by Pat Simmons
“What are you saying?” I braced for an argument. Usually I’m the peacemaker, but Taylor was testing me. Something had been brewing between us for a while. I was determined she was going to give me answers that would help me decide if our relationship would continue.
“It’s not working, Noel. I’m not deaf. I mean, the more we’re together, the more uncomfortable I’ve become. Every time you take me out to dinner, I have to do all the ordering because you can’t hear.”
Squinting, my nostrils flared. “But I sure can talk, woman, and read lips. It’s you who preferred to order for both of us, to drive on dates, and on and on.” I jabbed a stiff finger in the air. “I was trying to please you! You won’t say it to my face, but I see the boredom blooming in your eyes when we’re together. You didn’t seem to mind my lack of hearing when we started dating. Unless my memory is failing, you seemed to enjoy the shopping, dining, week-end getaways, the intimacy…” I hoped I raised my voice.
Taylor turned away from me. She knew the gesture was not only rude, but a deliberate insult to a deaf person. Basically, she was terminating our conversation whether I agreed to it or not. The problem was I wasn’t finished, so I reached out and touched her arm, intercepting any possible escape.
“We’ve been through this before, Taylor. I don’t need you or anyone else speaking for me.”
She paced as we strolled on the walking trail in Forest Park, a city-owned park shared with suburban dwellers, which was only blocks from Taylor’s apartment. The park boasted the free admission to the St. Louis Zoo and a five-mile spread of a golf course.
During the summers, Forest Park always re-introduced its residents to the outdoor stage at the MUNY. Each fall, thousands descended on the park for the annual hot air balloon race. Despite the major attractions, Forest Park was intimate enough for the walking and bike trails carved throughout it.
I stopped walking, folded my arms, and faced her. “You’re wasting my time and yours. I’m not very good at handling mood swings. Be hot or cold because warm doesn’t work for me.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Fine,” she spat. “I just can’t handle our different worlds anymore. You don’t listen to me,” Taylor said as her lips pouted.
Dropping my arms to my sides, I stepped closer, invading her space. This woman was crazy, and I was insane to be attracted to her. “News flash, I’m deaf.” I guess I elevated my voice because she jumped. I rubbed my face to calm down.
“I found someone else, Noel.”
“So now the truth comes out.”
With big brown eyes as innocent as a five-year-old child, she said, “Sorry.”
That was a defining moment for me. I dared shock to register on my face. I was furious at myself for misjudging Taylor’s character. That was the final straw. I made a decision. Dating women from the hearing world wasn’t worth it.
As I pursued women from the Deaf culture, that proved to be a disaster too. I thought about Sheila. She talked too much, but not with her mouth. My eyes couldn’t read her hands fast enough. Plus, she was intimidated by the hearing world, which is a part of me. Once again, I had compatibility issues.
I dismissed the memories of a road that had too many side streets, forbidding my mind to wander while behind the wheel. The memories were tiresome and distractive, and I couldn’t afford that. Being a good driver meant watching for flashing emergency lights from ambulances and road rage. My eyes had to see what my ears couldn’t hear.
Five minutes later, I reached my destination and drove into the bank’s parking lot and turned off the ignition. Briefly, I thought back sixteen years ago. Workers at a warehouse in Jasper, a small Missouri town, were loading a mobile trailer with explosives for a fireworks display headed for St. Louis. The only problem was the men forgot to lock up the building securely—a bad combination for curious teenagers. I will always be forever grateful to God for sparing my life whether I hear again or not. I’m still in awe at how I do it—assimilating between two worlds, sometimes with ease, sometimes in complete disaster.
Getting out of my car, I inhaled and released the chilled air. The past was just that, the past. I strolled into the entrance of my bank, searching for Jackie, my regular teller. It was the day after Thanksgiving and the lobby was crowded with customers in line. My regular teller was helping another customer, my personal banker was absent, and staff members were waiting on their clients. After getting in line, I mentally reviewed my transactions. I needed to transfer money and purchase two certified checks.
Fifteen minutes later, a woman teller, who looked as if she graduated from high school the day before, motioned with her hand for me to approach, but her mouth never stopped talking to another worker about a guy she was dating.
To minimize miscommunication, I always wrote notes ahead of time for conducting business. After retrieving instructions from inside my suit jacket, I pushed my note in front of Miss Recent Grad. That’s when my day went from a bad dream to a living nightmare.
I glanced over my shoulder and saw customers steadily backing away, some were scrambling for cover, visually shaken. Before I could wonder about their odd behavior, my body was slammed against the floor as a sting pierced my back. The discomfort was sharp and agonizing.
Grimacing in pain, I struggled to lift my head, and came face-to-face with a gun, the officer ready to pull the trigger. I’m sure I moaned as I strained to roll my head from right to left. Another officer had both hands wrapped around a stun gun. His flaring nostrils warned me that he controlled my pain management like a driver steering a remote-controlled car.
The bank manager, Mrs. Harris, a black version of Miss Jane from the Beverly Hillbillies, ran to my aid. She knelt, assessed my condition, and turned to the security officer then the police, cursing them to stop. I would’ve found the scene humorous on television if I wasn’t the main character. As the pain subsided, I wanted to know why, the CEO of a company, was I sprawled on a bank floor.
Lowering their weapons, the men reluctantly stepped back with their eyes trained on me. With the stingray retracted from my back, I gently rolled over until I could brace myself on my elbows. The remnants of the stun gun vibrated through my body. Every movement was a struggle. Crawling to the teller’s station with the aid of bystanders, I gripped the counter, and heaved myself up.
The pain’s aftershocks didn’t keep my jaw from dropping as I faced the unapologetic bank teller. She looked from me to my note. Her expression became angelic when her mouth formed an “o.” If there was ever a time not to be saved, this was that moment. Death by strangulation would’ve been too good of a punishment.
“I may be deaf, but you are definitely blind,” I hoped I shouted before I gritted my teeth and slid back to the floor in pain. At that moment, I didn’t care that I was trying to strengthen a relationship with God, an entrepreneur, or a mature adult.
My back hurt, my head hurt, and the humiliation was barely tolerable. I don’t know when Mrs. Harris left my side, but she returned with a George Foreman grill and a pad.
“I know at the time you opened your account, we gave out store gift certificates. This month, it’s a toaster broiler. Please accept this as an apology. From now on, if you can have a relay operator call ahead, I’ll make sure me or one of the personal bankers is available to assist you. I’m so sorry, Mr. Richardson. This will never happen again.”
She shoved the box in my chest seconds before paramedics rushed in. They assisted me in sitting up. Before they examined my wound, they asked for an insurance card. Frustrated, I thought it was a good time to black out, so I did, letting them bear my weight.
CHAPTER 3
A George Foreman Grill couldn’t buy my silence. I don’t know which was more humiliating, being brought down by a stun gun or blacking out. However, my efforts to contact the bank’s headquarters to register a complaint using the telephone relay system dwindled.
The operator—a third party representative—acting on deaf clients’ behalf couldn’t outwi
t an automated telephone message service. After the third time the network system disconnected my call, I opted to send them an email from my BlackBerry. If that didn’t work, there was always videoconferencing, which was my personal favorite.
Saturday afternoon, I sat slumped in a chair at Starbucks. I was still stewing over the previous day’s events while I stared out window. Propping my elbows on the table, my forehead rested on my fists.
To passersby, I was praying. I wasn’t, but I should’ve been. That had been my problem. I hadn’t had a consistent prayer life in years. Thanks to the recent church service and a very pretty interpreter, things were about to change. I smiled, thinking about my brief encounter with Mackenzie. A tap on my shoulder distracted me. Turning around, Caleb Richardson stood behind me with a concerned expression.
“You okay, bro?” He fumbled a signing that translated into “You okay, uncle?” But, I knew what he meant as I frowned in mock annoyance. After sixteen years, a person would’ve thought that my brother knew the difference between placing his two index fingers near his right temple, which meant uncle, and two fingers poised near the forehead as if gripping a cap, for brother. One thing that impressed me about God’s Grace church is a few members could finger-spell their names, some could sign the phrase “How are you”, but the competency seemed to be with the Deaf Ministry. That alone showed an attempt at inclusion.
Before the fatal accident, Caleb and I were inseparable. We didn’t have a choice. Sharing a bedroom and bath created a special bond—until I caught one of Caleb’s legs sneaking into my new designer jeans. There was no way he was going to wear my brand new stuff before I had the chance. That’s where I drew the line. Our sharing days were over.
Caleb, sporting a glistening bald head and the latest expensive clothes, flopped down in the chair across from me without waiting for an invitation. Stealing one of my used napkins, he smoothed it out and scribbled on it before turning the napkin around. “You all right? Why are you sitting here alone? Want to hang out?”
“Bro, if I wanted to read notes, I’ll read my book.”
He snarled. “Hey, what’s with the attitude?”
I held up my hand. “I just need some quiet time, all right. I may catch up with you later.”
He twisted his lips. “You can’t hear, so it’s always quiet.” Shrugging, he stood, and with his arrogant “Do you know who I am” walk—which, of course nobody did—strolled away. Caleb believed in speaking his mind, even if his words singed from time to time. For a period after the accident, he held his tongue. He was scared and suffered insomnia, wondering if I was going to die during the night. The accident terminated our late-night talks at bedtime that had always gotten us in trouble. That, by itself, was a constant reminder that our worlds had changed.
I lifted a cup of cold Espresso to my lips. After taking a gulp, I swallowed and let my taste call the shots. It wasn’t bad if I liked the increasingly popular ice coffee drinks, which I didn’t. I preferred coffee and tea served hot and milk shakes and Kool-Aid cold.
As more patrons crowded the café, I began to watch them, observing their facial expressions and translating their intimate conversations. An unexpected jab in my back disrupted my musing. I glanced over my shoulder and came face-to-face with Pierce. If Caleb was worried about me, he made sure to pass that anxiety to our oldest brother.
Often labeled as my three sons, whatever features my older brother, Pierce, possessed—eyes, mouth, nose, chin, hair, and height, so did Caleb and I. My father often teased my mother that she kept Pierce’s leftover genes for us. Most strangers couldn’t tell us apart, but there were differences besides Caleb’s fashionable slick bald look.
Caleb and Pierce preferred to go bare chest or wear muscle-man T-shirts as soon as the temperature hit sixty-five. The scar tissue, stretching from below my left nipple to inches above my navel, prevented me from that indulgence.
Years before the accident, my family and I weren’t faithful Christians, but we weren’t agnostics either. Lukewarm was probably the best description. If church fit into our schedules, we attended, if not—well, we would hit it next time.
All that changed one summer when tragedy and thankfulness forced my family to turn our lives over to Christ. Out of obedience we requested the baptismal in Jesus’ Name after we read about it in Acts 2:38: Then Peter said unto them, Repent, and be baptized every one of you in the Name of Jesus Christ for the remission of sins, and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost. That applied to everybody except Caleb because he rebelled about getting baptized. To date, he still does.
When I survived, my family didn’t argue with God about anything in the Bible. My father re-evaluated his position as the spiritual head of our family. We always felt he was the best example any boy could have as a father, but after our conversion, he struggled spiritually, and through trial and error, he submitted to God’s superior authority. During that time, the Bible also gave my mother comfort.
At sixteen, I was beyond rebellious. I felt cheated. The honor of obtaining my driver’s license and cruising in my dad’s car to the popular parties was put on hold. Classmates avoided eye contact with me. So-called friends taunted me as a freak. The teasing made me wish I suffered from acne instead, but look at me now. It’s ironic the appreciative stares I get from women.
For a long time, I blamed God for the explosion. I figured it was His way to pick on and punish me for stealing my dad’s cigarettes, then using profanity among my buddies to prove I wasn’t a sissy.
Through my dad’s encouragement and professional counseling, I warmed up to the idea of reading my Bible and sought out the 370 scriptures concerning death. I ceased my mind from wandering and glanced back at Pierce. I couldn’t ask for a better brother. Two years older than me, Pierce was my fierce protector, confidant, and the most respectful guy I knew.
Pierce was dressed in his usual attire of a starched oxford shirt, his signature expensive tie, and discounted pressed jeans. Uninvited, he straddled a nearby chair. With fluency, he fired one question after another at me. Pierce had excelled in signing while he studied and passed the bar exam.
He was well respected and sought after for legal matters in the Deaf community. Capital ‘D’ because, as a group, they compared themselves to ethnic groups such as Caucasians, African-Americans, Native Indian, Hispanics, etc. He worked hard and long hours to make junior partner in an up-and-coming law firm.
Then, in a surprising move to his colleagues, Pierce rethought his career goals. He paid back his student loans, purchased a new house, furniture, and an expensive SUV before he quit. Matured years beyond the age of eight, level-headed by nine, and more honest than most preachers were at ten, Pierce said he accepted the calling from God. He took the salary reduction and sought an unpopular position with the city’s public defender’s office without blinking. He wanted to represent underserved citizens.
“What’s going on?” Pierce signed, staring with the intensity to make an innocent man plead guilty on a witness stand.
“I’m in a mood.”
“Get out of it.” He didn’t smile.
We argued back and forth, signing until heads turned and brows lifted in curiosity. Let them stare and wonder.
“Sorry.” Pierce stood. “Whenever you’re ready to talk, text me.” He squeezed my shoulder and pounded his fist twice against his chest. It wasn’t a deaf phrase, but one among brothers, reminding me he had my back before he hesitantly walked out, unconcerned about attracting attention. He did anyway.
If Pierce and Caleb were hanging together, that meant they were on their way to shoot a few games of pool, and were probably in one car. Chuckling, I may have moved out the North County area, but the neighborhood zip code was still in me. I could’ve stopped at a Starbucks closer to my Mid-County house.
Actually, I came across town to pick up a suit from my tailor. He knew my pants had to fit without suffocating my quads, and the length after a finished hem should be no longer or shorter than th
irty-four and a half inches. The man was awesome in designing stylish suit jackets to cover my broad shoulders, chest, and the arms muscles that were the result of daily pushups. There was nothing worse than to struggle to button a blazer. I had to be able to slip the button in the slot once with ease, and then free it with the snap of my thumb.
I leaned back after my two baby-sitters were gone. My coffee cup was empty, but I wasn’t ready to leave. I slipped my newly purchased sci-fi book out my bag. Bending back the cover, the first line sucked me in, It was a matter of time before Abo died, inhaling the sour odor of… A soft pat on my shoulder forced me to hold my breath and tie down my irritation.
Now what? Again, I chided myself for not going to the Starbucks closer to my house. If Pierce and Caleb were back, I was definitely leaving. I blanked the annoyed expression and mechanically turned around. My eyes widened, enjoying the delightful interruption. Familiar eyes sparkled and curved lips spoke to me without moving.
“Want some company?”
If I didn’t know better, I would’ve guessed my brothers sent her, but they had no clue about Mackenzie. I exhaled. Smiling, I scooted back and stood, towering over her. Chivalry in high gear, I pulled the chair Caleb had vacated and waited for Mackenzie to take the seat. The unique scent of her perfume drifted.
“Rough day?”
“Rough life,” I signed back, reflecting on the previous day’s mishap.
Mackenzie reached out and touched my hand. Her long fingers were warm from the steaming coffee cup she had placed on the table. As she opened her mouth to speak, I leaned forward. She paused, smiling. I waited, grinning. She was a captivating vision with her carefree curls that bounced at the slightest move.
“If you ever want to talk, I’ll listen, promise. God has this keen perception about when we need a friend. I had no idea you were here until I was about to leave. My cousin stays a few blocks from here. Since he wasn’t home, I came here to kill time.”
