by Rachel Simon
He considered stealing Silver Husband’s car. He’d sit inside it in the garage, feeling the wheel. Even though it was different from the cars at the McClintocks’ and the Snare, it was no puzzle. And even with him not hearing other cars or being able to ask directions, he could easily get away. Except sooner or later things might go wrong. And if the police caught him for thieving, he’d end up serving time before holding Beautiful Girl again.
Then one morning, the Silvers piled him and the boys in the car and drove down the road a long, long way, to a crossroads with a diner, grocer’s, service station, and wide field of nothing. A red light blinked above the spot where the roads came together. They pulled into the empty field. A crew of men was already there, and soon a cement truck pulled up with its barrel spinning and another with gray blocks. The crew gathered around Silver Husband, who held up a megaphone. Then they went to work building something, and Homan was expected to join in. He had no idea what they were building, but he saw, as they poured cement for a floor, that it was going to be so big it could easily hold the circuses that came to the Snare. The next day they went back, and the next. It became his job to build walls with the gray blocks. He also helped put on a roof, run wires for lights and pipes for a lavatory, and—this one got him—construct a stage. The mystery of this building and the comforts of the Silvers’ home got him off track from getting away just now.
Then one day, after he and the crew set up rows of chairs inside the building, it got clearer. Just before sunset, he and a few others were sent to the roof for more work, and there he saw, lying flat and waiting to be raised, a huge cross. As he was helping to lift the cross upright, then holding it in place while others secured it, he looked down at the flashing red light marking the meeting of the roads. At the service station across the way, two young men stood with packs at their feet, holding their thumbs out, and a truck driver at the pumps waved them over. They hoisted their packs and got into his front seat, and off they went down the road.
Right. Ride Thumbers. He’d seen them on TV. That was what he had to do.
Getting himself back to the crossroads wouldn’t be hard, since they’d been coming every day. It was making a break for the service station that would be tricky—and getting a driver to take him without him needing to speak.
Someone turned on a spotlight. The cross lit up and he stepped out of the beam, looking down to the crew below. It was a nice sight, everyone applauding. Then he looked across the road to the trucks. That our answer, Beautiful Girl, he thought. What a nice sight it was, too.
The next day, for the first time, the Silvers, Braidy Boy, and Scrawny Boy got dressed in finery. Silver Husband put on a suit, Silver Wife a dress with pearls and nylons, the boys pressed shirts and ties. Homan made to do the same, but they shook their heads no and indicated he was not joining them. He couldn’t believe it. Finally he was ready and they were acting like his brothers and sisters, leaving him alone.
After the meal, he took refuge with the pigs. Out the window he watched everyone get into the car, carrying their little suitcases with the books, and as they rolled toward the road, he ran after them. But they drove off. He stood at the road, watching the bumper move toward the horizon. He went up to the house and kicked the siding. He went to the clothesline in the back and threw punches at the pants, shirts, sheets. It made him feel good, and not just for evening the score. With each punch he felt how all that church building had muscled him up really good.
He slammed back into the house. He could walk right out of here. He should! Though as he paced in the kitchen, looking out to the pecking cranes, he admitted to himself that he didn’t want to be out in the elements again, dirty and frightened, desperate for a dusty hut. He needed to leave, but if he waited until they took him back to that blinking red light, he’d at least get to travel in a truck, maybe even with his new clothes and some food. He just had to find a sack to stuff with provisions. No, enough of sacks. He’d use the little suitcase that came with the book.
The suitcase was still under his bed. He loaded his arms with edibles scrounged from the pantry and headed through the living room. There he saw the TV on, with a preacher like always. What sense did it make leaving on a TV for a deaf man? He made to walk off—
Then something snagged his attention. This show didn’t look like the usual show at all. This show was taking place in a huge room with crowds filling the chairs. He knew those chairs. He knew that room. Those were the walls he’d helped lay. The stage. And on the stage a preacher in a white suit stood before a microphone, making a Yell Face, raising his arms in the air. He was so worked up, his hair bounced on his forehead.
Homan sat on the couch. Preacher Bouncing Hair was moving across the stage, sweat rolling down his face. The stage sure looked impressive. Homan had been stubborn about sanding and painting, and he was glad. He imagined Beautiful Girl sitting beside him, looking at him with pride. He laced his hands behind his head and set his feet on the coffee table.
Then he noticed men pushing a ramp to the front of the stage. This was strange. Preacher Bouncing Hair didn’t need a ramp, and anyway, he was already on the stage.
Next thing he knew, Preacher Bouncing Hair was making a Come Up wave toward a girl in the aisle. She was in a wheelchair, which a woman behind her was pushing. The crowd was turned to them, and the young girl and the woman had shining eyes.
Homan unlaced his hands and sat up, his elbows on his knees.
The woman—the girl’s mother, it looked like—pushed the girl up the ramp and onto the stage, and Preacher Bouncing Hair set his hands on the girl’s head. His mouth moved. The mother was weeping, the audience praying. The girl was looking into the preacher’s eyes.
Then Preacher Bouncing Hair flung his arms back from the girl and made a huge Yell Face. And the girl stood up from the chair! Homan couldn’t believe his eyes. The girl took a step toward the preacher. Her mother set her hand on her breast, folks were crying all over the room, and then—and then—the girl kicked her wheelchair away and skipped across the stage! The audience was beaming, crying, clapping, praying. The girl spun around like a dancer. Preacher Bouncing Hair was raising his arms. The crowd was on its feet.
Homan stared at the television. No girl needing a wheelchair gonna suddenly jump up and become a ballerina! Maybe the Bible gots miracles like loaves and fishes, but this a trick. No matter what Preacher Bouncing Hair say or how hard he fling his arms, legs that don’t move don’t just fix themselves. Any more than eyes can just fix themselves, or brains, or—
And a chill came over him as he was filled with understanding.
The next morning, he woke to the dream face of Beautiful Girl, lying beside him in the hay of the barn, and Little One, crawling on top of them. Gazing at them, he was sure that his new plan was exactly right. So he felt prepared when Silver Wife handed him nice clothes to put on.
He went into his bedroom to put on the white button-up shirt and pressed pants and retrieved the little suitcase, now filled with utensils, canned food, and extra clothes. He left the book under the bed. He left the shoes they’d given him, too, and put on his own boots, newly shined. When he emerged with the suitcase and stood beside the boys, dressed up with their suitcases, too, the Silvers smiled, never noticing anything was up.
They all got into the car, and as they started down the long road, he saw a trouble he hadn’t considered. Braidy Boy was sitting on his one side, Scrawny Boy his other—like guards. He tapped his feet and patted his hands against his thighs. They were all talking, he saw, and probably about him. Probably all that talk they’d been doing about him was a master plan to get him to this preacher.
He looked at his knees and shook his head. Well, he was going to get away, and that’s all there was to it.
Then his eyes lit on his suitcase, lodged between his knees, and he felt a jolt of guilt. Here he was, so ready to return their hospitality with thieving and disappearing. They might be taking him on a fool’s errand, yet they were just d
oing what they believed right, and that made them better by far than the good-for-nothings he’d run into through the years. They’d been decent, too, feeding him, giving him a clean bed, shooting no nasty looks. Maybe you owes them, he thought. Maybe you should just walk in that church and do what they want. Besides, what if they knew something he didn’t—and the preacher did have the power to bring back his hearing?
Homan hadn’t given thought to getting his hearing back since he’d met the McClintocks. Now he thought of them and him conversing, their hands carnivals of stories. He remembered, too, the day at the revival, when they all hoisted themselves up the tree and pressed themselves to the windows and then the singing and clapping and hollering and sermonizing danced through the pane and inside their skin. He hadn’t missed hearing after that. Well, there were times when he’d longed to hear Beautiful Girl’s voice, and surely he would want to hear Little One’s first words. And there was no arguing he wouldn’t be in such a mess now if strangers could understand his speech. But what if hearing made him forget how to listen with his eyes, and skin, and nose, and mouth? Or what if the hearing he got was bad, like a TV picture that wouldn’t come in clear?
He saw the church now through the windshield. Toweling his palms off on his trousers, he hoped they’d pull into the front lot, which was just a hop, skip, and jump from the crossroads and the trucks now at the service station. Then they drove up, and he saw the front lot was for folks with canes and walkers and wheelchairs. The Silvers went into the back lot, which was awfully far from the service station. He’d have to let himself go inside—and if he was quick thinking, he could find a place to stash his suitcase and then, when they weren’t looking, make his break.
They entered the flow of people coming through the huge front doors, and as soon as they were inside, the Silvers and the boys got caught up shaking hands with others they seemed to know. He wanted to slip off, but someone always managed to be at his side. Finally, after what turned into endless hellos, it seemed he’d get his chance. His guards didn’t head straight to the seats. They went to the lavatory and took him.
The bathroom had a line, which meant they’d need to be occupied with their business before he could escape. He took in the other churchgoers, wondering if they’d nab him if asked to. It was hard to tell. Most looked well-to-do like the Silvers and put-together like the boys. A few also had differences: An old man wore the dark glasses of the blind, a young man had crutches clamped to his wrists. Homan looked to his guards. In front of him, Braidy was staring into space. Scrawny had gone to the mirror to comb his hair. Homan was not being watched.
This was his chance, maybe his only one all day. He took a step—
And something brushed the back of his arm. He turned. Behind him was a teenage boy in a wheelchair. Above his navy pants, navy blazer, and untucked white T-shirt, he wore his black hair longer than anyone here and carried a lighthearted smartness in his long-lashed eyes. He was looking up at Homan and moving his lips, and as he swept his arm up, making the kind of motion hearing folk made while speaking, it was clear his condition affected his arms and hands. No way was Homan going to lose his chance for this kid. He gestured to his ears and shook his head no. The boy widened his eyes, then nodded, and Homan backed away. But the boy reached out again, his wrist a swim stroke in the air. Then he pulled up the bottom of the T-shirt and motioned, and Homan knew: The kid was in the bathroom to drain the bag that helped him do his business, and he couldn’t drain it alone.
Homan shook his head. Not him. Not now. The boy made a hopeful face, and Homan held out his hand to emphasize: No. His chance wouldn’t last long, he saw, shooting a look across the room—Braidy was letting himself into a stall, Scrawny examining a pimple. Homan was already shrugging an apology as his eyes settled back on this kid, but when he saw the hope melt into disappointment, he remembered. He was in the Running, going up to one person after another in a train station, trying to get someone to buy him a ticket. He tried talking, miming, pleading—and each one looked at him in fear or hurried by until he got so mad that he shoved one smirking peewee down and ran out the side door. How could he not help? It was just one kid and one time. And Braidy Boy was answering nature’s call, and Scrawny Boy was buffing his shoe, and Homan could move fast—he’d sure emptied enough bags at the Snare. He set down his suitcase and made a hurried gesture toward a urinal. The boy pushed himself across the room and started pulling down his elastic waistband, and when he could do no more, Homan did what he’d done a thousand times: took out the tube, drained it, and arranged the boy’s clothes back to their proper look. The boy peered up with gratitude. Probably Homan was the first Samaritan who’d known what to do.
The deed done, Homan whipped around—just in time to see Braidy step out of the stall and Scrawny turn back from the mirrors. His neck tightening, Homan spun back to the boy, who was, amazingly, gazing into the room with a wry smile. It made Homan look harder at this kid. The boy had a comic book sticking out from his blazer pocket. Freckles danced across his cheeks. He smelled like mint and chocolate.
Then he turned his face up toward Homan, nodded in the direction of the rest of the room, and quickly, so only Homan could see, rolled his eyes. Homan laughed the first laugh in he didn’t know how long and rolled his eyes, too.
It felt so good meeting a kindred spirit that Homan almost didn’t mind returning to the lobby with his guards, and as they escorted him into the room for the service, he cast his thoughts back to Shortie and Whirly Top. Walking down the aisle toward the Silvers, clutching his getaway suitcase in front of his chest, he remembered how much he’d come to enjoy having friends. The boy—Samaritan Finder, Homan named him—must have felt the same: He’d reached his hand toward Homan before they parted and pressed his fingers into Homan’s for a shake.
The day went on and on.
Sandwiched between Scrawny and Braidy, his suitcase stowed under his chair the same as they’d stowed theirs, Homan imagined the trucks he’d seen when they arrived were long gone. He tried to will more trucks in their place. He tried to will the boys to leave.
Then two muscular men in suits pushed the ramp along the floor to the center of the stage, and as they locked it in place, the boys stood and motioned for Homan to get to his feet. For a moment he debated remaining in his chair, but stubbornness would only create a scene. Besides, the odds of escaping were better if he was standing—even if he had to leave his suitcase behind. Only as they marched him, empty-handed, toward the aisle did he see so many folks already there, with crutches and wheelchairs and canes and companions of every age and girth. Having no belongings was the least of his worries. There was just so much blocking the way.
The boys exited the row into the long line waiting for the ramp. The other hopefuls parted with friendly nods, and he and the boys took their place only a few heads from the stage.
The man at the front of the line had draped his arm over a woman’s shoulders and was pulling his leg—fully encased in a cast—up the ramp, and Homan knew he had only so much time to survey his surroundings. He turned to his left, then right, taking in endless rows of filled seats fanning out to the distant walls and side doors. Too bad he was so close to the front, he thought, turning around. As he’d expected, Scrawny was positioned right behind him, with the long line extending as far back as Homan could see. The room was as hard to cross as a river.
Then a motion right behind Scrawny caught his eye—a hand wave at waist level.
Samaritan Finder! Despite his sinking heart, Homan broke into a smile, and Samaritan Finder did the same. But there were hands on Sam’s wheelchair, and when Homan lifted his eyes, he saw two dark-haired women behind Sam, gazing at the stage with expectation. Except for one being heavier than the other, they shared a family resemblance with Sam. Yet Sam was paying them no mind, and when Homan met his eyes again, Sam gestured toward the stage and shook his head.
Homan nodded in agreement. Then he turned and saw that the spotlight on the stage now shone
on a blind man. He’d thrown off his glasses and was walking forward with a halting gait, a dead giveaway he couldn’t see better than before. Why would a person put himself through this? Did he really believe he could see? Or did he just want to fake to please his companion?
A man with crutches picked his way up the ramp, with Homan next in line.
He gazed into the huge room, and though he couldn’t find them, he knew the Silvers were watching. He wished he hadn’t stuffed their suitcase with stolen goods. He wished he could repay their hospitality with his cure. Yet he saw now that most people here wanted so hard to be fixed that they’d do anything, and he didn’t want it that hard. Beautiful Girl hadn’t asked for him to be fixed. Her face had lit up whenever she saw him—just the way he was. If she didn’t care about fixing, and he wasn’t sure he wanted fixing, forget faking. When his turn came—on the stage, in the spotlight, on TVs across this land—he’d be the biggest failure of this preacher’s life.
The man unhinged both crutches and tossed them off. One landed on the stage, one down below, at the foot of the ramp.
Homan should have run off from the bathroom. Braidy and Scrawny would have given chase, maybe tackled him by the trucks, but that would have been a happier situation than becoming the fool of the day. Well, only the first. He’d have company when Sam failed, too.
He met Sam’s eyes. Sam was looking hard at him, nostrils round with resentment. He flicked his gaze to Scrawny, who was consulting with the women behind Sam’s chair. Next thing Homan knew, Braidy was yanking him aside, and the women were pushing Sam forward.
It all happened so fast, Homan didn’t have time to ask himself what was going on. He didn’t need to—Sam was looking up at Homan as he passed, his jaw rigid, his eyes wet. Homan reached out his arm in sympathy, and they touched hands.