Hick - Andrea Portes [33]
“You know, it’s funny.” I say, starting up. “You may not believe it, but I picked up some sign language myself, here and there, along the way.”
And here I start my barrage of international hand signals for “Fuck you.” I start with the simple finger, then the flick off the chin, then the thumb to the nose with wavy fingers, then the arm-cross and then back to the finger. I repeat these gestures, going faster each time. I start directing them around the room, sporadic, at Blane, Glenda and the two flannels. Blane starts to laugh and the rest follow suit. I’m in. I’ve won them over. I’ve put myself far, far away from any malady I can catch from that mute.
But the Mexican boy ain’t laughing. He looks red-eyed and stung. Luckless. He turns away and then bolts out the back.
There’s a silence now. The flannels shrug, going back to their beer. Glenda lights a cigarette. Blane turns towards me.
“Go apologize.”
I look to Glenda for credit. She stares into her whiskey, jingling the ice around like she’s waiting for a train. One of the flannels chuckles silently into his beer.
“Go apologize.”
Glenda raises an eyebrow, swivels her seat towards me and says, “it’s your call, kid.”
“Goddamnit, Glenda!” Blane slams his glass down onto the bar hard and stares at her, looking straight through to the back of her head.
“That little boy’s got a name. You didn’t even tell her his name. He’s got a name, you know.” He turns to me and says real clear, “His name’s Angel. He’s not deaf. He’s not dumb. He can think like you or me. He has feelings like you or me. He just can’t talk is all. So don’t treat him like a fucking retard.”
He starts to calm down a little, wiping the sweat off his brow. He turns back to Glenda. “Now I don’t know who your little playmate is, here, but she made quite an impression. And I want you to tell her to go apologize.”
“Look, Blane, I brought him that fucking bunny all the way from Memphis, now just cool your jets about it—”
“Tell her.”
Glenda doesn’t look at me. She stares back through him, blowing smoke in his face, keeping cold.
“Luli, go apologize.”
Whatever this spider web is I’ve walked into, it has nothing to do with me. These looks, this staring, goes back. This is part of some unspoken rambling going back to before time. Just another fight and looky-me, thrown in the center. I feel right at home.
I grab the bunny rabbit round the waist and drag it across the floor and out the back. I can hear the flannels snickering as the screen door slams behind me. Outside, the air smells sweet and the grasshoppers hum so loud it’s like they’re gonna take over. They buzz and buzz like they’re some unseen electric army chuffing themselves up for war.
There’s a run-down, gray-white, one-room house sitting off to the side of the dirt patch behind the alley. Angel sits on the front porch, leaning sideways on the rail, his body bent into a lower-caser. He sees me come out but doesn’t bother to turn his neck. He looks at the moon glowing orange, low in the sky. Harvest moon. Indian summer. The leaves outside fixing to turn red, orange, yellow and then throw themselves off the trees. They got about a month to meet their maker.
Here’s the thing I didn’t notice before. He’s tall, more intimidating than I’d clocked inside. He dwarfs me, which ain’t hard to do. But I thought he was younger or smaller or less to contend with.
I set the rabbit up against the steps and start kicking the gravel around at my feet, playing playful. He doesn’t bite. I lean against the other railing, both of us facing out to the moon. The grass-hoppers hum through the silence, plotting their attack while we sit weak.
“That’s a harvest moon.”
He doesn’t say nothing. The grasshoppers buzz and buzz again. He starts dragging his shoes through the gravel, a little at a time and then more, in a pattern. I look down and suss out he’s writing some such. He finishes and it says, spelled out in gravel, “I’m mute. Not dumb.”
I laugh. He smiles a little bit, not wanting to give in too easy.
“You know, Angel