The Silents

20

CHAPTER 20 I N TWO years' time, the garden fulfilled its promise. Tulips and crocus pushed through the snow in early spring. In the summer, green onion and carrot tops waved at the side of the house. The old shed that hugged the alley had been painted shiny white and gleamed in the sun. Because it was only a lean-to, propped up by rotting boards, it seemed wasteful to put good paint to it, and, indeed, in autumn the shed burned to the ground. As it did, my father put his hand to his forehead in dismay, then put his fingers down to his side, muttering that his son-in-law was a fool, even dangerous, for burning leaves so close to the shed. "Doesn't know a thing about anything," he spelled to his pants leg. I wondered whether to interrupt his internal thoughts and defend my husband, for Ai could do anything he wanted. He could wield a hammer or screwdriver, change the wiring, turn the basement into a rec room, and I was proud of him. So what ifhe burned leaves too close to the shed? Papa was aware of my loyalty. It would take only a flash of indignation on my face to cause him to back off. But I thought the better of it. As long as he didn't confront Ai face-to-face, as long as he kept it to himself, as long as he complained only to me, I let it pass. Papa had invited Sarah and Little Joe to our Garden of Eden, so they showed up one Sunday to help harvest. "Take," he said, shoving carrots into their shopping bags. "Take more. No, Little Joe, don't run off just yet. We'll have a 174 glass of lemonade under the grape arbor. Be careful not to step on the grapes. Sha forgot to clean it up." What did he think I did all day? File my nails? But I let this one pass, too. Sarah walked down the grape-stained path and sat next to Mama. I ran in to make lemonade and dashed back outside, pitcher and glasses tilting to one side of the tray. I was in a rush to please my father, happy that he felt secure enough to offer carrots and green beans. Sarah spelled in Mama's hands, and Papa and Little Joe talked of the old days. When they had finished reliving the Depression, they turned to baseball, and when that topic was exhausted, they started discussing the deaf club and its current president and the new temple everyone was hoping for. I'd heard it all before. In fact, because the Depression had assumed legendary proportions with them, I began to mistrust their stories-tales, for instance, about Papa moving us out of our apartment in the middle ofthe night because he couldn't pay the rent. "When was that?" I had asked years ago, and he had answered, "You were just a baby. That's why you don't remember ." Little Joe would nod his head in agreement, and Papa would puff on his cigar, pleased at being backed up. My father's tales of hoboing through the country and seeing Pancho Villa and Indians (drawing his Indian heads for Andy now) were reduced to folklore, even if Little Joe always backed him up. How would he know? He didn't ride the rails with Papa. And baseball was something I had no time for, but a templenow that was something! I interrupted their talk, "What new temple?" "There's a rumor going around that a temple for the deaf might be formed." "That's wonderful," I exclaimed, watching Sarah spelling into Mama's hands. Because Sarah's fingers were covered by my mother's hand, I had no idea what those two were talking about. When Mama had something to say, it was usually "Really?" or "Isn't that something?" or "No, I haven't seen her. How is she?" 175 Bored, I walked back upstairs to find AI reading in the living room. Andy moved himself from the sofa and toddled to the coffee table. He had wonderful comedic talent, shredding old newspapers and scooping and dropping the bits neatly in a pile again, mugging constantly, then walked downstairs to perform for the others. "So, what are the old folks talking about now?" AI asked me...