“It wasn’t bad.” She hit him with a pillow. “Tell me about your job again, so that this time, I’ll remember.”
She shook her aching head. “There’s really not much I can tell.”
“Because you haven’t started work there yet, or because you’re not supposed to?”
“Both.”
He grinned slyly. “You know, the less you tell me, the more I want to know.”
“That’s true of everything, isn’t it?”
“Touché.”
She paused briefly, surprised that she actually did want to talk about her new job. “My boss is a legend. Dr. Marcus Fenton. Probably the most famous name in autism research since Hans Asperger.”
“Asperger was a Nazi, wasn’t he?”
“He acquiesced like every other Austrian during the war. It was the only way he could keep seeing patients.”
“I thought Hitler was busy exterminating anyone who didn’t have a perfect blond genetic disposition.”
“He was. That’s why what Asperger was doing was so amazing. Even in that climate, he was able to show the value of neurological outliers.”
He marveled at her. “I can only hope that I convey half the passion talking about what I do as you do talking about your patients.”
“Wait until I start working with them.”
CHAPTER 9
Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 20, 12:03 p.m.
Eddie carried binder #138 into the cafeteria as lunch was being served. He carefully tucked it under his right arm as he selected a plastic tray and waited in line with the rest of the Harmony House patients, at least those capable of selecting their own food. It was Saturday. Meat Loaf Day. Meat loaf and green beans and mashed potatoes and a chocolate-chip cookie, with a choice of seven beverages from a fountain dispenser. Eddie liked the menu on Meat Loaf Day, not particularly because of the main course, but because this was the one day of the week when he could be certain there would be no purple food among the offerings.
There were no grapes, no eggplants, no blackberries or plums to be found anywhere. There were no grape juices, no grape sodas, no desserts with any kind of purple decorations, as there sometimes were on holidays and patient birthdays. Purple was the color of bruises, and bruises hurt, so no food the color of bruises could possibly be good to eat. Eddie liked red foods and yellow foods and, really, most other colors of food except for purple. As a child, he used to think that if he ever got to be president, he would outlaw purple food, but dismissed the thought as he got older, because he assumed that no one with autism could ever become president. Unless, of course, you accepted a recently published theory in a New York magazine that two of the four most recent presidents were on the spectrum. Eddie contented himself with the notion that one day, he could convince whoever did become president that bruise-colored food was no good for anyone.
Eddie did the same thing every time he entered the cafeteria: tilted his head to one side, then the other. Then slowly rotated his head left, then right. He was confirming the familiarity of the many sounds he knew so well.
The room was the largest in Harmony House and, therefore, echoed the loudest. The CLANKING of silverware. The WHIRRING of mixers. The MURMURING of conversations. The SQUEAKING of rubber-soled shoes. The overhead fluorescent lighting created a slight, constant BUZZ that Eddie had complained about numerous times, to no avail. Even Eddie didn’t get everything he asked for. At one point in 2008, Eddie became so frustrated that he attempted to go on a hunger strike, but only until he got hungry after skipping lunch. More than the actual hunger, the break in his routine was more than Eddie could bear. Fenton told him he needed to set a better example for the other patients. Eddie promised he would.
That explained the tissue paper sticking out of his ears. It had been years since he had entered the cafeteria without it. Standing in the food line, Eddie inhaled deeply through his nose, smelling his surroundings. He turned to the nearest cafeteria employee, whose name was Jerome Barris.
“The meat loaf smells like it’s burned again.”
“Not all of it.” Jerome was Harlem born and bred, and every word he spoke was a reminder of it.
“How much is not burned?”
“Fifty-three point eight two percent.” Jerome cracked a smile. He liked Eddie, and wanted to make sure Eddie knew it.
Eddie made a BUZZER sound. “Not true.”
The cafeteria worker stared at Eddie from beneath the hairnet containing his closely cropped flattop. “How do you know it’s not true?”
“There is no way to make such an accurate assessment with the limited measuring equipment you have at your disposal.”
“Okay, fine. About half. That better?”
“Yes, that is better. It is a more reasonable approximation. I would like a piece from the about half that is not burned, please.”
Jerome used a plastic spatula to inspect the various pieces of meat loaf before him. He selected the one that showed the least signs of char, and served it to Eddie. “I’ll say one thing about you, man. You sure is polite. Your mama done raise you right.”
Eddie blinked several times. “No, she didn’t. She died when I was born.”
Jerome froze. He felt bad, and it showed in his face. “Sorry, man.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“About your mom.”
“Did you know her?”
Jerome was drowning, and he knew it. So did his superior, Ida Peroni, who carried her 260 pounds on her five-foot-four-inch frame with the grace of a dancer. She approached quickly. “No, Eddie, Jerome did not know your mother. He was only trying to express his sorrow that you did not get to know her. Do you understand now?”
“Yes.” He turned to Jerome and spoke mechanically. “Thank you, Jerome, for expressing your sorrow that I did not get to know my mother.”
Jerome glanced at Ida to make sure it was okay to continue the conversation. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you know your mother?”
“Yes, I did. She was one pretty amazing lady.”
“Did she die?”
Jerome nodded. “Seven years ago next month.”
Eddie calculated the approximate number of days in his head: 2,525. “Do you miss her?”
Jerome nodded. “Every single day.”
Eddie nodded, imitating Jerome. His nod was followed by a brief but awkward pause. “I’m going to hear my mother sing one day. Did you know that?”
Jerome hesitated, not sure what to say. Ida intervened. “Yes, he did, Eddie. Just as soon as you get your thingamajig to work.”
“You mean my echo box.”
“Yes, that is exactly what I meant. Now go enjoy your meal before it gets cold. I don’t want to get no poor marks for temperature just because we stood here gabbing for too long.” She motioned to the binder tucked under his arm.
“Don’t worry, Ida. I will take into account the extra time spent on this conversation.” Eddie moved on to a table where he sat alone, some thirty feet away. He placed the binder next to his tray and then methodically began removing the plates. Each plate was spaced evenly around the table.
Ida eyeballed Jerome as Eddie went through his mealtime ritual. She spoke quietly but intensely to her subordinate, never taking her eyes off Eddie. “How fucking stupid are you?”
“Won’t happen again.”
“You’re goddamn right it won’t. I should fire your ass right now.”
Jerome turned to her, looking her straight in the eyes. “You know I need this job.”
She studied his face long enough to make him squirm. Ida knew the man and wasn’t about to fire him. “Then don’t be such a numbskull. I know you were only trying to be friendly, but just keep your mouth shut, okay?”
Jerome nodded, looking around the room, anywhere but at her. A man dealing with what he was dealing with had no choice but to acquiesce.
She looked at him with compassion. “How’s Marla doing?”
“Shitty. I don’t know what’s harder for her, the nausea or going bald.”
“Nausea, women know how to deal with. It’s in our childbearing genes. But going bald is a whole other thing. You telling her she looks beautiful?”