Singing Hands

by Delia Ray

  "Augusta!" he cried out loud. "I was just coming to see you in the dormitory. Where have you been?"

  I gave him a quick hug and then stood back to scold him. "Where have I been? Where have you been? The only time I've seen you since we got here is up on the stage." I hunched one shoulder like Quasimodo and took a few lurching steps.

  Daddy laughed. "I'm sorry," he said, throwing up his hands. "There's so much to do. And so many visitors and old students and important men in education coming for the Jubilee. They all want to talk, talk, talk." He waggled his finger in front of his mouth.

  My insides churned queasily at the mention of who would be in the audience the next day watching our surprise performance.

  "What about Abe?" I asked anxiously. For two days the thought of how we had left him, so lonely and forlorn at the empty Negro school, had been plaguing me like a toothache or a sharp stone in my shoe. "Have you had a chance to go back and check on him?"

  Daddy shook his head. "No. I thought I might get over there today or this evening sometime. But now Mr. Snider and his parents have just arrived, and they want to meet with me over in the chapel."

  "Mr. Snider?" I tried not to make a horrible face. "He's here, too?"

  "Yes. Remember Mr. Snider? He and his parents have come all the way from Georgia."

  I remembered him only too well, with his fawning manners and striped bow tie, bribing Daddy into traveling even more by giving him that darn Packard.

  "His parents were students at ASD back in the early days," Daddy was saying. "It's wonderful they could make the trip at their age."

  Daddy must have noticed I wasn't paying attention any longer. "How are you coming with the Maypole dance?" he asked. "I heard you've been put in charge. Miss Hinkle says you're doing a fine job."

  I forced out a smile and bobbed my head up and down.

  "Want me to walk you back to the dormitory?" he asked.

  "That's okay," I signed. "You better go meet with Mr. Snider."

  Daddy kissed me on my cheek. "See you tomorrow at the Jubilee," he told me.

  Somehow I managed to nod again and fight back the urge to grab Daddy's arm and tell him everything.

  When I got back to Graves Hall, the girls were all waiting for me, perched on the edges of their beds or lingering near the door. I was glad Miss Hinkle had secluded herself in her room, or she would have seen all the girls dashing over to find out the news.

  Their hands fluttered around me. "What?" they signed. "What happened?"

  My tale of the secret meeting in the janitor's closet with three seniors was enough to send a fresh current of energy zinging through our group.

  "Let's practice tonight in the shower room," Hattie signed. "After lights out."

  "Good idea," Belinda said, and a few of the other girls clapped their hands.

  Mary Alice cut in with her usual word of warning. "We can't all go at once."

  "We can practice in shifts," I suggested. I pointed to Belinda. "You go first with three girls. When Belinda's done, Hattie takes three more. Then Mary Alice with the last three. Okay? I'll stand watch."

  By midnight we were ready, with only a few minor bobbles here and there. Yet as I fell, weary and triumphant, into bed, there was still one last worry drifting back and forth like a tiny ghost in my mind.

  Abe.

  Chapter 23

  Impulsiveness:

  Resulting from or produced by

  impulse rather than by reflection;

  unpremeditated.

  Example: In an act of extreme

  impulsiveness, Gussie Davis set out

  for the Alabama School for the Negro

  Deaf, hoping to rescue a small boy from

  loneliness and despair.

  Mrs. Fernley would have been appalled. I could even hear her voice scolding in my head as I sneaked up the steps of the school bus. "Haven't you learned anything?" the voice nagged. "Haven't your past actions taught you anything about the dreadful consequences of impulsiveness?"

  But how could I resist? The bus was parked like a chariot in the main driveway, with a line of deaf folks dressed in their Sunday finest waiting to board. And as the girls and I passed by on our way across campus that morning, Miss Hinkle had stopped to talk with the bus driver. A jolt of excitement had rushed through me when I heard her mention the Negro school. "Yes, Mr. Lindermeyer has agreed to give any interested visitors a tour of the new buildings over there," she was saying. "I suppose they've been reading about the construction in the newspapers and want to see it for themselves. But bring everyone back here directly. The Jubilee begins right after lunch."

  I nudged Belinda, who was walking beside me. "You all go on over to the printing press without me," I signed with my hands close to my chest. "The boys over there will show you how to fold the programs for this afternoon. I'll catch up later, okay?"

  "Where are you going?" she asked.

  I held my finger to my lips. "Don't worry. I'll be back in plenty of time for the show."

  It was surprisingly simple to duck around the high hedge and wait until Miss Hinkle was gone, then fall into line behind the cheerful alumni. They were so eager to greet one another and catch up on old times that I was able to slip into a spot in the back row without attracting the slightest bit of attention. Whenever anyone happened to glance my way, I fixed my face in a casual expression and leaned toward the couple who sat in front of me, pretending I belonged to them.

  As the bus rumbled toward the front gates, I sneaked a look out at the Maypole. I could barely keep from cackling at the sight of it. Nothing looked any different, but Belinda's sister had pulled me aside at breakfast that morning and assured me the new rigging was in place. She and her friends had kept their promise, sneaking into the sewing room after lights out to fashion a fresh set of ribbons. I couldn't imagine how they had attached and bound the new ones to the pole so cleverly in the dark. Even Miss Hinkle, unless she inspected closely, would never detect that the colors had mysteriously changed overnight.

  Out on the lawn students swarmed like worker bees, setting up rows of folding chairs and welcome banners. By now the intermediate girls would be busy in the printing office, folding the programs that listed each selection of entertainment for the Jubilee.

  "Don't forget, you girls will be performing first," Miss Hinkle had reminded us before we set off that morning. "You'll see your names listed right at the top of the program under 'A May Day Tribute.'"

  I could tell Hattie was ready to explode with laughter. But she clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. And Mary Alice, looking woozy with fear, had closed her eyes and waited for the moment to pass. So far all of the girls in our group had managed to contain themselves. It was a miracle. Our plan was actually working.

  Now there was just one thing left for me to do. I needed to persuade Mr. Vincent to let Abe come with me to the Jubilee. Then, hopefully, Abe would understand how sorry I felt, how he hadn't been abandoned after all.

  "Is that you, Miss Davis?" I heard someone call from several rows up. I felt my body go rigid with alarm.

  I couldn't believe it. It was him—that doggone pest Mr. Snider. Why was he always turning up to catch me in my most difficult situations?

  I wanted to slide down in my seat like a lump of melted butter. But Mr. Snider was already lurching toward me in his seersucker suit and bright red bow tie, gripping the seat backs for balance. He dropped into the empty spot across the aisle. "What a pleasant surprise, Miss Davis!" he drawled, practically shouting over the rattle of the bus on the bumpy road. "Your father said you were helping out at the school this week. But I didn't expect to find you here. What are you up to? Off to give another humming concert?"

  He belted out a hearty laugh.

  I could feel the blood flaming to my cheeks, but somehow I managed to cough out a chuckle. "No, no humming this time," I said.

  "Are you along for the tour?"

  "Yep. I mean yes. That's right," I babbled. "I'm along for the tour."
>
  Mr. Snider was studying me, clearly mystified. What an odd duck, he must have been thinking.

  Still, I couldn't tell him the truth. First he had caught me humming in church, and now here I was, the Reverend's daughter, on a mission to bring a colored boy to the Jubilee. Something told me Mr. Snider might not approve of including Abe in the celebration.

  But there was no chance for me to find out for sure. Before we had rounded the next corner, Mr. Snider was pointing out his wobbly, gray-haired parents and sending word from one seat to the next that Reverend Davis's daughter had joined the group for a tour of the Negro school. Soon all the passengers on the bus were turning around to beam at me and sign their hellos.

  By the time we bumped down the long gravel drive and pulled to a stop, my face ached from smiling so hard. Mr. Vincent was waiting for us on the steps of the main building. Naturally, he looked surprised when he saw me file off the bus behind all those adults.

  "Wait a minute," he said in a teasing voice. "I thought I gave you a tour already."

  "I wanted to see more," I said.

  Mr. Snider was watching too closely for me to ask my real question: Where's Abe? I had no choice but to follow along with the group through the silent hallways to one freshly scrubbed classroom after another, each smelling of floor wax and Murphy's oil soap. In every room, as the visitors nodded and murmured their approval, I could hear the wall clocks ticking away the minutes until the Jubilee. Ten thirty-five ... ten forty-three ... ten fifty-two. But there was no sign of Abe anywhere—not along the hallways or stairways, not on the dirt playing field beyond the classroom windows, not even among the maze of bunk beds in the boys' dormitory. At last I spotted a single clue—the corner of his canvas duffel peeking from under a neatly made bottom bunk in the corner.

  Abe had to be around somewhere, and I had to find him fast. Mr. Vincent was leading the group out front again while doing his best to humor Mr. Snider, who kept stopping to interrupt with his grand pronouncements. "The state of Alabama has bestowed a marvelous gift!" he bellowed to no one in particular. "What a marvelous gift this school is for the colored folk of Alabama!"

  As everyone finally moved toward the foyer, I lagged behind and ducked between two rows of bunk beds, hiding until Mr. Snider's voice had faded. Then I took a deep breath and sprinted back through the dormitory toward a rear exit door we had passed earlier.

  I needed to find the school cafeteria again. Mr. Vincent hadn't bothered to show us the kitchen on our tour, but I was sure I had heard running water and the clank of pots when we passed through the small dining hall. And I remembered Mr. Vincent saying that a school cook would be watching over Abe until the other students arrived.

  Darting along the back of the buildings like a fugitive from one of my Nancy Drew books, I made my way to the place where I thought the kitchen might be. "Wouldn't you know?" I whispered in exasperation as I leaned against the building for a few seconds to catch my breath. The windows were several inches too high to get a good view inside. I stretched up on my tiptoes, gripping the stone ledge with my fingers. Still I couldn't see a thing through the heavy screen. So I bent my knees and jumped, and jumped again, trying to get a better look.

  I heard Abe before I saw him. That familiar heehaw of laughter. It was coming from behind me somewhere. I whipped around and there he stood, giggling over the jack-in-the-box performance I had just put on, grinning wide enough to show his gums and every tooth left in his mouth.

  "Abe!" I squealed. I must have run right past him earlier. He had been playing among the droopy branches of a nearby hydrangea bush. The knees of his trousers were dusty, and he held a wooden toy train in each hand.

  I could have hugged him, but I didn't want to scare him away. Instead, I rested my hands on the tops of his bony shoulders and squeezed.

  "Abe," I said again, and smiled. Suddenly, I remembered to make the name sign my father had invented—the outline of Lincoln's stovepipe hat in the air.

  Abe smiled back. Then he held out the toy trains for me to see. I took the larger one, a steam engine, and turned it over in my palm. It was handmade, with a smokestack, notches for windows, and tiny wheels that really turned. And two initials were etched on the wooden surface underneath—a V and an L. Vincent Lindermeyer. He must have made the trains for Abe to help take his mind off home.

  "Toot, toot," I said and rolled the toy engine back and forth over my palm.

  No sooner had the sound left my lips than I heard a real horn beeping off in the distance.

  I gasped. "Abe, that's the school bus! They must be looking for me."

  He blinked. Of course he didn't understand, but I could see a spark of fear flare up in his eyes as he watched the worry spreading across my face.

  "Come," I gestured, and put my arm around his shoulder to guide him along. The horn beeped again, three honks this time, longer and more urgent. "We've got to go. You need to come with me."

  Abe tugged away, and my heart sank until I realized that he was rushing back only to fetch the toy trains he had left under the hydrangea bush. He stuffed them in his pockets, then hitched up his saggy pants and trotted to my side, ready to go.

  As I grabbed Abe's hand, I came close to hugging him again, or maybe even bursting into tears. I didn't deserve it—for this little boy to trust me enough to follow me anywhere, even though I had been so mean to him.

  When Abe and I came trotting around the side of the school, they were all sitting on the bus waiting for me—everyone but Mr. Snider, who stood out in the driveway with his fists on his hips. He had taken off his seersucker coat, and there were dark wet patches staining the underarms of his shirt.

  "Where on earth have you been, young lady?" he cried, his gaze raking back and forth from Abe to me. "And who's this little ragamuffin? Mr. Lindermeyer just went over to the dormitory for the second time to search for you."

  Through the bus window, I could see Mr. Snider's ancient parents peering at me in distress, as if I had suddenly sprouted devil's horns and a barbed tail.

  "I'm sorry," I panted. "This is my friend Abe. I had to go find him. He's coming to the Jubilee with us."

  Mr. Snider stared at me, flabbergasted. His parents must have read my lips through the window, because in the next instant, there were more concerned faces pressing up against the glass, and signs flying to and fro like Ping-Pong balls.

  I was glad to see Mr. Vincent come hurrying back from the dormitory. When he spotted me, he raised his face to the sky in silent thanks. "There you are!" he exclaimed out loud. "I was starting to worry."

  "You should be worried," Mr. Snider said, planting his fists on his hips again. "Miss Davis has the strange notion that she's bringing this fellow along to the Jubilee. I know her father would never approve of such an idea." He glanced at his watch impatiently. "And it's getting late. We should be back at ASD by now."

  Mr. Vincent's eyes widened as he took in Mr. Snider's words. He turned to me.

  "Why can't Abe go?" I asked in a rush before he could say anything. Abe stared up at me in wonder as I signed, my hands jerky with emotion. "He won't be any trouble. And Daddy won't mind giving him a ride back. Abe's been here for three whole days, with not much to do and no kids to keep him company. And there'll be all sorts of great things for him to see at the Jubilee—tumbling and dancing and costumes, and the senior boys are going to juggle, and we're going t—"

  Mr. Snider cut in. "This is a celebration to honor Miss Benton," he said firmly. "The principal of the white school."

  I opened my mouth to argue, but Mr. Vincent laid a quieting hand on my shoulder. He turned to Mr. Snider. "You all go on ahead," he said in a calm voice. "I don't want you to be late, and Gussie and I can work this out between the two of us in my office. I'll give her a ride over in the school car when we're done."

  "But—"

  Mr. Vincent held up his hand, and a surge of panic welled in my throat. I didn't have time to sit in his office and discuss things. I needed to rush back and get the
girls ready for our performance. But the driver had already started the engine, and Mr. Snider was mounting the steps of the bus, still shaking his head in blustery disapproval.

  Chapter 24

  I thought I might scream. As the clock on the wall over his head clicked off the precious minutes, Mr. Vincent sat with his chin in his hand, just thinking. Abe was making soft growling sounds in his throat as he chugged his steam engine down one leg of Mr. Vincent's desk, around my feet, and up the other leg. Then Abe squeezed past my knees, pushing his train through the forest of handmade wooden objects spread across the desktop. A pen stand decorated with fancy whittled designs. Sleek bins carved with the words IN and OUT. Even wooden bookends crafted into the shape of acorns, maybe to honor the oak tree that had supplied the wood.

  I flapped my hand to get his attention. "He's just one little boy," I said.

  "I know," Mr. Vincent signed, tapping his fingers to his forehead.

  "No one will even notice." I could hear my voice turning desperate.

  Mr. Vincent sighed and gave me a pitying look. "Believe me, Gussie. They'll notice."

  "I'll take full responsibility!"

  He rose from his chair with another sigh and turned to gaze out the window, still thinking.

  I let my open palms flop to my lap in frustration.

  Abe was bumping and zooming his train into another one of the obstacles on Mr. Vincent's desk. He picked it up and with a little grunt of amusement, laid it in my cupped palms. It was a box, and something about the dark, satiny wood was familiar. I turned the box over. Mr. Vincent had made it. His telltale initials—VL—were carved into the bottom.

  I bent closer to examine it. The lid of the box was shaped like a heart, with a perfect replica of a hand carved across it. But there were deep grooves chiseled into the fingers and the wrist of the hand. A piece of the lid was missing. Abe watched as I quietly lifted the lid. Inside was a lock of white-blond hair.