I am not comfortable with Mr. Aldrin sitting at the table with us, but I do not know what to do about it. He is smiling a lot and talking a lot. Now he thinks the treatment is a good idea, he says. He does not want to pressure us, but he thinks it would benefit us. I try to think about the taste of the pizza and not listen, but it is harder.
After a while he slows down. He has had another beer, and his voice is softening at the edges, like toast in hot chocolate. He sounds more like the Mr. Aldrin I am used to, more tentative. “I still don’t understand why they’re in such a hurry,” he says. “The expense of the gym and things is minimal, really. We don’t need the space. It’s a drop in the bucket, compared to the profitability of the section. And there aren’t enough autistics like you in the world to make this a profitable treatment even if it does work perfectly for all of you.”
“Current estimates are that there are millions of autistic persons in the United States alone,” Eric says.
“Yes, but—”
“The cost of social services for that population, including residential facilities for the most impaired, is estimated at billions a year. If the treatment works, that money would be available—”
“The workforce can’t handle that many new workers,” Mr. Aldrin says. “And some of them are too old. Jeremy—” He stops suddenly and his skin turns red and shiny. Is he angry or embarrassed? I am not sure. He takes a long breath. “My brother,” he says. “He is too old to get a job now.”
“You have a brother who is autistic?” Linda asks. She looks at his face for the first time. “You never told us.” I feel cold suddenly, exposed. I thought Mr. Aldrin could not see into our heads, but if he has an autistic brother, then he may know more than I thought.
“I… didn’t think it was important.” His face is still red and shiny, and I think he is not telling the truth. “Jeremy is older than any of you. He’s in a residential facility—”
I am trying to put this new idea about Mr. Aldrin, that he has an autistic brother, together with his attitudes toward us, so I say nothing.
“You lied to us,” Cameron says. His eyelids have pulled down; his voice sounds angry. Mr. Aldrin’s head jerks back, as if someone had pulled a string.
“I did not—”
“There are two kinds of lie,” Cameron says. I can tell he is quoting something he was told. “The lie of commission, which states an untruth known to the speaker to be untrue, and the lie of omission, which omits to state a truth known to the speaker to be true. You lied when you did not tell us your brother was autistic.”
“I’m your boss, not your friend,” Mr. Aldrin blurts out. He turns even redder. He said earlier he was our friend. Was he lying then, or is he lying now? “I mean… it had nothing to do with work.”
“It is the reason you wanted to be our supervisor,” Cameron says.
“It’s not. I didn’t want to be your supervisor at first.”
“At first.” Linda is still staring at his face. “Something changed. It was your brother?”
“No. You are not much like my brother. He is… very impaired.”
“You want the treatment for your brother?” Cameron asks.
“I… don’t know.”
That does not sound like the truth, either. I try to imagine Mr. Aldrin’s brother, this unknown autistic person. If Mr. Aldrin thinks his brother is very impaired, what does he think of us, really? What was his childhood like?
“I’ll bet you do,” Cameron says. “If you think it’s a good idea for us, you must think it could help him. Maybe you think if you can get us to do it, they’ll reward you with his treatment? Good boy: here’s a candy?”
“That’s not fair,” Mr. Aldrin says. His voice is louder, too. People are turning to look. I wish we were not here. “He’s my brother, naturally I want to help him any way I can, but—”
“Did Mr. Crenshaw tell you that if you talked us into it, your brother could get treatment?”
“I… it’s not that—” His eyes slide from side to side; his face changes color. I see the effort on his face, the effort to fool us convincingly. The book said autistic persons are gullible and easily fooled because they do not understand the nuances of communication. I do not think lying is a nuance. I think lying is wrong. I am sorry Mr. Aldrin is lying to us but glad that he is not doing it very well.
“If there is not enough market for this treatment to autistic persons, what else is it good for?” Linda asks. I wish she had not changed the subject back to before, but it is too late. Mr. Aldrin’s face relaxes a little.
I have an idea, but it is not clear yet. “Mr. Crenshaw said he would be willing to keep us on without the treatment if we gave up the support services, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, why?”
“So… he would like to have what we — what autistic persons — are good at without the things we are not good at.”
Mr. Aldrin’s brow wrinkles. It is the movement that shows confusion. “I suppose,” he says slowly. “But I’m not sure what that has to do with the treatment.”
“Somewhere in the original article is the profit,” I say to Mr. Aldrin. “Not changing autistic persons — there are no more kids born like we were born, not in this country. There are not enough of us. But something we do is valuable enough that if normal people could do it, that would be profitable.” I think of that time in my office when for a few moments the meaning of the symbols, the beautiful intricacy of the patterns of data, went away and left me confused and distracted. “You have watched us work for years now; you must know what it is—”
“Your ability in pattern analysis and math, you know that.”
“No — you said Mr. Crenshaw said the new software could do that as well. It is something else.”
“I still want to know about your brother,” Linda says.
Aldrin closes his eyes, refusing contact. I was scolded for doing just that. He opens them again. “You’re… relentless,” he says. “You just don’t quit.”
The pattern forming in my mind, the light and dark shifting and circling, begins to cohere. But it is not enough; I need more data.
“Explain the money,” I say to Aldrin.
“Explain… what?”
“The money. How does the company make money to pay us?”
“It’s… very complicated, Lou. I don’t think you could understand.”
“Please try. Mr. Crenshaw claims we cost too much, that the profits suffer. Where do the profits really come from?”
CHAPTER TEN
Mr. Aldrin just stares at me. Finally he says, “I don’t know how to say it, Lou, because I don’t know what the process is, exactly, or what it could do if applied to someone who isn’t autistic.”
“Can’t you even—”
“And… and I don’t think I should be talking about this. Helping you is one thing…” He has not helped us yet. Lying to us is not helping us. “But speculating about something that doesn’t exist, speculating that the company is contemplating some broader action that may be… that could be construed as…” He stops and shakes his head without finishing the sentence. We are all looking at him. His eyes are very shiny, as if he were about to cry.
“I shouldn’t have come,” he says after a moment. “This was a big mistake. I’ll pay for the meal, but I have to go now.”
He pushes back his chair and gets up; I see him at the cash register with his back to us. None of us says anything until he has gone out the front door.
“He’s crazy,” Chuy says.
“He’s scared,” Bailey says.
“He hasn’t helped us, not really,” Linda says. “I don’t know why he bothered—”
“His brother,” Cameron says.
“Something we said bothered him even more than Mr. Crenshaw or his brother,” I say.
“He knows something he doesn’t want us to know.” Linda brushes the hair off her forehead with an abrupt gesture.