in a little town east of San Diego called Ramona, or something like that. I think he lives on a ranch.”
“A cattle ranch?” Jean took out a file from the vanity to do her nails.
“I’m not sure. Turkeys maybe.”
“You can’t be serious.” Already it sounded foolish.
“That’s not the point. The point is that he lost his sight too. Something about a high school football accident. I didn’t ask. He went away to college to study dairying or some farm thing, but had to quit when he lost his sight completely. He’s back at home now and he thinks his life’s a ruin. He’s over the worst of it, but still.” Dody paused. “Would you write to him?”
“Me? Why me?” She hadn’t anticipated the question.
“Oh, Jean, you know. You’ve been through it all and you know what it’s like. You can read Braille and type and play the piano. Your life hasn’t stopped. He needs to hear about that, that a normal life can be possible. Will you write to him?”
Jean got up from the bed and turned on the radio on the round table by the window. Benny Goodman was playing. She fingered the tassel on the drapery pull and stood as though she were looking out across the terrace. So Dody thought her life hadn’t stopped. And all this time she felt like she was waiting for it to begin.
“What would I say to him?”
“Just what you’re doing. Music. The Red Cross. You know, teaching that girl to speak.”
Jean moved to the closet and felt through her dresses. She pulled out a short-sleeved blue shirtwaist with a peter pan collar to wear to dinner.
“What’s his name?”
“Forrest Holly.”
“Sounds like some kind of plant.”
“Jean, just do it. How can it hurt you?”
Dody was a good friend. Jean didn’t want her disappointed or annoyed with her. Friends were too valuable. She remembered how, right after she lost her sight, she was so afraid she’d never have friends again. “Leave his address on my desk.”
Jean still saw Sally Anne, too. Ever since Andrebrook days Sally Anne invited her to dances in Jersey and talked continually about men. “You’ve got to live a little,” she kept telling her. Sally’s boyfriend Don had a friend, Jaime, and the four often went out together. Vincent would put Jean on the train near Bristol and she’d get off at Grand Central. Sally Anne would be right there at the platform. Sometimes Don was with her. Sometimes Jaime. One day it was Jaime alone.
Jaime was Spanish, born in the Philippines, and he lived at the YMCA in Summit, New Jersey. One thing could be said for Jaime—he was attentive. When Jean was at Harkness again for a cataract operation, Jaime visited her every night. She’d never had attention like that before. It made her feel buoyant. At least she had Jaime to think about. “When you get out of here, Jean, I’m going to take you dancing,” he said. “We’re going to dinner first and then to the Chanticleer and they’re going to play ‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’” She wasn’t sure whether his attentiveness softened the negligible results of the surgery, or whether she was so used to disappointment that it just didn’t penetrate. Instead, her mind was on their next date, an evening at Rockefeller Center with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Top Hat . They often went dancing, and since Jaime was Latin he really knew how to lead. And since Jean was so sensitive to touch, she knew how to follow. They danced well together.
Eventually, Jaime visited Hickory Hill. “Father isn’t entirely thrilled about any man named Jaime,” Jean told Icy after his first visit. “To him, appropriate men are not named Jaime or Rudolfo, but George or Stanley or Robert, or anything you can say without having to roll your ‘r’s’ or clear your throat.” She began to call him Jimmy at home, but when they visited the Eastmans, he was Jaime again. Jean knew her parents didn’t wholly approve because he was Catholic.
“It’s not that we have any prejudice
“A cattle ranch?” Jean took out a file from the vanity to do her nails.
“I’m not sure. Turkeys maybe.”
“You can’t be serious.” Already it sounded foolish.
“That’s not the point. The point is that he lost his sight too. Something about a high school football accident. I didn’t ask. He went away to college to study dairying or some farm thing, but had to quit when he lost his sight completely. He’s back at home now and he thinks his life’s a ruin. He’s over the worst of it, but still.” Dody paused. “Would you write to him?”
“Me? Why me?” She hadn’t anticipated the question.
“Oh, Jean, you know. You’ve been through it all and you know what it’s like. You can read Braille and type and play the piano. Your life hasn’t stopped. He needs to hear about that, that a normal life can be possible. Will you write to him?”
Jean got up from the bed and turned on the radio on the round table by the window. Benny Goodman was playing. She fingered the tassel on the drapery pull and stood as though she were looking out across the terrace. So Dody thought her life hadn’t stopped. And all this time she felt like she was waiting for it to begin.
“What would I say to him?”
“Just what you’re doing. Music. The Red Cross. You know, teaching that girl to speak.”
Jean moved to the closet and felt through her dresses. She pulled out a short-sleeved blue shirtwaist with a peter pan collar to wear to dinner.
“What’s his name?”
“Forrest Holly.”
“Sounds like some kind of plant.”
“Jean, just do it. How can it hurt you?”
Dody was a good friend. Jean didn’t want her disappointed or annoyed with her. Friends were too valuable. She remembered how, right after she lost her sight, she was so afraid she’d never have friends again. “Leave his address on my desk.”
Jean still saw Sally Anne, too. Ever since Andrebrook days Sally Anne invited her to dances in Jersey and talked continually about men. “You’ve got to live a little,” she kept telling her. Sally’s boyfriend Don had a friend, Jaime, and the four often went out together. Vincent would put Jean on the train near Bristol and she’d get off at Grand Central. Sally Anne would be right there at the platform. Sometimes Don was with her. Sometimes Jaime. One day it was Jaime alone.
Jaime was Spanish, born in the Philippines, and he lived at the YMCA in Summit, New Jersey. One thing could be said for Jaime—he was attentive. When Jean was at Harkness again for a cataract operation, Jaime visited her every night. She’d never had attention like that before. It made her feel buoyant. At least she had Jaime to think about. “When you get out of here, Jean, I’m going to take you dancing,” he said. “We’re going to dinner first and then to the Chanticleer and they’re going to play ‘I’m in the Mood for Love.’” She wasn’t sure whether his attentiveness softened the negligible results of the surgery, or whether she was so used to disappointment that it just didn’t penetrate. Instead, her mind was on their next date, an evening at Rockefeller Center with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Top Hat . They often went dancing, and since Jaime was Latin he really knew how to lead. And since Jean was so sensitive to touch, she knew how to follow. They danced well together.
Eventually, Jaime visited Hickory Hill. “Father isn’t entirely thrilled about any man named Jaime,” Jean told Icy after his first visit. “To him, appropriate men are not named Jaime or Rudolfo, but George or Stanley or Robert, or anything you can say without having to roll your ‘r’s’ or clear your throat.” She began to call him Jimmy at home, but when they visited the Eastmans, he was Jaime again. Jean knew her parents didn’t wholly approve because he was Catholic.
“It’s not that we have any prejudice
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