Arlo #4
“Well, hello,” I repeated, wincing at the stupidity. I was as awkward and at a loss for words as the night I’d met him. It was a miracle I had managed to talk to him without losing all dignity, and apparently, I was going to need that miracle again before I got off this phone. “This is—”
“Arlo,” he said smoothly, and I envied his calm. “I recognize that voice.”
“Really?” I wondered, feeling a flush of excitement. I wasn’t sold on the idea of doing more than talking to him on the phone, but being recognized was a nice feeling. “Phones usually distort how someone sounds.”
“Usually, but you have a distinct voice...and manner of speech,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m certain I could pick your voice out of a crowd, blindfolded in a ballroom full of people.”
“I...will be honest, I’m not sure how to respond to that,” I told him, falling back on being honest rather than trying to find the right thing to say to keep the conversation going.
It wasn’t a tactic I had to use often, but as I had discovered a few days ago, he had a way of making me fall back on my emergency plans.
Which I suppose went a long way toward explaining why he was interesting and unnerving to me.
It wasn’t often that a person made my carefully arranged social ‘plans’ fall apart just by existing.
“Interesting,” he said, and I wondered if that was a catchphrase of his. “You called me, so I assume you knew what you wanted to say.”
“Hmmm, you assumed wrong, it seems. Though my mother certainly had an opinion on the matter of assuming.”
“As does mine, perhaps it’s even the same one.”
“That it leads to certain people looking...not the best?”
“That’s the one,” he snorted. “Ironic, considering she’s prone to assuming. But self-reflection and evaluation have never been her strong suit. Well, I suppose that’s not necessarily accurate either.”
“How so?” I wondered. It was obvious from our first conversation that his relationship with his mother was not good. I had no idea if he had a father, let alone how he felt about him.
“She is the sort of woman who will not miss a wrinkle in a skirt, a curl out of place, or a misstep in a conversation or political maneuvering. She’s not looking to evaluate kindness, compassion, or improving oneself in a manner any therapist would approve of.
No, she looks for someone of strong will, sharp mind, self-control that would put a monk to shame, and a ruthlessness mixed with diplomacy that would leave Kissinger green with envy. ”
“I see,” I said with a smirk. “So would that make your mother a businesswoman?”
“She certainly is, but her main profession is politics.”
“Ah, yes, that would do it.”
“Indeed. One needs a little of all those things to get ahead in politics, and she has no problem making sure she gets ahead.”
“It occurs to me that I should probably know her if she’s in politics and is successful.”
“Oh, you’ve probably heard her name.”
“A name you’re failing to mention.”
“Oh, I could tell you if you wish. I’m surprised you haven’t looked into me at all.”
I leaned back in my seat, peering up at the ceiling. “Should I have?”
“This is by no means an attempt to brag, but I suspect it’s not often someone runs into someone with my lifestyle and obvious money. Curiosity would be natural.”
“Are you trying to say that your name is big enough that Ward would have been enough to search?”
“I’m saying that with the information you possess, you would probably have an easy time hunting down information on me if you so chose. Which you clearly haven’t. Not the curious sort?”
“I’m plenty curious,” I said, enjoying how he sounded.
His speech was flawless, each word enunciated, each syllable clear, and there was rarely a break from the formal way he spoke.
Yet there was an energy, a warmth that permeated his words.
There had probably been some form of speech training, formal or informal, but even with that, it was clear his smooth personality found its way into his speech.
It was like listening to the rain, steady and rhythmic, but absolutely calming.
“I don’t, however, make it my business to rummage through the lives of the living. ”
“Of the living,” he repeated in an amused voice. “Now that’s an interesting phrase. Tell me, are you a grave robber by chance? A rather old, sordid, and outdated method of attaining wealth, but still.”
“No,” I said with a snort. “Or would a ‘yes’ have been ‘interesting’ to you?”
“Interesting, yes, though to say I would find it distasteful would be putting it mildly,” he said.
“Ah, so not everything interesting to you is worth your attention.”
“There are limits to what I find interesting, yes. I’m not sure if I should feel insulted that you needed to say that, or if I should be comforted that you accept the idea gracefully.”
“You could do what I do whenever I’m torn between compliments and offense.”
“And what would that be?”
“I generally accept the compliment, rather than take the possibility of an insult.”
“And if someone is obvious about inferring an insult?”
“Then I choose to take the compliment anyway. I find it’s easier to take someone at their word.”
“Even if the sarcasm is obvious?”
“Especially then.”
A jolt shot through me when he laughed. “Now, isn’t that the most delightfully passive-aggressive thing I’ve ever heard? If anything, I’m torn between being impressed and disappointed.”
I tilted my head. “Why would you be disappointed?”
“Because I never thought of doing that,” he explained with a chuckle. “I have a multitude of ways to get under someone’s skin, and not once did I think to use...Autismcore.”
“I...Autismcore?” I wondered in confusion.
“Oh yes, take a word and slap ‘core’ at the end, and you’ll create a mood around a behavior, or a vibe, if you prefer.
That’s precisely what people nowadays expect from someone so locked into their autism that they miss blatant sarcasm.
It’s beautiful, really. You create a situation where the person either has to let the lack of acknowledgement to their barb pass them by, or they have to be outright rude. ..are you autistic for the record?”
It was my turn to laugh. “No. I was tested...three times.”
“Really?” he asked with a snicker. “No offense, but the lovely conversation we had before left me with the idea that you might be.”
“There’s nothing to be offended over,” I said without annoyance.
He would not be the first nor the last person to wonder or assume that about me.
It was, I suppose, a product of my stiffness, my slowness to respond, and my tendency to be ‘resistant’, as Mason put it once, to the emotional extremes of others.
“It’s hard to be offended when I give enough indications that I might be.
..and there’s nothing wrong with people who have autism. ”
“You have to admit that being tested three times is significant.”
“Well, at least three people thought the original diagnosis was wrong. Or I should say two, as the original doctor was just doing due diligence.”
“You went to three different head doctors?”
“For the potential diagnosis of autism, or in general?”
He whistled. “So there’s more? My, my, are you telling me you potentially have even more damage than I do?”
“There is more than you’ve dreamed of, Horatio,” I paraphrased in his ear, smiling when it brought on another laugh of delight.
“True enough, and don’t think I don’t realize that you are attempting to move the conversation away from the topic of the trauma you do, or do not, possess,” he said slyly.
I grunted. “It’s not a subject I like to get into with people.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not offended. People who spill their innermost secrets and give names to their demons at the outset are—”
“Not very interesting?” I guessed.
I could sense his grin through the phone. “I was going to say something far less kind, but yes. That will do nicely.”
I didn’t intend to entice him by being vague or not offering information; I really wasn’t the sort to share that.
There was more than enough darkness in my past that I didn’t want to discuss if it could be helped.
It was hard enough to manage over the years, while I had attempted to work with different therapists, without opening up about it to someone I barely knew, even if he was holding my attention.
It wasn’t even the viciousness of my past or the meanness; the sheer depth and weight kept me from speaking about it too often.
Even the therapists had struggled to help me.
It wasn’t that they were bad at their jobs or lacked the desire to help; most of them had been very good at what they did and genuinely wanted to help.
The first problem had been that I just..
.hadn’t wanted to talk. My first therapist had worked with me carefully, but there was very little I wanted to say about the home I came from, the family I had lost, or how I had lost so much.
Of course, various diagnoses slid into my file, but none had really stuck.
Some labels had stuck around for a while, only to be thrown out the window by the next professional.
I could have told them that their thoughts were going down the right path, but for the longest time, it seemed easier to let them do what they thought best, especially when Matilda had sent me to those professionals.
The memory of her, so earnest as she insisted I was not broken, but that these people could help with the holes inside me I had once told her about, made me smile.
Matilda, and Marcus, had never treated me as fragile, but they knew I needed help.
I couldn’t blame them; they had, after all, been privy to my past through the adoption process, and while that hadn’t stopped them from taking me on to see if I could thrive with them, I had no doubt they were concerned.
..and with a past like mine, why wouldn’t they be?