The Dark Days of Hamburger Halpin (18 page)

Mr. Smiley reluctantly takes us to a diner for burgers and sodas. We try to text while eating, but Mr. S. scolds us to put away “those damn toys.” I remember that Devon got mine in a suspicious fashion from the police evidence room. Does Mr. Smiley know this? Is he afraid that we will be seen with it? Running into Detective Hawley really seems to have spooked him. So, apparently even cops like Hawley and Smiley have their own problems with hierarchies and rankings. Is the whole damn world like high school?

I try to sign a joke to Devon over our meal, but he is confused when I say, “You should never talk with your hands full.” I think he gets “talk” and “hands” (pretty obvious ones), but I guess joking in another language is kind of hard. We left the whiteboards in the car and so concentrate on eating as fast as we can. It is clear that Mr. Smiley wants to get out of there. Eating quickly and feeling nervous sort of make my stomach sick.
A fart slips out, which I hope is a silent one. Yes, it is one of the great burdens of the hearing-impaired that we do not know who else is aware of the gas we pass. I think about trying another joke—that old chestnut “Why do farts smell? So deaf people won’t feel left out”—but it would take forever to finger-spell it.

We finish our meal and head home. Mr. Smiley pulls into my driveway, I hop out, and Devon holds up his fist as if to say, “Keep up the fight” for some reason. The mailman walks up, delivering a large envelope. I take it from him and see the local newspaper’s name as the return address. Ah, the obituary and photo I had requested from their archives. I rip open the package and stare at the picture, like a hungry man sizing up a rib eye. As soon as my eyes fall on it, I am overwhelmed by a strong sense of recognition—although where could I have seen him before? There was no picture in our textbook, and our family doesn’t have any Dummy portraits proudly displayed. “Hello,” I sign to the picture. “I am Will Halpin. You are Will Halpin. I am Will Halpin. You are Will Halpin.” Just standing in the driveway, conversing with the dead.

Mom and Dad are at work, and the house feels big and lonely. I prop the photo on my desk and halfheartedly try to do my homework next to this ancient picture of a grinning Dummy Halpin clowning around for an old camera circa 1900. I spend some time on Leigha’s profile page. But this just makes me feel queasy and anxious.

I tell myself that it is a nice day so, what the hell, I should just go out walking, feel the sun, hear the birds sing (kidding).
It is said that walking helps clear the brain, lets you figure stuff out, though my brain can be cleared quite fine, thank you very much, by sitting on the couch. Still, it feels good to move, and I get a leash for Ace and bring him along. A dog is a good excuse for taking a walk, maybe spying a little. Ace appreciates it, wagging happily alongside and whizzing on everything in sight. We walk up past the barn next to our house and into the new housing development. All around this old coal town, big houses have been springing up like weeds after a rain. You blink and forty-seven mansions sit where there used to be woods. Gone are the trees I climbed as a boy. Gone are the innocent afternoons spent romping carefree through the woods. Gone are the … Ha-ha, I’m totally making that up. I never spent any time in the woods. And only recently have I romped.

I take some little side roads, snaking lazily down newly paved streets with names like Bougainvillea and Abronia. I know these are names of plants, but they also sound like possible types of venereal disease. As I puff along, I suddenly feel my eyes bug out of my head like a stunned skunk in an old cartoon. There, sitting on the step in front of one of the new homes on Abronia Lane, is Leigha Pennington. I blink and rub my eyes. Yep, it is really her. Well, I sorta did know that she lived on Abronia. (What? It is in the phone book—hardly a secret.)

She doesn’t see me, so I watch her carefully. She is barefoot, wearing a green army jacket over a tan shirt and ripped jeans, and sipping on a bottle of ginger ale. She is, in a gesture that is very cute if sort of gross, letting her fuzzy black dog lick the bottle. This dog, who I recognize from Leigha’s Web page
picture, alternates between sharing the soda and sitting at her feet like a sentry guarding an entrance. I stop in my tracks and watch this private scene, which should be happy yet isn’t. Too much of life is like that.

She’s not smoking. See, if she was, I could go up to her and pretend to bum a smoke. (The sign for smoking is: you basically just pretend to be smoking.) But then what? Sit there in silence while she laughs at me for coughing my lungs out? (I have never smoked before. Cigarettes, I mean. I have smoked a ham. And a turkey or two.) Also, that she isn’t smoking is a good thing since she is pregnant. Pregnant. Geez.

Should I flee? But before I have the chance to spin and show off my world-class sprinting skills, I am spotted. The dog cocks its head and spies Ace. They are both barking at one another, scoping each other out. Leigha then cocks her head too, in a gesture oddly similar to her pet’s. She exhales a huge sigh and waves me over.

I point to my chest as if to ask, “Me?”

She gestures to the empty street with an upturned palm as if to ask, “You see anybody else around?”

I do not.

And so I walk slowly toward her, hoping that Leigha has a soft heart and that her dog won’t use me for a chew toy. My heart rocketing in my chest, I stand a few feet from her in the dirt of her unfinished lawn. The dogs sniff each other. I pat Ace to let him know that everything is OK. But is it?

Leigha waves hi. I wave back. And then she does the informal sign for writing. Is she asking me if I have some paper or
maybe a whiteboard? I shake my head. Then she shakes her head. What are we talking about? She points at me and scribbles in the air again. And then points to herself and nods. I have gotten rather good at figuring out such random sign language and am pretty sure she means “I got your note.” I nod, trying to stay cool, actually feeling like I might blow a fuse.

And then she pauses for a second and shakes her head. And she doesn’t have to say another word. I know that she precisely means “No, we can’t be friends. No, I won’t go out with you. No, you and me can never be anything. Ever.”

I hang my head and turn to leave. Then I stop. I face her again. I have one last shot. I pick up a stick from the yard. The dogs perk at the stick, excited for a potential game of fetch. But I use it to write in the dirt.

“I KNOW YOUR PAIN.”

She looks down at the letters with a weary gaze and shakes her head again. “No,” she mouths. “You have no idea.”

“I KNOW YOUR SECRET,” I write. I feel like if she just gives me a chance, she will see that I can be a friend. I can listen even if I can’t listen. I can understand her. I can understand everything. But before I even have the chance to explain any more of this, she reacts to my words with a look of fury and … maybe fear? She scrapes her foot across the dirt, erasing my message in one swift kick. Then she hops up and runs inside her house, slamming the door so hard that I feel the whoosh of warm air from inside. Am I really that repulsive?

Leigha’s dog still is staring at me, waiting for the stick to fly from my hand. I have no idea what else to do, so I hand it to
him. He takes it excitedly, and Ace grabs the other half. They snap it in two, gnawing the bark, reducing it in seconds to a slobbery, fractured mess. I am just like this stupid stick. Chewed up and spit out.

Ace and I turn back down Abronia and walk home.

I am farting around
online a bit, though it feels hollow. Inciting anger by insisting that global warming is awesome because the world would be better without cashmere scarves and stupid polar bears just doesn’t seem that fun. An IM window jumps up.

Stupid Devon is right. I need to talk with stupid Ken and Mona. And I need to try to do it without smashing any lamps or storming off to bed without supper. Especially that last one.

I head down to again wait for them in the living room, holding the picture of Dummy Halpin, but not looking for a fight, just a conversation. Just a chance to learn a little more about our family, who I am. I can’t be too pissed at them for
not being honest with me. Not when I haven’t been honest with them either.

When Ken and Mona, uh, Mom and Dad, come through the front door, I decide to lay it all on the line. If only I had time to prepare a file folder like Devon would have, to let them know everything in plain printed English. As it is, I just sign slowly and simply so Mom can get it all and translate for Dad. I decide to give him a little bit of a break for not being fluent. Watching Devon make the effort has reminded me how hard sign language really is.

“How was your day?” Mom asks. She of course doesn’t expect a real answer, no more than someone does when they say “How’s it hanging?”

“Awful,” I say, a sign that involves a double-hand gesture but is mainly communicated by making a sad, terrible face.

At first she thinks I mean because of all the big stuff—Prefontaine, Porkrinds, Chambers, et cetera.

“No,” I sign, snapping my fingers and also shaking my head for Dad’s sake. “It is more than that. I am having a hard time at school.” I explain about how crappy people are to me sometimes, how the teachers don’t know what to do with me, and how awful I feel most of the time. I stop short of telling them about the investigation or my visit with Leigha.

Mom immediately suggests that I go back to the deaf school. I am not quite sure why, but I don’t feel like that is the answer.

I shake my head no, no, no.

I take out the envelope and show them the picture. I tell them about my research and the second trip to the mine. And then I ask, “Can’t you tell me something more about our family?” And something about the sign for “family”—a variation on “group” where you sort of make a circle as if to say “all of us”—strikes me as so … something that I almost want to cry.

Dad tells me that he’s done some research of his own. Really?! He takes out a scrapbook whose pages show a family tree and a few faded black-and-white pictures of stout men and women. Some have big ears and beards, with serious eyes blazing at the camera.