Dreams of a Father

By A Lawrence Tucker

The troubled father and powerful wife of an autistic man struggle with both internal demons and external nemeses to bring about change in a world where the incidence of autism rapidly increases, occasioning economic decay, fear, and repression akin to that experienced by other minorities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Lawrence Tucker
• Release date: Apr 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452421872

A Lawrence Tucker

ProfessorSchool of ManagementFudan UniversityShanghai, P.R. China

Book preview

Chapter 1: 3:20 a.m.

Bill. BILL! WAKE UP!

Huh? Shit! What time is it Clair?

Three twenty. You were having another one those dreams.

Fuck! I asked you not to wake me.

But I thought you were about to have a seizure. What was it this time, Bill, another espionage case where you’re speaking a foreign language?

No, this one was even stranger.

Like what?

Forget it.

If you’re going to wake me up in the middle of the night every few nights, twitching like you’re about to seize up while speaking Urdu or Farsi or Lord knows what else, then you had better tell me!

Alright, calm down Clair. This one began with massive strings of code, binary code, just raining down, vertically from top to bottom, like I was watching some sort of source code unfurl from on high.

Sounds like a scene from ‘The Matrix’.

Exactly. And as the code poured down a short string here and there would stand out, or I should say that I could somehow pick them out, and they became sort of highlighted or moved to the forefront in a three-dimensional plane. I was inside that plane. So the code was raining down all around me. The highlighted strings became stationary, suspended really, and they kept cumulating while the rest of the code just pooled together at my feet. The discarded code was cumulating too, like thick liquid that grew deeper around my ankles and calves. And I felt intense pressure to solve the stationary code - to collate it, to somehow make sense of it.

You’re not a programmer, at least by profession.

I know. But then again I never studied Urdu or Farsi either. My legs were stuck. The pressure on them was becoming immense. I felt like they would fracture, implode, shattering into a million little pieces. In the far background, behind the raining code, were scenes of human horror - plague, and famine, and chaos. Some of the scenes were biblical, some from the middle ages, others seemingly from the future. They were detailed. I could see the stark horror in people’s faces. Mothers wept while calling out my name. It was as if I needed to break the code else an apocalypse would end us all.

Jesus, Bill.

The suspended code kept cumulating. Short strings of it were all around me now. And then, all of a sudden, everything just stopped, at least for a moment. The binary code stopped raining down. The horrific backdrops were gone. And a sort of clarity or epiphany came over me. I gathered myself and I rapidly attempted to rearrange the highlighted strings of code into a series that made sense. I tried seemingly thousands of combinations, searching for a logical sequencing. At first I was calm, but slowly and then rapidly I began to panic again. The thick gooey liquid was hardening around my legs and lower torso. My mind was racing. Strings of code were spinning all around me as I whipped them with grand waves of my free arms, like some sort of wizard. I was naked and sweat was pouring out of my forehead and chest and back. Matthew appeared above and was watching over me. And just when I thought I was going to be crushed by the pressure, the strings just came together. They fit. Everything ceased again. And I could infer the meaning of the fitted code.

What did it say, Bill? What was it telling you?

I don’t want to say it, Clair. I don’t want to sound…CRAZY.

Just tell me, Bill!

I don’t want to, Clair. It’s too weird.

Bill, it can’t get any weirder. Just say it already!

The code was a proof, Clair – a mathematical proof. It was elegant and flawless. It was Newtonian-like.

A mathematical proof? What of, Bill?

I don’t want to say it, Clair.

What was it, Bill? A proof of WHAT?

Of the existence of God, Clair. It was a proof of the very existence of God Himself.

Chapter 2: The Thought

Matthew darts past the foot of our bed on his way to the master bathroom. It is now 6:15 a.m. on that same early-fall Tuesday. He is 11 years old. And he is quick. He stopped using the kids’ bathroom months ago after discovering one of his siblings’ un-flushed poo in that toilet. My wife Clair mutters something about work. She is warm and I think about her body. But Matt is flashing past us again, doubtlessly to watch SpongeBob SquarePants in the family room below.

I rise, use the toilet, which ironically holds Matt’s urine, and stumble downstairs to the kitchen. Matt, who knows to keep the television volume low in the morning, announces that he wants scrambled eggs and toast. Matt always wants scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast, day in and day out.

Still tired from the night’s dream and restlessness, I call to the family room:

Good morning, Matt, how did you sleep?

Whatzinvinablemean?

What Matt?

Whatzinvinable?

Slow your words Matt.

What do in-vin-a-ble mean?

"Do you mean invincible?"

Yeah.

"What does invincible mean?"

Yeah.

"Yes?"

Yes?

It means that you can’t be beat; that you cannot be stopped. That you always win. Like Superman.

Like Spiderman too?

You know it.

I quickly morph into my morning routine of making scrambled eggs, toast, and strong coffee. I’m a short order-cook with a Ph.D. in econometrics and the ability to solve a triple integral in my head, giving me the cubic volume of the area underlying a surface floating in a three-dimensional space, like a bed sheet flapping in the wind. And I contemplate what the day will bring: Getting three children off to school; laundry; walking the dog; a conference call at 10 a.m. with creditors regarding a failing business venture; an afternoon undergraduate class to teach in New York; a faculty meeting; an evening graduate class to teach as well.

The eggs and toast and coffee as well as chocolate soybean milk are ready, and I call Matt to the kitchen table. He digs in immediately, making an egg and toast sandwich as he keeps one eye on SpongeBob.

How is it Matt?

Great, Dad.

You know it.

As I sip my coffee with Irish cream I recall that Matt needs his medicine, Guanfacine, one pill, three times a day, to slow Matt down, to slow that motor of his, to have gravity take a stronger hold. If like the star Vega, Matt’s mind is twenty-five light years away, then Guanfacine transports Matt about ten light years closer.

I open the little red bottle and immediately notice that it is nearly full.

The bottle is nearly full.

And then It comes. It! The Thought. Fuck! The Thought is here again. It has risen up like a snake from the grass and I feel its fucking squeeze. I try to pry it loose but it is too late; it is already upon me. And I am simultaneously shamed and enraged. If God were here I would punch him in the mouth for giving me an autistic child. A child who looks exactly as I do. A child whose name means, ironically, a Gift from God. A child who came from his mother’s womb just as his fraternal twin brother Sean did just minutes earlier. A child with green eyes that remind me of my late father’s eyes. A child who should, for every earthly reason, come from Earth. But instead Matthew is a child from another world.

What’s wrong dad?

Nothing Matt. Please finish your eggs. And then remember to brush your teeth and get dressed. And no red Phillies shirt today, okay?

Sure, no problem dad.

You know it.

The Thought comes to me – no, comes at me – often. I do not intend to leave Earth with Matthew behind. After all, he is not from Earth. He does not belong. So why should he stay? To be institutionalized? To be warehoused? To be abused by impatient people who can hardly comprehend a thing about their own world let alone know the slightest aspect of Matthew’s? Death. Alas even more irony, given that before Matt came along I thought the purpose of life was to simply perpetuate the species. Are people like Matt even of the same species? Should I call them people?

It is 7 a.m. and my mind races. It is 7 a.m. and tears are streaming down my high cheekbones and into my now tepid coffee. It is 7 a.m. and I am already exhausted. It is 7 fucking a.m.

Chapter 3: The Little Girl in the Little Bus

Sean is 22 minutes older than Matt. Kelly is 22 months older. Kelly is Matt’s lone sister, a pre-teen who already looks like a woman. Sean and Kelly have become resilient because Matt’s needs have crowded out their time with my wife and me. So it was not surprising that by the time Matt was ready for his school van, Sean and Kelly had already dressed, ate, packed their lunches, and departed for their bus stop. Clair remained in bed. She does that often. Sometimes out of exhaustion. Sometimes out of woe. Sometimes, like I suspect today, out of want.

At 8:40 a.m. a polite beep announces that Matt’s van has arrived and I exit through the cluttered garage to inform the driver that Matt will be out shortly. The morning van’s driver is a young, curvy woman named Rebecca who earns some cash before her late-morning classes begin at Mercer County Community College in West Windsor, NJ. Rebecca is what my friends and I, back in the Halcyon days of our youth, would call a but-a-face. In other words she has everything a man could want but an attractive face. Rebecca gets out, ostensibly to chat and to wait to assist Matt onto the blue school van. She is wearing sweat pants that sag a bit at the waist providing me a peak at the stringy bands of her red thong.

Hello Dr. Donahue.

Hi Becky. How’s school going?

Well, except that I have this computer class and a programming project that’s driving me nuts.

What sort of programming?

Visual Basic. I need to write a macro for my assignment. Do you know what I mean?

Sure. I often write VB macros and import them into EXCEL spreadsheets. For instance I have this program that simulates stock price paths that I use to determine derivative security prices. It’s just a macro that runs a loop to drive the stock price over time according to a process called geometric Brownian motion.

Sounds like fun.

Yeah, I stay up late at night watching it run over and over again. You know, just after cleaning my teeth and before folding the laundry.

You’re too funny. But seriously, I could use some help.

Well, I’m in the city today but you can stop by tomorrow morning after dropping Matt off. Bring coffee and we’ll call it even.

As Rebecca smiles Matthew springs from the garage. He is wearing blue jeans, white sox and sneakers, and his red Phillies shirt, and has his backpack in tow. His dirty-blonde hair is perfectly brushed. His arms are flapping slightly with excitement. His sneakers have Velcro ties because Matt still has difficulty with shoelaces.

Good morning Matthew.

Good morning Ms. Becky.

As Becky and I help Matt through the sliding door and into the back of the van, Becky brushes against me slightly. And I think, was that for me? Or was it purely the imagination of a 40-year old man with a slightly receding hairline?

The school van is headed for Lawrenceville Elementary and in it are three other children on the autism spectrum: a Korean boy whose name I can never place, a talkative boy named Ryan, and a little girl named Kate. The Korean boy has jet-black hair and full lips and is truly handsome but never utters a word. Probably never did nor ever will. Ryan likes to talk about different models of vacuum cleaners that he has seen in the Sears catalogue, or the latest re-release of a Star Wars DVD, or what he had for breakfast that morning, or pretty much any random subject that anyone will listen to.

Yet my attention is not drawn to the boys. Rather, just as the day before, and the day before that, and each before that, my eyes are drawn to Kate. The chances of having a boy on the autism spectrum are about 1-in-100. The chances of a girl are about 1-in-200. However, autistic girls are so much more profoundly autistic. And like all the other autistic girls that I have met at all those fundraisers and all those support group socials, Kate appears almost lobotomized. I never saw a truly lobotomized person, but I recall seeing a movie about the Kennedy’s including Joe Kennedy’s lobotomized daughter whose name also escapes me, as does the actress who portrayed her. When I see Kate I think of that actress and her role.

It shames me to catch myself looking at Kate. It’s like walking down the hallway of a hotel and passing an open door. For whatever reason, one is just compelled to look into the room. And as I peak at Kate I recall how cruel I was when I was young, saying you must ride the little bus to school in order to ridicule those with lesser minds. Never could I envision myself one day ushering my autistic son onto the little bus where inside was waiting a lobotomized little girl staring off into space while picking at her nose.

Have a great day Matt.

Matt?

Matt?

Becky looks at me and shrugs.

See you tomorrow Dr. Donahue.

You know it.

As I return to the garage I instinctively look up to the master bedroom, and I notice the bedroom drapes swaying slightly.

Chapter 4: A Call

Upon entering the master bedroom I see Clair lying in bed with a sheet covering just her torso, exposing her willowy legs. Sometimes I think I married those legs.

Clair, Matthew asked me what was wrong with me this morning. I don’t ever recall him asking about my feelings. It was like he had a cogent moment.

That’s good. Was that what you and Becky were chatting about?

Nah. We were chatting about how handsome and smart I am and how Mrs. Donahue is so lucky to have married her college professor.

Very wry. Did she also mention your hot rating on RateMyProfessors.com?

That was yesterday. But seriously, she is coming over tomorrow ostensibly for help with her homework. Maybe I should probe her about a threesome?

Another good one. But the only probing you’ll be doing is with your wife and mother of your three children.

Well, to quote Bill Clinton, ‘let the probing being!’

Whom did he say that to?

Whom didn’t he say that to?

That woman from Arkansas. She didn’t understanding the meaning of ‘probing’.

And while being deposed he asked for a definition of the word ‘if’. The perfect couple.

Said like a true Republican.

You know I’m a Democrat at heart. Hey, are we going to talk politics now Clair? Because I never mix politics with sex, or religion with sex, or food with sex, or…

You talk too much. Shut up and come to back to bed.

And as she uttered those words Clair lifted the sheet, welcoming me to taste her. Men have a saying, namely that all women like the three C’s – cash, compliments, and congalingous. But Clair seemingly could care less about the first two. The third is what she always wants and may be the reason why she married me.

But as I lifted and somewhat roughly pulled her hips to the edge of the mattress, my cell phone on the nightstand began to vibrate. I wanted to ignore it but having three children occasions too much responsibility. Perhaps Matt forgot his spelling book. Or Kelly forgot an assignment. Or Sean got into another fight while defending his autistic brother.

Hello?

Bill, it’s Jeff. Are you watching this?

Watching what?

Turn on the television. NOW!

What channel?

Any.

Jeff is the founding partner of our boutique financial services consulting firm. He was originally a chemist by training. Bored with chemistry Jeff went on to earn a doctorate in economics and soon thereafter became a respected college professor, author, and consultant to some major banks. I became an associate of his firm years earlier when it focused on building asset-pricing models and trading algorithms for the usual suspects. We had met at an academic conference in New Orleans where I served on the program committee and had invited Jeff to give a talk about hedge fund trading strategies. In those days not too many folks had ever heard the term of art hedge fund, or alternative investments or private equity or cap arb or convert arb or any other number of clever little labels that the financially savvy would use to lure the high net-worth and institutional sheep into tapping their fat endowments and handing over money to be invested at fees of 2% flat plus 20% of any return north of 18% per annum. Jeff and I had lunch after his talk, Po’ Boy sandwiches dressed at some place on Decatur Street, and we just hit it off. He was smart and to the point and so was I. He was looking for a son figure to mentor, having had all girls. And I was young and wanted to experience the real world, having already grown somewhat bored with arcane and vacuous subjects like information signaling through dividend smoothing and moral hazard in underwriting syndicates and its affect on initial public offering prices. So I asked Jeff to send me consulting work. He did. I proved my worth and within a couple of years Jeff offered me the chance to buy into the equity of the firm. I rolled the proverbial dice, having taken a second mortgage on my modest home as a struggling untenured professor, and never looked back, at least not until today.

I turned on the television and there was a sight that literally made my knees buckle and thus compelling me to sit down on the bed. One of the World Trade Towers was engulfed in flames!

Bill, what do think these people want?

It’s hard to say, Jeff. I think they want several things. They want the oil. They want nuclear access. And they want radical Islam, everywhere.

What’s the play here?

You’re a machine Jeff, do you know that?

That’s not an answer.

Okay. Well, on the equity side, oil prices are going up and most non oil-related equity values will plummet. Airline stocks will get crushed. Travel and tourism stocks will get crushed. Anything having to do with the military industrial complex will fair well. On the bond side, the Fed will flood the markets with liquidity and in time long rates will rise. Credit spreads in general will widen immediately. And the dollar will weaken.

Ha! And you call me a machine. So what do we tell our hedge fund clients?

It’s pretty simple Jeff. Tell them to form a long-short equity portfolio that is long oil company and military stocks, is short airline and hotel stocks, is somewhat negatively skewed to take advantage of an overall bear market, and tell them to do it on a levered basis by borrowing from the prime brokerage units of the usual suspects. Also, tell them to quickly roll some of the early profits into call options on the credit default swap spreads of retailers, especially the big-ticket companies like autos and durables. In time they want to be short long-term bonds or sitting on the sidelines until they invest the cash profits to lock up higher long rates of interest.

There’s going to be a lot of guys who retire off of this thing, one way or the other.

"Here’s a question for you, Jeff? Do you think these terrorists were smart enough to buy put options on the airlines before pulling the trigger on this thing?

Yes. Whoever is financing them would know to do that. Probably the Saudi’s.

That’s how the Feds will ferret out these guys. The Feds will follow the profit trail to the financial backers and then on to the terrorists themselves.

It should be just a matter of time, Bill.

"Jeff, I’ve got to run. I need to call the university to cancel my classes, et cetera. Let’s talk more tomorrow."

Take care, Bill. By the way, how’s Clair doing?

More of the same: Depressed but coping. The Lexipro helps. See you later.

And as I clicked off my cell phone a number of thoughts sped through my mind: My consulting firm’s revenues would suffer as banks cut back on their training work; I needed to call my brother Michael who would be worried that I was in New York; and, most importantly, that some of my current and former students might be in the WTC or nearby, including Flavia, my former research assistant from Albania who works on the asset-backed securities desk at Goldman Sachs, downtown.

Clair decided to stay home from work, rescheduling an important witness deposition for Thursday the 13th. I tried in vain to contact some of my students as well as my brother Michael, but gave up by noon. Clair and I spent the afternoon watching the news, watching buildings in downtown Manhattan collapse under their own weight. The children returned from school in the late afternoon armed with loads of questions about the day’s events. Clair and I did our best to address and calm them, our innate parenting skills being tested like never before. The children had little homework and dinner consisted of spaghetti with homemade meatballs, French bread, and salad. We insisted that the kids read or play video games that evening, trying to immunize them from the still unfolding news. We were all in bed by ten and I slept peacefully throughout the night. Clair and I never finished what we barely started that morning, despite the vision of Becky’s thong still freshly seared into my memory.

Chapter 5: T4

The next morning was oddly normal given the events that unfolded on September 11th. Clair went to work at her law firm. The kids went to school. And as planned, Becky stopped by at 10:00 with coffee, donuts, and her VB programming assignment. The security markets were closed, a number of the neighbors hung American flags, and there was a type of odd smell in the air that I took to be a particle-dust cloud that drifted southwest from downtown Manhattan overnight. My university was closed. But other than that the day seemed unremarkable. In fact, if one turned off the news the day was eerily quiet.

We sat at the dining room table over the coffee and donuts and in an awkward and perfunctory way Becky started to describe her programming assignment. It was patently obvious that she did not care for programming or anything else analytical. I decided to ease the pain by quickly reviewing a couple of my existing VB macros, thereafter downloading them to a flash drive that Becky could take home. I assumed that she would end up plagiarizing one of the macros, but I couldn’t care less. After all, most people learn deductively, by copying or mimicking.

Dr. Donahue, how can you be so talented at this stuff?

It’s just what I do well. Believe me Becky, I can be utterly lost when it comes to other things in life, like how to spell or how to socialize with adults. What do you like, Becky?

I’m not sure yet. That’s why I’m going to community college. I plan to transfer to Rutgers after getting my associates degree and figuring out what I want to study.

That’s not a bad plan. In fact studies show that university graduates who spent their first two years at a junior college before transferring did as well, in terms of their overall GPA, as graduates who spent all four years at a university. And of course those who went to junior college ended up paying far less for their degrees. Still, you must have some idea of what subjects you like?

Well, I did enjoy my European history course in the summer term. It was a survey course covering the 19th and 20th centuries. The professor was really interesting. I wrote a research paper on Hitler’s T4 program. Do you know what that was?

T4? No. Tell me about it.

"In late 1939 Hitler ordered