“When is a tournament?”

“The next one locally is a couple of weeks away,” Tom said. “Saturday. You could ride with us; Lucia and I would be around to back you up, make sure you met the nice people.”

“There are not-nice people?”

“Well, yes. There are not-nice people everywhere, and a few always manage to get into the fencing groups. But most of them are nice. You might enjoy it.” He shouldn’t push, even though he felt more and more that Lou needed more exposure to the normal world, if you could call a bunch of historical re-creation enthusiasts normal. They were normal in their everyday lives; they just liked to wear fancy costumes and pretend to kill each other with swords.

“I do not have a costume,” Lou said, looking down at his old leather jacket with the cut-off sleeves.

“We can find you something,” Tom said. Lou would probably fit into one of his costumes well enough. He had more than he needed, more than most seventeeth-century men had owned. “Lucia could help us out.”

“I am not sure,” Lou said.

“Well, let me know next week if you want to try it. We’ll need to get your entry money in. If not, there’s another one later on.”

“I will think about it,” Lou said.

“Good. And about this other — I may know a lawyer who could help you. I’ll check with her. And what about the Center — have you talked to them?”

“No. Mr. Aldrin phoned me, but no one has said anything official and I think I should not say anything until they do.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to find out what legal rights you have ahead of time,” Tom said. “I don’t know for sure — I know the laws have changed back and forth, but nothing I do involves research with human subjects, so I’m not up on the current legal situation. You need an expert.”

“It would cost a lot,” Lou said.

“Maybe,” Tom said. “That is something else to find out. Surely the Center can get you that information.”

“Thank you,” Lou said.

Tom watched him walk away, quiet, contained, a little frightening sometimes in his own harmless way. The very thought of someone experimenting on Lou made him feel sick. Lou was Lou, and fine the way he was.

Inside, Tom found Don sprawled on the floor under the ceiling fan talking a blue streak as usual while Lucia stitched on her embroidery with that expression that meant “Rescue me!” Don turned to him.

“So… you think Lou’s ready for open competition, huh?” Don asked.

Tom nodded. “You overheard that? Yes, I do. He’s improved a lot. He’s fencing with the best we have and holding his own.”

“It’s a lot of pressure for someone like him,” Don said.

“ ‘Someone like him’… you mean autistic?”

“Yeah. They don’t do well with crowds and noise and stuff, do they? I read that’s why the ones who are so good at music don’t become concert performers. Lou’s okay, but I think you shouldn’t push him into tournaments. He’ll fold.”

Tom choked back his first thought and said instead, “Do you remember your first tournament, Don?”

“Well, yeah… I was pretty young… It was a disaster.”

“Yes. Do you remember what you told me after your first bout?”

“No… not really. I know I lost… I just fell apart.”

“You told me you’d been unable to concentrate because of the people moving around.”

“Yeah, well, it’d be worse for someone like Lou.”

“Don — how could he lose worse than you did?”

Don’s face turned red. “Well, I — he — it would just be worse for him. Losing, I mean. For me—”

“You went and drank a six-pack and threw up behind a tree,” Tom said. “Then you cried and told me it was the worst day of your life.”

“I was young,” Don said. “And I let it all out, and it didn’t bother me after that… He’ll brood.”

“I’m glad you’re worried about his feelings,” Lucia said. Tom almost winced at the sarcasm in her voice, even though it wasn’t directed at him.

Don shrugged, though his eyes had narrowed. “Of course I worry,” he said. “He’s not like the rest of us—”

“That’s right,” Lucia said. “He’s a better fencer than most of us and a better person than some.”

“Jeez, Luci, you’re in a bad mood,” Don said, in the jokey tone that Tom knew meant he wasn’t joking.

“You’re not improving it,” Lucia said, folding her needlework and standing; she was gone before Tom could say anything. He hated it when she said what he was thinking and then he had to cope with the aftermath, knowing that she had expressed the thoughts he tried to keep hidden. Now, predictably, Don was giving him a complicit man-to-man look that invited a shared view of women that he didn’t share.

“Is she getting… you know… sort of midlife?” Don asked.

“No,” Tom said. “She’s expressing an opinion.” Which he happened to share, but should he say that? Why couldn’t Don just grow up and quit causing these problems? “Look — I’m tired, and I have an early class tomorrow.”

“Okay, okay, I can take a hint,” Don said, clambering up with a dramatic wince and a hand to his back.

The problem was, he couldn’t take a hint. It was another fifteen minutes before he finally left; Tom locked the front door and turned off the lights before Don could think of something else to say and come back, the way he often did. Tom felt bad; Don had been a charming and enthusiastic boy, years ago, and surely he should have been able to help him grow into a more mature man than he’d become. What else were older friends for?

“It’s not your fault,” Lucia said from the hall. Her voice was softer now, and he relaxed a little; he had not been looking forward to soothing a furious Lucia. “He’d be worse if you hadn’t worked on him.”

“I dunno,” Tom said. “I still think—”

“Born teacher that you are, Tom, you still think you should be able to save them all from themselves. Think: there’s Marcus at Columbia, and Grayson at Michigan, and Vladianoff in Berlin — all your boys once and all better men for knowing you. Don is not your fault.”

“Tonight I’ll buy that,” Tom said. Lucia, backlit by the light from their bedroom, had an almost magical quality.

“That’s not all I’m selling,” she said, her voice teasing, and she dropped the robe.

It does not make sense to me that Tom would ask me again about entering a fencing tournament when I was talking about an experimental treatment for autism. I think about that on the drive home. It is clear that I am improving in my fencing and that I can hold my own with the better fencers in the group. But what does that have to do with the treatment or with legal rights?

People who fence in tournaments are serious about it. They have practiced. They have their own equipment. They want to win. I am not sure I want to win, though I do enjoy understanding the patterns and finding my way through them. Maybe Tom thinks I should want to win? Maybe Tom thinks I need to want to win in fencing so that I will want to win in court?

These two things are not connected. Someone can want to win a game or want to win a case in court without wanting to do both.

What is alike? Both are contests. Someone wins and someone else loses. My parents emphasized that everything in life is not a contest, that people can work together, that everyone can win when they do. Fencing is more fun when people are cooperating, trying to enjoy it with each other. I do not think of making touches on someone as winning but as playing the game well.

Both require preparation? Everything requires preparation. Both require — I swerve to avoid a bicyclist whose taillight is out; I barely saw him.

Forethought. Attention. Understanding. Patterns. The thoughts flick through my head like flash cards, each with its nested concepts topped by a neat word that cannot say everything.

I would like to please Tom. When I helped with the fencing surface and the equipment racks, he was pleased. It was like having my father back again, on his good days. I would like to please Tom again, but I do not know whether entering this tournament will do it. What if I fence badly and lose? Will he be disappointed? What does he expect?