Calm Before the Spectrum Storm

A care worker walks an autistic boy to school.

“And there would be sand covering all the cities and decomposing bodies…”

“Decomposing bodies…” I repeated mindlessly.

Thunder rumbled through the valley as we walked, one step at a time, heading toward the forest and down the hill. I glanced behind at the black cloud horizon and then at the clock on my work phone. He was dragging a branch through the gravel behind him, making a hissing white noise of a racket.

“And maybe there would be skeletons everywhere and maybe it would get to about two-thousand degrees…”

“We should hurry, Daniel, before it starts to rain.”

“And maybe the bones would all turn to fire and smoke and everyone would be screaming…”

I quickened pace ahead of him. I didn’t mind the rain. I had on a large canvas coat I had found in the garage with the German flag on either arm, which would keep me dry. I was more concerned about walking through the forest in a thunderstorm with a severely autistic boy, who was my responsibility, and his reaction to the bright flashes and torrential downpour whilst navigating the steep, slippery forest path toward the school. There was another thunderclap, louder this time.

“Maybe God’s angry.” He said.

“Why?”

“Because we’ve been bad!” he said.

“Why have we?”

“Hurting his planet!” he answered, giggling.

I sighed. “Maybe. Get rid of that stick, will you?”

“No!”

“Go on! I bet you can’t throw it over this bush, can you?”

It got stuck in the branches on top, hanging down six feet above his head. I heard him stop behind me as I walked. After about twenty paces, he wasn’t following, I turned and he was staring up at it, framed quite artistically against the dark grey cloud backdrop of panic.

All 6ft4 of his gangly framed stretched agonizingly toward his prize find, stuck up their mockingly in the branches. He leapt and leapt and was never anywhere near it, yet there was no frustration in his face. Just simplicity. He blinked hard. He tried shaking the branches underneath for five minutes but to no avail. The dark grey clouds had turned to black and were becoming intimidating. I thought about shouting his name, repeatedly, but though better of it. There was no way he was going to avert his attention away from his immediate goal of retrieving his beloved stick. Besides, he was too used to my voice now to find any authority in it. That was fine, I could wait. If we were caught in a storm I could deal with it. I would have to. These reassurances didn’t help the tingly feeling rising up through my knees to my thighs and into my aching stomach.

He was staring up at the stick with a blank expression. Something was ticking along in there, I thought, there must be some cogs spinning, not quite slotting into its neighbor’s, slipping out and trying again and again to catch. He walked to the side of the gravel road and picked up a stone, turned, and threw it toward the branch. The tree shook a little but the result was pitiful. I began looking around for another stick to tempt him away with, as time was ticking, and I wrapped myself in my canvas coat as the cold breeze drove through me.  I couldn’t find a suitable replacement.

I turned back to see him gone. In front of me were just two long, tall bushes stretching a few hundred meters either side of a dusty gravel road toward the top of the hill where we had been working. The tingly feeling became an itch as I shouted his name. No answer. I looked again at my phone. We were late.

The bush with the stick hanging from its branches began to bend toward the road, slowly but surely. A pink hand was gripping the bottom of the branch as his other arm stretched out toward his stick, which was dipping down toward him. He had really thought about this. I really wanted him to reach it. I could have walked the extra twenty paces back up the hill to retrieve it for him and we could have been on our way, but I wasn’t about to. I was interested now. His fingers shivered a mere three inches from the prize as he groaned and ached towards it. The branches twanged back toward the sky and came to rest as he let go. Branches whipped at his face as this happened and I heard a shriek as they did so. He growled in frustration and tried again. The branch dipped down again and he stretched out from the bush to the tip of the stick. The ends of his fingers whispered against the bark. The branch flew back up and came to rest following another cry. He tried again, putting all his wait on the branch as the stick arced down towards his outstretched hand. He let go of the branch, leaping toward the stick before it flew away again, and held on tight as he stumbled across the road.

“Yeeeah!” He rejoiced and became a painting, arms outstretched to the heavens, before resuming his dragging of the stick through the gravel toward me. I smiled.

“Well done, Dan.” I said.

He giggled.

We made it through the forest toward the school without any rain or thunder.

“I wonder where the storm went?” I asked.

“Maybe God’s fallen asleep!” said Dan.

“Does he fall asleep a lot, does he?” I smiled.

“All the time, he’s always sleeping. He’s a lazy God.” He said.

He was probably right. I let him keep the stick.