proper diversion.
I’d settled on one—having the characters perform a piece of home improvement while discussing the plot—and started writing when, true to form, Ethan pushed the front door open and stomped into the house. My son doesn’t walk, he stomps. It does-n’t mean anything—it’s not indicative of his mood. Asperger’s kids aren’t as in touch with their bodies as the rest of us, and Ethan is probably unaware that he’s making enough noise to be heard three blocks away.
Sure enough, all the stomping hadn’t meant a thing—Ethan breezed in the door with a sunny, “hi, Dad,” and immediately set out to do his homework, which he announced was “the easiest thing since they started giving out homework.” For math class, he had to write a poem about his favorite number. When I was in school, you had to do math for math, but that was a long time ago.
It was just as well that this was Ethan’s assignment and not mine, anyway. I can’t compose a decent rhyme about anything, let alone my favorite number. My few pitiful attempts at song-writing in college were enough to convince me to stick to prose.
Ethan, however, is blessed with a mind that can toss off complex, interesting metaphors as easily as. . . um, something easy. Okay, if I’d finished that simile, you’d get the idea.
He had just about finished his “Ode to Thirteen” when Leah pushed the door open and dragged her tiny, weary self into the living room, then flopped down on the bottom stair. My daughter, who wants to be an actress, has yet to master the art of subtlety.
“How was your day, Squishy-Face?” I asked. It’s best to start with an endearing nickname. It sets up a good barometer for the child’s mood. And with children, mood is everything.
“Good.” Okay, at least I knew something. Of course, Leah always says her day was “good,” even when something truly horrific—like a substitute teacher—has befallen her. Once, on a day when her beloved Mrs. Antonioni was absent, Leah actually had to spend five minutes in detention, something she considers an unpardonable shame that will tarnish her life until that fateful day one of her great-grandchildren ferrets out the truth. And the whole class had been detained—Leah hadn’t been singled out.
“Anything happen that I need to know about?” She shook her head, and started to dig through her backpack, which was hanging on the lowest protrusion of our cast-iron banister. She sighed, evidently with great meaning.
“What’s the matter, Puss?” She knows I almost never call her “Leah” unless I’m annoyed with her, which I am roughly every three months. But she didn’t answer, got out her math book, and headed toward the kitchen, so as to stay out of Ethan’s way. The two of them doing homework in the same room is not a pretty picture.
I was about to follow her and get a more detailed explanation of her mood when the phone rang. The caller ID box indicated the caller was “Out of Area,” which is really helpful. But luckily, when I picked the phone up, Mitch Davis was at the other end.
“I don’t care if I am your class correspondent, I haven’t heard from any Rutgers people,” he began, by way of a greeting. Mitch is a classic, old-style newspaperman—unkempt, hard drinking, and outwardly gruff. If he put on a seersucker suit and a porkpie hat, he’d be Carl Kolchak, the Night Stalker.
“I’m not calling about alumni,” I assured him. “I’m calling to pick your brain on Washington, D.C. police activity.”
“This for a story?”
“No. I’ve developed an overwhelming interest in cities that once busted their own mayor for drug use, and I thought I’d start at the top.”
“I’m not going to help you on a story,” said Davis. “Why should I give my sources to the competition? Besides, I thought you wrote about Palm Pilots and what’s great about New Jersey. What are you doing talking to cops?”
I filled him in on my Snapdragon assignment, leaving out my ties to Stephanie and Crazy Legs. His voice rose about an octave when I suggested he let me know who was conducting the Gibson investigation.
“The biggest cop story to hit D.C. in ten years, and you want me to hand you the sources? Why don’t you act like a reporter and get your own, you slacker?” Davis always was one for flattery.
“I’m not the competition, you Daily Planet reject. I’m writing for a monthly that’s not going to publish until you’ve already