Benicio stood nervously on Matthew Younger’s doorstep. He wasn’t accustomed to lying, but there was no way he could stretch the truth far enough to make his visit believable. He looked at Father McCallum and smiled. He rang the doorbell.
“Exitus acta probat,” he whispered. The outcome justifies the deed.
Through the curtained windows of the door he noticed movement, then the door opened. Benicio saw a rough-looking man in his early forties, with thinning hair and wearing glasses that were slightly tinted. A heavy beer belly protruded from a stained white T-shirt.
“What?” the man said abruptly.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” Benicio began. “I’m Dr. Valori. I’m a clinical psychologist. This is Mr. McCallum from Yale University. We wanted to speak to you about your son.”
The man looked surprised. “My son? You mean Matthew?”
“Yes, Matthew.”
“Are you from the school? Is it because he didn’t go today?”
“I’m sorry,” said Benicio. “You mean Matthew’s home?”
“Yeah, he’s home. He freaks out sometimes and won’t go to school.”
“Oh,” Benicio said, taken aback.
“So, what’s this about? Did the kid break something? I ain’t paying for shit.”
“No, no,” Benicio reassured him. “I’m here on behalf of the Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital. We’re running a new experimental treatment program for severe autistic disorder. We’re recruiting children to participate in the program. It’s completely free of charge.”
The man held his hand up. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Couldn’t you have just called or sent a letter?”
Benicio nodded, as though he’d expected this response. “I feel very awkward about just showing up like this. I realize it’s an inconvenience, but your son’s name came to us in an unexpected way and left us in a bit of a time bind.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Your son’s class recently toured the rare books collection at Yale, and Matthew made quite an impression on Mr. McCallum, here. Knowing about the ongoing research, he was kind enough to contact me directly and inquire about adding your son’s name to the list. Meanwhile, the research team has completed the selection of participants, and we’re going to start next week.”
“That’s right,” McCallum jumped in. “I didn’t want Matthew to miss out on this opportunity so I sort of insisted Dr. Valori meet you. The school provided your address.”
“Fuckin’ school,” the man mumbled.
“Pardon me?” Benicio said.
“What ya say your name was again?”
“Dr. Valori,” Benicio said, and began searching his jacket. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry — I didn’t even show you my hospital id. I could be anybody standing on your doorstep.” He found his wallet and retrieved the employee card for the Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital.
“And I’m Ronald McCallum.” He pointed to the id clipped to the outside of his jacket, then extended his hand, but the man ignored it.
“Fine, whatever. Step in here for a second.” He turned and moved into the house.
Benicio looked at Father McCallum and gave a silent whistle. They both stepped into the entranceway.
“Hey Carol,” the man shouted. “There’s two guys here about the boy.”
“What?” The response came from somewhere in the house.
“Get down here!” the man screamed.
He turned to Benicio and Father McCallum. “You can talk to her about him.” He walked away, leaving them standing at the front door. Benicio looked at his companion and mouthed, “What’s going on?”
The house stank of cat urine and something else Benicio thought might be alcohol and vomit. He found it difficult to breathe.
A minute later, a woman in her late thirties rounded a corner and stood before them. “Whatcha want?”
She was barely five feet tall and had short, spiked brown hair with streaks of blonde, which Benicio thought were probably her own attempt at highlights.
“Good morning,” Benicio started. “I’m Dr. Valori and this is Mr. McCallum. We want to talk to you about having your son join an experimental treatment program at Yale–New Haven Children’s Hospital.”
“I ain’t no Morman and I don’t want to become no Morman.”
“No, I’m with the children’s hospital, and Mr. McCallum is with Yale University.”
“We ain’t got no money.”
“Ma’am,” Father McCallum interjected. “What we wanted to talk to you about is a program that’s free of charge. The people in the program would like to work with Matthew.”
“In fact,” Benicio added, “there might even be an opportunity for financial reimbursement for you and your husband.”
Suddenly the husband was back. “Honey, what’s with your manners? Invite these important men in and get them a coffee.” He pushed her away and waved the priests into the living room. “Take a seat, gentleman. I’m most curious about this program.”
The living room, which was at the front of the house, was small and dirty. There was an old tv set in one corner across from a floral-print love seat. Along the third wall were two chairs. None of the furniture looked comfortable. They both remained standing.
“Would you like a coffee or anything?” the wife asked.
“No thank you, Mrs. Younger. I’m fine,” Father McCallum said.
“Go get them some coffee,” the husband barked, and she turned and left the room. “That’s Carol,” the man said. “I’m John Younger.”
“Son of a bitch,” Maury muttered. He couldn’t find a good position from which to watch the house, and there were no trees or bushes he could hide behind. He ended up flat against the wall under the kitchen window at the back of the house — in plain sight of the neighbors. He knew he couldn’t stay there long.
He held the parabolic dish up to the window but heard only static. He went to the front of the house, but realized he couldn’t risk listening through the living room window. He was sure that’s where they all were. He went around the house again and looked into the kitchen.
The mom was right there. He dropped down and squeezed against the house, hoping like hell she hadn’t seen him. After a few minutes he decided it was safe to try the parabolic microphone again. He twisted it this way and that and finally heard part of a muffled conversation, something about the boy. Benny wanted to talk to him. That’d be fun, he thought. Trying to talk to a retarded kid.
“So, your son is here?” Benicio asked.
“Um,” John started awkwardly. “Yep, I’m sure.” He shouted. “Carol! Bring the boy in here.”
“I think he’s upstairs,” she called.
“Oh, he’s up in his room? It would be very helpful to meet him on his own territory,” Benicio said. As Carol came out of the kitchen he started to follow her.
“Oh no,” John exclaimed and moved toward Benicio. “She’ll bring him down.”
“Excuse me,” Father McCallum said, blocking John Younger. “I’d like to ask a few more questions to get an idea of the financial compensation you’d qualify for.”
Benicio stayed right behind Carol, who took the stairs by the front door. The parents didn’t want him upstairs, and his instincts told him something wasn’t right in this house.
The stairs ended in a small corridor. Carol turned to him sharply. “Just wait here and I’ll get him out of his room.”
She opened one of three doors in the hall and stepped in. Benicio was right behind her.
The boy’s room contained a tiny box spring and mattress pushed against one wall and a nearly empty bookcase. There were no toys, no stuffed animals.
Matthew stood facing the wall next to the bookcase. With one finger he slowly traced a circle on the faded wallpaper. Benicio realized he must have been doing this for quite some time because there was a line worn into the wallpaper.
“Matthew,” Carol said in a slow, patronizing way. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“That’s okay,” Benicio said. “I’ll just talk to him right here.”
She turned and frowned. “No, I’ll bring him down.”
“I’d like to speak to him alone. You go downstairs. I’ll be right there,” he said firmly.
She glared at Benicio. “He don’t speak, you know. He’s a retard.”
Benicio nodded and stood his ground.
She faced him, hands on her hips. “It ain’t anyone who’d take a orphan retard, you know. He’s damn lucky.”
Benicio felt his face redden in anger but said nothing. He waited patiently, and she finally left. There was a strong smell of urine in the room, and he noticed a wet patch on the boy’s pant leg.
He knelt next to the child. “Matthew,” he said softly.
The boy continued to trace the circle on the wall.
“I’m Dr. Valori. I want to talk to you. I want to talk about that special book you saw at the big library.”
The boy didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to trace the circle.
Benicio was silent for a moment then looked at the wall. “What are you drawing on the wall?”
There was no answer.
“You drawing a circle?”
The boy’s finger stopped on the wall. Benicio watched as he carefully lifted his finger, touched the top of the circle then tapped the bottom of the circle. Then he touched the left side of the circle, and moved his finger across to the right side.
It was the sign of the Cross.
Matthew resumed tracing the circle.
“What was that?” Benicio asked, his voice shaking. “Did you just draw the Cross?”
The boy didn’t respond.
“Matthew?” Benicio urged. “Can you draw that again?”
Nothing.
Benicio tried to slow his breathing and heart rate. “Matthew, what can you tell me about God’s secret? About the forsaken ones?”
Matthew’s finger stopped.
Benicio held his breath.
The boy turned slowly to face the kneeling man. Their eyes were level. “The fathers have returned from exile. The forsaken must tell the story.”
Benicio held very still. “Who are the fathers? Who are the forsaken?”
Matthew turned to the wall and began tracing the circle.
“No,” Benicio whispered. “Talk to me. I’m here to help you. I’m here to help the story be told.”
Matthew continued to trace the circle.
“Please,” Benicio urged.
Nothing.
Benicio sighed. “Okay, buddy. I’ll be back. You hang in there.” He put his hand gently on Matthew’s back as he stood.
And Matthew screamed.
Benicio pulled his hand away. He had touched the boy for less than a second.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
The boy shrieked.
Maury could hardly make out the conversation. He twisted the volume dial right to the top.
Suddenly there was a high-pitched scream from inside the house. He knocked the earpiece from his ear and bit his lip to keep from yelling.
He didn’t need the dish to hear the father asking what happened.
Maury scrambled up and began running. As he passed the front of the house he heard pounding footsteps from inside. He ran to the car.
Benicio’s stomach leapt into his throat. He knew autistic children sometimes had strong reactions to physical touch, but Matthew had taken him completely by surprise.
“What the hell?” John Younger yelled from the boy’s doorway. “Get out of here.”
“My apologies,” Benicio started. “I just was saying goodbye and touched his back.”
“He don’t like to be touched,” Younger announced. “Just get out of here. Just let him alone.” Younger hurried him down the stairs; Father McCallum and Carol waited at the bottom.
“Dr. Valori?” Father McCallum asked.
Benicio shook his head at the old priest, then addressed John Younger. “Thank you for your time. We’ll get the paperwork together and return shortly. I think there’ll be sizable compensation for you.”
They reached the front door and Father McCallum opened it, then stepped onto the porch, Benicio right behind him. “Thanks. And once again, I’m sorry if I’ve upset Matthew.”
“Does that all the time,” Carol announced flatly. She closed the door without another word. The two men stared at the door for a moment. Finally Benicio spoke. “Dio li aiuta,” he said. “Dio li aiuta.” God help them.