Chapter 14
A
lly Jensen, or Al, as she liked to be called, loved her job at the Philadelphia City Dump. First of all, she didn’t have to deal with all that crap that regular office-goers had to deal with. No business suits, no power lunches, no squabbling over drab cubicles pasted over with sickening cartoons that made fun of the office life, or cute little kittens with pink bows. She had real cats at her job, tough cats that roamed through garbage and didn’t like to be touched.
Of course she heard her share of ribbing—your office is a dump—your life is garbage—you’re “wasting” your day—
Hardy, ha, ha. She didn’t care, she could take it.
It wasn’t that she loved garbage or anything, that would be mental; she just had a healthy appreciation for one man’s trash being another man’s treasure. If you really wanted to learn about another culture, screw their customs; go through their garbage. But perhaps the main reason Ally Jensen could tolerate her job was because of her disability. She suffered from complete congenital anosmia. She was born without a sense of smell. The job was a perfect fit. She loved being privy to things the average guy or gal wasn’t. It was astounding the things people threw away. After her first few months on the job, she felt she knew more about human nature than any psychotherapist with a PhD and a healthy dose of neurotic clients.
People didn’t throw away just garbage. People and companies alike dumped brand-new things, perfectly good items. Stores off-loaded surpluses, and lost souls dumped slightly imperfect items they were too lazy or stupid to fix. In her modest one-bedroom on South Street, Ally had a practically brand-new television, a DVD player that was perfectly functional as long as you didn’t need to rewind, a Picasso print with just a hint of mustard (and really, who can tell, it was from his Cubist years), and a frame with the tiniest of cracks in the corner, which she’d expertly concealed with a little roll of black electrical tape, also courtesy of the dump.
She worked the morning shift from seven to three and besides the cats, she mostly worked alone. She’d seen her share of desperate people coming to the dump in search of an “accidental throw.” Diamond rings, car and house keys, wallets, cash, papers, driver’s license, green cards, birth certificates—you name it, they came and looked for it. Over the past two years, Ally had created categories of dumping:
Accidental throws
Regrettable throws
Revenge throws
Wasteful or lazy throws
Necessary throws
Shameful throws
Regrettable and revenge throws were usually by-products of a soured relationship. Shameful throws were how she helped her guy friends build up their porno collections, and wasteful or lazy throws were what she lived for. Oh yes, Al knew the things we threw away said a lot more about us than the things we kept, which is why she always went through a potential boyfriend’s garbage before committing to the relationship. She could learn more from one bag than it took her friends weeks, even months, to ascertain. And by then it was too late—they were attached and doomed for heartache.
Yes, all you needed to work at the dump was a deep appreciation for the complexity of human nature and loads and loads of rubber gloves. This morning she was filled to the brim with both. She sat up in her little shack overlooking the dump, very much like a lifeguard’s house, big enough for her, two chairs, and her most recent possession—Tim Brady’s garbage. Nobody was going to disturb her this morning. She didn’t know who the motley crew working their way toward her shack-on-sticks were, or why they were all waving their hands about, but there was no way they were getting in. Ally Jensen had love garbage to go through. Visiting hours were closed.
“Up there,” Lacey signed. All five members of the unhappy group tilted their heads back and looked at the little shack lording over garbage land.
“Up there how?” Robert asked. This was his one day a week off, and he’d made it clear all he wanted to do was get a Philly cheesesteak, sit in the park with binoculars, and try to lip-read gay hearing men. Garbage was not his thing.
Also along for the ride was Maria, who had been threatened with deportation if she didn’t come; Kelly, who was the only one of them pretending that spending a Saturday digging through garbage was just what she had in mind (Lacey wanted to ask her why she didn’t bring the children; this would have been the perfect family outing); and of course, Alan. She could always count on Alan. Even if things weren’t quite back to normal for the two of them, he was still willing to wade through mounds of muck. Maybe she should marry him here, at the dump. ’Til we pass out do us part.
“There’s someone in there,” Lacey said. She pointed, and everyone turned to see the tip of a baseball cap bobbing in and out of view. There was no obvious way up to the elevated shack, no stairs visible. Lacey picked up a stone lying by her foot. Alan grabbed it from her just as she pulled her arm back for the throw.
“Really? That’s your solution?” Alan said. He tossed the stone over the fence. An enormous orange cat flew out from beneath a pile of garbage where it landed. “Whoops,” Alan said. “Sorry, kitty.” The group started to circle the lookout, hoping to discover the way in.
“I’m climbing the fence,” Lacey said.
“We don’t know what section your garbage is in,” Kelly said.
“Let’s look where the garbage is freshest!” Maria said, donning a surgical mask and sticking a plastic bag over each foot. Robert walked behind Maria, holding his nose but imitating her walk to perfection. When she turned around to see what the commotion was, she actually blushed and laughed.
“I’ve changed my mind about cheesesteak,” Robert said, wrinkling his nose. Maria started talking to one of the cats in Spanish. Lacey started to climb the fence. A few seconds later, Alan tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the shack. A window was thrown open and the head belonging to the baseball cap was leaning out the window. All Lacey could see were a pair of eyes and a huge mouth moving.
“Hey,” she yelled. “Get DOWN.” Kelly interpreted. “HEY,” she yelled again.
“She can’t hear you,” Alan said.
“GET DOWN!”
“She’s Deaf.”
“I don’t care if—she’s what?” The girl suddenly stopped screaming. A rope lowered from the window of the shack, and the girl in the baseball cap slid down. Lacey hopped off the fence and stood with her hands on her hips as the girl marched up to her and stared. Lacey slid her eyes to Alan. Alan shrugged.
“Tell her I can’t smell,” the young girl said. She held her nose and shook her head.
“Did she say I smell?” Lacey asked Alan.
“She said she can’t smell,” Alan said.
“She can’t smell what?” Lacey said.
“Anything, I guess,” Alan said.
“Does she have a cold?” Lacey said.
“No, I don’t have a cold,” the girl interrupted. “I’m smelling impaired.”
“Her nose is Deaf!” Robert said. His joke was accompanied by a huge laugh, his own.
“He’s hearing impaired too?” the girl asked.
“We’re Deaf,” Lacey said. “Not hearing impaired.”
“What’s the difference?” the girl asked.
“Perspective,” Lacey said.
“Look,” Alan said. “We lost something very important this morning.”
“Tell her I’ll let you in,” the woman continued. “Us disabled people have to stick together.” She winked at Lacey. Lacey frowned. “So,” the girl said. “What did we lose today?”
“A diamond ring,” Robert and Kelly answered. Alan gave Lacey a look. Lacey shrugged.
“There was a diamond in that little plastic horse?” Maria said.
“Plastic horse?” Kelly said. “She’s kidding, right?” Lacey forged her way behind the girl in the baseball cap before Robert and Kelly had a chance to wring her neck.
Coffee grounds, newspapers dripping with egg yolks, a half-filled sudoku puzzle, a Styrofoam cup smeared with lipstick and dirt. Alan had already divided his section into fourths, Kelly dived in with both hands, Robert was directing her, and Maria, as far as Lacey could tell, was simply moving garbage from one place to another, the same method she employed in her housekeeping. Lacey could only imagine they were all dreaming up payback, the favor they could pick off her years from now, a request that undoubtedly would begin with:
Remember the day I dug through garbage at the dump?
A stinky hour passed and they were no closer to finding the horse.
“I can’t believe this,” Maria said. “I put the horse in the coffee table drawer. I know I did.”
“I looked,” Lacey said. “It wasn’t there.”
“Here’s our garbage,” Alan said, holding up a half-ripped bag. “Why did you throw out your Visa bill?” he added, holding up the envelope.
“Did I?” Lacey shrugged. Everyone rushed over. They all went through the bag, piece by piece.
“Do you want to shower first?” Alan asked. Four hours of digging through garbage and nada.
“Go ahead,” Lacey said. Alan disappeared up the stairs. Lacey stared at the coffee table. She did look in the drawer, she did. Several times. She opened the drawer. There, in the back corner, peeking out from underneath another ignored Visa bill, was her horse. She snatched it up and put it in her pocket. There was no need to mention it to anyone; that would just be cruel.
“I think we should move,” Lacey said. Alan looked up from his newspaper. He was sitting in the Adirondack chairs without her. There was only one beer on the table next to him.
“What?” Alan said. Lacey perched herself on her chair.
“We have to move,” she said. “We have to move now.” Alan took off his glasses and pinched his nose as if he were in pain. He shook his head but didn’t open his eyes. She tapped him on the shoulder until he opened them again.
“What about Boston?” she said.
“Boston,” Alan said. “Isn’t that where your sister lives?” Lacey shot out of her chair.
“This has nothing to do with her.” It was time for a change. She wanted to start a new life. She was sick of painting people and their pets. She didn’t want any more tension between them. She was sorry she got drunk and almost slept with Mike. Couldn’t he just forgive her? She missed sex. Why weren’t they having sex? They could have sex right now, celebrate their move to Boston.
“I have a job starting tomorrow,” Alan said. “In Rochester.”
“Rochester?” Alan nodded. He was born and raised in Rochester, New York. There was a large Deaf population in Rochester because of NTID, the National Technical Institute for the Deaf. His father had been a professor at the college; his mother had worked for Eastman Kodak. Lacey and Alan had toyed with the idea of living in either Washington, D.C., or Rochester because of the Deaf communities, but in the end, Rochester’s weather was too cold and gray, and D.C. was too big.
“It’s a huge shopping complex. It’s going to last a couple of months.”
“How are you going to commute back and forth to Rochester?” After his parents died, he’d sold the house. He always said they’d use the money to build their dream house. Or, if Lacey had her way, the lighthouse.
“I’m not. I took a room.”
“When were you going to tell me this?”
“When you took your head out of the sand.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It will give you the time you need to find your sister.”
“I don’t have a sister.”
Alan finally got up from his chair. He threw the newspaper across the porch. “We spent four hours digging through garbage,” he said. “Why did we do that if you don’t have a sister?” Lacey didn’t answer. She couldn’t. “That’s what I thought,” Alan said. “That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 15
W
ith Alan gone, all Lacey could do was throw herself into work, and Rookie. She’d been taking him to the studio with her every day. So far, there had been no sign of Mike. But this morning, his jeep was parked at the curb. She was dying to hear about his interview with Ms. Bowman. He’d texted her right away to let her know they’d met, and she was indeed Lacey’s identical twin. He also swore he didn’t tell Monica about her. It had been a spur-of-the-moment impulse, sending Mike after Monica. All good battles were won with a little reconnaissance, and she wasn’t ready to face Monica herself. She needed time. She wasn’t going in blind; she was going to arm herself with info. Hopefully, Mike had learned a thing or two. But her discovery would have to wait a little longer; she had to walk Rookie first. She jingled his leash and he twirled in circles at her feet before she finally got him calmed down enough to attach it.
Lacey loved this part of town, the brick sidewalks, the old lanterns, the wide array of coffee shops, wine bars, and restaurants. The air was warm and smelled like cinnamon buns. The streets were packed once again, youth was in the air, mothers pushed babies in strollers too wide for the narrow sidewalks. Lacey was so busy people-watching, she almost missed the blur racing toward Rookie, a charging three-foot Tasmanian devil in pigtails. Hands outstretched, mouth open and drooling, the toddler was on a mission. Rookie jerked his head up to Lacey.
Save me!
Lacey scooped Rookie into her arms, but knelt down. Seconds later the little girl rammed into Lacey’s knees. She couldn’t have been more than three years old. Lacey smiled at the little girl, then scanned above her head in search of her mother. Instead, she saw another toddler barreling toward her, identical to the sticky-fingered one mauling the top of Rookie’s head. Twins.
They were dressed alike: jean skirts and white shoes, pink T-shirts with a big smiley face. The second little girl plowed into the first and knocked them both to the ground. Rookie pawed at Lacey and attempted to climb up her body like a cat. Lacey helped the little girls stand up, and that’s when a woman sprinted at them with a look of pure horror on her face. Lacey glanced at the girls; other than a few specks of dirt and fresh tears, they seemed to be okay. The twin who had come in second lunged forward, pitched forward slightly as if she were going to topple, then straightened her arm out to her sister. But just as Lacey thought she was going to hit her sister, her tiny little hands wiped away the tears on her sister’s cheek instead. The gesture was so spontaneous, so loving, Lacey’s heart felt as if someone had twisted it with a wrench.
The mother was standing over them, talking a mile a minute. She scooped a girl into each arm as she jabbered. Lacey didn’t understand a single word. She studied the woman’s facial expressions and body language, trying to ascertain if the woman was thanking her or scolding her, just like she studied the faces of employees at banks, and restaurants, and grocery stores, to see who looked the friendliest. Those were the lines she stood in, regardless of how long.
The woman looked about Lacey’s age or even a little younger. Women her age were having babies. It was so surreal. Lacey couldn’t imagine it. How old were her parents when they had her and Monica? She pushed the thought away; she didn’t want to think of them.
The woman’s expression turned from puzzled to slightly annoyed. She wondered why Lacey wasn’t saying anything. Lacey smiled and pointed to her ear.
“I’m Deaf.” Then she extracted Rookie from her chest and set him on the ground. She pointed between the girls and Rookie. The mother broke into an exasperated smile and shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No, no,” Lacey said. “They’re so cute.” Lacey didn’t know if the mother could understand her voice, but “your children are so cute” was universal. The mother beamed with pride and then shook her head again, indicating the amount of energy required to look after them. Lacey strolled slightly behind the mother, who, with a girl on each hip, ferried the kids back to a small outdoor table in front of a café. Lacey stopped for a moment next to the table, enthralled with all the “equipment” that littered it. There were two bottles, two pacifiers, two bibs, and ten thousand wipes. Behind the table a double stroller awaited. Back in their high chairs, the girls were banging the trays with spoons and laughing as they tried to outdo each other. People passing by smiled at the girls, who, oblivious to the attention, only had eyes for each other. As Lacey stood watching the girls, the mother watched her. Lacey didn’t want the mother to think she was strange, some kind of freak, staring at her children. So she reached into her bag and pulled out the thick file she’d been dragging around the past few days. She handed it to the mother, noting the stricken look that crossed the woman’s face, as if she feared Lacey was about to peddle cheap items with a card reading I A
M
D
EAF
.
Lacey pointed at Monica’s picture in the file, then back at herself. Finally, it dawned on her.
“You’re a twin!” the mother exclaimed. Lacey smiled and nodded. The woman gestured to an empty chair at the table. Lacey sat down, feeling like a phony but enjoying the attention. She took out her pad and pencil.
Do you always dress them alike?
I said I wouldn’t, but everyone gives them the same clothes. Did your mom dress you and Monica alike?
Lacey hesitated, pen poised over the paper. She was going to write
No, never,
but was it even true? After all, they were together until they were three. She must have dressed them alike at least once in those three years.
Sometimes,
Lacey wrote, not wanting to lie. She glanced at the girls again.
How old are they?
Two and a half.
And they were so close. Babbling with each other, banging spoons together like musicians in the same band, chasing after each other down the street, racing to be the first to grab a strange dog.
Sometimes,
the woman wrote,
it’s as if I don’t exist.
Lacey took her file on Monica back, shoved it in her bag, and stood. She looked at her watch. “I have to go.” The woman smiled and held out her hand. They shook. Lacey picked up the notepad and pen. She was about to put it in her purse when she jotted down one more thing.
Would you ever give one of them up?
Not surprisingly, the woman looked alarmed. She emphatically shook her head no.
What if one of them was Deaf?
I would love her, no matter what.
You would
never
give one of them up for any reason?
That would be criminal.
Lacey nodded, and quickly stashed the notepad. She’d better leave before the woman thought she was creepy. She put on a big smile, picked up Rookie and made him wave his little paw, laughed as the twins laughed and reached for the dog with sticky fingers, and smiled at the mother again as she hurried away.
Criminal,
she thought as she walked on.
That would be criminal.
By the time Lacey made it back to the studio, Mike was standing outside with an older couple. Lacey wondered if they were his parents. She hung back, not in the mood for introductions, explanations, scribbling. Had he told anyone about her drunken come-on? Hopefully not. He was the one who’d been willing to stake out Monica, he was the one who took a punch for doing absolutely nothing but standing there, staring at her, and really, who could blame him for that? Would she have told Alan if he hadn’t walked in? Doubtful. She missed Alan something awful, but so far her BlackBerry had been silent. It had been only a few days, but it was the longest they had ever gone without talking to each other. Although she definitely had enough to distract her. The couple was leaving, getting into a black Mercedes parked at the curb. If they were his parents, it wasn’t fair. Good-looking and rich. When Mike turned and went back inside, Lacey followed. He was standing in the front entrance to the studio, pacing back and forth, talking on his cell phone. He froze when he saw her, and she could have sworn she caught “She’s here” on his lips before he clicked off. He attempted a smile and waved weakly. She waved back. They stood and contemplated each other like teenagers at the spring dance.
Lacey held up her index finger, walked over to the easel, and picked up a marker.
Tell me about her.
Mike took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. It was her list of interview questions. She skimmed it. Barely any had been answered. It told her nothing she hadn’t already ascertained from her Web site.
She didn’t answer them all?!
Birthmark question freaked her out. She thought I was a stalker / pervert.
You didn’t tell her?
Mike shook his head no. He removed his cell phone from his jeans, scrolled through it, and handed it to her. It was a picture of Monica. She was sitting near a swimming pool, smiling, wearing a dusty-rose sundress.
What are you going to do?
Mike wrote. Lacey shrugged, looked away.
She’s very nice,
he wrote.
Invite her to the show?
Lacey stared at the question. Should she? Wouldn’t that be something? After all, she’d seen Monica’s work—if you could call that crappy book “work.” No, that wasn’t how it was going to go down. Lacey was going for the sneak attack, not the invitation. Besides, the art show was about her, her work. If Monica showed up, it would turn into some kind of Jerry Springer reunion. That wouldn’t be good for business. Lacey tried to ignore the niggling jealousy she felt chewing on her at the thought of her famous hearing sister triumphing over her at her own art show. “No,” Lacey said. His question reminded her of the couple she had just seen leaving the art studio.
Were those your parents?
Who?
Outside. Older couple.
When?
He was acting strange. Almost as if he was suspicious of her. Lacey threw open her arms and pointed to her watch, then jabbed her finger in the direction of the street.
“Just now,” she voiced. There it was again, that expression.
No,
he wrote.
Not my parents
. Lacey waited for more. Art lovers? Lost tourists? Jehovah’s Witnesses? Mike put down the marker. He gestured with his thumb to his area.
Work,
he mouthed. Lacey smiled; for some reason she felt sick. She pointed at herself and nodded, à la “me too.”
She walked toward her paintings, unsure of her balance. But instead of going to the portraits she should have been working on for the art show, she headed straight for the tarp against the back wall.