On the Beat of Truth: A Hearing Daughter's Stories of Her Black Deaf Parents

11. From Chocolates to Fresh Goat and Pig Meat

157 11 From Chocolates to Fresh Goat and Pig Meat “What if I had been the chocolate candy bandit?” I love chocolates: chocolate cookies, chocolate candy, chocolate cake with thick chocolate icing. I must have been eleven years old and in the sixth grade when I discover that chocolate just plain makes me feel good and eases the troubles I have at home or school. It is about the same time, I think, when I realize the next best thing to having chocolate twenty-four hours a day is having a father whose good friend works in a chocolate candy factory. And not just any candy store, it is Fanny Farmer Fine Chocolates, if you please. They sell only the finest—the choicest creamy chocolates, mouthwatering candies with luscious nuts, or jellies with creamy filling inside each delectable piece. Fanny Farmer Chocolates are hailed as superior to any other, not just for their exquisite taste, but also because each piece has to satisfy rigid inspection standards. Any candy failing the test, no matter how minor the flaw, is promptly given away to employees, or worse yet, tossed aside to oblivion. I am ever so grateful for Daddy’s loyal and most generous friend, a deaf white man whose name I never learn. He wears a crew cut, a dingy white apron, and a wide welcoming grin whenever he sees Daddy and me in the back rooms of the candy factory. On the Beat of Truth 158 At home, every three or four days, Daddy stands outside the bedroom door and parcels out two or three measly little pieces for each of the three of us. His hand dips into the white paper bag, and up come three pieces. “Maxine, come here. Here are three for you. Shirley, come here, you have three. And even Barbara, just a tiny tot, gets three.” I cherish each piece, taking little bites, savoring the taste, wishing it would last forever. Somehow I reason that I should get more because I am the oldest. Oh well, I’ll never be able to convince Daddy of that. If I can just get some more candy, then I will never want any more after that. On this particular day, I yearn for chocolate candy. I can taste it melting in my mouth, the light chocolate squares with chewy caramel on the inside. Or the dark chocolate ones with syrupy cherries waiting to be crunched and savored. Maybe I’ll get one with raisins or almonds, or perhaps some with creamy fillings: vanilla, strawberry, or mint. They are not my favorites—I eat those only as a last resort. Sometimes I guess what the fillings will be, especially the candies with the different nuts. Oh, if I could just have some candy. It is a Sunday afternoon, Daddy’s only day off. He is sitting in an armchair, his head nodding, asleep. Did I hear a purring sound? Is he really sound asleep? The chair is in front of a large double window, some ten to twelve feet directly opposite the door to his bedroom. I stand there, watching the up and down movement of his breathing. I conclude he’s sound asleep, and that I can go in his room and get some candy. Tiptoe . . . tiptoe . . . I have to be careful. He can feel my walking vibrations on the floor. I open the door ever so carefully, so slowly. S-c-r-e-e-c-h. He’ll never hear that. Better be careful, he might feel the air draft from the door opening. I ease it open and slip inside. I see the white From Chocolates to Fresh Goat and Pig Meat 159 bag containing the chocolate crown jewels on top of the dresser. Two steps, I grab the bag and stop to breathe in that magnificent chocolate smell, when I hear something. No! No! It can’t be. It’s Daddy. He’s coming. Alarmed, I look around, thinking that perhaps I should jump out the window, but I don’t have time to try to open it. What to do? What to do? He’ll have a tirade. Would he beat me? Would he mock me to all his relatives and friends, “I caught Maxine stealing,” with his hands signing the word “steal” as if in slow motion. I toss the bag back on top of the dresser and dash under his...