The Sound of Life and Everything (9 page)

13

Takuma's daring rescue and subsequent cleanup
went a long way toward convincing me that he was no idiot. While he dried off his hands, I assembled my visual aids: a slice of bread, a plastic cup, and the last roll of toilet paper. As I organized my treasures on Mama's Oriental rug (which probably wasn't Oriental, since Takuma had never noticed), he got comfy on the couch.

“Daddy thinks you're slow, but I think you just need some teachin', and you're probably a fast learner.” I narrowed my eyes. “You
are
a fast learner, aren't you?”

Takuma nodded, sort of. Dr. Franks must have conditioned him.

“All right,” I said, cracking my knuckles, “the first thing we've got to do is develop your vocabulary. You'll learn new words every day, but these are the important ones—food, water, and toilet paper.” I pointed at each object in turn. “Or if you really have to go, you could just say, ‘I have to pee.'”

He leaned forward, forehead crinkling, and picked up the slice of bread. “Food?” he said uncertainly as it crumbled in his hands.

“Yes!” I said. “Well, actually, it's a slice of bread, but you
can
eat it. Watch.”

I grabbed the slice of bread and took an enormous bite. The bread was older than I'd thought it was, so it tasted slightly moldy and had the consistency of sawdust. I tried to swallow without chewing, but that only made things worse, since the bite of bread got stuck about halfway down my throat. While I thumped on my chest, Takuma's Adam's apple bobbed like he was trying to swallow for me.

“Well,” I half said, half choked, “that's not usually so difficult.”

Takuma didn't answer, just stared at me with worried eyes.

I stuck out my tongue to prove that I'd swallowed the bite, and he relaxed a little. I set the bread behind me, out of sight, and grabbed the plastic cup. Just because I'd nearly died didn't mean that every teaching moment would be life-or-death. If Miss Fightmaster could do it, then so could I.

“Water,” I said, then shook my head. “Well, actually, it's a cup, but you put water in it.” I pretended to turn a faucet on, then pretended to take a drink. “You drink water from the cup.”

He took the cup. “Water.” Then he pressed it to his lips. “Cup.”

I sighed. “No, that ain't it.”

Meekly, he returned the cup.

I was turning it over in my hands, trying to see it from another angle, when, suddenly, I did. “Me-zoo!”

Takuma's eyes lit up.

I pretended to turn a faucet on. “You put the me-zoo in the cup.” Then I pretended to take a sip. “Then you drink the me-zoo.”

Takuma grabbed it. “Cup.” Then he tipped it over. “Water.”

I leaped to my feet. “THAT'S IT!”

Takuma beamed, and I beamed back. I'd never thought much about Miss Fightmaster when I wasn't in school, but if this was how she felt after every successful lesson, then I could understand why she kept teaching them (and why her nostrils shriveled into slits every time I interrupted).

I was reaching for the roll of toilet paper when someone kicked the side door open. It was probably just Mama. I expected her to hang her hat on the coatrack in the entryway, but she only shuffled around the kitchen, rattling cookware as she went.

Me and Takuma exchanged a worried glance, then hurried into the kitchen, where Mama was rearranging pots and pans, moving them to one cupboard, then moving them right back.

“The kitchen looks nice,” she said without meeting our eyes.

Guilt coated my tongue like a spoonful of cod liver oil. “I spilled the dishwater,” I said, then jerked a thumb over my shoulder. “Takuma cleaned it up.”

“Thank you,” Mama said, though it didn't sound like she meant it.

Instead of answering, Takuma bowed.

At least that got her attention. Her eyes narrowed disapprovingly as they zeroed in on his ragged collar (which was still slightly damp). “Has it always looked like that?”

I threw up my arms. “Who cares what his collar looks like? I just taught him three whole words!”

“Is that all?” Mama asked, moving the dish soap to the pantry, then sticking it back under the sink.

I frowned. Daddy sometimes brushed me off (usually when he was reading the
Times
), but Mama always celebrated my accomplishments with me.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Auntie Mildred didn't say something untoward, did she?”

“Auntie Mildred
always
says something untoward,” she said. “But today's tirade was especially bad.”

I crinkled my nose. “Did she say something about Takuma?”

“Not specifically,” she said. “She'd never wave our dirty laundry under other people's noses. But she did make Sunday school awfully uncomfortable.”

My hands balled into fists. “That ungrateful crone. Auntie Mildred was the one who started this!”

The words escaped my mouth before I could call them back, but apparently, Mama didn't mind that I'd called her sister a witch.

“Maybe,” Mama mumbled. “But I've found it's always better to be a part of the solution.”

• • •

At school the next day, I avoided Theo. I wasn't embarrassed about missing church so much as I was tired of coming up with good excuses. Fibbing was one thing, but fibbing convincingly was another, so I hid out in the cafeteria during lunch and ignored his whispers during class. As soon as the bell rang, I took off like a bottle rocket.

But Theo was ready for me. By the time I burst into the warm spring sun, he'd practically caught up.

“Ella Mae!” he said, letting the door clank shut behind him. That door had always made me think of prison cells and cold, dark places, but now I realized how little I really knew about being trapped. “Ella Mae, wait up!”

Though I didn't slow down, I did glance over my shoulder, and that was all it took for me to trip over a tree root. The old walnut tree had had it out for me since I'd broken off a lower branch at Halloween last year—I'd been Sacajawea; Theo had been Davy Crockett—and now it had finally gotten its revenge. In the time it took me to get back up, Theo had closed the gap between us and seized a handful of my book bag.

“What's goin' on?” he asked, bending down to catch his breath. “You're runnin' like you think Walter Lloyd is on your tail.”

I tossed my braids over my shoulder. “Guess I just fancied some exercise.” Not my best excuse by any means, but it would have to do.

He drew a noisy breath. “Well, next time, fancy it when I'm not tryin' to catch up.”

I scowled. “What do you want?”

“Why do I have to want something? Don't we always walk home together?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, deflating. It was a dumb thing to forget. “I thought you were gonna ask me why I wasn't at church.”

“Well, I wasn't,” Theo said. “But since you mentioned it, where were you?”

“We have a guest,” I said, trying to sound like it was nothing. The closer you stuck to the truth, the more convincing your fib sounded.

Unfortunately, Theo wasn't convinced. “A guest who doesn't go to church?”

I batted that away. “He's a Lutheran, I think, or maybe a Methodist.” But these were flat-out lies, so I hurried to get back on track. “Not everyone goes to the First Baptist Church, you know.”

“I
know,
” he said, rolling his eyes. “Good grief, you're in a mood. Why are you actin' like a ninny?”

I was still trying to come up with a suitable response when the Studebaker roared up to the curb. Theo made a show of choking on the exhaust, but I just stood there staring. It had been a while since Mama had picked me up from school.

“Get in, Ella Mae,” she said.

I squinted at the car. The sun was at the perfect angle, so I could only just make out Takuma's silhouette in the backseat.

Theo craned his neck. “Is that—?”

“It's no one!” I replied as I dashed around the Studebaker and hopped into the front seat. Now that Takuma was a real, live human being (and living in St. Jude, no less), it seemed especially dangerous to let Theo in on the secret.

Mama peeled away in a cloud of dirt-colored exhaust, leaving Theo to cough and sputter in the shade of the old walnut tree. He must have found it strange that we hadn't offered him a ride, but he would have found it even stranger to ride in the backseat with Takuma.

Once Theo faded to a speck in the side mirror, I sneaked a peek over my shoulder. Takuma was pressed against the window, his eyes as wide as lollipops. They reflected Mr. Whitman's shiny storefront and the giant sculpture of a Mother Lode revolving on the drugstore's roof.

“What do you think of St. Jude?” I asked.

He looked out the window. “Big.”

I looked out the window, too. It had never seemed that big to me, but St. Jude was the only place I'd ever been.

“That's fine, Takuma,” Mama said, “but maybe you shouldn't lean against the window.”

Amazingly, he leaned away.

I swallowed. “Is this all right? I thought Daddy said we couldn't take Takuma out in public.”

“Daddy also said he couldn't borrow Daniel's clothes, and he can't have it both ways.” Mama sneaked her own peek in the rearview. “Not that Daniel's clothes would fit.”

I made a face. “We're goin' shopping?”

“Don't worry,” Mama said. “I won't make you try anything on.”

• • •

St. Jude only had one department store, an ugly-looking place that shared a wall with Arty's Tavern. It didn't even have a name, just an old sign that said
DEPARTMENT STORE
in faded black letters. At least it wasn't crowded.

Mama set the parking brake, then climbed out of the car and led us up the steps, which sagged a little to the side. The air that clogged the doorway smelled like Gramps and Gran's attic—dusty and lightly perfumed. Still, Mama plowed into the store as if she owned the place, Takuma hot on her heels. I swallowed one last gulp of air, then dove in after them.

I blinked until my eyes adjusted to the dingy light, but even when they did, there wasn't much to see. A few racks dotted the floor, but they were as spread out as trees in the Mojave, and the shelves on the back wall made me think of Mother Hubbard's cupboard. This wasn't a department store so much as a last resting place for ugly and unwanted goods. I was about to turn around when I spotted Chester.

“Mrs. Higbee!” Chester said. “What brings you to our fine establishment?”

I scrunched up my nose. “I thought you worked at the drugstore.”

“Still do,” Chester said with his signature smile. “But Mrs. Leavitt lets me work a few shifts here and there during the busy season.”

“This is busy?” I replied.

It wasn't until his smile faltered that I understood. Chester had always seemed like a grown-up to me—he'd been running the soda fountain for as long as I could remember—but he was only Gracie's age (or maybe a few years older). Mama said that Chester worked because the war had killed his daddy and his family needed him to help, but it had never crossed my mind that he might need to work
two
jobs.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked. “I'm afraid we're out of ice cream, but we have a few leftover Easter dresses . . .”

He trailed off when he realized me and Mama weren't alone. As he looked Takuma up and down, his mouth wobbled back and forth between a smile and a frown.

“This is Takuma,” Mama said before the silence could get awkward (or
more
awkward, anyway). “Takuma, this is Chester.”

Takuma didn't bow, and Chester didn't offer to shake hands.

“He needs a new shirt,” she continued as if she hadn't noticed. “And since we're here, we should pick up some pants and underwear.”

At least that snapped Chester out of it. “Underwear,” he mumbled, glancing furtively over his shoulder. Without another word, he retreated to the flimsy curtain marked
EMPLOYEES ONLY
.