Lady Vanishes

by Carol Lea Benjamin

  Jackson, second on my list, hadn’t been in his room, but we’d found him downstairs, sitting in the corner of the dining room, dripping paint from his fingers onto one of the pages of a drawing pad.

  There were two women I hadn’t yet met there, one at either end of one of the rectangular tables. They looked far enough apart in age to be mother and daughter. The older one, wearing a tiara, might have been fifty, the younger one in her late twenties, but when people have no expressions on their faces, age can be difficult to judge.

  There was a fat, bald man at one of the round tables, playing with a busy box, his fingers short and wide, the fingertips almost square, his round face flat. Charlotte was there, too, sharpening a stack of colored pencils, watching the curl of wood as it emerged from the sharpener, smelling each new point carefully before she laid the pencil down and picked up the next one. I gave her shoulder a quick squeeze in passing, but she never looked up. Touch is considered pretty much of a no-no with autistics, but I hadn’t found that to be the case. If I didn’t believe the people I worked with had the same need for contact as everyone else, what on earth was I doing here? Maybe it was because of Dashiell that I could get away with touching. I didn’t know. But hadn’t Venus done it, too, a quick touch on David’s shoulder in passing, over and done with before he even knew it was happening?

  When I’d first worked with Emily, a touch would start her trembling, her arms jerking violently up and down, her head shaking from side to side. I’d wait until she stopped, then touch her again, patting her arm and putting a hand on her shoulder for just a second. Each time, her reaction was less violent and shorter-lived until, near the end, before she was to move to a larger institution closer to where her parents lived, she would hug me if I requested it, though never on her own.

  By the time we’d gotten to the far corner of the dining room, Jackson had stopped painting. He had wiped his hands carefully on some paper towels and was sitting there, staring straight ahead, a man of about sixty, tall, thin, elegant looking in his collarless shirt, even though he had paint all over his cuffs and on his cheek where he’d forgotten and touched himself before wiping his hands. I took the chair next to his, leaving room for Dashiell to come in between us and place his head on Jackson’s leg.

  “How are you today?”

  I waited for a response, then when none came, I waited for an inspiration.

  “I like your painting,” I told him, looking at it rather than at him. “What do you call it?”

  That went over in a big way. Jackson didn’t even blink. I told him my name, then Dashiell’s. He never moved.

  I waited some more. I didn’t mind the waiting. Having done this work for years, I was used to it. Sometimes you could sit with someone for a long time, and nothing discernible would happen. But the dog was there, and somehow, sometimes—no one knew quite how—that helped them forge a path from their shut-off world to the larger world they didn’t trust, didn’t quite understand. If I was patient, even if I didn’t see anything change, sometimes it did. Then next time, or the time after, there might be some communication, or some action. They might pet Dashiell. Or they might just be less tense, less fearful.

  This time, with the case on my mind and so little to go on, I was too antsy to sit around as if I, too, were in a semi-catatonic state.

  “How about if you turn your chair around,” I said, figuring, what the hell, it was worth a try, “and I’ll show you some neat stuff Dashiell can do. Would you like that, Jackson?”

  To my utter surprise, Jackson turned his chair, and keeping my promise, I showed him how Dashiell works on voice commands, hand signals, and whistle signals. I did mostly ordinary stuff—sit, stay, lie down, come, some silent distance work, the seek-back—no big thing for me and Dashiell, but for someone whose life was contained year after year in one building—the world going by without him, hemlines going up and down, sitcoms appearing and getting canceled, books making the list or being remaindered—for this man who lived as if he were being punished for some wrongdoing he could no longer remember, who was virtually in jail, if he were able to concentrate on what was before him, Dashiell’s demonstration of basic obedience might have seemed as thrilling as the first time you see fireworks, your father saying, That one’s called spaghetti, or Look, goldfish, your mother’s favorite, the sky lit up gold and white, your hand in your father’s hand, safe and warm.

  When I released Dash, he went right back to where he’d been, his chin on Jackson’s knee, soulful eyes looking up.

  For a moment, Jackson remained as he was. So much for that, I thought, and then, watching him staring at the wall, I found myself wondering why, if so many of these people did that, was the wall blank, just a solid sheet of color, when it could be so much more interesting?

  But then it happened, something that made me forget all about a mural for the dining room. Jackson stood. Until then, I hadn’t quite realized how tall he was—well over six feet, maybe even six-two or-three. When I looked into his eyes, Jackson was home, looking back at me.

  “He wants to run,” he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper, but his enunciation clear.

  I clipped on Dashiell’s leash and held the handle out for Jackson. He took the leash and began to lope around the perimeter of the dining room, his long legs reaching out, covering distance with astonishing leaps. I looked around to see if anyone else was as surprised as I was, but no one was giving the moment a bit of attention, as if it were perfectly ordinary for this quiet, skinny old man to take a big dog twice around the dining room, as if it happened on a daily basis.

  When he returned with Dashiell, face flushed, he kept hold of the leash.

  “I want to do what you did.”

  “Go for it,” I said, not exactly sure what he meant, but figuring, something happening is always better than nothing happening, as long as the something was benign and not violent.

  Jackson, copying my hand signals perfectly, got Dashiell to sit, lie down, stay, come, and heel. That was when I’d heard it, a choking noise from somewhere behind me. When I turned, it was Venus, standing in the doorway of the dining room, wiping her eyes with the heels of her hands.

  At first, I thought something must be wrong. But when I turned back to Jackson, I didn’t see what it could be. He was trying the seek-back, taking a clean folded handkerchief from his pocket, dropping it, walking Dashiell away, then sending him back for the handkerchief with one long, low whistle, the way I’d done with my keys, remembering everything I’d done, exactly as I’d done it, except for this one innovation. I hadn’t had a handkerchief. And Jackson certainly didn’t have a set of keys.

  “That was wonderful,” I said, clapping my hands, meaning it sincerely. “You did a great job.”

  Jackson handed me the leash and took his seat again. Remembering the biscuit, I put my hand lightly on his arm. “Dashiell must be hungry after all that running. Do you have something for him to eat?”

  Expecting Jackson to reach into his pocket and produce the biscuit Venus said she’d given him, I was surprised when he didn’t. I shouldn’t have been. The tiny miracles, the little windows of communication, action, or insight, touching moments when a very disabled person seems less disabled, never last. A moment later, or the next visit, it is as if they’d never occurred at all. If I came back tomorrow and tried the same thing with Jackson, he probably would not respond in the same way, which, in part, was why he was here.

  For me, the saddest part was that these lucid moments, as Venus called them, were never a sign of a cure, not in this population. Here there were no cures, so these incidents were only what they seemed to be—moments, nothing more.

  “Check your pockets,” I suggested, but Jackson sat there doing nothing, his eyes looking straight ahead, as mute as he’d been when I’d first sat down.

  I told Dashiell to find the biscuit. He began to sniff around, finding it in Jackson’s left pocket and carefully slipping it out with the sort of patience you wouldn’t imagine a d
og could display. Jackson didn’t seem to notice, as if he hadn’t moved at all, as if he had never spoken to us, as if we weren’t there and had never been there.

  Venus was still in the doorway, all business now. She tilted her head toward David, who was standing in his usual spot by the sidelight, his head leaning slightly back, the way people do when they want to see something out of the bottom part of their bifocals, his arms stiff, only his fingers moving.

  Maybe there hadn’t been anything wrong. Maybe her tears were because something was right, because Jackson had had a little miracle.

  Or maybe they had to do with something that had happened moments earlier, when she was still in her office.

  As Venus had indicated David to me, with a nod of her head, I did the same with Dashiell. Standing next to her, just outside the dining room, I watched him meander over to David, stand at his side, then slowly sit on the hip closer to David, his legs sprawled straight out in front of him, leaning his weight ever so carefully against David’s leg.

  David’s nervous fingers began to tap at each other more slowly, and in a moment, they were still, the hands relaxed, just swaying at his side, like leaves in a breeze.

  “What happened before?” I whispered.

  “What do you mean?”

  Like Jackson, she had closed the door.

  But this time I wasn’t having any. I made little lines under my eye with my pointer and shrugged.

  “What was it you did there?”

  “Nothing much,” I said. “I admired his work, and Dashiell leaned in for some petting, but he wasn’t responding, so I thought I’d show him some of Dashiell’s work. It’s lively, like his paintings, and it gave me something to do. Then he said he wanted to try it. That’s all.”

  Venus turned away for a moment. When she looked back, her eyes were shining.

  “Rachel, that man hasn’t spoken since he’s been here. Not once. I may never let you go.”

  “It’s not me. It’s Dashiell. He can get to anyone.”

  “Everyone loved Lady. She was a cheerful, calming presence, rushing about all day on her own, making sure everyone was okay. But nothing like this ever happened. Your boy’s good. He gets inside.”

  “He was born for this.”

  Venus nodded, her eyes on David. “No heroics. Just hang out. You okay here?”

  “I’m fine.”

  But I wasn’t. I didn’t feel I’d been told the whole story here either.

  “Good. You know where I am if you need me.”

  She turned and walked back to her office, on the other side of the lobby. I watched her take the keys hanging from her belt and unlock the door. When it closed behind her, I heard the tumbler turn over again—Venus double-locking herself in.

  I decided to stay put for a moment and just watch—David standing there, Dashiell leaning on him, no one saying boo. Then, in this place where everything was odd, something unusual happened. David sat. He lowered himself to the floor, stretched his legs out, and sat on his right hip, leaning against Dashiell as Dashiell leaned against him.

  After a few minutes I joined them, sitting at Dashiell’s side, keeping him between me and David; if a dog could sometimes make a bridge between a visitor and a disabled person, in the middle was exactly where he belonged.

  Then I did something else, something that had always worked for me with dogs. When there was a behavior I couldn’t interpret, if I could, I’d imitate it. Having already imitated a posture, as David himself had, I now listened as carefully as I could to David’s ragged exhalations, then I patterned my breathing after his and stayed that way, on the floor, until I could no longer bear it because if I did it for one more minute, I’d be living here, too.

  No wonder Dashiell was exhausted, lying on his side asleep in the dirt under the tree.

  I sat looking out over the river, thinking about Lady, the dog I’d never met, the dog I might never get the chance to meet. She was a herding dog, light and quick. She made the kids her flock, the same way she would have were she living with any ordinary family. For her, the job was clear—see where all her little lambs were and keep them safe. Of course, being a dog, she always had a little time in her busy schedule for affection, both the giving and the getting. And maybe sometimes, at night, when everyone was safe in bed, there’d be time for those long snuggles, the sort Dashiell specialized in.

  Dashiell was different. You could see the difference in their body types—one built for speed, the other for heavy lifting. No wonder Dashiell was performing miracles here. He started cautiously, waiting for the invitation to press in closer, an invitation that would come in the form of a slower heart rate and deeper respiration, things that told him he was welcome, oh, so welcome, and that he, too, could let go. And when he did, he was just what the doctor ordered—a squeeze machine.

  I watched him sleep, his sides moving slowly in and out, his face distorted by his own weight, which seemed to flatten him against the cool earth. I waited until 5:15, then gave him some water, and we headed for the gym and the continuation of Venus’s story.

  CHAPTER 10

  I’d Never Heard His Voice

  I got to the gym before Venus, tied Dash to the bench, and signed in. Serge put down his newspaper and went for the green water basin.

  I took the corner treadmill, putting the power on, starting the belt, and slowly increasing the speed. In front of me, outside the window, which was covered with a taupe shade to keep the sun from blinding anyone working out, the orange-and-white striped barrels that blocked off areas of construction, yellow tape strung between them, kept traffic off the newly paved lane closest to the broken sidewalk. The men in their orange hard hats and vests we had seen on our way to the pier had gone home by now, construction work starting and ending earlier than the average workday. How else could they make all that noise, jackhammers, earthmovers, and cranes clanging away when the rest of the world is still trying to sleep?

  I hadn’t seen Venus arrive, coming from the north, signing in, and going straight to the ladies’ locker room, then appearing on the treadmill to my right. I had questions about the kids—David, Jackson, Charlotte, and the twins—and I wanted to know who had made all those pictures of the tree, the one with the unfinished squirrel. But I didn’t know how long she’d have today, and I needed to hear her story, find out why she thought her life was in danger, figure out what to do if it was.

  “Did you keep writing him?” I asked, as if she’d told me a minute, not a day, ago that the man she’d met on-line was married.

  “I did,” she said, fiddling with the buttons on her treadmill.

  I looked out the window, the hook hanging from the crane parked across the highway dark and ominous looking against the sky. What was the hook here, I wondered, wasting time caring about a man who was married to someone else?

  “She was ill, he said.”

  Uh-huh, I thought. Companion piece to “My wife doesn’t understand me,” or, more nineties, “We have an arrangement.”

  “She had cancer. There had been a remission. But after four and a half years, the disease came back. It had gone from the breast to the bone, and she was dying.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “When she was in the hospital, he was there every day. He went in the morning, early. Then after work, he went back. He spent the evening with her. Sometimes he sat quietly by the bed, holding her hand. Sometimes he’d read to her. He’d tell me what he was reading, and I’d get the book. I’d read it, too.”

  I turned to look at her, dreadlocks loose today, hanging around her pretty face, her big eyes shining as she told about this man she loved, this married man who was so tender when his wife was dying.

  Or so he wrote.

  “For months, I read the books he read to his wife, listened to each new symptom, knew the names of the medications she was on, stayed up late, writing him, giving him letters for company when he was lonely.”

  “Did he talk about an autistic kid?”

  Sh
e shook her head, the curls swinging one way, then the other.

  “Did you talk about your kids?”

  She shook her head again.

  “It was understood, because of how we met, that autism affected his life and mine. But how, I didn’t tell him. He didn’t say either. We had the autism chat line for that. This was about our own feelings, not about anyone’s kid. This was to feel ordinary, like other human beings.”

  I nodded, watching the light on the river, the peaks of water silver, the water moving on, toward the Statue of Liberty, south to where the ocean was.

  “She died last winter, a week before Christmas.”

  Venus increased the speed on her treadmill, starting to run.

  I took a sip of water, going fast enough walking, my T-shirt soaked even before I got here. I could see Dashiell through the open arch, see his back as he lay on the cool floor, fast asleep, his head pressed against the water basin.

  “A few weeks after that, he began to talk about us meeting.”

  “He was local? Close enough so that you could see each other?”

  “He was. That’s the strangest thing, isn’t it? He could have been anywhere, in Iowa, Alaska, New Zealand, anywhere at all. But he was right here, in Manhattan. Sometimes you think something was meant to be. But then—”

  Venus looked at her watch.

  “I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Another meeting?”

  She shook her head. She wasn’t going to say.

  “So did you get together?”

  “We negotiated for a month.”

  When she smiled, I realized I’d only seen her smile once before. Whether she was in danger or not, she surely believed she was, a haunted look on her pretty face.