glad you’re worried about his feelings,” Lucia said. Tom almost winced at the sarcasm in her voice, even though it wasn’t directed at him.
Don shrugged, though his eyes had narrowed. “Of course I worry,” he said. “He’s not like the rest of us—”
“That’s right,” Lucia said. “He’s a better fencer than most of us and a better person than some.”
“Jeez, Luci, you’re in a bad mood,” Don said, in the jokey tone that Tom knew meant he wasn’t joking.
“You’re not improving it,” Lucia said, folding her needlework and standing; she was gone before Tom could say anything. He hated it when she said what he was thinking and then he had to cope with the aftermath, knowing that she had expressed the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. Now, predictably, Don was giving him a complicit man-to-man look that invited a shared view of women that he didn’t share.
“Is she getting… you know … sort of midlife?” Don asked.
“No,” Tom said. “She’s expressing an opinion.” Which he happened to share, but should he say that?
Why couldn’t Don just grow up and quit causing these problems? “Look—I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow.”
“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Don said, clambering up with a dramatic wince and a hand to his back.
The problem was,he couldn’t take a hint. It was another fifteen minutes before he finally left; Tom locked the front door and turned off the lights before Don could think of something else to say and come back, the way he often did. Tom felt bad; Don had been a charming and enthusiastic boy, years ago, and surely he should have been able to help him grow into a more mature man than he’d become. What else were older friends for?
“It’s not your fault,” Lucia said from the hall. Her voice was softer now, and he relaxed a little; he had not been looking forward to soothing a furious Lucia. “He’d be worse if you hadn’t worked on him.”
“I dunno,” Tom said. “I still think—”
“Born teacher that you are, Tom, you still think you should be able to save them all from themselves.
Think: there’s Marcus at Columbia, and Grayson at Michigan, and Vladianoff in Berlin —all your boys once and all better men for knowing you. Don is not your fault.”
“Tonight I’ll buy that,” Tom said. Lucia, backlit by the light from their bedroom, had an almost magical quality.
“That’s not all I’m selling,” she said, her voice teasing, and she dropped the robe.
IT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE TO ME THAT TOM WOULD ASK ME again about entering a fencing tournament when I was talking about an experimental treatment for autism. I think about that on the drive home. It is clear that I am improving in my fencing and that