As Dog Is My Witness Read Free Page B

with AS, and who doesn’t know where to turn. I
know.
    Lori started ASPEN out of her living room at
virtually the same moment Ethan was diagnosed, when he was in
kindergarten. Abby had stumbled across Lori’s web address while
doing some Internet research on this new condition we’d just heard
of, which our son will have all his life. And Lori was, indeed, a
godsend.
    She had calmed our fears, which all AS parents have
in the beginning. No, she said, our son wouldn’t necessarily have
to live out his adulthood in a group home and work at Burger King
because he has Asperger’s. Yes, it’s going to be difficult, but not
so difficult you can’t handle it. Lori herself is an Asperger
parent, and she is nothing if not experienced, knowledgeable, and
confident.
    Before I knew it, I was actually taking part in
ASPEN, despite my absolute refusal to attend any kind of meeting
involving any group since being initiated into the boys service
club—the Ciceronians—at Bloomfield High School in the 1970s. I’m
still not much of a joiner, but participating in ASPEN gave me the
background I needed to understand what Ethan would require from his
school and from us, his parents. Then, I started feeling
experienced enough to reassure new parents myself, and that is
another kind of blessing.
    I also write a quirky column for Lori’s newsletter,
which she constantly has to remind me about. Non-paying work is
sometimes more difficult for a freelance writer to remember, I’m
ashamed to say. But it’s true, and I assumed she was calling
because I was in danger of missing the latest deadline, which I was
pretty sure fell sometime this month.
    Now, however, the tension in her voice was telling me
this call wasn’t about 750 words on the lighter side of Asperger’s
Syndrome.
    “What’s wrong, Lori?”
    “You’ve known me a long time, haven’t you?” she
asked. “Well, I have a big favor to ask.”
    “You know you can have whatever you want.”
    “I need you to investigate a murder,” said Lori.
    I’d been asked to do that just twice before, and in
both cases, resisted as hard as I could until there was no
alternative. For one thing, I think my track record would convince
anyone I’m ill-suited to that kind of work, and for another, I’m a
coward, and murders tend to be perpetrated by violent people. Other
people don’t do windows. I don’t do murders.
    But this was Lori Shery doing the asking. Lori,
besides being an old friend and one whom I owe about 168 favors, is
also a force of nature. If something stands between her and what
she needs, she simply ignores it until it goes away—or she
bulldozes over it and teaches it a lesson. Lori is not to be
denied—ever.
    “Sure,” I said.
     
     

Chapter Three

    “ R eally?” Lori said. “I
thought you’d have to be convinced.” “Normally, I would,” I told
her. “But I can’t turn you down. I just hope you remember who your
friends are when inevitably you’re elected the first female Jewish
President of the United States.”
    “Stop it,” Lori laughed. I wasn’t kidding.
    “Why are you asking about a murder?” Well, somebody
had to bring it up.
    Her voice became more serious. “Aaron, a man was shot
to death in North Brunswick Tuesday night, and one of our children
is suspected of killing him.” In the Asperger realm, a parent never
says “kids with AS.” They say “our children.” It’s a form of
shorthand. We insiders know what it means. The accused had
Asperger’s. “I know it’s not true,” Lori continued, “but nobody’s
trying to help this boy. They’re so set on tying it all up neatly
that they’re ignoring the facts.”
    “What facts?”
    “Well, if you knew Justin, I wouldn’t even have to
tell you. He’s so gentle, so sweet. You know how these kids can be,
Aaron . . . 
    “Those aren’t facts, Lori,” I told her. “That’s you
being an Asperger’s mom. You know perfectly well that people with
AS are just as capable of anger