Dear John

  I could barely remember how it had started. One minute I was thinking that I loved her more than I'd ever imagined possible, and the next minute we were fighting. I was outraged by her subterfuge yet couldn't understand why I was this angry. It wasn't as if my dad and I were close; it wasn't as if I even thought I really knew him. So why had I been so angry? And why was I still?

  Because, the little voice inside me asked, there's a chance she might be right?

  It didn't matter, though. Whether he was or wasn't, so what? How was that going to change anything? And why was it any of her business?

  As I drove, I kept veering from anger to acceptance and back to anger again. I found myself reliving the sensation of my elbow crushing Tim's nose, which only made it worse. Why had he come at me? Why not them? I wasn't the one who'd started it.

  And Savannah . . . yeah, I might be able to head over there tomorrow to apologize. I knew she honestly believed what she was saying and that in her own way, she was trying to help. And maybe, if she was right, I did want to know. It would explain things. . . .

  But after what I did to Tim? How was she going to react to that? He was her best friend, and even if I swore it had been an accident, would it matter to her? How about what I'd done to the others? She knew I was a soldier, but now that she'd seen a small part of what that meant, would she still feel the same way about me?

  By the time I found my way home, it was past midnight. I entered the darkened house, peeked into my dad's den, then proceeded to the bedroom. He wasn't up, of course; he went to bed at the same time every night. A man of routine, as I knew and Savannah had pointed out.

  I crawled into bed, knowing I wouldn't sleep and wishing I could start the evening over again. From the moment she'd given me the book, anyway. I didn't want to think about any of it anymore. I didn't want to think about my dad or Savannah or what I'd done to Tim's nose. But all night long I stared at the ceiling, unable to escape my thoughts.

  I got up when I heard my dad in the kitchen. I was wearing the same clothes from the evening before, but I doubted he was aware of it.

  "Mornin', Dad," I mumbled.

  "Hey, John," he said. "Would you like some breakfast?"

  "Sure," I said. "Coffee ready?"

  "In the pot."

  I poured myself a cup. As my dad cooked, I noted the headlines in the newspaper, knowing he would read the front section first, then metro. He would ignore the sports and life section. A man of routine.

  "How was your night?" I asked.

  "The same," he said. I wasn't surprised when he didn't ask me anything in return. Instead, he ran the spatula through the scrambled eggs. The bacon was already sizzling. In time, he turned to me, and I already knew what he would ask.

  "Would you mind putting some bread in the toaster?"

  My dad left for work at exactly 7:35.

  Once he was gone, I scanned the paper, uninterested in the news, at a loss as to what to do next. I had no desire to go surfing, or even to leave the house, and I was wondering whether I should crawl back into bed to try to get some rest when I heard a car pull up the drive. I figured it might be someone dropping off a flyer offering to clean the gutters or power-wash the mold from the roof; I was surprised when I heard a knock.

  Opening the door, I froze, caught completely off guard. Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Hi, John," he said. "I know it's early, but do you mind if I come in?"

  A wide strip of medical tape bridged his nose, and the skin surrounding both eyes was bruised and swollen.

  "Yeah . . . sure," I said, stepping aside, still trying to process the fact that he was here.

  Tim walked past me and into the living room. "I almost didn't find your house," he said. "When I dropped you off before, it was late and I can't say I was paying that much attention. I drove by a couple of times before it finally registered."

  He smiled again, and I realized he was carrying a small paper sack.

  "Would you like some coffee?" I asked, snapping out of my shock. "I think there still might be a cup left in the pot."

  "No, I'm fine. I was up most of the night, and I'd rather not have the caffeine. I'm hoping to lie down when I get back to the house."

  I nodded. "Hey, listen . . . about what happened last night," I began. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . ."

  He held up his hands to stop me. "It's okay. I know you didn't. And I should have known better. I should have tried to grab one of the other guys."

  I inspected him. "Does it hurt?"

  "It's okay," he said. "It just happened to be one of those nights in the emergency room. It took a while to see a doctor, and he wanted to call someone else in to set my nose. But they swore it would be good as new. I might have a small bump, but I'm hoping it gives me a more rugged appearance."

  I smiled, then felt bad for doing so. "Like I said, I'm sorry."

  "I accept your apology," he said. "And I appreciate it. But that's not the reason I came here." He motioned to the couch. "Do you mind if we sit? I still feel a little woozy."

  I sat on the edge of the recliner, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees. Tim sat on the sofa, wincing as he got comfortable. He set the paper bag off to the side.

  "I want to talk to you about Savannah," he said. "And about what happened last night."

  The sound of her name brought it all back, and I glanced away.

  "You know we're good friends, right?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Last night in the hospital, we talked for hours, and I just wanted to come here to ask you not to be angry with her for what she did. She knows she made a mistake and that it wasn't her place to diagnose your father. You were right about that."

  "Why isn't she here, then?"

  "Right now, she's at the site. Someone's got to be in charge while I recuperate. And she doesn't know I'm here, either."

  I shook my head. "I don't know why I got so mad in the first place."

  "Because you didn't want to hear it," he said, his voice quiet. "I used to feel the same way whenever I heard someone talk about my brother, Alan. He's autistic."

  I looked up. "Alan's your brother?"

  "Yeah, why?" he asked. "Did Savannah tell you about him?"

  "A little," I said, remembering that even more than Alan, she talked about the brother who'd been so patient with him, who'd inspired her to major in special education.

  On the couch, Tim winced as he touched the bruising under his eye. "And just so you know," he went on, "I agree with you. It wasn't her place, and I told her so. Do you remember when I said that she was naive sometimes? That's what I meant. She wants to help people, but sometimes it doesn't come across that way."

  "It wasn't just her," I said. "It was me, too. Like I said, I overreacted."

  His gaze was steady. "Do you think she might be right?"

  I brought my hands together. "I don't know. I don't think so, but . . ."

  "But you don't know. And if so, whether it even matters, right?"

  He didn't wait for an answer. "Been there, done that," he said. "I remember what my parents and I went through with Alan. For a long time we didn't know what, if anything, was wrong with him. And you know what I've decided after all this time? It doesn't matter. I still love him and watch out for him, and I always will. But . . . learning about his condition did help make things easier between us. Once I knew . . . I guess I just stopped expecting him to behave in a certain way. And without expectations, I found it easier to accept him."

  I digested this. "What if he doesn't have Asperger's?" I asked.

  "He might not."

  "And if I think he does?"

  He sighed. "It's not that simple, especially in milder cases," he said. "It's not as if you can pull a vial of blood and test for it. You might get to the point where you think it's possible, and that's as far as you'll ever get. But you'll never know for sure. And from what Savannah said about him, I honestly don't think much will change. And why should it? He works, he raised you . . . what more could you exp
ect from a father?"

  I considered this while images of my dad flashed through my head.

  "Savannah bought you a book," he said.

  "I don't know where it is," I admitted.

  "I've got it," he said. "I brought it from the house." He handed me the paper bag. Somehow the book felt heavier than it had the night before.

  "Thanks."

  He rose, and I knew our conversation was nearing the end. He moved to the door but turned with his hand on the knob.

  "You know you don't have to read it," he said.

  "I know."

  He opened the door, then stopped. I knew he wanted to add something else, but, surprising me, he didn't turn around. "Would you mind if I asked a favor?"

  "Go ahead."

  "Don't break Savannah's heart, okay? I know she loves you, and I just want her to be happy."

  I knew then that I'd been right about his feelings for her. As he walked to the car, I watched him from the window, certain that he was in love with her, too.

  I put the book aside and went for a walk; when I got back to the house, I avoided it again. I can't tell you why I did so, other than that it frightened me somehow.

  After a couple of hours, however, I forced the feeling away and spent the rest of the afternoon absorbing its contents and reliving memories of my father.

  Tim had been right. There wasn't any clear-cut diagnosis, no hard-and-fast rules, and there was no way I'd ever know for certain. Some people with Asperger's had low IQs, while other, even more severely autistic people--like the Dustin Hoffman character in Rain Man--were regarded as geniuses in particular subjects. Some could function so well in society that no one even knew; others had to be institutionalized. I read profiles of people with Asperger's who were prodigies in music or mathematics, but I learned that they were as rare as prodigies among the general population. But most important, I learned that when my dad was young, there were few doctors who even understood the characteristics or symptoms and that if something had been wrong, his parents might never have known. Instead, children with Asperger's or autism were often lumped with the retarded or the shy, and if they weren't institutionalized, parents were left to comfort themselves with the hope that one day their child might grow out of it. The difference between Asperger's and autism could sometimes be summed up by the following: A person with autism lives in his own world, while a person with Asperger's lives in our world, in a way of his own choosing.

  By that standard, most people could be said to have Asperger's.

  But there were some indications that Savannah had been right about my father. His unchanging routines, his social awkwardness, his lack of interest in topics other than coins, his desire to be alone--all seemed like quirks that anyone might have, but with my father it was different. While others might freely make those same choices, my father--like some people with Asperger's--seemed to have been forced to live a life with these choices already predetermined. At the very least, I learned that it might explain my father's behavior, and if so, it wasn't that he wouldn't change, but that he couldn't change. Even with all the implied uncertainty, I found the realization comforting. And, I realized, it might explain two questions that had always plagued me regarding my mother: What had she seen in him? And why had she left?

  I knew I'd never know, and I had no intention of delving further. But with a leaping imagination in a quiet house, I could envision a quiet man who struck up a conversation about his rare coin collection with a poor young waitress at a diner, a woman who spent her evenings lying in bed and dreaming of a better life. Maybe she flirted, or maybe she didn't, but he was attracted to her and continued to show up at the diner. Over time, she might have sensed the kindness and patience in him that he would later use in raising me. It was possible that she interpreted his quiet nature accurately as well and knew he would be slow to anger and never violent. Even without love, it might have been enough, so she agreed to marry him, thinking they would sell the coins and live, if not happily ever after, at least comfortably ever after. She got pregnant, and later, when she learned that he couldn't even fathom the idea of selling the coins, she realized that she'd be stuck with a husband who showed little interest in anything she did. Maybe her loneliness got the better of her, or maybe she was just selfish, but either way she wanted out, and after the baby was born, she took the first opportunity to leave.

  Or, I thought, maybe not.

  I doubted whether I would ever learn the truth, but I really didn't care. I did, however, care about my father, and if he was afflicted with a bit of faulty wiring in his brain, I suddenly understood that he'd somehow formed a set of rules for life, rules that helped him fit into the world. Maybe they weren't quite normal, but he'd nonetheless found a way to help me become the man I was. And to me, that was more than enough.

  He was my father, and he'd done his best. I knew that now. And when at last I closed the book and set it aside, I found myself staring out the window, thinking how proud I was of him while trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

  When he returned from work, my dad changed his clothes and went to the kitchen to start the spaghetti. I studied him as he went through the motions, knowing I was doing exactly the same thing that I'd grown angry at Savannah for doing. It's strange how knowledge changes perception.

  I noted the precision of his moves--the way he neatly opened the box of spaghetti before setting it aside and the way he worked the spatula in careful right angles as he browned the meat. I knew he would add salt and pepper, and a moment later he did. I knew he would open the can of tomato sauce right after that, and again, I wasn't proved wrong. As usual, he didn't ask about my day, preferring to work in silence. Yesterday I'd attributed it to the fact that we were strangers; today I understood that there was a possibility we always would be. But for the first time in my life, it didn't bother me.

  Over dinner I didn't ask about his day, knowing he wouldn't answer. Instead, I told him about Savannah and what our time together had been like. Afterward, I helped him with the dishes, continuing our one-sided conversation. Once they were done, he reached for the rag again. He wiped the counter a second time, then rotated the salt and pepper shakers until they were in exactly the same position they'd been in when he arrived home. I had the feeling that he wanted to add to the conversation and didn't know how, but I suppose I was trying to make myself feel better. It didn't matter. I knew he was ready to retreat to the den.

  "Hey, Dad," I said. "How about you show me some of the coins you've bought lately? I want to hear all about them."

  He stared at me as if uncertain he'd heard me right, then glanced at the floor. He touched his thinning hair, and I saw the growing bald spot on the top of his head. When he looked up at me again, he looked almost scared.

  "Okay," he finally said.

  We walked to the den together, and when I felt him place a gentle hand on my back, all I could think was that I hadn't felt this close to him in years.

  Eleven

  The following evening, as I stood on the pier admiring the silver play of moonlight on the ocean, I wondered whether Savannah would show. The night before, after spending hours examining coins with my father and enjoying the excitement in his voice as he described them, I drove to the beach. On the seat beside me was the note I'd written to Savannah, asking her to meet me here. I'd left the note in an envelope I'd placed on Tim's car. I knew that he would pass along the envelope unopened, no matter how much he might not want to. In the short time I'd known him, I'd come to believe that Tim, like my father, was a far better person than I would ever be.

  It was the only thing I could think to do. Because of the altercation, I knew I was no longer welcome at the beach house; I also didn't want to see Randy or Susan or any of the others, which made it impossible to contact Savannah. She didn't have a cell phone, nor did I know the phone number at the beach house, which left the note as my only option.

  I was wrong. I'd overreacted, and I knew it. Not just with her, but with the
others on the beach. I should have simply walked away. Randy and his buddies, even if they lifted weights and considered themselves athletes, didn't stand a chance against someone trained to disable people quickly and efficiently. Had it happened in Germany, I might have found myself locked up for what I'd done. The government wasn't too fond of those who used government-acquired skills in ways the government didn't approve.

  So I'd left the note, then watched the clock all the next day, wondering if she would show. As the time I had suggested came and went, I found myself glancing compulsively over my shoulder, breathing a sigh of relief when a figure appeared in the distance. From the way it moved, I knew it had to be Savannah. I leaned against the railing as I waited for her.

  She slowed her steps when she spotted me, then came to a stop. No hug, no kiss--the sudden formality made me ache.

  "I got your note," she said.

  "I'm glad you came."

  "I had to sneak away so no one knew you were here," she said. "I've overheard a few people talking about what they would do if you showed up again."

  "I'm sorry," I plunged in without preamble. "I know you were just trying to help, and I took it the wrong way."

  "And?"

  "And I'm sorry for what I did to Tim. He's a great guy, and I should have been more careful."

  Her gaze was unblinking. "And?"

  I shuffled my feet, knowing I wasn't really sincere in what I was about to say, but knowing she wanted to hear it anyway. I sighed. "And Randy and the other guy, too."

  Still, she continued to stare. "And?"

  I was stumped. I searched my mind before meeting her eyes. "And . . ." I trailed off.

  "And what?"

  "And . . ." I tried but couldn't come up with anything. "I don't know," I confessed. "But whatever it is, I'm sorry for that, too."

  She wore a curious expression. "That's it?"

  I thought about it. "I don't know what else to say," I admitted.

  It was half a second before I noticed the tiniest hint of a smile. She moved toward me. "That's it?" she repeated, her voice softer. I said nothing. She came closer and, surprising me, slipped her arms around my neck.