Like No Other Boy

by Larry Center

  He rubbed his chin, then the side of his face. My entire body quivered.

  “The father believes in a radical form of therapy,” Korbovitch said, “and he’s presented documentation as to possible outcomes for the child, but the problem is that his research, if you could call it that, is based on only one child. I’ve consulted with an independent professor of psychology from UCLA and she agrees. This kind of protocol is too much in its infancy to make a sound decision regarding its efficacy.

  “And yet in regards to the singularity of this particular child, I’ve viewed the videos of the boy while he’s in the presence of the chimps, and quite honestly, not only as a judge but as a father and grandfather, I’ve never seen anything like it. Truly, the boy appears more relaxed, inquisitive, and definitely more fluent when he’s at the chimp compound. The chimps do seem to have a positive influence on him. And he seems to truly have some sort of uncanny influence over the chimps as well.”

  Yes, of course. Hearing these words made my eyes grow misty. I peered over at Cheryl who sat stiff, leaning forward in her seat, her face grim. I turned to Mark and put a hand on his arm, holding on like a rescue line, holding on for dear life.

  “Of course,” Korbovitch went on, shifting down into a more somber tone, “I must say, there is the question of safety, and there’s also the question of transferability, that is, will the boy’s so-called success with the chimps flow over into human interactions?” Hearing this new, grave tone of voice, my heart fell into my stomach. I rubbed the back of my neck as if a spider was biting my flesh. “Again, I must think of the boy first and foremost, and I must think of the long term.” The judge cleared his throat, took a sip of water from the glass resting next to him.

  Korbovitch folded his hands in front of him as he leaned forward in his chair, which suddenly squeaked. My head throbbed. I started wondering if the judge had taken Cheryl’s pregnancy into account—a mother with a new baby trying to handle her autistic son in a new city.

  “Though the two parents do have shared custody,” he went on, “the primary caregiver is the mother. She has been adjudicated primary custody of the boy during the week, the father only on weekends, and more extended periods during the summer. Given the mother’s not altogether irresponsible background, plus the fact that she is pursuing a course that follows more than anecdotal documentation, I must say she clearly has the more conventional argument for the overall long-term needs of the child. As I see it, her argument has the greater merit, and, in the end,” he took a long pause, looking around the courtroom, down at his notes, then said, “that is the argument that stands.” No! No! Therefore, after due consideration,” he paused for another long moment as I thought my heart would pound its way out of my chest, “I’ve decided to render a verdict for the petitioner, Ms. Cheryl Bridgewater. I’m going to allow her the relocation she requests in the name of the child’s best interests.”

  No! I couldn’t believe it! My lungs collapsed. It can’t be! No! I felt totally betrayed by the system, angry and sad simultaneously.

  “I will, however,” Korbovitch said, “reexamine Tommy’s progress at the Acorn School after one school year. I am granting sole custody to Ms. Bridgewater so that she can pursue the educational opportunities she has in mind for her son. This will not restrict the father’s visitation rights, however. I want to make this clear, Ms. Beaman.” He turned toward Beaman. “Though I’m awarding sole custody to the mother, the father will still be granted his usual weekend time with his son, and it is strongly recommended by this court that the father move to Houston as well, if at all possible, to be close to his son during this time of transition.” Judge Korbovitch signed the decree. “Thus, shall it stand, this day, Court of Family Law, San Diego County, California.”

  “Bullshit!” I heard from the back of the courtroom and swung around. It was my father, standing up now, aiming his cane at the judge like a gun. “Pure and plain bullshit!”

  Korbovitch pretended he didn’t hear as he gathered up his notes.

  I pounded the desk with my fist. Dots clouded my vision. My heart beat wildly, an animal inside my ribcage. I was on the verge of passing out, my mind whirling. This was the way it was going to be? It seemed impossible, and yet, there it was. I felt the weight of abject failure drag me down, straight to despair and utter loss.

  “It’s only for a year,” Mark was saying as Korbovitch stood, took off his bifocals, and left the courtroom.

  “Fuck this!” I said. I flashed with anger.

  “Chris. Look at it this way,” Mark said, his angular chin set rigid.

  “We lost, dammit! What other way is there to look at it?”

  “I know. I know. But who knows what’ll happen after the first year?” He put his arm around my shoulder as we remained sitting.

  “Are you kidding?” I looked at him straight on. Eyes wet with misery. “It’s a lifetime.” I could hardly breathe. A weird noise blurted out of me. “A year is a fucking lifetime. I won’t be able to see him when he’s gone. Won’t be able to watch him grow, nothing. I failed him and the chimps. I failed, goddammit!” I sliced a hand through the air. “He had a chance to really come out of his shell, and now that chance is gone. I won’t be able to move to Houston. Not with my Dad here. Who will take care of my father if I leave for Houston?”

  “I still think you’re taking it worse than it is.”

  When I looked past Mark, I suddenly realized that Beaman was glaring at me with fire in her eyes, standing beside her table as she gathered her notes. Cheryl stood next to her, a thoroughly pleased expression on her face that drove daggers deep into my heart. I felt both hatred and fury whirling, spinning around in my mind.

  “You’ll get through this,” Mark said.

  But I hardly heard him. My ears felt clogged. My mind fogged over. My gut roiled. I watched, feeling like a total loser, my lips parted, as Cheryl gave Beaman a big hug and Wade, still with that stupid burnt patch of skin on his nose, rushed down from the back of the room to be with them, a joyous grin splashed all over his ruddy face. The winning team. I felt disgusted.

  As she let go of Cheryl, Beaman’s eyes collided with mine. “Do you really think you could beat me? Me? Gloria Beaman?” her angry eyes were telling me, yelling at me, really. “Who do you think you are, anyway? I eat ex-husbands like you for breakfast.” Her lips curled into a devil’s smile. A sneer that sent hammers of misery pounding through my heart.

  “I want to appeal,” I said to Mark as I forced myself to turn away from Beaman’s mesmerizing glare.

  “We can only appeal if we find some kind of technical error the judge has made. In this case, I don’t think that’s possible.” Mark started stuffing papers into his briefcase. He suddenly turned cold, even callous, and I was stunned. He looked like an attorney ready to head to his next client.

  I lost.

  My life was over. I felt like dying; ready to go cage-less.

  Chapter 16

  After the hearing, we all met in the grey-walled hallway. I was surrounded by my team: Evans, Rekulak, Rachel, Osikawa, Dr. Dunn, Mark, and my dad. Hardly any words were spoken. It was as if we were in mourning. We were all in a state of shock. Not even Carly Yates’ presence had swung the decision our way.

  “You tried,” my father kept saying in that gruff, sandpaper voice of his. “You stood your ground. I’m proud of you. That judge has his head up his ass.”

  “I let everyone down, Dad,” I said. My shoulders sagged.

  “No way!” He shook his head. “You did the best you could. That’s all you could do.”

  We both had tears in our eyes and then, the impossible happened: We came together in a father-son hug as the others watched, gathered around us. My father and I had hardly ever hugged, but now, it was as if we were drawn to each other by an invisible cord. I felt my body shaking, overwhelmed, resting my heart for solace against him. I needed his rugged father-love more than ever.

  “You stood up for what you believed in, Chris,” he s
aid, clapping me on the back. “That’s important. Don't you forget it.”

  “Are you going to be all right?” Rachel asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just need to be alone for a while.” I put a hand to my chest. I could practically feel the ache inside my heart. It was taking me over, subsuming me with despair.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I turned to her. “I’m sorry, but I just want to be alone.”

  As soon as I left the building, dodging the annoying reporters in the process, I hit the bars with a vengeance, starting around three-thirty in the afternoon. I didn’t care. If my dad was a drinker, then I was a drinker too. That was all there was to it. Grey clouds and a slow and steady rain suffused the day. Sitting alone at the bar inside Polite Provisions on 30th Street in North Park, tasting my first Jack Daniels on the rocks, I couldn’t help but recall the look on my father’s grim face, how he was all choked up, how I’d never seen him so shaken. After all I’d done, Tommy was going to Houston and my father might never see him again. This realization made the hurt I was feeling even worse. Tommy was going to be separated not only from me, but from his grandfather as well. The man with the mental pictures. I felt suddenly numb, zombie-like. It had all turned out wrong. I’d been unable to make it work. I’d failed everyone.

  I got home around 9 o’clock, so drunk I had to take an Uber, leaving my car in the parking lot of some bar on Twelfth Avenue. I had to take care of Max after all. To my great surprise, Rachel was waiting for me in her Prius, she was parked right in front of my condo. I certainly didn’t want her to see me like this, no way, wobbling around after too many shots, head spinning. I’d hardly eaten, either, just some wings and chips. I was so messed up as I staggered to my door.

  I checked my phone for the first time since I’d left the courthouse and realized there were five voice messages and three texts, all from her.

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Are you there?”

  “Let me help you inside,” Rachel said, trying to put an arm around me as I staggered up the front steps. I dropped my keys on the ground next to the walkway, picked them up, then dropped them again, and lost them. She turned on the flashlight app on her cell phone and found the keys for me. I felt dizzy and nauseous. In the distance, a dog barked as a plane flew overhead.

  “What do you want, Rachel?” I asked, moving away from her. “I told you I wanted to be alone.”

  “I really don’t think you do. I want to help you.”

  “But why? It’s over. I lost.”

  She looked like a blur to me as she handed me my keys, then, when I could hardly grab them, took them from me and opened the door herself. As we both stepped inside, she switched on the hall light.

  Max was in the backyard and started barking, hearing me enter the house. I got a call on my phone and for some reason I took it, thinking, praying, hoping it was Beaman, telling me that Cheryl had changed her mind and all was forgiven. I was a fool.

  “Mr. Crutcher, I’m Frank Reynolds from Channel Four News.” He spoke rapidly, nearly out of breath. “Can you give me a statement about how you feel about the custody decision?”

  “Don’t call me—ever!” I quickly hit end.

  When I let Max inside for his food, he dove at me, whirling around, doing his song and dance. He shook his body like a canine James Brown. He barked and leaped up at me, his two front paws on my chest.

  “Down, boy,” I said.

  “I’ll feed him,” Rachel said. “What’s his name?”

  “Max.”

  “Come on, Max.” She snapped her fingers, and before I could stop her, led Max into my kitchen and poured some food for him. I snapped on my lights in the den, found my couch, and just plopped down on it. My head pressurized like a balloon about to burst. My heart ached. No more Tommy sitting next to me on the couch. No more watching him being happy with the chimps.

  I was near throw-up time, a quarter till.

  “I kept texting you and calling.” Rachel stood over me after feeding Max, arms folded across her blue blouse. She frowned. Concern was written all over her face. “Why didn’t you answer?”

  “I turned my phone off. Didn’t want to talk to anyone. God, Rachel, you don’t have to be here. Really. It’s over. I lost Tommy and Weller lost their project. What’s done is done.”

  “Oh, Chris.” She put her hands on her hips, then brushed some hair off her face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. You’ve still got Africa,” I said, kicking off my shoes. “You should be ecstat, ecstat . . . oh, hell. Whatever.”

  “Will you go to Houston and follow them down there?” she asked, sitting down next to me on the couch.

  It was the question that had been pounding inside my brain ever since I’d lost the ruling, throbbing like a headache. But the answer was clear.

  “And leave my eighty-two-year old aging dad to fend for himself? Honestly, I don’t see how.” I looked away. I felt my face turning red. “He has an aide that his insurance is paying for and she comes three times a week. But that’s going to end soon. We can’t afford anything like that without insurance. There’s no way I could just leave him on his own without some kind of assistance. Besides, even if I went,” I continued, my eyes getting misty, “I’d have no idea if I could find a job in Houston. I can barely make ends meet in this town where people know me. In Houston, I wouldn’t have a shot. I got this offer in Atlanta a while back, but that was a lucky break. I wouldn’t have any guarantees in Houston at all.”

  There went the money from Weller, too, out the window. Gone.

  “I can’t believe that judge,” I said.

  “I know,” Rachel said.

  “I’m going to fix you some coffee.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to.”

  She gave me a sorrowful look, then left me on the couch and went to my kitchen. I heard her opening drawers and shelves and pouring water into my coffee pot.

  “Cream and sugar?” she called from the kitchen.

  “No. Just plain black as my life right now.”

  A few minutes later, she returned with a cup, which she handed me. I took a long sip as she sat down next to me again. The coffee helped. Coffee. Life. Somehow, they were inextricably linked.

  I stretched my legs out and thought of something that made me smile. “You know, this is crazy but when Cheryl told me she and Wade were moving to Houston, you know what the first thing that came to my mind was?”

  “What?”

  “I felt like saying to her, ‘Stick it up your Astros’.” I laughed, staring into space. My drunk brain was drawing all kinds of weird associations.

  “That’s punny,” she said.

  I looked at her. “Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

  We were both silent for a long moment. I stared at my hands, but felt her eyes on me, studying me.

  I looked past her, studying the Voice Arts awards on my shelf. They blurred and multiplied in my vision.

  “God, Chris. That judge just destroyed the most important breakthrough in primatology in years. Does he even realize that?” she said.

  I looked at her. “Does Carly Yates know?”

  “Yes, and she’s livid. She told us she was sorry she hadn’t offered one of her own lawyers to help out.”

  “Wow, I had no idea she would have done that. Mark was okay, I guess. He tried.” I shrugged. “But whatever’s the case, it’s over. I should have known the odds were against us.”

  Max wandered in the den and smelled Rachel, gathering information. He bit on his hindquarters and gnawed at himself, then sat down on the floor at our feet. He whimpered, then came up to me and tried to work his way onto my lap. But I pushed him off and then he poked his nose into Rachel’s hand. She started scratching him behind his ears.

  The next thing I knew, I was in the bathroom, throwing up.

  When I returned to the den after
washing my face with a cold towel, wobbly but feeling lighter, Rachel was still sitting on the couch, staring at her phone.

  “Are you going to go now?” I asked.

  She sat up straight and blinked. “Are you going to be okay?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” she said.

  *

  I awoke on the couch, a bundle of arms and legs and body strewn everywhere. I had no idea what time it was. I felt hot and cold simultaneously. My emotional thermostat was all screwed up, as if my thalamus and my hypothalamus were having an argument. God, my throat was dry and my tongue was sticking to the top of my mouth. I heard Max scratching himself. The San Diego sun streamed into the den and I quickly closed my eyes and groaned.

  My head pounded as the thought of the hearing and of losing Tommy sledge-hammered into me. I didn’t want to get off the couch. A ton of emotional bricks weighed me down. My cell phone was lying on the end table and I reached for it and clicked it on: 11:45 a.m. Great. Nearly noon. Then I saw a note sitting on the table, no doubt from Rachel. I made myself get up and read it: “Gone to work, will call you later.” I had no idea what time she’d left, if she’d slept here, or what.

  This woman, I realized, would always be going to work, if not at Weller, then off to Africa or somewhere else where another exciting opportunity was waiting. Tommy and I were important to her, no doubt about that. But her career came first. Wasn’t it obvious? The probability of us actually working out was slight to nil and this hurt, another door slammed in my face.

  Max barked at me. He sat on his hind legs, giving me the feed-me, let me go pee guilt look. “Okay, dammit. Just a minute.”

  As I stood and got my bearing, I looked around my den, the emptiness of my house, my life without Tom-Tom, without the hope I had for him, and the realization of my loss hit me even harder, flooding me with despair.