by Larry Center
“I know, Chris, I do.” Her face colored. “That son of yours has really touched me. He’s just plain adorable. But of course, you know that.” Her eyes suddenly misted as she smiled at me, a smile that seemed to plumb the rushing waters of my heart. I looked down at her hands, which rested on the table, suddenly aware that I was yearning with the urge to touch her hands and hold them in mine.
“Thank you,” I said, holding my urge in check.
“But you have to realize. It’s not just me, Chris. It’s the whole team. Think of it this way. Tommy needs to learn to adjust to all kinds of people. He can’t just hyper focus on one person.”
I exhaled slowly. My eyes lingered on the water in the harbor, sunlight glimmering on water, but now I hardly saw it. “Okay,” I said. “Maybe you’re right.”
She had a point. And yet, she was the one who had eased my son into the group of chimps and had formed a kind of bridge for him in the first place, showing him the way. And now she might be leaving? It still just didn’t seem right.
We left the coffee shop and strolled to her car, an eco-sensitive red Prius parked down the street, next to a barber shop called “Uncle’s.” Citified humans of all shapes and sizes traipsed past; this was our jungle and we Home sapiens had adjusted accordingly, carbon dioxide enhanced. A car honked; brakes screeched; we were used to the noise, the smell of a big old dump truck’s noxious fumes, the sights of kids flying past on skateboards. Buildings all around us, a concrete and steel world. And yet, a breezy wind flowed against my face, telling me that no matter how deeply entrenched in the city we were, nothing will ever obliterate nature.
“You look troubled,” she said as we stood next to her car. She pushed a button on her fob and her car’s lights flashed, doors unlocked, like an animal waking up, opening its eyes. She put her computer in the backseat.
“I am.” I sighed and shoved my hands in my pockets. I wasn’t good at hiding the emotions on my face. Voice-actors portray emotions on the job and off. We have to be emotionally transparent and in this fake-it-till-you-make-it society, transparent isn’t always the best way to be. Besides the breaking news about Africa, which I was still trying to digest, I was worried about the hearing. “I don’t know. I just keep going back to the fact of how hard it would be to take Tommy out of San Diego and just drop him in Houston. Children with autism resist change and even regress when they’re confronted by change and this would be the biggest change of his life. But how will I know that argument’s going to work?” I shrugged. “It seems like I’m just throwing my cards on the table only to see who has the best hand.”
“I understand. I know nothing’s certain. But look at it this way.” We faced each other as the wind blew a strand of hair across Rachel’s face. In the light, I saw that her blue eyes were flecked with bits of green. Beautiful eyes. “We have Carly Yates on our side, all these scientists, we’ve got some amazing data and the videos. You’ll see. Tommy will be with the chimps in the end, and luck’s going to turn your way.”
Luck.
She had no idea about my relationship with that crazy coin-tosser.
In the end, it was going to come down to what the judge decided. One person, one decision. That was the entire ball of wax. There was no other way around it.
“Talk to you soon, okay?” Rachel said. She touched my shoulder, and for a small moment, leaned closer to me. “And don’t fret so much. It’s going to be fine.”
“Sure. Of course. You’re right.” I turned on my best smile for her, but it didn’t change the trepidation I felt inside. And then I said it, what had been on my mind for quite a while. “And thanks again for everything, Rachel, no matter how it works out.” I spoke sincerely. “Really. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t opened Weller up to me and Tommy from the beginning. You could have easily just turned us away, but you didn’t. You got involved and you’ve helped my son more than you know. I’m completely grateful.”
She laughed. “It’s been my pleasure. And you know what? You’ve helped me too, Chris. You’ve actually rescued me in a way, though I’m sure you haven’t realized it.”
“I have? How?” I furrowed my brow.
“Before I met you and Tommy, I was jaded about so many things outside of Gombe. I can’t help but wonder if we’ve all become cut-off and somehow disconnected from each other. I mean have people lost their ability to care? So much hatred and cruelty in the world. Terrorism. School shootings. You name it. In a way, things are really bad. But then when you came along, seeing you with Tommy, the way you care for him and love him, well, it showed me another side to life that I had totally forgotten about. The best side. Here.”
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me and gave me a long, enduring hug. “Thanks,” she whispered in my ear.
Our bodies found their own way, drawing closer. Contact. Her touch sent an electric tingling through me that turned my stomach into a butterfly cage. Finally, we let go. I just stood there, blinking, not knowing what else to say. Feelings speak louder than words.
“See you soon,” she said a moment later.
“For sure.”
She got in her car and eco-drove away. I stared at her red taillights as they faded into the distance.
I turned and walked away, thinking that Rachel had become more than just a friend in all this, she’d become my ally. But now, something else was becoming clear. Tommy and I were digging our emotional hooks into her. And we were pulling her in by her heart.
*
Rachel and I met up again as the hearing approached and I was a mess of nerves. But I wanted her to reassure me one more time that everything would work out.
Amazingly, she agreed on a date of sorts, saying that she did have a hole in her schedule, and I brought Max along for reinforcement. We strolled around downtown San Diego. We found a smoothie shop on First Avenue, not far from the marina, and sat outside in the gorgeous weather. Max laid at my feet, his nose actively in search mode, wagging his tail.
“It’s going to be all right,” Rachel said, drinking a green smoothie. “Don’t look so down.”
“But how can you be so certain?”
“Because I just am. Once you start talking about Tommy and how much this chimp therapy benefits him, he’ll rule your way. I’m positive.”
“Well, I wish I could share your view.”
“Look,” she said, grabbing my hand. “You have to believe. You love your son. You’re going the distance for him. It’s going to work out. Trust the universe.”
Interesting take. I hoped she was right.
I felt my anxiety lessen as we continued walking and talking. She told me about her parents who were living in Arizona now, her sister, a physician, who lived in Savannah, Georgia, who she hardly ever got to see.
We stopped at an antique shop along the way, and after tying up Max, we went inside. I examined a pile of old Life magazines, ran my hand over a nineteenth-century oak table, admired an early 1920s chair made in France, the legs gracefully curved. Then I found Rachel, who was examining a pair of tall crystal candlesticks etched with ornate flower designs sitting on a shelf.
“You like them?” I asked.
She said nothing, just continued studying the candlesticks, then blinked her eyes and turned to me.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if you liked them.”
“Oh, yes. Very much,” She pushed some hair behind her ears. “They remind me of the pair my father gave my mother on their twentieth anniversary. I was about fourteen. I remember the way the sunlight hit them and how pretty and soft everything looked when they were lit. I thought it was so romantic.” She lowered her head shyly.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. Studying the flower designs on the candlesticks made me think of the roses my father carefully raised. Were those roses engraved on the candlesticks too? I couldn’t quite tell. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if life would ever present me with a long-lasting relationship as well, one that was sust
aining and caring and deep.
Chapter 13
Dr. Brady warned my crotchety father that drinking alcohol would slow the recovery of his bruised hip. But did he listen to the doctor’s advice? Hell, no.
He needed rounds of ice—no heat—ibuprofen, and rest. He’d been instructed to wrap an elastic bandage around his upper leg to compress the swelling and to elevate his injured hip above the level of his heart to decrease swelling and pain. The bruise was bad. He had pain all the way to his toes, along with numbness all down his leg. At first, he could hardly get around, then finally graduated to the school of advanced cane-ology. I was surprised by his resilience, the old codger. But he kept on drinking.
Cheryl was right. He was tough as nails, wood, even steel.
Insurance paid for an aid to come to the house every Tuesday and Thursday. Dahlia, dark hair, brown eyes, a big-boned woman with a Caribbean accent. She had gotten the cane for him. Made of dark wood with all kinds of animal engravings on it, coolest one I’d ever seen, but he hated the cane and threatened to burn it.
On a windy Saturday, two weeks after my father’s accident, I brought Tommy with me to see him. Max came along as well as did Mister Backpack.
“Pop.” Tommy gave my father direct eye contact, standing in front of him in the den. “Pop. Hurt.” My father sat in his green lounger, a glass of beer in his hand, froth still at the top, his leg elevated on a chair with two pillows and an ice bag planted on his hip. The house smelled muggy and I went to open a window. “Pop.” Tommy’s lips still held traces of the peanut butter sandwich he’d just eaten. Of course, I’d cut it up into the special shapes he’d demanded, one half a square, one half a circle. Tommy stared at my father, and then shook his head right and left. “Pop.”
“What’s he want?” my father asked, looking at me. “Game’s on in an hour. Today we’re going to win. I know it.”
“Pop. Pop.” Tommy evidently was fixating on my dad. “Pop,” Tommy said again. “Pop. Pop. Pop.”
“Pop loves you,” my father said.
“Pop. Pop. Pop.”
“Why don’t you go outside and play with Max, Tommy? Pop’s not in such a great mood,” I said.
Tommy headed out the back door, slamming it hard behind him. The house shook.
“Jesus!” my father cried. “Don’t slam the door!” He reached up to his hearing aids and adjusted them. Just like with Tommy, loud sounds aggravated him. “Crap.” He took a long swig from his beer. “When will he ever learn not to do that?”
“Not sure,” I said.
“So.” My father took another swig, put it back down on the table, then crossed his arms over his chest. “That hearing. I can’t believe it. You and Cheryl. What a perfect mess.” I’d put off telling my father for as long as possible, but finally filled him in on the entire custody situation over the phone.
“I’m a nervous wreck,” I said. And I was. The past few nights, I’d hardly been able to sleep. I hated to go down Ambien Highway, but it could happen after all.
“Well, I hope you stick it to her. Come on. Let’s go outside. I need a little sunshine. Tired of sitting here all day.”
Dad brought his leg down off the pillow, took off the ice pack, and groaned in pain. “Good thing I’m on ibuprofen,” he said.
He stood shakily, took his cane, and he and I trudged outside. I was amazed that he left his beer behind. Outside, the scent of rain hung in the air. Max, spying us, moseyed up to my father and licked his hand, tasting it, sniffing it. God only knew what kind of information he was deducing through his amazing olfactory senses. Max paid no attention to me. He loved Dad absolutely. There wasn’t even a question as to who he favored more.
“Now I’m limping like you, old boy,” my father said with a coarse laugh, scratching Max behind his ears. “I sure am.”
Max barked as if he understood, as if he were saying, “Welcome to the club.”
“You’re a good ole fella,” my father said. “You’re my boy!”
We sat down in green lawn chairs and I got an ottoman from the house so my father could prop up his leg. I scanned the fenced-in backyard. The weeping acacia looked beautiful, green and lush, and Dad’s roses, pink and red, were lovely as always. Tommy was lying underneath the acacia. He had both Radar and Monk in his arms. He was looking up at the sky. A flock of birds flew above us, forming that infamous V pattern, one bird in the lead. Tommy’s motorboat sounds reached my ears, though I was sure my father didn’t hear it. Tommy was always happiest off by himself.
“Writing any more poetry, Dad?” I asked.
“Hell no.” He spoke as if it was the last thing on earth he would ever do, waved a hand in the air.
“But you should. You’re good. I think you have talent.”
“It doesn’t come that easy, all right?”
I didn’t want to argue. Nothing comes easy: good poetry, protecting your autistic son, or anything else.
We both studied the sky, grey clouds forming, clumping together like cotton balls. Then he looked straight ahead, refusing to turn my way. His grainy voice softened and I detected a slight quiver. “Sure do miss your mother, though.”
“Me, too,” I said. My heart leapt in my throat. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. She always used to say that. I could hear her laughter in my head, her playing piano, her bright, bubbly laugh.
“Feels so empty around here,” my father said. “Hate to say it, but some days, I wish I was with her. Why not? What do I have to live for anymore, you know? I mean, really.”
“Don’t say that, Dad,” I said. “You’ve got the Padres. You’ve got Tommy. And me.”
“The Padres and Tommy I can handle. You, I’m not so sure.” My father gave me one of his rare smiles, then as he looked at me, his eyes moistened up. A trembling hand went to his face and he lowered his head. “Your mother’s in a better place, though.” He looked up. “Yeah. I’m sure of it.” He was more introspective and quiet than I’d ever seen him. This was interesting. Maybe that fall knocked some sense into him.
He rubbed his bruised hip and groaned. He tapped his cane against the ground. “Oh, hell, I’m just one old fool.”
“No, you’re not, Dad,” I said.
I looked out at Tommy as Max raced to him, barking at him. Tommy stood and clapped his hands, egging Max on.
“I was the kind of husband who never saw life through her eyes, you know? It was always about me. I still don’t understand how she put up with me all those years. And now that she’s gone . . . We don’t know what we’ve really got till it’s gone, do we? And then it’s too late to do anything about it,” my father said. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Here’s my advice. Enjoy that boy.” He pointed at Tommy, who was now spinning around and laughing at some inner joke. “He’s the best thing you’ve got going.”
“Look, Dad.” I pulled out my cell and showed a video of Tommy and Albert, which Rachel had sent me. Tommy, signing to Albert, Albert, signing back. Tommy explaining what Albert was painting.
“That’s my grandson!” my father said, laughing. He slapped his knee. “That’s a Crutcher through and through, all right. He knows those chimps inside and out.”
After a while, Tommy walked over to us and stood before my father.
“Pop,” he said. “Pop. Fall.”
“Yes, I fell all right,” my father said. “Right on my tush.”
“Tush?” Tommy repeated. “Tush?”
“Yeah. Tush.”
We both laughed at that. Then my father said, “You sure like those chimps, don’t you, Tom-Tom?” my father asked. “Do you see pictures in your mind when you’re with them? That’s what I did back on the farm in Georgia when I was with the horses. Pictures.” My father pointed to his head. “Pictures in here? Is that right?”
Tommy nodded eagerly. “Pics,” he said and formed his lips into that pseudo-smile, mechanical. “Pics. See.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “See, Pop . . . See! See!” He actually reached out and touched my fat
her’s hand.
“Yes. I see,” my father said. Then a minute later, when Tommy was playing with Max, he said, “You better win that hearing, that’s all I can say. That boy is depending on you to stay with those damn chimps of his. He’s got no business going to Houston. He needs those chimps and that need of his is written in his DNA.”
“I’ll do my best, Dad.”
But his eyes dug into mine, and then he spoke with an edge of fear in his voice that surprised me. “What if your best isn’t good enough?”
I didn’t have an answer for that and my shoulders grew tight.
“You want an old man’s advice?” He shifted slowly in his seat and groaned.
“Sure.”
He growled: “Go for the goddamn jugular.”
Chapter 14
May 23. A windy and cloudy Thursday afternoon.
The time had come to fight for my beliefs. To stand tall and stand my ground.
I made my way downtown to the Family Law Court building on Sixth Street. It’s a dumpy 1960s two-story brick structure near the El Cortez Hotel. I wore a fine grey Joseph Abboud Italian-made suit and a silk blue tie, both of which I’d recently purchased with my increased income. I needed this coat of armor to bolster my nerves and up my self-confidence. My stomach quaked and blood pounded in my ears with every step I took. I’d used a brand-new razor to shave, wanting to get my face as smooth as possible, but nicked myself on that difficult groove, the philtrum, between my nose and my upper lip. It had taken ten minutes for the damn thing to stop bleeding; such a nuisance.
I plodded up the marble steps, almost missing the last step and nearly falling on my face. I felt like a fool. Three reporters lined up to meet me. I knew what to say—nothing. I would be mute and distant as a star. It wouldn’t be hard given the circumstances, even for a vocal talent like me.
“Mr. Crutcher, is it true your son speaks to chimpanzees?” Bloomfield led the charge, microphone in hand. The guy was incorrigible and full of himself. He was really getting on my nerves.