*
We were walking toward the library, Bethany and Jon-Jon trailing behind my dad and me. I was telling him about my Econ class, leaving out the part about my D average, when he turned to check on his wife and son.
Oh shit, he said.
It didn’t seem like a big deal at first. Jon-Jon had stopped walking. He was just sort of frozen in place, staring up at the sky. Bethany stood right beside him, looking at my dad with a worried expression on her face.
What’s wrong? I asked.
My dad shook his head and starting walking toward Jon-Jon, moving slowly and carefully. He spoke his son’s name in a soft voice, but Jon-Jon didn’t seem to hear it. His attention was focused like a laser beam on the small plane that was flying overhead at a low altitude, trailing a banner that read, WELCOME PARENTS!
He hates airplanes, Bethany explained. It’s one of his things.
The plane was directly overhead, buzzing like a giant insect. Jon-Jon let out a yelp, quick and shrill, like someone had jabbed him with a pin. Then he did it again, this time even louder. I could see people turning in our direction, squinting in confusion. Jon-Jon slapped himself in the head.
I’m sorry, Bethany told me. He was being so good.
It was hard enough to deal with one of Jon-Jon’s meltdowns in the house, but it was way worse with all those strangers around. A gray-haired lady in a BSU sweatshirt wandered over, asking if the poor thing was okay. Bethany fished a business card from her purse and handed it to the woman. They’d gotten the cards printed up the year before, after an epic tantrum at Target.
Please don’t be alarmed, it said. Our son Jonathan has been diagnosed with autism and sometimes needs to be physically restrained to avoid injury to himself and others. We love Jonathan very much and only want to keep him safe. Thank you for your understanding.
The plane banked away from us, moving toward the football stadium, but I don’t think Jon-Jon even noticed. He was rocking from side to side, moaning and clutching his head. And then he punched himself. Hard, right above his ear. Like it was somebody else’s head he was punching, somebody he hated.
Please don’t do that, Bethany told him.
My father sat down on the grass and hugged him from behind, trying to pin his arms, but Jon-Jon fought like crazy to break free, thrashing and screaming like a trapped animal.
The struggle only lasted a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer. Every time it looked like my dad had Jon-Jon under control, one of his arms would slip free, and he’d start punching himself again. And then my dad would have to grab that arm without losing control of Jon-Jon’s other limbs. It almost looked like a game, except that Jon-Jon was drooling and my father’s nose was bleeding from a backwards head butt. Even so, he just kept speaking quietly the whole time, telling his son that he loved him and that everything would be okay. A pretty good crowd had gathered by then, and Bethany was handing a card to each new arrival, apologizing for the disturbance.
“They sound like great parents,” Amber said, when I’d finished with the story.
“Yeah,” I said. “They’re really patient with him.”
“What about you?” she asked. “How did you feel while that was happening?”
“I just felt sorry for them,” I told her.
That part was true. I really did feel bad for my dad and Bethany, and even for Jon-Jon, because I knew he couldn’t help himself. What I didn’t tell her was how sorry I felt for myself, and how jealous I was of my little brother, even though that was totally ridiculous. Jon-Jon had a hard life, and I would never want to trade places with him. But that whole time, while he was screaming and thrashing around, I kept thinking how unfair it was that my father loved him so much and held him so tight—way tighter than he’d ever held me—and wouldn’t let go no matter what.
The Human Condition
At the end of the Tuesday night seminar, white-bearded Barry raised his hand and invited the whole class to reconvene for a nightcap at his sports bar.
“I don’t know about you guys,” he said, “but all this talk about gender makes me thirsty!”
The initial response to Barry’s overture was lukewarm—it was late, people had work in the morning—but public opinion shifted when he added that drinks would be on the house.
“Now that you mention it,” said Russ, the fanatical hockey fan, “I could definitely go for a free beer.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Barry. “What’s the point of being in college if we don’t socialize outside the classroom? That’s like half your education right there.”
“Does that include hard liquor?” Dumell ruefully patted his midsection. “I’m watching my carbs.”
“Within reason,” Barry told him. “I’m not breaking out the Pappy Van Winkle.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Dumell assured him. “I’m a cheap date. Just ask my ex-wife.”
Eve had no intention of joining the party. She’d been dodging Barry’s invitations to get a drink after class for the past two months and didn’t want to offer him the slightest encouragement, not that he needed any. Barry was one of those guys who didn’t know the meaning of rejection; he just kept trying and trying and trying. His persistence might have been flattering if it hadn’t felt so smug and entitled—so steeped in male privilege—as if there was no possible way she could outlast him in a battle of romantic wills.
Hoping to avoid any unpleasantness in the parking lot—Barry sometimes lurked outside the exit and then attached himself to Eve as she walked to her car—she ducked into the ladies’ room and killed a few minutes in the stall, playing several turns on Words with Friends (random opponent, not very good) and then peeing, not because she needed to, but because she was already sitting on a toilet and it seemed foolish not to. She washed her hands with excessive diligence and checked her face in the mirror—an unbreakable, though less and less rewarding, habit—before leaving the rest room and almost colliding with Dr. Fairchild, who was standing outside the door, her lanky basketball player’s frame augmented by businesslike heels.
“Eve.” She sounded concerned but vaguely reproachful. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Why?”
“You were in there for quite a while.” The professor heard herself and grimaced, mortified by her own rudeness. “Not that it’s any of my business.”
“Great class tonight,” Eve said, trying to cut through the awkwardness.
Dr. Fairchild gave a distracted nod and then asked, with some urgency, “Are you going? To the bar?”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“Oh.” Dr. Fairchild couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping you were.”
“Are you?”
“I was thinking about it. Might be fun, right?”
Huh. Eve hadn’t given a lot of thought to the professor’s idea of fun, but it hardly seemed like drinking at a sports bar with guys like Barry and Russ would be high on her list.