When I pull up in front of Stanley’s house that evening, my movements feel automatic, as if my mind has become disconnected from my body. Which maybe is a good thing, because in my mind, I don’t feel prepared for this.
His house is small and blue, with a brick chimney, a neatly tended lawn, and a single car—a nondescript gray import—in the driveway. There’s a row of azaleas beneath the window, though they’re no longer in bloom.
I’m wearing a black T-shirt with a graphic of a small white bunny bearing bloodstained fangs over the words NO ORDINARY RABBIT. He answers the door wearing a burgundy sweater, and he’s swapped his metal crutch for a cane carved from dark reddish wood—mahogany, maybe. “Hi.” His voice cracks a little. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hi. Come in.”
I slip my shoes off on the mat and take a few cautious steps into the living room. It’s small and clean and smells faintly of cinnamon. The armchair and the couch are upholstered in brown corduroy. It looks very soft. I resist the temptation to run my hands over it and instead ask a question that’s been on my mind for a while: “Does anyone else live here.”
“No.” He averts his gaze. “This was my mother’s house. She left it to me.”
On a bookshelf stands a clear plastic terrarium, a network of colored tubes and little round houses filled with wood shavings. A small brown gerbil is running on a wheel.
“That’s Matilda,” Stanley says.
“Do you give her things to chew on,” I ask.
“Balsa wood, mostly.”
“They need that. Their teeth never stop growing.”
“Yeah.” A pause. “So, uh. You hungry? I could start dinner. Or I could show you the rest of the house. Though there’s not much to see—”
“Show me.”
He leads me down a short hall. We pass a closed door, and I pause. “What’s in there.”
His expression shifts, just for a half second. I wonder if I will ever learn to read his face. It feels like watching a computer screen with code rapidly scrolling past in long green lines, too fast for me to make sense of. “Just an extra bedroom.”
I follow him to the end of the hall, through another door. He flicks on the light. “Here’s my room,” he says.
The bedspread is blue and very old, threadbare, with a pattern of yellow moons and stars faded to near invisibility. His computer, sleek and new, sits on a plain yellow pine desk. There’s a shelf next to the bed filled with model planes in every color, shape, and size. More model planes hang from the ceiling. I count thirty-two in all.
I touch the bedspread, lean down, press my face against his pillow, and breathe in. It smells like lemons. “I like your fabric softener,” I say, my voice muffled by the pillow. Then it occurs to me that he might not like me shoving my face against his bedding. “Sorry,” I say, straightening. “I should have asked permission before doing that.” Then again, asking, Can I smell your pillow? probably wouldn’t be considered normal, either.
So far, I’m not doing very well.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Really. If I seem a little uncomfortable, it’s not you. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a guest.”
This is new to him, too. Somehow, the thought relaxes me.
I tilt my head back, studying the planes hanging from the ceiling. “Did you make these.”
“Yeah. I started building models when I was a kid, and I just never stopped. I guess it’s a little silly. I mean, a grown man with a room full of toy planes.”
“I like them.” I start to reach for a dark green World War II–era fighter, then stop. “Can I touch this.”
“Sure.”
I lift the plane. It has a row of shark’s teeth and a pair of eyes painted along the nose. Most planes painted in this style are meant to look menacing, but this one is smiling. I trace the curve of its mouth. Then I turn it over, examining the joints. There’s a snap, and the wing comes off in my hand. I freeze.
Stanley winces. “Whoops,” he says, as if he’s the one who did it.
I stare at the broken-off wing. “I—I don’t know how that happened. I thought I was being careful. Sometimes it’s hard for me to judge how much pressure I’m applying—”
“Don’t worry about it.” He takes the plane and its wing from my numb hands and sets the two pieces on the desk.
I cross my arms, sticking my hands under my armpits, where they can’t do any more damage. “I’m sorry.”
“I’ll glue it back on. It’s just a toy, anyway.” He touches the plane gently, like it’s an injured child. “No big deal.” He smiles but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I should get dinner ready. You can watch some TV in the meantime, if you like. It shouldn’t take long.”
I follow him out of the bedroom.
In the living room, I sit stiffly on Stanley’s living room couch, listening to the clank of metal and the hiss of sizzling butter from the kitchen.
“The remote’s on the coffee table,” he calls.
I turn on the TV and flip past talk shows and sitcoms, looking for a nature or science program. There aren’t any playing at the moment, but I find a channel showing a medical documentary on brain surgery. I watch the surgeon’s bloodstained, white-gloved fingers slicing through the dura mater with a scalpel, probing the glistening, gray-pink folds of the cortex.
Stanley steps into the living room. “Dinner’s—oh Jesus.” He pales and covers his eyes with one hand.
I change the channel.
He peeks out between his fingers. “Can you really watch that stuff before eating?”
“It’s informative.” I’ve never understood why so many people hate looking at the inside of the human body. We walk around all day with blood and organs inside us. It seems silly to be horrified by something so commonplace.
He lowers his hand, still looking a little pale. “Well, the food’s ready.”
I follow him into the tiny kitchen. There’s a white cloth on the table, along with two flickering candles in silver holders. In the center of the table is a platter covered with a silver dome-shaped lid. He lifts off the lid.
“You made pancakes,” I say, surprised.
“I wanted to be sure it was something you’d like. I got five different flavors of syrup.” He waves a hand toward the row of glass bottles on the table: strawberry, blueberry, butterscotch, maple, and banana.
I can’t find my voice. There are moments when I wonder if he can possibly be real, or if I made him up. But I don’t think my imagination is that skilled.
His smile fades. “You don’t like it? I could make something else—”
“No. This is good.”
The tension eases out of his shoulders, and we sit down to eat. The pancakes are warm, tender, and chewy.
“So,” he says, “why rabbits?”
A forkful of pancakes freezes halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean.”
“Well, I mean, I know you like animals. But it seems like you’re especially interested in rabbits.” He gestures toward my shirt. “You’ve talked about them before, and you quoted Watership Down when we first met.”
No one’s ever really asked me about this. The answer is something I don’t know how to put into words. I swallow a mouthful of pancakes and say, “I just like them.”
“I’ve been rereading that book,” he says. “I’d forgotten how political it is. I mean, the whole thing with the fascist bunny . . . Woundwort? Is it a metaphor for Nazi Germany?”
I start cutting my pancakes into hexagons. “I never really thought of it as being political. I just saw it as what it was, I guess. It’s about surviving.”
My knife slips and clatters against the edge of the plate. I give a start and quickly pick it up again.
“You don’t have to worry, you know,” he says. “I’m just glad you came over.”
Apparently my nervousness is more obvious than I thought.
“And I think your way of reading is better, really,” he continues. “I mean, just accepting things as they are. When you’re always analyzing, it can take away from the experience. I guess I’ve just taken too many English classes.”
It occurs to me that I don’t even know what his major is. Our conversations online were always more abstract, focused on thoughts and feelings rather than day-to-day life. “Is that what you’re studying. English.”
“Journalism. But it’s tough to make a living at that, especially these days, when so many people get their news online, from blogs and stuff. I’m thinking about switching majors to computer science, becoming a programmer.”
“Do you enjoy programming.”
“Honestly? Not really. It’s kind of dull. But I’m decent at it.” He shrugs. “How are the pancakes?”
“Very good. Better than Buster’s.”
He beams.
Once I’m finished eating, I pick up my plate, though I’m not sure what to do with it. At home I mostly eat takeout. My only dishes are a few plastic bowls, which I just rinse out in the sink. Or, more often than not, stack in the sink and ignore for a few days.
“I’ll take care of those,” he says, “don’t worry about it. Do you drink coffee?”
“Coffee would be good.”
He starts filling the pot. As it percolates, I say, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“First door on the right.”
I find it easily, but when I come out, I don’t return immediately to the kitchen. I linger in the hall, staring at the open door to Stanley’s bedroom. I walk toward it. Inside, the broken plane smiles at me from his desk. I can see the slot where the wing is supposed to go. I pick it up and try to stick the wing back on. It won’t stay.
I should just leave it alone. If I keep fiddling, I’ll probably make it worse.
I set the plane down and start to turn away, then notice the bottom drawer of his desk is slightly open. Inside, I glimpse the spine of a book. I can only see the lower half of the words forming the title, but there’s something familiar about their shape. My stomach gives a lurch, like I’m looking off the edge of a tall building.
I should leave now. It would be better if I did.
Instead, I curl a finger around the edge of the drawer and tug it open, revealing the full title. The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome.
There’s more than one book in there. There’s a whole stack.
I pick up the first book. Then I set it on the desk and pick up another, then another. They’re all about the same subject. I open one.
Asperger’s is a form of autism characterized by social and communication difficulties, atypical use of language, and obsessive interests—
I flip through the pages, my fingers leaving faint, damp sweat marks on the paper. Certain lines and sections are highlighted or underlined. I turn page after page, but it’s hard to read. My vision keeps blurring. I come across another underlined section.
One of the most dysfunctional characteristics of Asperger’s is an inability to empathize. Due to the lack of this fundamental trait, many sufferers remain friendless and isolated well into adulthood. People with Asperger’s can seem locked inside themselves, trapped by their own limited social skills. Establishing a relationship with one can take extraordinary patience—
Is that how he sees me? As a broken thing? Is this the manual he plans to use to fix me?
The book slips from my fingers and lands on the floor with a muffled thump.
“Alvie?”
He’s standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He takes a few cautious steps forward. “Are you okay?”
My chest hurts. “I should go.” I walk stiffly past him, through the door and down the hall, into the living room. I can’t look at him. The blood bangs behind my eyes.
Stanley follows me. “Wait. Tell me what’s wrong.” He blocks my path.
“I don’t need your pity.” I squeeze the words out through clenched teeth. “Now get out of my way.”
“Do you seriously think someone like me is spending time with you out of pity?”
The question catches me off guard.
“You could have chosen anyone, you know,” he says. “Anyone you wanted. For your first time. You’re a beautiful, intelligent young woman. Do you not know that?”
He’s making fun of me. He must be. “Shut up,” I mutter. “I saw the books in your desk.”
His cheeks color. “I bought those books because I wanted to understand you better. That’s all. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you. I never did.”
I cross my arms, tightly gripping my own elbows.
“Sit down,” he says. “Please?”
I hesitate, then sit in the chair. He eases himself onto the couch, across from me.
“When did you figure it out,” I ask. “About me.”
“I, uh. I kind of suspected right away.”
So, it’s that obvious. Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. “There was a part you underlined. About empathy.”
His brows knit together. “What— Oh, that? I underlined it because it seemed wrong to me. I mean, you’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”
Kind. Where does he get these ideas? When have I ever done anything kind? “They’re talking about cognitive empathy.”
“What’s that? I don’t remember the books using that phrase.”
“It’s the ability to read, analyze, and predict other people’s emotions. That’s what I . . . what people like me tend to struggle with.”
The idea that autistic people don’t feel compassion is just an ugly stereotype, but it’s a viewpoint I’ve encountered even from some professionals, despite obvious evidence to the contrary. For instance, Temple Grandin—probably the most well-known autistic person alive—designed a more humane type of slaughterhouse for cattle, one which keeps them calm and stress-free up until the end. She cared enough to reduce the unnecessary suffering that so many animals experience for humans’ convenience. How could anyone not see that as compassion?
“One of the books said that a lot of people with Asperger’s aren’t even aware that they have it,” Stanley says.
I rub my thumb absently against the brown corduroy of the couch. “I’m aware.”
For most of my childhood, my diagnosis was PDD-NOS—pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified. They changed it to Asperger’s when I was fourteen. In the next volume of the DSM, the Asperger’s diagnosis was dropped, so technically my condition doesn’t even exist anymore; if I ever go back to the doctor, they’ll presumably have to find some other label to stick on me. The specific words don’t matter. I’ll always be this way.
“I don’t like being sorted and categorized,” I say. “I am who I am. I shouldn’t need a word for it. I don’t understand why I can’t just . . . be. Why everyone has to—” I breathe a small sigh, frustrated with my inability to explain.
Silence stretches between us. When he speaks again, his voice is soft, like he’s talking to himself, almost. “At times like these, I really wish I could give you a hug.”
I consider this for a moment. It’s been years since I’ve hugged anyone. The few times it’s happened during my teenage years have been without warning and against my will—usually foster parents who didn’t understand my boundary issues—so it was generally a stressful and unpleasant experience. But with Stanley, it might be different. He’s always gentle and careful, so I know he wouldn’t squeeze the breath out of me. But the thought still makes me uneasy, for reasons I can’t entirely put into words.
It occurs to me, then, that Stanley might himself want the reassurance of physical contact, independent of whether I find it pleasurable. “When was your last time,” I ask.
“What, hugging?”
“Yes.”
“Um.” His gaze shifts away. “It’s been a while.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Okay?”
I sit next to him on the couch. “We can try it, if you want.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”
“Just do it.”
Slowly—very slowly—he slides his arms around me. When I don’t flinch, he pulls me closer, but his grip remains loose so I can get away if I want to. I sit, tense, focusing on my own breathing. His hand rests on my back, between my shoulder blades. Gradually the tension recedes. I hook an arm awkwardly around his waist. Even through his sweater, I can feel how thin he is. His body is a collection of sharp angles, his spine a line of tiny knobs. And there’s something else—a long, bumpy ridge running across his back. My fingertips wander down the length of it. “What is this from.”
A few seconds pass before he replies. “When I was a kid, I used to go ice-skating. I was good at it. Then when I was ten, I slipped and broke my scapula. They had to open me up to put all the fragments back in place, and for months I slept on my stomach because my back was full of surgical pins.”
The thought makes my own back ache. “That sounds bad.”
“It was the worst.”
I raise my head to look into his eyes. Our faces are very close together.
Ordinarily I’d be panicking by now, overwhelmed by the flood of touch and closeness, but there’s no fear, no sense that I’m losing control. It’s just warm. When I rest my cheek against his sweater vest, over his heart, I feel the movement within, like a small living creature. “You smell like a library,” I murmur.
“I hope you’re okay with that.”
I close my eyes. “I don’t mind.” I wonder why I’m letting him do this, how he slipped under all my carefully constructed guards like a rose thorn under a fingernail.
Deep inside my brain, a warning bell clangs. Too close.
Outside, the wind howls. A wet mixture of snow and sleet slides down the windowpane. Winter, it seems, has arrived early this year.
Carefully he inches back, extricating himself from my arms, and I’m surprised to feel a small pang of disappointment. “I didn’t know it was supposed to storm,” he remarks.
“It wasn’t. The weather report said ‘cloudy.’”
“Guess weathermen don’t know everything.”
A branch scratches the window.
“The roads are going to be nasty tonight,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay.”
My gaze jerks toward him.
“Only if you want,” he adds quickly. “I know just coming over was a big deal, so if you’re not comfortable with that, I understand. I just thought—”
“I’ll stay.” My acceptance surprises even me. “I should go to bed soon, though.”
“Okay. Sure.” He looks into my eyes, and I have the feeling he’s getting ready to say something else. He bites his lower lip and looks down.
He gives me a fresh toothbrush in a new package, along with a set of his pajamas, and goes to bed. I change in the bathroom. The pajamas are too big on me, and I have to roll up the pant legs and sleeves.
Above his sink is a medicine cabinet with mirrored doors. On impulse, I open it. Inside, I see the usual things—a jar of petroleum jelly, a package of Q-tips—and then on the bottom shelf, a row of amber pharmacy bottles. Eight of them. I don’t recognize all the names, but my gaze catches on one word: fluoxetine. The generic form of Prozac.
I close the cabinets.
In the living room, I stretch out on the couch and pull a thin wool blanket over myself. After an hour of shifting around, I finally drift off.