Sign Languages

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Sign Languages Page 11

by James Hannah


  Later, in bed, Richard saw it all from their point of view—as if he were at Barbie and Buddy’s window. They never sleep. They probably had cups of coffee in their hands.

  He touched his face where the man had hit him again and again with his ham fist. Then they’d fallen over the railing like in a western and plowed up the zinnias. Richard had yelled and yelled. He could hear his voice but not his words—he didn’t know what he’d shouted.

  “Goddamn molester. Kid fucker. Bastard.” Over and over. With Richard shouting too, trying to cover his face, trying to wrench the horrible fat fingers from his collar, from around his arms.

  Finally he’d hit the side of the house with a crack and, after a few minutes, all was quiet. First he’d sat on the steps and looked across at Barbie’s. Then he’d gone to the bathroom and washed his face carefully and done all those things his mother would have done if he’d fallen on the sidewalk. Then he’d lain in their bed and considered everything and how he’d never been hit before and how he still had never struck anyone. He didn’t sleep as such. Instead, in an aching doze he packed and repacked in his mind. Sometimes he discovered he’d included Tom’s pants or Megan’s shoes and he’d dump everything out and start over. Then he’d either forgotten to buy the airplane ticket or had put it in some pants pocket. There were noises, too, as if, offstage, other actors were talking too loudly about their own lives and what they were going to do right after the show.

  The next morning Richard could hardly get out of bed. His neck and back were stiff; his wrists felt as if they’d been sprung. His face didn’t look so bad in the mirror, though his cheek was as red as a strawberry and there was a purple bruise on his jaw.

  He decided not to shave and fixed himself a cup of bitter instant coffee. He breathed deeply and inhaled a new odor, the pungent smell of leaking gas. But, sniffing around in the kitchen, he recalled that the house was one of those sixties all-electric models. Perhaps, he thought, it’s Chip’s dead rat. Richard imagined its corpse in some cramped, dark place.

  He walked out onto the deck. The air was cool. He listened, but the woods were quiet. The only sounds the truncated songs of cardinals. Richard put his coffee cup on the railing and stepped down onto the grass that had greened-up since the rains. He looked across the backyards, left and right, several times as if they were a dangerous street he was about to cross. He imagined faces at all the windows, everyone knowing everything about him and the four children and the father. The memory of the fight caused his sore cheek to ache.

  Richard walked across the yard, stepped over the sunken trench he’d inadequately filled in, and pushed his way through the weeds. He’d watched them return home; he knew the route Kimmy and Chip took. Clumsily he climbed the cinder-block fence and stepped onto the pile of scaffolding. He almost fell into the yard. For a moment Richard looked up at the faded green garage apartment.

  He walked up the steps to the small wooden porch; his pants leg brushed the ragged screen punched out from the door frame.

  “Hello, anybody home?” Richard rapped on door. It felt hollow and rotten under his knuckles. He figured he’d apologize, say something to their huge father, so he could get them back.

  “Hello in there, anybody home?” He didn’t know their last name. “Kimmy, are you in there? Chip?”

  “Wow! He gave ya some good uns, huh?”

  Richard turned and looked down at Chip, who had walked around the corner. Beyond him Richard saw the other three emerge from the woods and sit on the dining chairs around the blackened circle where they built their fires.

  “Your dad home?”

  Chip came closer, stood beside the porch. He looked at the screen door. “Nope, he ain’t never home.” He looked up again. “He busted ya good, huh? Goddamned if he didn’t.” He grinned.

  “Listen, why don’t you come on over and play? I’ve got some new stuff you can play with… you and Kimmy. And we’ll fix hamburgers… on the grill. We’ll eat outside. How’d you like that?” Richard raised his voice and looked at the others.

  “Are you kiddin’? Are you foolin’?” Chip jerked his thumb at the door. “He’ll come home sometime.”

  “Listen, I know what.” Richard stepped down the steps and looked at Tom and Megan’s house. He was surprised at how it looked from this point of view. He stopped for a moment to examine it all. “What if you come over for a little while and help me look for that dead rat? He’s really smelling today. He’s stinking up the place real good. Help me do that, okay?” Richard turned and looked at the redheaded boy, who stared up at him and then clapped his hands, yelled at the others.

  The three jumped up from their chairs and ran ahead. They all vaulted over the fence into Tom and Megan’s yard. Yelling still, they pushed inside.

  Richard stood at the fence and listened to them. He could leave a note. But he’d have to go home for a pencil and paper and climb back over the fence. And he couldn’t attach it to the door; he’d have to step inside. Besides, the father would know soon enough.

  Richard climbed the wall and dropped to the other side. For a few minutes he watched everything from the cover of the tall saw-toothed weeds.

  GYPSY MOTH

  November 1969

  I came from out of the field, over the barbed-wire fence, to the restroom door. Out of nowhere. Out of the blue. I looked back at the hill, the bare post oaks. Shitty night. I stamped my feet. Two cars on the asphalt circle of the roadside park. I hunkered out to them. A shiny red BMW. Black leather insides. The other an ancient Dodge. Rusted-out fenders. Tailpipe hanging low. Wired with a half-hearted twist of coat hanger. My people always give themselves away.

  Later the old man grins. His tongue brown and furry from the Chesterfields. The stumps of his sparse teeth chocolate turning canary yellow at their crowns. I nod. I never smoke. He cackles. Grins. Winks some more. Stomps the pedal to the floor and the Dodge lurches, sputters.

  I’ve never owned a car. A house. Only seen one movie. With Burt Lancaster. The Gypsy Moths. That’s how I feel when I’m done and lay on them. Opening my shirt first and raising theirs up. In it Burt Lancaster wears these black stubby wings for the skydiving trick and he blazes down two hundred miles per hour, ears full of wind. His eyes looking right at me. That’s the way I get. Pull my shirt out, hold it wide like moths’ wings. Their eyes turning milky. The Gypsy Moth. Me and Burt Lancaster in a movie I saw in Rock Springs, Wyoming. The wind like an ice pick. The whole town perfect in the roaring wind.

  I tell a story from my childhood to the old man whose dash is crammed with crumpled paper. I like to tell my people stories. True ones. Pieces of me in exchange.

  Mama had a cat that had no voice. It’d open its mouth wide and cry long and mournful. But no sound. Not the faintest noise. I’d pinch it hard.

  On the back porch I punished it. Ran its tail under the rocker. All but break its gray skin under its gray fur. It’d scratch and howl and howl but the only sound was its claws on the linoleum.

  I laugh. The old man looks in his rearview mirror. But I don’t need to. I know he sees an empty two-lane road. November day gray like cat’s skin. My people always look out on gray. On rain or low clouds like bruised flesh. Then comes the Gypsy Moth slamming through the overcast. The sun on its back.

  TWO CARS ABANDONED

  Pine Bluff police towed two abandoned cars from downtown. One, a red 1968 Ford van, was removed from a vacant lot on Biloxi St. The other, a 1951 Dodge, was found parked in an alley alongside the Tower Theater. Both vehicles had been stripped of their license plates. Anyone having information concerning these cars should contact the police department or come by City Hall. If unclaimed, the two autos will go on public auction the second Tuesday of next month.

  August 1973

  It’s a fully equipped Ford Ranger pickup. I even found some money in the glove compartment. A twenty and some ones. It’s hot outside in this little town, so I drive with the air-conditioner on, the windows rolled up. The cold air blasts my chest. I p
at down my shirtfront. It’s a brand new one and so are my pants—Sansabelt like football coaches wear on the sidelines. I’ve bought a new Stetson to celebrate, too.

  Because I love summer. Everywhere. But here especially. It brings all my people out in the open. Now I don’t find them just at the post office bundled up, noses red and runny. The funky smell of dirty rooms on them. By the tracks some negroes sit on upturned packing crates and slap knees and talk. And in front of the washaterias old frumpy women and thin ones in cheap cotton dresses lean against car fenders, sit on hoods, drink icy bottles of Coca-Cola.

  People out, walking, clothes baskets on hips. A man sitting on the post office steps, tearing open an envelope. A woman with the hood up at K-Mart. I pull in next to her. She’s in stretch pants. Her hips bigger than a mare’s. Her face flushed, sweat dripping as she looks over her shoulder.

  Together we do this, jiggle that. My voice geared to this weather so it’s all open spaces and coolness and smiles.

  Oh they love me always. And I love them. Who else does? I ask you. Who has the time for this young-old woman with red knuckles, grease across her chin? She hefts herself into my Ford Ranger, asks about the Yellowstone decal on the corner of the windshield. Something I haven’t noticed but like in her. They’re always wondering. They ask childish questions. They’re poor but rich in spirit.

  She thumps out a Virginia Slim. Her weight tilts me to the passenger’s side.

  I tell her all about Yellowstone as we drive across town in the heat. Past washaterias, post office, street corners, roadside parks, highway cafés where my people come and go in this heat.

  Her name is Ruth. She makes a joke about her ex-old man being “Ruthless.”

  We turn up the lane to her house, pines arch overhead. She lives alone, she says, pulls hard on the cigarette, fogs my truck, smiles coyly.

  We’ll take our time, Ruth. We’ll have days together. A whole week. Despite this heat, nothing’s too good for you.

  HOUSTON POLICE ARREST SUSPECT

  The Houston Police have located and arrested John Wood Phelps in connection with last month’s brutal murder of his ex-wife, Ruth Mackenzie Phelps of Route 4, Coldridge. Sheriff Johnny Scotts told the paper this was the big break he’d been looking for. “Heaven knows we’ve got a lot of questions to ask Mr. Phelps,” Sheriff Scotts said. Though specific details of the murder have been kept from this community, what has become known has led to some uneasiness in rural households throughout Madrid County.

  December 1975

  I cried an hour up in my room. And I went out and bought a pint of Canadian Club. I usually never drink when I rent a room in some boardinghouse; I go down and watch TV. It’s that time of year and those people show up on the news, don’t they? Black kids with chestnut eyes and their fat mothers. Old white men, their hair yellow, their chins all stubble and spikes, sunken cheeks.

  Yesterday I drank too but it was only some hearty burgundy. We sat and watched TV. This program where lions circle herds and bring down the weak or lame. Wildebeests standing like huge dumb mountains of flesh. Stupid eyes. Looking here and there but seeing nothing important, missing the details that’d save them. Asking for it. Lions coming close to crouch low, their eyes always moving, chests rattling.

  Oh God, I pray my knees on the stained oval rug by the bed. My elbows deep into the horrible soft mattress that rises around me at night like mud, quicksand. Oh God, I’m sorry I missed the war. Missed serving at all. I love this country of ours. I have a tiny flag I got from a store. It’s a pin and I wear it on my shirt collar up above where it buttons down. Always on the left side over my heart.

  Protect this nation under God from those stupid people who’d bring it down. Those fat black mothers and old men. From people whose cheap plastic laundry baskets are split, fold flat under their arms. Those noisy cars, smoking blue oil, destroying our air. Bless people in strong houses on clean streets with bright streetlights.

  I don’t read things. I’ve never read anything except what’s necessary. Street signs. Directions on medicine bottles. On hand dryers: push and rub hands together vigorously. I don’t read the Bible. Only those magnetic-letter signs in front of churches. In the beginning was the word. In my Father’s house are many mansions.

  I love this country. I hate I missed the wars. How about those women who take shopping carts home?

  Who do you love? All the other Americans. The astronauts who work where it’s clean and clear. The boys in uniform. Mothers whose children are fat, rosy-cheeked, lovable. Thin fathers in suits. People with their own washers and dryers. With new cars.

  May everyone get the gifts this year that’ll do them some good. That’ll save them from the lions.

  In my wallet there’s a wrinkled bumper sticker. If I owned a car I’d put it on the windshield. “America: Love It or Leave It.”

  Toward New Year’s I get restless, moving from one boardinghouse to another. In Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, ‘I find a wonderful old hardware store. If I’d gone, then gotten the GI Bill, I would own a hardware store. Full of useful things fine people come in to buy to fix drips and torn screen doors. I buy a new ice pick on a card. Still a wooden handle. Still a bargain at $1.29. Someday I’ll buy a dozen because you know they’ll quit making them soon. Who needs them anymore?

  POLICE SEEKING CLUES IN MURDERS

  The bodies of two male children, approximately ten and twelve years old, were discovered early yesterday morning by state employees emptying dumpsters at a roadside park on US 250 twenty miles south of Wheeling. State police are questioning residents along US 250 in an attempt to identify the two boys. Details are being withheld pending identification, but sources in the Wheeling Police Department say the two children were bound wrist to ankle and stabbed repeatedly. There is no evidence of sexual molestation.

  April 1979

  There is rain against the window of my room. Has my life been a dream? I ask my coffee. Do I dream with my eyes open? There’s a face in the mirror. It’s almost fifty I think.

  I read about black holes in a Newsweek I take from the bus station. And I’m one. Everything collapsed, collapsing. Unbelievably heavy with years, thirty years of dead leaves, spring green, Minneapolis, Rock Springs, Detroit, Atlanta. The soldier dressing in the morning, after coffee. All the armor, including righteousness.

  I am not crazy, I swear to myself. The boundaries of the country expanding, deteriorating. While I can only contract, suck into myself cities and days, my people, their waste.

  The gypsy moth takes one, sweeping down from the sky. The moth doesn’t read or write or speak or hear, listen, grow larger, only smaller. My hands shake now; my back’s bent. My eyes as milky as theirs at their coldest.

  I work even harder. A frenzy of concentration while spring brings other things to America outside. We lost the war. The people have lost their resilience. My people only increase.

  The man turns to me in the line and snorts at the service. He’s there for food stamps. He fails to notice I don’t have a letter in my hand. My hand in my pocket. My smile for him and my country. It’s everywhere on posters. Around us the faces of Roosevelt, Stowe, Mencken on stamps.

  The child I see left alone in the car. A parking lot full of activity but the black hole edges in invisible. I am invisible. I have always been unseen. I’m not in the mirror some mornings. Sometimes I fail to appear until afternoon, over a sandwich. Through me, in the bathroom, there’s a crack in the tile, the calendar from two years ago, the naked hooks behind the door. Brass plate gone sea green. Humidity streaking everything. Surfaces the feel of snake. So many simply go unreported. Missing because I’ve found them.

  Had I gone, come back, sat still, it would all be over. But no GI Bill, no store. I imagine myself a General Grant. As short as he, exaggerated next to Lincoln, that great American. Never out of uniform. I lie on cots in flophouses always dressed.

  I take the epaulets off, remove the brocade. Wait at newsstands in the poor sections of the city. They b
uy a paper. I’m in it. And next to them at the same time. The power of being invisible, two places at once; a dozen places at one time. My hand on the Navy Colt fresh from its paper card.

  Roman legionnaires served twenty years. Almost all their short lives. This is a prayer. From a black hole to the things it swallows, absorbs—even the light. Tomorrow let me be absent from Lincoln’s side. In this photograph I carefully clipped from a book in the library.

  I act. All those others sit and carp. Despise the poor, illegal aliens, welfare, communists, atheists, the poor. Action. Action. Action. McClellan to Hooker to Grant—that black hole in the wilderness. The movement of the horses outside muffled by the canvas of the tent. On the cot I alone hold the entire country in my mind.

  “MAFIA MURDERS” ALARMING

  Salem, Oregon (UPI) The State Attorney General has called for the formation of a special commission to coordinate the investigations of the so-called “Mafia Murders.” The proposed five-person task force will gather information and direct state law enforcement officers in an attempt to capture the murderers who have gone on a rampage the last six weeks throughout western Oregon. So far five victims have been found. All were bound, gagged and shot “execution-style” with one bullet to the head from a .22 caliber pistol.MORE DETAILS ON OP-ED PAGE AND READERS’ LETTERS.

  August 1983

  I don’t know if the street’s foggy or my eyesight’s getting worse. I got glasses last year but they’re no help at all. Every morning this month I’ve walked along Seawall Boulevard past the Flagship Hotel and the Galvez. It’s warm, the air thick and salty.

  I walk toward town and, with the usually stiff wind at my back, I come into Mae’s Café and have coffee, look out the window.

  Those people all around me here, but now I thank God for my lousy vision. I nod at the ugly waitress, elbow a space between two delivery-truck drivers. Smell bacon grease, coffee, the terrifying odor of six o’clock cigarettes.

 

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