Mr. Lafferty nodded again.
Dad finished, “If it’s all right with you, I’ll show Edgar around the property on the outside, and I’ll leave Julia here with you.”
Mr. Lafferty nodded and smiled this time. Dad and Mr. Hornsby left the room.
I signed Hi and his sign name to Mr. Lafferty. He waved back and motioned for me to come to the table. I walked nearer and stood next to him. All the books were opened to pictures about birds, and he pointed to them one by one. Then he went over to one of the bookshelves and pointed to a book on a shelf he couldn’t reach. He fingerspelled the name of the book.
I wrote down the letters on the legal pad Dad gave me and signed Yes to let him know I understood. I climbed two steps on the ladder and got the book for him, but when I handed it to him, he wouldn’t take it. He pointed to me and then signed Home.
I signed Thank you, and he followed with You’re welcome.
It was a beginner book on carving. I began to thumb through it, but he touched my arm and motioned for me to follow him. He wheeled back over to the desk and opened a long drawer and pulled out a rolled-up bundle of something in a dark-brown cloth. He reached across the table and handed it to me, pointing to himself, extending his open palms to me, and then pointing to me.
I understood. He was giving this bundle to me.
Then he signed the letter J. His eyes asked me if I understood.
I signed Yes.
Then Mr. Lafferty signed the letter J again and touched his cheek with his little finger. It was almost like he used his little finger to pull the corner of his lip into a smile, and he smiled big.
I must have looked confused. So he put his right hand on his chest and then signed his name. Then he pointed to me and signed the J again, put his finger to his cheek, and smiled. Then it came to me: he was giving me my sign name. I didn’t know much yet, but I knew when a person who is deaf gave a hearing person a sign name, it was important.
I heard Mrs. Schumacher behind me in the doorway. “Julia, he has given you a sign name. It means you make him smile.”
I pointed to him and signed his name. Then I pointed to myself and signed mine.
Mr. Lafferty signed Yes and laughed. I laughed too. I was only almost eleven, but I knew this was one of those moments Grancie talked about, one of those moments that changed things. I knew this moment that Mr. Lafferty and I would always be friends.
G-Pa picked me up from school on Friday for a sleepover. Grancie and I would be making iced pumpkin cookies and crocheting. If I was to finish my project in time, she and I would have our laps full of yarn right after supper. She was making prayer shawls for the nursing-home residents in Elkins, and I was making an afghan for Mom—a special one for Christmas with only red and green squares. She went crazy for Christmas, decorating and cooking, and she would go Mom-crazy that I’d made an afghan for her.
I had the wood-carving instruction book and the bundle H had given to me in my backpack. I couldn’t wait to show it to G-Pa the minute I got to their house. I put my backpack in the chair at the breakfast table and unzipped it. “You know I’m learning sign language and Mr. Lafferty is teaching me about bird carving, don’t you? Look what he gave me.” I showed them the book first. Then I took the brown bundle and unrolled it on the kitchen table. It had twelve pockets, each one holding a different tool. There was also a pocket with a stone in it. “These are carving tools, a whole set. I’m going back to his house next Tuesday afternoon for my sign language and bird-carving lessons.”
Grancie looked at the carving tools. No use for words or signs from her. Her eyes said it all. The only knife she would allow me to use at her house wouldn’t cut hot butter, and now I had my own set of gouging tools. I had read all about them.
G-Pa picked up one of the tools. “Oh, this is one fine instrument, Julia. The best.” He rolled it in his hand and touched the blade with his index finger. “Sharp, really sharp. This is high-quality steel right here, and the handle looks like birch. Smooth, probably from Henry’s hands. He must have spent hours using these.”
“Do you really think they were his?” I picked up the stone. “And look, I think this is a diamond stone to sharpen the gouges.” I handed it to G-Pa.
“Oh, I think they were his tools, and just look at the stone. I would imagine he spent about as much time keeping his tools sharp as he did carving wood.” He put the tool and the stone away. “Once you can use these with some precision, he’ll be introducing you to mallets and draw knives.”
Grancie threw up her hands. “Oh my! Maybe you could just paint the birds he carves. Or you could just stick to your crochet needle. It won’t cut.”
“Henry’s careful, Nancie. Remember his hands are more important to him than ours are to us.”
I rolled the bundle back up and put it away. No more talk about carving gouges and draw knives. I didn’t want Grancie asking my dad what he’d been thinking when he said yes to this. I knew what would distract her. “A rematch on Mexican Train? I won last time.”
“Right after we get the cookies made. I have everything ready.”
“Your famous recipe?”
“Oh, yes, the one my mother made. When the leaves start turning, it’s time for those pumpkin cookies.”
Grancie measured sugar and flour, and I sifted and added the spices. She showed me how to stir in the pumpkin. The house smelled so good. But the best part was drizzling the icing on the cookies after they cooled. Grancie made the best cookies in Sycamore Hill, and she was teaching me how to bake them.
When the last one was iced, I asked again, “A rematch on Mexican Train?”
“Dinner’s done. I suppose you need a break before the crocheting starts.” Grancie cleared the breakfast table. “How many cookies did you eat, Julia?”
“Only one.” That was true. I had also licked the spoon with the icing a lot, but she didn’t ask me about that.
“Well, if you only ate one, what about some caramel corn for our snack?”
“Homemade?” Grancie’s was the best.
“Is there any other kind?”
G-Pa came into the kitchen and grabbed a cookie. “Did I hear somebody mention caramel corn and dominoes? Mexican Train has to be more fun than tangling yarn for hours, and I’m feeling lucky.” G-Pa got up and headed for the drawer where they kept the dominoes.
While we played and ate caramel corn, I showed them the sign name Mr. Lafferty had given me.
“Now that’s something, Julia,” G-Pa said. “You can’t decide your own sign name. A person who is deaf must give it to you. When Henry was an adolescent he gave me my name too—the letter J for John and then two pats of his palms together.” G-Pa showed me his name. “That was the sign for paper. I think young Henry saw me and his grandfather always dealing with documents, and it just seemed to fit.”
I stretched to add my domino to the train. “I read about sign names having meaning. Mrs. Schumacher said I made Mr. Lafferty smile. That’s why he gave me my sign name.”
“I’m glad you’re making Henry smile. He hasn’t had much to smile about in a very long time. Grancie told you about his mother. And then his grandmother Colleen did the best she could, learning how to sign and getting Henry out of the house. She even tried to put him in school in Sycamore Hill and agreed to pay extra for a teacher, but that didn’t work out.”
“So how did he get to be so smart?” I saw Grancie adding doubles to the train.
“He had a good command of language, and he could read before his mother died. So Colleen taught him at home. It was easier. Oh, they took him from here to New York and even to Europe to see if anything could be done about his hips and legs. He wasn’t paralyzed, but the bones in his legs were crushed when the car hit him. They could probably fix that now, but not back then. And back then there weren’t so many places where you could use a wheelchair. A few bad experiences left Henry convinced people were making fun of him, so he refused to leave the house. He felt safer there.”
�
��I see what you mean about how he didn’t have much to smile about.”
Grancie had been quietly but steadily getting rid of her dominoes. “And then that grandfather of his. He wasn’t nearly as loving as Colleen. He never learned to sign and pretty much ignored Henry.”
G-Pa defended him. “Now, Nancie. I think he did the best he knew how. He was a man accustomed to building things and making things happen, and he couldn’t fix Henry. He didn’t know what to do. He provided a home and the best he could. I’m sure it pained him to know that he could do nothing else.”
“He should have done better by that boy. Money doesn’t do everything.” Grancie had that scowl on her face like when Kiki, her spoiled dog, whined. “But he never learned to sign. And that left Henry in a totally silent house all alone when Colleen died.”
I hadn’t heard about his grandmother’s dying. “How old was Henry when she died?”
G-Pa answered, “I think he was sixteen or seventeen, just a young man. Colleen got pneumonia and died unexpectedly. And honestly, I don’t think Mr. Lafferty ever got over her death. That woman was his life and his joy. They’re buried side by side in a beautiful spot on the property right next to Mackenzie.” He looked at Grancie. “Yep, Henry loved Colleen like I love you, Mrs. Russell.”
Grancie smiled at him, and he winked. They were weird like that. G-Pa was a flirt, and Grancie loved it.
She said, “I shouldn’t be so harsh on Mr. Lafferty. He did hire Mrs. Schumacher fairly soon after Colleen died. He brought her from Washington, DC, because she could sign. She was to take care of the house, cook, and assist when Henry needed assistance. And she’s been there ever since. She’s a wonderful, loyal woman.”
“Yes, she is. Been there almost forty years, thanks to Henry Lafferty the First. She lived there for a while until she met a fine young man and got married. But Mr. Lafferty made certain she would be well cared for even after his death—that is, as long as she took good care of young Henry. She’s like family.” G-Pa stacked up some dominoes to make room for the train.
“I like her. She makes good hot tea and scones.”
Grancie chuckled. “Sweetie, you’d like anyone who allowed you to have coffee or a cup of hot tea. You’re a rare child.”
“Yes, you are. You know you were born forty, don’t you? But a cute forty with those blue eyes and curls of yours.” G-Pa looked over his glasses at me.
“I had to be born forty because I think Jackson will be fourteen the rest of his life, and Mom and Dad don’t need that.”
Grancie laughed. “Well, I’m glad you’re becoming Henry’s friend. He must be comfortable with you. And don’t you think it quite amazing that he has such a generous and kind spirit? All of his troubles could have made him a bitter, angry man, but they just seemed to make him better. In his silence, he must have learned some important lessons about living and making a difference in the world.”
G-Pa looked over at me again. “Do you know who Confucius was?”
“You mean the ancient Chinese philosopher?”
G-Pa shook his head. “Born forty with an encyclopedia in your brain. Yes, that Confucius. Well, maybe you should know what he says about silence. I think it says something about Henry. Confucius said, ‘Silence is the friend who never betrays.’”
“Hmm. That’s a good one. I need to write that down and think about it. Maybe I’ll tell it to Mr. Lafferty.”
Grancie won the game. G-Pa and I talked too much and didn’t pay attention. After dinner, we crocheted and watched a movie while G-Pa had a nice nap before bedtime, which came early at their house.
Grancie followed me upstairs to tuck me in. She called my room upstairs The Princess Room. “Julia, get that flannel gown on, girl, and let’s pray. Anything you need to ask forgiveness for first?” She smiled.
Sometimes I thought she had antennae tuned in to what I was thinking and doing. I put on my gown and folded my clothes over the back of the chair. “I probably need to think about that, but when I think of something, I’ll be sure to talk to God about it.” She pulled the covers back, and I crawled in. “Is it ever okay to lie, Grancie? I mean, like if you know you’re going to tell this really little-bitty fib to keep down trouble and you ask Jesus to forgive you ahead of time. That’s okay, don’t you think?”
Grancie sat down on the bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. “Well, that’s a good question.” She bowed her head like she was praying for an answer. “Hmm, it’s not the best thing to lie, Julia. But I think what we’re talking about is the greater good. So I think, on occasion, if it means really hurting someone’s feelings if you tell the absolute truth and it doesn’t hurt feelings if you don’t, then maybe fibbing is the better thing to do. But I think it best to try to stay away from those situations when you can. When you start telling little-bitty fibs, as you call them, each one seems to get easier. And before long, lying becomes the natural thing to do, and that’s never good.” Then she touched her index finger to the tip of my nose. “We don’t want any noses growing around here. But I guess if you find yourself needing to protect someone’s feelings or to avoid more trouble, then it’s best to seriously think about what you’re doing first. And you might find it’s better to ask Jesus what to do than expect him to bless your fib and asking forgiveness before you do it.”
“Thanks, Grancie, I’ll be thinking about that too. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, sweet girl, and sweet dreams.”
I sighed and snuggled down. I loved that big old bed in my princess room. Grancie always had old, soft quilts and down comforters for cold nights. But everything at her house was comfortable.
The streetlight on the corner was shining through the window. We didn’t have streetlights at our house. When we turned out the lights, it was dark unless the moon was full, and it was quiet—no cars, just night sounds. I thought about H living in the quiet all the time. Maybe Confucius was right. Silence was H’s friend, and I thought he must be just as comfortable surrounded with silence as I was wrapped in Grancie’s quilt.
It was a good sleep. G-Pa woke me because Grancie was juggling pots and pans to make my favorite Saturday-morning breakfast: French toast with real maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and two bacon strips. The frying bacon smelled like it did when we went camping and Dad cooked breakfast over a campfire.
But then I smelled the coffee. G-Pa liked coffee made in an old-fashioned percolator, and it was percolating really loud this morning like it was in pain. I don’t know which smelled the best: the coffee or the bacon. I asked if I could have a cup of coffee with three sugars.
G-Pa didn’t answer. He just opened the cabinet and asked me which coffee mug was my favorite. He was like that. Dad said he spoiled me, but I didn’t think so. I thought G-Pa had spent his whole life arguing in court, and since he’d retired, he talked a lot about what was really important in life. And arguing over a cup of coffee was just not that important to him.
“I choose the red one, my favorite color.”
Grancie said, “I’m not surprised you like red. Most girls like pink or purple, but not my granddaughter.” She looked over my head at G-Pa. “Now, that coffee’s strong, not like she’s used to, so more milk, John, and only two sugars.”
“Grancie’s right. We’re eating French toast. When you’re having maple syrup, your coffee tastes even better when it’s not so sweet. Trust me. I’ve been drinking coffee a long time.”
Breakfast was so good, and G-Pa was right about the coffee not needing so much sugar. When we finished, he got up from the table and walked out onto the back porch to check the temperature. “It’s thirty-eight degrees out there this morning. It is mid-November, and the sun’s gone south. I guess Old Man Winter is letting us know he’s on his way, and he’ll be bringing Christmas in here before we know it. I already heard you’ll be crocheting again this morning. Would you ladies like a fire in the study?”
Grancie answered before I could. “Oh, yes. What a perfect morning! Cold wind blowing and rustling t
he sycamore leaves, my second cup of coffee in front of the fire, and my favorite granddaughter sitting beside me with a ball of yarn and a needle.”
It didn’t take long before the fire was crackling. Grancie sat in her chair next to the fireplace, and I got comfy on the sofa. We were crocheting away like lickety-split. G-Pa took his favorite chair with the morning newspaper after he brought in another armload of firewood.
“Grancie, I’ve lost count. How many more squares until I can put the afghan all together?”
“Get the basket, sweetie, and we’ll count them.”
I went out to the sunroom and got the basket. It was full of red and green. I dumped it out on the floor in front of Grancie and started counting. “I have six rows already put together. That’s forty-eight squares.” Then I counted the single squares. “And I have eleven green squares and twelve red squares. So that’s seventy-one squares altogether.”
Grancie examined the rows and my single squares. “It usually takes about eleven rows of eight squares to make an afghan like you want.”
“So, that’s eighty-eight, and I need to make seventeen more. It takes me about fifteen minutes to make one square. Four more hours and fifteen minutes of crocheting. I can do this. It’ll be ready for Mom for Christmas.”
G-Pa continued with his newspaper and said, “My ten-year-old granddaughter knows who Confucius is and she’s a talking calculator.”
“It’s really not that hard.”
He laughed.
Grancie sat back in her chair while I packed the rows and squares back into the basket and set it next to the sofa. “You know, if you were making a lap quilt, you’d be finished. That only takes forty-eight squares.”
“My granddaughter is not one to take the easy way out. She knows what she wants to do, Nancie, and she’s going after it.”
“I’m a Russell, remember? That’s what Russells do.” I picked up my needle and started crocheting again. Forty-eight squares and I already have seventy-one. I need to think about this. I might have another plan, but it hasn’t hatched yet.
Silent Days, Holy Night Page 9
