The Story of Beautiful Girl (33 page)

That night, Homan was ambushed by a dream.

It began in a desolate place. The land was slanted like the ramp, with the tan sand and dry bushes of a desert, and the sky neither day nor night. In his hand was a bottle of wine. A man appeared in the distance, moving slowly, and Homan, having no use for wine, decided to offer his bottle as a gift. Then Homan realized this was the blind man from outside the building. Homan clapped his hands so the man would find him in this desert land. The man turned to face Homan and signed to him—and his signs did have meaning.
You ain’t at the end. You still gots a long way to go.

Suddenly Homan saw he was surrounded by people he’d known, all of them with differences. There was Shortie and Whirly Top and Man-Like-a-Tree. Sam. The McClintock boys. And there was Blue. Blue! Running toward Homan, his face holding his big-brother love. He came up close, his hands speaking with speed and excitement.

Tell me what you been doing, little brother. You out in the wide world. Tell me what you been seeing.

I miss you so much,
Homan signed, feeling his face get wet.

I miss you, too. But I can’t be there ’cept through you. You gotta do it for both of us.
He made a gesture that took in the others.
For all of us.

Do what?

Win.

What you mean by that?

You know what winning is.

I don’t! Tell me!

Blue came so near, there was nothing to be seen except his face.
Not letting nothing break you. Not even yourself.

Homan awoke with a start. He was in his little house, in his bed. But he was breathing hard, and his body was coated with sweat. It had felt so delicious to see his lost friends. Yet Blue’s words had sent the feeling that had no name roaring through him. He lay there, rigid and wet, trying to argue it off. He had a roof over his head, food in his stomach, money in his chair. He had bosses who were nice and respectful, even after that disaster of a trip yesterday. He kept his own work schedule, grew all the Tingling his heart desired, and could leave this place anytime he wanted. So why did Blue’s words set off the feeling that had no name?

Then he realized the two faces he hadn’t seen.

He put his hands on his throat.
Fuh,
he said, remembering the feel of her hands that day in the cornfield.
Fuh uh.
He could feel the vibrations, so he knew he was making sounds. But he was twenty years into forgetting. It was like trying to pull back a disappeared dream.

He lowered his hands and understood at last the feeling that had no name. He’d failed to be what he’d been determined to be. He’d failed to be what she’d expected him to be. For years now he hadn’t even tried to draw his own drawing. The name of the feeling was shame.

*    *    *

When dawn rose, he was in a foul mood. He got up quickly, skipped his Tingling, left off the TV. He shrugged on his clothes. He threw water on his face at the sink and did a quick shave—but not so quick that he didn’t have time to see his face in the mirror.

His hair was salted with gray, and his skin had puckered around his eyes and lips. He was still lean, even at fifty-eight, which was a lot more years than Blue had lived on this earth. Though what
had
Homan won with all his extra life? Yeah, he had a roof. But he couldn’t read, use money, understand anyone, or be understood. His face looked old to him, only it wasn’t the age he saw. It was that so much time had passed and he was no closer to Beautiful Girl than he’d been after he was swept down the river.

He threw on his coat. Enough of starting things he didn’t finish.

Then he went about his work with new vigor. It wasn’t that he wanted to get the floors cleaned better. He was just so fed up with himself, he wanted to go at everything harder and faster. Working like this was almost as good as kicking trees.

He finished his indoor work way sooner than he ever did, then went to the outside chores without a break. He swept the walkways rougher than ever. He pulled weeds up fiercer. He snatched his gutter cleaner from the shed. It occurred to him he might be too hard on it and could snap off the hinged claw, but so what? He’d just have to climb the ladder and do the labor with his own hands. Maybe he’d fall off the roof. Maybe he
should
fall off the roof.

Standing on the patio outside the eating room, he lifted his invention gruffly. It was one long rod that pulled out like a ship captain’s telescope, and he pulled it long enough to reach the gutter. He held it before him like a wand, unhinged the bottom, and threaded his fingers through the rings inside that worked the claw at the top.

He was so deep into his rage that he didn’t register the
Christmas lights blinking on and off in the eating room. Anyway, he was concentrating on his fingers, moving them up and down, getting the claw to collect the oak leaves, tilt away from the gutter, and drop them on the ground.

His invention, he now knew, worked. Though the realization gave him no pleasure, and anyway, it didn’t work perfectly—it picked up only three leaves the first time. But it wasn’t the contraption that needed adjusting. He had to get better with his hand.

He took a breath and got serious about learning his invention.
Move your fingers up and down only gentler. And at an angle. Now close the fingers. There. That feel like a big chunk of leaves. Maybe you can make this thing work after all. Maybe you ain’t such a darn nobody. Look: You lifting a hay bale of leaves off the roof. You moving ’em like a construction crane over to the side. You opening that claw. See how many leaves showerin’ down now?

He lowered his gaze to the tumble of leaves.

Could it be?

No. He must be imagining that behind the rain of leaves was a dark-haired man sitting in his chair, smiling away. He must be so fed up with himself that he was nightmaring while awake.

The leaves finished falling.

The face kept smiling.

It seemed like forever till he could take off the leaf-grabbing rings. But it took no more time than the few moments that Sam needed to roll forward.

Homan never guessed there was even more to come. Sam being here, and not just here but with two candy bars—his favorite kind, the circular bar in the silver-and-blue wrapper. That seemed enough. Sure, learning why the man shut the door in Homan’s face years ago would be nice. So would finding out what happened to Sam all this time and how he discovered that
Homan was here. Yet it was just too heart-pounding to see Sam—and too indescribable to be unwrapping candy for both of them. Homan was just laughing, and Sam was laughing, too, and as Homan handed the unwrapped bar back to his friend, setting it between his thumb and pointer finger, memory rushed in: nights under the stars, Homan teaching him to make a fire, Sam buying girlie magazines, the two of them watching the plastic bag float up and away and free.

How he find you? How he get here? It don’t matter. He here.

Sam brought the candy up to his mouth and took a small bite. Homan bit off as much as he could and closed his eyes and chewed. The candy was as good as he remembered, and Sam was still the same Sam. Homan swallowed and opened his eyes.

Sam hadn’t finished his candy. His gaze was on something over Homan’s shoulder.

Homan looked behind him.

Indian Tuft was standing there. King and Queen were standing there. And with them was a girl in a yellow dress.

Homan whipped back to Sam. Sam was gazing at him pleasantly, but he was also saying something to the people over Homan’s shoulder. Then Indian Tuft and the girl came around and stood beside Sam.

Homan glanced from one to the other, and the feeling of Incorrection tore through him like the harshest Tingling there could be, ripping into his lungs, frying his chest. He wanted to swallow it away. He wanted to run away.
But Sam here! Even if Sam friends with these characters—and he gotta be, how else he know you here?—he still Sam!

Sam held up his candy. Then, amazingly, he lifted his hands and, as he had many times on their journey, told Homan,
Show me your sign.

Sam knew his sign for candy, unless he
forgot. Of course he forgot. They hadn’t seen each other for so long. But what did Indian Tuft and Yellow Dress have to do with this? Why were King and Queen outside, too? What was he, a creature in a show?

Show me your sign.

Homan remembered the fun they’d had. Whatever Sam had wanted to do, Homan did—even though it ended with him crying in the gas station. But Sam hadn’t wanted the man in that house to close the door. Sam would have asked Homan inside, gone with him to the van,
stayed with him
, if he could. Sam hadn’t had any choice that terrible day.

Homan had a choice now.

Even though he couldn’t make heads or tails of what was happening, and he was dizzy and sweating and burning and felt awfully, horribly alone, he could choose to doubt—or he could choose to trust.

He pressed his fingers together like a bird’s beak, touched them to his lips, made a chewing motion, and smacked his lips.

Then Sam did the strangest thing. He looked toward Indian Tuft and asked,
Show me your sign.

Indian Tuft angled toward Sam. He placed his pointer finger to one side of his lips and twisted it, smiling slightly.

Homan stopped breathing. He looked back at Sam.

Sam, looking up at Indian Tuft, pointed to his candy bar with a questioning expression.

Indian Tuft nodded.

Then Indian Tuft turned so he was fully facing Homan. He reached over, took Sam’s candy bar, and bit into it, smiling. As he chewed, he raised his hand as Homan had, touched a beaklike shape to his lips, made a motion like he was chewing, and licked his lips.

Homan looked down at what remained of the chocolate, and something jolted inside him.

Indian Tuft was saying the same word, but with a different sign!

The feeling of Incorrection vanished. Of course! If hearing people spoke English and Chinese, then deaf people must sign in different languages, too! Indian Tuft hadn’t been making fun of him. His hands just spoke other words!

Homan placed his index finger on his cheek and twisted it, the way Indian Tuft had.

Then Homan whirled around and pointed to a tree and signed,
Tree.

Indian Tuft’s arm became a tree, his forearm the trunk, his fingers the branches, his other arm the ground. He twisted his raised wrist and wiggled the fingers near his head, like leaves in the wind.

Homan looked out to the lawn beside the patio and made his sign for
grass
.

Indian Tuft raised his hand palm up, set it under his chin with his fingers open and pointing out. Then his hand circled slightly, up and around, before it returned to just beneath his chin. Like grass touching his face in a breeze.

Homan couldn’t stop himself.
Sky. House. Mountain—
and Indian Tuft replied with his signs.

The sun moved through the sky that afternoon and Homan just kept going. Finally he understood: He wasn’t alone. He wasn’t a nobody.

He was someone who could make a King and Queen glow. He was a person who could make his best friend cry for joy. He was a man who could make Indian Tuft flutter his hands in the air, for an applause the whole world could see.

1993

E
xcuse me, Kate?”

Kate had just flipped a dime, and her left hand was on top of her right wrist, covering the results. She looked beyond her arm, past the checkerboard she’d just set before Mr. Todd and Mr. Eskridge—who always insisted on a coin toss to determine black from red—up into the bright solarium. There she met the eyes of Tawana, one of the younger assistants who worked at Westbrook Home for Seniors.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you.”

Mr. Todd and Mr. Eskridge looked up at Tawana.

“Man or woman?” Mr. Todd said. He wore sports jackets and had a Texas twang.

“Man,” Tawana said. “Actually—”

“Must be Scott.” Mr. Eskridge still wore lab coats, though he’d retired years ago.

“Scott never drops in,” Mr. Todd said. “Maybe it’s your son on a surprise visit.”

“It’s neither,” Tawana said. “This man’s wearing a nice suit. He said his name was Ken, and he knew you from way back. At least that’s what Geraldine told me.” Geraldine sat at the front desk. So did Irwin, the security guard, whose responsibility generally
amounted to greeting visiting grandchildren. “Geraldine asked me to come tell you.”

“
Ken?
I can’t think of anyone named Ken. What’s he look like?”

“Kind of beanpole-ish. Older.”

“Didn’t Geraldine tell him I was working?”

“He said he’d wait.”

Kate looked back at the checkerboard. She had yet to place the men on the squares; her hand was still covering the coin.

In the ten years since Kate had worked here, no one had ever stopped by to see her. For a while she might have chalked that up to her unfamiliarity with anyone but Scott’s colleagues at Indianapolis Tech, though now that they’d settled into their lives, it was because her friends knew better than to drop in. Kate worked with patients who had dementia. At any moment she might be comforting Mr. Flint, whose son had just “corrected” him that, no, Mrs. Flint wasn’t out shopping; she’d been dead twenty-two years. Or she’d be helping Miss Sunder get dressed in nylons and a fine dress because Miss Sunder still liked being pretty.