For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,27
turn away, but he didn’t look at me, either. Ethan’s dark eyes stared at the outdated posters on his wall, pictures of characters any other 11-year-old would have thrown away months, if not years, ago. But for a kid whose intellect is eleven and whose emotions are eight, there is great comfort in things that aren’t quite as mature as he is.
“I dunno.”
I didn’t want to push it. Maybe tomorrow he’d remember a name. Or think of someone he’d especially pissed off today. Maybe by the time we woke up tomorrow, rain would have washed away the rest of the barbecue sauce that had formed the objectionable phrase. Maybe tomorrow I’d find the little bastard who wrote it and throttle him until his clavicle fell out—whatever a clavicle might be. I hadn’t gotten all the way through biology class, either.
“Well, get some sleep, okay, Pal? Remember, all sorts of people with really good taste like you.”
I started to stand, but Ethan, uncharacteristically, reached up suddenly and grabbed me in a tight hug. I held my son close, kissed him on the head, and felt my shirt get just a little damp where his eyes were pressed against it.
“It’s okay, Ethan. It’s going to be okay. It’s okay. I promise.” I stroked his cheek and repeated myself for a long, long time.
Chapter 17
The next morning, the sun was shining brightly and the stain on our sidewalk was plainly visible. Figured. When you want bad weather, you can never get it.
Ethan was the last one down the stairs that morning, which is not unusual, but he was ten minutes later than on an average morning, and his expression was dour in a way that only an 11-year-old boy’s can be. Not only was he sad, but everyone within a fifteen-mile radius of him should also be sad, and never be happy again for the rest of their lives.
Leah, of course, compensated by being so cheerful Walt Disney would have gone into insulin shock in her presence. That just served to blacken Ethan’s mood another degree or two. He clomped into the kitchen, wearing the same Star Wars T-shirt he’d slept in, a pair of shorts that had last been washed before Keith Richards took up smoking, and a pair of white athletic socks that I felt it best not to actually look directly at.
“Good morning, Pal.”
He glowered at me and sat at the kitchen table.
“What would you like for breakfast today?”
“I’m NOT HUNGRY!” he said, flashing me a look that defied me to make something of it. Clearly, it was my fault someone had written an epithet on the sidewalk in front of our house with his name on it.
“Well, have an apple or something,” I said, trying to hold onto my calm. One of us had to speak in a normal tone for a moment.
“Daddy, I got my cereal and the bowl all by myself this morning,” Leah chirped.
“Very good, Cookie.”
Ethan’s mocking tone mimicked me perfectly. “Very good, Cookie.” Then, in his own voice, “I may puke.”
“Watch yourself, Ethan.”
“Watch yourself, Ethan.”
“Look, Pal, it’s not my fault that. . .”
In mid-sentence, he started aping me again. And my eyes were just a little wider, my throat a little tighter, than when I’d started speaking. Remember, I told myself, he’s the one who’s having the rough time. It’s not his fault.
Ethan got up from the table, with a triumphant smirk on his face, and started for the living room. I walked to the cabinet where we keep his Ritalin pills and took one out.
“Hey, Ethan, you forgot your pill.”
“Hey, Ethan, you forgot your pill.”
Leah’s eyes widened a bit as she watched me, sure that I’d blow up in Ethan’s face. I am not the most patient man in the world, and Asperger’s Syndrome is a perfect fit for someone like me (your Sarcasm Alarm should be going off about now). I’m likely to pop a blood vessel one morning.
“Ethan. . .”
“Ethan. . .”
I grabbed him by the forearms and forced him to look into my eyes. His hands started to flap at his sides, and his eyes rolled up in their sockets, a sign the Asperger’s was in full bloom.
“I didn’t write anything on the sidewalk,” I said. “I’m not the one who doesn’t like you. Don’t take this out on me!” As usual, I’d tried, and failed, to hold onto my temper. A swell start to another great day.
Leah jumped up and ran to the bow window in the living room. “Who