done, but even that wasn’t enough, because they still sometimes glimpsed each other through the facing windows, especially in winter, when the lilac branches were bare. So they shuttered those windows, and the houses became so dark that they were all, even the children, in danger of losing their eyesight. “Don’t look at me like that,” Uncle Charlie said. “I’m just telling you what I know.” He said that Aunt Edith’s father, who had been a very sharp businessman before his accident on the bridge, somehow heard of the dire situation, and bought the double house for a good price. And the two families moved as far east and as far west as they could, so they’d never have to see each other again.
Edie used to love that story, and when she was younger we carried it on farther. Imagining that at some point, maybe when they were very old and hobbling along with canes, the husbands and wives would come face to face on a busy street, and all would be forgiven. Or maybe their grandchildren or great-grandchildren would meet each other, far in the future, and without knowing why, become the best of friends. After Uncle Charlie told me about it, all those years ago, I kept thinking about that boarded-up passageway and wondering why I hadn’t noticed that the house from the outside didn’t quitematch the inside. In the front hall I ran my fingertips over every inch of the place he’d pointed to, and thought I could trace the outlines of the secret. Though I knew it would have to be completely dark, when I thought of that space I pictured filtered light, and had a sense of something waiting, a connection that could be made again.
The green manual Ben gave me was filled with his own scribbles and underlinings, and with it he set me up an old key to practise on. Maybe it wasn’t a plan, but that gave a point to my days, something for my mind to draw in to; it eased my way. I spent hours at the little table in my room, shaking out my hand when it cramped, and then grasping the key again.
The fingers and thumb borrow their force from the hand and wrist, which should move directly up and down through a distance of about three-quarters of an inch
; I began to see how everything was connected, how even my muscles could learn a new way to carry on. All the sounds in the world became messages as I learned the six principles, dots and dashes and longer ones, and I couldn’t believe I’d been deaf to them all my life. The tapping of a wooden spoon on the side of a pot, feet on a sidewalk, a blind pull against a windowpane. I thought of those still days in our clearing, a woodpecker somewhere close in a tree, and wondered what conversations, what warnings I might have missed. Like a child learning to read, I could soon pluck out the letters, then learned to hear them together, to understand the words, the sentences they made. But it took me longer to realize that even the spaces between words made a pattern, and could tell you something different.
The rhythm of the house was easier to learn, coffee boiled black as tar in the morning, and not a word spoken until thecups were half empty. Aunt Clare and Jack usually left in a flurry, almost late for their classes, trailing papers and long scarves and rushing back at least once for something forgotten. When they were really gone Aunt Nan pushed herself up from the table and tied on her apron, and I went with Aunt Kez to do the shopping. She named every street, told me who lived in the houses we passed and which shops they avoided, and why. Maybe that wasn’t a plan either, but I began to know where I was, and the noisy city, so different from all I’d known, began to seem like something I could manage. But there were times, walking through the park, when the sudden scent of pine trees swept me back, and I almost cried out with the pain of it. Times when I woke in the morning and closed my eyes again, trying to see the rough-hewn boards, the knots and swirls that had once been just
Edie used to love that story, and when she was younger we carried it on farther. Imagining that at some point, maybe when they were very old and hobbling along with canes, the husbands and wives would come face to face on a busy street, and all would be forgiven. Or maybe their grandchildren or great-grandchildren would meet each other, far in the future, and without knowing why, become the best of friends. After Uncle Charlie told me about it, all those years ago, I kept thinking about that boarded-up passageway and wondering why I hadn’t noticed that the house from the outside didn’t quitematch the inside. In the front hall I ran my fingertips over every inch of the place he’d pointed to, and thought I could trace the outlines of the secret. Though I knew it would have to be completely dark, when I thought of that space I pictured filtered light, and had a sense of something waiting, a connection that could be made again.
The green manual Ben gave me was filled with his own scribbles and underlinings, and with it he set me up an old key to practise on. Maybe it wasn’t a plan, but that gave a point to my days, something for my mind to draw in to; it eased my way. I spent hours at the little table in my room, shaking out my hand when it cramped, and then grasping the key again.
The fingers and thumb borrow their force from the hand and wrist, which should move directly up and down through a distance of about three-quarters of an inch
; I began to see how everything was connected, how even my muscles could learn a new way to carry on. All the sounds in the world became messages as I learned the six principles, dots and dashes and longer ones, and I couldn’t believe I’d been deaf to them all my life. The tapping of a wooden spoon on the side of a pot, feet on a sidewalk, a blind pull against a windowpane. I thought of those still days in our clearing, a woodpecker somewhere close in a tree, and wondered what conversations, what warnings I might have missed. Like a child learning to read, I could soon pluck out the letters, then learned to hear them together, to understand the words, the sentences they made. But it took me longer to realize that even the spaces between words made a pattern, and could tell you something different.
The rhythm of the house was easier to learn, coffee boiled black as tar in the morning, and not a word spoken until thecups were half empty. Aunt Clare and Jack usually left in a flurry, almost late for their classes, trailing papers and long scarves and rushing back at least once for something forgotten. When they were really gone Aunt Nan pushed herself up from the table and tied on her apron, and I went with Aunt Kez to do the shopping. She named every street, told me who lived in the houses we passed and which shops they avoided, and why. Maybe that wasn’t a plan either, but I began to know where I was, and the noisy city, so different from all I’d known, began to seem like something I could manage. But there were times, walking through the park, when the sudden scent of pine trees swept me back, and I almost cried out with the pain of it. Times when I woke in the morning and closed my eyes again, trying to see the rough-hewn boards, the knots and swirls that had once been just
Similar Books
