In the end, it took all three of them to get everything back inside: it was a big sale, Alan explained sheepishly. He and Charlie set off for the garage, still talking about the price of gas, and Don headed back to the house to finish with the deadbolt. In his head, Don replayed his conversation with Charlie, letting it block out the recorded voices as he assembled the lock hardware.
Don knew what Charlie had been too young to remember: that not all of the logic games and math puzzles Charlie had been given as a young child were IQ tests. Some of them—quite a few, actually—were diagnostics for Asperger's syndrome, autism, a bevy of psychosocial disorders. Don hadn't understood the significance of them until after a semester of freshman psychology but when he'd asked his mother, she'd confirmed his suspicions.
As a kid, Don had been 'all boy' according to his mother: chatty, rambunctious, always asking questions, climbing furniture, commanding a cast of real and imaginary friends. In contrast, Charlie was biddable and responsive, but anxious around strangers and quiet at home. He was at the later end of the spectrum for developmental milestones like walking and talking. Don remembers his parents trying to coax Charlie into smiling for photos. Usually, they were unsuccessful: in most of Charlie's baby pictures, he stares solemnly into the camera, a little perplexed, unaware that he's supposed to mimic the photographer's happy expression. In the few snapshots that feature Charlie's gentle, delighted baby smile, Don is just outside the frame, making silly faces.
The early tests had been to rule out problems as much as to uncover genius. "I knew he was a bright baby," their mother had told Don, "You both were. I didn't need tests for that; but I did need to know how a three-year-old could occupy himself for hours staring at the pattern on the carpet."
Don reached for a second nail, holding it in place with his left hand. He didn't think Charlie suspected any of this (why should he? He had placed out of Psych 101). Don himself thought of it only on those occasions when he had to explain that, no, Charlie didn't drive, that his brother wasn't dating anyone, that he still lived at home. On those occasions, Don remembered Charlie explaining the normal curve when they were in high school. Charlie had used human intelligence as an example. He'd drawn a bell curve—"the center point is 100: that's average intelligence"—and then lopped off the tails on either end—"this bit on the left, under 65 or so, is mental retardation; the corresponding section on the right is classified as genius." Charlie had looked up, then, to make sure that Don was getting the point. "Genius and retardation are both abnormal," he'd said with no irony at all; "they are equally far from the average."
Movement on the porch caught the corner of Don's eye. He looked up to see a tall blond young man with his arms full of books. One of Charlie's students, obviously. Don hadn't even heard him because of the CD.
"Hey," Don smiled. He wondered if he'd been talking out loud. He'd caught himself doing that several times since he'd started wearing Terry's CD player, trying to keep his thought separate from the recording by drowning it out. "Uhm, if you're looking for Charl—er, Professor Eppes is out in the garage, he kind of has an office there. I'd let you in this way, but I'm fixing the door. If you go around the side, it's right out back"
The kid nodded but didn't move, just started flipping through one of his books. Don gave up on him and resumed hammering. No wonder Charlie fit in so well at CalSci: no one there had any social skills! No more interruptions: he was going to finish this damn lock, today, if only he could keep his mind on it. Another flicker of movement. Don was distracted just for a second, but it was exactly the wrong moment: he brought the hammer down hard onto the hand that was holding the nail, slamming the thumb that he'd dislocated years ago on a baseball diamond.