The Sound of Us

by Sarah Willis

  The next day, Wednesday, is the first anniversary of September eleventh. I keep the TV off, telling Larissa this is a special day that people are supposed to read and play games. After school, we play parcheesi and Chutes and Ladders, which I’m beginning to despise. I show Larissa how I clip Sampson’s nails. We walk around the neighborhood. I teach her how to play war with cards. We play more parcheesi. I read her Goodnight Moon three times and In the Night Kitchen four times, then a good dozen poems from The Children’s Book of Poems, and then play one final game of parcheesi. I’m exhausted by the time she climbs into bed. I have never worked so hard in my life.

  In the morning I wonder if I did the right thing, if maybe Larissa should understand the importance of yesterday.

  When Yolanda comes for dinner on Thursday, Larissa frowns the entire time. My jaw is tight. I’m getting mad at Larissa; I want her to show Yolanda how well we’re getting along. I excuse Larissa from the table as soon as she’s done eating. “Please carry your dish into the kitchen,” I ask her, and she glares at me.

  After dinner, Yolanda and I sit in my living room, listening to music.

  “Should I have mentioned September eleventh to her?” I ask.

  “Only if she asked,” Yolanda says. She’s dressed more casually than I’ve ever seen her before—jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt—yet still her clothes are tight-fitting, her shoes trendy. She doesn’t have any stray movements. How does she stay so calm with three kids and a full-time nine-to-five job? How does she find time to shop for those clothes, get dressed so carefully, do her hair? I feel stupid and dull in my comfortable shoes.

  “What do your kids know about it?”

  “Racine’s only three. The other two, they know bad people came from far away and flew airplanes into buildings and killed a lot of people. It scared them at first. I took a week off work and kept them home from school. But a year later? I don’t think they care about it much now. They’re young. They got other problems.”

  I’m not sure if it’s too personal to ask what she means, and I’m afraid to look like I don’t care if I don’t ask. “Problems? Are they okay?”

  “It’s just the damn testing at the schools. They don’t sleep, thinking about them. Those tests make them so worried, they can’t learn. They’re more scared of those tests than bad men flying airplanes into their house.”

  Yolanda’s face comes alive when she talks about her kids. Does Larissa show on my face? How can I protect her from being afraid of those tests?

  Yolanda says she has to leave to pick up her kids. She thanks me for having her over, compliments my house, and says that I’m doing a good job. I wonder how soon I can ask her over again.

  The next day I’m home at noon when I get a phone call. It’s Larissa’s teacher.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, and I stop breathing. “But we have a problem. Larissa is pinching some of the children. She’s a very sweet child, and very bright, but these incidents are quite inappropriate.”

  “What incidents?” I ask. “How many times has she done this?”

  “She pinched a girl yesterday and again today. Two different children. I had her take a time-out and told her I’d be speaking to you. I like her very much, Mrs. Marlowe, and I just want to stop this behavior before it gets out of hand. Maybe you can find out why she feels the need to hurt another child, and help her understand that this kind of behavior is not beneficial to anyone.”

  I don’t answer right away. I’m torn between brushing the whole thing off—it only happened twice—and bursting into tears. Everything I’ve done has been wrong and Larissa’s taking it out on other little kids.

  “Thank you for telling me,” I offer. “I’m sorry it happened. Do you have any idea why she did it? Someone else pinched her first?”

  “No, Mrs. Marlowe. Not that I know of.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” I say.

  “If she does it again, I will have to write up a report.”

  “They were mean to me,” Larissa says, when I bring it up on the way to Dunkin’ Donuts.

  “What do you mean, mean to you?” I ask.

  “That little girl spits at me,” Larissa says. I almost smile at the way she describes a girl her age as that little girl.

  “When did she spit at you?” I ask.

  Larissa shrugs.

  “Your teacher says you pinched two children. Did they both spit at you?”

  Her bottom lip goes out. “Jimmy says I can’t have Tom ever because I touch him too much and I’ll kill him.”

  It takes a second to remember that Tom is the hamster. “Larissa, you can’t pinch people, no matter what they say. And if someone spits at you, you should tell your teacher.” Believe me, I will, I think.

  She just sticks her thumb in her mouth.

  “Larissa, do you hear me? If someone does something to you, you need to tell your teacher, not pinch them or hurt them.”

  She takes her thumb out of her mouth. “I’m not tellin’ no teacher.” She puts her thumb back in.

  “But I thought you liked your teacher?”

  She shrugs.

  The shrug annoys me. “Maybe we should talk about this with your mother?” I say, then bite my lip, wanting to reverse time and take the words back.

  “No,” she says, popping her thumb out of her mouth so I can really hear her.

  “Okay,” I say. “Then I don’t want to hear about it happening again.” I pause, collect my thoughts. “It’s not nice to pinch people. If they do something mean to you, they must have problems we don’t understand. We have to try to understand what their problems are. Sometimes you have to be very nice to the people who are mean to you, so they understand what love is.” I add all this to make sure I’ve put in a little philosophy along with my threat to tell her mother. She nods. My words stay with me for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  A routine begins. Rising early each morning I take Larissa to school, come home for an hour to shower and do paperwork, throw Larissa’s wet sheets into the wash, then interpret for Ed and Shaun and any other jobs I can fit in before five o’clock, when I have to pick Larissa up at after-school care. There are visits to the donut shop, trips to Metzenbaum, foster parenting classes, grocery shopping, errands on the weekends—and very occasionally getting the Rothburghs’ daughter Nelly to babysit. I refuse most night jobs and I’m not making as much money as I used to. Elaine at the Hearing and Speech Center doesn’t seem to call me as often anymore. I feel as if I’m running a marathon wearing only one shoe.

  The TV news and papers are filled with the story about the woman who got caught beating her child in the car. No gray areas here; the video of her leaning into that backseat and smacking her daughter are played dozens of times. She’s a bad mother, a horrible person. We can so easily hate her. There is one moment though, in the beginning, when she pleads, “I love my daughter. I’m so sorry,” that I actually wonder if this was just one awful mistake, that she had never hit her daughter before, and never would again.

  Michelle Benton is always on my mind.

  Larissa’s social worker tells me that Michelle is trying, but failing. She’s lost her assistance, and the job at the donut shop is part-time without benefits. She constantly misses or is late to her parenting classes and drug abuse classes because she doesn’t have a car, although sometimes, when she really wants to, she can borrow Aunt Teya’s. When informed she isn’t meeting her goals, she kicked a desk, her shoe going right through the thin veneer, and now she has to go to anger management classes also. It could take a long time until she gets her daughter back.

  Larissa’s teacher calls to say that Larissa hasn’t pinched anyone again, but she’s drawing pictures of the kids she doesn’t like, printing their names on the paper, then making big black X’s over their faces. I want to ask if she’s spelling their names right. “She needs to see a counselor,” the teacher says. “She is,” I tell her. “You need to mention this behavior to the counselor,” she say
s. “I will,” I say. “We’ll have to keep an eye on her,” she says. That’s what you’re being paid to do, I think.

  When I ask Larissa why she draws the pictures of her schoolmates and X’s them out, she says she doesn’t like them.

  “Are they mean to you?” We’re in the bathroom and I’m combing out her hair before she goes to bed. She runs her fingers inside the sink, chasing water droplets, and shrugs.

  Drawing pictures and crossing them out seems harmless, but I’ve seen what’s happening in schools and know it must worry the teacher. “Does it make you feel better?” I ask. “Does it make you feel like you have some power over people who don’t treat you nicely?”

  She waits a minute before she shrugs again. I know her shrugs now. This one means, Yeah, a little, but I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Then can you draw them at home, instead of at school? If it makes you feel better to draw them and scratch them out, it’s okay with me, but do it here so it doesn’t worry your teacher. Okay?”

  She shrugs. It means okay, I think.

  I don’t hear from the teacher again. Two weeks later I buy Larissa a plush teddy bear with the softest fur I’ve ever felt. They’re making stuffed animals out of some new material that is so silky, I want one for myself. I sit the bear on the seat next to me in the car and strap him in. Driving to school with the strapped-in bear to pick up Larissa, I am happier than I have been in a long time. I am full of a great moment, and want someone to see what a wonderful moment this is. I think about the home study guy. Maybe he should come back out and just make sure everything is all right.

  Larissa’s charmed when she sees the bear. She hugs him as we drive home. That night she plays in her room quietly while I work in the computer room. When I check on her, she’s sitting in a circle with her stuffed animals, talking softly with them. Sampson is one of the animals in this circle, and he seems to be listening to Larissa. “You must all behave when I’m at school,” she says, then notices me and stops talking. I wave to the circle.

  “Hello, everyone,” I say. “I’m going back to my office now. Have a lovely evening.”

  A perfect day. I wish my mother could see me now.

  I’m watching you, Vince says.

  Are you really? I ask. And I believe he is.

  One evening in early October, Michelle calls the house. Our deal is that Larissa always calls her mom after finishing her homework, and she already did that. “You still need to talk to her?” I ask. “She’s brushing her teeth.”

  “No. I need to talk to you.”

  I tense.

  “I’m moving in with Teya and her husband. I’m getting kicked out of my place ’cause I missed rent last month.”

  “I’m sorry.” If she asks me for money, I’m going to say the same damn thing.

  “Can I ask you something? I got all this furniture. That bedroom set in Larissa’s bedroom? That belonged to Charlie when he was little. And that rocking chair in my living room? That’s his grandpa’s, who’s dead. Charlie’s parents just have a trailer now, and no way am I gonna let my dad have any of it. We don’t speak no more. And there’s all Larissa’s toys and stuff. There’s no room for them at Teya’s. Can you take some, and maybe some of the furniture? I know Larissa misses her stuff. She said you made her a nice room, but I know she misses her own bed. I can’t afford to put it in storage. They’re going to put it out on the street if I don’t do something with it. The couch and the dining room set I bought off the lady was here when I moved in. They say I can leave them, but they won’t give me more than fifty dollars. Do you have room for them, too? It won’t be for long. I’m going to find my own place soon as I can.”

  Larissa walks down the stairs, teeth brushed and wearing her pajamas. It’s time for her to go to bed. She looks at me. I hold up one finger. How can I talk to her mother without her knowing who I’m talking to? How can I say no to this in front of her? How did I get to a position where my decisions are made by the look on a child’s face?

  “I can’t take all of it,” I say. I did like that dining room table, but where the hell would I put it? I could take the bed that’s in Larissa’s room down to the basement so she could have her own, and of course, all her toys should come here. The rocking chair would fit nicely in this room. The couch? I’ll say no to the couch.

  “Not the couch,” I say. “And I’m not sure about the dining room table. How do you plan on moving it here?”

  Larissa watches me intently. Does she know I’m talking to her mother? Had they planned this?

  “I don’t know,” Michelle says. “I can’t pay nothin’ to get it moved. I’ll give the couch to anyone who moves the rest of the stuff, if you know someone wants a couch. I could give them the couch and the bookcase and a lamp or something, but I got to do it Saturday. Do you know anyone would want the couch and could move the stuff?”

  I do. Ed has just moved into an apartment with Shaun and another deaf guy, and I know they don’t have much furniture. And he drives a truck. “I’ll see,” I say.

  “Thank you, Miss Marlowe. Thank you so much. It means a lot to me to keep my husband’s stuff. You can have the dining room table. I won’t make you pay for it.”

  I close my eyes and sigh. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll see what I can do. You look for someone too.”

  “I will. Thank you. Thank you again, Miss Marlowe. I mean it.” She’s just about the only one who gets the Miss right.

  “Call me Alice,” I say. “We’ll talk tomorrow when I bring Larissa to the restaurant.” Calling Dunkin’ Donuts a restaurant is a stretch, but hell, I just told her to call me Alice. What difference do a few words make?

  Larissa jumps up and down when I explain what the phone call was about. “Yes, yes, yes! I get my bed! I get my kitchen! I get all my toys!” I don’t have to read her a bedtime story. Instead she lists every single thing she has missed so badly, down to a stick of pink lip gloss that was on her bedroom bureau. I could have bought you lip gloss, I think. As the list goes on, I see this room fill up, this house, the circle of stuffed animals becoming an army.

  Ed says he’d love the couch and whatever furniture he can have. He’ll meet me at my house at nine A.M. Saturday morning with Shaun and Joey, and they’ll follow me over to Michelle’s apartment. I have no plans whatsoever of going to her apartment and almost say so, but then realize the problem. I should offer to interpret for them. The situation will be even more complicated since they’ll be carrying furniture.

  I don’t want to go there. Even less, I don’t want to take Larissa there with me. We’ll be moving everything out of her apartment. Won’t Larissa take one look at me, and one look at the boys moving her stuff out, and remember I started all this? I came to her apartment, called the police, and now I’m taking the furniture? Shit.

  I call Polly and ask her if she might take Larissa to see a movie. “At nine in the morning?” Polly asks. “You know where one’s playing at nine in the morning maybe?”

  “I’m not thinking too well.”

  “No, you’re not. I can’t anyway. She’s got a big PR thing and I have to be there.” Polly always calls the mayor she.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll handle this somehow.”

  “I think you’re nuts to take her furniture.”

  “It’s a nice dining room table,” I say. “And, you have any bright ideas how I can tell Larissa I won’t take her bedroom set that used to be her dad’s, you let me know.”

  She doesn’t have an answer for that one. “Hey,” she says. “You ever going to call me just to chat again? I miss that.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  Before Ed, Shaun, and Joey show up, I explain to Larissa that all three of them are deaf—that they speak sign language like I do, but don’t talk with their voices, and that they can’t hear her if she speaks, although Shaun is pretty good at reading lips.

  “If you want to say something to them, I’ll interpret for you,” I tell her as I zip up the purple windbreaker that Michelle bro
ught to our last meeting at the donut shop. It’s a little too small.

  “Yes!” Larissa says. “That would be so good! But I can spell my name! Don’t you do that. I will. Okay? I can spell my name to them.”

  “You betcha.”

  “Oh, oh!” she says turning in a circle. She’s just started doing this, this spinning when she gets really excited. “I want to spell them my mommy’s name! Teach me that! Oh, please teach me that before they get here!”

  Larissa knows how to sign the letters in her name, but that’s about all. I tried teaching her how to spell Sampson, but she got so frustrated we gave up and gave Sampson a personal sign, like you would give a friend; an S on top of her head where a cat’s ear would be. I know that teaching her how to spell her mother’s name, a name that has none of the same letters except L and I, will not be easy. The guys will show up in a few minutes.

  “How about you just sign Mommy? You know that sign.”

  “No! They can’t call her Mommy! That’s dumb! Michelle Benton! That’s her name! They have to know her name.”

  Just testing the waters, I ask Larissa how to spell Michelle. She looks at me, then realizes she can’t spell it even with her own alphabet. She looks so defeated, I feel like a shit.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll teach you,” I say. I sit on couch and she stands directly in front of me, a serious, determined look on her face. In less than five minutes, tears are forming in her eyes.

  “Okay,” I say. “I have a better idea.”

  Her thumb goes into her mouth.

  “How about we give your mom a special name, her personal name, like we did for Sampson?”

  The thumb comes out, and she wipes at her eyes. “Okay.”

  I can think of a few choice signs, none of them that I could tell Larissa. “How about an M to your chin? Where you sign mommy? Then it can mean she is both a person with a name that begins with M, and a mommy?” I show her what I mean.