Two Sisters

by Jeffrey Anderson

Momma showed me the invitation yesterday and I was on Cloud Nine all day.

  Then reality set in as I lay in bed and thought about it. It had to be a mistake, some clerical error at the Heritage Foundation. Or if it was not a mistake, it was simply intended as a kind gesture, to be noted and politely declined—Leah Marie Fulcher was invited to the 98th Annual Debutante Ball of the Central Carolinas. She thanked the Foundation for the invitation but respectfully declined for personal reasons. That had to be it, right? You don’t invite a deaf girl to a hearing persons ball, do you? Or do you?

  So I asked Momma about it this morning after church. Rather than answer my question, she asked one of her own—“Do you want to attend?” So what do you think old (or young) staid and calm and deliberate and reflective Leah answered? I jumped out of my chair—we were reading the paper at the breakfast table after Father left to brave the cold and try to get in a round of golf on the brown grass of the Country Club—and screamed “Yes!” or at least what I meant to be a “yes” though Lord knows what it sounded like. And Momma said “Then you shall attend” and I ran over and gave her a big hug.

  So much for the sappy mother-daughter bonding scene. I know you hate that stuff. And the flush of that joy lasted only as long as it took me to walk upstairs to get out of my church dress when I imagined you sitting on my bed asking “O.K. Just how are you going to make that happen?” Old (or young) practical Brooke, talking to me across the miles. How was I going to make this unprecedented arrangement happen—a deaf girl at the Debutante Ball?

  Any suggestions?

  I have not had a chance to tell Paul, but I am sure he will help in any way he can. Being from the North, I do not think he has any experience with debutante balls; and I doubt he has any clue how to waltz. He could be my escort. We could skip the waltz like you did. More girls are doing that each year. Momma says they will have to either cancel the waltz or make it mandatory again. I hope they do not cancel it. It is such a beautiful display, like a dream from a bygone era. You think the entire ball is a vestige from a dead era, long past its relevance if it ever had any. But I think its history and tradition are still important, maybe more important than ever when so much is changing and being lost. The waltz is not just a dance. It is our heritage.

  “You can get down off your soapbox now, Leah” I can imagine you thinking (and no, your ghost is not here saying the words)! But how do we know where we are headed if we do not know where we come from?

  Mid-terms went fine, even Algebra. Tennis practice started last week. We were indoors every day except Thursday. Wasn’t that a beautiful afternoon? Then it snowed on Friday, at least over here. Did you get any snow or only rain? They let us out of school early, just as the snow switched over to rain and started melting. Momma picked me up rather than taking a chance on the bus. The main roads were fine but the side streets were a little slick. We slid sideways on that curve on Derby and Momma stopped the car in the middle of the road and walked around to my side and handed me the keys and told me to drive. You know how she hates driving in the snow! I got us home safe and sound but next time I hope she lets the bus bring me home. The stupid bus is better than giving her a heart attack!

  Debate Club won our last match and we are practicing for the state meet in April. Ms. Atkins is pushing to add a sign language translator to all matches, but I know that will never happen. How many deaf people attend debate contests? Still, I am appreciative and thanked her for her efforts. She said (or, actually, signed—she’s the only one in school that signs everything to me) “I want our sharpest thinker actually doing the debating!” I was grateful for the compliment but am not holding my breath. Besides, I do not know how I would react if I had to stand in front of judges and actually debate. I am probably better off right where I am—organizing the arguments and tracking down the facts.

  How did your midterms go (or should I ask)? Did you finish your paper on Byron? I know you hate his poetry (so do I) but looking at his life and times and calling him the first international rock star makes for an interesting paper. I bet you get an “A”!

  And I’m so glad you decided to skip Fort Lauderdale and split your break between here and Myrtle Beach. I know Momma and Father are relieved; and I’m so glad to have a chance to see you, even if I will be in school part of the time. You want to come with me as a guest? Just kidding—I recall you saying after graduation “I’ll never set foot in that dungeon again!” and I will not make you break that vow. But we will have Sunday and a few evenings together before you head off to Myrtle Beach. Maybe we can sneak off to the Mill if it is not too cold. I cannot wait.

  Your debutante invitee designate sister,

  Leah

  March 5

  Dear Leah,

  The Debutante Ball, huh? You know how that went last time. You want to give it another try?

  Just kidding! You’ll be killer—I mean, great, The Belle of the Ball! And I’m with Momma. We’ll make it work. If you want to dance the Waltz, then you should dance the Waltz! Those old fuddy-duds can bend the rules for my sister. Have you talked to Paul? What does he think? Can he dance a lick or is he like every boy I know, running for cover soon as you mention dancing? We’ll figure it out. If you can get this girl to the Ball, then this girl sure as heck will get you there, with bells on (that’s just a figure of speech—don’t want to push the fuddy-duds too far!).

  Mid-terms went fine. I may not be Phi Beta Kappa material but they aren’t going to throw me out. And I turned in my Byron paper. I haven’t got it back yet. Ms. Teach—that’s what we call Allie Creech, our writing class TA—says she’ll be slaving away grading papers while we’re all sunning ourselves by the seashore. I told her not to give us so many papers and she just smiled this silly little smile as if to say “There goes Brooke again!” Well, don’t give us so many papers if you don’t want to grade them!

  Besides, I don’t know how much sunning I’ll be doing by the seashore, unless you’re talking about in a snowsuit. What’s with this weather, anyway? Dean’s been teasing me no end about bailing on Florida. “Want me to leave you my scarf and mittens?” he says. I told him my hands are too big for his mittens. He has the smallest hands I’ve ever seen on a guy. By the way, he says “Hi!” He showed me some elaborate hand gesture for “hi” but I just raised my hand and waved. He said, “You’re no fun!” I said, “You spend so much time gesturing you don’t have any time for communicating.” He said, “I communicate just fine, thank you very much. And let me communicate this--I’m going to sunny Florida and you’re staying in the snowy Carolinas!” Thank you for that reminder, Dean.

  Truth is, I’m glad to be staying here, so I have a chance to spend time with you. You might think it’s because I broke up with Barry but that had nothing to do with it. Well, maybe just a little bit. If Barry wants to be led on a leash held by Miss-pris Jennifer Sampson all around Fort Lauderdale, then go right ahead. Brooke is spending time with her sis and best buddy, sunny Florida be damned! (But if you hold sway with the man upstairs, how about asking him to send torrential rain to Florida and sunny spring-like days to the Carolinas—that’ll show him!)

  Counting the hours, your sun-deprived (or is it depraved?) sis—

  Brooke

  Sunday was a gorgeous spring-like day without a cloud in the sky and the bright sun warming temperatures into the 70s. So after church (Matt, also home for the day, wondered aloud “How many sins does Brooke have to confess?” to which Brooke had deftly replied “Let he who is without sin . . .” which prompted a scowl from Matt and a low-five congratulatory hand slap from Leah with the three of them lined up across the backseat of the Buick) and Sunday dinner (a stuffed crown roast of pork with mashed potatoes and baked apples and collards and biscuits and gravy, with caramel cake for dessert), Brooke and Leah stripped out of their Sunday dresses and donned shorts and T-shirts and headed for Kenley Park, a twenty-minute walk through side streets to the edge of downtown. Though the park’s lawns were still brown and the broad-canopied w
illow oaks still bare of leaves, the daffodils along the paths were in full bloom, the buds on the Bradford pears starting to open up, and the ducks on the pond splashing and chasing each other in what looked like play but almost certainly derived of a more adamant motive.

  They stopped by the asphalt-paved playground near the park’s entrance and joined with the many youngsters in riding the seesaw, swinging from the swings, and whirling on the foot-powered pipe merry-go-round. In these activities Leah would frequently pause to help a young child climb on a swing or step onto the moving merry-go-round. The children all trusted Leah and freely accepted her help, yet somehow knew she couldn’t hear and didn’t try to talk to her. They communicated through eye and touch and facial gestures. One little girl did cry when Leah turned to join Brooke headed off toward the pond, and Leah somehow knew of this girl’s distress and went back to console the child. She made a quick bracelet of dandelions blooming in a sunny spot along the playground border and placed it around the girl’s wrist. The girl stopped crying and gazed at the gift in silent wonder. Just then an older man (her father?) came up and took the little girl’s hand, casting a