The Castle Cross the Magnet Carter (66 page)

The prospect of, for the first time, having an outside eye inspecting our home, what we have made, caused me to step back a moment and give it the once-over: not bad. And we could share our news about the imminent, and
em
inent, upgrade to an even more spacious flat.

In August, Lloyd informed me of his plans to retire at the end of the year. He wasn't liking the changes, the building going co-operative which, despite its commune-sounding appellation, actually led to a certain exclusiveness, and he was already sensing a more critical eye directed at himself. Anyway he'll be sixty-seven in a year: it's time. Would I like the job? I could have his apartment: two-bedroom. In the transition he's also allowed me more day hours, and the swollen paycheck is a godsend for my burgeoning family. I've already ordered the tools to rig up our future home so that the building buzzer and, more vitally, the fire alarm will be linked to the lighting.

The new position will mean leaving my Met job and the teaching, the latter of which I'll especially miss. Joy also laments my forthcoming departure, and has been embarrassingly flattering in her scramble to find a way to keep me. Since school starts early, how about having each of my two classes once a week rather than twice, 7:30 to 8:15, before my building management duties start at nine? Half my current hours but three-quarters my current pay? I was tempted to say yes on the spot, but I do need to think about taking too much time away from my wife and baby. How fortunate to be a super, a stay-at-home dad! The principal has asked that I give her an answer by Thanksgiving, and April May June and I persist in weighing the pros and cons.

As for now, we continue to share this one-bedroom. She moved in last April. It broke her heart to give up her Village sublet but she felt greedy holding on to two apartments, one rent-controlled and the other free, so she passed her studio on to a recent Gallaudet graduate, new to the city. Mr. Peoples would have moved uptown with her but during her pregnancy she developed an allergy to his long hair. As it turned out, the new tenant's elderly cat had died just weeks before so she was thrilled to have the company, and April May June gave her old companion a teary farewell embrace.

Yesterday she scrubbed and polished our place, assigning me cleaning tasks whenever I happened to take a break from my janitor duties. Her final touch was to set out our small wedding album. The March ceremony was very modest, at the courthouse downtown. It was rainy and cold, and April May June and I entered the building in our wedding clothes, her simple ivory dress cut just above the knee and my navy suit, both of us soaked and shivering and laughing. The court clerk and officiant, a pleasant, smiling woman who had come to New York as a child with her Puerto Rican family, didn't know the sign language, but an interpreter was found. The fifth person in the room, the legal witness and sole guest, was a beaming Ramona who had arrived with good wishes from the family and armed with her camera, embracing her role as self-appointed wedding photographer.

And so, with many good tidings to share, and my wife's eagerness to meet her old chum's husband, it was with great anticipation that we opened the door last evening. April May June and Ida Jo had not seen each other in over a decade, and the huge joy in their reunion was multiplied by the fact that my wife had kept her secret—thus her obvious pregnancy came as a shock and a delight to her old friend. Kisses, warm embraces.

And then things began to take an unfortunate turn. It became quickly apparent that Ted, Ida Jo's husband, was engaging in Signed Exact English and that Ida Jo was following suit. Very recently this rejection of sign language syntax in favor of signing with precise English grammar—inserting articles, inventing words for pronouns rather than simply pointing at
her—
had become a volatile topic. An assimilation to hearers, and elitism: rejecting the traditional manual communication still embraced by the working class. We had heard of deaf people engaging in SEE with hearers not proficient in sign, but to be in a room of
all
deaf and have an educated couple speaking in this clumsy, pretentious fashion was rather unsettling. As host I could maintain my composure but I knew hell was bound to break loose as April May June is not one to temper her opinions nor temper her temper. I agree with her in principle but these
were
our guests, and I was irritated to suddenly be cast in the role of peacemaker when my wife knew very well I would have much preferred spending the evening in the library while she entertained her old pal. The couple argued that this compromise—speaking manually in the way we deaf are comfortable while using grammar in the way the hearing feel at ease—could facilitate a new universal vocabulary. My wife retorted that sign language is its
own
language, it's
not
English, and then the sarcasm: Oh wouldn't it be great if America could get the whole
world
to speak English! And worse: So what's next for the two of you—the Alexander Graham Bell Association? Bell, the son and husband of deaf women (his invention of the telephone arose out of his wish to develop devices to help the deaf hear), was a crusader for oralism and, in his zeal to force the deaf to speak, campaigned to abolish the sign language, even advocating for the closing of deaf schools and to outlaw deaf couples marrying. For my wife to insinuate that her dear old friend and spouse would support such an organization was the ultimate low blow, and as I stood there awkwardly offering the apple sour cream pie, our first guests hastily grabbed their coats.

In the quiet hour after their departure, I suggested to April May June that she write Ida Jo to patch things up. She categorically refused. I cautiously reminded her that our language is undergoing its own identity introspection, no longer to be referred to generically as “the sign language” but as “American Sign Language” or “ASL” and
Yes, I agree with you
but perhaps we need to be tolerant of others' ways of engaging with the manual tongue during these changing times. That's when I got
the look
. It wouldn't matter to me if it weren't for my concern that my wife may come to regret tossing away a lifelong friendship based on one philosophical disagreement. Well, perhaps she'll soften after the baby is born. Thus far today she has been sweet as pie, uttering not a word about last night as if it never happened, which is a bit ominous. I am no fool: should any remnant of that mood return, I am armed with a gallon of strawberry, and chocolate syrup for good measure.

I open my building entrance door. A fluke: someone's key had broken in the lock so once again the door sets ajar until I fix it. I picked up a few other groceries along with the ice cream and hold the shopping bag in my left arm as I pull out my mailbox key when I turn and see him, sitting on the steps next to a duffel bag. Twelve years older, a touch of gray, but I know him instantly as he does me. I'm frozen except for the key I feel trembling in my hand. He smiles and, as always, speaks as he signs.

“Hello, brother.”

 

6

Randall's fries are drenched in ketchup. He still prefers mustard for his burger.

“Aintchu eatin?”

I shake my head. The glass of water the waitress put in front of me remains untouched.

“Surprise! Bet you thought you never have to see me again this life. Hey, miss, I run outa ketchup, you bring some more?”

It's quarter to five so the dinner rush hasn't hit yet, the place half empty.

“Well I can't believe how funny you're actin, visit from your long-loss brother. Whatcha think, I come lookin for a kidney?”

What
do
you want?

“I ain't seen you in twelve years! I gotta have a reason? Hey, we close to Times Square, ain't we?”

In his manual speak, I'm reminded of some of the signs he and I made up when we didn't know the proper gesture. In any case someone who speaks and signs simultaneously compromises either the spoken language or the sign language so it's fortunate, given my brother's very familiar mouth formations, that I am able to lip-read enough to fill in the gaps.

“New York City! Can't believe my brother from Prayer Ridge find hisself here!” He takes a big bite of burger. “You know, I was tryin to watch the calories, but how can ya have burger an fries without a Coke? Miss?”

Randall wears a flannel shirt and blue jeans. For all I know they may be the same flannel shirt and blue jeans from Prayer Ridge. I notice the shirt is buttoned to the top, concealing his neck.

“You ain't changed a bit, brother, lookin all slim. I got just a little bitta paunch. Well, Monique feeds me well.” He sticks some fries into his mouth. There are utensils but he ignores them, licking his fingers and wiping them on the napkin. He smiles, sly. “Guess you don't know bout my new wife Monique.”

You should have let me know before you came.

“I understand you're feelin that way but here's the thing. Me an Monique got our vacation from the factory. Calculators, handheld things with big brains an teeny parts. We always take our week off together visitin relations a hers, she got enough all over Texas. But ain't been able to get it outa my head, what Benja wrote year an a half ago: she heard from you an here's your address. Wanted to come lass summer but Monique: ‘Over my dead body, after what he done to you?' Respected her wishes at the time, but sooner or later I knew I was gonna see you. Started brushin up on the signs, took a course out at the community college, she thought I was bowlin Thursdays. Useta be fast with my fingers, remember? But ain't had call to use it in more n a decade, outa practice. So here we are, firs day a vacation, her packin for a visit to her cousin Stella Mae in Fort Worth an suddenly I know I ain't goin, I know I'ma be on a bus to New York. All impulse, see? Now by the time I'da written you an you'da written back, the vacation'd be over. Why'd they bring that little thing a coleslaw? I didn't order it.”

You should have planned. You should have written early enough to let me know.

“All hindsight now. Anyway what would your answer a been?”

So you just show up? Force me to take you in?

“You know what? This whole conversation feels a little upside down, you with the judgment since
you
backstabbed
me!
But guess you don't see it that way. Hey miss, that apple pie in the glass good? Okay, couldja fetch me a slice à la mode?”

I lean forward. I'm married.

“
Married?
Why didn't ya say! When was the weddin? Shoulda let me know!”

No wedding. We went down to the courthouse.

“Well. I wanna meet her!”

We're expecting our first child very soon, and I don't want to upset her.

“Congratulations! An what the hell you think I'ma do, take her out drinkin an smokin? When's she due?”

I hesitate. It all feels so personal.

Thirteen days.

“Ah! Now that is a bless'ed event. Thank you, miss. Look, she brung a spare spoon, you gotta help me with this mountain.” Randall takes a heaping serving. “Mmm. Pie's dry, but the ice cream helps.”

She's black.

His second spoonful freezes midair, his mouth open. Then he lets out a huge laugh. “Shoulda knowed it! My brother, the great liberal. Lemme guess,” and for the first time Randall signs without speaking: Some hooker you got pregnant, only my brother would feel obligated to marry the whore.

I stand.

“I'm jokin! Swear I won't say nothin to her like that.” I'm unmoved. “Come on, B.J., you gotta admit this news is a little shockin to your brother from Prayer Ridge, Alabama.”

You're not meeting her.

“So where'm I gonna sleep. The street? That bus depot, Port of Authority? I saw what kinda place that is right off, you put your brother out with the derelecks?”

You can take the bus back now.

“No I cannot because there's only one bus a day: 11:30 in the a.m.”

I'll give you the money for a hotel.

“I ride twenty-eight hours cross-country to get here firs time I see my brother in twelve years an you send me off to a hotel. Ma muss be rollin in her grave.”

I take a deep breath, and sit.

You can sleep on our couch. You'll leave in the morning.

“I appreciate the accommodation. Here's your hat what's your hurry ain't exactly the family hospitality you was brought up with, but guess you done got New York'd.” I wait. “
Yes,
I will be on that damn bus in the mornin.”

I watch him dip crust into the soupy vanilla. My hands move carefully. Please don't say anything to hurt my wife.

“Lord, whaddya think I am?” He pushes his plate away, the dessert half-eaten. “Miss! Coffee please?” He lights a cigarette. “So what's her name?”

I sigh. April.

“Nice name.” He blows smoke. “Let me tell ya a story, how once I had a wife named Erma an now I got a wife named Monique.”

Outside my door I turn to him.

Could you please wait out here a second? So I can prepare her?

“Prepare her for
what?
This is a reunion, B.J.! Oughta be a family celebration, bygones be bygones.” When I don't reply, he shakes his head. “Do whatcha gotta do. Feel like some stranger off the street treat me more brotherly.”

Before I enter I calm myself so she won't be worried. April May June is pouring herself a glass of milk. In the heat of the summer, she'd cut her big Afro so that it's now no longer than two inches. She looks up at my smile, and is instantly alarmed: What's wrong?

I brief her on our guest, and I can see she's conflicted between her knowledge of my sibling feud, the details of which I've never revealed, and her excitement at finally meeting someone from my family. If I allow another minute I'm worried Randall may start pounding and disturbing the neighbors if he isn't already. I open the door.

He enters smiling. April May June smiles, timid, holding out her hand to shake, which he takes but also gives her a gentle peck on the cheek. He and I have not touched since he arrived. “Hello, sister-in-law.”

As I prepare dinner, he seems to enjoy having another person to converse with in sign, and she follows, trying not to frown in her bafflement when he tosses in our homespun signals. I still don't have an appetite but I sit to eat a little with my wife. Randall, full from the diner, takes just a few mannerly bites, filling the meal with his questions for April May June. Where's her people from? When did she move to New York?
Why
did she move to New York? What sort of work does she do? Does she hope it will be a girl or a boy? I clutch my fork and wait for the other shoe to drop, but he conducts himself as a proper gentleman. “Superintendent? My brother never tole me that! That mean yaw get free rent?”

When dinner's over, we retire to the living room. I'd never owned a television before, but April May June had purchased one for herself the summer before last and brought it with her when she moved in. Without our requesting it, Randall begins interpreting the news. Henry Kissinger has just proclaimed “peace is at hand.” April May June and I say nothing, though we're both weighing our mistrust of Kissinger against the hope that he wouldn't make such a pronouncement if he imagined he would soon lose face over it. Around eight, she says she's tired and is going to bed. I follow her to see if she needs anything, then come back out to the living room.

“Well? Ain'tcha gonna show me New York?”

Crossing my fingers that no emergencies arise as I skip out on my evening super duties, we walk Times Square, the New York Public Library, Grand Central, the United Nations, back to Radio City, Rockefeller Center, St. Patrick's Cathedral, up Fifth Avenue, over to Carnegie Hall, lower Central Park, Lincoln Center. I give him a ride on the subway uptown. Stroll around Harlem, then Riverside Church, Columbia University, St. John the Divine. The train again, to the bottom of the island. Battery Park to look out at the Statue of Liberty and up at the Twin Towers, then north to Chinatown, Little Italy, Soho, Lower East Side, Greenwich Village, up to the Flatiron. I sign little other than to identify the sites. After the Empire State Building I tell him, That's about it. Except for the two underground rides we've been walking, four hours walking, and even as a seasoned New York pedestrian my legs are giving out. But Randall never complains. We stand on the southeast corner of 47th and Broadway, Times Square, five minutes to home, and he asks me to stop, he'd like to take it all in. We gaze at the flashing neons.

“You never asked about me.”

I don't respond.

“It hurts that you don't even care.”

I sigh.

“I like her. Your wife.” I look at him. “Surprise surprise, maybe I ain't exactly the same man I was twelve years ago. But you jus—” He kicks his toe against the pavement. “You ain't told her nothin.”

No.

“Good, cuz it's not fair, her gettin jus your side.” The colossal flickering Coke sign reflected on his cheek.

“I know you're in 3B now. I know starta the new year you'll be in 4F. That right? Case I wanted to write ya?”

I stare at my Prayer Ridge brother, now surreally framed by the glitz and rush and multitudes of Manhattan. If you wrote to me at my building, I'd get the letter. Either apartment number.

He jumps, and I realize a police siren had unexpectedly gone off just a few feet from us. “If I write you, will you write me back?”

I consider the question, and give him an honest answer.

I don't know.

I'm surprised to see him smile. “Well. I thought you'd jus outright refuse, so guess that means you're warmin up to me.”