Singing Hands (20 page)

I heard Abe before I saw him. That familiar heehaw of laughter. It was coming from behind me somewhere. I whipped around and there he stood, giggling over the jack-in-the-box performance I had just put on, grinning wide enough to show his gums and every tooth left in his mouth.

"Abe!" I squealed. I must have run right past him earlier. He had been playing among the droopy branches of a nearby hydrangea bush. The knees of his trousers were dusty, and he held a wooden toy train in each hand.

I could have hugged him, but I didn't want to scare him away. Instead, I rested my hands on the tops of his bony shoulders and squeezed.

"Abe," I said again, and smiled. Suddenly, I remembered to make the name sign my father had invented—the outline of Lincoln's stovepipe hat in the air.

Abe smiled back. Then he held out the toy trains for me to see. I took the larger one, a steam engine, and turned it over in my palm. It was handmade, with a smokestack, notches for windows, and tiny wheels that really turned. And two initials were etched on the wooden surface underneath—a V and an L. Vincent Lindermeyer. He must have made the trains for Abe to help take his mind off home.

"Toot, toot," I said and rolled the toy engine back and forth over my palm.

No sooner had the sound left my lips than I heard a real horn beeping off in the distance.

I gasped. "Abe, that's the school bus! They must be looking for me."

He blinked. Of course he didn't understand, but I could see a spark of fear flare up in his eyes as he watched the worry spreading across my face.

"Come," I gestured, and put my arm around his shoulder to guide him along. The horn beeped again, three honks this time, longer and more urgent. "We've got to go. You need to come with me."

Abe tugged away, and my heart sank until I realized that he was rushing back only to fetch the toy trains he had left under the hydrangea bush. He stuffed them in his pockets, then hitched up his saggy pants and trotted to my side, ready to go.

As I grabbed Abe's hand, I came close to hugging him again, or maybe even bursting into tears. I didn't deserve it—for this little boy to trust me enough to follow me anywhere, even though I had been so mean to him.

When Abe and I came trotting around the side of the school, they were all sitting on the bus waiting for me—everyone but Mr. Snider, who stood out in the driveway with his fists on his hips. He had taken off his seersucker coat, and there were dark wet patches staining the underarms of his shirt.

"Where on earth have you been, young lady?" he cried, his gaze raking back and forth from Abe to me. "And who's this little ragamuffin? Mr. Lindermeyer just went over to the dormitory for the second time to search for you."

Through the bus window, I could see Mr. Snider's ancient parents peering at me in distress, as if I had suddenly sprouted devil's horns and a barbed tail.

"I'm sorry," I panted. "This is my friend Abe. I had to go find him. He's coming to the Jubilee with us."

Mr. Snider stared at me, flabbergasted. His parents must have read my lips through the window, because in the next instant, there were more concerned faces pressing up against the glass, and signs flying to and fro like Ping-Pong balls.

I was glad to see Mr. Vincent come hurrying back from the dormitory. When he spotted me, he raised his face to the sky in silent thanks. "There you are!" he exclaimed out loud. "I was starting to worry."

"You
should
be worried," Mr. Snider said, planting his fists on his hips again. "Miss Davis has the strange notion that she's bringing this fellow along to the Jubilee. I know her father would never approve of such an idea." He glanced at his watch impatiently. "And it's getting late. We should be back at ASD by now."

Mr. Vincent's eyes widened as he took in Mr. Snider's words. He turned to me.

"Why can't Abe go?" I asked in a rush before he could say anything. Abe stared up at me in wonder as I signed, my hands jerky with emotion. "He won't be any trouble. And Daddy won't mind giving him a ride back. Abe's been here for three whole days, with not much to do and no kids to keep him company. And there'll be all sorts of great things for him to see at the Jubilee—tumbling and dancing and costumes, and the senior boys are going to juggle, and we're going t—"

Mr. Snider cut in. "This is a celebration to honor Miss Benton," he said firmly. "The principal of the
white
school."

I opened my mouth to argue, but Mr. Vincent laid a quieting hand on my shoulder. He turned to Mr. Snider. "You all go on ahead," he said in a calm voice. "I don't want you to be late, and Gussie and I can work this out between the two of us in my office. I'll give her a ride over in the school car when we're done."

"But—"

Mr. Vincent held up his hand, and a surge of panic welled in my throat. I didn't have time to sit in his office and discuss things. I needed to rush back and get the girls ready for our performance. But the driver had already started the engine, and Mr. Snider was mounting the steps of the bus, still shaking his head in blustery disapproval.

I thought I might scream. As the clock on the wall over his head clicked off the precious minutes, Mr. Vincent sat with his chin in his hand, just thinking. Abe was making soft growling sounds in his throat as he chugged his steam engine down one leg of Mr. Vincent's desk, around my feet, and up the other leg. Then Abe squeezed past my knees, pushing his train through the forest of handmade wooden objects spread across the desktop. A pen stand decorated with fancy whittled designs. Sleek bins carved with the words
IN
and
OUT.
Even wooden bookends crafted into the shape of acorns, maybe to honor the oak tree that had supplied the wood.

I flapped my hand to get his attention. "He's just one little boy," I said.

"I know," Mr. Vincent signed, tapping his fingers to his forehead.

"No one will even notice." I could hear my voice turning desperate.

Mr. Vincent sighed and gave me a pitying look. "Believe me, Gussie. They'll notice."

"I'll take full responsibility!"

He rose from his chair with another sigh and turned to gaze out the window, still thinking.

I let my open palms flop to my lap in frustration.

Abe was bumping and zooming his train into another one of the obstacles on Mr. Vincent's desk. He picked it up and with a little grunt of amusement, laid it in my cupped palms. It was a box, and something about the dark, satiny wood was familiar. I turned the box over. Mr. Vincent had made it. His telltale initials—VL—were carved into the bottom.

I bent closer to examine it. The lid of the box was shaped like a heart, with a perfect replica of a hand carved across it. But there were deep grooves chiseled into the fingers and the wrist of the hand. A piece of the lid was missing. Abe watched as I quietly lifted the lid. Inside was a lock of white-blond hair.

With a sharp hitch of breath, I closed the box and raised it from my lap just as Mr. Vincent was turning around.

The words flew out of me before I could stop them. "Miss Grace has the other hand! I thought hers was just a paperweight, but it's the other half of the sign!"

"What?" Mr. Vincent said, staring at my mouth.

I set the box on his desk and crossed my hands over my heart—the sign for love. "She has it on her desk. Just like you."

With a squawk of laughter, Abe imitated me, pressing his small grubby palms over his heart.

"She has it?" Mr. Vincent signed. "The other hand?" A wild look of hope lit up his face.

I nodded. He didn't ask more questions after that but took the box in his hands, lifted the lid, and gaped at the lock of Miss Grace's hair as if he was seeing it for the first time.

I frantically checked the clock again. Only forty minutes left till the show.

I stood up. No one was going to stop me. ASD was only a couple of miles down the road. Abe and I could walk there, or run, and still be at the school in time. I could feel my knees quiver as I caught hold of Abe's hand.

"Mr. Vincent," I said. "We have to leave. They're depending on me."

Thank heaven for Miss Grace and the power of love. At last Mr. Vincent said, "All right," and grabbed his keys to take us, both me and Abe, to the Jubilee.

Like lots of people, I suppose, I had always felt a little numb singing the national anthem. At school assemblies and ball games and choir concerts, the words would pour out of my mouth in a senseless mush.

Osaycanyouseebythedawn'searlylightwhatsoproudlywehail'd...

But
signing
"The Star-Spangled Banner" was different, especially in front of hundreds of people expecting to see nothing but a Maypole dance. We had started our performance routinely enough, each taking a ribbon and circling around and around until the red, white, and blue streamers blossomed and were spinning like a giant pinwheel.

But then we all let go and the ribbons floated down, hiding the pole under a curtain of color. Still in our circle, we kept our arms raised and turned to face the audience. For a few long seconds, everyone stared at our poised, empty hands, until finally we began to sing.

This was something very new for ASD—a ring of students singing together with their hands. It was new for me, too. For the first time, as the words of the song welled up through my fingers and came to life in the air, I felt as if I was truly a part of Mother and Daddy's miraculous world.

Once we had made it through "twilight's last gleaming," I peeked over at Mary Alice. To my astonishment, she didn't appear the least bit timid or afraid. In fact, she had lifted her chin proudly, almost defiantly, as if each sign she made was sweet revenge on her little brother, somewhere out there in the audience, who had once compared the girls' singing voices to the sound of barking dogs.

Seeing that tilt of Mary Alice's chin gave me the nerve to look out at the spectators while I signed. Just as I expected, Miss Hinkle sat seething in her folding chair in the middle of the front row, each muscle taut as a tightrope. Over the grassy lawn, her eyes blazed a path straight to me, and for an instant, the memory of her strict instructions—"And remember. No signing for those girls. It's for their own good!"—crowded out all the other thoughts in my head.

I scanned the audience for Daddy, my hands wavering a bit. Where was he? What had happened to Abe? When Mr. Vincent and I had finally found my father among the crowds of people milling about on the lawn, there were only a few minutes left to spare before the show. And of course Mr. Snider was already there at Daddy's side, tattling away about my "disruptive and outlandish actions" during the tour of the Negro school.

"You see?" Mr. Snider had said to Daddy as soon as I had come hurrying up with Abe gripping my arm. "It's just as I told you. Your daughter actually thinks we are going to allow this boy to stay for Miss Benton's celebration."

There hadn't been time for me to stay and argue more. All I could do was push Abe toward Daddy and hope for the best as I ran to get ready for our performance.

Now I sneaked a desperate glance at Belinda, struggling not to fall behind the rest of the group. We were at her favorite part—"the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air."

"Can we do that again?" she had kept begging during our practice sessions. Now I could see her flushed face glowing almost as bright as her hair as she raised her graceful arms and used her fingers to mimic a shower of fireworks raining down.

A movement in one of the back rows caught my eye just as my hands found their way into the song again.

... gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

It was my father. He was standing up. And there was Abe, standing on the folding chair right beside him. Daddy must have lifted him up so that he could get a better view. Over the rows of heads, I could see Abe laughing as he copied Daddy's every move, placing his hand over his heart for the second time that day.

I found myself smiling from ear to ear, too, as our circle of girls burst into the final phrases of the anthem.

O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free...

Then another man in the back row got to his feet, and a ripple of movement traveled through the audience as more and more folks decided to rise from their seats.

"Thank you, Daddy!" I wanted to shout with my hands.
Thank you, thank you.
Thank you for being so different. Thank you for spending all those hours on the train and in that hand-me-down Packard, trying to spread your message. Thank you for letting stray souls like Abe and Mary Alice and Belinda and Hattie and me know that we really do have an important place in this great big land of the free and home of the brave.

No one clapped right away when we finished the song. Maybe they weren't sure whether we were done or not. But in the front row, there was an elderly lady with soft white hair pulled back in a bun who stood and took a step forward just as we lowered our hands to our sides. I was surprised when she fixed her watery blue gaze on me.

"That was very beautiful," she called out in a quavering but firm voice. "If you wouldn't mind, I think we would all like to see that again."

1 nodded, gradually realizing that I was meeting the famous Miss Emmeline Benton at last. She remained standing for our second round of the national anthem, and oh, my, I couldn't help it. I couldn't help breaking into a gloating grin when I spotted Miss Hinkle and then Mr. Snider slowly but surely rising to their feet.

On the way home the next day, my father stopped at that same dusty service station to fill the Packard's tank and "rest his eyes" for a bit. In the shade of the cottonwoods, I tapped Daddy's arm just as he was sinking back against the seat.

He opened one eye and turned his head to face me.

"Do you think Mr. Vincent will really come to Birmingham soon to visit us like he promised?" I asked.

"Sure," Daddy said. "He'll come."

"Maybe this week sometime?" I asked.