What Love Sees (12 page)

“What’s wrong with a guide dog, Father?”

“You don’t need a dog walking you all over town. You’ve got Vincent. He’ll take you anywhere you need to go.”

“That’s not the point.” Wasn’t it obvious there was a difference?

She had started, but she didn’t know how to follow through. Mother had taught her years ago it was best to let some things lie. “Let the idea work on him. Just wait,” she always said.

She waited. Two weeks.

“He can’t accept the idea that a dog can do something for you that he can’t provide.” Mother patted her on the arm.

She knew she’d have to use the cocktail system. It had worked before, the first time she went to New Jersey to visit Jimmy. It had worked as a child when she and Lucy wanted to go to the sailing camp on Cape Cod. That’s when she discovered it, when she was ten. Getting a dog was important, at least as important as anything else she’d ever done. She would wait until Friday at cocktail hour when Father was relaxing with his manhattan.

Jean was already in the library when Father came in. The air wasn’t moving at all and it was stuffy in the closed up room. She stood up to open a window. She knew what she was about to do would mark a turning point in her life, would begin to break the cords of dependency her father still seemed to need. That’s what it would be for her, like opening a window.

Timing was everything. She had waited this long. A few minutes more wouldn’t matter. She knew the sounds well. She could count the number of times he went over to the sideboard to pour himself a drink and could judge by that, but that wasn’t as reliable as listening to his voice. When he was ready, there would be a different tone to his laughter. It would be a little more jovial. And he would talk faster. That told her to go ahead.

“Father, I applied for a dog at The Seeing Eye. I’ve been accepted if I still want one. And I do.”

“I thought we’ve been through this already.”

“It wasn’t resolved.”

“You don’t need to be traipsing all over town with a dog.”

“Why?”

“I would worry about you, honey.”

“You should worry more if I’m stuck at home forever.”

“You don’t need to stay home. Vincent will take you wherever you want to go.”

“That’s different.”

“What’s the difference?”

Jean swallowed. She’d backed down at this point before. Now she had to go on. She moistened her lips. “Independence.”

This time it was he who didn’t have an answer. She felt him looking at her. Maybe it was better that she couldn’t see his expression. She faced him directly, holding her face up to his. She swallowed, blinked, but didn’t turn away. The clock on the mantle ticked loudly, filling the silence. Father tapped his pipe against an ashtray. She heard him scrape the bowl and pack new tobacco in, heard him light a match. But she didn’t smell the cherry smoke which always followed the sound of his wooden match. Moments passed. Instead, she heard him get up from his leather chair and walk toward her.

He touched her gently on the shoulder. “If you really want to, Jean, I’m not going to stop you.” His voice seemed to come from a long way away. It sounded old and maybe a little tired. His hand rested on her shoulder after he’d finished, as if he wanted to sustain contact. Apparently he could think of nothing else to say.

She heard him walk slowly out of the library and onto the verandah.

Chapter Ten

Mrs. Campbell, the secretary of The Seeing Eye, took Jean into the dining room and sat her between two men. “Jean, on your left is Vic Gulbransen. Vic’s a chiropractor from St. Louis. Vic, this is Jean Treadway from Bristol, Connecticut.”

“Hello,” she said.

“Sit right down here, Jean. Looks like we’re going to get fed in a minute.”

She was already seated. A rough voice came from her left. “Glad to see we’re gonna have some women in this group. I was worried we wouldn’t have any skirts to chase.”

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The name’s Ham Walker.”

“You better watch out for him, Jean. A sweet gal like you. I’m Louey.”

“And I’m Dale Richardson,” a mellow voice drawled from across the table.

“Are you from the South?” she asked.

“Tennessee.”

“How many are here?”

“Six men and one other gal, but she’s eating up in her room.”

“Six?” Jean’s voice went high. She’d never eaten with that many men when she was the only woman. “Whew! It’s kind of warm in here, don’t you think?”

“It’ll be plenty hotter tomorrow, you can count on that.” She didn’t know who responded.

Plates clanked on the bare table. “Potato salad at ten o’clock, roast beef at six and tomatoes at two.” It was Mrs. Campbell’s voice, not actually unfriendly, but certainly businesslike. The idea was terrific, to treat plates of food just like a clock. Jean picked at the tomatoes but couldn’t find a way to manage them. They must be stewed because her fork touched a small dish on her plate. She changed to a spoon but couldn’t cut one. They slithered out from under the edge of her spoon each time. She explored her plate.

“Where did she say the meat was?” someone asked.

“Six o’clock,” she answered.

She found something that felt like meat, but for the first time, there was no sighted person eating with her to see her dilemma and cut it for her. She ate the potato salad and scraped several times on that part of her plate to get all of it. She was too curious not to know. “Are all of you cutting your meat?”

“No, but I’m eating it anyway. What does it matter?” He had a point, whoever it was.

Next to her Vic Gulbransen stood up and brushed her elbow. “Anybody want another drink? Jean, can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’ll take another iced tea. A gallon of it.” That was a new voice, Ray Johnson. When Vic came back with the drinks, it took the two men awhile to pass it across the table. “Anybody find the salt?”

“What for?” Jean asked.

“My drink. Everything. Been sweating so much I’m dehydrated. Haven’t you heard of using salt for that?” Ray asked.

“Never.”

“Where’ve you been all your life?”

No where, she thought. After dinner she still felt hungry. She heard someone light a match. “Who’s smoking?”

“Me. Vic. Want a cigarette?”

“Yes, but how did you get it lit so fast? I have the hardest time doing it for myself.”

“Here, let me show you.” He held a cigarette and a match book toward her until she found his hand. “Hold the match between your thumb and middle finger, not your index finger, when you strike it.”

“That’s hard to do.”

“Wait. First put the cigarette in your mouth. Got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, now strike the match. Got it lit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now put your index finger of the hand with the match on top of the cigarette and slide it to the end so you know how far. Then you can aim.”

She puffed for a moment. “It worked. I guess I needed a blind person to tell me that.”

“Or a gentleman.”

The comment stopped her short. It was true. But then she never asked Jimmy for help in learning how to do it herself. She hadn’t asked anybody since she and Tready had smoked in the bathroom years ago. Maybe a sighted person wouldn’t be of much help anyway. She inhaled deeply.

That night up in her room she wrote a letter home.

Dear Family,

They have typewriters for us to use and a piano in the recreation room. The men all drink beer with dinner. Already I learned how to light my cigarette myself. I know you won’t be pleased with that, Father, but it’s part of independence. We can smoke anywhere except in bed. I’ll have to learn how to cut my own meat. I’m kind of hungry at the moment. Golly, the whole business is so inspiring. The attitude is so natural. There’s no way to avoid bumping into things or each other. No one will help you.

Lillian, my roommate, is an old maid and has been in radio plays. She keeps to herself, but that’s okay. One man in the class, Dale Richardson, has a slow drawl, delicious to listen to, but he doesn’t talk much. He was injured in a hunting accident and is very subdued. I don’t think he’s been blind very long. There’s an Irishman from Indiana, Ray Johnson, who has a refreshment stand in a court building. He’s a screwball who keeps us in stitches and kids us to pieces. Louey Bruner has a newsstand in Worchester. I don’t think I know what Ham Walker does. Mrs. Campbell told me he has a terrible scar on his face. He’s loud and a little crude. And there are others. It’s great to meet so many different kinds of people. Already the world seems larger. Love to all, Jean

The next morning Mr. Lee, the instructor, took Jean aside. “You haven’t ever been out on the streets alone, have you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Always had someone to walk with?”

“Yes.”

“I can tell. Your biggest problem is that you don’t know where you’re facing. Do a quarter turn to the left.” Jean turned to the left. “Do another.” She did it again. “One more.” She did it again. “You’re facing me again now. It should have taken you four, not three. Follow me over here to this corner. You’ll need to practice this before you get your dog. Here, feel this wall. And this one. You can tell where you’re facing now, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Practice quarter turns with your arms down at your sides and then feel where you are. Concentrate on how much you’re moving your feet. Stay here and work on this until I come back.”

Her back became rigid and she felt her teeth grind together. Already she was separated from the others, just when she was beginning to feel comfortable. The night before had been wonderful, all that joking and getting to know each other, with her the only woman. Now here she was, alone again. Mr. Lee, the expert. Well, he didn’t know everything. He certainly didn’t know how she felt, or else he didn’t care. She did four turns and held out her hands. No wall. No wall anywhere. She felt her chin quiver. At least they couldn’t see her. Except for him.

The next afternoon she wrote:

July 24, 1941 Dear Family,

Are you in suspense about my dog? Lucy, don’t die. She’s a boxer, a brindle, and her name is Chiang. Everyone else has a German shepherd. There is always one boxer in a string of ten trained dogs. I think I got her because she’s supposed to be less high strung and easier for me to handle. I can love her in spite of it, I hope I hope. Chiang rhymes with fang, and it makes her seem so sinister. They told me her face is fierce looking, a little like a bulldog, but maybe that will be okay. This whole thing is a lot harder than I thought it would be, but maybe I’ll come home a different person. There’s more to all of this than just getting a dog. I want you to be proud of me. Love, Jean

So much happened in one day that the next night she had to share it. Exhausted and with Chiang at her feet, she wrote:

Dearest Icy,

Chiang and I were friends from the first clap of hamburger in her mouth. Can’t wait for you to meet her. I’m thrilled to be here and am so glad you and your mother encouraged me to do this. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. Did I type ever twice? I can’t remember sometimes. Well, I meant it. Get this, Icy. For the first time in my life, I’m surrounded by men.

So many things are funny here. The dogs all go to dinner with us. By that I mean that when we, all eight of us in my class, are in the dining hall, eight dogs are under the dining room table at our feet. It’s a scream. Nobody knows where to put his feet. We had ham for dinner tonight and halleluiah I cut it myself. We either find a way to eat it or go hungry.

This morning we took our first training route with our dogs. Before this we practiced with imaginary dogs. It was hard because the dogs are so used to Lee, the trainer, having the harness. Chiang walks fast. That means I have to walk just as fast to get the tension right on the harness in order to catch the signals. We learned a new command, “hop up.” It means step it up a bit, get going. I can’t imagine I’ll ever use it, though. We walked miles and I was puffing. I haven’t been unsweaty since I got here. But I’ve got to keep at it and not let her get away with a thing. She did a swell deed, though, in keeping me from crossing when a car pulled up in front of us.

She stopped her slobbering today, and I guess that’s because she’s not as nervous and excited. I’m a much drier and cleaner person as a result. But I don’t care. It’s too important not to put everything into it, so I just let her slobber on me.

With drools of love, Jean

The next day Jean felt self-conscious out on the street by herself so she wanted to get the routes over with fast. She couldn’t get Chiang to go fast enough. “Hop up,” she pleaded minute by minute, astonished at herself.

A week later she wrote:

Dearest Family,

We took the afternoon route in pairs and Dale Richardson and I did pretty well, so we were told. I don’t mind saying that at one point if I’d given in to where he thought we should go, we would have been lost, but I stuck to my guns. The least of my troubles seems to be memorizing the routes, but that’s a big problem for most of the others. My main trouble is keeping my direction. When I give Chiang the order “forward,” my body must be in the exact direction I want her to take me so she’ll know where to go, but sometimes I don’t know what direction that is.

After we finish the route, Mr. Lee (we just call him Lee now) leaves us on a bench at the bus station. Our bus comes along, we listen to where the door opens, then heel our pups into the bus and go to the back seat. The drivers drop us off in front of the institute, and then the dogs lead us right to the door. The drivers are good to us and kid us along.

Last night Chiang joined the Sooner Club. She’s the third member from our class. The motto of the club is “I’d sooner do it in the house than in the park.” I had to learn to find it and clean it up. Ick.

Thank you, Lucy, for the cookies. They arrived fine and yummy.