Silent Partner (45 page)

I feel privileged to have been part of it. No matter how things turned out."

She choked back tears, pushed the door, and walked quickly to her desk. I watched as she tidied up.

"How," I repeated, "did the two of you actually meet?" "Right after I got here, I kept hearing my pupils talk about a family of 'retards'—their term, not mine—living out behind the old abandoned cider press. Two grownups and a little girl who ran around naked and chattered like a monkey. At first I thought it was just schoolyard fantasy, the kind of thing children love to make up. But when I mentioned it to Mr. Leidecker, he said, 'Oh, sure. That's Jasper and Shirlee Ransom. They're feebleminded but harmless.' Just shrugged it off, the old village idiot thing.

'What about the child?' I asked. 'Is she feebleminded too? Why hasn't she been enrolled in school? Has she been inoculated? Has anyone bothered to give her a decent checkup or seen to it that she gets proper nutrition?' That made him stop and think and he got a bothered look on his face. 'You know, Helen,' he said, 'I never much thought about that.' He was ashamed—that's the kind of man he was.

"The very next afternoon after school, I drove down the road, found the press, and went looking for them. It was just as the children had described: Tobacco Road. Those pathetic shacks—and they were a lot worse before we fixed them up. No indoor plumbing, electricity, or gas heat, water from an old hand pump with God knows what kind of organisms in it. Before we supplied the trees, just a dry dirt patch. Shirlee and Jasper just standing there, smiling at me, following me around but not putting up a lick of protest when I went into their shack. Inside, I got my first surprise. I'd expected chaos, but everything was scrubbed down with lye soap, extremely well-kept—all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on. And the two of them are very diligent about their hygiene, though

they do neglect their teeth."

"Well-trained," I said.

"Yes. As if someone had drilled the basics into them— which supports the institution theory.

Unfortunately, that training didn't extend to child care. Sharon was filthy, that gorgeous black hair so dusty it looked tan, all matted and tangled with burrs. The first time I laid eyes on her she was up in one of the willow trees, crouched on a limb, naked as a jay, with something shiny in her hands. Staring down with those huge blue eyes. Looking, indeed, like a little monkey. I asked Shirlee to have her come down. Shirlee called up to her—"

"Called her by her name?"

"Yes. Sharon. That we didn't have to improvise. Shirlee kept calling, begging her to come down,
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but Sharon ignored her. It was clear there was no parental authority, they couldn't control her.

Finally, after I pretended to ignore her, she scampered down, kept her distance and stared at me.

But not afraid—on the contrary, she seemed actually happy to see a new face. Then she did something that really took me by surprise. The shiny thing she'd been holding was an open jar of mayonnaise. She stuck one hand into it, scooped out a big glob, and began eating it. Flies smelled it and began crawling all over her. I took the jar away. She squawked, but not too loudly—she craved discipline. I put my arm around her. She seemed to like that. She smelled foul, looked like one of those feral children you hear about. But despite that she was absolutely gorgeous—that face, those eyes.

"I sat her down on a stump, held up the mayo jar and said, 'This is eaten with tuna or ham. Not by itself.' Shirlee was listening. She started to giggle. Sharon took her cue, laughed, and ran her greasy hands through her hair. Then she said, 'I like it by itself.' Clear as a bell. It shocked me. I'd assumed she was retarded, too, had little or no speech. I took a close look at her and saw something—a quickness in her eyes, the way she responded to my movements. Definitely something upstairs. She was

also very well coordinated. When I commented on what an excellent climber she was, she showed off for me, shin-nied up the tree, did cartwheels and handstands. Shirlee and Jasper watched and clapped their hands. To them she was a toy.

"I asked them if I could take her with me for a few hours. They agreed without hesitation, even though they'd never met me. No parent-child bond, though they were clearly delighted with her, kissed and hugged her a lot before we left."

"How did Sharon react to being taken away?"

"She wasn't happy, but she didn't fight it. She especially didn't like it when I tried to cover her—with a blanket. Funny thing is, once she got used to clothes, she never liked to take them off—as if being naked reminded her of the way she'd been."

I said, "I'm sure it did," and thought of backseat love.

"She actually became quite a fashion plate—used to pore over my magazines and cut out the outfits she liked. She never liked pants, only dresses."

Fifties dresses.

I said, "What was it like the first time you brought her home?"

"She allowed me to take her by the hand, and climbed up into the car as if she'd ridden in one before. During the ride I tried to talk to her, but she just sat there, staring out the window. When we reached my house, she got out, squatted, and defecated on the driveway. When I gasped, she seemed genuinely surprised, as if doing that sort of thing was perfectly normal. It was obvious there'd been absolutely no limit-setting of any sort. I took her inside, sat her on the commode, washed her up, combed out the tangles—at that point she began screaming bloody murder.

Then I dressed her in one of Mr. Leidecker's old shirts, sat her down, and fed her a proper dinner. She ate like a lumberjack. Got off the chair and started to squat again. I hauled her into the bathroom, made her mind. That was the beginning. She knew I cared."

"But she did talk fluently?"

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"It was strange, uneven. Sometimes whole phrases would pour out; then she'd be at a loss to describe something simple. She had giant holes in her knowledge of the world. When she got frustrated she'd start to grunt and point like Jasper. But not in any sort of sign language—I was trained in American Sign, and neither she nor Jasper knew it, though I've taught him a little bit since. He has his own primitive language—when he bothers to communicate at all. That's the environment she was living in before I found her."

"From that to Ph.D.," I said.

"I told you it was a miracle. She learned astonishingly quickly. Four months of steady drilling to get her talking properly, another three to teach her to read. She was ready for it, an empty glass waiting to be filled. The more time I spent with her, the clearer it became that not only wasn't she retarded, she was gifted. Highly gifted."

And previously educated. By someone who'd taught her about cars, whole phrases... then punched holes in her knowledge of the world.

Helen had stopped talking, was holding her hand to her mouth, breathing deeply. "All for nothing."

She looked at the clock on the wall. "I'm sorry, I have to go now. I hitched a ride with Gabe. He bought me a helmet with his own money—how could I refuse? Poor thing's probably beside himself, suspecting God knows what."

"I'd be happy to give you a lift."

She hesitated, then said, "All right. Give me a couple of minutes to close up."

HER HOUSE was large and peak-roofed and floodlit, trimmed generously with white gingerbread, and set back from the road behind half an acre of thriving orchard. Gabe's bike was parked near the front porch, next to an old Chevy truck and a Honda Accord. She led me around to the side door and we entered through the kitchen. Gabe sat at the table, his back to us, husking corn and listening to loud rap music on a ghetto blaster not much smaller than the Honda. Ears of corn were piled chin-high. He worked slowly but steadily, bobbing in time to the music.

She kissed the top of his head. He gave her a sympathy-begging look of misery. When he saw me, the misery turned to anger.

She turned down the volume on the blaster.

He said, "What's with him?"

"Don't be rude, Gabriel! Daddy taught you better than that."

The mention of his father made him look like a small, lost child. He pouted, picked up an ear of corn, tore off the

husk, and idly shredded the silk.

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His mother said, "Dr. Delaware is a guest. You will stay for dinner, Doctor?"

I had no need of food but was hungry for facts. "Be pleased to," I said. "Thank you very much."

Gabe mumbled something hostile. The music was still loud enough to block out his words, but not his meaning.

"Clean up and set the table, Gabriel. Perhaps nutrition will restore your manners."

"I ate, Mom."

"What did you have?"

"Chicken pie, the rest of the potatoes, the snap beans, the pumpkin bread."

"All the pumpkin bread?"

Kid's grin. "Yup."

"And for dessert?"

"The ice cream."

"Leave any for sweet-toothed Mom?"

The grin faded. "Sorry."

"That's okay, sweetie," she said, tousling his hair. "I need to cut down—you did me a favor."

He spread his hands over the pile of corn and gave her an imploring look. "Look how much I got done. Can I quit for tonight?"

She crossed her arms, tried to look stern. "All right. You'll pick up with the rest tomorrow.

What about homework?"

"Did it."

"All of it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Fine. You're free on bail."

He stood, gave me a look that said, Don't let me get you alone, and made a show of cracking his knuckles.

"I've told you not to do that, Gabriel. You'll ruin your hands."

"Sorry."

She kissed him again. "Now, off with you." He made it to the doorway, said, "Uh, Mom?"

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"What is it?"

"Can I go into town?"

"That depends what you're going to do there."

"Russell and Brad called. There's a movie at the Sixplex in Redlands."

"Which one?"

u Top Gun."

"Who's driving?"

"Brad."

"All right, just as long as it's not Russell in that souped-up Jeep of his—one near-miss is enough.

Do I make myself clear, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"All right. Don't betray my trust, Gabe. And be home by eleven."

"Thanks." He lumbered out, so happy to be free that he forgot to glare at me.

The dining room was big and dark, and the smell of lavender permeated the papered walls. The furniture was old, carved black walnut. Heavy drapes masked the windows, and faded family portraits in antique frames hung in the empty spaces—a pictorial history of the Leidecker clan at various stages of development. Helen had once been beautiful, her looks enhanced by a generous smile that might never be resuscitated. Her four older sons were shaggy-haired beanpoles who resembled her. Their father was a yellow-bearded, barrel-chested precursor to Gabe—who'd started life as a bald, pink, squinting sphere of suet. Sharon was in none of the pictures.

I helped set the table with china and silver and linen napkins, noticed a guitar case on the floor, next to the china cabinet.

"Mr. Leidecker's," she said. "No matter how many times I told him to put it away, it always ended up there. He played so well, I really didn't mind. Now I just leave it there. Sometimes I feel it's the music I miss the most."

She looked so low that I said, "I play."

"Do you? Then by all means."

I opened the case. Inside was an old Gibson L-5,

vintage thirties nestled in blue plush. Mint condition, the inlays undamaged, the wood freshly polished, the gold plating on the tailpiece and tuners gleaming as if new. It gave off that wet-cat odor that old instruments acquire. I lifted it, strummed the open strings, tuned.

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She'd gone back into the kitchen and called out: "Come in here so I can listen."

I brought the guitar in, sat down at the table, and fingered a few jazz chords while she fixed chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, beans, and fresh lemonade. The guitar had a warm, rich tone and I played "La Mer," using Django's liquid gypsy arrangement.

"Very pretty," she said, but I could tell that jazz—even warm jazz—wasn't her thing. I switched to finger-picking, played something melodic and countrified in C-major, and her face got young.

She brought the food to the table—huge quantities of it. I put the guitar away. She seated me at the head, positioned herself to my right, and smiled nervously.

I was taking a dead man's place, felt something was expected of me, some protocol that I could never hope to master. That and the ceremonious way she Tilled my plate put me in a melancholy mood.

She toyed with her food and watched me while I forced myself to eat. I got down as much as I could, paid compliments in between bites, and waited until she'd cleared the dishes and brought apple pie before saying:

"The graduation picture that the Ransoms lost. Did Sharon give one to you?"

"Oh, that," she said. Her shoulders drooped and her eyes moistened. I felt as if I'd thrown a drowning survivor back into icy waters. Before I could say anything, she sprang up, disappeared down the hall.

She returned with an eight-by-ten photo in a maroon velvet stand-up frame, handed it to me as if passing the sacrament, and stood over me as I studied it.

Sharon, beaming, in crimson cap and gown with a gold tassel and shoulder braid, her black hair longer, flowing over her shoulders, her face radiant, without blemish. The epitome of all-American college womanhood, staring off into the distance with youthful optimism.

Envisioning a rosy future? Or just some campus photographer's idea of what proud parents liked for their mantels?

In the bottom left-hand corner of the photo was gold-leaf lettering.

EPHEGIANS, CLASS OF 74

FORSYTHE TEACHERS COLLEGE FOR WOMEN LONG ISLAND, N.Y.

"Your alma mater?" I said.

"Yes." She sat down, held the picture to her bosom. "She always wanted to be a teacher. I knew Forsythe was the right place for her. Rigorous and protective enough to cushion her from the shock of going out into the world— the seventies were a rough time and she'd led a sheltered life. She loved it there, got straight A's, graduated summa cum laude."