Black Fridays by Michael Sears Page B

setting, including the coffee shop across Amsterdam. I was beginning to get him to accept food that was not just white or yellow. Green was still in the long-term-planning stage.
    I kept a stack of books on the sideboard, which I ran to frequently for advice, solace, or courage. Case histories, personal stories, theories, and practices. Sometimes the books helped. But as Mamma had pointed out, what worked best was simply listening to my near-nonverbal son. He made his likes and dislikes known quite clearly.
    Escalators were not allowed under any circumstances. Elevators, on the other hand, held no terrors. He had traveled in them from the womb. He walked in, the doors closed, and when they reopened, the universe had changed. It was a form of magic with which he was quite familiar.
    The black and white tiles in the lobby of the Ansonia presented a surprising challenge. There was a wide expanse of large white tiles, interspersed in an irregular pattern with black tiles. They were the problem.
    The first time, the elevator doors opened and the Kid froze.
    “Come on, Kid. It’s no problem.” I stepped out, placing a foot on a tile of each color.
    “Nggnngnggg.” It came out half growl, half cry. It was a sound no child should be able to make.
    As I turned to hold the elevator doors for him, I took my foot off the black tile. He relaxed.
    “Let’s go, bud. Doors are closing.”
    Elevator rules: you never let the doors close once the adult has stepped out. The Kid carefully stepped out onto a white tile.
    “Hole,” he shuddered, pointing to the offending black tile.
    Whether it was a hole in the floor or the firmament, I never learned. But I had already come to respect his fears—and fight only the battles that mattered. We crossed the floor in an awkward pas de deux, garnering smiles from the staff and neighbors we passed. Two days later, he had Heather avoiding the black tiles as well.

TUESDAY.
    Spud was unshaven, wearing the same clothes as the night before, and slumped over the little conference table—fast asleep.
    “Rise and shine, Spuddy-boy.” It had been a rough night with the Kid, and I had no patience.
    Spud jerked erect, startled to find that his bedroom had been transformed into a ten-by-ten gray box.
    “You need a minute? Want to get yourself some coffee or something?” I tried to put as much sarcasm into my voice as possible. The Kid had been up twice with night terrors—aptly named events that I was assured were “perfectly normal” and which had left me with a sleepless adrenaline hangover and a very short fuse.
    “Whoa. Sorry. I mean, no, I’m fine.” He was barely registering my presence, still shaking his head and blinking his eyes.
    “Big night?” I drew it out.
    He finally heard the edge in my voice.
    “Wait. No. Not at all. I’ve been right here all night. I must have dozed off.”
    I looked around the room. The trash can in the corner was overflowing with a cardboard pizza box and at least a six-pack’s worth of empty Diet Coke cans. He had somehow managed to shut off the damn AC vent. I cut him some slack and softened my tone.
    “Sorry. Take your time. Pull yourself together and, when you’re ready, give me a report.”
    “I’m good.” He cowboyed up.
    “I thought this was going to be cake. No problem, I think you said.”
    He nodded ruefully. “It started that way. But when I ran the final spreadsheet, I found there were a whole bunch of trades missing.”
    “Okay. So you didn’t pull them all in when you grabbed the data.” Garbage in, garbage out.
    “First thing I checked. But the system dropped selective trades, not just a column.”
    That was odd. “So how’d you catch it?”
    “Brian did a big trade back in late June. He was psyched about it. It was an unwind of a position he had been working on for over a month. He took me for beers that night to celebrate.”
    “And that trade didn’t show on the computer run?”
    “Right. It should have jumped right out on