Cousin Michael phones from Albuquerque one evening, all keyed up. He has a surprise and a request. His firm has chosen him to reorganize its foreign operation; it means a move to Brussels for three years at least.

“It's a wonderful boost for his career,” his wife Martha interjects, “but we’ve had to make so many arrangements so fast, we’ve run into a small problem.”

The good news is they've managed to rent their Albuquerque home for the full three years. The downside is: They must vacate immediately, and now they need a place to stay until their plane takes off from New York. Can we put them up for the few days?

We live so cleverly close to the airport, and we haven’t seen them in such a long time, I assure her we’d enjoy even a brief visit before they take off.

“Of course, Andy will be with us,” she adds.

“Of course,” I say.

I know something of our nephew Andy's problems, but I haven't seen him in a dozen years--not since he was two. A bright-eyed, smiling little bundle of pink and gold he was then, always reaching his little arms out to us, pointing and calling out names of things he recognized: “car”...”airplane”...”cookie.” But unfortunately, he didn’t continue that way. As he grew he turned into a silent somber child with special needs. A special school. Special teaching techniques. Special handling. Still, if Michael and Martha are comfortable about the visit, I feel sure we’ll handle it, too.

Dan and I drive to the airport to pick them up. Though we regularly exchange phone calls and picture postcards from vacations and trips, we haven't actually seen each other, in the flesh, in a long time. The moment they step through the arrival gate, we fall into each others’ arms and add to the hubbub in the terminal with our hugging and kissing and chatter. Except for Andy.

He stands apart, ten feet away from us. But I see him clearly. Tall and trim in his neat chinos and blue school blazer, he has the tilted-nose, sandy-haired, blue-eyed handsomeness you see in preppy clothing catalogs. He looks the typical cool teenager--too grown up to be hugged in public. I move toward him and reach out to shake his hand, but he walks past me and stations himself back-to-back with Martha. Over her shoulder, she whispers to him, “This is cousin Jean. Say ‘Hello’ to her.”

He extends his hands, but not to me. Instead, he seizes an empty luggage cart abandoned nearby. With his head tilted as if addressing the lightbulbs overhead, he wheels it around and around repeating: “Jean...Jean. Blue Jeans...White Jeans...Green Jeans...Tight Jeans. Blue Jeans...White Jeans... Green Jeans...Tight Jeans. Blue Jeans...White Jeans...”

Martha lays her hand on mine in a not-to-worry gesture. He does return when Michael and Dan arrive with the collected baggage and we head for the car.

For the short drive home, I sit in the back seat with Martha and Andy so Michael can ride up front. He's a big fellow and can use the extra legroom. As we settle in and start fastening our seat belts, Martha’s hand accidentally brushes against Andy's knee. He jerks his leg away.

“Why are you doing that?”

“I didn't mean it; I'm sorry.”

“When will you stop doing that?

“I won't do it again.” Her tone is set at soft and calm.

“Will you stop in September? Will you stop in October? Will you stop in November? Will you stop in December?”

“It won't happen again, I promise.”

“What does 'I promise' mean?”

“It means I'll do what I say.”

We ride in uneasy silence for a long while until Michael, up front, spots something on the car dashboard.

“That blinking red light mean anything?” he asks Dan. Before Dan can reply, Andy interrupts.

“What does 'I feel red' mean?”

Martha nods mechanically; she’s obviously answered this question before.

“It means you feel angry.”

“What does 'I feel green' mean?”

“It means you feel jealous.”

“What does 'I feel blue' mean?”

“That's enough, Andy,” his father cuts in quietly...firmly.

Another stillness, like a heavy fog, hems us in again. Dan breaks through and explains the blinking red light: “It means nothing--just a loose bulb. We have more annoying problems with this heap. It’s taken to stalling in traffic. Doesn’t accelerate fast enough to change lanes safely. And it makes weird noises no one can explain. We’ve put up with it long enough; ten years is a lifetime for a car. We'll be getting rid of it one of these days.”

As if on cue, we hear a heavy thumping sound. But it isn't the car; it's Andy hammering on the window with his fist in a slow steady beat.

“That's not a good idea, Andy,” Martha whispers. “Put your hand down.”

He does. He puts his hand in his pocket, rests his head against the window and sets to lapping at the glass with his tongue.

Neither Michael nor Martha say anything more for the rest of the ride. It’s clear they’re close to exhaustion. They’ve had a long trip; have another one ahead of them. And Andy is only fourteen.