The First Councel

I rip a piece of crust from my bread and crumble it in my hand. “I can’t help it. Ever since that photographer took my picture… If they’re that interested, you know they’re going to come out here eventually.”

“And what’s so terrible about that?”

She thinks I’m embarrassed of him. Even if I am, I wish it were that simple. “Don’t tell me there’s no reason to worry.”

“Maybe it’s just a mind game. Maybe it’s Simon’s way of telling you to keep quiet.”

“And what if it’s not? What if the press already knows about this guy Vaughn-?”

“I told you before, don’t play what-if. You’re meeting with Vaughn on Monday-you’ll find out soon enough. Until then, we’ll talk to Marlon and tell him to keep a close watch.”

“But what if… ” I catch myself. “Maybe I should bring him back to the city. He can stay with me.”

“That’s a crap idea and you know it.”

“You have anything better?”

“I’m going to ask the Service to keep tabs on him out here.”

“They’d do that?”

“They’re the Secret Service. They’d suck bullets from a tommy gun if they thought it’d keep us safe.”

“You mean, if it’d keep you safe.”

“The benefit cup runneth over,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “If something suspicious happens to my friends, I’m supposed to report it. They’ll open a file and look into it. That should be more than enough to keep him safe.”

I push the crumbs on my plate into a small, neat pile. Time for some order. “Thank you, Nora. That’d be great.” Looking up, I notice that she still hasn’t put on her baseball cap. “That’d really mean a lot to us.”

All she does is nod. Standing from her seat, she picks up her empty plate and starts to clean up.

“Leave it,” I tell her. “Marlon likes my dad to do it himself. The group home’s goal is self-sufficiency.”

“But doesn’t he-” Nora cuts herself off.

“What?”

“No, nothing. I just-” Once again, she interrupts herself. She’s lived her whole life on the receiving end of this one. Fascination with dad. It’s killing her to pry.

“He’s mentally retarded,” I offer. “And don’t worry, I don’t mind you asking.”

She looks away, but her face is flushed red. She’s blushing. So that’s what it takes to rattle her. “How long has he suffered with it?” she asks.

“He doesn’t ‘suffer,’” I explain. “He was just born with a slower ability to learn-which means he takes a little longer with logic and other complex reasoning. The upside, though, is that he’ll never lie about his emotions. It’s the charm of openness. He means what he says.”

“Does that mean I have small breasts?”

I laugh. “Sorry about that one. It sometimes takes its toll on some of his social skills.”

“So is your mom…?”

There it is-the first question everyone asks. “No, my mom was normal. At least, by my standards.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Take another look at the wedding photo. She was a full-figured nurse with inch-thick glasses-the kind of sad, heavyset woman you never see out, because she never goes out. She just sat home and read books. Tons of books. All of them fantasies. When my dad went to the hospital with a bladder infection, she took care of him. Penis jokes aside, he adored her-couldn’t get enough-kept hitting the call button on his bed so she’d come and visit. His ‘butterfly’ he called her. That was all she needed. For the first time, someone said she was beautiful and meant it.”

“Some people would call that true love.”

“No, I agree. My mom loved him for everything he was, and he loved her right back. It was never one way-slow learner doesn’t mean brain dead. He’s a loving, caring person and she was the one he picked. At the same time, she saw him unobscured by his disability. And the fact that she could take care of him-it’s the same thing he did for her-after all those years alone… well, everyone wants to be wanted.”

“So I guess she’s the one who raised you.”

Nora’s careful the way she says that. What she really wants to know is: How’d I turn out so normal? “However she felt about herself, my mom always found her outlet in me. When I started reading early and asked her if we could subscribe to a newspaper, she did everything in her power to keep me going. She just couldn’t believe she and my dad produced… ” I pause. “She was so shy, she was afraid to talk to the cashier at a Kmart, but she couldn’t have possibly loved-or supported me-more.”

“And she did it all by herself?”