The Silents

23

CHAPTER 23 ASMALL window to our worlds had opened since Zadie's death. Mama seemed more willing to talk ofPapa's moods, and I, in turn, told her ofmy petty annoyances with Ai. When Adelaide sat in our kitchen, our two boys off in Andy's room, playing with their trucks, we gossiped. We talked women talk. Rosie had died ofcancer the year before, freeing her mother of worries over Rosie's future. Sarah's appearances had dwindled to a few surprise visits. Mama's only true friends were her daughters . Everyone else, it seemed, was more interested in talking to Mama only when Papa was around. I suppose they felt that, if Mama didn't get their attempts at talking in her hand, they could turn to Papa and say, "tell her that...." It was tedious, bone aching to keep one's fingers going in that small palm. It could also be frustrating when Mama's eyes indicated that she didn't understand. What was needed was more precise, careful fingerspelling. Her friends sometimes didn't have the patience. One night in our fourth year together, my father came home and stashed his lunch box and bowling ball in the hall closet, slamming the door as if he'd never use them again. I poked Mama in the ribs, my secret way of telling her he was upset. She nodded carefully in my direction to let me know she understood. We had talked about it just the previous afternoon. It made no sense to me that the Teamster's union was about to strike. Papa was doing better financially than he ever had, not counting his 200 boxing and bootlegging days. Every week, he rolled out his wad of bills and peeled off his share of the expenses with a flourish. It was an expression of confidence and good times, something I'd never seM as a child. "Why would he vote to strike?" I had asked my mother. "Loyalty to the union," Mama had commented. "Your father is very loyal to those who take care of him. You know that. And it was his brother that got him the job. So ifyour uncle says Papa should vote for a strike, then Papa will do it." I didn't expect it to happen so soon, and neither did Papa by the looks of him. He sank into the kitchen chair and drummed his fingers on the table. "Strike?" I signed, as we sat down to dinner. "Yes, well, that's the way it's supposed to be," he answered. "It's what you wanted, Papa." "True," he said making the sign. "But I won't be able to pay you my rent until it's over. I'll get strike pay, but it won't be much." "It's not a problem, Papa." "Pretty soon you'll have the new baby. I should give you more, not less." "I'm not worried. I'm sure the strike will be over soon." Papa spelled the news in Mama's hands. She patted him on the shoulder to reassure him and helped me serve dinner. AI reached for the A-1 sauce. "Union striking?" he asked, noticing my father's mood. "Yes. Papa's worried about paying the rent. I told him it's not a problem." "It isn't, but it bothers me that he has to go on strike for the Teamsters. They're a bunch of crooks, that's what they are. In the end, he'll get a pension that won't pay for a loaf of bread." He poured A-I sauce on his steak and proceeded to eat as ifhis words ofwisdom needed no more explanation. Fancy engineer, I thought, who couldn't fathom working on a bottling line. I had 201 accused him of this kind of snobbery before, every time he got into a snit about the Teamsters. "Don't start up about the union again. My father's proud to be in it. I know it sounds silly when you think of the times he broke up strikes, but he's legitimate now. Like Mama says, he's loyal." I cut up my steak and ate it, annoyed that he would bring up his dislike of the union when my father sat discouraged, his shoulders hunched over his meal. Why couldn't he see it, this bow-tied, three-piece...