Death of a Domestic Diva Read Online Free PDF Page B

explain to him why I couldn’t wear my red Tyra Grimes T-shirt to see Guy—or any red T-shirt, for that matter. Of course, I had no way of knowing that later on he’d get a personal demonstration of the reason that he’d never forget.
    An hour later, Owen and I were at Stillwater Farms, sitting in rockers on the back porch of the main building—an old farm house with lots of additions—with Guy between us. We rocked and whittled, not making anything in particular, not saying anything in particular, although every now and again Guy hummed.
    Stillwater—named that on account of the nearby Stillwater River—is a home for autistic people, about 15 miles north of Paradise, where the residents are more or less as independent as they can be. Some of them come just for the day. They all have routines and jobs, working in the pumpkin patches or flower gardens for the annual fall and spring sales, or taking care of the Angora goats, whose wool is shorn and sold every year. Guy’s about fifteen years older than I am, and he’s been there since he was twenty. Uncle Horace and Aunt Clara saved every penny above and beyond basic needs in a trust fund for Guy, so he will be able to stay at Stillwater the rest of his days. Plus after they died, I sold their house—just as their will ordered—and put that money into his trust fund. I’m Guy’s official guardian. I think leaving me the laundromat was their way of saying thanks, because they knew that of course I’d take on the role. Guy’s more like my brother than a cousin.
    Guy always likes it when I visit. I always enjoy stopping by, too, because I like Guy, and because visiting always reminds me that the truth is in how you look at things. Some folks think it’s sad, Guy and the others having autism severe enough that they must live in this quiet place, unable to make choices about careers and mates and such that the rest of us do.
    What I see is that each of them’s found a way to work with the life fate’s dealt them and to find a niche up at Stillwater, a way to do things that matter to them and to other people. The way I figure it, that’s all any of us needs to do. Guy’s specialty—growing pumpkins for the annual Stillwater Hayride and Pumpkin Picking Day—is closer than a lot of folks ever get to really making a difference in the world.
    This day, Guy gave me a big hug and even gave Owen a long look, which was progress. Being a person with autism, Guy really likes routine and gets upset about anything that throws off his understanding of his world. Owen had only been coming with me off and on for the past three months—we’d been dating for the six months since I’d taken his class, “A Review of Popular Movements,” up at the junior college.
    Most of the younger students seemed to think the class was going to cover dance steps to go with pop songs and ended up being disappointed and dropping out, so the class ended up being me, a young man who slept a lot, and two elderly sisters who giggled a lot because they thought Owen was cute (which he is).
    Owen was glad that I paid attention to his lectures on the Women’s Rights Movement and socialism and so forth. At my suggestion, Owen changed his course name to “Influential Sociopolitical Movements of the Twentieth Century,” (so he still gets only four students, but they at least all pay attention), and since then we’ve been dating, and Owen’s come to meet Guy a few times. Owen quickly understood how important Guy is to me, a fact that makes me like Owen even more than the other fact that makes me like him—we can talk about anything.
    Now, as we rocked and whittled, we mostly looked out at the pretty day and the fields that were being tilled for the gardens the residents would tend. Guy and some others would take care of the pumpkin fields, further out.
    But every now and then I looked over at Guy.