That afternoon, I drop Stanley off at Westerly College and watch him wheel across the parking lot, up the ramp to the automatic door. I wait until he’s inside before I pull out of the lot.
As I drive, I spot a red-tailed hawk perched atop a telephone pole. He takes flight, wings silhouetted against the pale sky, and I think about Chance.
The last time I saw him was when I dropped him off at the wildlife rehabilitation center. I’ve had a lot on my mind since then. But it’s been too long. I need to make sure he’s all right, at least.
The drive to Elmbrooke Wildlife Center takes about fifteen minutes. The receptionist’s gaze flits over me without recognition. I wander through the building, which has a comfortable air about it, like a library. I look at the aquariums full of turtles and frogs, the terrariums of birds and lizards.
Outside, in a small wooded area behind the center, there are enclosures with coyotes and foxes and raccoons and a pair of golden eagles. In front of each one is a sign with the animal’s name and personal story. Most of them were brought in injured, and for various reasons were unable to be returned to the wild. A cobblestone path winds in gentle curves, dappled with leaf shadows and glints of sunlight.
Near the end of the path, I see a large cage, and in it, a one-winged, red-tailed hawk drinking from a dish of water. He looks up, fixing his bright copper gaze on me. Then he leaps to the floor of the cage and attacks the bloody remains of a rat amid the cedar chips.
I look at the sign next to his enclosure. It’s poster board—maybe they haven’t had time to make an official one yet—with big letters written in marker. CHANCE, it reads.
I stare at it for a few minutes. Then I turn and walk away, back toward the main building.
Inside, on the counter up front, is a stack of applications. I start to reach out, but something stops me, and I pull my hand back.
The receptionist looks up, arching her eyebrows. She’s an older woman, shoulder-length graying hair, small spectacles. “Looking for something?”
My mouth opens, then closes. I clutch one arm. “Those.” I point at the applications. “You’re hiring.” My voice comes out stiff and jerky.
“We’re always looking for help. Though I should tell you now, we only hire people who have hands-on experience working with animals.”
Before I can lose my nerve, I grab an application and sit down in one of the plastic lobby chairs. The application is one page, double-sided. Sections for basic information, education, and experience. No long, intrusive, nonsensical personality questionnaires.
I quickly fill out the application, then shuffle to the front desk and hand it to the receptionist without looking at her. She could chuck it into the trash as soon as I leave, but I can at least say I’ve tried.
I expect her to give me a polite smile and say they’ll keep me on file. Instead, she adjusts her glasses and says, “Well, you’ve got the experience. Why don’t you come in for an interview on Friday?”
I sit at the table in Stanley’s kitchen, poking at a crab Rangoon with a single chopstick. We ordered some Chinese takeout after I picked him up from class.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says. “Is everything okay?”
I roll a bit of sweet-and-sour chicken around on my plate. “I have an interview. At the wildlife rehabilitation center.”
“That’s great!” He smiles broadly. “It sounds like the perfect place for you.”
“It would be.” He’s right. I should be excited.
His smile fades. “What’s wrong?”
“I probably won’t get past the interview.” My fingers tighten on the chopstick. “Interviews don’t go well for me.”
“We can practice, if you want. I’ll ask questions and you answer.”
Still, I don’t look up from my plate. No matter how much I practice, I don’t know if I’ll ever come across as normal. During interviews, people always ask about my interests, but if I talk about my real interests, they think it’s weird. And if I start pulling my braid or rocking back and forth, they’ll immediately dismiss me.
“Alvie?”
“I just wish I didn’t have to hide who I am.”
“You know, it might help if you tell them.”
The chopstick snaps in my hand. “What.”
“I mean . . . it’s worth a try, at least.”
I drop the broken halves onto my plate and push it away. “How am I even supposed to say it. ‘Oh, by the way, I have Asperger’s.’”
“That sounds okay to me.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell them. Other people aren’t expected to disclose personal medical information in an interview. Would someone say, ‘Oh, before you hire me, I should mention I have a terrible case of hemorrhoids.’”
“It’s not like that. This isn’t something you need to be embarrassed about.”
I stare at the mostly untouched food on my plate. My throat feels swollen. How can he say that, after everything I’ve done? How can he still insist there’s nothing wrong with me?
“You know,” he says, “I wouldn’t be pushing you like this if you didn’t want the job. There’s no rush. You can stay here as long as you need to.”
“But . . .” The words catch in my throat. Is he saying that because he wants me around? Or because he feels obligated?
I’m afraid to ask, but I don’t know which answer would scare me more.
It doesn’t matter, I decide. I do want this job. I want it more than I can remember wanting anything for a long time. So far, trying to hide my condition hasn’t worked out so well for me, so maybe I need to switch tactics.
I unwrap my fortune cookie and break it open. Careless risk brings grave misfortune, reads the tiny strip of paper. I crumple it in my fist.
My interview is at noon. I try to eat breakfast, but I can’t force anything down. Not only would getting this job mean gainful employment, it would mean a reunion with Chance. The prospect turns my stomach into a tangled knot. I sit in the lobby of the wildlife rehabilitation center, rocking lightly back and forth in my chair, waiting to be called. My hand keeps drifting up to tug my braid, despite my efforts to stop it. The receptionist—a college-aged girl with shiny pink lipstick—stares at me. When she notices me noticing, she looks quickly back at the computer screen in front of her. But her eyes stray back to me. People can never seem to stop themselves from looking.
Stanley’s sitting next to me in his wheelchair. Sometimes when I was in public with Mama, she would take my hand in hers to keep me from tugging, or else she’d smile nervously at the people around her, as if she was afraid that they would suddenly converge on us and start beating us to death with their fists.
Remembering this just makes me rock and tug harder.
When the receptionist starts staring again, Stanley—to my astonishment—reaches up and starts tugging a lock of his own hair. Her mouth falls open, then she quickly jerks her gaze back to the screen.
He smiles at me, as if we’re sharing a private joke at her foolishness.
A door in the back of the room opens, and the woman with gray hair and glasses pokes her head out. It’s the same woman who told me to come in for an interview. “Ms. Fitz?”
I take a deep breath, stand, and glance at Stanley. He nods, holding my gaze.
I follow the woman into the back room and sit down across from her. Sweat dampens my blouse, which I just bought the other day. It’s stiffer and itchier than the old cotton T-shirts I usually wear. I cut off the tag, but I couldn’t get the whole thing; it left one of those little scratchy fringes that rubs against me like steel wool.
“Pleased to meet you,” the woman says. “I’m Edith Stone.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I murmur.
“You worked at the Hickory Park Zoo for eighteen months,” Edith says. “Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you enjoy the work?”
“Yes.”
“And why did you leave?”
Last night I rehearsed an answer for this question, but still, the words come out stiff and halting: “I felt that it was time to move on to something more challenging.”
“I have to warn you,” Edith says, “if you’re looking for a career upgrade, this probably isn’t it. We’re funded mostly by donations and grants. The people in this center are here because they have a passion for working with animals. The pay will be about what you’re used to. Maybe a little less.”
I freeze. Suddenly I have no idea what to say. My fingers twitch and clench on the arm of the chair.
Her eyebrows draw together. “Ms. Fitz?”
The space inside my chest shrinks until there’s no more than a cubic centimeter to breathe in. I resist the urge to grab and pull my hair.
“Is everything all right?”
I’m ruining this. I know it. Probably I’ve already lost my chance. My face burns. If I could quietly drop through the floor and vanish, I would.
At this point, there’s nothing to lose. “I have Asperger’s,” I blurt out.
Silence.
“It’s a form of autism.”
“I see,” she says, and I can’t read her tone. I don’t know if she understands or if she’s completely confused. “Will your condition prevent you from performing any job-related tasks?”
“No,” I say. “I can do anything you ask me to. But if I seem—different—that’s why.”
I still can’t read her expression. “I called your last employer, Ms. Nell,” she says.
My muscles stiffen. Somehow, I doubt Ms. Nell gave me a glowing recommendation. But I force myself to ask, “What did she say.”
“She told me that you knew your way around animals, but that you were cold, unfriendly, reclusive, and ‘screwy in the head.’”
I lower my gaze.
“She also claims that, after she fired you, you snuck into the zoo and attempted to steal a sign.”
My heart lurches.
“Is that true?”
I swallow. My mouth opens, but I choke on the words. I know it doesn’t matter, what I say at this point. I’m not going to get the job. “Yes.”
Her expression remains calm and blank. “I have to ask—why?”
I raise my head and meet her gaze. “The sign stated that animals don’t have feelings. I consider that to be a lie.” I stop and rephrase—“It is a lie. I know that I shouldn’t have tried to take it, but I couldn’t stand the thought of people coming in day after day and seeing those words.” I pause to take a breath, bowing my head again. “I love working with animals. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
After a few seconds, I force myself to look up. She’s grinning. She seems to catch herself, wipes the grin off her face, and clears her throat. “Of course, we can’t condone that sort of behavior. Not officially, anyway. But . . . well, if you’ll pardon the expression, I admire a woman with balls.” At my stunned silence, she adds, “I’m saying I want to offer you a job.”
She stretches a hand across the desk. Almost as an after-thought, she adds, “My nephew has Asperger’s.”
I shake her hand, so dazed that I barely react to the fact that a stranger is touching me.
I am utterly convinced that this is a dream, that at any moment my alarm will go off and I’ll realize I have to get dressed and ready for my actual interview. But the floor remains real and solid beneath my feet. Edith’s hand is bony, but her grip is firm and steady.
“You can start on Monday.”
I’m in a daze when I walk back into the waiting room. Stanley looks at me expectantly. “I got the job,” I say.
He hugs me tight and whispers that he knew I could do it.
Before we leave, I take him to the wooded area behind the center, pushing his wheelchair as I walk past the animals’ cages. Chance has a real sign now, a shiny plaque with his name and a few brief lines stating that he was delivered by a “mystery benefactor.” He’s preening his breast feathers.
“He looks very content here,” Stanley says.
“You think so.”
“Yeah.”
We watch him for a few minutes. This probably isn’t the place he expected to end up, but he does look happy.
When we get home, Stanley wheels over to the kitchen pantry, retrieves a bottle of white wine from inside, and dusts it off. “Want some? I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. I think this qualifies.”
“We’re not old enough to drink,” I point out.
He grins. “I won’t tell if you don’t. Though I’ve got some of that fizzy grape juice, too.”
I consider. I’ve never had alcohol before, or experienced any particular desire to try it—I’m wary of anything that might lower my inhibitions—but it is a special day. I feel like trying something new. “Wine.”
He gets two long-stemmed glasses from the cabinet and fills them. Then, to my surprise, he removes a candle from the drawer and lights it. “Will you help me carry these into the living room?”
I set the glasses on the coffee table. He grabs the candle and the wine bottle; since his hands are occupied, I push his chair into the living room, and we sit facing each other, the candle flame dancing between us. I take a small, experimental sip. It’s more bitter than I expected, but not bad, and it feels warm going down.
In the soft glow, his skin looks smooth and touchable, like he just shaved, and his eyes are filled with candlelight. It’s been a while since he’s cut his hair. I decide I like it a little longer.
Sitting here with him, it’s easy to pretend that things have gone back to the way they used to be. I think about the first dinner we shared in this house, the pancakes he made for me. That night feels like years ago now.
I swallow another mouthful of wine. “In about two weeks, I’ll get my first paycheck. I can start saving up money. And then I’ll start looking for a new place.”
“About that.” He takes a deep breath. “I meant what I said. You don’t have to rush.”
“I don’t intend to take advantage of your generosity any longer than necessary.”
His eyebrows bunch together, and a tiny furrow forms between them. “Is that what you think you’re doing?”
I look away. “If you hadn’t taken me in, I’d be sleeping on the streets.”
The wine bottle is sitting on the coffee table, so I top off my glass. My thoughts swirl and drift, like a bunch of balloons released on a windy day, and when I grab on to one I lose track of another. I start to take another swig and I’m surprised to find that my glass is empty again, so I pour myself some more.
Stanley grips the glass, the skin around his nails white with pressure. He has barely touched his own wine. “Listen, Alvie . . . I know that for a while, back in the hospital, I acted like I didn’t want you around. But that’s because I didn’t know how to deal with what had happened. I was angry. I mean, you vanished with no explanation. You ignored my calls and my texts. And I kept asking myself—why? Did you hate me that much? Or did I just matter that little to you?”
“That’s not what it was like. You know it wasn’t.”
“I don’t know anything. How could I? You never bothered to tell me.”
I take another swig. The wine burns going down. I’m aware, dimly, that my guards are lowered and that I probably shouldn’t be talking about this right now. But I’m tired of holding everything in; I can’t muster the will to care. “I left because it was the only way to protect you.”
“From what?”
How can he even ask? Does he really not know? “From me. I hit you, Stanley.”
“You didn’t mean to. You lost control—”
“Don’t make excuses for me.” My throat has constricted to a pinhole, but I force the words out. “Yes, I lost control. And that makes it even worse. Because it means I might do it again. I can’t trust myself not to hurt you.”
“That’s ridiculous. It didn’t even hurt that much. Besides, shouldn’t I get to be the one who decides what I can and can’t handle? I’m not so weak that I need to be protected from my own choices.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and drain my glass. My head droops, and my attention fixes on the carpet. “Maybe you can accept it. But I can’t. You deserve better—”
“You’re just using that as an excuse. Because you’re scared of this.”
I grit my teeth. I am scared. But so what? That doesn’t change what I did. “What if you were the one who’d ‘lost control’ and punched me in the face. Would you think that was okay.”
There’s a brief silence. “That’s different.”
“No. It isn’t.”
His face is flushed—from the wine or something else, I don’t know. “You could have called me back, at least. We could have talked about it. You didn’t have to disappear.”
I know he’s right. I should have. But if I had allowed myself even that much, I wouldn’t be strong enough to leave him. “It doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”
“It doesn’t have to be. I don’t want to give up on this, Alvie.”
My eyes refuse to focus; my brain refuses to process his words. I should probably stop drinking. When I try to stand, my legs give out, and I sink back to the couch. “I’m drunk,” I murmur.
“I love you,” he says.
I flinch. I can’t help it.
“Why is it like this?” Stanley whispers. “Why are you so afraid of being loved?”
I open my mouth to tell him that I can’t talk about this now. Instead, what comes out is, “Why are you so afraid of sex.”
He draws in his breath sharply. In the silence that follows, he doesn’t breathe at all. “I’m not . . .” His voice breaks. He covers his face with his hands.
I want to apologize, but the words stick in my throat.
Slowly he lowers his hands. “I’m afraid I’d do it wrong. That it wouldn’t be good for you.”
“But there’s more. Isn’t there.”
His breathing quickens.
I’ve gone too far, again. I should stop, pull back. But I can’t. “What are you afraid of, Stanley.”
He looks straight at me. He’s pale, lips pressed in a thin line. “What if I got you pregnant? Things happen. Even when people are careful.”
My mouth falls open. I’ve had the same thoughts myself, but still, I’m caught off guard. I don’t know how to respond.
And for a moment, I allow myself to visualize the possibility—a little human kit, a squirming bundle of life with my eyes and his hair. His smile and my nose.
My brain and his bones. “What would we do?” he asks. “What would you do?”
What my mother should have done when she was pregnant with me. Rabbits reabsorb their young when they’re not ready. In the animal kingdom, abortion is not particularly uncommon. You could say it’s kinder. In the wild, young born into unfavorable circumstances—or with genetic defects—don’t survive long.
I hear Stanley’s words in my head: I mean, obviously it’s better if these things are planned. But lots of kids aren’t, and their parents still love them.
And my own voice telling him, Love doesn’t pay the bills.
My stomach hurts. I feel like I’m going to be sick. “I don’t know.”
He looks away. When his eyes move, I see the flashes of blue gray in the dim light. Misty blue, twilight blue. Dark choroids visible through too-thin tissue. “Maybe the wine was a bad idea.” He smiles, the muscles of his face stiff. “Let’s just go to bed.”