Читать книгу A Thin Place - Jack Peterson - Страница 24

April 17, 1992

Angels Camp, California

Watching the early morning edition of CBS news at the kitchen table had become a habit since his retirement. For Crockett, today’s featured story was political, making it a bit more interesting than the usual trivia. It covered the upcoming forty-seventh anniversary of President Harry Truman’s first briefing of the Manhattan Project, outlining the imminent completion of the world’s first atomic bomb. Even though Truman was Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s fourth-term Vice President at the time the bomb was developed, the project had been so secret that Truman had never been informed of its existence. It was only after Roosevelt died and Truman was sworn in that he was told the bomb was in its final stages of development somewhere in New Mexico. In his diary that night, Truman noted only that he had been informed that the U.S. was perfecting an explosive great enough to destroy the whole world.

Crockett turned away from the television, reflecting what must have been a very traumatic day for Truman. In President Truman’s case, it is what he knew that caused him grave concern. For Crockett, it was what he didn’t know that made his stomach churn. The unknown was more intimidating than the known. He was sure that knowing so little about the weapon and its potential long-term consequences had made Truman’s decision to actually use the atomic bomb very difficult. Crockett felt a bomb of a different type in his gut. He wanted to know what was causing autism. He had pieced together bits of information, but the unanswered questions were overwhelming the trivial number of answers. The only defining conclusion he had was that both the cause and the cure for autism were unknown. He even picked Elena’s brain, but her information proved equally sketchy. Her focus was understandably on treatment, his on the cause. Find the cause and the discovery of a way to stop the spread of autism would follow. He was sure of it.

Anna barged in with an armload of groceries. “Why the sad face?” she asked,

“I didn’t think it showed,” Crockett mumbled without looking up, his voice barely audible.

Anna quickly dumped the groceries on the counter, and confronted him. “I’ve been looking at your grumpy ass for days! Are going to share what’s eating you or do I have to guess?”

Crockett looked up, his frown giving way to a hint of a smile. He appreciated Anna’s directness. “I’ve spent the last two months running into dead ends, researching a subject that, apparently, even our own government doesn’t know a damned thing about. Every time I call someone in Washington to inquire about what’s going on in those hallowed hallways as it relates to autism, all I get is the runaround from some pompous politician or they refer me to some agency that’s equally unresponsive!”

While sympathetic, Anna became uncharacteristically stern, leaning onto the table within inches of his face. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“I am not sure there is anything I can do. I’ve pretty much exhausted my resources.”

Anna turned, quickly swinging open the door to the back deck. “Look out there!” she demanded, pointing to the hillside. “It’s Angels Camp. All there is to do around here is fish, chop wood, eat, and die! Elena and Terry will always make the right decisions for your grandson. If you’re troubled over all this, get the hell out of the house and go get your own answers. Maybe, you should take another look up there!”

Crockett didn’t need to look up. He knew what up there meant. Hanging above the kitchen door was a plaque Anna had given him for his sixtieth birthday. Made of driftwood, it had two vultures carved into the face, both sitting on what looked to be a scrubby Joshua tree branch. As one vulture looked to the other, the caption below said it all. Patience Hell! I’m going out and kill something!

“You’ve made your point!” Crockett said, still ignoring the plaque.

Anna’s voice became even louder and emphatic. “Enough said! Now, what are you going to do about it?”

That night, Crockett lay in bed. After rehashing his morning conversation with Anna several times over, his last thoughts were of President Truman. The president was fearful of the bomb because he actually saw it and knew the devastation it could cause. It was very predictable. Multiply the bomb’s effective range by the number of people below, and his staff could calculate within a few percentage points how many people would die. In his case, he had choice. The bomb carried options. It could be disarmed, dropped, or not dropped. There were no choices with autism, no way to disarm the metaphorical bomb because, without knowing the cause, finding the triggering mechanism, there was no way to stop the carnage.

By morning, Crockett had made his decision. The two vultures on the plaque were right. He would go to Washington, DC. He wanted answers, not bullshit. Patience had never been one of his virtues. The carnage had to stop.