Page 49 of The Sign for Home

You stop paying attention as Brother Birch talks about this possible replacement for Cyril. A wave of anger heaves itself against the inside of your chest.Molly is trying to get rid of Cyril. Why? Because she’s jealous that Cyril knows more English words than her and is smarter about the world. Or maybe Molly’s worried that people will find out that she’s the one committing very serious sins? That’s why Molly has invented this story of Cyril being a G-A-Y. She’s trying to make people look at him instead of her.You shove Molly’s hands away and begin to pummel the air with your anger:

“No! I don’t want different interpreter!” You are screaming again. “I want Cyril! He great interpreter! Not fair! Get rid Molly not Cyril! Molly lie! Molly bad interpreter!”

When Molly tries to engage you again, you pull your hands away and shove them into your armpits, refusing to listen. After a few more attempts on Molly’s part, Brother Birch yanks your arms out and shoves his own thick hairy hands back into your palms.

“Stop!” he signs. “Bad boy! Pay attention! You talk mean words A-T Molly! Bad boy! Bad boy!”

When Molly’s hands return to yours, they feel limp. Your comments have bruised her, and you sense she is struggling to focus on her interpretation.

“Do you know how much Molly has done for you in your life?” Brother Birch says. “Do you know she worked for years at a lower pay rate than she would have earned if she worked somewhere else? Do you realize she even moved down here to Poughkeepsie to continue to work with you? She loves you like I love you! She’s the one who taught me to sign so I could communicate with you. Molly is the one who convinced me of your potential, and how you can become a very important preacher. But you speak to her like that? Do you know how much you’ve hurt her?”

Brother Birch is right. The fury that whirled around your heart has sunk to your stomach in a sickening blob of guilt. Molly’s hands, fragile and old, rest in the air under yours. What is that you feel? Is she crying? You are suddenly repulsed at your own ability to crush someone’s soul. Molly is imperfect, yes, but she has been your eyes, ears, and voice for ten years. You have nothing without her. True, Cyril has given you more freedom to learn, but Molly was there at the beginning, giving you the words to ask for that freedom. No matter her offense toward Cyril, no matter the threat to your friendship with Hanne, you should never treat Molly so unkindly.

“Molly. Sorry. I just want Cyril stay interpreter. He good interpreter.I want both you and Cyril. Best interpreters. From now on will respect. Promise.”

You hug Molly’s bony little body. Then Brother Birch and Molly return to their secret discussion. It goes on for at least ten minutes as you stand there, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. Finally, you feel the tap on your shoulders.

“Okay,” Brother Birch says. “Molly convinced me to allow Cyril to stay for now. But no more talking to this Hanne woman. You are to go to school and then come home. Remember, you need to do a lot of studying so we’re ready for Ecuador at the end of summer. No more spending time alone with Cyril. That’s forbidden. Do you understand me? If we are to do this mission trip together, you need to show me that you’re spiritually strong. Are we clear?”

You nod, surprised that Molly stood up for Cyril. You hate the limits that have been set, but you did commit a sin and it’s better than nothing. You have survived another day to wait for the Great Tribulation.

“Okay,” Brother Birch says. “You and Snap can go back to your room and finish that homework you were working on.”

You shake Brother Birch’s hand and kiss Molly on the cheek. Molly does love you, and you love her. You return to your room and the black screen and the giant angry cursor. Your stomach feels uneasy. You want to scratch the skin off your arms. The giant angry cursor begins laughing at you:You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.You squeeze your head between your hands, stuffing any memories that might have leaked out back inside. Not today. Back toforget. The Great Tribulation will need to be postponed. You will need to think of a lie to tell the professor.

19MY SECRETS/YOUR SECRETS

It was Tuesday morning, and despite having a bit too much to drink the night before, I couldn’t sleep. So, I went to the college an hour early with the intention of enjoying a few cups of coffee in the cafeteria, reading the news, and letting myself get into a mild rage at the sorrows of the world. But as I stepped into the dining room, I saw Arlo sitting alone in the nearly empty cafeteria, looking anxious and signing to himself. Snap immediately began slapping her tail on the floor when she saw me, so I walked over and tapped Arlo on the arm, which, as usual, startled him.

“Cyril here,” I signed. “Sorry to scare you. Is everything okay? You looked like something was bothering you.”

Arlo shook his head, dropping his hands to his lap, like he was trying to silence them. Then, as he often does, he looked out just past me as if he were searching for something in a parallel universe that only he could see.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Arlo looked hesitant. “We alone?”

“The cafeteria is empty except for Bitsy and Doris in the kitchen,” I signed. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Okay. Shh. Secret. Last night, I email professor. I told her: write personal essay—too hard! Can’t. Sorry. But professor say,you must try. I ask, can write other hard essay about poem? Professor say:no, you must try!Not fair!”

Arlo ran his fingers through his hair and groaned in frustration. I, however, was glad that Professor Bahr was encouraging him to try. Of course, that was partly for my own selfish curiosity.

“I get it,” I signed. “Writing is hard. But you took this class to improve, right? It’s not my place to say, but the professor seems like a pretty smart person. But again, it’s up to you.”

Not liking my response, Arlo rolled his eyes in the most sarcastic of ways, causing me to laugh. I had never seen him make that expression. For that moment he was just like any twenty-three-year-old reacting to the pestering of some middle-aged person incapable of understanding the difficulty of writing a personal essay. I decided to drop it but kept him talking.

“I’m curious about your trip to Ecuador,” I signed. “What will you do there? I hear there are volcanos, and the G-A-L-Á-P-A-G-O-S Islands. Have you heard about those?”

Arlo nodded. I started yammering on about everything I knew about sea turtles and birds and how the islands were almost untouched. Just when I was about to talk about aNational Geographicvideo I saw about iguanas, he stopped me.

“Go Ecuador for vacation? Not! What for? I will preach Bible and Jehovah God to Deaf Ecuador poor people.”

“Ah, I see. Is Snap going with you?”

A wave of frustration and sadness rushed across Arlo’s face. He squeezed his hands together and then reached down to scratch Snap between her shoulder blades. Rather than give in to it as she usually did, Snap looked up at Arlo, her ears pricked up, her little white eyebrows looking curious and concerned as if she knew what we were talking about.

“No,” Arlo signed smaller, not wanting Snap to see. “Too dangerous. Dogs forbidden to go.”

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