Saying the unsayable

After a busy morning at the office negotiating with the author of Anthropomorphic Resonance for Beginners, I managed to escape to catch the last races and Longchamps and was pretty tired by the time I got back to rue de Bac.

I was reading about the latest government scandal and about to doze off when the phone rang. I put Le Figaro down and answered.

"Hello, Andrew," I said.

"Good guess, Commander," he replied casually. "I need your help on something. You're a PR guru and wordsmith - "

"I haven't done PR for years, Andrew, and that was for the government when I was travelling in steel."

"Well, this is for the government, too, and battleship style PR is what I need," he replied.

"It was a light cruiser."

"I won't tell, if you don't," he said. "Look, there is a serious problem in the US, and it's something that no one will address."

"The role of the Vice President?" I asked.

"No, the strength of the handicapped lobby," he said, his voice deadly serious. "No politician in his right mind will oppose any proposed program for the disabled. Only the lamest of lame ducks would ever contemplate it."

"A lame duck might need some disability concessions," I said.

"Very good. Ha-ha. But the problem is very real," he said.

"You've been talking to a constiutent again, haven't you? I warned you about that," I said.

Andrew Trumbull's family had been talking to constituents for more than 160 years. His family had been ambassadors, representatives, senators and governors from western Massachusetts since Van Buren was president.

"I had a school principal drop in to see me," he began. "He's not a constiutent, but from New York. He was a friend of Matt's from his Bowling Green days."

Matthew Ryan, PhD., was a classmate of Andrew and me. He was now headmaster of Adams Hall, and had an on-again, off-again marriage with Andrew's cousin, Emily Trumbull, but that's another story.

"This principal told me that in his primary school of 700 pupils, he has 22 autistic children. Each one has his own assistant, and every two has a teacher with an MA in special education."

"That's thirty three staff," I said.

"Yes, and there are several special needs administrators, coordinators and extra medical personnel," Andrew said.

"Why are are there so many autistic children? Are they near a nuclear power station?"

"I'll get to that," Andrew said. "No one disputes that all childeren need care, help and teaching, but his complaint was that his most qualified staff were spending all their time with those children least able to make a contribution to the community.

"He's a very caring man. High values, and comes from a dedicated Christian tradition, but he simply asked me, 'Shouldn't the able children have the same resources allocated to them for their eductation?'"

"That's what equality of opportunity means, isn't it?" I asked.

"You'd think so," Andrew sighed. "I don't want to jeopardize opportunities for the disabled, but this pusilanimous acquiescence at the expense of mainstream education needs attention, and everyone is too afraid to do it."

"And that's why you called me?"

"Yes. No. I mean, I don't want you to do anything about it, but is there a way into this problem?" he asked.

I thought a moment.

"I think only one thing will work," I said.

"What's that?" he asked, not daring to be enthusiastic.

"The issue has to be raised by one or more representatives, senators or governors who are themselves suffering from some disability," I said. "If anyone else does it, they're dead meat."

"There are a few I'd like to handicap myself," Andrew said.

"I know what you mean," I said, tossing my Longchamps betting slips into the wastebasket. "Oh, you were going to tell me why your principal friend thought there were so many autistic children at his school."

"The state of New York requires every child to have 22 injections before he can enter public school."