When My Heart Joins the Thousand(29)

“So,” he says, “why rabbits?”

A forkful of pancakes freezes halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean.”

“Well, I mean, I know you like animals. But it seems like you’re especially interested in rabbits.” He gestures toward my shirt. “You’ve talked about them before, and you quoted Watership Down when we first met.”

No one’s ever really asked me about this. The answer is something I don’t know how to put into words. I swallow a mouthful of pancakes and say, “I just like them.”

“I’ve been rereading that book,” he says. “I’d forgotten how political it is. I mean, the whole thing with the fascist bunny . . . Woundwort? Is it a metaphor for Nazi Germany?”

I start cutting my pancakes into hexagons. “I never really thought of it as being political. I just saw it as what it was, I guess. It’s about surviving.”

My knife slips and clatters against the edge of the plate. I give a start and quickly pick it up again.

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” he says. “I’m just glad you came over.”

Apparently my nervousness is more obvious than I thought.

“And I think your way of reading is better, really,” he continues. “I mean, just accepting things as they are. When you’re always analyzing, it can take away from the experience. I guess I’ve just taken too many English classes.”

It occurs to me that I don’t even know what his major is. Our conversations online were always more abstract, focused on thoughts and feelings rather than day-to-day life. “Is that what you’re studying. English.”

“Journalism. But it’s tough to make a living at that, especially these days, when so many people get their news online, from blogs and stuff. I’m thinking about switching majors to computer science, becoming a programmer.”

“Do you enjoy programming.”

“Honestly? Not really. It’s kind of dull. But I’m decent at it.” He shrugs. “How are the pancakes?”

“Very good. Better than Buster’s.”

He beams.

Once I’m finished eating, I pick up my plate, though I’m not sure what to do with it. At home I mostly eat takeout. My only dishes are a few plastic bowls, which I just rinse out in the sink. Or, more often than not, stack in the sink and ignore for a few days.

“I’ll take care of those,” he says, “don’t worry about it. Do you drink coffee?”

“Coffee would be good.”

He starts filling the pot. As it percolates, I say, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“First door on the right.”

I find it easily, but when I come out, I don’t return immediately to the kitchen. I linger in the hall, staring at the open door to Stanley’s bedroom. I walk toward it. Inside, the broken plane smiles at me from his desk. I can see the slot where the wing is supposed to go. I pick it up and try to stick the wing back on. It won’t stay.

I should just leave it alone. If I keep fiddling, I’ll probably make it worse.

I set the plane down and start to turn away, then notice the bottom drawer of his desk is slightly open. Inside, I glimpse the spine of a book. I can only see the lower half of the words forming the title, but there’s something familiar about their shape. My stomach gives a lurch, like I’m looking off the edge of a tall building.

I should leave now. It would be better if I did.

Instead, I curl a finger around the edge of the drawer and tug it open, revealing the full title. The Complete Guide to Asperger’s Syndrome.

There’s more than one book in there. There’s a whole stack.

I pick up the first book. Then I set it on the desk and pick up another, then another. They’re all about the same subject. I open one.

Asperger’s is a form of autism characterized by social and communication difficulties, atypical use of language, and obsessive interests—

I flip through the pages, my fingers leaving faint, damp sweat marks on the paper. Certain lines and sections are highlighted or underlined. I turn page after page, but it’s hard to read. My vision keeps blurring. I come across another underlined section.

One of the most dysfunctional characteristics of Asperger’s is an inability to empathize. Due to the lack of this fundamental trait, many sufferers remain friendless and isolated well into adulthood. People with Asperger’s can seem locked inside themselves, trapped by their own limited social skills. Establishing a relationship with one can take extraordinary patience—

Is that how he sees me? As a broken thing? Is this the manual he plans to use to fix me?

The book slips from my fingers and lands on the floor with a muffled thump.

“Alvie?”

He’s standing in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He takes a few cautious steps forward. “Are you okay?”

My chest hurts. “I should go.” I walk stiffly past him, through the door and down the hall, into the living room. I can’t look at him. The blood bangs behind my eyes.

Stanley follows me. “Wait. Tell me what’s wrong.” He blocks my path.

“I don’t need your pity.” I squeeze the words out through clenched teeth. “Now get out of my way.”

“Do you seriously think someone like me is spending time with you out of pity?”