If a Tree Falls (9 page)

Read If a Tree Falls Online

Authors: Jennifer Rosner

BOOK: If a Tree Falls
11.31Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
We landed east coast jobs. Bill was hired to work in a children’s law clinic in Hartford, Connecticut, a forty-five minute drive from Northampton. His position had teaching and supervision components at an affiliated law school. I was hired to teach half-time in Mount Holyoke’s philosophy department: Introduction to Philosophy and whatever I wanted for an upper level seminar. I began devising a seminar called Complexities of the Self about how we can be divided, deceived, and opaque even to ourselves. I’d been interested, since my dissertation days, in the relevant philosophical topics—weakness of will, wishful thinking,
self-deception. And now there was my own burgeoning obsession dividing me between the present and the past, between memory and invention.
I was consumed with my deaf ancestry. With little hope of uncovering detailed information through family stories or genealogical research, I now found myself
inventing
scenarios, conjuring imaginary tales about my great-great aunts. Thinking of Nellie and Bayla, I wondered: was I somehow inoculating myself to my worst fears for Sophia? Was I vying for control over
others’
fates, even if not our own? Was I simply diverting my attention, a break from the stressors of life? Whatever the reason, thinking of them comforted me somehow. Quieted me.
Bill and I searched the Northampton housing market via the web. We found a one hundred-year-old house just a few blocks away from the Clarke School. I pictured us in that neighborhood, pushing Sophia in her stroller beneath a canopy of huge maple trees, Lucca bounding by our sides.
I flew out to see the house. It had wavy glass windows and thick detailed moldings, a fireplace and beautiful wood floors. In winter, we could snuggle with Sophia in front of the fire, reading board books and playing games. We could
introduce her to snow—we didn’t get any in the Bay area. We could teach her to sled and skate, to ski and build snow-men. In fall, we could gather red, orange, and yellow leaves, and iron them between sheets of wax paper. And we could stroll through the Smith College gardens in spring and summer, set out picnics at Paradise Pond. Except for the busy wallpaper and wall-to-wall carpet in every bedroom, it was perfect. Bill said he trusted my judgment, so we bid on the house and bought it, for him sight-unseen.
I had packed my journal for the trip. I’d been writing in it most nights. Whole story lines about Pearl and her daughters—story lines that always ended with strings, wrist to wrist. Then a baby’s cry, a soft tug-tug on the line, and a mother awakening to her child.
On the flight back to California, I pulled the journal from my handbag, slowly unwinding the string that held its pages closed tight. Despite all my search efforts, I had just the two Census Reports of 1910 and 1930 showing Nellie in Brooklyn, first on State Street, and later on Union Street with her daughter, Bertha. And I had the army registration forms for her sons, Manny and Leo. I still had nothing on Bayla, nothing on Pearl or Moshe. I had no sense of how my ancestors really fared day to day, how they lived in deafness amidst the other challenges of the times.
I
needed
these ancestors. I needed them for guidance. I needed them for company. I needed them for escape.
In my writing, my own anxieties and hopes entwined with those whose existences I couldn’t flesh out in the light of day. My ancestors were becoming real to me, if only in my mind, and I latched onto them.
Galicia, 1871
 
 
 
CAUTIOUSLY AT FIRST, joy sneaks its way past the evil eye, into the house. Nellie’s baby-charms
—
her curled pink toes, her shock of black hair
—
soften even the deep furrows in Moshe’s brow. And such eyes! Dark and penetrating.
In time, Pearl will brag that Nellie sees like an eagle. Nearly two, she can find every last button Pearl hides in a hide and seek game. But so stubborn, and she refuses to obey! “Look at her,” Pearl scoffs, as Nellie scooches her way across the threshold and out toward the chicken coop, even as Pearl and now Moshe call to her to stop.
Pearl can feel Nellie’s eyes searching her face when she picks her up roughly from among the chickens and pulls bits of straw from her hair. “You must come when we call out to you. Who can run a house this way?” Pearl plops Nellie down on her bed, the room dim and shadowy grey, then walks out.
A minute later, she comes back. Nellie is fingering the damask bedspread and she startles at Pearl’s appearance, every muscle tensed like a spooked animal. Pearl turns to look over
her shoulder. What on earth is the matter? She grabs up Nellie and holds her to her cheek.
At night beneath that same damask spread, Pearl lies awake, staring at the ceiling. She knows
—
has known for months
—
that something is wrong with her child. Nearly two years old, and Nellie doesn’t speak yet. Well, she might be a late bloomer with that. But the expression on Nellie’s face earlier today, so surprised and confused when Pearl reappeared in the bedroom . . . as if she hadn’t heard Pearl coming, hadn’t heard her calls, hadn’t heard her chidings, or later, her consoling words.
All the next day Pearl wanders about in a fog, consumed with her worries about Nellie. How could she have failed to notice? Nellie spends her days scanning the house for clues of activity, laying her palms and occasionally even her broad cheek flat on the floor with the approach of footsteps. Now Pearl calls out for Nellie from behind. No head turn. Now she clangs two pans together. Nothing. No.
When Moshe walks in at sundown with four unexpected guests for Shabbat dinner, Pearl is beside herself. Must the mitzvah of hospitality be theirs to make, tonight of all nights? Pearl wants to excuse herself from the packed living room and somehow prepare Nellie for the crowd. But Moshe is already
calling for Nellie in a voice louder than usual. He is walking room to room, pounding on the walls as he walks. Pearl wonders who these guests are, why Moshe is making such a show. He smells of the rabbi’s chamber.
Pearl backs out of the room and rushes down the hall past Moshe. She finds Nellie at her bedroom window, a dollop of lantern light shining on the rag doll in her hand. Pearl hoists Nellie up and gestures that it is time to eat. Moshe stands in her path, as she scurries toward the kitchen.
“What is the matter with that child?”
“We’ll talk later, after dinner.”
“No. I want to talk now.”
“Moshe, we have guests standing around the table.”
Later, when Moshe runs his finger along the base of Pearl’s neck as she tidies up after dinner, she jerks away. She turns to look into his face, and for a moment she flashes with what power she has, to withhold herself, to withhold her news. Moshe pales, suddenly. “What is it, Pearl? You glow and you glower at the same time.”
“Nellie is a good girl. She is not disobedient. Not on purpose.”
“She
is
disobedient. She doesn’t listen.”
“She doesn’t hear, Moshe. She can’t hear.”
“What are you talking about? Of course she hears.”
“No, Moshe.”
“She meets me at the door almost every afternoon when I come home. How does she know I am coming if she can’t hear?”
“She feels it in the ground. I’m telling you, she doesn’t hear.”
In the rabbi’s study, lines of thought are pushed and pulled, twisted and turned. Voices rise and fall. Eyes are rubbed; beards are tugged. Questions are always answered with other questions.
If it can be said that any of the men in the rabbi’s study are practical, the practical one among them
—
Chaim
—
stands up and looks at the others.
“Can she be married?” he asks, his eyebrows arched high.
“She’s two years old,” says Yaacov the candlemaker, with a dismissive wave of his blistered hands. “You’re asking, can she be married?”
“I’m asking, yes, because Pearl and Moshe are worried. They want to know: what kind of life can she expect to live? Can she be married, have a family?”
“Why not, if a match was to be accepted?” Yitzchak the trader offers.
“Well,” inserts Shmuele, the scholar, “the Mishnah makes distinctions: there are the deaf who cannot speak, cannot
reason intellectually or morally; and the deaf who can. If she is the former, she will be forever like a child.”
“Moshe says she hasn’t spoken a word yet,” Chaim mutters, as if only to himself.
“But there is a chance, no? that she will recover,” Yitzchak puts in. “She is only two years old, and for her age, she watches intently. Besides, she needn’t become an orator, just to become a bride.”
A deaf baby girl in their midst. The scholars and sages of Tasse are unsure of what to think. To abide by the ancient texts, Pearl and Moshe’s baby might as well be a corpse. A cheresh, deaf and mute, lacks cognition, the basis of a person’s status. Luckily, some in the room, including the rabbi himself, have traveled to Budapest and witnessed deaf people conversing with their hands. If the deaf can talk with their hands, maybe they have some thoughts in their heads.
An argument can be built, no? In any case, it needn’t be so strong. Nellie is a girl, sweet and pretty. How many thoughts does she need? And if she doesn’t talk so much, well, when it comes to marrying, a man might consider himself lucky.
Pearl sits on the bench outside, shifting, then re-shifting her weight, shaking out her legs. Her belly is enormous already, and the mole on her neck is bigger, darker. Moshe paces back and forth, back and forth, brushing away a low tree branch that tangles his hair with each pass.
When the door of the rabbi’s house opens, it is declared that Nellie can honor her community with mitzvoth the same as any other girl. Pearl heaves a sigh of relief, and stands to take Moshe’s hand. But Moshe’s hand is limp; his eyes don’t meet hers. Moshe can sense the retreat of the men. As they file out of the rabbi’s front door, their downcast eyes ooze the permanent liquid of pity.
It is different with the women. In time, the women open up to Pearl with stories
—
a deaf cousin in London, a deaf niece in Vienna. They bring news of schools in London, Berlin, and Budapest run exclusively for the deaf. They bounce Nellie on their knees, exaggerated expressions on their faces. And the women come to crowd around Pearl in her newest labor, to stand strong as she leans and groans and squats, to wring out towels with clean water.
But when Pearl holds her second daughter in her arms, and recognizes in her new baby’s eyes the already-focused stare of eagles, she asks the women to please leave her, to go, to go.

Other books

Killing Time by Andrew Fraser
Women and War by Janet Tanner
Unholy: The Unholys MC by Ellen Harper
The Duke and The Duchess by Lady Aingealicia