between the layers of visual processing. I did not know there was a separate area for facial recognition, though the reference they cite goes back to the twentieth century. I did not know that the ability to recognize an object in different orientations is impaired in those born blind who gain sight later.
Again and again they talk about things I have had trouble with in the context of being born blind or having brain trauma from a head injury or stroke or aneurysm. When my face does not turn strange like other people’s do when they feel strong emotion, is it just that my brain doesn’t process the change of shape?
A tiny hum: my fan coming on. I shut my eyes, wait three seconds, and open them. The room is awash in color and movement, the spin spirals and whirligigs all moving, reflecting light as they move. I put the book down and go back to work. The steady oscillation of the twinkles soothes me; I have heard normal people call it chaotic, but it is not. It is a pattern, regular and predictable, and it took me weeks to get it right. I think there must be some easier way to do it, but I had to adjust each of the moving parts until it moved at the right speed in relation to the others.
My phone rings. I do not like it when the phone rings; it jerks me out of what I am doing, and there will be someone on the other end who expects me to be able to talk right away. I take a deep breath. When I answer, “This is Lou Arrendale,” at first I hear only noise.
“Ah—this is Detective Stacy,” the voice says. “Listen—we sent someone over to your apartment. Tell me again what your license number is.”
I recite it for him.
“Um. Well, I’m going to need to talk to you in person.” He stops and I think he expects me to say something, but I do not know what to say. Finally he goes on. “I think you may be in danger, Mr. Arrendale. Whoever’s doing this is not a nice guy. When our guys tried to get that toy out, there was a small explosion.”
Explosion!
“Yes. Luckily, our guys were careful. They didn’t like the setup, so they called the bomb squad. But if you’d picked up that toy, you might’ve lost a finger or two. Or the thing might’ve hit you in the face.”
“I see.” I could in fact see it, imagine it visually. I had almost reached out and grabbed the toy… and if I had… I feel cold suddenly; my hand starts to tremble.
“We really need to find this person. Nobody’s home at your fencing instructor’s—”
“Tom teaches at the university,” I say. “Chemical engineering.”
“That’ll help. Or his wife?”
“Lucia’s a doctor,” I say. “She works at the medical center. Do you really think this person wants to hurt me?”
“He sure wants to cause you trouble,” the officer said. “And the vandalism seems more violent each time. Can you come down to the station?”
“I cannot leave here until after work,” I say. “Mr. Crenshaw would be angry with me.” If someone is trying to hurt me, I do not want anyone else angry.
“We’re sending someone out,” Mr. Stacy says. “Which building are you in?” I tell him that and which gate to enter and which turns to take to arrive in our parking area, and he continues, “Should be there within a half hour. We have fingerprints; we’ll need to take yours to compare with the others. Your fingerprints should be all over that car—and you’ve had it in for repairs lately, too, so there’ll be others.
But if we find a set that doesn’t match yours or any of the repair people… we’ll have something solid to go on.”
I wonder if I should tell Mr. Aldrin or Mr. Crenshaw that the police are coming here to talk to me. I do not know which would make Mr. Crenshaw more angry. Mr. Aldrin does not seem to get angry as often.
I call his office.
“The police are coming to talk to me,” I say. “I will make up the time.”
“Lou! What’s wrong? What have you done?”
“It is my car,” I say.
Before I can say more, he is talking fast. “Lou, don’t say anything to them. We’ll get you a lawyer. Was anyone hurt?”
“Nobody was hurt,” I say. I hear his breath gush out.