She wasn’t kidding. Never in my life had I been to a place where everybody was talking but nobody was saying a word. All throughout the posh little establishment, patrons cut their hands through the air in quick, elegant motions. There didn’t seem to be a single verbal conversation transpiring, yet there was more than enough noise to keep the scene from becoming eerie. The shuffling of clothes. The clapping of hands. The clumps and clods of footsteps. And the normal human interjections: moans, sighs, laughs, cries. I’d never seen anything like it before in my life. I didn’t even have a film or television reference to compare it to. I was completely off-script.
Jean paid my cover charge (she insisted, although I suspected my expression alone was worth the price of admission), then pulled me to a row of small tables on the east side of the room. Fastened onto each surface were numerous laptops linked together by LAN cables.
It cost another ten dollars to score us an hour of table time. We sat across from each other. The setup was very similar to EyeTalk, with one major difference. From behind her screen, Jean threw me a small and mysterious grin. I had no idea what was fueling it. Reading her face was like reading the NASDAQ page. There were too many details. Too much going on.
<So,> she entered, <is your mind sufficiently blown?>
Unlike her, I wasn’t a touch typist. I had to look down at my fingers.
<Yeah. Wow. I didn’t know places like this even existed.>
<Yup. They’re all over. At least they used to be. The Deaf Club’s dying out.>
<Why?>
She shrugged. <High technology, I guess. We have the Internet now. TTY. DVD. Closed-captioned TV. Basically, like the rest of you, we have a lot more excuses to stay home. I haven’t been here in at least two years. Thanks for giving me an excuse.>
<Thanks for bringing me. This is amazing.>
Jean rested her chin on her fist, studying me through a squint. <Tell me, Scott. Why do people find deafness so fascinating? Are they the same way about blindness?>
<No. Blindness is boring as a dog’s ass.>
<I don’t get it. Why?>
<Because Hollywood’s already given us a million blind people. We know they’re all kind-hearted, plucky, super-capable individuals, and we don’t give a shit.>
<But why aren’t there a million deaf people? And when they DO show deaf people, how come they’re always oralists? The oral deaf are an extreme minority.>
<My guess is that nonverbal deaf people, like yourself, are much harder to adapt for the screen.>
Jean raised a skeptical eyebrow at me.
<Look at this,> I wrote, then motioned between us. <Look at us. Come on. We’re both very pretty, but who wants to watch us typing for twenty minutes?>
She made a vast sweep with her hand. <Look around! ASL is a visual language! It’s beautiful to look at. It’s even beautiful on ugly people! Look!>
<I’m looking. I’m agreeing. But even if you show two people signing, even if you show subtitles, there still won’t be any sound.>
<So?>
<So viewers don’t like long periods of silence, especially in the theater. It weirds them out. It causes them to think.>
Jean rolled her eyes. <Remind me not to ask you any more questions.>
<You should be glad they’re leaving you alone. They’d only get you wrong.>
<Me personally?>
I grinned. <Yes. You’re completely unadaptable.>
The overhead lights flashed on and off, until everyone turned to look at the middle-aged man at the switch. He stepped onto a small wooden stage and cheerfully signed to the room for a few moments.
<Well,> I quipped, <I guess we know where he stands on the economy.>
<He’s the club owner. He was basically telling everyone not to go away. There’s a live comedy act starting in a few minutes.>
<I assume that’ll be in sign language too.>
<What can I say, my dear? You’re a stranger in a strange land.>
<That’s okay. I’m loving it.>
She lost a good chunk of her merriment. <It’ll wear thin. Trust me. This was Neil’s life. He was a hearing boy raised in an all-Deaf family. Exact opposite of my upbringing. If I was a fish out of water, he was a bird in the sea.>
<Yeah, but he grew up speaking the language, didn’t he?>
<It’s not the same,> she wrote. <When you can hear, signing just doesn’t take on the same import. There’s only so far a coda can go into the Deaf World. It gave Neil issues, to say the least.>
<Coda. I remember Madison using that word. What does it mean again?>
<Child of Deaf Adults.>
<Right. I guess she’s one too.>
<That’s a big reason my first marriage ended. I didn’t want to raise her at Gallaudet. I didn’t want her to grow up alienated like I was.>
Sarcastically, she shook her fist. <And a BANG-UP job I did, too!>
<I think you’re underestimating her,> I stated.
<Uh, wasn’t it just an hour ago that you feared she was secretly playing me?>
<Yes. I underestimated her. Now that I’ve been proven wrong, I’m preaching the gospel of Madison. I think she’s a wonderful, amazing girl.>
<You’re only getting a fraction of her,> Jean wrote with a heavy face. <With you, she puts her best foot forward.>
Before I could type a word of protest, she cut me off. <Not because she’s in love with you! I think you’re right. I missed the boat on that one, okay? My bad. But you are still the light in her otherwise dreary existence. She idolizes you. Of course she’s going to want to impress you.>
<She does impress me. A lot.>
<And that makes me happy. It makes me jealous. I would love to see the Madison that you see. I only hope you never get the Madison that I get.>
I didn’t hide my frustration. <You make her sound like the Antichrist.>
<Oh, don’t give me that. You know I’d die for her. I’d die without her. What I’m trying to say is that beneath her Greatest Kid in the World exterior is some really dark stuff. She has no friends at school. She’s been suspended a number of times for cheating, cutting, fighting. She gets into trouble with boys. She doesn’t eat. She barely sleeps. She LIES a hell of a lot. And she gets depressed. She gets so goddamn depressed that I get scared for her. I haven’t been sleeping too well either.>
I thought about Madison’s school survey, the one she’d shared with me and Hunta. I could picture her sitting alone in the lunchroom, carefully fabricating the input of classmates who wouldn’t give her the time of day, much less participate in her straw poll. I could see the faculty isolating her, fearing her like she was the sequel to Annabelle Shane in development. I didn’t want these images. Madison certainly wouldn’t want me to have them.
<Jean, why are you telling me this?>
<Because that’s the stuff she hides from you. She seems to be doing a good job, but it can’t last forever. I just don’t want you bailing at the first sign of trouble.>
<What makes you think I would?>
<Because I have this fatal tendency to assume the worst in others. Sorry, Scott. We can’t all be Pollyannas.>
I matched her droll sneer. <I thought you mustered up some faith in me.>
<It wore off.>
<Well, stow it. I’m not going anywhere.>
<Good. It would be a damn shame because beneath all that dark stuff, she truly is the Greatest Kid in the World. So while you’re loving her platonically, you might as well love her unconditionally.>
I stared at her, flabbergasted. <Jean, you wear me out.>
<I know. I’ve got my own problems. I’ve got a failing business, a shattered marriage, a horrible self-image, and a daughter who can’t stand me.>
<Yes, but on the plus side, you’ve got a neat device in your car that blinks every time it hears a siren.>
She grinned. <True. I’ve also got you.>
That didn’t hit me very well. Sensing my discomfort, she frowned at me. <I’m not talking seduction. I’m just talking human
connection.>
It still felt like seduction, and I didn’t like it. If she had a problem with her husband, she should work it out with him instead of seeking outside affirmation. Miranda had done the same damn thing, only she happened to catch me tired and jet-lagged on my thirty-fifth birth day. My defenses were down that night. Now they were on full shield alert.
<You still don’t know me that well,> I wrote.
<I know. That’s why I like this. Your real face says a lot more than your typeface.>
<And what is my real face telling you right now?>
She tossed me a dashed pout. <That I’m freaking you out a little.>
<Close enough.>
<Scott, look at MY face. Read my subtext. >
With some trepidation, I closed in to read the fine print. I could see she was disappointed and a little annoyed that I was missing her point. And yet I couldn’t see her point. All I could do was acknowledge the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t playing me against her own frustrations.
Giving up, she spelled it out for me. <I find you a very attractive man, Mr. Singer, but sex is not what I’m about. I was never a big fan of it and frankly, I was never very good at it. Call me a nerd, but I’d rather spend my nights swapping bad puns and double entendres than bodily fluids. I’d rather explore your mind than your body. And you give good mind, my dear. I can fly around in that big, mysterious head of yours for a thousand years and still not hit the edges.>
I kept my eyes on the screen, hiding my reactions deep inside me.
<What frustrates me, Scott, is that I can tell you feel the same way. You don’t want to screw me, you want to know me. I think it’s beautiful the way you want to know me. And what a convenience that there’s no law in church or state that prevents you from knowing me. But there’s something about that. There’s something about the way we’re connecting that obviously scares the hell out of you.>
I looked up at her. <Where are you getting all this from?>
<What do you mean?>
<I mean you’re putting all this stuff on me like we have some profound thing between us. And not just between us, but between me and Madison. You’re telling to me love her unconditionally and to not break her heart. That’s fine but Jesus Christ, I’m her boss. She works for me fifteen hours a week. Where is all this coming from?>
<Hey. If you want to fry me with your eyebeams, fine. But don’t take this out on her.>
I laughed. “Oh, you don’t want me bringing her into this? You’re the one who—”
It wasn’t until she glanced at me askew that I realized I was speaking out loud. I took a deep breath and channeled my thoughts back into my hands.
<Jean, you’re driving me nuts. I mean I like you. I like you both a hell of a lot, but I don’t want to get sucked into your lives.>
<That’s the thing. I think you do.>
<You’re wrong. You are very wrong.>
<Scott, I’m looking at your face. And I can see you’re lonely. That’s—>
I slammed my iBook shut, with the same satisfaction I’d get from slamming her mouth shut. Muted, frustrated, Jean leaned back in her chair and blew cool air at the ceiling.
How strange that I would take that moment to admire her body again. I drank it in. Her wonderfully toned arms. Her sturdy shoulders. Her terrifically humble breasts. She might have given me too much credit. Despite my rage, I couldn’t stop thinking about screwing her. There was something very safe and appealing about sex with an unhappily married woman. Not just any sex but bad sex. Unfulfilling sex. I wanted to make love to her badly. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why.
While taking a break from each other, we watched the strangers in the room as they all spoke in hands. I wished I knew a little of the language, at least enough to eavesdrop. Jean was right. This was wearing thin.
Soon enough, a rotund little man flipped the light switch several times, until he had our attention. He climbed the wooden stage and addressed the room with meaningful gestures. Within seconds, he had everyone laughing except me and Jean. She was, however, idly amused.
I cocked my head at her. In response, she slipped me a futile smirk. I can’t help you, buddy. You sealed my lips. I reopened the laptop.
<“What do a duck and a dog have in common?”> she typed.
I shrugged at her. She shrugged back.
<“They both fly, except for the dog.”>
Wincing, I shook my head.
<It works better in signs,> she conceded.
I emitted a soft grin.
<It’s more than a different way of talking,> she explained. <It’s a different way of thinking. ASL is the cleanest, leanest language ever invented. There’s no rhetoric. No hairsplitting. No mincing or prancing or beating around the bush. To speak it is to cut right to the heart of the matter, all the time. It’s wonderful for us, but for people who can hear and talk, even codas...>
Saddened, she tossed up her hands. <I know I’m hard to take. Believe me. I try to censor myself as often as I can. But somehow I always end up snapping back to me. It’s just the way I am.>
<Believe it or not, I like the way you are.>
<I know,> she wrote with a wan smile. <I know it. In fact, I brought you out tonight because I was in a fairly desperate need to be around someone who appreciated me.>
<I’m in short supply of those myself.>
<See, I don’t understand that either. It truly baffles me.>
<You’re only getting a fraction of me.>
She wasn’t buying it. <Right. This is the part where you once again allude to the fact that you’re secretly an asshole.>
<It’s not a secret.>
<You’re not an asshole,> she typed. <If anything, you’re feeling-impaired.>
She stood up and leaned over her keyboard. <I’m going to freshen up. Then we’ll skedaddle. They should be back soon anyway.>
Serves me right for letting her in. I should have kept her in my laptop, just like I kept Harmony trapped inside my big red cellular. Complicated gadgetry standing in for people. Are we embracing the future, Ira? Or are we both in need of a serious intervention?
As I sat there alone, the comedian’s silent jokes flying miles above my head, I thought about everything Jean had said. Then I realized I didn’t have to think about it. I had an electronic transcript right here in front of me. Technology at work again.
I scrolled through our conversation until I reached the part where I cut her off. I’d noticed she had typed a few more words after I slammed my laptop shut. I was curious—deeply afraid but curious—to see how she finished her thought.
Scott, I’m looking at your face. And I can see you’re lonely. That’s okay. We’re lonely, too. And we’re inviting you in.
18
“HARMONY THIS AND THAT”
There was no escaping irony. I returned home from my Deaf club excursion at half past eleven, only to remove the red phone from my pocket and discover that it had been switched off. I had six messages waiting for me, all from Alonso. Apparently there was a new crisis brewing at the Fairmont Miramar.
“Finally!” Alonso yelled. “Where were you?”
“Sorry. My phone was off. I didn’t realize.”
“Well, we’ve got an urgent matter.”
“You said that. Now can you please elaborate?”
In his message, Alonso had only stated that Harmony had...a visitor. He’d said it with such delicate discretion that for a moment I thought he was referring to her period. If only. Harmony was indeed dealing with her very own blood, but it was all in the form of a fifty-eight-year-old man whose arrival I probably should have anticipated.
At ten o’clock he approached the main entrance to the hotel, only to be stopped by doormen. From his stained army ja
cket, torn jeans and duct-taped shoes, it was obvious he wasn’t a distinguished guest of the Miramar. And yet despite his pauperlike appearance, the man insisted he was a Prince.
“You show her this photo,” he demanded. “You show her my ID. She’ll know me.”
Sadly, he wasn’t the first one to try to ride his way in on the long lost-relative ticket. He wasn’t even the first one who proclaimed to be Harmony’s father. But he was the first to offer evidence. In addition to a long-expired driver’s license, he bore a photograph from 1981, the only known picture of Harmony’s two natural parents.
I suppose I couldn’t blame her for wanting to meet her biological father, if even just to confront him. Nobody could blame me for assuming the worst in Franklin Prince. At thirty-eight, he’d knocked up his adolescent foster daughter and then abandoned his family to live with her in Modesto. Shortly after Harmony was born, he discarded both lover and child for a new teenage squeeze. He wasn’t the villain of Harmony’s life (that would be her stepfather), but he wasn’t a beacon of virtue either.
I was dying to know how she was doing. The phone rang six times before she answered. She sounded tranquilized.
“Hello.”
“Harmony. It’s me. I heard. Jesus. How are you?”
“I can’t talk now.”
“Is he still there?”
Pause. “Yeah.”
“Listen, I want you to call me the minute he leaves, okay? Don’t worry about the time. I’ll be up.”
“Okay.”
“You promise to call me?”
“Yeah,” she said after another discomforting silence. “I gotta go.”
I put the phone down, then stretched out on the couch. It was hard to think, especially with Jean still running loose in my head. I watched Saturday Night Live until my eyes fell shut. When I opened them again, it was two-thirty in the morning. My red phone was ringing.
“Harmony?”
She didn’t respond, but I could hear her soft sniffles. I sat up.
“Okay, are those good tears or bad tears?”
She sniffed again. “I don’t know.”
“Well, how did he seem?”
“Terrible. He was missing teeth. He had these sores on his hands. And he smelled awful. I felt so bad for him.”