CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Light. Morning light. I remember strange dreams, but not what they were about, only that they were strange. It is a bright, crisp day; when I touch the window glass it feels cold.

In the cooler air, I feel wide-awake, almost bouncy. The cereal flakes in the bowl have a crisp, ruffled texture; I feel them in my mouth, crunchy and then smooth.

When I come outside, the bright sun glints off pebbles in the parking lot pavement. It is a day for bright, brisk music. Possibilities surge through my mind; I settle on Bizet. I touch my car gingerly, noticing that even though Don is in jail my body is remembering that it might be dangerous. Nothing happens. The four new tires still smell new. The car starts. On the way to work, the music plays in my head, bright as the sunlight. I think of going out to the country to look at stars tonight; I should be able to see the space stations, too. Then I remember that it is Wednesday and I will go to fencing. I have not forgotten that in a long time. Did I mark the calendar this morning? I am not sure.

At work, I pull into my usual parking space. Mr. Aldrin is there standing just inside the door as if he were waiting for me.

“Lou, I saw it on the news—are you all right?”

“Yes,” I say. I think it should be obvious just from looking at me.

“If you don’t feel well, you can take the day off,” he says.

“I am fine,” I say. “I can work.”

“Well . . . if you’re sure.” He pauses, as if he expects me to say something, but I cannot think of anything to say. “The newscast said you disarmed the attacker, Lou—I didn’t know you knew how to do that.”

“I just did what I do in fencing,” I say. “Even though I didn’t have a blade.”

“Fencing!” His eyes widen; his brows lift up. “You do fencing? Like . . . with swords and things?”

“Yes. I go to fencing class once a week,” I say. I do not know how much to tell him.

“I never knew that,” he says. “I don’t know anything about fencing, except they wear those white suits and have those wires trailing behind them.”

We do not wear the white suits or use electric scoring, but I do not feel like explaining it to Mr. Aldrin. I want to get back to my project, and this afternoon we have another meeting with the medical team. Then I remember what Mr. Stacy said.

“I may have to go to the police station and sign a statement,” I say.

“That’s fine,” Mr. Aldrin says. “Whatever you need. I’m sure this must have been a terrible shock.”

My phone rings. I think it is going to be Mr. Crenshaw, so I do not hurry to answer it, but I do answer it.

“Mr. Arrendale? . . . This is Detective Stacy. Look, can you come down to the station this morning?”

I do not think this is a real question. I think it is like when my father said, “You pick up that end, okay?” when he meant “Pick up that end.” It may be more polite to give commands by asking questions, but it is also more confusing, because sometimes they are questions. “I will have to ask my boss,” I say.

“Police business,” Mr. Stacy says. “We need you to sign your statement, some other paperwork. Just tell them that.”

“I will call Mr. Aldrin,” I say. “I should call you back?”

“No—just come on down when you can. I’ll be here all morning.” In other words, he expects me to come down no matter what Mr. Aldrin says. It was not a real question.

I call Mr. Aldrin’s office.

“Yes, Lou,” he says. “How are you?” It is silly; he has already asked me that this morning.

“The police want me to go to the station and sign my statement and some other paperwork,” I say. “They said come now.”

“But are you all right? Do you need someone to go with you?”

“I am fine,” I say. “But I need to go to the police station.”

“Of course. Take the whole day.”

Outside, I wonder what the guard thinks as I drive out past the checkpoint after driving in just a short time ago. I cannot tell anything from his face.

It is noisy in the police station. At a long, high counter, rows of people stand in line. I stand in line, but then Mr. Stacy comes out and sees me. “Come on,” he says. He leads me to another noisy room with five desks all covered with stuff. His desk—I think it is his desk—has a docking station for his handcomp and a large display.

“Home sweet home,” he says, waving me to a chair beside the desk.

The chair is gray metal with a thin green plastic cushion on the seat. I can feel the frame through the cushion. I smell stale coffee, cheap candy bars, chips, paper, the fried-ink smell of printers and copiers.

“Here’s the hard copy of your statement last night,” he says. “Read through it, see if there are any errors, and, if not, sign it.”

The stacked ifs slow me down, but I work through them. I read the statement quickly, though it takes me a while to grasp that “complainant” is me and “assailant” is Don. Also, I do not know why Don and I are referred to as “males” and not “men” and Marjory as a “female” and not a “woman.” I think it is rude to, say, call her “a female known to both males in a social context.” There are no actual errors, so I sign it.

Then Mr. Stacy tells me I must sign a complaint against Don. I do not know why. It is against the law to do the things Don did, and there is evidence he did them. It should not matter whether I sign or not. If that is what the law requires, though, then I will do it.

“What will happen to Don if he is found guilty?” I ask.

“Serial escalating vandalism ending in a violent assault? He’s not getting out without custodial rehab,” Mr. Stacy says. “A PPD—a programmable personality determinant brain chip. That’s when they put in a control chip—”

“I know,” I say. It makes me feel squirmy inside; at least I do not have to contemplate having a chip inserted in my brain.

“It’s not like it is on the shows,” Mr. Stacy says. “No sparks, no lightning flashes—he just won’t be able to do certain things.”

What I heard—what we heard at the Center—is that the PPD overrides the original personality and prevents the rehabilitant, the term they like, from doing anything but what he is told.

“Couldn’t he just pay for my tires and windshield?” I ask.

“Recidivism,” Mr. Stacy says, pawing through a pile of hard copies. “They do it again. It’s been proved. Just like you can’t stop being you, the person who is autistic, he can’t stop being him, the person who is jealous and violent. If it’d been found when he was an infant, well, then . . . here we are.” He pulls out one particular sheet. “This is the form. Read it carefully, sign on the bottom where the X is, and date it.”

I read the form, which has the city’s seal at the top. It says that I, Lou Arrendale, make a complaint of a lot of things I never even thought of. I thought it would be simple: Don tried to scare me and then tried to hurt me. Instead the form says I am complaining of malicious destruction of property, theft of property valued at more than $250, manufacturing an explosive device, placing an explosive device, assault with intent to murder with an explosive device— “That could have killed me?” I ask. “It says here ‘assault with a deadly weapon.’ ”

“Explosives are a deadly weapon. It’s true that the way he had it wired up, it didn’t go off when it was supposed to, and the amount is marginal: you might have lost only part of your hands and your face. But it counts under the law.”

“I did not know that one act, like taking out the battery and putting in the jack-in-the-box, could break more than one law,” I say.

“Neither do a lot of criminals,” Mr. Stacy says. “But it’s quite common. Say a perp breaks into a house while the owners are gone and steals stuff. There’s a law about unlawful entry and another law about theft.”

I did not really complain about Don manufacturing an explosive device because I did not know he was doing it. I look at Mr. Stacy; it is clear he has an answer for everything and it will not do any good to argue. It does not seem fair that so many complaints could come out of one act, but I have heard people talk about other things like this, too.

The form goes on to list what Don did in less formal language: the tires, the windshield, the theft of a vehicle battery worth $262.37, the placing of the explosive device under the hood, and the assault in the park-ing lot. With it all laid out in order, it looks obvious that Don did it all, that he seriously intended to hurt me, that the very first incident was a clear warning sign.

It is still hard to grasp. I know what he said, the words he used, but they do not make much sense. He is a normal man. He could talk to Marjory easily; he did talk to Marjory. Nothing stopped him from becoming friends with her, nothing but himself. It is not my fault that she liked me. It is not my fault that she met me at the fencing group; I was there first and did not know her until she came.

“I do not know why,” I say.

“What?” Mr. Stacy says.

“I do not know why he got so angry with me,” I say.

He tips his head to one side. “He told you,” he says. “And you told me what he said.”

“Yes, but it does not make sense,” I say. “I like Marjory a lot, but she is not my girlfriend. I have never taken her out. She has never taken me out. I have never done anything to hurt Don.” I do not tell Mr. Stacy that I would like to take Marjory out, because he might ask why I haven’t and I do not want to answer.

“Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you,” he says, “but it makes sense to me. We see lots of this kind of thing, jealousy souring into rage. You didn’t have to do anything; it was all about him, all about his insides.”

“He is normal inside,” I say.

“He’s not formally disabled, Lou, but he is not normal. Normal people do not wire explosive devices into someone’s car.”

“Do you mean he is insane?”

“That’s for a court to decide,” Mr. Stacy says. He shakes his head. “Lou, why are you trying to excuse him?”

“I’m not . . . I agree what he did is wrong, but having a chip put in his brain to make him someone else—”

He rolls his eyes. “Lou, I wish you people—I mean people who aren’t in criminal justice—would understand about the PPD. It is not making him into someone else. It is making him Don without the compulsion to harm people who annoy him in any way. That way we don’t have to keep him locked up for years because he’s likely to do it again—he just won’t do it again. To anyone. It’s a lot more humane than what we used to do, lock people like this up for years with other vicious men in an environment that only made them worse. This doesn’t hurt; it doesn’t make him into a robot; he can live a normal life. . . . He just can’t commit violent crimes. It’s the only thing we’ve found that works, other than the death penalty, which I will agree is a bit extreme for what he did to you.”

“I still don’t like it,” I say. “I would not want anyone putting a chip in my brain.”

“There are legitimate medical uses,” he says. I know that; I know about people with intractable seizures or Parkinsonism or spinal cord injuries: specific chips and bypasses have been developed for them, and that is a good thing. But this I am not sure of.

Still, it is the law. There is nothing in the form that is untrue. Don did these things. I called the police about them, except the last one, which they witnessed. There is a line at the bottom of the form, between the body of the text and the line for my signature, and there is a line of text that says that I swear everything in the statement is true. It is true as far as I know, and that will have to be enough. I sign on the line, date it, and hand it to the police officer.

“Thanks, Lou,” he says. “Now the DA wants to meet you and she will explain what happens next.”

The district attorney is a middle-aged woman with frizzy black hair mixed with gray. The nameplate on her desk says: ASS’T DA BEATRICE HUNSTON. She has skin the color of gingerbread. Her office is bigger than mine at work and has shelves all around it with books. They are old, tan with black and red squares on the spines. They do not look as if anyone ever read them, and I wonder if they are real. There is a data plate on her desktop, and the light from it makes the underside of her chin a funny color, even though from my side the desktop looks plain black.

“I’m glad you’re alive, Mr. Arrendale,” she says. “You were quite lucky. I understand you’ve signed the complaint against Mr. Donald Poiteau, is that right?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well, let me explain what happens next. The law says that Mr. Poiteau is entitled to a jury trial if he wants one. We have ample evidence that he is the person involved in all the incidents, and we are sure that evidence will stand up in court. But most likely his legal adviser will tell him to accept a plea. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” I say. I know she wants to tell me.

“If he does not use up state resources by demanding a trial, it will reduce the amount of time he must serve, down to that required for implantation and adaptation of the PPD, the chip. Otherwise, if convicted, he would face a minimum of five years in detention. In the meantime, he’ll be finding out what detention is like, and I suspect he’ll agree to the plea.”

“But he might not be convicted,” I say.

The DA smiles at me. “That doesn’t happen anymore,” she says. “Not with the kind of evidence we’ve got. You don’t have to worry; he’s not going to be able to hurt you anymore.”

I am not worried. Or I was not worried until she said that. Once Don was in custody, I did not worry more about him. If he escapes, I will worry again. I am not worried now.

“If it does not come to trial, if his attorney accepts a plea bargain, then we will not need to call you in again,” she says. “We will know that in a few days. If he does demand a trial, then you will appear as a witness for the prosecution. This will mean spending time with me or someone in my office preparing your testimony and then time in court. Do you understand that?”

I understand what she is saying. What she is not saying and maybe does not know is that Mr. Crenshaw will be very angry if I miss time from work. I hope that Don and his lawyer do not insist on a trial. “Yes,” I say.

“Good. The whole procedure’s changed in the past ten years, with the availability of the PPD chip; it’s a lot more straightforward. Fewer cases going to trial. Not so much time lost by the victims and the witnesses. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Arrendale.”

The morning is almost over when I finally leave the Justice Center. Mr. Aldrin said I did not have to come in at all today, but I do not want Mr. Crenshaw to have any reason to be angry with me, so I go back to the office for the afternoon. We have another test, one of those where we are supposed to match patterns on a computer screen. We are all very fast at this and finish quickly. The other tests are easy, too, but boring. I do not work the time I missed this morning, because that was not my fault.

Before I leave for fencing, I watch the science news on TV because it is a program on space. A consortium of companies is building another space station. I see a logo I recognize; I did not know that the company I work for had an interest in space-based operations. The announcer is talking about the billions it will cost and the commitment of the various partners.

Maybe this is one reason Mr. Crenshaw insists he needs to cut costs. I think it is good that the company wants to invest in space, and I wish I had a chance to go out there. Maybe if I were not autistic, I could have been an astronaut or space scientist. But even if I change now, with the treatment, it would be too late to retrain for that career.

Maybe this is why some people want the LifeTime treatment to extend their lives, so they can train for a career they could not have before. It is very expensive, though. Not many people can afford it yet.

Three other cars are parked in front of Tom and Lucia’s when I arrive. Marjory’s car is there. My heart is thumping faster. I feel out of breath, but I have not been running.

A chill wind blows down the street. When it is cool, it is easier to fence, but it is harder to sit out in the back and talk.

Inside, Lucia, Susan, and Marjory are talking. They stop when I come in.

“How are you doing, Lou?” Lucia asks.

“I am fine,” I say. My tongue feels too big.

“I’m so sorry about what Don did,” Marjory says.

“You did not tell him to do it,” I say. “It is not your fault.” She should know this.

“I didn’t mean that,” she says. “I just—it’s too bad for you.”

“I am fine,” I say again. “I am here and not—” It is hard to say. “Not in detention,” I say, avoiding not dead. “It is hard—they say they will put a chip in his brain.”

“I should hope so,” Lucia says. Her face is twisted into a scowl. Susan nods and mutters something I can’t quite hear.

“Lou, you look like you don’t want that to happen to him,” Marjory says.

“I think it is very scary,” I say. “He did something wrong, but it is scary that they will turn him into someone else.”

“It’s not like that,” Lucia says. She is staring at me now. She should understand if anyone can; she knows about the experimental treatment; she knows why it would bother me that Don will be compelled to be someone else. “He did something wrong—something very bad. He could have killed you, Lou. Would have, if he hadn’t been stopped. If they turned him into a bowl of pudding it would be fair, but all the chip does is make him unable to do anyone harm.”

It is not that simple. Just as a word can mean one thing in one sentence and something else in another or change meaning with a tone, so an act can be helpful or harmful depending on the circumstance. The PPD chip doesn’t give people better judgment about what is harmful and what is not; it removes the volition, the initiative, to perform acts that are more often harmful than not. That means it also prevents Don from doing good things sometimes. Even I know that and I am sure Lucia knows it, too, but she is ignoring it for some reason.

“To think I trusted him in the group so long!” she says. “I never thought he would do anything like this. That scum-sucking viper: I could rip his face off myself.”

In one of those inside flashes, I know that Lucia is thinking more about her feelings than mine right now. She is hurt because Don fooled her; she feels he made her seem stupid and she does not want to be stupid. She is proud of being intelligent. She wants him punished because he damaged her—at least her feelings about herself.

It is not a very nice way to be, and I did not know Lucia could be like this. Should I have known about her, the way she thinks she should have known about Don? If normal people expect to know all about one another, all the hidden things, how can they stand it? Doesn’t it make them dizzy?

“You can’t read minds, Lucia,” Marjory says.

“I know that!” Lucia moves in little jerky movements, tossing her hair, flicking her fingers. “It’s just—damn, I hate to be made a fool of, and that’s what I feel he did.” She looks up at me. “Sorry, Lou, I’m being selfish here. What really matters is you and how you’re doing.”

It is like watching a crystal forming in a supersaturated solution to see her normal personality—her usual personality—return from the angry person she was a moment ago. I feel better that she has understood what she was doing and is not going to do it again. It is slower than the way she analyzes other people. I wonder if it takes normal people longer to look inside themselves and see what is really happening than it does autistic people or if our brains work at the same speed there. I wonder if she needed what Marjory said to make her capable of that self-analysis.

I wonder what Marjory really thinks of me. She is looking at Lucia now, with quick glances back at me. Her hair is so beautiful . . . I find myself analyzing the color, the ratio of the different colors of hairs, and then the way the light shifts along them as she moves.

I sit on the floor and begin my stretches. After a moment, the women also start stretching out. I am a little stiff; it takes me several tries before I can touch my forehead to my knees. Marjory still can’t do it; her hair falls forward, brushing her knees, but her forehead doesn’t come within four inches.

When I have stretched, I get up and go to the equipment room for my gear. Tom is outside with Max and Simon, the referee from the tournament. The ring of lights makes a bright area in the middle of the dark yard, with strong shadows everywhere else.

“Hey, buddy,” Max says. He calls all the men buddy when they first arrive. It is a silly thing to do, but it is how he is. “How are you?”

“I am fine,” I say.

“I hear you used a fencing move on him,” Max says. “Wish I’d seen it.”

I think Max would not have wanted to be there in real life, whatever he thinks now.

“Lou, Simon was wondering if he could fence with you,” Tom says. I am glad that he does not ask how I am.

“Yes,” I say. “I will put my mask on.”

Simon is not quite as tall as Tom and thinner. He is wearing an old padded fencing jacket, just like the white jackets that are used in formal competition fencing, but it is a streaky green instead. “Thanks,” he says. And then, as if he knew that I was looking at the color of his jacket, he says, “My sister wanted a green one for a costume once—and she knew more about fencing than dyeing clothes. It looked worse when it had just been done; it’s faded out now.”

“I never saw a green one,” I say.

“Neither had anyone else,” he says. His mask is an ordinary white one that has yellowed with age and use. His gloves are brown. I put on my mask.

“What weapons?” I ask.

“What’s your favorite?” he asks.

I do not have a favorite; each weapon and combination has its own patterns of skill.

“Try épée and dagger,” Tom says. “That’ll be fun to watch.”

I pick up my épée and dagger and shift them in my hands until they are comfortable—I can hardly feel them, which is right. Simon’s épée has a big bell guard, but his dagger has a simple ring. If he is not very good with his parries, I may be able to get a hit on his hand. I wonder if he will call hits or not. He is a referee: surely he will be honest.

He stands relaxed, knees bent, someone who has fenced enough to be comfortable with it. We salute; his blade whines through the air on the downstroke of the salute. I feel my stomach tighten. I do not know what he will do next. Before I can imagine anything, he lunges toward me, something we almost never do in this yard, his arm fully extended and his back leg straight. I twist away, flicking my dagger down and out for the parry and aiming a thrust over his dagger—but he is fast, as fast as Tom, and he has that arm up, ready to parry. He recovers from the lunge so quickly I cannot take advantage of that momentary lack of mobility and gives me a nod as he returns to the neutral guard position. “Good parry,” he says.

My stomach tightens even more, and I realize it is not fear but excitement. He may be better than Tom. He will win, but I will learn. He moves sideways, and I follow. He makes several more attacks, all fast, and I manage to parry them all, though I do not attack. I want to see his pattern, and it is very different. Again, again. Low high high low low high low low low high high: anticipating the next, I launch my own attack as his comes low again, and this time he does not quite parry mine and I get a light glancing touch on his shoulder.

“Good,” he says, stepping back. “Excellent.” I glance at Tom, who nods and grins. Max clenches his hands together over his head; he is grinning, too. I feel a little sick. In the moment of contact, I saw Don’s face and felt the blow I gave and saw him fold over when I hit him. I shake my head.

“Are you all right?” Tom asks. I do not want to say anything. I do not know if I want to go on.

“I could use a break,” Simon says, though we have only fenced a couple of minutes. I feel stupid; I know he is doing it for me, and I should not be upset, but I am upset. Now it comes again and again, the feel in my hand, the smell of Don’s breath whooshing out, the sound and sight and feel all together. Part of my mind remembers the book, the discussion of memory and stress and trauma, but most of it is simply misery, a tight spiral of sadness and fear and anger all tied together.

I struggle, blinking, and a phrase of music ripples through my mind; the spiral opens out again and lifts away. “I . . . am . . . all . . . right . . .” I say. It is still hard to talk, but already I feel better. I lift my blade; Simon steps back and lifts his.

We salute again. This time his attack is just as fast but different; I cannot read his pattern at all and decide to attack anyway. His blade gets past my parry and hits low on the left abdomen. “Good,” I say.

“You are making me work entirely too hard,” Simon says. I can hear that he is breathing hard; I know I am. “You almost got me four times.”

“I missed that parry,” I say. “It wasn’t strong enough—”

“Let’s see if you make that mistake again,” he says. He salutes, and this time I am the one to attack first. I do not get a touch, and his attacks seem to be faster than mine; I must parry two or three times before I can see an opening. Before I get a touch, he has made one on my right shoulder.

“Definitely too hard,” he says. “Lou, you are quite a fencer. I thought so at the tournament; first-timers never win and you had some first-timer problems, but it was clear you knew what you were doing. Did you ever consider taking up classical fencing?”

“No,” I say. “I just know Tom and Lucia—”

“You should think about it. Tom and Lucia are better trainers than most backyard fencers—” Simon grins at Tom, who makes a face back at him. “But some classical technique would improve your footwork. What got you that last time wasn’t speed but the extra reach that came from my knowing exactly how to place my foot for the best extension with the least exposure.” Simon takes off his mask, hangs his épée on the outdoor rack, and holds out his hand to me. “Thanks, Lou, for a good round. When I catch my breath, maybe we can fight again.”

“Thank you,” I say, and shake his hand. Simon’s grasp is firmer than Tom’s. I am out of breath; I hang up my blade and put my mask under an empty chair and sit down. I wonder if Simon really likes me or if he will be like Don and hate me later. I wonder if Tom has told him I am autistic.