Brother to Dragons, Companion to Owls - Jane Lindskold [15]
“Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—of cabbages—and kings—and why the sea is boiling hot—and whether pigs have wings.”
“Lots of nonsense,” Professor Isabella translates.
Yet, even as I accept her interpretation, I wonder. There have been many questions that I have struggled to answer, yet these are diminished beneath a vivid flood of nonverbal memories.
Head Wolf has his favorites. I am one. Edelweiss is another. A black/Asian mix Tail Wolf called Bumblebee is another. He is so generous with his attentions that he often mock-complains that he is worn out.
Yet, I have learned that many who share his tent do so for more than sex. For Head Wolf has a gift he gives beyond sexual pleasure—he cuddles, strokes, and comforts. His greatest talent is tenderness. He is never too busy to pet or soothe any of his Pack and for this a Tail Wolf may come to him although a night of turning tricks has left her numb.
I enjoy his tenderness, but I have often known kindness. For some of the others in the Jungle, Head Wolf is the only one who has ever listened to them, cared for them. He admires their finery, settles their quarrels, and suggests what they should do when in trouble. Sometimes, he scolds; often he punishes. Always he cares.
Once, I believed fear and the Law bound the Jungle. Now I believe that what binds it is safety and compassion.
Although we enjoy our nights in diners and hotels, we cannot always loiter in these havens. Abalone explains that this would cause resentment among those of the Free People who lack her extraordinary skills. And Abalone’s supply of money is not endless, especially now that she is stretching to supply three.
So, often we go to charity soup kitchens and stand on line with the other homeless awaiting something hot, cheap, and nourishing. Abalone looks at the miserable addicts and drunks who swarm around us, cursing under her breath.
Occasionally, I recognize other outcasts from the Home, but they do not seem to know me. Most are buried in the morass of their own minds.
Our favorite of these kitchens is called “When I Was Hungry.” It is run by Witnesses.
“They’re good people, on the whole,” Abalone says as we wait at the end of a line. “They’ll preach and pray, but their hearts are without that…”
She struggles to describe the emotion we so often encounter in the public dole lines.
“Scorn?” Professor Isabella suggests. “I agree with you. The Witnesses pity me for my religious ignorance and unredeemed status but they are without scorn. And even if Sarah here has a better comprehension of the Bible in its glorious contradictions, I can take their preaching.”
“You sound as if you think Sarah’s flipped short on the brains side,” Abalone says, and there is a growl in her voice. “You ever notice how much sense she makes? And I couldn’t remember like she does.”
“Nor I,” Professor Isabella agrees, “but there is something ‘short’ in her brains, something is missing that would let her reach in and make her own sentences.”
I am uncomfortable, as always, when they discuss me this way. Even my best friends seem to forget that I am able to hear them. Recently, I have noticed that Professor Isabella addresses Abalone as another adult, but speaks to me as a child.
Frustration bubbles in my throat as it has so often before. I want to claw away the bars of this cage built by my mind. My hands, as always, reach and find nothing to grab onto.
I move along the line, sliding my battered tray and accepting a plastic spoon, a napkin, a cup of weak coffee. As I look up to accept the wide plastic bowl heaped with some noodle-filled casserole, delight thrills through me and I stare. Words come quickly.
“A day without orange juice is a day without sunshine?” I ask, afraid that I am wrong or that he has forgotten me.
Jerome’s head jerks up from his mechanical task. “Sarah? Sarah! What are you doing here, girl?”
The line has backed up behind us; only a few of the people that I am obstructing are alert enough to care about anything