Read Online A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell - Free Book Online Page B

meeting Cochran at one,” he said. “Here’s a totally off-the-record newsflash for you. Those underpants Saunooke found? They were manufactured by the Carter Company from 1985 to 1990.”
    â€œHoly shit, Victor. Hartsville will go nuts all over again.”
    â€œI know,” he said, shoving the Times to the floor as he took her in his arms. “But until then, how about you and I go a little nuts right now?”

    Grace Collier lived in a small, nondescript ranch house made incredibly descript by its landscaping. Mary could see an artist’s eye in the varying greens of the ivy and azaleas and rhododendrons that bloomed close to the house, accented by purple phlox and yellow impatiens, all pulled together with white alyssums. The effect was not studied, but natural, as if the house had just sprouted up in the middle of a bank of flowers. The only thing that spoiled it was a tall privacy fence that surrounded the back yard. Even there, though, beauty had been encouraged. Thick trumpet vines draped the fence, bees buzzing among the lush red flowers.
    Aware that she was coming as an attorney more than a friend, Mary shouldered her briefcase as she walked to the door. She lifted a brass doorknocker in the shape of a Cherokee bear mask, and remembered that she and Grace were sisters in skin—both were part Cherokee, living in a world different from the reservation.
    She heard heavy footsteps nearing then thudding away from the door. She knocked again and lighter ones came, growing louder. A lock turned, the door opened. Grace stood there in an oversized shirt with paint spatters down the front.
    â€œMary.” She smiled. “Come on in.”
    Mary stepped into a small living room, bare of furniture except for a single sofa and a wingback chair. Grace’s paintings hung on the walls, and the room held the scent of oranges. Distantly, Mary heard what sounded like a cartoon show on television.
    â€œI really appreciate this,” said Grace. “I know you probably don’t work on Sunday.”
    â€œNo problem.” Mary smiled at the memory of her Sunday morning with Victor.
    â€œWould you like some tea?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” Mary replied, sitting on the sofa. “I just had lunch. So tell me what’s going on.”
    Grace sat next to her. For a moment she gazed at her lap, picking red paint from beneath her thumbnail, then she said, “The reason I called you is my son, Zack.”
    â€œI didn’t know you had a son,” said Mary.
    â€œHe’s autistic,” said Grace. “A forty-two-year-old man who’s emotionally still a child.”
    Mary heard the weariness in Grace’s voice. “I’m afraid I’m not very knowledgeable about autism. It’s a birth defect, right?”
    â€œNot exactly. It has to do with the brain, but they’re not sure how. Mostly it affects boys. People who have it can range from being near geniuses to being barely able to speak.”
    â€œAnd your son?”
    â€œZack’s relatively high-functioning—he can read, sign his name, remember long series of numbers. He’s also talented—he can draw and paint.”
    â€œJust like his mother,” said Mary, wondering when the downside of this story was coming.
    â€œWhat he can’t do is live a normal life. Autistic people can’t relate to other people as we do. They live inside themselves, struggling with social skills you and I would find easy.”
    â€œAnd Zack’s world is what?” asked Mary.
    Grace sighed. “This house and the back yard is Zack’s world.”
    â€œHe doesn’t go to any kind of school?”
    â€œHe has anger-management issues. Not many programs will take someone like that. I’ve got an application into a new one right now, but if he doesn’t get in, he’ll have to live here, with me. A caregiver stays during the week, but nights and weekends, it’s just the