by Mary Carter
“A dog or a biscuit?” Lacey asked.
“Funny.”
“Go ahead,” Lacey said. “I won’t tell.”
“You touched your nose,” Kelly yelled. “You touched your nose!”
“I did not,” Lacey said. Kelly signed “lie” and shook her finger at Lacey. Enough of the good old days. Lacey looked down the line of canines and owners and tried to spot Margaret behind the counter. She saw a young girl with a round face and mousy brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and a skinny boy with thick sideburns and a receding hairline despite his baby face.
“I’ll go ask them about Margaret,” Kelly said. Lacey hung back, and soon the round-faced girl pointed out a narrow staircase to their right. The girl was easy to lip-read.
“She lives up there.” Kelly hurried over to Lacey and started to interpret, but Lacey was already headed for the stairs.
“Wait in the car,” she told Kelly.
“No,” Kelly said. “Why?”
“This isn’t exactly a friendly visit,” Lacey said.
“I know,” Kelly said. “I’m in.”
Lacey went first, taking the steps two at a time. At the top of the stairs were a small vestibule and a closed door. It was plastered with Polaroid photos of various animals. On closer look, they were all pictures of a fluffy black cat. There had to be at least fifty of him. In most his fur was sticking straight out of his massive body, as if he’d just stuck his little paw in the nearest outlet. The name BLACKIE was displayed underneath each picture. Blackie curled up on the bed, Blackie sitting on the arm of the couch, Blackie stretched tall, as if someone had just yelled, “Sit up straight,” Blackie wearing a tux, Blackie next to a giant cutout mouse, Blackie sitting on the kitchen counter with an apron and a chef hat, and finally, in the bottom corner, Blackie at what looked suspiciously like Disney World.
“She never took us to Disney World!” Kelly said. “Wait. Did she take you guys to Disney World after I left?” Lacey stared at Kelly’s protruding lower lip and debated messing with her. In the end, she told the truth. She needed Kelly on her side.
“Never,” she said.
“Bitch,” Kelly said. She made a fist and knocked on the door. They waited. She knocked again. “Do you hear anything?” Lacey asked. Kelly stuck her ear up to the door, then shook her head. She knocked a third time.
“Margaret?” she called. “It’s Kelly and Lacey.”
“You didn’t tell her I was coming, right?” Lacey said. Kelly looked away. “I told you not to tell her!”
“I’m sorry. I thought she’d be thrilled.”
Lacey pushed Kelly aside and pounded on the door. “Margaret,” she yelled. “Open the door.” Lacey didn’t know exactly what her deaf voice sounded like, but later Kelly would tell her that, down below, dogs began to howl. Lacey tried the door. It was locked. She stepped back.
“What are you doing?” Kelly asked. Lacey pulled her right leg up, pre-kick. “Margaret!” Kelly yelled. “She’s going to break your door.” Lacey geared up to give it everything she had. A split second before her foot made impact, the door swung open. Lacey kicked at the air, then lurched forward. She knocked into Kelly, and the two of them stumbled into the apartment, tottering like they did on the night they stole a bottle of Margaret’s vodka and drank themselves sick by the drainpipe in the backyard.
“Hello, girls,” Margaret said. Kelly hugged Margaret. Lacey quickly stepped aside and scanned the room. It was a studio apartment, with a small open kitchen on the right, the living room area straight ahead of them, and a Murphy bed against the far wall, open and unmade. Red faux velvet curtains hung over the lone window on the left wall, as if barricading all outside light. Lacey remembered how dark Margaret kept the group home at Hillcrest too, and it suddenly made her angry. No wonder she always felt so pent up.
Was that why Lacey hated curtains, why she would rather let the light shine in, no matter what time of day? Margaret’s place was cluttered and smelled like stale cigarettes and kitty litter. Lacey had a sudden image of Blackie with a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and it made her laugh. Had Margaret always been such a pack rat? The kitchen counter was buried in cereal, boxes of canned cat food, and jars filled with congealed jellies. More pictures of Blackie wallpapered the fridge. The furniture looked heavy and drawn. Margaret was the exception to the rule “People look like their pets”; Margaret resembled her furnishings.
Although she’d always been heavy, she’d put on even more weight. Her face was heavily lined; her hair, once black, now completely gray. Lacey didn’t know why, but tears came to her eyes. Before she could stop her, Margaret ambushed her with a hug. Lacey kept her body stiff at first, then relaxed into it, as if driving across an icy bridge. Turn into the slide, not against it. Terribly difficult when all you wanted to do was slam on your brakes and swerve. When Margaret finally let go, she led them to the stained green couch floating in the middle of the living room. She picked up a box of cookies sitting on the edge of the coffee table, and held them out. Lacey and Kelly simultaneously refused. Margaret gestured for them to sit on the couch, then lowered herself onto an orange recliner. The chair rocked back from the weight of her behind, then forward from the counterweight of her massive bosom. Kelly and Lacey lowered themselves onto the sofa, and then sank, despite both women being thin. Lacey could feel a metal coil poking her in the ass.
“I’m so glad to see you,” Margaret said. She rocked back, clasped her hands below her breasts, and watched Kelly interpret. “Look at you,” Margaret said, shaking her finger at Kelly. “You’re good at that finger talk now.” Margaret held up her own hands, bulging with ropey veins and age spots, and examined them. “I never got the hang of it,” she said to Lacey.
“Bitch, cookie, lesbian,” Lacey signed. Margaret smiled.
“Oh, it’s such a beautiful language,” she said. “Like a dance in the air.” She threw her own hands up, as if dancing.
“Bitch, cookie, lesbian,” Lacey signed again.
“Just beautiful.” She turned to Kelly. “What did she say?”
“She said you haven’t changed a bit,” Kelly said and signed at the same time. Lacey laughed out loud, and Margaret beamed.
“We’re horrible people,” Lacey signed to Kelly.
“How do you like my bakery?” Margaret asked. From out of nowhere, Blackie materialized and jumped into Lacey’s lap without an invitation. Kelly engaged Margaret in small talk while Lacey petted the cat. Lacey knew she should be paying attention; after all, Kelly was signing and talking at the same time so she could follow the conversation, but she just couldn’t feign interest. She still hadn’t gotten the hang of hearing culture, the polite bullshitting you were required to do before you could come to the point.
Some said Deaf people were too blunt, but Lacey knew they were just straightforward. When you experienced most of the world through your eyes, you said what you saw. It was as simple as that. If you saw a Deaf friend you hadn’t seen in years and he used to be skinny and have a head full of hair, and was now bald and fat—
Hearing culture: “You look great.” (Pained, fake smile).
Deaf culture: “What happened?! You’re fat and bald!” (Eyebrows arched questioningly, genuinely interested smile).
But she was in the hearing world, so she let Kelly go through their phony little ritual. Lacey didn’t want the cat on her lap either. She was wearing white Capris and now they were covered in long, black hairs. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she pushed the cat off her lap and waved her hands until Margaret and Kelly stopped talking.
“I need to know where I came from,” Lacey said. Kelly interpreted.
“Don’t tell me you want the stork story again,” Margaret said. “If I recall, you were the one who took it upon yourself to educate the rest of the children on how babies were made.” It was true. Lacey was only nine years old when she found the book Your Body, Yourself wedged in the bottom of a box in the attic, and acted out every aspect (as she
understood them) of menstruating, mating, and childbirth to the other kids, enthralling and sickening them with a slew of biological horrors.
“Please,” Lacey said. Margaret looked around, adjusted her glasses, shifted her massive thighs.
“A basket,” she said, gesturing as if holding the basket in her hands. “On the porch.” A baby in a basket. It was the same old story. How was it possible Lacey once swallowed this fish whole?
“How old was I?” Lacey asked.
“I’m not sure,” Margaret said. “A few months?” Kelly leaned forward to listen, for Margaret’s voice had dropped to a whisper.
“How did you know I was deaf?”
“What?”
“I was just a baby. You just happened to be running a home for disabled children. But if I was only a few months old, how did you or anyone else know I was deaf?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they left a letter.”
“They? Why do you say ‘they’?”
“Or she. Or he. Or whoever. You were left on the porch in a basket, possibly with a note that might have said you were deaf.”
“Do you still have this note?”
“For goodness’ sake, Lacey Ann, that was a long time ago,” Margaret said.
Lacey looked around the living room. “You haven’t thrown out a magazine since 1953, but you threw away the letter that may or may not have come with me?” Margaret looked at the stack of magazines against the wall. She folded her arms and frowned. Lacey rose from the couch. “They didn’t check newborn babies for deafness back then,” she told Margaret. “They do now, but they didn’t back then.” Margaret didn’t reply; she simply stared and rocked, rocked and stared. “What about the basket?” Lacey asked. “Did you keep the basket?” She spotted a basket underneath the metal TV stand, filled with yarn and knitting needles. She walked over, removed the basket, and parted balls of yarn as if looking for a baby. Blackie pranced over and sat at her feet. Lacey tossed him one of the balls. He put one paw on it, then looked up at Lacey as if he had been seriously gypped.
“Is this it?” she asked. “Is this the basket?” Margaret looked at Kelly and shook her head, as if Kelly were to blame for Lacey’s outburst. Lacey walked over to Margaret, tossed the box of cookies off the coffee table, and sat so they were face-to-face.
“You’re lying,” she said, using her voice. Margaret’s double chin wiggled. She wrung her hands together and smacked her lips. She looked away. Lacey nodded at Kelly to interpret again. “I won’t be mad,” Lacey said, inching forward. “I just need to know.”
“You’re telling me you had a horrible childhood, is that it?” Margaret said. It took considerable effort, but she dislodged herself from the chair, grabbed the basket Lacey left on the floor and the ball of yarn from Blackie’s uninterested paw. “I did the best I could. These days you have one teacher to every three students in homes like those. I was all by myself with ten of you. I did the best I could.”
“You were wonderful,” Kelly said. “You really were.” She gave Lacey a look.
“I appreciate how difficult it must have been for you,” Lacey said. “I wasn’t an easy child. I know that. I’m not here to punish you. I just want to know who I am. Where I came from.”
“You girls should eat.” Margaret shuffled into the kitchen and yanked open a drawer. When she turned around she was holding a wad of cash and a coupon. “I don’t cook anymore,” she said. “But I have a coupon for Friendly’s.”
“Are you coming with us?” Kelly asked.
“No, no. I’m sorry. I have biscuits to make.”
“I don’t want ice cream,” Lacey said. “I want answers.”
“They don’t just sell ice cream,” Margaret said. Her face was flushed and animated, her breath labored. “They have burgers, and sandwiches, and—what day is this? Because they make a really good meat loaf, but I think it’s only on Tuesday.”
“Lacey just wants to know about her family,” Kelly said.
“Don’t speak for me,” Lacey said.
“Remember when we were kids?” Kelly signed to Lacey without speaking. “How Margaret used to say no to everything at first? If we stopped bugging her and left her alone, then she’d finally give us what we wanted?” Lacey thought about it. She couldn’t remember things as clearly as Kelly, which was ironic given Kelly was there for only three years and Lacey had a life sentence. Then again, she was pretty self-involved back then. “Trust me,” Kelly said.
“Fine,” Lacey said. “We’ll go to lunch.”
“We came a long way to see you,” Lacey said, snatching the Friendly’s coupon out of Margaret’s hand.
“But it took you ten years,” Margaret said. Her chin quivered, and she turned away and began moving jars around the counter. Guilt hit Lacey like a fastball to the gut. Margaret opened a drawer in the kitchen. It was stuffed with papers. She pulled out a newspaper article. Leaving the drawer hanging open like an unanswered question, she handed the article to Lacey. It was the interview the Philadelphia Inquirer did with Lacey about her artwork and the upcoming show. “I’ve kept up with you,” Margaret said. “And you’ve never even sent me a Christmas card.” A series of quick movements distracted Lacey. She turned toward the disruption. It was Kelly. She was crying and furiously digging through her purse. Margaret pulled something else out of the drawer, a tissue she handed to Kelly.
Lacey felt a yearning for Margaret, coated with a restless guilt that was pushing her to do what Margaret wanted. Apologize. Claim her as her long-lost mother. Tell her that from now on she would write, she would visit, she would call. And then what? Before she knew it, Margaret would have her set up with an easel in the bakery so she could paint every dog that came in the door.
“Come to lunch with us,” Lacey said. “No more questions. Just lunch.” Margaret sniffed and shook her head, but her body shifted, became straighter, her chin lifted up.
“I guess we all need a little something in our bellies,” she said. She went to the coffee table, bent down and tried to peer underneath.
“My purse,” she said, pointing. Lacey went to get the purse. It was on the floor under the table, all the way toward the couch. Lacey got on her hands and knees and pulled it out. The combination of cat hair and dust made her sneeze. The coffee table had one lame leg, propped up with a book, and Lacey couldn’t help but think of Kelly (a thought she was smart enough not to share, no matter how blunt Deaf Culture was), when she noticed the title of the book propping up the table. Lacey dropped the purse, and yanked it out. She backed out of the coffee table as fast as she could. She came up too soon and banged her head on the table’s edge. Pain and dizziness hit her as she stood, but it didn’t stop her from turning on Margaret. She held the book up to her face, forcing Margaret to stare at Monica Bowman, with her feathered hair, green-stemmed glasses, and slightly whiter teeth.
“Oh my God,” Kelly said. “You liar.” “Bitch, cookie, lesbian,” she signed to Lacey. Margaret stared at the book, then slowly, her entire being transformed. The quivering look was gone. Her shoulders, in a downward curve since they’d arrived, thrust back. Her face took on a hard, weathered look; suddenly, the years were gone. The woman Lacey remembered most often from childhood was back.
“Get out,” Margaret said. She grabbed the book and tucked it under her armpit. “You’re still so beautiful,” Margaret said. “But so angry.”
“I’m angry too,” Kelly said. She pointed to the book. “That’s her sister. Her twin sister.”
“I said get out.”
“No,” Kelly said. “What aren’t you telling her?”
“I want no part of this,” Margaret said.
“Part of what?” Lacey said. “Part of what?”
“I’ll see you out,” Margaret said. She stood by her door and pointed the way out. Blackie followed Margaret at a trot, then rubbed up against her, weaving in and out of Margaret’s legs like a shark circling a cage. Kelly started in on Margaret again.
“Let’s go,”
Lacey signed to Kelly. “I have an idea.” Kelly looked at Lacey as if she were crazy, as if she were leaving a boxing match before they’d reached the knockout. “Trust me,” Lacey said. Kelly looked unconvinced but followed Lacey out the door and down the staircase. Margaret trailed at a safe distance. Lacey let Kelly get to the bottom. Then she stopped and turned to Margaret.
“Bathroom,” she said. It was the one sign she knew Margaret remembered. Margaret’s mother died of bladder cancer, in part, Margaret always said, because her mother was too busy looking after her children to stop and pee the minute she knew she had to go. At the group home, Margaret was constantly making the children go to the bathroom. It was a sacred command, one she always adhered to, no matter what else her mood.
“It’s by the kitchen,” Margaret said, moving out of Lacey’s way and pointing up the stairs. Lacey nodded and signed to Kelly.
“Car keys,” Lacey said.
“What?” Lacey signed the request again. Kelly dug in her pocket and threw her the keys.
“Make her give you a tour of the bakery,” Lacey said. “Now, do it now.” Lacey raced back up the stairs.
The minute Kelly got into the car, Lacey pulled out. “I didn’t say you could drive,” Kelly said. Her sentence was cut off as the car lurched forward. “Jesus,” she said. She fumbled for her seat belt and snapped it in place. They were speeding on the highway when Kelly glanced in the backseat and noticed a large, black bag.
“Whose bag is that?” she asked. Lacey switched lanes so she could pass the car in front of her. It was going seventy miles an hour.
“Oh my God,” Kelly said. “It’s moving. The bag is moving.” Lacey passed the car and pulled in front of it.
“Blackie,” Kelly said. “You stole Blackie.” Lacey slowed down.
“How did you know?” she asked.
