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Huey looked out the car window. “There it is, Uncle Donald!” He could see Grandma Duck’s farm at the end of the road. Louie and Dewey waved to a cow in the field.

    That’s the opening page of Wise Grandma Duck.

    My son was read to from day one. Somewhere between ages two and three, he taught himself to read.

    My son’s name is Hannibal.

    From ages five to nine, it was just he and I. Every night, we would read a story; I would read a page; he would read the next page.

    I was a full-time college student and money was scarce. During those years, my son and I were very close. I knew his every quirk, every expression; I could hear what he was saying and know what he really meant. We were partners. I went to school while he was in school. I worked at a radio station and could take him with me. I did not go anywhere without him. What precious little security either of us had during those years, we found in each other.

    Every night, for about a week, Hannibal had selected Wise Grandma Duck for us to read. One night when he asked — he always asked — if I wanted to read a book, I said, “Sure. Anything but Wise Grandma Duck!”

    He thought that was pretty funny. He brought in another book, but had Wise Grandma Duck hidden behind it. At the last second, he whipped out the duck book. The louder, the more melodramatic my protestations, the more he laughed.

    It became a tradition. He would hide the duck book under my pillow, under the mattress, behind the curtain; he would sneak it in inside his pajama top or between two other books. “Stop! What have you got?”

    He would innocently hold up some other book, barely able to suppress his giggle. Then, when I least suspected it, he would whip out the duck book, like an ace in the hole, and I would launch into the obligatory protest.

    Living with Hannibal was kind of like living with Gandhi: he was peaceful, laid back, intelligent, thoughtful, and loving. I graduated college, found a job, met and married a wonderful woman. Life was grand. The Cleavers had nothing on us.

    Then came the teen years.

    Hannibal started losing interest in school. Somehow, when I was not looking, an ugly distance crept in between us. He no longer confided in me; he no longer seemed to give two hoots in Hades what I thought about anything. His crisp enunciation gave way to a sullen, monosyllabic grunt.

An ugly distance crept in between us.

    Other parents assured me that this was normal behavior. For theirs, maybe. I naively but firmly believed that Hannibal and I were different, that we had stronger bonds than most.

    Then came trouble with the police — nothing felonious, but serious enough. I found myself often in the ridiculous position of explaining that the real Hannibal was a kind, wonderful kid. But they did not know him; their only history with this guy was of the negative variety.

    I took vacation days from work to sit with him on the hard, narrow benches while we awaited Hannibal’s turn before the Judge. I met with the public defenders, the social workers, and the this-can’t-be-happening probation officer.

    I knew that if I could not reach Hannibal, nobody could. I tried being tough; I tried being understanding; I tried being philosophical. I was losing him and had no idea why. I let him know that I loved him and that if he wanted to go to Hell, I was ready to go with him.

    He grew taller than me and wore bigger shoes. He smelled peculiar. His features and his voice changed.

    About all we had in common was a love of comedy and classic rock and roll. Every now and then, Hannibal would bring in a tape and play a piece of music for me. I would talk (but mostly listen to him talk) about Led Zeppelin or Jimi Hendrix as long as he would stay in the room.

    There was a growing dread, a constant fear in the back of my mind that made it difficult to concentrate on anything else. I was just as helpless and heartsick as a human can be.

    One day I found a cassette tape lying on top of a note. Hannibal had written-in his barely legible scrawl-“listen to this when you get a chance.” I figured it was another really cool bass run or guitar riff that he wanted me to hear. I put the tape aside for a while and finished doing some reading. I wanted to make sure I listened to the tape before Hannibal got home so that we would have something, any little thing, to talk about. I put the tape into my machine and heard Hannibal’s deep voice-enunciating clearly. I do not need the tape recording to remember that moment; it is burned into my heart for all eternity:

Huey looked out the car window. “There it is, Uncle Donald!” He could see Grandma Duck’s farm at the end of the road. Louie and Dewey waved to a cow in the field.