Chapter 7 #2
My brother had just turned eighteen. I didn't get to give him the pristine still-in-the-box vintage Hulk figurine I'd found for him on ebay.
Alex was sentenced to six years in a minimum-security prison.
My frustrating, funny, oblivious brother who didn't understand social cues and liked his underwear lined up in a specific color order in his drawer moved into a dorm with forty-nine other inmates.
The only thing that kept me going that first year was that it was a nonviolent offender facility. Most of the inmates were first offenders, mostly white collar crimes. Every two weeks, I made the six hour drive to visit him and he never once had a bruise on him.
Even still, it was hell on all of us. Grandma took it especially hard--she blamed herself.
It had happened on her watch after all, though I told her the truth--neither of us knew he was hacking anything, much less a bank.
Alex spent a ton of time on his computer, but we all thought he was just playing the online magic role-playing game that he loved.
And then, about a year ago, Grandma died. A heart attack, we think, but we didn't have an autopsy done. She went peacefully in her sleep and I didn't see the point in finding out exactly what had killed her.
My heart aches and my lungs constrict a little, just like they do every time I think about the people I've lost. It's a big improvement from what my reaction used to be--time and therapy will do that, though.
I tell him about Alex getting parole and moving in with me, though I don't talk about Mr. Franklin at all. In my opinion, that part isn’t related.
Then I tell him about the men in the house--the first day when I scared them off, and when they came back to threaten me.
"So these guys are going to come back and I don't know what I'm going to do when they show up," I finally admit.
I quickly swipe the tears from my cheeks, embarrassed. I certainly hadn't meant to cry.
MacArthur’s expression has only grown more intense since I started. Now there's something radiating off of him. It's danger, but it's not directed at me.
"And you don't have any idea who these guys are?"
I shake my head. "And I know that every big sister probably thinks that her brother couldn't or wouldn't ever be involved in something like this, but in Alex's case, it's true.
He's a total nerd. He doesn't go anywhere or do anything.
He just bums around the house, eats mac and cheese, and plays his computer games. "
"What did these guys look like?"
"There were three of them the first time, two the second. Two are huge and the other one is a couple inches taller than I am. He might be hispanic, but I don't know. His accent sounds different."
"Different how?"
"Not Texan, not Mexican."
"In this state, that really narrows things down." He takes another swig of his soda and stares out over the parking lot, looking thoughtful. "You said your brother just got out of prison?"
I stiffen. "That has nothing to do with this."
"I think that's a naive assessment."
"I'm not naive. What my brother did was wrong, but he did his time and he promised me he'd never do anything like that again."
"Oh, well if he promised."
My eyes narrow. "You don't know Alex. He's not..."
I catch myself, because I almost just said that he's not normal. I hate that word. What is normal, after all?
"He's different," I say, lamely. How is it that after all these years, I still have a hard time describing my brother to strangers?
"How so?" MacArthur waits patiently while I try and sort my words.
I sigh. "The easy, clinical way of saying it is that he's on the spectrum."
"What's the hard, non-clinical way of describing him?"
Begrudgingly, my respect for MacArthur increases. Most people would think they understood Alex completely with that one phrase: on the spectrum. What else are labels for, after all?
Only smart people realize that autism presents in nearly as many ways as there are people who have it. Yeah, there are some classic hallmarks, but that doesn’t make everyone with autism the same.
"His word is his oath. He's bound to it. If he says he'll do something, he will, period."
MacArthur gives a slow nod. "What else?"
"He's a creature of habit, and he only enjoys a few things. Baseball, certain movies, playing War of Veilcraft, and above all else, computers."
"So where do you think he is?"
"I have no idea." I hold my hands out to the sides as if to show I'm not hiding anything. "He doesn't like hotels because he doesn't like sleeping in a bed he can't label as his."
"Maybe he got over that in prison."
I shake my head. "It's different. In prison, they gave him a mattress. That was enough to make it his."
"Huh. But what if he went and bought a sleeping bag and threw that on a hotel bed?"
I chew my lower lip. I hate to admit it, but that might work for Alex. I also hate that MacArthur thought of the possibility before I did.
MacArthur says, "Is there any way for you to check his credit card or banking activity?"
"I could call and ask, but I'm not on any of his accounts."
"You say you have his phone and computer?"
I nod. "Both are locked, though."
"I can help with that."
"Are you a computer genius?"
"No, but I know one."
"Look, MacArthur, it's really nice of you to--"
He laughs, and I stop speaking. Truth be told, I'm struck dumb by his smile. If I thought this guy was scary gorgeous when he was serious, it's nothing compared to when he smiles.
Yowza, I think, stupidly.
"It's Mack," he says. "Only my Nana calls me MacArthur."
“Your name is not Mack Norris,” I say, eyes wide. “Was Chuck your uncle? Did any of his traits make it to you through the gene pool?”
He rolls his eyes. “Come on.”
“No, wait.” I say. “Can you fly a helicopter? Can you disarm a bomb with just a rubber band and a toothpick?”
“I’m not related to Chuck Norris. I can’t do any of that stuff.”
“Not with that attitude, you can’t,” I grumble.
He chuckles and shakes his head.
I say, "In all seriousness, Mack, it's really nice of you to offer to help me, but..." I trail off, not really knowing where I was going. The truth is, I really need help. And I've already admitted I'm not willing to call law enforcement.
Mack arches a brow like he knows what I'm thinking. "Look, I'm not trying to insert myself where I'm not needed. but you're obviously in trouble. And my Nana likes you. You can't know how many times she's begged to set me up with Gabriella, her nice nurse."
I give a half-second smile. "And you don't know how many times she asked to set me up with MacArthur. Though you're different than she described."
He tilts his head. "How so?"
"She said you were a vegan pacifist."
He tips back his head and laughs. I can't lie--it's a great laugh.
His brown eyes are warm on mine afterward.
"I can only imagine what you thought. But in her defense, I am a pacifist in that I think violence should be the last resort.
Doesn't mean I'm not willing to go there, should the need arise. "
"What about the vegan bit?" I tease. I catch myself--what am I doing borderline flirting with this guy when Alex is missing?
"I went through a phase in sixth grade when I learned where meat really came from. Probably would be two inches taller if I'd have eaten meat that month."
"You're tall enough," I say honestly.
"Tall enough for what?" There's a glint in his eye that tells me he's flirting right back.
"I dunno. For stuff. For life." I gesture lamely at him.
This is the problem with flirting. I never know how to double down or keep it going.
He chuckles again. "Well thanks, I think." He glances down at his watch. It's one of those big black tactical looking things, but I'm mainly distracted by the veins in his wrist and forearm. I look away before I start to stare--I'm a sucker for a good set of forearms.
"You're different than she described you, too."
"How?"
"She said you were nice. Kind. That you have a wonderful personality and a great sense of humor. And that you're a good cook."
I grin despite myself. "She made you sound like a shrimp and me sound like I was five hundred pounds."
He gives me an assessing look that goes on so long it has my smile slipping. Finally he says, "What time do you get off work today?"
I frown. "Four."
He gives a decisive nod and stands, then holds his hand out. I don't want to leave him hanging so I put my hand in his.
Mack laughs again, gives my hand a little squeeze and says, "I was going for your empty soda can, but this is much better."
I snatch my hand away and instantly feel my cheeks heat. "Sorry," I say, handing him my can. "If there's an opportunity to make things awkward, I'll find it."
"Don't worry about it. I'll meet you in the staff parking lot at four to take you home."
"Wait...what?"
He palms both empty cans and holds the other one out to help me up. "I'm going to take you home, check things out. Then we can grab your brother's stuff and bring it to my computer guy."
"You don't have to do that."
"Oh, I know," he says easily. "But I'm going to, anyway.”