“The documented cases wouldn’t fill a thimble. The criteria for the diagnosis are constantly under debate and continually changing. The only thing these cases have in common is that there’s little commonality. Each individual is different. Their symptoms and the severity of them vary. Some do learn language skills. They can communicate on a limited basis. But they rarely apply their superior knowledge to any practical use.”
Mr. Rainwater asked him to elaborate.
The doctor thought for a moment. “For instance, an individual who has demonstrated amazing powers of recall might read one of Shakespeare’s plays once and be able to quote it verbatim. He doesn’t do that for any reason other than because he can. He doesn’t memorize the play because he wants to learn it by heart. He doesn’t read it because he’s curious about the story’s outcome. He has no interest in the material whatsoever. The words would mean no more to him than the listings in the phone book. If he reads it, he knows it. It’s not something he seeks to do for enlightenment or entertainment.”
“But he can read Shakespeare,” Ella said.
The doctor must have detected her hopeful inflection, and seemed unhappy about dispelling it. “Some like Solly do read, Mrs. Barron, that’s true. Others don’t read, speak, or communicate on any level, while, miraculously, they can play difficult compositions on the piano after hearing them only once. Some are as withdrawn as Solly, even resistant to being touched, as he is. Yet they can solve highly complicated mathematical problems instantly, when it would take even a gifted mathematician days to work them out.” He raised his hands, palms up.
“The truth is, I’m delighted that you’ve discovered Solly’s special gift. But I can’t explain it or speculate on how beneficial it will be to him. I wouldn’t dare give you false hope that he’ll eventually acquire language skills. I simply don’t know, Mrs. Barron. And I fear that no one else does, either.”
Dr. Kincaid’s summary of Solly’s condition should have dampened Ella’s excitement over his incredible skill, but she didn’t let it. She considered this a tremendous milestone in her attempts to reach her son. It represented to her a small crack in the wall behind which his mind and personality were barricaded.
Having found that small chink, she set her mind to prying it wider, wide enough, she hoped, for her to squeeze through. Her heart’s desire was to have some channel of communication between them, no matter how narrow.
Each day, she stole time away from her housekeeping chores to spend with him. Replicating the dots on dominoes, she drew sets of dots on paper, then handed the pencil to Solly, hoping he would draw his own groups of dots and from there learn that a set of dots represented a particular number, and that numbers could be added and subtracted to make other numbers.
But he never took hold of the pencil or showed any interest in drawing dots on paper. When she covered his hand with hers and tried to guide the pencil, he threw a tantrum. Banging his head against hers, he caused a bruise on her chin that was visible for days. For the time being, she gave up on trying to get him to draw dots and went back to the dominoes. The game kept Solly pacified and kept her hopeful for another breakthrough.
One evening Solly was seated on the kitchen floor lining up the dominoes while she folded towels and washcloths. Mr. Rainwater came in to return a used coffee cup.
He remarked, “I see Solly hasn’t lost interest.”
“No. But he hasn’t advanced, either.” She explained her frustration over her son’s failure to understand that he could draw domino dots on paper. “I was hoping he would come to understand that the dots represent a number, and that numbers mean something.”
“Maybe he does understand that. If he didn’t, why would he always put the dominoes in order?”
She had no answer for that.
“Would you mind if I worked with him?” he asked.
“Doing what?”
He raised a shoulder. “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to think about it.”
The vagueness of his reply made her uneasy. She was about to say no to his request when she remembered the many kindnesses he had extended to Solly. He seemed to have a genuine and unselfish interest in him. He was also inordinately patient, and working with Solly required tremendous patience, which sometimes even she lacked. She also was thinking about the day in the garden when he was hoeing up weeds for lack of something better to do. Mr. Rainwater needed to feel useful.
She consented, but with a condition. “If Solly becomes anxious—”
“I’ll stop whatever we’re doing. I promise.”
Three days later, she came in from outside, her apron full of tomatoes and yellow squash she’d picked in the garden. Margaret was peeling potatoes. “We can’t eat all these tomatoes before they go bad.” Ella carefully spilled them from her apron onto the kitchen table. “And I’ve got plenty canned already. Put these with the stuff going to shantytown tonight. And those three eggs. We’ll have fresh delivered in the morning, so I don’t need them.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ella checked the fryers that had been stuffed with seasoned corn bread and placed in a shallow pan, ready for roasting. “Did you salt them?”
“And peppered one. Them old ladies don’t like pepper, but Mr. Rainwater does.”
Ella pushed back strands of hair that had escaped her bun. “Is Solly still with him?”
“In the back parlor doing they’s lessons.”
Ella opened the icebox. “One of us will need to go to the store tomorrow. Remind me to add a pound of butter to the grocery list.”
“Mr. Rainwater sure is nice to be taking such notice of our Solly. Why do you reckon that is?”
“We need mayonnaise, too. And some bologna. If you’re the one who goes, ask Mr. Randall to slice it more thinly this time, please.”
“He sure be different.”
Ella knew Margaret wasn’t referring to the grocer. Closing the icebox door, she came around to face her maid. “Different?”
“Different from Mr. Barron.”
Ella moved to the sink and washed her hands. “Mr. Rainwater has dark hair. He’s lean. Mr. Barron was shorter, stockier, and had fair hair.” She dried her hands and headed for the door. “I’m going to check on Solly, then I’ll get that squash ready to bake.”
“Wasn’t talking about his looks.”
Ella pretended not to hear her maid’s mumbled parting remark and continued on to the parlor. Solly and Mr. Rainwater were seated in adjacent chairs at the card table where the Dunne sisters often played gin rummy.
When she walked in, Mr. Rainwater looked up at her and smiled. “I think you’re wrong.”
“About what?”
“I think Solly does grasp the concept of numbers. Watch.”
She moved closer. A deck of playing cards had been scattered facedown over the table. The twos of each suit were neatly stacked, so were the threes and fours. As she watched, Solly picked all the fives from the scattered cards, starting with the club, then the spade, the heart, and the diamond last. He lined up the edges evenly and placed the group beside the stack of fours. He did the same with the sixes and sevens, choosing them unseen from the scattered deck, picking them out in the same sequence.
Ella wasn’t all that encouraged. “He remembers where each card is on the table. It’s a miracle, but he’s not really learning. He’s only matching the pattern of clubs on a card with the pattern of spades on another, and so on. What he’s doing really has nothing to do with the quantities and how they relate.”
“I’m not so sure. Cards, unlike dominoes, have the numbers printed on them.”
“Does that make a difference?”
“I believe so. Keep watching.”
Solly continued until he had stacked the tens besides the nines. Then he sat back and began to rock.
Ella looked at Mr. Rainwater, then at the cards still lying facedown on the table. “He didn’t pick face cards or aces.”
“They don’t have numerals.”
She sat down in the other chair, adjacent to Solly and across from Mr. Rainwater. Gathering all the stacks Solly had made, along with the cards still on the table, she shuffled the deck, then spread the cards out, first faceup, then turned them over one by one until all fifty-two were facedown.
Solly watched intently. As soon as all the cards were overturned, he actually pushed her hands aside so he could begin. He collected all the twos and proceeded until his stack of tens was placed neatly beside the stack of nines. He left the face cards and the aces.
Mr. Rainwater looked across at Ella, his eyebrow cocked. “He knows that the numerals represent the amount of symbols on each card, and he knows the sequence of the numbers. Four is greater than three.”
Still doubtful, she murmured, “Possibly.”
“He does.”
“How do you know?”
“Because before you came in, I removed the fours from the deck. He stopped at three and didn’t proceed until I’d returned the fours to the cards scattered on the table. I did it again with the eights. He stopped at seven, and that time, he reached into my coat pocket and took out the eights, arranged them in his sequence—clubs, spades, hearts, diamonds—and went from there.”
Almost more miraculous to her than Solly’s grasp of the numerals was that he’d voluntarily touched someone. “He reached into your pocket?”
Mr. Rainwater smiled. “With no guidance from me.”
Her gaze shifted back to Solly. Reflexively, she stroked his cheek and said, “Good job, Solly.” He batted her hand away, but she hoped that, in some inaccessible recess of his brain, her pride and love registered.
Looking back at the man across the table, she said, “Thank you for spending so much time with him.”
“My pleasure.”
“If he can learn to recognize numbers, if he learns their relevance to each other, he might be able to learn the same about letters. He could learn to do simple arithmetic, he could learn to read.”
“That’s my thinking.”
“At least there’s hope. There’s always hope, right?”
His smile slipped, but only a fraction. “Not always. But sometimes.”
The following morning Ella was in the dining room clearing the breakfast dishes when Margaret burst through the door of the kitchen. Her hat was askew, her face beaded with perspiration, and she was trying to catch her breath.
“What in the world?” Ella exclaimed.
Miss Violet was affronted. “Well, I never.” She and her sister, frozen in motion, stared at the colored woman, aghast.
Mr. Rainwater surged to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“I heard it at the store,” Margaret gasped. “There may be trouble out the Thompsons’ place.”
“Ollie and Lola’s?” Ella asked.
“That’s right. Your friends.”
“I must go.” Her heart in her throat, Ella gave her apron strings a yank, and when it came off, she handed it to Margaret as she squeezed in through the door connecting the dining room and kitchen.
She put on her hat, then knelt down and lifted Solly out of the chair where he sat tapping his cereal spoon against the edge of the table. “Finish up breakfast, Margaret. Put the groceries away. If I’m not back by lunchtime—”
“You go on, see to your friends,” Margaret said. “I’ll take care of things here, whether them old ladies like it or not.”
“I’ll drive you.” This from Mr. Rainwater, who’d followed them into the kitchen.
“No, I’ll take my car.”
“Your car ain’t been started since—”
“I can drive myself, Margaret,” Ella snapped.
“But my car is parked out front.”
Ella divided a look between her maid and her boarder, who’d extended the commonsense offer of taking his car, which was newer, more reliable, and easily accessible. “Thank you, Mr. Rainwater.” She preceded him down the center hallway, carrying Solly, who was now tapping his spoon against her shoulder bone.
EIGHT
“They’re your friends?”
Ella had tucked Solly between her and Mr. Rainwater in the front seat of his car. She’d given him directions out of town. He was driving fast, faster than she would have dared to push her older-model Ford.
“We went through school in the same class, although they dropped out in tenth grade. Ollie’s daddy died, leaving him to take over the management of the dairy. He was the youngest child, and the only boy. All his sisters were married and long gone.
“There was never any doubt that he and Lola would get married someday. They’d always been crazy about each other. When Ollie left school, Lola insisted they go ahead and make it official, so she could help out on the farm, too. They’ve got four children now. They’re good people. Take a right at the next crossroads.”
The road onto which Mr. Rainwater turned was unpaved. Tall weeds grew in the ditches on both sides. Beyond the ditches, barbed-wire fences separated rows of corn plants struggling for survival in the arid soil from fields of cotton being picked by workers trailing long sacks on their bowed backs.
It wasn’t yet ten o’clock, but Ella guessed that already the temperature was topping ninety. They had no choice except to leave the car windows down. The wind was hot and gritty. It had whipped off Ella’s hat and was tearing at her hair, but she barely noticed.
Her thoughts were on her friends and their misfortune. With each baby, Lola had grown a little chubbier, and the gap between her front teeth seemed to widen, but she was one of the happiest individuals Ella had ever known. She loved her husband, loved her children, loved her life. Ella hoped her innate happiness would sustain her and her family through this.
Ollie was a salt-of-the-earth type, big-eared and bighearted. He’d struggled to pass from one school grade to the next because of all the days he had to miss in order to help his father work their farm, milking the herd before and after school and doing everything else required to maintain the place. But Ollie had given up school willingly. Know-how had been more valuable to him than book learning, and his hands-on experience had paid off. He took pride in how much the farm had prospered under his supervision.
At least until the past few years, when he’d been forced to borrow money to sustain his herd and his family until the drought ended and his grazing pastures turned green again. What milk he could get from his underfed cows, he’d had to sell cheap, creating a need for another loan. That vicious cycle had put him and Lola deeply in debt and in danger of losing their farm.