The Story of Beautiful Girl

by Rachel Simon

  “I’m sorry,” Kate said. She didn’t add that some families had come to visit. Not many, and usually siblings became too uneasy by the time they were teenagers. Why tell Hannah that if her parents hadn’t done what the doctors told them to do, she might feel differently—but might not? And why tell her that when a parent did come, some of the more lonely residents would go to the window to see if the person walking on the path was theirs? Kate always knew when a parent was near A-3: Barbara, Gina, and Betty Lou would be at the window, mournfully calling out, “Mommy?”

  She would not tell Hannah that—or what happened one night five Novembers ago.

  “Here we are,” Kate said, opening the door to her building.

  Hannah stamped the cold from her feet. Then she looked at Kate. “I hate to admit this: I have no idea what to say to her.”

  Kate placed both hands on Hannah’s shoulders. “I don’t think you need to say anything,” she said, smiling into the dark eyes. “You’re here.”

  Kate opened the door to her office. Lynnie was sitting at the desk, drawing. Her eyes rose, and she looked at Kate, then this stranger.

  “Lynnie,” Kate heard herself say, her voice far off, “this is your sister.”

  Lynnie focused. “Nah-nah?” she said, her voice soft.

  Hannah, nodding, started biting her lips.

  Lynnie pushed back from the desk and said more loudly, “Nah-nah!”

  “What do I do?” Hannah said to Kate. “I don’t know what to do!”

  But already Lynnie had shot out from the desk and flung her arms around her sister. Slowly Hannah lifted her arms and wrapped them around Lynnie. Fastened together, they were opposites, too: Hannah sobbing away, Lynnie laughing for joy.

  The visit was brief. With Uncle Luke fearing for his job, visitors weren’t supposed to stay longer than an hour, and only in administrative offices. Though maybe, Kate thought, a short visit was best, at least at first. As she watched Lynnie show Hannah her artwork, she was well aware that Hannah didn’t understand Lynnie’s long-unpracticed speech, and she looked to Kate to provide a translation. Hannah, who’d once been Lynnie’s fiercest supporter, was clearly embarrassed by this. She also barely knew what to say, startled that her sister was not just living her own life, but also had talent. “These are so good,” Hannah kept saying. Hannah also didn’t know what to make of Doreen, who, after stopping by and learning that Lynnie’s sister had come to visit, abruptly slammed out of the office. Hannah couldn’t know that Doreen had still never heard from her parents. Only Lynnie seemed relaxed, paging through her drawings of horses and cornfields. Yet Kate knew all was not as it seemed. Lynnie was showing only the drawings from her most recent folder. Nothing of her time with Number Forty-two. Nothing of the baby.

  But she said none of this to Hannah when they walked back to her car. She said only that she’d felt hope in the air since the broadcast by John-Michael Malone and that Hannah’s visit was the first major development.

  “What else might happen?” Hannah asked.

  Kate told her she’d put in a request for a speech therapist for Lynnie. If more teachers were hired, it was possible an art class might get going. Physical improvements were probably going to happen at the cottages. And Uncle Luke could be replaced.

  Then Kate shut her mouth, and not only because Hannah had no expectations of the other things that could change. Kate did not want to tread near the topic of housing options, since the main option that usually came to anyone’s mind was family, and Hannah had already indicated her family would not be receptive. For a moment Kate felt her jaw set, though she understood. This family, like so many others, had spent decades living without a son or daughter or brother or sister. For all the harm that had been done, for all the sorrow and silences and secrets, full, complex lives had grown over the absence. To bring a person back to the household would be to throw lives into turmoil, family and residents alike. The system, for better or for worse, had given residents an existence of their own, and even if her family was desperate for her return, Kate knew Lynnie would not go. Lynnie was a woman now. Certainly she couldn’t make her way alone in the world—she’d always need help. But there must be a way she could live outside these walls without depending on family.

  Hannah turned when they reached her car. “I’ll come back soon,” she said.

  I hope so, Kate thought. Oh, I hope so.

  Kate pushed her hands deep into her pockets and watched Hannah pull away from the parking lot. Yes, it was a miracle Hannah had come. But Kate realized she’d hoped for a little more miracle.

  She closed her eyes. “I don’t mean to be greedy, Jesus,” she prayed aloud, listening to Hannah’s car putter down the drive. “I’m not asking you to heal all the handicapped people in the world. I’m not asking you to make her family into saints. I’m not asking you to bring Number Forty-two back from the grave, or Julia to the School.

  “All I’m asking is that you give Lynnie some way to have the simplest thing all of us have. Please get Lynnie out of here. Please find Lynnie a home.”

  The Day of the Red Feather

  HOMAN

  1974

  The sun was already warm when they left the big house where they all slept and headed out to the fields. Homan still didn’t know their names, but he knew they had taken him in when he’d found himself alone in the streets of the hilly city. This morning, like most mornings, he set a straw hat on his head and walked beside the two boys who’d knelt before him as he’d sobbed at the edge of the gas station, offering him food, then driving him here. They were both guitar players with long hair, and in front of them now walked the Chinese girl who tied her hair with a carved white butterfly. On days when she made the meals, she prepared food he’d never seen: thin, musky brown soup; rice with vegetables and chewy white cubes; fried bananas. Her tasty dinners were one of the many gifts of this place, which no one so far was pushing him to leave.

  White Butterfly turned at the crest in the path and moved her mouth, looking at the boys. She must have been speaking about him because her gaze kept returning to his face, but he wasn’t afraid. There was a different spirit among these people than he’d seen before, an easygoing acceptance, even when they weren’t sitting in the common room with their legs crossed, hands pressed in a prayer. Most newcomers moved on quickly, put off by the outdoor labor or twice daily sitting on cushions, everyone’s eyes closed, Homan playing along without the foggiest notion of what they were doing. Yet his relief at being in a place with a roof, food, and generosity was so great, he didn’t care about understanding. His only discontent came when his remembering went east.

  The boys beside him were not the only musicians here. Three others joined them in the common room every night to play their instruments, while the women cleaned up and the children went out to play. That was the time of day when Homan settled into the chair everyone had agreed was his (his!): a bear-sized, stuffed yellow chair with a hole in one arm and woven cloth draped over the top. It resembled the lounge chair he and Sam had kept in the van, though it had a deep seat, perfect for his long legs. In that chair he felt he could stay in this life forever.

  White Butterfly gestured toward the house, and the two boys nodded, hands on their wheelbarrows. Homan wondered if they meant to send him back to the house for his day’s work. He never knew what he’d be doing on any day and just took on whatever they wanted, from planting to harvesting to jam making, though he hoped he’d get sent inside today since he was more tired than usual. He’d stayed up late last night, enchanted by drummers who’d arrived in a car. They’d set drums on their laps or between their knees and played with the palms of their hands. He’d set his own hands on the pulsing floor, feeling the beat, until the musicians went off to bed. But one drummer stayed up, a colored man in a green-and-orange shirt, showing him a poster of two men with medallions around their necks and their fists held high in the air. The drummer tried to explain the poster, and Homan hadn’t understood. Though he’d finally go
tten so used to not understanding, he’d come up with a name for the confusion and fear that came upon him when he knew he was wrong and didn’t know what was right: the feeling of Incorrection.

  The boys nodded to White Butterfly. Then they all continued over the ridge, and the valley opened wide and green.

  He didn’t have no understanding of where he was. He was living in a large house with about thirty men, women, and children. Only two had gray hair, and none had the conditions he’d seen in the Snare or at the church. The house was on a farm where they raised animals and grew crops like apples, artichokes, broccoli, chard, lettuce, and onions. Some of the people were responsible for making cheese, others for bundling flowers together. Everyone did something, even the two with gray hair—a wiry man in an orange coat and a willowy woman in a flowing dress. King Orange and Queen Long Dress. They took care of the office.

  Homan also discovered something more about his location—something that took his breath away. One day during his first year here, one of the trucks wouldn’t start, and when someone opened the hood, Homan looked inside. He spotted the problem easily and made motions to them with his hands. Not his signs—they’d never shown much interest, so early on he’d given up trying—but the simple motions hearing people could follow. They caught on about the part that needed replacing. Then three men got into the car as round and green as a turtle and waved for him to join them. Together they left the farm and drove toward the hilly city.

  He felt, on that ride down long roads, the same gratitude he’d felt since they’d found him crumpled at the gas station, and he hoped it would be all he’d feel. Though there was another emotion that came up sometimes, one too hateful to name. Early on in his travels it had begun as a burn in his gut, and over time it had grown, igniting whenever he remembered leaping out of Roof Giver’s window, being swept down the river, getting beaten in the cave. Since he’d been here, it had scorched inside him every morning, when he still saw Beautiful Girl and Little One—though never as more than fuzzy shapes, and never with each other, and never lasting for more than a blink. The feeling would whoosh through his body, and he’d put his hand over his face, hoping no one, especially him, would know he existed. And he’d think, How you let this happen, you knucklehead? Ain’t you supposed to be better than your no-good daddy? Good thing they don’t know who you is! It was a feeling that seared so much, he just wanted to forget everything that had come before now. And after dinner every night, he made sure that he did.

  The day he returned to the city for the broken truck part, he did not have this feeling. Instead, as they drove onto a gigantic red bridge, far more majestic than the double-decker, and he caught a glimpse of water through the fog, he felt a wondering. And then, when they turned right at the end of the bridge and drove beside wide-open water, he felt awe. He gaped from the car, giving himself over to the sight as he hadn’t been able to before, pressing his hands to the window. So this was the place he had seen from Sam’s steps. So this was the place Beautiful Girl had drawn. So this was what he’d been gazing at time after time, when he’d pulled out her drawing from under the hay. At last, here he was: at the place that came from tears.

  The others in the car noticed him looking, and after they left the car at a shop, they crossed a road and went down a staircase to a sandy beach. Homan stood for a moment at the bottom of the steps, taking in the salty scent. It was chilly, with wind blowing, and he signed to himself, giving it a name—Finally Sea—and broke into a run. At the edge of the sand he splashed right in, stopping only when it reached his knees. Then he scooped up a handful of water and dipped in his tongue. It did taste like tears. And he let himself remember: her lips touching his, her body in his arms. But this time he did not feel the feeling that had no name. He felt only his longing, stretching as endlessly as the sea. He felt only a tide, rising in his eyes.

  The sun was now high over the fields. He removed his straw hat and wiped his brow and was glad to see the children carrying lunch pails into the fields. Though this was unusual: The girl who came toward them had only three pails, which she gave to White Butterfly and the two boys. Then the girl urged Homan toward the house. Still sleepy from last night, Homan followed.

  When the girl brought him to the office, King Orange and Queen Long Dress rose from their desks and smiled in greeting. The drummer from last night was also there, sitting at the table in the corner, smoking a cigarette and nodding hello. The girl walked off, and King Orange indicated a chair at a table. Homan sat down, and Queen Long Dress closed the door.

  Homan hadn’t spent any real time with King Orange and Queen Long Dress. They shared the big table at breakfast and dinner and sat on the cushions with everyone else twice a day, but they spent most of their time in this office, King Orange on the phone, Queen Long Dress with glasses down on her nose. They were in charge of this place and in that way were like the big shot at the Snare and his lady helper. Except King Orange and Queen Long Dress were a couple—who wore matching rings. King Orange gave the children piggyback rides. Queen Long Dress sat beside people when they seemed glum, resting her fingers on their arms. When Homan first came here, he curled up in a bed on the floor, fists tight, and King and Queen came over. They must have known he was deaf; they didn’t even move their lips. They gestured to his fists with their palms opening, and when he followed their lead and spread his fingers apart, they reached forward as if he were an important person, and both of them shook his hand.

  Sometime later, Queen Long Dress did something else. One day, when he was helping the jam makers paste labels on jars, Queen sat beside him. She gestured to the labels, with their drawing of a playful-looking sun and the black marks he knew were letters, and she looked at him with questioning eyes. He remembered the tests his first days at the Snare, where they pointed to toy blocks and stopwatches and he hadn’t understood the instructions. He’d failed that test, and he’d fail this test, too. He went on with his work, and soon she walked away.

  Now, after Homan took a seat at the corner table, King Orange and Queen Long Dress sat on either side of him. Drummer was sitting across, and he set a book on the table.

  King pushed the book until it was right in front of Homan and opened it up. Homan looked at him, then Drummer. Drummer pointed to the page. Homan peered from face to face. Then Drummer took Homan’s hand and set it underneath a line of writing. The writing resembled bird tracks—for birds with mismatched footprints. Homan looked up at Drummer.

  Drummer set his gaze on the line of writing and moved his lips. Homan suspected he wanted him to read his lips. Then Homan realized: He want you to read. He looked to Queen, who gestured for him to keep his eyes on the page. He’d surely fail this test, too, though maybe if he looked like he was trying, they’d let him keep living here. So he tightened his brow and faced the writing and gave it all he had. But as he stared, the tracks as hard to follow as footprints blowing away with the wind, his mind began to leave this room. It happened in spite of his desire every day to forget. He couldn’t help himself, not with bird tracks in front of him. He left this chapter of his life and flew back over the years and landed far away in his memory.

  It happened on a day when the corn was high enough to hide inside. He and Beautiful Girl had slipped inside the rows, and there, protected from rules and guards, they ran down one row, then the next, holding hands and laughing and free. Finally they stopped. Surrounded by stalks, they moved toward each other, pressing closer than they ever could in Chubby Redhead’s office. And they kissed. It was a new kiss for them, deep and long, her lips sweet and full. He felt his body go weak and strong at the same time, his emotions rush in unfamiliar directions, his arms winding tight around her back, hers pulling tight around his. He wanted the kiss to last until the sun turned into the moon. He wanted her to be with him until summer became winter.

  And then it happened. As they paused to gaze at each other, a bird flying above dropped a red feather. They saw it floating down, and when it landed between thei
r chests, they pressed together, catching it as one. They laughed at how their timing was the same, and in his happiness, Homan lifted the feather off their chests and held it between them and did what he’d told himself the day he arrived at the Snare he’d never do again. He used his mouth to speak.

  Fuh uh.

  He had not expected the word to come out of his mouth. Nor had he expected it to mean anything to Beautiful Girl—he knew she did not speak. To his surprise, though, she looked at the feather in his hand, and her eyes slowly changed from love to love with understanding. Then she took the feather from his hand, and with her eyes locked onto his, she brought her top teeth against her bottom lip, lifted his wrist to her lips, and let him feel her breath: Feh. She moved her tongue to the back of her top teeth. Thuh.

  He looked at her, astonished. She gazed back, hopeful. And without thinking, he lowered his fingers to her neck and touched her skin there as if he were a locket in the hollow of her bone. When she said it again, he could feel it even more. Feh thuh. He let out a laugh and closed his eyes, and she did it over and over, stronger each time, as thrilled to know he could feel her voice as she was to know she could speak. Then he lifted her fingers to his own throat. It was Fuh uh. She shook her head no. Right: It was Feh thuh. She nodded. Feh thuh. Feh thuh. He used his voice as he hadn’t for so long. She used hers back. They watched each other try. They touched each other’s necks. They felt each other speak.

  Now he looked to Drummer. How Homan wanted to reach up and touch the man’s throat to make a guess at what he was saying. But Homan remembered the laughing faces of his brothers and sisters and the confused expressions of strangers at the train station during the Running. He remembered the horrible moment when the police caught him and cuffed him and he ended up in the Snare. Beautiful Girl was the only person he’d ever touched on the neck and who he let himself say more to than “I’m deaf.” There was a closeness to touching a person on the neck, or trying to speak, that he’d felt with no one else, not even Sam. To use your voice with another person until you made a word was like trusting that person with a kiss.