The Speed of Dark

“I did not set you up,” I say. I want to explain that I did not know the policemen were here, that they are upset with me for leaving the apartment, but they are taking him away.

“When I say it’s people like you who make our job harder,” Mr. Stacy says, “I do not mean autistic people. I mean people who won’t take ordinary precautions.” He still sounds angry.

“I needed groceries,” I say again.

“Like you needed to do your laundry last Friday?”

“Yes,” I say. “And it is daylight.”

“You could have let someone get them for you.”

“I do not know who to ask,” I say.

He looks at me strangely and then shakes his head.

I do not know the music that is pounding in my head now. I do not understand the feeling. I want to bounce, to steady myself, but there is nowhere here to do it — the asphalt, the rows of cars, the transit stop. I do not want to get in the car and drive home.

People keep asking me how I feel. Some of them have bright lights they shine in my face. They keep suggesting things like “devastated” and “scared.” I do not feel devastated. Devastated means “made desolate or ravaged.” I felt desolate when my parents died, abandoned, but I do not feel that way now. At the time Don was threatening me, I felt scared, but more than that I felt stupid and sad and angry.

Now what I feel is very alive and very confused. No one has guessed that I might feel very happy and excited. Someone tried to kill me and did not succeed. I am still alive. I feel very alive, very aware of the texture of my clothes on my skin, of the color of the light, of the feel of the air going in and out of my lungs. It would be overwhelming sensory input except that tonight it is not: it is a good feeling. I want to run and jump and shout, but I know that is not appropriate. I would like to grab Marjory, if she were here, and kiss her, but that is very inappropriate.

I wonder if normal people react to not dying by being devastated and sad and upset. It is hard to imagine anyone not being happy and relieved instead, but I am not sure. Maybe they think my reactions would be different because I am autistic; I am not sure, so I do not want to tell them how I really feel.

“I don’t think you should drive home,” Mr. Stacy says. “Let one of our guys drive you, why don’t you?”

“I can drive,” I say. “I am not that upset.” I want to be alone in the car, with my own music. And there is no more danger; Don can’t hurt me now.

“Mr. Arrendale,” the lieutenant says, putting his head close to mine, “you may not think you’re upset, but anyone who’s been through an experience like this is upset. You will not drive as safely as usual. You should let someone else drive.”

I know I will be safe to drive, so I shake my head. He jerks his shoulders and says, “Someone will come by to take your statement later, Mr. Arrendale. Maybe me, maybe someone else.” Then he walks off. Gradually the crowd scatters.

The grocery cart is on its side; sacks are split, the food scattered and battered on the ground. It looks ugly and my stomach turns for a moment. I cannot leave this mess here. I still need groceries; these are spoiled. I cannot remember which are in the car, and safe, and which I will need to replace. The thought of going back into the noisy store again is too much.

I should pick up the mess. I reach down; it is disgusting, the bread smashed and trodden into the dirty pavement, the splattered juice, the dented cans. I do not have to like it; I only have to do it. I reach, lift, carry, trying to touch things as little as possible. It is a waste of food and wasting food is wrong, but I cannot eat dirty bread or spilled juice.

“Are you all right?” someone asks. I jump, and he says, “Sorry… you just didn’t look well.”

The police cars are gone. I do not know when they left, but it is dark now. I do not know how to explain what happened.

“I am all right,” I say. “The groceries aren’t.”

“Want some help?” he asks. He is a big man, going bald, with curly hair around the bald spot. He has on gray slacks and a black T-shirt. I do not know if I should let him help or not. I do not know what is appropriate in this situation. It is not something we were taught in school. He has already picked up two dented cans, one of tomato sauce and one of baked beans. “These are okay,” he says. “Just dented.” He reaches out to me, holding them.

“Thank you,” I say. It is always appropriate to say thank you when someone hands you something. I do not want the dented cans, but it does not matter if you want the present; you must say thank you.

He picks up the flattened box that should have had rice in it and drops it in the waste container. When everything we can pick up easily is in the waste container or my car, he waves and walks off. I do not know his name.