Part 5 (2/2)

More kindness. Stunned and happy, tears sprang to my eyes. What could I say? Somehow, someway, without ever telling him, I think he understood all that a piano represented to me.

I finally gathered myself together and sat down at the piano bench. I turned on the bench and looked at Robert. ”What shall I play?”

”How about that piece you played for Mrs. Drummond, the first night we drove out there?”

So I played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata in D.

It had a magical effect on me. I felt as if I was reliving the sweetest moments of my life, crowding out the horror of the last few years.

On the very last note of the Sonata, as if it was orchestrated, Miss Gordon interrupted my reverie. ”Some of us have things to do. Not just play ditties on a piano.” She frowned at me. ”I suppose I'm going to have to listen to that nonsense all day long.”

Ditties. What a remarkable talent she had to spoil lovely moments. I realized I would have to play the piano when Miss Gordon was gone, which wasn't often. Silently, I wished she had more errands to run.

Chapter Four.

That afternoon, I began to get serious about preparing my Victory Garden. I pulled up deep-rooted weeds and prepared the soil for planting, tilling in the coffee grounds and egg sh.e.l.ls I had coaxed from Miss Gordon.

I recently read in the newspaper that 20 million Americans planted Victory Gardens, and that these gardens produced 40% of all the food that was consumed. Nearly half!

I planned to grow tomatoes, peas, carrots, cuc.u.mbers, beans, onions, and a few sunflowers on the far edge, marigolds and zinnias at the other, just for panache.

As I was leaning over, engrossed in my task, I suddenly felt a big, wet, scratchy tongue lick the back of my neck. I jumped up, startled. Looking up at me with his head c.o.c.ked to one side was a yellow-haired puppy with large brown eyes. My heart melted. He seemed sweet, gentle and affectionate, without trying to nip at me as I petted him. He had no collar, and his ribs stuck out of his dirty, matted fur.

William came around the side of the house and saw me patting the puppy. I waved to him to come over. He looked nervous as I showed him how to put his hand out so the pup could smell him. Soon, William relaxed. Encouraged, the puppy started licking his hand.

Then something wonderful happened. William laughed. He laughed!

At that moment, Rosita ran out of her house, waving a broom frantically in the air. ”That dog is a big pest! He has been hanging around my backdoor begging for food.”

”No, Rosita, wait! Don't chase him away. Do you have any idea whom he belongs to?”

”No one! Who would want him? He's a stray. Just a mutt. He's a pest. Don't feed him or he will never go.” She shook her head and went back home with her broom.

I picked up a stick and threw it. The pup scrambled after it on paws as large as dinner plates, proudly returning to us the treasure between his teeth. William threw it next, and we were soon completely entertained by the game. It wasn't long until the puppy was exhausted and crashed down on the gra.s.s, tongue hanging out of his mouth, panting heavily. William sank down beside the puppy, rubbing ears that felt like pieces of velvet. I went inside to get a bowl of water for the puppy.

As I was filling up a dish, I was struck with a brilliant idea. Brilliant! I had already enrolled William in the correspondence cla.s.ses from the John Tracy Clinic, audaciously antic.i.p.ating Robert's approval.

The materials had come yesterday in the mail. I had spent last evening up in my room, pouring over the a.s.signments for correspondence course #1. I was confident I could teach William how to make an a.s.sociation for a word, through lip reading, by using this dog as a cue.

I hurried outside to join William and the puppy. In my eagerness, I took William's hands in mine and placed one of his hands on the puppy. I tapped him on the shoulder to look at me and placed his free hand on my throat to feel the vibrations of my vocal chords as I said the word ”dog.” He didn't understand, so I tried it again. And again. And again.

I could see in his eyes that he didn't make the connection that there was meaning to the word. Too soon, both the puppy and William lost interest. Thirst quenched, the puppy bounded across the street to continue exploring Copper Springs.

I gathered up my garden tools and took William inside. At least Robert and his aunt hadn't witnessed that futile lesson. This was going to be harder than I thought. I spent that evening re-reading through the correspondence course materials, feeling woefully incompetent.

I had a sweeping empathy for Robert as I could now understand his reluctance to begin this challenging work with William. I was trying to teach a child a spoken language, a deaf child who had never learned that words or letters had an a.s.sociation to an object.

And I felt a needling concern since I was doing this without his father's permission. Or approval.

I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, and finally prayed a prayer over the problem before falling asleep.

Lord, you are the author of language. I believe you want William to have a way to express his thoughts, his feelings, and his prayers, and to be able to take his place in this world. Please give me the wisdom to do this. Amen.

The next morning, I came downstairs and went straight to the coffee pot, pouring myself a cup. Robert's head was bent over his sermon notes at the kitchen table, giving them a final once-over before the church service began as Miss Gordon ironed his ministerial robe.

Not long after, William came downstairs in his striped pajamas, sleepily rubbing his eyes. He opened the pantry cupboard, got out his favorite cereal of Cheerioats, then climbed up on the counter to get a bowl. I heard a scratching sound at the kitchen door. No one else noticed; they were preoccupied with their tasks.

I went over to open the door. In leapt that big yellow puppy. He made a wild dash around the room and then happily bounced over to William, paws up on the counter where William sat, to give him an enthusiastic greeting. Giggling, William jumped down and hugged the pup around his neck.

Now recovered from their shock at this unwelcome and boisterous guest, Miss Gordon and Robert sprang into action and started shouting to get the dog back outside.

”Wait!” I yelled, holding one hand in the air. They stopped in their tracks, startled by the authoritative tone in my voice. I went over to William, and, once again, placed one of his hands on the puppy, his other hand on my throat. With great exaggeration, almost as an actress, I said the word ”dog.” With my left hand, I pointed to the puppy.

And just then a miracle occurred.

In William's eyes, I could see the connection. He tilted his head to one side, looked at the puppy, and uttered a sound. A sound! He pointed to the puppy as if to say: Is that what you meant?

I nodded. I said ”dog” again, and he said it back to me. It wasn't an intelligible sound, almost a grunt, but to me, all of the music on this earth fell short of that one little attempt at a word.

I looked up at Robert. I'll never forget the unmistakable joy on his face. Even Miss Gordon understood this was a pivotal moment. She started dabbing her eyes with her dishtowel and then went outside to collect laundry, she said, even though none was hanging.

Robert crouched down next to William and practiced right along with him. The three of us, including the puppy, delighted to be the center of attention, sat on the kitchen floor practicing how to say the word ”dog.”

Too soon, Miss Gordon came back inside and scolded us for neglecting the clock. We had to hurry to get to church, but it seemed the time was ripe to teach William to communicate. Robert locked the puppy in the backyard with water and William's leftover bowl of soggy Cheerioats.

Church seemed especially wors.h.i.+p-filled for us that morning. Robert happened to be preaching on the miracles of Jesus from the Gospel of Matthew. 'Ask and it will be given unto you, a.s.sured Jesus. For everyone who asks, receives.' Once or twice, I caught Robert gazing at William with quiet amazement.

Just as you promised, Lord Jesus, I asked for your help, and you answered my prayers to help William.

We hurried home after church and spent the afternoon at the kitchen table, pouring over the correspondence course. I explained to Robert and Miss Gordon what I had been studying the last few nights in my room.

The John Tracy Clinic was based on the concept of oral communication. Mrs. Tracy believed deaf children could be taught to communicate with the hearing and speaking world. She had patiently taught her own son to lip read, beginning at the age of three. She felt parents were the key to help a child discover that sounds exists even if he couldn't hear them.

”But what about sign language?” interrupted Robert, looking skeptical. ”I a.s.sumed that would be the best option. The only option.”

”From what I've read, he will always be able to learn sign language. But as far as learning to speak, there is only a window of opportunity while he is still so young. Think of it as learning a language. It's so much easier if you're young.”

The puppy interrupted us, das.h.i.+ng around the kitchen table before slurping up water from a bowl near the door. Miss Gordon curled her lips with disgust.

I ignored her and carried on. ”And the reason Mrs. Tracy wanted her own son to use oral communication was because she didn't want him excluded from the world. Even though sign language is an official language, it would still mean that William could only communicate with people who knew the language.”

I paused as William climbed up on my lap. ”And one other thing about sign language...it is supposed to be very difficult to learn it from a book. You have to be immersed in it. I don't think we could teach him without being fluent in it ourselves. He would probably have to be at a special school.”

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