Dirty Blonde

table the same way, every time she came to babysit on Monday nights, moving around each other like an old couple. Their friendship had lasted almost fifteen years, spanning a marriage and divorce for each. They had even been each other’s maid of honor, and if they’d just married each other, they’d still be together.

Gina was saying, “You can’t have three different speech therapists in six months, not for a kid like him. How can he make progress, with that kind of turnover?”

“They probably don’t pay them enough.” Cate set the plates at their chairs, each catty-corner to Warren. She glanced at him, but he was still gazing at the cloudy window. “So you had some fussing in the living room today, huh?”

“Just a little. How’re you?” Gina lined up their silverware beside the napkins, and a wiry black curl fell onto her cheek. Her hair was growing in again, and she tucked the shiny strand into its stubby ponytail. “How’s the big trial?”

“Fine.” Cate went to the refrigerator and grabbed two cold Diet Cokes from the door. The white wire racks held only a few green peppers, a dozen eggs, a head of romaine, and a row of strawberry Yoplait. “You need food, honey.”

“They really dumb down the trial coverage and they don’t even mention you on the news. They just call you ‘the judge.’ They don’t even say ‘Judge Fante.’ They give Simone all the attention, and his preppy lawyer, who I want to smack. Every day, he’s holding press conferences.”

Cate returned with the Cokes. “I should’ve gagged him. It would’ve been my first gag order. Isn’t that sweet?”

“A girl never forgets her first.” Gina sat down behind her plate and opened a container.

“And how’s the baby?” Cate walked around the table to Warren, who still stared out the window. There was nothing there but bare trees obscured by vanishing steam. Cate lowered herself into the child’s field of vision before she spoke to him, as she’d been taught. “Hello, Warren.”

Warren didn’t respond. At about eighteen months old, this happy, bright, and communicative boy simply withdrew, growing quieter and more still, slipping bit by bit from everyone. He used to call Cate for a big hug and cling to her with a kitten’s tenacity, but that had stopped after a time and he’d gradually lost all speech. Cate believed he was in there, behind his eyes. “Warren? Hello, Warren.”

“He’s still got that ear infection. He’s not feeling so good.”

“Warren, hello,” Cate repeated, modulating her voice, because he was soothed by singsong phrases. He loved classical music, too, which was why the Mozart. She checked his plate, covered with cooling spaghetti. “He isn’t eating much.”

“He will.” Gina ate a forkful of chicken, dripping mustardy curry. “He had a hard day. After the bitchy speech therapist, we had to go to CVS to refill his Amox scrip. I wish they delivered.”

“Hello, Warren.” Cate knew he heard her. She ignored the constriction in her chest. “I’m very happy to see you.”

“It’s okay, let it go. Come and eat.”

“Warren, it’s you and me, after dinner.” Cate went to the table, pulled out a chair, and picked up the small container. White rice fell out in a solid block, reminding her of the sand molds she used to make down the shore with Warren. They’d pack dark, wet sand in a blue plastic castle and turn it over. He’d been creeped out by the filmy-shelled sand crabs that would burrow away, and frankly, so was Cate. It seemed so long ago, but it was only last year.

“I’m wondering if I should go tonight.” Gina broke up her rice with the side of her fork, eyeing Warren.

“Go to the Acme, my godchild needs food. Should I work with him or let it go tonight?”

“Work with him with the mirror, but just a little.” Gina shook her head. “I hate to give up even one night, or he’ll fall further behind.”

“Go and don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks.” Gina brightened and dug in for another forkful. “Hey, I might even take a shower before I leave. Lately, even the produce is looking at me funny. Also I could crash my cart into somebody single.”

Cate smiled. “So what happened today? Why’d he have a tantrum?”

“I tried to do floor time after the doc.” Gina popped open her Diet Coke and poured it into her glass, where it fizzed against the ice. “We were working on All About Me in the activity book.”

“That’s where you went wrong.” Cate scooped goopy yellow curry onto her rice. “You shoulda stuck with Faces and Places.”

“I know, right? I love Faces and Places!”

“All About Me is a ballbuster.”

“Only thing worse is You and Me.”

“You and Me will kill you.”

Gina burst into laughter. “If I were better at You and Me, I wouldn’t be divorced.”

They both laughed again, though it wasn’t true. Not every marriage survives a child with autism. When the doctors finally diagnosed Warren, Gina quit her job as an insurance lawyer and dedicated herself to finding the best early intervention programs. Her husband, Mike, had edged away and finally opted out of the marriage, though he sent support checks big enough to cover most expenses. Cate had set up a trust fund for Warren, contributing yearly. She’d tell Gina about it someday, if the girl ever stopped talking.

“So what’s going on in the outside world, Cate? How was your weekend? Did you do anything?”

“No. Just worked.”

“Hear anything from the old firm?”

“No, they don’t call. It would be inappropriate.”

“So who do you play with?”

“You.”

Gina didn’t smile. “What about that stockbroker, Graham What’s-his-name? Is he still calling?”

“I see him tomorrow night.”

“Yay!” Gina clapped, then stopped abruptly, her brown eyes wide. “Wait, is this the third date? It’s time for third-date sex! Woohooo!”

“Slow down, girl.” Cate hid her discomfort. She’d never admit to Gina what she did on the side. She barely admitted it to herself.

“You know the rules. You have to.” Gina leaned over her plate, her dinner forgotten. “How’m I gonna live vicariously if you have such a boring life? You’re a judge, not a nun. Maybe you got confused? The black robes are too matchy?”

Cate smiled. Everybody should have at least one girlfriend who can make her laugh. “Enough about me. Tell me about the bitchy speech therapist,” she said, because she knew Gina needed to talk, and they were off.

Later, while Gina was upstairs getting ready to go, Cate sat at the kitchen chair next to Warren and a watery Diet Coke, its ice melted to slivers. The kitchen lights were dimmed, and Mozart played in the background. Warren remained focused on the window, and Cate followed his gaze, confounded.

Outside, under the security light, the branches of a bare tree moved in the wind, in a stiff, jittery way. Kids with autism saw details and patterns that people without it couldn’t see, so she squinted and tried to see them the way Warren did. Spidery black lines coated with yellow light moved back and forth, then the black lines disappeared into complete darkness. Autistic brains saw everything, but normal brains didn’t see things if they didn’t expect to see them, in a phenomenon called inattentive blindness. There’d even been an experiment where airplane pilots had failed to see a jet on the runway, because they didn’t expect it to be there.

He’s got to come back to us. To his mother. To me.

Cate picked up a medium-sized round mirror rimmed with cheery red felt and tilted it at Warren so that it captured his face. “Warren. You’re Warren,” she said. In the reflection, the child’s mouth tilted down at the one corner, though his gaze stayed at the window. She pointed to his reflection anyway. “Warren.” Then she tilted the mirror to herself, so he could see her reflection. She pointed to her face in the mirror. “Karen.”

What?

“Cate.” Cate blinked and pointed again. She must be tired. Carol. Sandra. Emily. Halley. “Cate.” Then she tilted the mirror to the boy and pointed again. “Warren.”