Singing Hands (13 page)

Mother sent me back to the kitchen for more coffee cups before I had a chance to rescue Missy. I brushed past Nell on my way to the cabinet to search for matching saucers. It was her turn to wash up after supper.

"Gussie," she started as soon as I came into the kitchen, "why were you acting so strange during—"

Missy burst through the swinging door, interrupting her. "Gussie!" she gasped softly. "Are they always like that? What about that one old man? The one who nearly shook my hand off! He keeps grunting when he tries to talk to me."

She made an ugly oinking sound under her breath and then broke out in a peal of laughter. "What am I whispering for?" she cried. "They can't hear a thing!"

Over by the sink, Nell had stopped with a stricken expression on her face, holding a dirty plate in midair. As Missy threw her head back to laugh again and then rushed over to fetch the lemon meringue pie from the sideboard, I gave Nell a withering look, hoping that would stop her from blurting out any kind of reprimand.

"Hurry up with those cups," Missy ordered gleefully. "You can't leave me out there all alone again." She elbowed through the swinging door, and Nell opened her mouth to say something.

"She doesn't mean anything by it," I snapped before she could let out the first word. "She's just not used to deaf people." I lifted up a wobbly stack of cups and saucers and left Nell glaring after me.

For the next fifteen minutes Missy and I shuttled back and forth, taking out the chocolate layer cake and more spoons and cream for the coffee. Every time the door swung shut on the dining room, Missy charged into a new impression of one of Daddy's church members. She was a good mimic, and she hooted and talked loud, reveling in how freely she could do her impersonations of the Tate sisters and Mrs. Thorp and poor potbellied Mr. Hendrickson, all of them quietly assembled just beyond the door, barely five feet away. I knew the feeling. I had done my share of imitations in the past. But this time it felt different, with Nell so full of disapproval, silently rinsing the dishes at the sink. What was I supposed to do? Even though I didn't want to, I peeked at the meeting through the crack in the door and cackled along with Missy, trying to win her over with my own hilarious jokes about Mother and Daddy's friends.

After the meeting that night, once Nell had announced that she was sleeping down the hall with Margaret, Missy and I lay on the twin beds in my room and talked. I must have grown quieter as the evening wore on, because Missy began to chatter more, trying to fill the empty spaces in our conversation.

"Guess what!" she said suddenly, sitting bolt upright and swinging her feet to the floor. "I almost forgot. Guess who's skipping Sunday school with us tomorrow morning.

"Tripp Manning!" she announced before I could reply. She beamed as if she had just presented me with the Pulitzer Prize for Popularity. "Can you believe it? In my opinion, he's the cutest boy at the Advent. I can't imagine how I forgot to tell you. I ran into him last week at the club and told him all about you and your deaf parents and the Tutwiler, and he's dying to come with us."

"You told him about skipping?" I squeaked.

"Don't worry, he won't tell anybody." Missy wriggled back into Nell's pillow and reached over to the dresser for the plate of lemon meringue pie we had sneaked from downstairs. She took a big bite and closed her eyes dreamily. "Mmm. I can't wait. I brought along some money so maybe we can treat for chocolate milk shakes. How much have you got?"

I reached up to rub my temples. I could feel the beginnings of a dull, sickly headache blossoming in the front of my skull. "I'm not sure," I answered weakly. "I'll have to see."

Missy stopped talking long enough to finish off the pie. During the lull, we could hear the strains of Mrs. Fernley's music drifting down through the ceiling. Missy stared upward. "I thought you said your boarder was deaf."

"Miss Grace is the deaf one," I said, my voice dragging with fatigue. "The other one's Mrs. Fernley. She's hearing, and she loves opera, especially
Pagliacci.
..." I closed my eyes and mumbled almost to myself, "
Vesti la giubba
... something about 'on with the show' in Italian, but I still think it sounds like he's saying 'pass me the goober.'"

Missy shrieked. My eyes flew open and I realized with relief that she was shrieking with laughter. "You kill me, Gussie Davis!" she cried, and shook her head, still giggling. "You are
so
funny.... Pass me the goober! You're too much."

It really wasn't that funny, but for some odd reason, I started to giggle, too. Uncontrollably. So hard that no noise came out and tears seeped from the corners of my eyes. And in a minute, I was up on my feet, standing in the middle of my squishy bed, entertaining Missy with my rendition of a very fat, very famous opera star belting out, "Pass me the
gooooooooooober....
"

It wasn't until I was at full volume that I remembered I had forgotten to close the bedroom door. I looked up just in time to see a flash of bright kimono silk in the doorway. Then it was gone.

Why? Why did Mrs. Fernley choose that exact moment to pass by my door on her way to the bathroom? Why did it have to be the same day that I had postponed our word-list session because I said I was hosting "a very important guest" that afternoon and evening.
Why?

I had been on the verge of calling off the next session of skipping Sunday school altogether, but when Tripp Manning slipped into the church courtyard and broke into a slow, triumphant smile, I changed my mind. Missy was right. He
was
the cutest boy at the Advent, with the nicest wavy hair and the most dazzling brown eyes.

"Why didn't we think of this earlier?" he said to Missy as he joined us under the oak tree where we were huddled waiting for him.

"I don't know," Missy bubbled. She was bouncing on her tiptoes, giddy with excitement. "Why don't you ask Gussie here why she never invited us? She's been at this for weeks."

Tripp studied me for a few seconds, his dark eyes filling with amusement. "Augusta from Saint Delmonico's," he said quietly.

I felt a surge of blood rushing to my face. Missy slapped him lightly on the arm. "Tripp," she scolded, "leave Gussie alone."

I turned and looked over my shoulder, trying to hide my burning cheeks and pretending to check for anyone following us. "We better go before someone comes," I said.

As we started down the sidewalk along Twentieth, Missy began to boast to Tripp about how late we had stayed up the night before. I almost rubbed my tired eyes at the mention of our sleepover but then caught myself. Here I was spending a bright Sunday morning with Missy DuPage and Tripp Manning. If only I could clear my mind of its nagging clutter, such as the fact that Nell had given me the silent treatment on the streetcar that morning and the fact that two extra quarters were lurking at the bottom of my purse. I had swiped them from Daddy's side of the bureau when everyone was eating breakfast, since I knew my offering money would never be enough to pay for chocolate milk shakes at the Tutwiler.

I envied how carefree Missy was—how blissfully she tossed her hair over her shoulders and threw her head back to laugh at Tripp's quiet comments. Halfway to the Tutwiler, she even linked her arm with his, and I looked away toward the street, slightly embarrassed at her boldness. Then I felt a small movement at my side, and to my astonishment, Tripp was offering me his other arm. As casually as I could, I latched my elbow in his and tried to toss my hair fetchingly, just like Missy had a few minutes earlier.

At the hotel drugstore, I was relieved when Missy headed for a booth tucked in the back instead of the soda fountain counter, where we would be in full view. What did it mean that Tripp slid into my side of the booth instead of Missy's? For a brief second, I saw her eyes flare with surprise and disappointment. She recovered quickly, though.

"Three large milk shakes please," she said in her perkiest voice when the waiter came over to take our order.

"At ten o'clock in the morning?" Tripp asked.

"Why not?" Missy said with a devil-may-care lift of her chin. "Gussie and I are treating. Right, Gus?"

I nodded, forcing out a smile. I hadn't imagined she would order
large
milk shakes. And on top of that, no one had ever called me Gus but Nell.

Suddenly, Tripp was turning toward me. "So I hear you can talk with your hands," he said. "Say something."

I shrugged, willing myself not to blush again. "What do you want me to say?"

He ran his fingers through his wavy hair and looked at the ceiling, thinking for a minute. "Say ... 'Mrs. Walton should have retired from teaching Sunday school five years ago.'"

Missy snickered, and I easily performed Tripp's request, glad to be signing instead of having to think of something clever to say.

Intently he watched my hands sweeping through the air. "Wow," he murmured. "Okay. Do this one.... 'Next time we come to the Tutwiler, I want to go in the restaurant and order big, fat T-bone steaks with French-fried potatoes."

"Oh, yum," Missy chirped. "Good idea."

With my confidence building, I signed away, adding a few fake flourishes to dress up my fingerspelling of "T-bone" and "French fries."

"Our milk shakes are here!" Missy sang out when the waiter arrived at our table with three towering glasses filled to their frosty rims.

Tripp barely looked up. "Okay, I got a really good one. How about—"

"Show him some of your dirty words, Gussie," Missy cut in. She pulled the long silver spoon out of her milk shake and licked it slyly. "See, Tripp. Gussie's got us all fooled. She looks real shy and innocent—her daddy's even a minister—but she cusses like a sailor with her hands. Go ahead, Gus, show him."

Tripp turned back to me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Yeah," he said. "Show me."

I shook my head and busied myself with unwrapping one of the straws the waiter had brought. I was tempted to give Missy a sharp kick in the shin under the table. Obviously, she was trying to humiliate me in front of Tripp.

"I never cuss on Sundays," I said sweetly, and took a prim sip of my milk shake.

Neither of them laughed. "Oh, c'mon," Tripp begged. He reached out and touched my arm. "Show me. Just this once."

I glanced at Missy. There was a glint in her eyes—a flash of something hard and steely.

I sighed. "Oh, all right." I pushed my milk shake out of the way. I rubbed my hands together briskly. Then, after a deep breath, I barreled into my performance of cussing in made-up sign language.

I knew immediately from Missy's satisfied expression that I must have looked ridiculous, sitting in my church clothes, chopping and swatting and jerking at the empty air. A minute before, my signing for Tripp had felt lovely, like a little ballet of hands. Now it was nothing but ugly and crude. Instead of looking impressed, Tripp just looked embarrassed.

Yet, for some reason, I couldn't stop myself.

"Gussie, stop," Missy hissed.

I kept going, adding a few more jabs and hand slaps for good measure.

"Stop!" she screeched. "Here comes your father!"

My hands jerked to a halt. I peered upward with dread.

She was right—though I barely recognized the person standing over our table at first. This man's face was twisted with emotion, filled with disgust and disappointment as he surveyed the table—the melting milk shakes, Missy and Tripp staring back at him, open-mouthed. His bitter gaze landed on me.

"Give them the money," he rasped.

"The money?" I whispered.

"The money you stole. From the church." Even though his voice wasn't loud, it seemed to rise hoarsely above the calm murmur of the drugstore.

With my hand trembling, I dug blindly to the bottom of my purse until I had all of it in my fist—the two quarters from Daddy's dresser, and a dime and a nickel—the offering money. I laid the coins on the table and shamefully pulled my hand away.

Without a word, Tripp slid awkwardly from the booth to let me pass. Missy stayed in her seat, coolly surveying the scene. There it was again—the old bubble-gum-on-the-shoe look. I didn't stop to apologize or say goodbye as I scrambled to my feet and rushed after Daddy, who was already stalking toward the door. Why bother? I knew that after today, Missy and Tripp would never be associating with the likes of Gussie Davis again.

Daddy showed me the giving report from the Church of the Advent as soon as I sat down in the old leather chair in his office. My name was there, typed on the slip of paper—along with a column of zeros, documenting what each of my offering envelopes had contained over the last two months of Sundays.

"Didn't you know the church sends this report every three months?" Daddy asked out loud. "How did you think we wouldn't find out?"

I shook my head, not looking up from the paper clutched in my hands.

"At first, I was sure there was a mistake," my father went on sadly. "I planned to look into it as soon as I had more time. Then Nell told us what she overheard last night."

My head snapped up.

Daddy nodded gravely. "That's right. You and the DuPage girl were talking in your bedroom about going to the Tutwiler and your little sister had a terrible decision to make: whether to help keep your secret and protect you from being punished, or to tell your mother and me the truth."

I didn't answer.

"I missed services this morning to come find you," Daddy said, his voice cracking with dismay. He
never
missed services.

After that, he fell quiet. No lectures, no parables from the Bible to teach me how wrong I had been. To me, Daddy had always seemed quick to forgive, almost too quick. At Saint Jude's, it was common knowledge that one of the members of the church, Mr. Needham, made a habit of sitting on his front stoop and drinking himself senseless every evening. Yet whenever he saw that good-for-nothing Mr. Needham, Daddy shook his hand and patted him on the back, even
smiled
at him.

So why was Daddy looking at me—his own daughter—that way? With such shock, as if he didn't know me anymore, as if I was already a lost cause, permanently blighted, just like the sickly elm tree in our backyard, with its black-spotted leaves curling on the branches.