House Rules Read Free Page A

day disrupted probably makes him feel the same way I would if I was suddenly told to bungee off the top of the Sears Tower.
    When a low growl rips through Jacob‘s throat, I know we are past the point of no return. He backs away from me, into a shelf full of pickle jars and relishes. A few bottles fall to the floor, and the breaking glass sends him over the edge. Suddenly Jacob is screaming one high, keening note that is the soundtrack of my life. He moves blindly, striking out at me when I reach for him.
    It is only thirty seconds, but thirty seconds can last forever when you are the center of everyone‘s scrutiny; when you are wrestling your six-foot-tall son down to the linoleum floor and pinning him with your full body weight, the only kind of pressure that can soothe him. I press my lips close to his ear. I shot the sheriff, I sing. But I didn‘t shoot no deputy …
    Since he was little, those Bob Marley lyrics have soothed him. There were times I played that song twenty-four hours a day just to keep him calm; even Theo knew all the verses before he was three. Sure enough, the tension seeps out of Jacob‘s muscles, and his arms go limp at his sides. A single tear streaks from the corner of his eye. I shot the sheriff, he whispers, but I swear it was in self-defense.
    I put my hands on either side of his face and force him to meet my eyes. Okay now?
    He hesitates, as if he is taking a serious inventory. Yes.
    I sit up, inadvertently kneeling in the puddle of pickle juice. Jacob sits up, too, and hugs his knees to his chest.
    A crowd has gathered around us. In addition to the carrot man, the manager of the store, several shoppers, and twin girls with matching constellations of freckles on their cheeks are all staring down at Jacob with that curious mix of horror and pity that follows us like a dog nipping at our heels. Jacob wouldn‘t hurt a fly, literally or figuratively I‘ve seen him cup his hands around a spider during a three-hour car ride so that, at our destination, he could set it free outside. But if you are a stranger and you see a tall, muscular man knocking over displays, you don‘t look at him and assume he‘s frustrated.
    You think he‘s violent.
    He‘s autistic, I snap. Do you have any questions?
    I‘ve found that anger works best. It‘s the electric shock they need to tear their gaze away from the train wreck. As if nothing‘s happened, the shoppers go back to sifting through the navel oranges and bagging their bell peppers. The two little girls dart down the dairy aisle. The carrot man and the manager do not make eye contact, and that suits me just fine. I know how to handle their morbid curiosity; it‘s their kindness that might break me.
    Jacob shuffles along behind me as I push the cart. His hand is still twitching faintly at his side, but he‘s holding it together.
    My biggest hope for Jacob is that moments like this won‘t happen.
    My biggest fear: that they will, and I won‘t always be there to keep people from thinking the worst of him.
    Theo
    I‘ve had to get twenty-four stitches on my face, thanks to my brother. Ten of them left a scar cutting through my left eyebrow, after the time that Jacob knocked over my high chair when I was eight months old. The other fourteen stitches were on my chin, Christmas 2003, when I got so excited about some stupid gift that I crumpled the wrapping paper, and Jacob went ballistic at the sound. The reason I‘m telling you this has nothing to do with my brother, though. It‘s because my mother will tell you Jacob‘s not violent, but I am living proof that she‘s kidding herself.
    I am supposed to make exceptions for Jacob; it‘s one of our unwritten house rules. So when we need to take a detour away from a detour sign (how ironic is that ?) since it‘s orange and freaks Jacob out, that trumps the fact that I‘m ten minutes late for school. And he always gets the shower first, because a hundred billion years ago when I was still a baby Jacob