“Do you have anything like this for women?” I ask the cashier, nodding at the display.

“Those are for women,” she says.

I place the vibrating sex toy, which is packed in a plastic container with the words “Diving Dolphin” written in a wavy blue script, on the counter along with my American Express card. It’s been about one week since Deb and I argued at the Wig and Pen. That’s one week without sex.

“They are?” I say. I pick up a package of the Viagra Substitute, which appears to contain two pills. I scan the label. “No,” I say placing the packet of pills back in their box. “They’re for men.”

The cashier removes the Diving Dolphin from its package. It’s a complicated-looking thing with two vibrating eggs, each fitting into separate rubber compartments. She inserts two double A’s and pushes a button on the little plastic control panel. The Diving Dolphin hums loudly. “I might argue,” she says.

I laugh. “Yeah,” I say, “but what I need is something that makes a woman, you know … want to, you know … in the first place.”

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"Which kid?" I said.

"You know which kid," said Doc. "Your mentally retarded kid, Mike."

"Yeah?" I said.

"And I think," Doc went on, "there should be a fence. Right here. Along here. You should build it. Because I just can't do it anymore."

"What kind of fence?" I said.

"I don't care," said Doc. "You just need to get it done! Chain-link. Picket. I don't care! Just a fence. That will stop him."

I thought about it for a few beats. I had just completed a 6-foot picket fence around my backyard. I thought this would contain my 11-year-old son, who has been diagnosed with what they call "severe and profound" mental retardation and autism. Mike was happy in the fenced-in backyard. For about a week. But then he began to search for ways to escape. And he found them. Through the house, through the garage and out. Simple enough. To actually contain him, we would need to watch him closely every minute of every day and night.

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