Like No Other Boy

by Larry Center

  In the photo, my mother’s golden-brown hair was cut short. She was standing beside that weeping acacia in the backyard wearing capris and a white blouse. The picture had been taken ten years ago at least. There she was, perpetually smiling at us. It was a real smile, not one of those fake expressions people put on just for the camera these days with their selfies. To my mother, life was full of real reasons to smile, good food, friends, swimming in the ocean in the early morning, music, the stars. She didn’t have to pretend to be happy; she just was, and other people could sense it. To her, life wasn’t a series of problems at all; it was a gift, she used to tell me. How my mother had lived with my crotchety and moody father for so long was still a puzzle to me. Still, my parents’ marriage had been largely successful. A yin-yang type of marriage that seemed to work. Whereas Cheryl and I . . . Why couldn’t we have stuck it out and found a way to continue loving each other even in our darkest hours?

  “Two damn years now,” he said, his voice starting to tremble as he plopped down in his green lounger and hunched over. He adjusted one of his aids. “Seems like yesterday, doesn’t it? She’d be seventy-seven today.”

  Tears welled up in his eyes. When one trickled down his cheek, he wiped it away with his thumb.

  “Goddammit!” he said, covering his face with his hands. “Hell.”

  I’d never seen him cry before. His stoicism at the funeral had been unflinching. He was finally letting go at least a little, and I understood completely. This was good for him. I missed Mom so much. Her touch along my shoulder when she knew I needed consolation, her lilac smell, her infectious laughter.

  “I . . . I never said this,” my father spoke slowly, gazing at her picture from his lounger, his voice suddenly soft, “but she told me before she died to make sure I did right by you and Tommy or else she’d meet me in heaven and ream my ass out.” He laughed and then one more tear dribbled down his cheek. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “Goddammit. Crap!”

  He had liver-spot splotches on the backs of both hands, and his fingers were gnarled. His face was a ragged road map.

  Time was the great eradicator. We’re all like leaves, green for a while, turning to yellow, brown, then crumbling to dust on the ground. I would lose my father next. I sighed. It was just a matter of time.

  My father went to the bathroom as I clomped around the room straightening things. When he flushed, the sound of the toilet reverberated in the house. Old plumbing. Somewhere a pipe rattled as if a ghost had been woken up. God only knew when one of those ancient pipes would simply give way. Keeping this house up was a huge expense. I put books in place and gathered up beer cans and bottles. He plodded into the room and rubbed his lower back as he plopped back down in his lounger. This was a future version of myself, whether I liked it or not.

  “Goddamn back,” he said, swigging his beer. “Ain’t worth a shit anymore.”

  “We all get old, Dad.”

  “Here’s to old age,” my father said, raising his bottle. “It sucks.”

  As I kept straightening the room—thinking about getting out the vacuum next—I came across a book of Wordsworth poems lying on the table next to his chair. I stopped and stared at it. My Dad read poetry? Wordsworth? When I opened the book with its dog-eared pages, a sheet of white paper fell out. Scribblings in pencil.

  “What’s this, Dad?” I asked.

  “What the hell do you think it is?” He growled. “It’s a goddamn poem.”

  “I see that. Did you write it?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged.

  I laughed. “Since when did you start writing poetry?”

  “Just read it,” he said.

  “Are you kidding?”

  I could hardly make out the scribble.

  “Just read the damn thing.”

  “Fine.”

  Our time upon this earth before we die, is no more than the blink of an eye.

  All I know is there’s the Great Unknown, and that dash they put between

  two numbers on a stone.

  Yes, the moon and stars are laughin’ at our entrance on the stage

  as the roar of youth soon becomes a whisper as we age.

  We’re just here blind-walkin’ ’round this temporary home.

  It all comes down to a dash between two numbers on a stone.

  “Dad,” I said. “You wrote this?” I held the paper in front of him.

  “Yep.” He nodded and scratched his stomach, then took another swig.

  “I like it, but it’s so somber. Is it about Mom?”

  “Yep.” He blushed as he took a sip of beer. I’d never thought I’d see my father embarrassed about anything.

  “But Mom was more than a dash, don’t you think?”

  He looked at me with sad eyes. “I was talking about time, son. In terms of time, that’s about all any of us are.”

  “Well, anyway, it’s a cool poem. We should laminate it.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, taking a long pull on his beer. “Want to watch some TV?”

  “Before we do, I need to tell you the latest about Tommy,” I said.

  “Go for it.”

  I told him everything I’d seen with Albert and Tommy, the entire research project. My father listened intently, and I could tell he was impressed.

  “So, his name’s Albert, huh?” my father said. “Hmmm. With a name like that, he’s got to be smart.”

  “More than smart, Dad,” I said. “That chimp is wise.”

  “And Tommy started talking a lot?” he asked.

  “You should have heard him. It was amazing,” I said. “I still get shivers thinking about it.”

  “Well, keep it up. Maybe it’ll help. You never know.”

  “I plan to.”

  “How’s Cheryl these days?” he asked, turning to me and once again using his dad radar to plumb my face. He came to like Cheryl and was saddened by the divorce; took it hard though he wouldn’t say so.

  “Fine,” I said. “Cheryl’s Cheryl. What more can I say?”

  I didn’t want to tell him that we were going back to court, that she wanted to take Tommy to Houston and put a knife in my heart at the same time. I didn’t want to upset him; not today, anyway. Besides, it was my problem, not his.

  Chapter 11

  Some folks’ lives are dashes, for sure, but some of us live in a world filled with exclamation points, one after the other. That’s how I felt, anyway, when I turned on the TV to Channel Two for the six o’clock news that evening, only to discover my own personal family drama aired out for all to see, dirty laundry on the screen. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, watching TV in my bedroom, hair still wet. Right before my eyes, the anchor babe shifted from a murder in the San Ysidro area of San Diego to, “and in other news . . .” And there it was: Mike Bloomfield, perfectly tailored in a blue suit, black hair slicked back, interviewing Cheryl and Gloria Beaman inside Cheryl’s home.

  Beaman was dressed in red as if to underscore her bad-ass attitude toward anyone who dared to get in her way. Cheryl was in a sea-blue dress that clung tight to her body—maybe too tight.

  “So, you’re alleging Mr. Crutcher is using this so-called science experiment at the Weller Institute to manipulate your autistic son to the point of abuse?” Bloomfield asked, after explaining to his audience the dilemma between me and Cheryl.

  Abuse? What? Was she kidding me? Anger slivered through my mind.

  “That’s correct. He’s doing this all for monetary gain and . . .” Cheryl stood with her hands behind her back, looking uncomfortable in front of the TV.

  I stopped toweling my hair dry and felt the water drip on my shoulders and shirt. Breathless, I couldn’t move as I continued watching. I sure hoped my dad didn’t have the TV tuned to this station. Chances were low since he hardly ever watched the news. It was sports, usually, or not at all.

  “ . . . and he’s denying my son the best treatment possible, a school for autistic children
in Houston. Plus, he’s endangering my son by allowing him near chimpanzees. These animals are powerful and there’s absolutely no reason for my son to be near them. Just last year a chimpanzee ripped into a caretaker’s face for no reason at all, nearly killing him. There have been other incidents like this as well. If this isn’t abuse or close to it, I don’t know what is.”

  I clenched my fists. I felt like throwing a shoe at the TV.

  “And there’s no truth to the rumor that your son actually talks to chimps, then?” Bloomfield asked.

  They were standing in Cheryl’s den, a Salvador Dali print hanging on the wall behind her. Angels floating up to heaven. Weird. She’d gotten it in the divorce. We’d picked it out together on a romantic trip to Sausalito when we were . . . oh, hell!

  “I think the answer to that question is in the question itself,” Beaman said, a grim voice with ice around the edges. “Obviously, there is absolutely no truth at all to that absurd notion. How could one even prove such a thing?”

  “So how do you explain the online video that’s gone viral?” Bloomfield pressed.

  “It’s complete nonsense, most likely the result of video tampering,” Beaman shot back.

  The interview ended, followed by Bloomfield’s summary, the fireplug of a reporter staring directly into the eye of the camera.

  “We are awaiting the father’s side of the story,” he said in that dry journalistic tone, “but so far, he has refused to return our phone calls or to make a statement. Can an eight-year-old autistic boy talk to the chimps or not? That is the question. This is Mark Bloomfield, Channel 2 News. Now back to you, Stacey.”

  Another perfectly dressed anchor came on. “Thanks, Mark. And in other news . . .”

  Bloomfield had called me once and I’d curtly said, “no comment,” then hung up on him. His other calls went unanswered. I wasn’t about to talk to him.

  I went to my computer to pull up the now-famous video I hadn’t seen yet, waiting five seconds to see it because some ad for a hair product was attached to it. The video showed just what had happened: Tommy at the zoo that day, This is so rad . . . the big chimp staring at Tommy and swaying. I should have known. Never trust anyone under twenty.

  The video boasted over a million hits and two hundred plus comments. Viewers were slugging it out over whether humans could actually talk to a variety of animals, chimps, birds, dogs . . . I scrolled through the comments as a vein throbbed on my neck and my stomach knotted up:

  There is no way in hell a kid can talk to a chimp! Lulujones246

  Everybody knows that parrots have a high intelligence. I talk to my Birdie-girl every day and she talks back. We discuss all kinds of things. SaraPrincetongal

  I communicated with a chimp once. He said he was dying for an organic banana. HumblePoet

  And on and on.

  At 10 a.m. the next day, a harried Cheryl called and begged me to take Tommy so that she could keep a major appointment with a client. She said it was life or death.

  “After killing me on TV like that?” I said, my voice stern and thick with anger. “Are you crazy?”

  “Beaman made me do it, Chris, you have to believe me. I didn’t want to. It was her idea.”

  “Well, it’s a lousy thing to do. Who does she think she is anyway, Gloria Allred?”

  “I’m sorry. I know. She’s over the top. I tried to get her not to do it. What can I say?”

  “You could have tried to stop her, and not said all those awful things you said.”

  “Stop Niagra Falls, Chris? Same thing. So, can you keep him? Please? I’m on my knees here. I have a major appointment I can’t afford to break. The client has to see me today or he’s going to cancel. I swear. He’s a real headache, but this deal is worth a ton.”

  I thought about saying no, of course, just to get back at her. I recalled how I’d been offered that job by Marty Ackerman a while back, that spur of the moment thing, but couldn’t take it because I couldn’t find anyone to watch Tommy. Cheryl was out of town as were her parents, and my father had refused. Tit for tat?

  But I actually looked forward to being with Tommy. And suddenly, something struck me. I was going to visit my attorney that day and it would be great to bring Tommy with me, so they could actually meet.

  “Mom and Dad are out of the country and—” Cheryl went on.

  “Hell, okay,” I said. I knew the story well enough. “I just can’t believe you sometimes. Bring him over. How’s Wade by the way?”

  “Great.” At the mention of his name, her voice changed from somber to light. “Just landed a new deal with Pepsi. He’s in Houston scoping out housing.”

  “I’m sure.” I swallowed hard and for a moment, lost my sense of where I was. I blinked rapidly. Wade waltzes away with Cher and a great job in Houston. And as for me . . . I’m left holding the emotional bag—alone.

  When Cheryl and Tommy came to my front door, the drop off was quick and mechanical. Only Max showed any excitement, bumping his nose against Cheryl’s hand, begging for attention. I had nothing to say to her and she had even less to say to me. With Tommy around, we played the part of friendly exes. We might have even won an award. Plastered on smiles, stiff and quick responses. The whole enchilada.

  After she left, Tommy played with Max in the backyard. An hour later, he was climbing into my car, clutching Radar and Monkey, and my mood lifted.

  We headed straight to Mark Hyman’s office. Mister Backpack came with us as well.

  Tommy seemed more distant and quiet than usual. Though he was carrying both Radar and Monkey, one in each hand, he still managed to suck on his hands and then slap himself as we made our way into the building. New places created so much anxiety for him.

  “Radar and Monkey don’t want you to gobble up your hands.” I did my infamous SpongeBob: “Let’s go, my little starfish, no hands in mouth, all right?”

  “’Kay.”

  Thank God, it worked. He took his hand from his mouth and relief washed over me. I wasn’t sure why, but when it came to Tommy, SpongeBob SquarePants—that absorbable little fellow—seemed to yield more results than any of the best psychologists.

  We stepped into the Drake Building in downtown San Diego. Mark shared an assistant with two other attorneys on the twelfth floor. Black-haired with dark-framed glasses perched on her nose, she offered me and Tommy leather chairs in the waiting area. I put Monkey away for him, hit the coffee machine down the hall, and brought out a juice box from Mr. Backpack for Tommy.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing him,” I said to Mark when he called us into his office for our second meeting. “Had no other choice.”

  Mark shrugged as if he was always welcoming autistic children and their dads into his office. “No problem at all. He’s what it’s all about.”

  “Tommy, sit quietly next to me so that I can talk to the man, okay?” I said softly.

  “’Kay, Daddy.” He didn’t look at Mark. He just zoomed Radar in the air, looking everywhere but at this new man-person across from him, murmuring away in the process. He got that way sometimes, simply blanked out everything in his field of vision except for one detail, focusing solely and exclusively on that.

  “Chimpies, Daddy?” he asked suddenly. Then a new question that startled me. “See Rach’l doc?”

  “Rachel?”

  He shook his head. “Want see Rach’l doc!” he said. “Rach’l doc . . . see . . .”

  I was surprised at this reference to Rachel. Tommy normally didn’t talk about anything that wasn’t in his immediate presence. Other than “chimpies,” of course. His wanting to see Rachel made me realize what an impression she was making on him. I had to smile.

  “He’s cute,” Mark said, studying Tommy, who was now quietly playing with Radar. “Ooooouuuu . . .” “So, you know all about chimpanzees?” he asked, trying to get Tommy’s attention.

  But Tommy quickly looked away. Spittle dribbled from his mouth, and then he hit himself, gave himself a good thwack right on his left chee
k. I felt the sting inside my gut.

  “Tommy, please,” I said, feeling embarrassed.

  “Oooouuuuu . . .”

  I put a hand on his knee to try to calm him, but he pushed it away. I got him to settle down with a picture book about chimps, which I’d withdrawn from Mister Backpack. He thumbed through the book quietly. Mark, looking relieved, dove in, getting right to the point.

  “So.” He leaned forward, staring at me from behind his neatly organized desk. “I’ve been studying custody law regarding special children like Tommy. The suitability of the parents is one of the key points. So, tell me all you can about Cheryl. I need to know as much as possible. She’s going to paint you as the unfit father. We need to fight back.”

  “Let’s see,” I said, letting my mind roll back in time. “There was that DUI two years ago with Tommy in the car. Her father got her a big lawyer to help her through it. Still, she had to pay a fine and do public service.”

  “Really. Interesting. She’s a drinker?” he asked.

  “A wine enthusiast, Mark.” I took a sip of coffee. “But with all the stress she’s under, she depends on it to keep her sanity. I mean she’s no alcoholic, I don’t think, but she does like to tip back a few—been that way ever since I knew her.”

  Mark scrawled with black ink on a yellow legal pad. He rubbed his brow. “Drinking and driving with the son in tow. I’ll check on the details. Anything else?”

  I looked at Tommy who was now pinching Radar’s nose, a line of spittle glistening from his chin. I grabbed a tissue and wiped it away. He sucked on his hand. “Drrrrrr . . . Ouuuuuu . . .” He shook his head right and left.

  “Let’s be good, Tom-Tom,” I said and gently removed his hand from his mouth. Mark watched silently. I caught a look of sympathy in his eyes.

  “Actually, there is something else,” I said, turning back to Mark. “An accident on the playground when she was watching him. Tommy was three at the time. He fell from a swing and busted his lip. He needed stitches. I’m sure we can find a medical report on it.”

  As Mark jotted down some notes, I gazed out the window for a moment, then expressed my greatest fear, my heart beating hard. “What do you think about her statement that chimps are dangerous and she has every right to take Tommy to Houston?”