Singing Hands (8 page)

Mrs. Fernley was still lecturing on the benefits of her word list. "I do think my method might get at the heart of the problem much more directly than mindless chores," she was saying. "I expect you to define the words on this list and then use each one in a well-crafted sentence as you reflect on your behavior. My hope, and I'm sure the hope of your parents, is that in contemplating these words, you might begin to act more thoughtfully and weigh the results of your actions before making such misguided decisions. Do you understand?"

I looked down at the paper in my hands, hesitating before I answered.

"The first word, for example," Mrs. Fernley said. "'Knavery.' Do you know what that means?"

I shook my head.

Mrs. Fernley spun around and tip-tapped across the crowded room to a bookshelf wedged next to her bed. She bent down to one of the lower shelves and with a theatrical grunt hefted up the largest book I had ever laid eyes on.

"You'll need to sit down," Mrs. Fernley huffed, nodding toward a love seat covered in plush pink velveteen. Once I had set the word list on the gold-leaf coffee table and leaned back against the cushions, she carefully lowered the worn book with its frayed cloth binding into my lap.

"Wow," I wheezed. The book must have weighed more than ten normal-sized books put together.

"The
Funk and Wagnalls New Standard Dictionary of the English Language,
" Mrs. Fernley announced, settling herself daintily beside me. "My father's prized possession. He came to this country from Albania when he was fifteen, and spent his whole life working at Southern Steel. However, his real loves were words and learning the English language." Her eyes softened as she touched the gold lettering on the cover. "Imagine it. Year after year of shoveling coal into furnaces hotter than the depths of Hades, and all the while his mind was spinning with the thousands upon thousands of words in this book."

Then she thumped her knuckles against the red binding, startling me. "'Knavery'! See if you can find it."

I slowly opened the cover and began turning the tissue-thin pages, being careful not to bend or rip them. Mrs. Fernley waited patiently while I took several minutes to find the
Ks
and drag my finger down the rows of tiny print. I hunched closer. I could barely see in the dim light.

"I've got it," I finally said.

"Read the definition out loud, please."

I was surprised to feel my face burning as I read in a halting voice, '"The character or actions of a knave ... deceitfulness in dealing ... roguery, dishonesty, fraud.'"

"Now give me a sentence incorporating the word 'knavery.'"

All at once, I felt angry. What a stupid, old-fashioned punishment. Mrs. Fernley's idea might have worked for kids in the olden days, but for me, it was nothing but a silly waste of time.

"I can't think of a sentence," I said.

"No? Why, I can think of several. What about this one? Miss Gussie Davis committed an act of
knavery
by disguising herself as an escaped kidnapper and practically sending her nearsighted upstairs neighbor into heart failure."

I looked up, searching Mrs. Fernley's powdered face. A little twitch tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Or what about this one? Let's see.... It was a pure act of
knavery
that forced the poor Davis sisters of Myrtle Street out into the hallways of their home desperately searching for their lost underwear."

She laughed before I did. It was a light, rippling laugh, like a stream bubbling out of the ground. And in that fleeting moment, I could see past Mrs. Fernley's tight pin curls, the layers of face powder, and the fancy vocabulary. She was funny underneath it all, and she had a sweet, crooked smile. I couldn't help chuckling along with her.

"Now, I don't mean to make light of this, Gussie," Mrs. Fernley added, her face turning serious again. "I want you to study these words and think about how you can eliminate such traits from your behavior. Agreed?"

"Yes, ma'am." I gave a quick nod and straightened my shoulders. "When would you like me to turn in my assignment?"

Mrs. Fernley rose to her feet. "What about Saturday afternoon at four o'clock? That should give you more than ample time. And you can borrow the Funk and Wag until our lessons are concluded."

"The Funk and what?" I asked.

"The Funk and Wagnalls dictionary. That's what Papa used to call it—the Funk and Wag."

"Oh," I said, frowning down at the enormous book spread across my lap. I flipped toward the back, nearly flinching as I scanned the page numbers.
There were more than 2,500 pages
! "Are you sure, Mrs. Fernley?"

"Of course. I trust you'll take good care of it."

"Yes, ma'am," I said faintly. I slowly reached for the word list on the table. Tucking it between the pages, I shut the dictionary with a loud thump, then gripped the sides of the book and staggered to my feet.

"What's that?" Mrs. Fernley said, squinting down at the carpet beside me.

I turned to see what she was pointing at, and my breath caught in my throat. Miss Grace's folded blue letter had somehow slipped out of the back pocket of my shorts. I had brought it along to the third floor, hoping for some miraculous chance to return it after I was done with Mrs. Fernley.

"Oh, that's mine," I said a little too loudly as I awkwardly lowered the dictionary to the love seat and snatched up the letter. I shoved it down deep in my pocket, smiling. "It's a letter ... to my Aunt Glo. I keep forgetting to mail it."

I hoisted the dictionary again, and Mrs. Fernley held the door open for me. She didn't look the least bit suspicious. "Now, remember," she said. "No more knavery, my dear. Your poor mother has enough to manage already."

After the door had closed behind me, I stood swaying weakly in the dark hallway for a minute. The close call with the letter had sapped my energy, and now I had Mrs. Fernley's two-ton family heirloom to lug around. I wasn't sure whether I should feel honored or exasperated to be the new caretaker of the so-called Funk and Wag. But I certainly had no desire to go limping downstairs with it just so Margaret could point and laugh at my latest predicament.

I'd have to stow the dictionary in Daddy's office. He was never around these days, anyway. I paused at Miss Grace's room. The door was shut tight, with a sliver of light shining from underneath. She was home, and it was silly to think she might ever leave her room unlocked when she left for work. Just like Mrs. Fernley, she always locked her door. If only I could slip the letter through the crack and be done with it.

I turned and plodded into Daddy's office across the hall. By the dusky light from the streetlamp outside, I could see well enough to unload the dictionary onto the side of his desk and plop down in his squeaky swivel chair. I pushed off hard with my toe and spun around a few times until I was satisfyingly dizzy. I was facing the windows in the tower when I stopped spinning. Daddy must have forgotten to close them before he left, and I could hear the far-off yowling of two cats fighting in the back alley.

I rolled the chair into the tower and gazed out over the flickering lights of the city. From my perch there was a clear view of the steel mills down in the flats, their smokestacks throbbing with an eerie orange light in the darkening sky. I'd have to ask Mrs. Fernley which factory her Albanian father had slaved away in for so many years, dreaming of words instead of the skyscrapers and railroad tracks his steel might make one day.

I glanced toward Red Mountain and the statue of Vulcan, and the little hairs on the back of my neck stood up. "Somebody's dead," I whispered. Vulcan's torch, held high in his outstretched arm, glowed with a fiery red light. It was one of those strange traditions in Birmingham. When the neon flame on the torch glowed green, the city was safe. But a red flame meant a recent traffic fatality. Someone had been killed, maybe just a few minutes ago, speeding along on one of the highways that ran like racetracks in and out of the city. And now the light would stay red for the next twenty-four hours.

I felt a fist of worry clenching deep in my chest.
Daddy was on those roads out there.
Just today I had peered over Mother's shoulder at a letter she was writing to Aunt Glo, telling her all about the exciting news. Daddy had been in Macon for a few days, not only organizing his latest deaf congregation but also shopping for the brand-new car that kind Mr. Snider had promised him. "He won't be at the mercy of the L&N Railroad anymore," Mother wrote to her sister. I had tapped Mother's arm and signed, "What if somebody beeps their horn? Daddy won't hear it. And does he even know how to drive?"

"Of course he knows," she had said with a dismissive click of her tongue, as if I had asked the silliest question in the world.

I wheeled back to the desk and snapped on the little lamp, then rolled a sheet of paper in the Smith Corona. I'd write my own letter to Aunt Glo. Somehow it might make up a little for my lie to Mrs. Fernley. "Dear Aunt G," I tapped out with two fingers,

I'm counting the days until we come to Texas to see you. 58 more to go! Boy, that seems like a long time. Birmingham and I just don't mix in the summer. Plus I miss your fried hush puppies and pineapple upside-down cake and Mother won't let us go to the public swimming pool because she thinks we'll get polio and—

I jumped. Someone was standing in the doorway.

"Miss Grace!" I yelped.

I wasn't sure how long she had been there. In the shadows, she looked like a ghost with her luminous blond hair and porcelain skin. She smiled and made the sign for sorry—a quick circle of her fist in front of her heart. "I saw the light and thought maybe Reverend Davis was home," she went on, stepping into the room and talking as she signed to make sure I would understand. I understood just fine. Her voice was high and soft like Mother's, but with the words much less slurred together.

"He's still in Georgia," I signed back. "I'm not sure when he's coming home." I gave a feeble shrug and let my signs drift off.

My palms felt clammy. Miss Grace was watching me so intently. Did she know? Had she figured out that it was me who had searched through her things? Maybe I had left something out of place.

"What are you working on?" She was pointing at the typewriter.

I flushed and rolled my note to Aunt Glo out of the carriage, then crumpled it into a ball. "Oh, nothing ... just trying to brush up on my typing," I said, forgetting to sign as I spoke. My mind was racing in circles. I wanted to talk with Miss Grace, to act natural—but my hands felt clumsy and wooden, like bowling pins plunked in my lap. I also knew that if I said much more, I might blurt out everything.
I did it! I broke into your room and stole your love letter! I'm sorry!

Before I could think of what to do next, Miss Grace smiled again. "I'll let you get back to your work," she said with a sad little wave. Then she was off down the hall.

For a while, I sat perfectly still at Daddy's desk, staring at the spot where Miss Grace had been standing. She looked so lonely. No wonder. Her husband was dead and there was no sign of the mysterious Vincent. Maybe he was dead, too. "My sincerest hope is that you will write again," he had said, but that letter was the final one in the stack. His words tumbled round and round in my head, and suddenly I felt just like that crazy maniac in "The Tell-tale Heart," the Edgar Allan Poe story we had read in English class last year.

The narrator of the story had murdered an old man, hidden the body in his house, then lost his mind completely when he imagined he could hear his victim's heart still beating underneath the floorboards. And now I could almost feel the letter burning in my pocket, searing through the lining of my shorts into my skin. Frantically I dug out the crumpled note and thrust it deep into Mrs. Fernley's dictionary, somewhere past page one thousand. Then I heaved up the Funk and Wag and set it among the stacks of old church bulletins under the far window in the tower. For good measure, I stacked Daddy's Bible and a phone directory on top.

I switched off the light and hurried from the office. But as I made my way down the dark stairs, I imagined that I could hear the dictionary thumping after me, just waiting for the chance to fling open its telltale pages and reveal my secret hidden inside.

Mortification:
The state of being humbled or
shamed by disappointment or
chagrin; humiliation; vexation
.

Example: Gussie Davis experienced extreme
mortification
at the thought of returning to the Advent Sunday school, especially after claiming in front of the entire class that the name of her former church was Saint Delmonico's.

In other words, I couldn't do it. Even after kneeling in the pew and praying for forgiveness for stealing Miss Grace's letter, I couldn't make myself walk into that Sunday-school classroom. My stomach churned at the thought of seeing Missy DuPage and nosy Mrs. Walton again. So after watching Nell file dutifully into her class, I walked right past mine, right out the door at the far end of the hall.

I found myself in a pretty ivy-covered courtyard with a trickling fountain in the middle. It would have been nice just to settle on one of the benches under the shady oak tree and bide my time for an hour until Nell was done with her class. But what if the minister or one of the ushers happened to wander through? I carefully opened the wrought-iron gate and slipped out, and suddenly I was back on Twentieth Street, which was almost empty. Church wouldn't be out for another thirty minutes. I watched a young couple pass on the sidewalk in front of me, arm in arm. With no idea where I was headed, I fell in step behind them. They walked quickly and I did, too, peeking nervously over my shoulder.

"What's wrong with breakfast at the Tutwiler?" I heard the man ask his wife.

"It's so expensive, honey," she said. "We better not."

"Oh, c'mon. We deserve it. Our anniversary's in just a week."

The next minute I was following them through the brass-plated set of revolving doors into the fanciest hotel in Birmingham, which happened to be just one block down the street from the Advent. I had always wanted to go inside the Tutwiler, to see what lay beyond the two doormen in spiffy red uniforms who stood on either side of the grand entrance. The couple breezed on toward the restaurant as I stood under the crystal chandeliers in the lobby, wondering what to do next. For a while, I wandered along the edge of the plush Oriental rugs, and even sank down casually on a brocade sofa, pretending that I was waiting for one of the well-dressed people stepping briskly off the elevator.