Page 86 of What Boys Learn

“Curtis, Iamresponsible. He has my genes. He was shaped by the fetal environment within my womb. I didn’t beat him or ignore him or warp him in some other despicable way, but Imadehim.”

Never mind, I thought, that any seven-year-old’s brain would have been shaped by natureandnurture. The perfect parent might have modified seemingly innate tendencies. More enriched learning opportunities. More socializing with others. More love. More discipline. Better food. Better toys. Brighter sunshine. All of it!

“Let’s talk about his assets,” Curtis said after a respectful delay. “In many ways, Benjamin is the very opposite of my Menkoka research subjects. Goal setting, for example. Benjamin excels at that. Intelligence: no problem there. Impulse control, however . . .” Curtis held out a level hand, seesawing it. “Sometimes very strong, sometimes not. But that’s something we can work on.”

I was waiting for more good news, trying to hold back from taking my own turn listing Benjamin’s positive behaviors. He was protective, sensitive, and dutiful—at times! And yet we were here because of the other times. Those brief, regrettable moments that could change a life’s trajectory.

“Has Benjamin told you something specific that the police need to know?”

Curtis looked taken aback.

“You’re upset.”

Of course I was upset!

“The answer is no,” he said.

I wanted to believe him. There was no reasonnotto believe him.

Except, of course, for the rules of confidentiality. The question wasn’t whether Benjamin had been a threat—to Izzy or anyone else. From Curtis’s logical and legally defensible perspective, the question was whether Benjamin was a threatnow.

Curtis smiled, and this time, it was a relaxed smile, open and sincere, even ebullient.

“Abby, you can’t believe how frustrating it is, working day in, day out with psychopathic boys who are . . . may I be frank? . . . stupid and impulsive. They don’t try to evade most negative consequences, because they simply don’t care. Sometimes, you can reward them—a candy bar here, a video game there. But you can’t punish them. To find a young male subject with psychopathic traits who will actuallylistenandlearn, that’s nothing short of remarkable.”

I sat back in my chair, stunned.

Psychopathic traits. We might as well have been using the single-noun term.Psychopath. My son, a psychopath.

Not yet a psychopath with a long criminal record. Not a psychopath whose every behavior was a flagrant violation of societal norms. But that was only on account of his youth. With time, there’d be more opportunities for bad choices and even worse influences.

In a shaky voice, I said, “I’m grateful for your candor, Curtis. I really am. But I thought you weren’t prepared to apply that sort of label.”

“I didn’t sayantisocial personality disorder with psychopathic traits. We already agreed that’s not a diagnosis for anyone under eighteen.”

“But . . . traits.”

“Traits!” he called out. “Traits! Traits! It’s not such a scary word. It shouldn’t be.” He was still smiling. “I’ll be honest, Abby. Many of my clients frustrate me. I can’t cure them, given the nature of the pathology. I can’t sufficiently mentor or mold them. At Menkoka, two-thirds of our released juveniles commit crimes again, and we’re supposed to be happy, because it’s not the ninety-eight percent recidivism we see in the general psychopath population. But that still means theaverageMenkoka resident is an abject failure.”

I tried to keep focusing on his words, instead of rushing ahead into the future—trying to determine how we’d find a new therapist, wondering what sort of interventions had been shown to work, if there was a developmental window that closed during adolescence, and how I could make the most of the time left.

“Benjamin is different,” Curtis said, pulling me back to the present. “Give him a chance, Abby. Giveusa chance.”

“I’ll need some referrals. I have to help Benjamin transition to another therapist he trusts. I’m indebted to you, for all you’ve done. But you’re leaving town soon, to be with your father and work on your book.”

“Yes,but. Let me think on it, Abby.”

Curtis’s lengthening silence told me that our meeting was finished. No more diagnostic revelations. No more claims for the efficacy of treatment. I stood up, feeling numb, and only remembered as I neared the door that Benjamin had no idea the police had found their man.

“I’ll show him the news about Christopher Weber when we get home. I’ll tell him it’s all over. But he might need to process it all with someone. Will you talk to him, tomorrow?”

Curtis nodded. “Of course. But you have to realize—he won’t be half as relieved as you are. Benjamin always knew he was innocent.Youwere the one who doubted.”

30

The day after Curtis talked to me about Benjamin’s diagnosis, I met with Dean Duplass, who said the school would be giving me two weeks of compensation as an apology for my confusing dismissal and for replacing me as the summer skills counselor. That afternoon, I returned my signed contract to Grove and got an email outlining the summer schedule. The killer had been found. The police didn’t seem interested in talking to Benjamin anymore. My life was being mended, one piece at a time. So why did it still feel so tattered?

On Friday, I drove Willa to a Home Depot so she could look for a replacement screen door for her mobile home. When news about the criminal investigation came on the radio, we stopped chatting to listen. The reporter explained that Weber’s car was frequently spotted around the North Shore. Briefly, the twenty-two-year-old worked as an assistant in a mechanic’s shop, where he spent his free time fixing up the ailing MG he’d bought for a few thousand dollars. Then he got a stint as a pool and tennis club janitor, but only for about six weeks.