PAST PERFECT

The ice cream cone flew from Young Anthony’s small hand when the truck hit the car head on, killing his mother and father. No farewells. No goodbye speeches. Six year old Anthony only knew that his ice cream cone was gone. Only later when he was in the hospital and his aunt and uncle yelled at him and blamed him for killing his parents did he realize his mom and dad were dead. His stay in the hospital stretched over a week. An extra day was added when no one came to pick him up. That's when the young boy realized he wasn't wanted.

Anthony sat with the social worker outside the courtroom. Time seemed to stand still as his aunt and uncle walked away with his younger and older brother. The social worker explained to Anthony that they would find a good home for him. He wanted to ask why he couldn’t go with his aunt, but he knew the answer. He was to blame for killing her sister, his mom. He was a witch. What kind of home would take in a brujo? he wondered.

Old Man Anthony answered the knock at the door to his small house alone on the hillside of the San Gabriel Mountains. Not quite the hermit, not quite the social butterfly. He dreaded knocks at the door. Jehovah’s Witnesses? Lutherans? Wireless services? Sometimes he simply didn’t answer, but not today. He opened the door, ready for an argument.

A military man in front, behind him the Ex, her two grown up daughters, a woman he didn’t recognize, and two little girls in their Sunday dresses. This family looked out of place for this forlorn neighborhood of retirees and loners. Yes? asked Anthony, wondering who would speak first, his son, the marine, or his Ex, who avoided his eyes.

“I am Michael Rios. This is my wife, Martha, my older sisters, Karla and Perla, you know my mom, Juana, and these two little ones are Reina and Princessa, your granddaughters.”

And there it was, out in the open. My Ex, my son, his family and his sisters. He had to be around thirty-five-ish. Kids about five-ish. He must have married late twenties. That made me seventyish. What a feverish reminder of my mortality. Weren’t kids supposed to be our immortality? It turns out family is clicking clock that rubs out any semblance of time. What a strange thought. Better write it down. Maybe it'll turn into something later when I'm at the computer. Or in a dream.

“May we come in?” Michael asked. The question was polite but assertive. He wasn’t taking no for an answer. So like his mom.

I sat them on the sofa, after pushing off all of my paperback horror novels and anthologies. I didn’t turn off my laptop. I wanted them to know that I was getting back to work as soon as they were gone. My Ex glared at the open laptop as if to incinerate it with her eyes.

“Excuse me, sir, but you haven’t introduced yourself.” A command more than a suggestion.

“How did you find me?” I wanted to know.

Reina and Princessa fidgeted at my question. The older Reina whispered to her sister in tongue clucks and lip smacks, followed by a repetition of assorted syllables laced together like sentences. For they were sentences. To them. And to me. I recognized the nonlinear language. Child-speak. All kids do it. Talk so no one understands but them. “Ta-ta-ta” said one to the other. The other answered with a cluck and a shrug of her tiny shoulders.

“I’m your grandpa.”

They looked at each other and clucked in unison. “Ta-ta-ta,” I told them.

Their mother, Martha, spoke up. “They’re autistic. I’m a Pediatrician, specializing in the disorder.”

“They’re just kids being kids.” I looked at the two girls and jabbered away in the language they thought only they could speak. At first they were hesitant, a trap, perhaps, but the older Reina responded with some off-beat clicks and oohs and aahs. Nothing new. I told them in nonlinear speak that they weren’t the only ones who could speak the Clicky Language. Then I scolded them for allowing their mother to believe they were autistic. In clicks and clucks, I communicated to them, Apologize to their parents in English now or leave my house. No grandpa for you.

Without hesitation they complied. “Mom, we’re sorry. We’ll speak English with you from now on and Spanish to Grandma. Can we sit with Grandpa?”

“I didn’t say you could sit with me.”

“We apologized. You have to,” said Reina.

“You promised,” added Princessa.

“Only for a minute. Then you have to go.”

Martha had tears in her eyes. Michael wrapped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. The Ex smiled triumphantly.

“Now introduce yourselves proper,” I asked. “Martha’s a kid doctor. Got it. Who’s next? I'll go last.”

The Zimmerman family came to the State Social Home several months after my being placed there, after the promise to place me in a family turned into a lie. I was shuffled around from social worker to social worker, each one promising homes and big back yards and good schools. None of that came. It took a week of learning to fight off the bullies at the orphanage. Another week to take over the library, where I made up for the poor education the state provided by reading everything I could get my hands on. The librarian took a shine to me. She guided my education, provided me with the proper books, and gave me quizzes to ensure I was understanding the materials. When I showed progress, she found the right books to level me up. She often said that I was high school level now. By the time I was adopted, I'd be college level. I always thought she was exaggerating my progress as incentive. But when I heard her talking to the Zimmermans, I believed she was telling the truth.

The Zimmermans lived in Malibu, by the beach. Mr. Zimmerman was a judge, Mrs. Zimmerman a doctor, a hospital administrator, their two daughters, ten year old Sandra and twelve year old Kendra, were students. The family showed me around the house, the back-yard, which was basically the Pacific Ocean, and lastly, my room, which overlooked the setting sun. For dinner the dining table was laid out with tacos from some fast food joint. I refused to eat. They asked if I were hungry. I asked for permission to make myself a sandwich or a bowl of soup. The judge said. Of course. As I made my sandwich, I heard the girls tossing the tacos in the trash. Their parents seemed to be whispering about the mistake they made.

Now I'd met them. My son, Michael, the 20 year Marine, his wife, Martha, the Pediatrician who specialized in autism who couldn't distinguish nonlinear language from autism, my Ex, the real estate mogul, as I sarcastically referred to her, her eldest, Karla, FBI bureau chief in charge of psychological profiling (whatever that meant), and Perla, the younger daughter, neurosurgeon. And my two granddaughters. It was Karla who figured out where I lived. Naturally, with those FBI resources. But it was Perla who recognized my work as a writer. "You're Anthony Zee, the author of The Neurology of Irony, aren't you?" I didn't answer. "I read all your books. So has Karla. That's why she's a psychiatrist and I'm a doctor. Because of you." I didn't know how to respond. I always avoided these sort of situations with my readers. I didn't give autographs, though honestly, I've never been asked for one. 

"I have a question for you all," I said. "Why now?"

No one answered. Until Michael said, "Isn't it enough that we're here?"

This time I didn't answer. Was I in some soap opera? Was this real? If I didn't answer the door, would I be in this predicament? About this time, the anxiety attack happened. Perla gave me a Xanax that she had in her purse and told everyone that it's best if they left, that I was overwhelmed. I don't remember who said it, the Ex or the Marine, I don't remember if it was in English or Spanish or Clicky Language. But someone said, "We'll be back when you feel better." 

I woke up. The awful taste of Xanax on my dry tongue. I opened the curtains and stared at the ocean. Sandra called me down for breakfast. Kendra told me that we were having pancakes. "Did you sleep well, Grandpa?" Was that the Clicky Language? Why did the house have two floors? My granddaughters walked me down to breakfast. The pancakes were piled four high on my plate. Sorry bout the tacos, the doctor said. Next to my plate was my laptop, still open to the last document I was working on. Before I melted butter and poured syrup over my pancakes, I typed the title that just came to me: Past Perfect. 

The End.