Annie O'Neill, Post-Gazette Tim Tullis helps Marianne Badaczewski, center, her daughter, Caroline, left, and family friend Valerie make Christmas cookies in their North HIlls home. Tullis, 50, became a part of the Badaczewski household in March when his father, Donald, died at 84. Click photo for larger image. Close-Up 2004 See other articles in this series Tomorrow: Pennsylvania enters the high-stakes world of legalized gambling

Marianne Badaczewski delights in the memory of a simple, unexpected gesture: the gargantuan, autistic man lightly brushing a smudge from her forehead.

Tim Tullis accompanied her in September on a social visit to a priest. Tullis has often been at her side since becoming part of the extended Badaczewski family in March, upon the death of the father who cared for him dutifully into old age.

Tullis is typically inscrutable, his autistic condition masking whatever feelings he possesses toward those around him. He speaks almost no sentences and few words, using a flat voice when he does. In the church in Castle Shannon, he said just one thing -- "Spot" -- as he rose from a chair, reached a hand toward Badaczewski and cleared her face of whatever had blemished it.

"It was so sweet, so gentle," said the McCandless homemaker who, while younger than the 50-year-old Tullis, has become his de facto mother.

His willingness to reach out to Badaczewski symbolized some of the past year's progress by a mentally disabled man whose parents carefully sheltered him from the world for much of his life. To them, his condition dictated that the less interaction he had with strangers, the better. On many occasions, when confronted with new situations or people, he'd cover his ears and squeal in panic.

Life has changed, however, in the environment of a warm, large household, a transition made easier by years of socialization coaching from mental retardation counselors he sees weekdays at Mercy Behavioral Health's Ross Center.

After Tullis' 84-year-old father -- Donald Tullis -- began treatments for cancer a year ago, coordinators from the Family Links program overseeing Tim's care had to expedite a more methodical transfer they'd planned to the Badaczewski household. Marianne Badaczewski makes her income as a caretaker for disabled individuals in the $150-a-day family living program run by Achieva, overseen for the county by Family Links and funded by the state.

No one was sure how the man with lifelong emotional detachment, who'd lived quietly for years with just his parents and then only his father, would react to residing with a bustling family that had six children, plus two other mentally disabled men already living permanently in its home. Tullis at least had been exposed to the family on brief weekly visits, and social workers and counselors figured he would do better there than in some agency's group home with total strangers.

Nine months later, and after some initial fear and resistance, Tullis appears to be one more comfortably accepted member of the household. He joined the family at a summer beach vacation, attends children's school activities and clasps his hands for prayer at dinner without prompting.

He's also lost about 50 pounds, getting under 300. He snacks on pretzels and fruit instead of chips and french fries, drinks water instead of soda, eats soup instead of burgers, because that's the way marathon runner Marianne Badaczewski runs her healthy household for everyone -- her husband, herself, the kids, the retarded men and two foster children who recently moved in.

"The thing with him, like most autistic people, is as long as their routine is protected, they're content," Badaczewski said.

And while Tullis' routine may not be the same as it was in the past, he seems to sense he is in good hands. The youngsters plop on his still-wide lap and draw an occasional smile as they talk to him. He beats keys up and down the family's piano with a child at his side. He attends church and other events and waits patiently as the Badaczewskis socialize. He visits a store or bookmobile without the agitation he used to show.

"We continue to want to integrate him into society as much as possible," said Sister Jeanne Hildenbrand, one of his Mercy Behavioral Health counselors.

But there are still things Tullis doesn't do. He's been unable or unwilling to take responsibility for most of his personal hygiene, with which Marianne and her husband, Larry, assist him. He never yielded to the family's three young sons as they tried to take him on neighborhood walks for exercise. Most of his communication remains single nouns, spoken or written.

"DAD ... TRAY... CHRYSLER ... AIRBAG ... DODGE CARAVAN" are among the words he scrawls on a tablet he's handed, making different associations from his memory.

He speaks of "Dad" a fair amount, but not about death. He receives occasional visits from his sisters in the area. His capacity to do anything more than what he already does is uncertain.

But in general, his adjustment to a new lifestyle has gone so well that no one wants to change it. There was talk initially that his time spent with the Badaczewskis was to be temporary. Officials from Family Links now say they'll look to make that permanent, although it could require a waiver of regulations that would normally restrict how many long-term residents the family assists.

There just aren't that many alternatives to the McCandless family in terms of who would be willing or able to care for Tullis so well.

"My understanding is everyone is in support of this continuing," said Anthony Drane, director of mental retardation services for Family Links. "Usually when a team is that solid, it's not a big issue" to accommodate.