Singing Hands (10 page)

Their hands were too fast to follow closely ... but I could tell it was something about someone from church going to the hospital. "Kidney stones!" Mr. Runion fingerspelled with an agonized frown.

Soon Mother was nodding reassuringly and patting Mr. Runion on the back as he turned to leave. Once he was gone, she leaned against the door and shook her head. I drew a question mark in the air with my finger.

Mother sighed. "It's Mrs. Thorp again," she said in a tired voice, barely lifting her hands to sign. "She's at Hillman Hospital and she needs an interpreter and won't have anyone but your father."

She reached for her purse on the hat stand. "I think he and Mr. Lindermeyer must still be over at Saint Simon's. Who knows what's taking them so long."

"Who's Mr. Lindermeyer?"

"One of the assistant principals at ASD. I don't know what they're doing at Saint Simon's, but somebody's got to go tell Daddy that he's wanted at the hospital."

Mother paused, studying me. Then she signed quickly, "You and Nell go. I'll run over to the hospital and tell Mrs. Thorp that Daddy's on his way. You'll need to catch the number forty and walk the last three blocks over to Dennison Avenue." She pressed some coins into my palm with a warning glance. "And you be careful walking through that neighborhood. Don't stop along the way or talk to anybody, you understand?"

I nodded solemnly, trying to hide my surprise. Saint Simon's was Daddy's mission for the colored deaf over in the poorest section of town, down by the railroad tracks. Nell and I had been there only two or three times, and never without Mother, who always made us wait out front until Daddy was finished instead of taking us inside. Now I could barely believe she was giving us permission to go to Saint Simon's on the bus by ourselves. I shoved the fare money into my pocket and sprinted off to get Nell before she had time to change her mind.

There was no reason for Mother to be worried about us talking to strangers down near the tracks. By the time we got off the bus, the afternoon sun was so hot that the weedy dirt yards and stoops in front of the tiny row houses were empty. We hurried along the cracked sidewalks, hoping Daddy would still be at Saint Simon's. When we passed a block of rundown apartment buildings, all I could hear were the sound of whirring electric fans and a baby's wail drifting through the open windows on the ground floor.

The one person we saw, a wrinkled old man with skin as dark as a Hershey bar, was watering a pot of dusty petunias outside a corner store. He stopped watering as we passed and nodded a slow, polite hello. We nodded back. I knew Nell and I made a funny sight—two white girls in skirts and blouses marching down the sidewalk, pretending to act businesslike, as if we always attended to chores on this side of town.

"Oh, good," I panted as we turned the corner onto Dennison and I spotted the Packard parked down the street. "Daddy's still there."

"You think we should go inside to look for him?" Nell asked.

"Of course," I said lightly, but I stopped at the bottom of the church's narrow wooden steps and looked up. It was silly to be nervous about going inside. Daddy was the head minister for the deaf at Saint Simon's, and the church didn't look much different from any other, just a dark red-brick building with a pretty steeple and tall double doors out front. But I couldn't help feeling as if I was breaking a sacred rule somehow. I was used to white folks and colored folks being separate—separate neighborhoods, separate schools and water fountains and diners, and separate seating sections in buses and theaters. And here I was ready to cross over to what felt like a foreign country, where I didn't belong.

"Come on," I murmured to Nell, and started up the steps. I had my hand on the big brass doorknob when a movement over in the far corner of the entry porch caught my eye. It was a little colored boy sitting cross-legged in the shade of the porch eaves. He stared at Nell and me with his mouth slightly open and his round eyes wide.

"Hello," I said. "We're looking for Reverend Davis. Is he inside?"

The boy shook his head and went back to staring.

"I think he's deaf," Nell whispered behind me.

"Oh." I smiled at the boy and raised my hand off the knob, signing, "Is the minister inside?"

He shook his head again.

"I don't think he understands," whispered Nell.

"All right, then," I said out loud, and waved good-bye. I pointed to the door. "We're just going inside now to get my father.... Bye."

With the boy gaping after us, Nell and I stepped into the dim church and let the heavy door creak shut. Then there was silence. Yellow spots danced in front of my eyes, and I strained to see past them. I felt Nell latch on to the back of my blouse.

"There he is," I whispered. Slowly I began to make out Daddy in his collar and black shirtsleeves, standing up front near the altar with another white man, who wore a starched shirt and tie. The man must have been the visitor Mother had fixed lunch for. He was leaning forward, eagerly signing to a colored woman who sat hunched in the front pew. The woman had her back to us, but I could tell she was deaf and that she had been crying. She mopped her eyes with a red handkerchief and rocked slowly back and forth as if to comfort herself.

Obviously, we were interrupting something important. Nell and I both began to edge back into the shadows of the entryway, but Daddy had already noticed us. He squinted in our direction and came striding down the polished center aisle.

"What?" Daddy signed as he came closer. "What's wrong?"

I could see the woman in the front pew turning her dark, tear-stained face toward us.

"I'm sorry, Daddy," I signed quickly. "Mother sent us on the bus to get you. Mrs. Thorp is in the hospital and she's asking for you. It's kidney stones."

Daddy thumped his forehead lightly with the heel of his hand. "Oh, my," he said softly. He thought for a moment, then reached in his pocket for his gold watch.

His face fell when he saw the time. "Lunch," he said sadly.

I traded pained looks with Nell, cringing at the thought of Mother's angry pot-banging. Daddy was too distracted to notice. He hurried back toward the altar to explain and give his apologies; then he led us outside into the humid glare of the afternoon. I was surprised to see the little boy bolt to his feet and scurry over to grab my father's hand.

"This is Abraham," Daddy said with a grin. "But I call him Abe after our great president." He shaped the tall outline of a Lincoln stovepipe hat in the air over Abraham's head. The boy beamed up at Daddy, showing a wide gap in his smile where his two front teeth were missing. Then he reached for the chain leading into Daddy's pocket and pulled until he had my father's gold watch cradled in his hand. I felt a prickle of jealousy creeping over me. From the way Abe popped the lid of the watch open and traced his finger over the engraved design on the case, I could tell he was a special friend of Daddy's. He'd done this lots of times.

While Abe examined the watch, Daddy rested his hand on the boy's curly head and, without signing, said to Nell and me, "That's his mother, Mrs. Johnson, inside talking with my friend from ASD, Mr. Lindermeyer."

"Why was she crying?" I asked.

"Because Mr. Lindermeyer and I think Abe should be sent to school at ASD." Daddy shook his head. "Mrs. Johnson doesn't want to let him go. Her husband's gone and he's her only child, and she thinks seven years old is too young to be sent away to school. She's afraid if she lets him go, she'll never see him again.... But he's a smart boy. He needs to go to school—a school for deaf children."

Nell's face filled with pity. "Talladega's not that far. Only a couple of hours, right?"

Daddy watched her lips and nodded. "Abe can come home for Christmas and summer vacation. But that's not much of a comfort to Mrs. Johnson.... She's a lot like my mother. I was twelve before she decided to let me go to ASD."

Daddy gently took his watch from Abe and lifted the boy's chin. He made a few signs—not his usual flurry of hands and fingers, but slow, simple movements that anyone could understand. He tapped his own chest, then pointed to the Packard.

"Can we go with you, Daddy?" I asked.

"No. I need you and Nell to wait for Mr. Lindermeyer and then take him back to our house on the bus. He's staying the night with us."

"Oh, wonderful," I said under my breath as I watched Abe throw his skinny arms around my father's middle.

"You're good girls," Daddy signed to Nell and me before he started down the wooden steps.

I stomped my foot on the porch as we watched him drive away.
Good girls?
Was that all he could say after Nell and I had tromped all the way to the edge of town to fetch him? Plus, I certainly didn't feel like being such a good girl, now that I was stuck down by the train tracks on a day when you could fry eggs on the rails.

Abe must have felt the vibration in the floorboards when I stomped my foot. I knew he was gawking at me again, but when I turned to glare at him, he let out a squeal of laughter. Almost like a high-pitched heehaw. Then he screwed his little face into a giant scowl with the corners of his wide mouth pulled down.

Nell burst out laughing, too. "Look, he's doing an imitation of you, Gussie! He looks just like you. Isn't that cute?"

"
Cute?
You think that's cute?" I didn't care if Abe could read my lips. "Huh," I grunted, and sat down hard on the top step, crossing my arms angrily over my chest.

"Don't worry about her, Abe," Nell said cheerfully, as if he could really understand her. "She's just an old grump." When I peeked over my shoulder, I saw that Nell had pulled a length of string from one of her pockets and soon was showing Abe her full repertoire of cat's cradle—the witch's broom, the cup and saucer, and Jacob's ladder. I turned back to the street, wincing whenever Abe crowed with laughter over a new work of string art appearing between Nell's fingers.

His loud laughter reminded me of Mother's story about going to the theater in the days before movies had sound. Mother said she used to shame her older brother to tears the way she screeched with laughter in the silent pictures. "That was when I didn't know any better," Mother told us. "I couldn't hear myself, so I just assumed no one else could hear me, either."

Finally, the door opened behind us, and Mr. Lindermeyer stepped onto the porch with Mrs. Johnson following close behind. Abe jumped up to greet his mother. She leaned over to fold him in a hug. When Abe caught sight of her swollen eyes so full of sorrow, he reached up to pet her face and made a mewing noise in the back of his throat like a lost kitten.

Even though Mrs. Johnson couldn't hear all the questions in her son's voice, she must have sensed them. "Shush, shush," she soothed, ducking her head in embarrassment. Then, rather than trying to comfort Abe in front of us, she nodded at Mr. Lindermeyer and Nell and me and scooted her son down the church steps. Still clutching his mother's arm, Abe craned his neck to look back as they started down Dennison Avenue. Nell waved until he turned away.

Once they had gone, Mr. Lindermeyer smiled and shook our hands. In my opinion, he looked much too young and handsome to be a principal, even an assistant one. He was tall and slender, with a flop of sandy hair that fell across his forehead. Something about the brightness of his blue eyes gave him a mischievous look, as if he was on the verge of making a joke.

Nell and I introduced ourselves, fingerspelling our names for him.

"Nice names," Mr. Lindermeyer said. He signed as he spoke. Then he showed us his name sign—a letter V touched to his left shoulder. "That's for my first name. I use my last name as little as possible. Lindermeyer. Too many syllables."

"What's your first name?" I asked.

Mr. Lindermeyer spoke clearly. Maybe his speech was a little nasal and slurred like lots of deaf people's, but it was clear enough. Still, I touched my ear as if I hadn't heard correctly the first time.

"Vincent," he repeated. "You can call me Mr. Vincent."

How many Vincents could there be in the state of Alabama? Vincents who happened to be deaf. Vincents who happened to work at ASD, where Miss Grace had earned the diploma hanging in her bedroom.

I hoped Mr. Vincent hadn't noticed me studying his every move all the way through dinner. Now Mother was giving me a puzzled look as I joined them in the parlor and pulled a chair next to the davenport where Mr. Vincent was sitting. I supposed she had expected me to disappear upstairs like Margaret and Nell once we finished drying the dishes.

But I couldn't go to bed without seizing every possible chance to learn more about Mr. Vincent's past. My ears pricked up when he and Daddy began to trade stories about their days at ASD. Mr. Vincent was funny. As he signed, he even rose from his seat once or twice to act out the liveliest of his adventures as a student, regaling us with tales of the championship basketball game when he played for the ASD Silent Warriors and of the skunk he and his chum had let loose during the May Day pageant. Mother laughed so hard that her shoulders shook.

I waited impatiently for Mr. Vincent to mention any girlfriends or sweethearts, but he didn't. And of course Mother was too polite to ask him why he didn't have a wedding ring on his finger yet. The grandfather clock struck nine, and I was finally ready to give up my detective work and go to bed when I heard the front door open.

It was Miss Grace, coming home late from the library. As she stepped into the foyer with an armful of books, Daddy hopped up to bring her into the parlor and introduce her to our guest. I stayed rooted to my chair, barely able to hide my excitement as I searched their faces for clues. I'm not sure what I expected. Maybe, I thought, Mr. Vincent's bright blue eyes would well up with tears at the sight of his beloved. Or maybe Miss Grace would freeze in the doorway, so overcome with emotion that she couldn't move.

Yet that wasn't what happened at all. In fact, barely anything happened. Miss Grace might have blushed a little when she fumbled her stack of books into Daddy's arms so that she could shake our guest's hand. But Mr. Vincent simply smiled cordially, and then there was the dizzying flurry of signs that always happens when more than two or three deaf people get together.