she had shuddered then—numbly, mutely. The hands beside her were a crumpled whiteness, twisted by remembered anguish. All these years waiting, waiting for a child to bring life into her house again.
At breakfast she was hollow-eyed and drawn. She moved about the kitchen with a willful tread, slidingeggs and pancakes on her husband’s plate, pouring coffee, never speaking once.
Then he had kissed her goodbye and she was standing at the living room window watching him trudge down the path to the car. Long after he’d gone, staring at the three envelopes he’d stuck into the side clip of the mailbox.
When Paal came downstairs he smiled at her. She kissed his cheek, then stood behind him, wordless and watching, while he drank his orange juice. The way he sat, the way he held his glass; it was so like—
While Paal ate his cereal she went out to the mailbox and got the three letters, replacing them with three of her own—just in case her husband ever asked the mailman if he’d picked up three letters at their house that morning.
While Paal was eating his eggs, she went down into the cellar and threw the letters into the furnace. The one to Switzerland burned, then the ones to Germany and Sweden. She stirred them with a poker until the pieces broke and disappeared like black confetti in the flames.
W eeks passed; and, with every day, the service of his mind grew weaker.
“Paal, dear, don’t you understand?” The patient,loving voice of the woman he needed but feared. “Won’t you say it once for me? Just for me? Paal?”
He knew there was only love in her but sound would destroy him. It would chain his thoughts—like putting shackles on the wind.
“Would you like to go to school, Paal? Would you?
School
?”
Her face a mask of worried devotion.
“Try to talk, Paal. Just
try
.”
He fought it off with mounting fear. Silence would bring him scraps of meaning from her mind. Then sound returned and grossed each meaning with unwieldy flesh. Meanings joined with sounds. The links formed quickly, frighteningly. He struggled against them. Sounds could cover fragile, darting symbols with a hideous, restraining dough, dough that would be baked in ovens of articulation, then chopped into the stunted lengths of words.
Afraid of the woman, yet wanting to be near the warmth of her, protected by her arms. Like a pendulum he swung from dread to need and back to dread again.
And still the sounds kept shearing at his mind.
W e can’t wait any longer to hear from them,” Harry said. “He’ll have to go to school, that’s all.”
“No,” she said.
He put down his newspaper and looked across the living room at her. She kept her eyes on the movements of her knitting needles.
“What do you mean, no?” he asked, irritably. “Every time I mention school you say no. Why
shouldn’t
he go to school?”
The needles stopped and were lowered to her lap. Cora stared at them.
“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just that—” A sigh emptied from her. “I don’t know,” she said.
“He’ll start on Monday,” Harry said.
“But he’s frightened,” she said.
“Sure he’s frightened. You’d be frightened too if you couldn’t talk and everybody around you was talking. He needs education, that’s all.”
“But he’s not
ignorant
, Harry. I—I swear he understands me sometimes.
Without
talking.”
“
How
?”
“I don’t know. But—well, the Nielsens weren’t stupid people. They wouldn’t just
refuse
to teach him.”
“Well, whatever they taught him,” Harry said, picking up his paper, “it sure doesn’t show.”
When they asked Miss Edna Frank over that afternoon to meet the boy she was determined to be impartial.
That Paal Nielsen had been reared in miserable fashion was beyond cavil, but the maiden teacher had decided not to allow the knowledge to affect her attitude. The boy needed understanding. The cruel mistreatment of his parents had to be undone and Miss Frank had
At breakfast she was hollow-eyed and drawn. She moved about the kitchen with a willful tread, slidingeggs and pancakes on her husband’s plate, pouring coffee, never speaking once.
Then he had kissed her goodbye and she was standing at the living room window watching him trudge down the path to the car. Long after he’d gone, staring at the three envelopes he’d stuck into the side clip of the mailbox.
When Paal came downstairs he smiled at her. She kissed his cheek, then stood behind him, wordless and watching, while he drank his orange juice. The way he sat, the way he held his glass; it was so like—
While Paal ate his cereal she went out to the mailbox and got the three letters, replacing them with three of her own—just in case her husband ever asked the mailman if he’d picked up three letters at their house that morning.
While Paal was eating his eggs, she went down into the cellar and threw the letters into the furnace. The one to Switzerland burned, then the ones to Germany and Sweden. She stirred them with a poker until the pieces broke and disappeared like black confetti in the flames.
W eeks passed; and, with every day, the service of his mind grew weaker.
“Paal, dear, don’t you understand?” The patient,loving voice of the woman he needed but feared. “Won’t you say it once for me? Just for me? Paal?”
He knew there was only love in her but sound would destroy him. It would chain his thoughts—like putting shackles on the wind.
“Would you like to go to school, Paal? Would you?
School
?”
Her face a mask of worried devotion.
“Try to talk, Paal. Just
try
.”
He fought it off with mounting fear. Silence would bring him scraps of meaning from her mind. Then sound returned and grossed each meaning with unwieldy flesh. Meanings joined with sounds. The links formed quickly, frighteningly. He struggled against them. Sounds could cover fragile, darting symbols with a hideous, restraining dough, dough that would be baked in ovens of articulation, then chopped into the stunted lengths of words.
Afraid of the woman, yet wanting to be near the warmth of her, protected by her arms. Like a pendulum he swung from dread to need and back to dread again.
And still the sounds kept shearing at his mind.
W e can’t wait any longer to hear from them,” Harry said. “He’ll have to go to school, that’s all.”
“No,” she said.
He put down his newspaper and looked across the living room at her. She kept her eyes on the movements of her knitting needles.
“What do you mean, no?” he asked, irritably. “Every time I mention school you say no. Why
shouldn’t
he go to school?”
The needles stopped and were lowered to her lap. Cora stared at them.
“I don’t know,” she said, “it’s just that—” A sigh emptied from her. “I don’t know,” she said.
“He’ll start on Monday,” Harry said.
“But he’s frightened,” she said.
“Sure he’s frightened. You’d be frightened too if you couldn’t talk and everybody around you was talking. He needs education, that’s all.”
“But he’s not
ignorant
, Harry. I—I swear he understands me sometimes.
Without
talking.”
“
How
?”
“I don’t know. But—well, the Nielsens weren’t stupid people. They wouldn’t just
refuse
to teach him.”
“Well, whatever they taught him,” Harry said, picking up his paper, “it sure doesn’t show.”
When they asked Miss Edna Frank over that afternoon to meet the boy she was determined to be impartial.
That Paal Nielsen had been reared in miserable fashion was beyond cavil, but the maiden teacher had decided not to allow the knowledge to affect her attitude. The boy needed understanding. The cruel mistreatment of his parents had to be undone and Miss Frank had
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