As Dog Is My Witness Another Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,2

I’ve never actually met on the basis of a uniform with wings on it, issued by a corporation interested in keeping costs low, does not make for a relaxing experience. And you can’t make up for that with a bag of pretzels and a Diet Coke.

Back on the ground, in cold, windy Newark, New Jersey, I started to feel empowered again. After all, here I controlled my own destiny. I picked up my battered blue minivan from Cut Rate Parking, used my EZ Pass to gain access to the New Jersey Turnpike, and fought the final stages of rush hour toward Midland Heights. Familiarity may breed contempt, but at least it’s, um, familiar. Not having to check a map every fifteen seconds, which I had to do in L.A., was a huge and welcome relief.

I pulled into my driveway, hungry and tired, at 8:15. Luckily, I travel light, so the canvas bag holding my screenwriter equipment and my one carry-on case were the only items I had to maneuver into the house. But after only four days, I had already gotten out of the habit of wearing a heavy coat, and was already trying to remember why I didn’t live in a warmer climatic zone.

Entering the house was no small feat, since four small feet were waiting for me just inside the door. Mr. Warren T. Dog (the “T” is for “The”), the beagle/basset mix we’d liberated from a shelter not long before, can hear a fly walking on the outside wall of a building two blocks away, and so he heard me coming up the steps to the front door. When I opened it, he was squealing and pacing in front of the door, making it difficult to get by without petting him, so I patted his head. He looked disappointed, as if I should have immediately taken him for a walk, or at least fed him some hamburger meat.

Ethan, as twelve years old as a kid with Asperger’s Syndrome can get (which means he was often twelve going on nine), was sprawled about the sofa in the living room, one foot, with shoe, on the cushion, and one off, in a T-shirt and shorts. He didn’t know it was in the twenties outside, because twelve-year-old boys don’t have nerve endings. He was staring blankly at a Disney Channel movie called “The Luck of the Irish,” which they run about every 20 minutes. I was hoping some day to make as much from screenwriting in a year as the guy who wrote this TV movie gets in a month of reruns.

“Hi, Dad.” For all he noticed, I could have just come home from getting a gallon of milk at the convenience store. Depending on to whom one speaks, Asperger’s Syndrome (AS, for those of us in the know) is either a form of, or similar to, high-functioning autism. Kids like Ethan, who are on the higher-functioning end of the autism spectrum, are not severely hampered in their lives, but need help understanding the world’s finer points—like the fact that when their fathers leave home for four days, it’s not the same as a trip to the neighborhood video store.

“Hi, kiddo. Come here.” I held out my arms to embrace him, and he looked at me like I had to be insane. “Come on.”

He glanced at the TV screen again, but he knew I was serious. He stood, walked to me, and put his arms around me awkwardly, making sure he was positioned to keep his eyes turned toward the kid on TV who was turning into a leprechaun right before the big basketball game. No, I’m not kidding.

“I’m glad to see you,” I told my son.

“Uh-huh,” he answered lovingly. I let him go because two better huggers were headed my way from the kitchen.

Leah, newly nine years old, was, unsurprisingly, faster than her mother, but I had to bend to receive the flying hug she offered. It was worth it, since Leah hugs whole-armedly, essentially wrapping herself around the huggee in an outpouring of affection. A Leah hug is worth flying 3,000 miles.

“Hello, pussycat,” I said. Despite my general indifference to cats, I used it as a term of affection. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too, Daddy,” came the chirpy voice a quarter inch away from my left ear. “Did you bring me something?”

I put my daughter down. “You’ll see when I unpack my bag,” I told her.

“That means yes.” She eyed my bag the way Warren eyes a