Fathermucker (20 page)

“Seems a long way off.”

“It goes quick,” Reid says. “Everybody says that, but it's true.”

We're almost at the pumpkin patch, approaching earshot of other parents. Now is the time to ask. Now. Right now.
Are you listening, Josh? Now!
But I can't quite pull the trigger.

“You guys in New Paltz?” Meaning the school district, not the town proper.

“We are, yeah, but Wade goes to the Annex.”

But the moment is over, the ship has sailed. Here comes Mrs. Drinkwater, making a beeline toward us. “Mr. Reid,” she says, “can I speak with you for a moment?”

“Sure,” Reid says, and then to me, “Excuse me, man,” and off he goes with Mrs. Drinkwater, taking all hope for my first successful freelance pitch with him.

With no one else I care to talk to at the farm, I turn my attention to Roland. He's still with Tucker and Joey, the three of them a bit too rambunctious for my comfort level, although neither Mrs. Drinkwater nor the other aides seem to mind. Not content to simply choose a pumpkin and be done with it, they are racing around the patch, picking up softball-sized pumpkins and dropping them on the ground. For Tucker, this is his first step on the road to juvenile delinquency. Not hard to connect the dots from smashing pumpkins to spray painting swastikas on highway overpasses. Joey, for his part, is too dense to know this is bad behavior. Tucker controls him as surely as Lex Luthor did Otis in
Superman II
. As for Roland, he just thinks it's funny. He doesn't appreciate the destructive nature of what he's doing. He doesn't understand the consequences, the ramifications.

“Roland,” I tell him, “we should really just pick out a pumpkin. Like Zara's doing.”

Indeed, the Pinkalicious lookalike has found a gorgeous ripe gourd that her father is helping her haul.

“No,” Roland says, but kindly, patiently, as if I'm misconstruing what's going on. “We're playing the Pumpkin Drop game.”

And back he goes into the fray. I try and relax—he's not hurting anyone; he's not even hurting the pumpkins, really, just handling them a bit roughly—and my main concern with him is always that he'll hurt someone. Plus, none of the teachers seems concerned. So I let it go. But I suddenly feel, out here in the wide-open pumpkin patch, in the wide-open farm, in the wide-open expanse of upstate New York, a wave of claustrophobia come over me. Like I might drown. Why must I, as a father, be subjected to this degree of vulnerability? Why can't Roland and I just stay home, where it's safe, where I can exercise some semblance of control, where if my son screws up, no one will witness the transgression and judge him, judge me? I look up at the sky, only a few stray clouds against a backdrop of bright blue—four cotton balls on blue construction paper; a Maude Lansky art project—and the tops of the trees start to spin through the blinding afternoon sun. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and the feeling of vertigo
thank God
passes.

At last Mrs. Drinkwater summons the class to gather round her pleated skirts. Mercifully, Tucker decides to heed her command, and Joey and Roland follow him. She instructs them to give their pumpkins to their parents and follow her to the play area, where there are picnic tables, and on the picnic tables, cider and apple donuts for our snack. (Will there be sufficient donuts for the adults, too? I sure hope so. I'm kind of hungry.)

Roland dashes over to me, hands me his pumpkin—a smallish, ill-formed monstrosity that looks a bit like Spookley—as if it were a hot potato, and runs back to Tucker and Joey (whose parents, needless to say, are elsewhere this afternoon). The up-to-no-good duo leads the charge to the play area, my impressionable son whooping it up at their heels.

How I loathe those two little brats! I know they're kids, and kids are innocent, blank slates, and blah blah blah, but man, I really hate them. There were kids like Tucker and Joey when I was little, too, stirring up trouble, ruining the fun for the rest of us. What's the point in them even existing? Why did their neglectful parents even bother conceiving them? Will they ever offer anything positive to society? Because things don't turn out well for kids like this. The Joey of my high school is now in prison; after his Ponzi investing scheme failed, he got drunk one night and set fire to his office. A janitor almost died, had third-degree burns on his face. Arson is serious shit; my Joey will be in jail for a long time. My Tucker didn't make it that long. He died in a drunk-driving accident junior year (he was at the wheel, and, fortunately, had just dropped off his girlfriend, the only other passenger). His mangled car sat on the lawn in front of the high school for weeks afterward, behind a superfluous sign that told us
DON'T DRIVE DRUNK
.

It's hard not to ponder, watching preschoolers play on a perfect October afternoon, all the bad things that can befall them. Illnesses and generic defects. Allergic reactions to peanuts and shellfish, anaphylactic shock. Car accidents. Fires. Drunk driving. Emotional and psychological breakdowns. Depression. Venereal disease, herpes,
AIDS,
and genital warts. Alcoholism, drug addiction, sex addiction. Anorexia, bulimia. Obesity. Cancer, lupus, Lyme disease. Murder, rape. Prostitution, drug dealing, petty crime. Prison. Blindness, deafness, loss of limbs. Post-traumatic stress disorder. Post-partum depression. Infertility. Bad luck.

And even if everything turns out okay, even if they make it through relatively unscathed, these little containers of our love, our hope, our belief in the future . . . how many of
us
have a genuinely good relationship with
our
moms and dads? What's the percentage? It can't be more than fifty-fifty; it can't. The odds are against us, as parents. The deck is stacked, the dice loaded. We'll give, we'll give, and we'll give some more . . . and our kids will bitch about us in therapy, if not outright dislike us. Yet here we are at the pumpkin patch, feeding on their youthful glee, pretending otherwise. If that doesn't speak to the inherent optimism of human nature, I don't know what does.

On the other side of the barn, in a little clearing that should be but isn't fenced in, is a series of haphazardly sited wooden playhouses, six of them in all, each big enough to hold about five kids, and each equipped with a door prone to slamming shut. The boys are now running from one house to the other, doors slamming behind them. I close my eyes, but even the slamming sound conjures visions of broken fingers and ER trips. Other kids approach the play area, join in. Eventually, the entire class, sixteen children in all, have joined the game (all except Taylor, who is terminally shy and sits with her just-as-shy mother at the picnic table). Wham! Like claps of thunder, the doors slam. It gets to the point where my body shakes with each slam, like I'm a shell-shocked soldier in a Vietnam movie.

Mrs. Drinkwater and the aides, Lenore and Irene, summon the class to the tables, where the cider and apple donuts are laid out beneath white napkins in big baskets, but no one is listening. The only ones gathering at the donuts are the bees.

“Attention, children,” she says again, stepping onto the bench. “The donuts are here.”

I detect the slightest loss of confidence in Mrs. Drinkwater. Like she's lost control of her charges, like she doesn't know what to do. A convoy of cars is running the red light, and she's a traffic cop on the side of the road, waving white gloves at SUVs, blowing her whistle vainly over the throb of the gunning engines. If anything, the kids, realizing their collective power, are spurred on by her desperate announcement. The revolution has begun.

Tucker, of course, does not halt, the little shit. He runs faster, more carelessly, from one house to the next, slamming doors on Joey and Roland as they enter with increasing violence. I want to rush into the game and tackle him, like that college football coach who ran onto the field himself to prevent a winning touchdown. But I check my overprotective-parent impulses.

“Donuts,” the teacher says again, but her voice trails off. “You don't want donuts?”

Lenore and Irene are both in better physical shape than their boss, and both seem ready to run out and corral the wild horses, but neither, I guess, wants to show Mrs. Drinkwater up, because they don't move.

Meanwhile, the game has changed. The boys are now playing with little Olivia, Salon Mom's daughter, the smallest kid in the class. Although they're not really playing with her; they're bullying her. Tucker is yelling, “No girls allowed,” and Roland and Joey are laughing, and Olivia is on the brink of tears. This devolves into a game of chase. They are all running after Olivia, and Roland is at her heels, too close behind her. He has issues with personal space. I'm afraid he's going to trip her, or worse.

“Last call for donuts,” yells Mrs. Drinkwater, now in full panic mode. Lenore and Irene have started to move into the fray, doing their best to redirect the kids without actually touching them. The more helicopterly inclined parents begin to remove their children to the picnic tables. Daryl “Duke” Reid has secured Zara, led her to a splintery bench. Salon Mom, too self-absorbed to helicopter, is busy talking to one of the other mommies, and the parents of Tucker and Joey are, as I mentioned, not here.

Roland is out of control now. He gets like this sometimes, his body flailing, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He can't tell what's funny from what's naughty, what's fun from what's dangerous. He runs at Olivia, out for blood, like one of the kids in
Lord of the Flies
. And although I'd rather let it be, I have no choice but to intervene.

“Roland,” I call. “Roland,
stop
. Right now. Stop!”

He doesn't listen, doesn't even look at me. So I run—really run, like I'm being chased, the treads of my Doc Martens crushing stray apples in my path—and don't stop till I yank him away from Olivia, who is now full-on crying; away from the truculent Tucker and the fat-assed Joey. I pick him up and hoist him over my shoulders—the same way I carried Maude this morning, although Roland is considerably heavier. Then I sit down on the ground and cradle him, holding him fast, trying to still his movements.

He doesn't like this. At all. He has a nine-point-nine-on-the-Richter-scale meltdown in my arms. He's screaming and crying and yelling and flailing. He's speaking to me, but his words are incoherent. He's had tantrums before—sometimes the oddest things will set him off (see also: the incident with Maude's poop yesterday morning)—but never to this degree. I half expect Max von Sydow to show up and sprinkle holy water on him.
The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you.

I hug him tightly, as still as I can, for a long time. This is not easy, like trying to tamp down a volcano. It takes every ounce of strength I possess to contain him.
The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you.
He has a slight build, and he's physically weaker than his sister, despite the age difference, but he's throwing everything he's got at me. I half-expect his head to rotate completely around, for bile to spew from his mouth, for him to start talking backward.
The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ compels you.
His face is deep red, glistening with his tears.

“It's okay,” I tell him, stupidly. “It's okay.”

By now, the others are where they're supposed to be, sitting at the picnic table in neat rows, drinking their cider, munching on their apple donuts. Reid sits next to Salon Mom, not looking at us. No one looks at us. Even the teachers stay away.

Finally he calms down sufficiently to speak (English, not Hungarian). “Daddy,” he says, “I was playing a game.”

That's what it is, then. He was
playing
. He doesn't understand what he did wrong. What he does understand is that I've embarrassed him in front of his friends.

“Do you want to sit and have a donut?”

This sets off a new round of wailing and crying. No, he does not want to sit and have a donut. No, he does not want apple cider. He wants to leave. He wants to get out of here, to leave the scene of his humiliation, his mortification. He does not want to be with me, the Bad Daddy. He wants his Mommy. Where is Mommy? He wants her
now
.

And the irony of all this is that, from a developmental standpoint, his outburst is
good
. This is what we want. This is why we have him at Thornwood, so he learns to pick up on social clues. So he learns what behavior is inappropriate. So he recognizes when he misbehaves.

So he feels bad when his father embarrasses him in front of his friends.

His humiliation constitutes progress, if not triumph.

Why has this disorder befallen him? Why does Roland—why does
our son
—have Asperger's? Why so many like him, now, at this moment in human development?

Baron-Cohen's “mind-blindness” theory, seductively attractive though it may be, doesn't really explain anything. Scientists are adept at figuring out
how
things happen: how leaves turn brown, how sperm penetrates the egg, how metal rusts when it gets wet. When it comes to the question of
why
, however, science falls mute.
Why
is the provenance of the poets and the philosophers, the artists and the mystics, the rabbis and the priests. Wherefore the spike in autism? Something environmental . . . or is it larger than that?

Julian Jaynes, in
The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind
, which I happened to be reading when he was diagnosed, argues (convincingly, in my view) that what we know as consciousness is a relatively recent phenomenon in human development. Only in the last few millennia, he suggests, did the human brain acquire the ability of interior monologue; before that, the ancients heard “voices” that told them what to do, voices they attributed to gods—the characters in the
Iliad
, for example, make no decisions on their own, but are slaves to the commands of flawed deities—but which were actually ideas generated from a right half of the brain that had yet to properly fuse to the left. Is the autism spike another mutation, the next step in the Jaynesian evolution of consciousness? Whatever his social deficiencies, Roland has the potential to see the world in ways no one has before, and the raw brainpower to make something of what he sees.