Fifty Contemporary Writers

by Bradford Morrow

  When the man who spoke with his hands was confronting a knotty problem or trying to be clear about a complexity that had hold of him, he would revolve his hands around one another, slowly or quickly, quietly or forcefully, as the puzzle was pursued. The knot at last untied, the left hand, palm exposed, might fly gracefully away as if to say: there, you see, or, it consequently comes to this. I liked particularly the definite but brief pinches one pair of fingers might make on a lower arm or the upper skin of a hand, or all the subtle tweezer-style variations, since he seemed to have a special role for every digit, and Professor Skizzen particularly felt those fingers were very sincere about their business, well manicured and behaved, especially during geometric gestures, small circles mostly, as if one were twining one’s hair, or unrolling an idea like a length of rug.

  Occasionally, the man who spoke with his hands would add a little flutter or some zippy propulsion of the right indexical toward the object or person he was addressing (the way one adds “-ed” to a verb or tacks on “-ly” to an adverb or attaches an “-est” to an adjective or “-ness” to a noun, of which “saintliness” could serve as an example, or “livelihood” be an attractive instance, or “implicational” at least representative), thereby altering the assumed character of a run of silent remarks.

  Rarely did the man who spoke with his hands permit them to touch his head, ears, or face, though Professor Skizzen saw a forefinger brush his earlobe once in a gesture so expressive as to warrant applause. They never strayed below the belt or roamed far or widely from his torso or fell meekly like a coat sleeve to his sides. And despite all this nearly continuous motion, the professors hardly noticed them, took little heed of this habit, were not distracted as much by the fingers as by the light that rollicked from their owner’s bald head, pale as paper. He was a man, compact and even slight, whom one could nevertheless pick out of a crowd as one would the most attractive piece of fruit from a bin. His hair would have been brown had he had any. The truth was, Rinse and Skizzen talked more about the man’s dark curly eyebrows and his bald pate than his shiny nails or their scintillating moves.

  When the man who spoke with his hands performed, his colleagues read his gestures as signs, and Rinse thought his fingers danced, but Skizzen heard an orchestra that the man conducted to accompany his words. Skizzen saw the pick, the drum, the strum, the tweak, the pluck, the rub, the damp, the trill, the run of the instruments, the strain of the strings, as the man’s nails flickered, and loose fists were formed only to relax like petals leaning back into their blooms.

  Arthur Devise was the man who spoke with his hands, and he played the flute, the piccolo, and the recorder. When the death of Clarence Carfagno created an opening in the music department, Arthur Devise arrived to fill it. Professors Morton Rinse and Joseph Skizzen held it against their new colleague that he had been chosen without consulting them; they held it against him that he was a friend of Howard Palfrey, the president who had hired Art (as they would later affectionately address him), and a president whom the male faculty to a man despised; they held it against him that he was almost as old as they were and so a failure for as long as they (though they didn’t immediately put their animosity in such terms); they held it against him that, as a musician, he was quite accomplished; Professor Morton Rinse especially held it against him that he, like Rinse, played the flute, the piccolo, and the recorder; while both men held it against him that Palfrey had picked Arthur Devise because the Department of Music had always—anyway in Palfrey’s memory—had two members (there were three altogether) who professed the flute, the piccolo, and the recorder, and that it was proper to continue the tradition; the remainder held it against Arthur that he actually seemed a good sort and a wise choice, because they did not want to think the president ever acted wisely; Professor Joseph Skizzen held it against Devise in addition that he was a widower with an attractive daughter about to become a student of music in her parent’s own college, in her parent’s department, and might enroll in her parent’s class; they jointly held it against him that Devise agreed to teach, lead, and pamper the choir and the chorus, and had them sounding splendid in no time; finally, they held it against him that he spoke with his hands, and that, at first, neither Rinse nor Skizzen liked what he said.

  The man who spoke with his hands, because he spoke with his hands, was a quiet man, with a slow, warm, well-regulated smile, a smile hard to dislike, and he chuckled deeply in his chest to the point of an almost inaudible rumble, and the slow, well-regulated shaking of his ribs made his hands, so often positioned on what would have been his stomach had he had one, rise and fall lightly like a pair of drifting leaves—motions charming in their pacifying consequences.

  It has been said that Saint Francis of Assisi used such gestures to charm birds, who would then perch upon his extended arm and eat grain strewn artfully along it, though some say they just flew in for the grub.

  Dottie Devise was, in contrast, chipper, perky, cheeky, cheerful, and squeaky as a toy mouse; perhaps her voice could be better described as chirpy, high but thinly pitched, leaping from syllable to syllable almost as if it came from a clock. When she bounced, which was much of the time, her small breasts crossed the net like tennis balls, and reminded Professor Skizzen, unpleasantly, of the way his sister’s rose and fell in a manner most disturbing when she had led cheers, her high school letter sweater leaping as if there were small animals bundled behind the cloth trying to burst free.

  MOR ning PRO fes sor SKIZzzz en OW r u? The question was almost a relief. I am fine, Miss Devise, as you can see. TEE hee, I am HAP pee to no tha TT. And howw arr uuu, Professor Skizzen would particulate. FI ner than BE for. Holding books against her busy chest, Dottie (for that is what she chose to call herself) would flicker away at a half skip. Professor Skizzen would sigh like a dying inner tube, shake his head as he entered his office, and each time think how terrible poor Devise must feel, having raised such a giggly flibbertigibbet almost from infancy, as the professor had been led to believe.

  He remembered the way she seemed when Art had first arrived at the college: quiet, demure, in a frilly frock, her hair tied up like a restless dog, since Art apparently could not teach combing. She followed her father when he walked her to her school, precisely five paces behind. Dottie was untouched by her future nature then and didn’t jiggle.

  The sorrowful story that President Howard Palfrey so enjoyed retelling about the tragedies their new colleague, Arthur Devise, had been honored by God to endure—the loss of his wife; the loss, during the war, of his power of speech; which might explain those expressive hands—was just one more thing to hold against him, and would have been held had it been necessary, but there was so much against him already that, at least in the early days of their acquaintance, Devise had to go about bent as if he were leaning into a persistent wind.

  The man who spoke with his hands remained on the staff long enough to earn a sabbatical if Wittlebauer had granted them. Then he and his daughter disappeared without so much as a giggle of goodbye or an equivalent wave, though President Palfrey announced that Professor Devise was leaving for personal reasons. This was regrettable. The bags beneath President Palfrey’s eyes swelled with something near tears. Professor Devise would be missed, especially his piccolo and his work with the chorus, which immediately fell out of tune. Bon voyage et bon chance. Don’t forget us.

  At the time of Art’s departure, Joseph Skizzen not only held nothing against him, he considered Art his friend; he appreciated his trills, rests, riffs, roulades, and cadenzas, and understood what Art had to endure from his daughter whose birdsong Skizzen now heard as the cackle of starlings or the shriek of the shrike.

  If one were thinking of the northern bird, this comparison would be inaccurate because its call is mellow when it isn’t scolding. But the loggerhead’s is as sharp and abrupt as a spill of tacks, and has a harsh complaining quality as well. Shrikes were not unheard of in this part of Ohio, so her appearance at the college was scarcely a
miracle. They are predators, fierce to a fault, with bright white teeth often in a wide girlish grin.

  Although she still lived in her father’s protective shadow, Dottie was now a disturbing presence in Professor Skizzen’s class, the introductory Elements of Music, and she showed up for office hours more regularly than he had his lunch. She could play several instruments tolerably well and was far ahead of almost everyone else, a fact she let her questions prove. Skizzen had attempted to move her to a more advanced level but both Dottie and her father wanted her to stay where she was. Now, in his office, she was provocative, showing leg, showing smile, standing close, tossing her hair as she’d no doubt seen in the movies, and asking increasingly personal questions.

  On a day no more dismal than most others, Joseph Skizzen was approached, while reading in the faculty lounge (a large closet-sized space with a coffee pot, scarred wooden table, and few chairs, where he liked to hide out and study scores because everyone else hated the ratty little room and found that it reminded them of Wittlebauer’s tightwad president and their benighted condition), by Arthur Devise, who had entered with his hands wrapped around a steaming mug in order that they should enjoy its warmth since the day was sleety, gray, and cold, although no more dismal than most others.

  Devise placed the mug rather emphatically in the middle of the table where some chiseler had scratched “teachers love the ignorant” with a flinty pointed pencil, its carbon darkening the line, and then he pulled up a chair near Skizzen as a conspirator might, and allowed his hands to make his apologies.

  Skizzen shrugged his “no matter” shrug. Devise pursed his right thumb and forefinger, and snapped the clasp. I understand, he said in a tone level enough to encourage planting, my daughter Dorothy has been making a nuisance of herself. Devise’s left thumb wiggled as if to say, I don’t mean that. Instead, maybe the pursed thumb meant, she is my dear girl who has never had an unclean thought. Perhaps the wiggled thumb meant that an innocent batting of her lashes had led to a misunderstanding. Skizzen wondered how to approach such a confession.

  Dottie had, of course, been making eyes at Skizzen, embarrassing him past pink, but he naturally said, of course not, why would you think that? Both of Devise’s palms slowly showed themselves as if they were aces peeking from a poker hand. Well, she has predilections … she … in the past … From a binocular position, the fingers tentatively disclosed the inner hand, then exhibited one apologetic spasm like tossing a toad from their grasp.

  Ah, Skizzen exclaimed, genuinely surprised, that’s why you put her in my class. You thought I’d understand.

  I thought you’d know I wouldn’t do so otherwise.

  Yes, otherwise it would be a poor practice.

  I had to keep her near me.

  A class with you, a class with me—that’s near.

  The hands of the man who spoke with his hands slid into a tangle of shame.

  I think it’s because she misses her mother. Well, not misses exactly. Because she has no mother. She’s decided to be the mother she needs.

  She doesn’t act like a mother with me.

  Ah … she … I’m afraid she wants you to make her a mother.

  But anyone … nearly anyone … will do, I presume.

  She has gone rather far in other … schools.

  High school even?

  Yes … well, other places … community colleges … . She’s gone rather far. Since she was thirteen.

  Surely she would not promote such things with me?

  Possibly. It’s likely.

  She has accused me of … you know … looking at her.

  I am terribly sorry. She is playing the coquette. It’s her subject.

  But her speech …

  Oh yes, I know, her speech is mechanical. It’s made up. It is a complaint about mine … my hands. His hands were stitching cloth. She … you see … squeaks in protest.

  I’ve noticed you do move your hands about.

  I don’t do it. God does. God moves my hands. I speak that way on his behalf.

  This conversation had been so painful for Skizzen that each previous word had felt pulled from him like an embedded cork, but now almost every function ceased: his throat clogged, his face burned, so his blood must have rushed into his cheeks. They are both mad, he thought. Since he was able to make such a judgment, his mind must be operating. But he wasn’t breathing. Never had he heard anything so preposterous, but such a statement, made to his face and meant for him, was like a blow to his chest.

  I know that what I say must seem surprising, although our good president Palfrey was ready to entertain it. However, I have become merely an instrument of God’s, or rather, not I, but my hands have become an instrument of God’s. They do his bidding and, when he’s speaking, will not mind me. Since they often make their moves while I am speaking as I am speaking now to you, some people have concluded that they are accompanying me. Two fingers pinched and lifted the loose skin about the knuckles of his left hand. I have thought you might he one of those. The musical connection, you know.

  Devise’s pause made his statement a question. Skizzen could not answer. He began to think, though, of what he might possibly say to this man who had become a threatening stranger—humor him, deny him, sympathize, chastise him, return the subject to his daughter’s wayward ways? say I don’t want to hear another word, bolt the room? Skizzen’s weight shifted. This was sensed. One of those hands touched his arm.

  As if released, Skizzen stood up. He thanked God he had grown a beard, and in that moment realized who it was he had invoked—already a ghostly presence if this testimony could be believed. Always a presence according to doctrine. He might perhaps ask how Professor Devise presumed to know that the gestures he involuntarily made were those of some other spirit than his own unconscious, but this would prolong a conversation he wished had never begun. Well, there was no conversation since he hadn’t said a word. Maybe he shouldn’t aid or abet it. He would just go.

  I can’t make out the signs they are sending; I cannot read their code; I just know; and I was never a believer either, before my wife was so terribly killed. Devise’s smooth, firm features looked to be dissolving into a solution of sorrow. He was swimming in tears, that was it. When I told Dorothy what had happened to my hands, she became hysterical. She accused me of leaving her as her mother had, though, of course, I hadn’t, and I assured her that my mind was clear, sane through and through like—you know—paper that’s one hundred percent cotton.

  Skizzen found this comparison almost as unsettling as his colleague’s revelation about his hands. The man was mad. Did his hands heal? He had been touched but was it a king’s touch? He had some warts … perhaps if … He had shaken this man’s hands. What happened then? The man was mad. I shall wash my hands of him, Skizzen thought. He has the whole world in those hands. They certainly were idle, but why was it only his hands? If he were a puppet, his legs should move too. When his head tilts, his eyes should roll. The madman … Why was he—Joseph Skizzen—a person who endeavored to stay in the background—why was he always the accosted one? the falsely accused? the rudely confronted? After all, he had only backed around his office desk, keeping his moral distance, with Dottie in salacious pursuit, and then, rid of her one more time, all he had done … well, he had locked up all his temptations in a steel cabinet and fled to this squatters’ hole, a place forsaken by all until now when a crowd seemed to have assembled. The chairs were standing guard, the coffee pot was listening. No comment from the mug but steam. Skizzen noticed that there were only six checkers left. Mostly reds.

  I’ve endured the shame of her nymphomaniacal imposture; I’ve put up with all the jokes—

  Jokes?

  That I’m only going through the motions.

  I—. Ah … Oh.

  Professor Skizzen, my friend, if you complain of her, we shall have to move on again, and we are running out of places to land.

  I despise imposture, Skizzen found himself saying.

  I tho
ught you might understand imposture very well.

  Skizzen did not reply because he was suddenly frightened. What was meant by that? Was there a threat? what sort? from what quarter? Devise had been last seen smothering his mug with both hands. Perhaps he was making a joke about the quality of its—what did one say?—mud. Led by his beard, Skizzen retreated toward the door. Keep your eye on the hands, he implored himself. Keep an eye on.

  I mean it is very hard to be honestly what we are. A finger, rooted in a fist, popped free.

  Well, she better not. Dottie. Dottie better not imposture me. She crowds me, even in corridors. Where everyone can see. Skizzen cracked the door and slid through. And from the building, he ran out.

  Perhaps, after this, the man who spoke with his hands said less with his hands than before. Perhaps he kept his arms loaded with books. Perhaps he chose to participate in fewer social gatherings or to plan fewer accidental encounters. It was hard to tell. But for a time, at least, Dottie did nothing in class but cross her legs, and nothing after class but bob when—by circumstance—he was carried close.

  Professor Skizzen said nothing with his eyes or mouth, or evidenced anything in the way he walked, or gave his own hands leave to stray into oratory. He kept mum about God and God’s signals; he kept mum about Dottie’s—well—devices; he kept mum about his fears. Before the morning mirror he made certain to be clothed.

  But he did practice flicking crumbs from the dinner table. Flick, that’s gone, he would say his hands said. Get thee to a nunnery. Flick. As if it were a picnic and there were ants on the cloth. Flick. Let the air eat you.