Singing Hands (14 page)

"I'm sorry," I said finally, wishing that Daddy could hear the pleading in my voice. I lifted my hands desperately, trying to think of how to explain myself in sign, how to tell him that I didn't belong at the Advent, that I didn't know where I belonged. But Daddy was already shaking his head and turning his swivel chair toward the tower.

The chair screeched as he rose heavily to his feet. He walked over to the windows and stared out in the direction of Vulcan. All at once, I needed to know whether Vulcan's torch was green or red. Somehow maybe it would be a clue to my future. Was I a lost cause? Green or red? Good or bad?

I joined Daddy at the window and squinted into the hazy distance beyond the valley. Red Mountain rippled in the heat. I could just make out Vulcan through the haze, his huge, steely head and outstretched arm, but I couldn't see the color of his torch. I closed my eyes and pressed my fingertips against my eyelids, which were swollen and sore from all my crying on the ride home in the Packard.

It was when I opened my eyes again that I first noticed that something was different in the tower. The church bulletins, the Bible, and the phone directory had been moved from where I usually piled them on Mrs. Fernley's dictionary under the windows.

I touched Daddy's elbow. "Did you see a dictionary around here?" I asked. I spread my palms far apart. "A really big one called Funk and Wagnalls? It was right here a few days ago."

He nodded. "Mrs. Fernley came to get it late last night ... when I was working in my office after the vestry meeting. She said you had borrowed it. She thought you were finished with it."

"Finished with it?" I repeated mournfully. The words hit me like a punch in the stomach. So Mrs. Fernley had given up on me, too. But who could blame her? I had neglected the last two word lists and mocked one of her most beloved operas in front of my so-called important guest.

I took a step closer to Daddy and carefully laid my head against his chest. I held my breath, praying that he might give in and hug me or stroke my hair like he sometimes did when I was sad. Then I felt his hands on my shoulders as he firmly pushed me away to look him in the eye.

"Augusta," he said, his face still grave. "You'll have to pay the church back for the money you took."

"Oh, I know," I said quickly. "I'll do chores for the rest of the summer and save my money and pay back every penny."

He held up his hand to stop me. "No, that's not enough this time." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "I have another way," he began. "The Alabama School for the Deaf is organizing an event ... a Jubilee ... to honor the head principal, Miss Emmeline Benton. She's retiring this fall after thirty-five years at ASD. The whole student body is returning early for the celebration, and the superintendent and teachers have asked for my help. I want you to go to Talladega and help, too."

"Really?" I cried, feeling almost dizzy with relief. I couldn't believe it. Daddy was finally going to take me on one of his trips, to a
Jubilee,
no less, even after everything that had happened.

"When?" I signed eagerly.

"Next week."

"Next week? But that's—" I could feel the smile fading from my face. "That's when we leave on the train for Texas to see Aunt Glo and Uncle Henry. Margaret and Nell and me. We've been waiting all summer. Mother already bought the train tickets."

"No, Augusta. You won't be going to Texas this summer."

"But we have to go! It's all planned! What about Margaret and Nell? Aunt Glo's counting on seeing us.

"Your sisters are still going."

Slowly it dawned on me what he was saying. "Daddy, you can't!"

He flicked his hands, shaking off imaginary water—the sign for "finished, done."

I had thought I couldn't cry any more. In the Packard I had sobbed so hard that the tears had slid down my neck into the collar of my blouse. But now a fresh wave of tears came, stinging like acid behind my eyelids.

"You can't!" I screamed, loud enough to make my throat raw, straight into Daddy's stunned face. Then I turned and bolted from his office. I had my answer about Vulcan. On this particular day in August, his torch could be nothing but a blazing, bloody, fire-engine red.

The Cussing Woods were the last place I should have chosen to unleash my despair that afternoon. Just as I had during other visits, I pushed my way past the honeysuckle and blackberry brambles toward the clearing. I ripped the leaves off a sweet-gum branch, raised my switch high, and opened my mouth to swear at everybody and everything ... but of course the words died on my lips. Even the thought of cussing brought the ugly scene in the Tutwiler flooding back—how pathetic I must have looked fake-cussing with my hands. I remembered Tripp's handsome face filling with uneasiness, Daddy pale and shaken with anger.

"Give them the money," he had said plainly enough for everyone in the drugstore to hear. "The money you stole."

I let the switch slip from my fingers and sank down onto a nearby log, wobbly in the knees with shame. What if Daddy made me go back to the Advent? How would I ever show my face at Sunday school again? At least Tripp went to a junior high across town. But there would be no way to avoid Missy once South Glen started in September. She'd be there in the hallways and in my classes, gossiping to her friends about what had happened, about my strange family, about my secret life as a sneak and a thief. I'd have fifty black marks beside my name before the first week of junior high was over.

A mosquito whined next to my ear. Soon dozens were swirling in a cloud around me, frenzied to discover such an unexpected feast in the vacant lot. One landed on my arm, then another and another on my leg. But I fought off the urge to brush them away or slap them flat. Instead, I simply watched their wispy gray bodies swell with blood as they sank their stingers in deeper. I didn't care if it hurt or if I was covered with mosquito bites or if I looked like a gargoyle from crying so hard. What did it matter? I wasn't going to Texas anyway.

I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room. For hours I lay flat on my bed raking my fingernails across my fourteen mosquito bites and watching the shafts of sunlight break through the catalpa leaves and stretch farther and farther across the wall. Just about the time the shafts of light faded, Nell opened the door and came in quietly with a tray of food. I closed my eyes as she came nearer, not because I didn't want to see her, but because I could smell pork chops. Mother must have sliced the leftovers from last night for a sandwich, and now the smell was a sickening reminder of Missy sitting at our kitchen table.

"Mother and I thought you might be hungry," Nell whispered, and set the tray on the dresser.

When I opened my eyes, she was peering down at me. Her face was filled with worry, as if I was on my deathbed, wasting away from something horrible like polio or tuberculosis.

"I'm sorry I told on you, Gus," she said in a small voice. "But I knew Missy was a two-faced double-crosser. I knew she was only gonna get you in trouble. Then I heard her making that plan about the Tutwiler and the milk shakes—"

Nell broke off when I shifted my gaze to the ceiling. I couldn't stand to look in those big doe eyes of hers, so full of sympathy. She thought it had all been Missy's idea. She never imagined that her very own sister could come up with such a nasty scheme.

Nell must have seen the tear leak out and slide down the side of my face toward the pillow. "And I'm sorry about Texas, too," she went on softly. "I don't really want to go without you, but Mother says I have to."

I nodded, and soon I heard the door click shut and she was gone.

Somehow I managed to fall asleep after that. I slept soundly until what seemed like the middle of the night, when an awful realization crept into my dream and jolted me awake.

I sat straight up in bed. "Miss Grace's letter!" I heard myself gasp. I squinted into the darkness, trying to get my bearings. Nell was in her bed across from me. She muttered something in her sleep and flopped over on her stomach.

How could I have forgotten that the Vincent letter was hidden in Mrs. Fernley's dictionary? It had been there all summer, tucked deep in the heart of the Funk and Wag, haunting me whenever I worked on my word lists. But I hadn't used the dictionary for the last two sets of opera words. I had gone to the library to find the definitions and visit Miss Grace instead. And this week I hadn't even bothered looking at my latest vocabulary assignment. All I had thought about was Missy DuPage coming to spend the night.

Reaching past the tray of untouched food, I fumbled for the alarm clock on the dresser and pushed the button to light up the dial.
Only ten forty-five.
Mrs. Fernley might still be awake. I could apologize and ask to borrow her dictionary again before she discovered the letter inside. Quickly I slipped out of bed. I was wearing the dress I had worn to church that morning. I rubbed my hands over the damp wrinkles, trying to smooth them as best as I could.

It was dark and still in the hallway. Mother and Daddy and Margaret must have already gone to bed. I tiptoed past Margaret's room, avoiding the creaky spot in the floorboards, and then crept up the narrow stairs. My arms and legs turned rubbery as soon as I reached the top. Part of me was certain Mrs. Fernley wouldn't be awake, not at nearly eleven o'clock, when she had to buy and sell hats all day tomorrow at Blach's department store. But beaming under her door like a neon sign was a bright crack of light, coaxing me forward.

I sneaked closer and raised my hand to knock, barely rapping my knuckles on the worn wood. The very next instant, the door opened, almost as if she had been waiting for me.

For a minute we stood staring at each other. Mrs. Fernley's hair was set in pin curls, and she was wearing her silk kimono. Without makeup, her face looked naked and full of hollows, lit from behind by the plum-colored glow from her floor lamp. Then I realized I must have looked even stranger, with my wrinkled dress and tangled hair, my red, swollen eyes, and my arms covered in bug bites.

"Yes, Gussie?" she finally said. I had expected that when she spoke, her voice would be cold. Yet it wasn't. It was simply her voice—still prim and proper, but kind.

"I wanted to ... to apologize," I stammered. I caught myself nervously twisting my fingers together and dropped my hands stiffly to my sides. "For the way I was singing that
Pagliacci
aria last night, and for not turning in my word list yesterday. And I wanted to ask if I could borrow your dictionary again."

Mrs. Fernley raised one hand to her chin as if she was pondering. "I don't think you'll need the Funk and Wag for your next assignment, Gussie," she answered slowly, "or any other dictionary, for that matter."

"My next assignment? But I haven't finished the last one yet."

"Yes, I know," she said. "But I think it's time for us to move on."

"Move on?"

"Just a minute," she said, then went over to her bookshelf. I could see the Funk and Wag, wedged back in its proper place on the bottom shelf. My hopes sank when she didn't bend over to reach for it. Instead, she was returning with just a plain white envelope in her hand.

She held it out to me. "Don't worry about completing the last word list, Gussie. I want you to concentrate all of your energies on this next assignment. You can take as long as you like, and come and see me only when you think you're truly finished defining."

I took the envelope hesitantly, my mind straining to understand what on earth she was talking about. "Are you sure I won't need your dictionary?" I asked again, not even caring anymore about how whiny I must have sounded.

"I'm sure," she said firmly. "Now, it's late, dear. I suggest you wait and look at that assignment in the morning, when you'll be able to think more clearly." She told me good night and closed the door, leaving me in the dark with the mysterious white envelope gleaming up at me.

I
did
wait to open it. For three whole minutes—the time it took me to scamper back downstairs, lock myself in the bathroom, and plunk down on the side of the tub. Something fluttered to my bare feet when I ripped open the flap of the envelope. For a few seconds, I simply stared, too stunned to bend down and pick it up from where it rested against my foot. I recognized the wrinkled blue stationery instantly. I could almost make out Mr. Vincent's scrawled writing between the folds.

My palms broke into a clammy sweat and my face prickled with shame. Mrs. Fernley had found Miss Grace's letter. She must have recognized the faded blue stationery from the day the note dropped out of my pocket in her room when she assigned me my first set of words.

Anxiously, I turned my attention back to the envelope. There was something else inside—something that looked like another word list. I pulled out the familiar sheet of onionskin and unfolded it. This time Mrs. Fernley had typed only one word near the top of the page.

Integrity

What in the dickens did she mean by
that
? "Integrity" seemed like a simple word, especially compared to all the other complicated, tongue-twisting terms Mrs. Fernley had given me over the summer. I wasn't exactly sure of the definition, but I knew it had something to do with being good or honest. Daddy had always admired Bishop Carpenter, one of the church leaders in Alabama.... "A man of integrity," he called him.

At last I reached down to retrieve Miss Grace's letter from the bathroom floor. I sat for a while gazing from one to the other—from that glaring word, "integrity," to the folded blue stationery and back to "integrity" again.

Little by little, it began to dawn on me what the painful assignment was that Mrs. Fernley had in mind.

She wanted me to return what I had stolen and confess the truth to Miss Grace. Without that, my definition of integrity would never be complete.

I tried to keep myself occupied the next day as Margaret and Nell went about the ritual of dragging their battered suitcases up from the cellar and then filling them with tidy stacks of clothes. Even though Mother invited me to go along, I didn't join them on their excursion downtown to shop for new sandals and bathing suits. Daddy was off again for a quick church conference before our trip to Talladega, so I spent the time upstairs in his office typing out drafts of a confession letter.