As Dog Is My Witness Read online

  “How’s it going, Howard?” See how diplomatic I was being? Keep that in mind if I call you as a witness.

  “Aaron,” he said. It didn’t answer the question, but did indicate he still remembered my name. His tone of voice, no matter how little he tried to hide it, indicated he’d have been just as happy—if not happier—if he could forget it.

  His wife Andrea is not Jewish, and normally, that wouldn’t make any difference to me at all, but because she was with Howard, I had decided to resent her for her poor choice in men. She was so blond it was painful to look directly at her without Polarized lenses, and so thin she almost disappeared when viewed in profile. Surely she had been a cheerleader in high school and a sorority sister in college—the shiksa of Howard’s dreams. According to rumor, she had managed to make it through childbirth without breaking a sweat, and was back on the tennis court later the same day. But since I had started that rumor myself, I discounted it as coming from an unreliable source.

  She leaned down in order to peck at the air near my left ear. This was an unexpected outpouring of pure emotion for Andrea, and I took it for the empty gesture it was intended to be. “So good to see you,” she said. I showed remarkable restraint, I thought, in not asking whether that remark indicated some trouble with her vision and her relief that she could make me out.

  “You, too,” I said nonsensically. Howard gave Abby a light hug, and Leah, who would have actually lit sparklers and tap danced if she thought she’d get some attention, walked up and solemnly shook Howard’s hand.

  “Hello, Uncle Howard,” she said. “Remember me? I’m Leah.” She had seen Howard at Passover, maybe eight months earlier, but Leah knows how to play a room. Howard actually smiled. He shook her hand in the exaggerated way adults think endears them to children, but is actually condescending, and the kids know it.

  “Hi, Leah,” Howard said in a singsong voice that went nicely with the handshake. “How old are you now?”

  “Nine,” she told him with an edge to her voice. Surely everyone knew she was nine. Leah also started to surreptitiously cast a glance around the room. No bags. Did this mean no presents?

  “Nine!” exploded my brother-in-law. “You’ve gotten so big!” Apparently, he was determined to use all the little-kid clichés in his first five minutes here.

  “Where’s Ethan?” asked Andrea. On the way from the airport, she clearly had studied up on her nephew’s name.

  Ethan, of course, was in the kitchen, having seen no reason to get up from dinner just because everyone else had. He expected, and quite correctly, that sooner or later this crowd would wander in to where he was seated, so there was no urgency about getting up to meet them. Having Asperger’s can have its advantages.

  Abby was also confused about the lack of luggage, though, unlike Leah, she wasn’t expecting a present. She seemed to be living out a premonition—after fourteen years of marriage, you pick up these things.

  “Where are your bags, Howard?” she asked.

  Howard hit himself in the forehead, exaggerating the gesture to the point that Bugs Bunny would have been embarrassed. “That’s right!” he bellowed. “They’re still in the rental car.” He turned to me—and here, predictably, it came. “My back’s stiff from the flight. Would you mind, Aaron?” He handed me the little beeper thing that does everything for a rental car but drive it home for you.

  “Of course not,” I said, taking the key gizmo with just a little too much force. I shot Abby a glance quite unlike the usual glance I shoot her, and her eyes asked me to cut Howard some slack because she and he had emerged from the same womb. It was a womb to which I owed a great deal, so I smiled badly and headed for the door.

  As I said, when you’re married for fourteen years, you pick up a lot of things—like your brother-in-law’s baggage.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Unsurprisingly, Howard and his family (for lack of a more descriptive term) had not eaten dinner, and, without having made a reservation or anything, expected us to feed them. Honestly!

  It took about ten minutes to clear everything off the kitchen table (I did that), apologize for not being prepared to eat in the dining room (that was Abby), put in the extra table leaf (me again), put everything back on the table (me and Abby), set out plates, utensils, and glasses for the newcomers (Leah), and complain about the interruption to dinner (Ethan).

  The Steins, Abigail excepted, turned up their noses at the Shepherd’s Pie, apparently never having been shepherds, and opted for Abby’s contribution to dinner, which demonstrated their good taste. Conversation was generally about the flight, which apparently had been awful, since they’d already seen the movie, and all family members couldn’t have aisle seats.

  If Ethan noticed the sly shots Dylan was taking at him throughout the meal, he didn’t react. And since Ethan reacts to things that aren’t even there, I have to assume he didn’t notice. But I did, and it took some self-restraint not to inform my nephew that taking unnecessary shots at my son was my job, not his. Abby noticed, too, but uncharacteristically for her, let the snide comments go unchallenged.

  Leah, life of the party, did her very best to keep everything on a cheerful level, but wasn’t all that interested in the Tale of the Travelers from Minnesota, particularly since it was, in my estimation, the Dullest Story Ever Told. She asked to be excused shortly after we resumed dinner, and was permitted to go into the living room and listen to some more of her book.

  By the time Ethan went up to his room for additional thumb exercise, and Dylan, rolling his eyes at the low-tech level of video game systems around here, reluctantly followed, dinner was pretty much a thing of the past. But we adults, fighting our natural impulses, decided to sit at the table a while longer and pretend to have a civil conversation.

  As soon as the boys had gone upstairs, out of earshot, Andrea put on her best “concerned” look and stared into my eyes. “So,” she intoned with great import, “how is Ethan doing?” I think she would have actually taken my hand to show her concern, but that would require touching another person, and such a thing isn’t imprinted on Andrea’s DNA. On nights when I’m despairing of life in general, I ponder how Dylan came to be without his mother ever having to touch another human.

  “He’s doing fine,” I said breezily. “How’s Dylan doing?”

  “Dylan is a winner,” his father bombasted. “Top five in his class, captain of the soccer team . . .

  But that wasn’t the way Andrea wanted the conversation to go. “No, really,” she said, her voice exhibiting such concern I wondered if she was auditioning to take over for Sally Struthers on “send-money-for-the-children” infomercials. “How is Ethan doing, really?”

  You get this a lot from people who have no idea what Asperger’s is, nor who my son has become. They think of the poor afflicted child and wonder if he can actually get himself dressed in the morning. They try to show their pity by disguising it as concern.

  “He’s doing fine,” I said with a touch more purpose. “Really.”

  Andrea looked disappointed. Clearly, I wasn’t sharing my pain sufficiently, but since I didn’t have all that much pain, I felt it was necessary to horde what I had. Call me greedy.

  Abby, who was placing a ridiculously rich chocolate cake on the table, saved my butt (as usual). “We’ve seen a lot of progress with Ethan the past few years,” she said. “He’s doing very well at school, and he’s made some friends.” Okay, he is doing very well at school, and he has one friend—kind of.

  Asperger kids are not what you’d call social butterflies—their entire mental makeup is geared away from doing what everyone else does. If you had a “weird kid” in your class growing up, there’s a decent chance he or she had AS, and didn’t know it. I now realize I had one in my class, and sometimes I feel like Ethan is my penance for the way we treated that kid. But my son is teaching me more about acceptance and diversity than a twenty-year stint in sensitivity training ever could.

  “That’s so wonderful,” A
ndrea cooed. “It’s what we’ve prayed for.”

  Oh, please. First of all, I’m an agnostic. That means I don’t believe in God, but I’m afraid to say so out loud in case He’s listening. Although people praying for me or my son is a nice gesture, it’s not necessarily an example of time well spent. And the only thing Andrea and Howard ever prayed for, in my humble opinion, was phenomenal growth in their 401(k) plan. On a good day, they might be able to remember Ethan’s name.

  Still, I held my tongue (and if you’re expecting the inevitable “gross and slippery” joke, I must refer you elsewhere). I tried to picture myself somewhere more sedate and calming, like the Port Authority Bus Terminal on 42nd Street. It was little comfort.

  “Thank you,” my diplomatic wife said. “It’s been a lot of hard work for Ethan, but he really is doing much—”

  At that exact moment (I swear), a rather bloodcurdling scream came from upstairs. It wasn’t from either of my children, I could tell, so it didn’t really worry me, but I did rifle through my memory banks to recall if I had, in fact, paid up that month’s homeowner’s insurance premium.

  Howard and Andrea, however, reacted more violently. They stood up as one, and waited but a single fateful moment before racing upstairs. By then, there was no reason to move.

  Dylan was already running down the stairs, clutching his left hand in his right. Something approximating a real emotion—anger— was stamped across his face. From Ethan’s room, I could hear a fullblown Asperger meltdown rattling the house’s foundation.

  “What is wrong with that kid?” Dylan yelled at his parents. “The little bastard bit me!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I’ll bet he had it coming,” I said.

  Abby stared at me. After the standard brouhaha over Dylan’s hand, which was not, so far as I could tell, damaged, Ethan was brought down for recriminations, public scenes, extremely forced apologies, and threats of punishment to be carried out at a later date (and, in all likelihood, forgotten).

  Three hours later, Abby and I were getting ready for bed. Normally, we start by making the bed, but Abby had been so edgy about “anyone seeing the way we live,” she had actually made the bed within an inch of its life that morning. I was having trouble freeing the sheet from its tight corner—the woman has some muscle on her.

  I had shed my forty-six layers of clothing, since the upstairs in our house is almost literally the polar opposite of the downstairs. If any heating device is used anywhere in the house, the temperature on our second floor goes up to 106 degrees Fahrenheit and stays that way until May, when it goes down to 98, where it stays all summer.

  Personally, I was taking comfort in the fact that Howard and Andrea were sleeping in our basement, where no matter how hard the furnace pumps, you can see your breath during the winter.

  “‘He had it coming?’” Abby said, incredulous. “Our son bites another child on the hand because he felt his cousin wasn’t playing a video game correctly, and you say he had it coming? Please tell me you were joking, Aaron.”

  “All right, so maybe I was exaggerating.” I wasn’t in a charitable mood. I was contemplating a week’s worth of Howard in the flesh, we’d barely gotten Ethan under control before Dylan had rolled out his sleeping bag a foot from Ethan’s bed, and I hadn’t gotten anywhere with Justin Fowler. Being nice to my brother-in-law was like sucking in my gut to look more appealing: it had little effect, and felt so good when I stopped.

  Abby, resplendent in flannel pajamas despite the tropical climate in our bedroom, wasn’t letting go easily. “That was no way to get off on the right foot, and you weren’t helping, Aaron.”

  “Sure I was helping. I stopped Ethan from biting him again, didn’t I?”

  She started brushing her hair in a way that made it look so luxuri-ous, I was thinking of moving in and living there for a while. My wife can soften my mood by diverting my attention, which isn’t all that hard to do.

  I walked over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. She stopped brushing, and her hair cascaded onto the backs of my hands in a very pleasing manner.

  “I don’t want to fight,” I told her, and put my arms around her back. I kissed Abby and felt her respond. She pulled me a little closer and kissed back most satisfactorily. So I moved my hands a little.

  “Aaron,” she said softly, “we have company in the house.” She moved my hands back. I exhaled and dropped them entirely.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding,” I said. “Is this the way it’s going to be for a week—because your brother and his wife are two floors below us? I hold no illusions about my prowess, honey. I couldn’t make you scream that loud.”

  We separated and I walked back to my side of the bed, shaking my head. Another man—one with an ounce of sense—would have left it at that, but no one has ever accused me of being so sensible.

  “You know,” I told Abigail, “you’re overreacting to this whole thing.”

  She sat down on the bed, clearly upset. “I’m overreacting because we’re not having sex tonight? You’re getting all testosterone on me, Aaron.”

  I turned to face her. “That’s not what I’m talking about at all. I barely recognize your behavior today. You’re putting on a show for your brother about how orderly and organized a family we are. If it were anyone else, you’d have at least entertained the possibility that Ethan was provoked, but you wouldn’t hear it about Dylan, because if you did, you’d be risking having to tell your brother that he’s not the essence of perfection he thinks he is.”

  “You think it’s okay for Ethan to bite his cousin because he didn’t play a video game right? Whose behavior are we talking about here, Aaron?”

  “Yours,” I said. “I agree that Ethan did something really, really wrong tonight, but we never even got to discussing what set him off. You know as well as I do that Dylan baits him, and Ethan’s hardly well equipped to deal with it. We’re supposed to help him. But instead, you were so busy kowtowing to your brother that you weren’t willing to stand up for your son.”

  Her voice dropped an octave and her eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you the one who told him his punishment would be no PlayStation for three days? Aren’t you the one who got red in the face yelling at him? You can’t blame all this on me because you don’t like my brother, Aaron.”

  “So you’re being reasonable and I’m the one with a chip on my shoulder?” I said. “You haven’t changed the way you’re acting at all? You’re not distracted?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you forget to walk the dog tonight?” Abby walks the dog after dinner practically every night. It’s a daily ritual that she actually enjoys doing. Forgetting to walk Warren is tantamount to for-getting her husband’s name, something Abby probably wished she could do right then.

  She stared at me for a long moment, then stood up and walked to the closet. “You might have said something before,” she said.

  I stood up and put on my pants. “I forgot myself until this moment,” I told her. “Abby . . .

  She looked at me. “What?”

  “I’ll go. I’m faster than you, and it’s late.”

  I had most of my clothes on, and she hadn’t taken anything out of the closet yet. “No,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel like I’ve forced you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

  “Neither would I.” I put on my shoes and walked out. But first, I reached into my top dresser drawer and pulled out a small plastic bag.

  Passing by Leah’s room, I looked in and saw the little feet, sticking out from under her blanket and still moving around.

  “Little girl?”

  She sat up. She hadn’t been crying, but no matter how much Leah and Ethan battle each other, she hates it when he gets into trouble. Leah loves her brother, and feels that any punishment of him should come from her.

  I reached into the bag and pulled out the small stuffed horse I had bought the day before. “This is for you,” I said, handing it to my daughter.
/>   “Horsey!” she said in what she calls her “Baby Leah” voice. It is deliberate exaggeration for effect. “What’s it for, Daddy?”

  “It’s because you deserve it,” I said. “You’re a good girl, a good daughter, a good sister, and a good niece.” She nodded, understanding what I was saying.

  “Thank you, Daddy,” she said. Leah held out her arms, and gave me one of her therapeutic hugs. But this was a rare occasion where it didn’t take.

  Outside in four sweatshirts, a coat, gloves, and a hood (I look stupid in hats), I walked Warren to the corner, and turned left toward the park.

  Edison Park, named after the guy who made it possible to see Edison Park this late at night, closes after dark. The irony makes it foolish to walk around down there at this hour. So I stuck to the streets, waiting for Warren to remember the purpose of the walk.

  I’m not often angry with Abby, and I don’t enjoy it. Worse, she was angry with me, and I hate that. But she was being unreasonable, I thought, and I hadn’t stepped out of line pointing that out. Isn’t a good marriage supposed to be based on honest communication? Don’t they tell you that in all the sitcoms?

  I wasn’t going to apologize. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Okay, so maybe she was just trying to reach out to her brother, realizing that their relationship hadn’t always been all that warm, and she wanted to improve that. But I felt she was reaching out at the expense of her family, and it was okay to raise that possibility. Wasn’t it?

  On the other hand, was this actually about her not wanting to make love while they were in the house? Was I really that petty? Okay, sure, so I was that petty. And maybe some of it had to do with the fact that I can’t stand her brother, who acts as if I’m a mistake his sister should have corrected years ago. So maybe I was reacting to that.