I Can Hear the Mourning Dove Page 7

  “I wasn’t really afraid, not completely. It’s just that I have such thoughts sometimes; I like the smell in your garage and I love to hear the mourning dove. I know I’m different, but I don’t want people to think I’m weird. If you’re real weird, you can’t make friends.”

  “There’s nothing weird about it; it would be fun to talk to Miss Braverman as an equal.”

  “You really mean that? When I think of having tea together it seems comforting and reassuring.”

  “I don’t think it’s weird,” she says again. Suddenly she gets silly and raises her eyebrows two or three times. “You should hear some of my fantasies.”

  “I’d love to, what are they?”

  Now she is laughing out loud. “I’ll never tell.”

  “You can tell me, it’s okay.”

  She is still laughing and shaking her head. “Oh no. I’ll never tell, no way.”

  I start laughing too, although I’m not sure why. But it feels so good, who cares?

  DeeDee finally says, “I have to go to work!”

  When I get home, my mom is already there. “I’ve had the most wonderful day, Mother.”

  “Where have you been?”

  “At DeeDee’s house. Were you worried?”

  “I wouldn’t say worried, exactly. But you’re always home before I am.”

  “I’ve had the most wonderful day. I talked to Miss Braverman about doing a project for the science fair; I almost got scrambled but I didn’t. Then I went home with DeeDee. We had the nicest talk; I told her things about myself I didn’t think I could ever tell anyone.”

  “She seems like a lovely girl, Grace.”

  “I think she likes me; I really do. She thinks I have redeeming qualities.”

  “Why shouldn’t she think it? You do have redeeming qualities; lots of them.”

  “I think we might turn out to be friends, Mother, I really do. I might even do a project for the science fair.”

  “I hope you will.”

  “Things are going to get better, Mother; I can tell.”

  I have finished my project for the science fair; I have worked on it every night this week, and it is done. I have included some of the most hideous experiments done on creatures, such as crushing live monkeys’ skulls in an electric vise, and birthing puppies from starved mothers. I have tried to minimize the politics and maximize the so-called scientific aspect, the way Miss Braverman asked me to do.

  The project is a display on four large pieces of white posterboard, twenty-four by thirty inches each. The posterboard panels stand upright in cardboard frames which I made. There are lots of photographs, and I did the lettering in calligraphy, using my dad’s pen sets and guide books. My dad would be proud of this project.

  After school, I take the project to Miss Braverman’s room, but she is not there. The door is locked; a note says she will be back at 3:45. I can’t wait till 3:45, because I have to make up my laps. I carry the display under my arm and walk to the P.E. wing.

  I tell the P.E. secretary I’m supposed to make up my swimming laps now, but she says, “I don’t know where Mrs. DeSmet is right now.”

  “But please, I’m supposed to make up my laps.”

  “Why didn’t you do them in P.E.?”

  “I got scrambled.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Her voice has lots of static.

  “Please, I need to talk to her.”

  Then Mrs. DeSmet comes in. Mercifully. I catch my breath while she tells me to get changed into my suit and meet her at the pool.

  I am the only one in the locker room. While I am changing quickly into my suit, I glance at myself in the large mirror above the lavatories. I seem smoky in the mirror because it isn’t made of glass, it’s the metal kind mounted at an angle so that people in wheelchairs can see themselves. I stack my display next to my locker.

  Mrs. DeSmet is sitting on a folding chair next to the swimming pool, reading a book called Her Only Sin and eating from a bag of Fritos. The water in the pool is so utterly calm that I can see the exact contours of the lines painted on the bottom.

  Mrs. DeSmet tells me not to worry about speed, just get the laps done. I start swimming and the water is warm and clear and still; it is ever so peaceful and reassuring. I swim the laps and I wish they could go on forever. Maybe Mrs. DeSmet will get bored and leave, and I will just swim on through a time warp and into another plane. Poetry goes through my head as I go:

  The laps are lovely, clear and deep,

  But I have promises to keep.

  Mrs. DeSmet is telling me to get out of the pool. “You’ve done fifteen now; you only needed to do twelve.”

  I grip the edge of the pool. “It’s so pleasant swimming the laps.”

  “I’m glad you like it, but the test is twelve laps.”

  I know what the promises are. “I have to take my science project to Miss Braverman,” I say.

  “That sounds good. Please get dressed, Grace.”

  After I am dressed, I climb the stairs from the locker room. Swimming the laps has refreshed me.

  I go through the door into the hallway, and I freeze.

  In front of me are half a dozen Surly People, and I recognize three of them: Brenda Chitwood, the one called DeWayne, and the one called Butch. They are spray painting black swastikas on the lockers.

  Fear has gripped me like a vise, but their backs are toward me; I make a panicky grab at the door, hoping I can slip back through it without making any noise. But I am too late. The door swings shut with a loud clunk and the startled Surly People turn on me.

  “Well, well, look who’s here.”

  “I’ll be damned if it’s not Woof Woof.”

  “Hey bow wow.”

  My heart is pounding so wild in my chest that it drives out my breath. The hallway is tight and narrow; I grab at the doorknob behind me, but the one called Butch snatches my wrist with such force that it feels it will break.

  “Oh God no, please no.”

  He is twisting my arm behind my back. “It’s too bad you had to see this, Bow wow. You might get the not-so-bright idea to tell somebody about it, and I don’t think MacFarlane would appreciate our art work.”

  The one called DeWayne laughs loudly. “Probably not,” he says. He presses me against the wall and holds my chin in his hand. He is so powerful. The burned-out eyebrow is terrifying. “You wouldn’t want to tell MacFarlane about our art work, would you, Woof Woof?”

  “I’ll bet she would,” says Butch. “I’ll bet she just loves show and tell.”

  I want to tell them no, I’ll never tell a soul, but I don’t have any breath to speak with. I can feel the tears rolling down my face.

  “I’ll bet we’ve got some show and tell right here,” says Butch; he snatches my posterboard displays. DeWayne grips my chin and forces my head back against the wall. “If you ever decided to talk about this,” he hisses, “we’d have to teach you a lesson. You wouldn’t like it, take my word for it.” His grip on my chin gets tighter and tighter.

  I can’t turn my head but I can see from the corner of my eye; the one called Butch spreads out my display panels on the floor. “Ain’t this the sweetest show and tell you ever seen. Cute little puppies and kitties and everything.”

  Brenda Chitwood is spray painting black swastikas on my display. It seems so desperately cruel I start to sob. “Let’s give her a little show and tell of our own,” she says. “Let’s pants the bitch.”

  They lift me up under the arms and by the ankles and start carrying me to the door to the back parking lot. I want to scream; but I don’t have a voice. My head is splitting with a pain so bad it feels my eyeballs are spinning in their sockets. I don’t know what they will do to me, but I have no power to resist. My bones have turned to liquid and every part of me is shaking.

  Outside the door, they have me in a secluded niche of the parking lot. I watch their hands unfasten my jeans and start pulling them off.

  The furious gray clouds are spinning
in motion, faster and faster, like a pinwheel. What further proof do you need? Have we not told you? Have we not told you again and again?

  Their hands are pulling my jeans roughly over my ankles. Are they going to take off my underpants as well? Are they going to rape me with their huge, rigid organs? Will I be split up the middle like a seam?

  But something has suddenly launched me past the fear, into a different plane. It is truly remarkable. All of this is happening to someone else and I am merely watching. The sky is spinning so fast it seems motionless, like a whirling airplane propellor.

  There is a hand tearing at my underpants and I feel the waistband cut into my side. Now I am dropped, I think, onto the blacktop. I think the Surly People are gone, but I have no idea why. I am numb in a zone I have never known. The whole world itself is enveloped in the mist. It is breathtaking, but where would I ever find words to describe it to anyone?

  Miss Shapiro appears above me. She is like a spirit, suspended in the mist, but I still recognize her.

  “Grace, what on earth? Are you hurt?”

  “There appeared before me a multitude of the heavenly host, spinning prophecy to me in the voice of the angry clouds.” My words come out flat like a chant, but are they even my words?

  “I think there’s a blanket in my car. We have to do something. Let me help you back into your clothes.” She helps the white legs back into the blue jeans; the legs must belong to me.

  “Miss Shapiro, look around you. It takes your breath away.”

  “Grace, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “The transformation. Can you not see it?”

  “Let’s get you to my office. Do you think you can walk? Maybe the nurse is still here.”

  Mr. MacFarlane too is shrouded by the mist. He is saying, “I think you should take this matter up with the police, Mrs. Braun.”

  “Of course we’ll take it up with the police,” says my mother. “But right now, I intend to take it up with you.”

  Their voices are thin. I think some time has passed, but time has no meaning.

  “When Grace gets her composure back, I’m sure she can tell us who is responsible for this.”

  “I’m sure she can too, but that’s not the issue. What I’m saying to you is, I want to bring Grace here on my way to school. Every morning.”

  “Mrs. Braun, our policy is that students don’t enter the building until eight o’clock A.M.”

  My mother has tears in her eyes. “I don’t give a damn about your policy. Grace is in danger from these people, and I expect you to make some kind of adjustment.”

  “I can understand how upset you must be.”

  “Don’t you patronize me. What I need from you is a little imagination. There has to be someplace she can wait. The office, the cafeteria, one of the study halls, someplace.”

  Mr. MacFarlane says, “I suppose we could work something out.”

  “Thank you very much,” says my mother. She turns to me. “Will this help you, Grace? Will it make you feel any safer?”

  “I know what place this is,” I say. The flat voice must belong to me; it only stands to reason. “This is Miss Shapiro’s office.”

  “Please, Grace.”

  “It doesn’t matter, I can assure you of that. The truth has been revealed to me. A transformation has taken place. If you look around you, do you not see it?”

  “Please, Grace, don’t talk this way.”

  “Father has gone to a different plane, but he is not dead. He speaks to me from the other side, in a sky voice. The Surly People are the agents of the forces of darkness. They have central organization but they are good at concealing it.”

  “Please.” There are tears filling her eyes again.

  “At all times and everywhere there are the forces of darkness and the forces of light, locked in combat. Father comes to me from the sky; he comes from the light. I have to be joined with the forces of light. My part may even be an important one, but that too will be revealed to me. This is my time of preparation. The strength I need will be imparted to me.”

  “We need to talk to Dr. Rowe.”

  Four

  I keep my cookie under my pillow. Nobody knows it’s there but me. In the looney bin, where everybody knows so much about you, even what you eat and if you wet the bed, it’s nice to have a secret. Even if it’s a small one.

  I think the cookie’s been there a long time, but I don’t know how long. Yesterday and yesterday and yesterday, which day comes and which day goes? If Mrs. Grant tells me it’s Friday, I trust her and believe her. As for finding my destinations, there is always the colored tape.

  Mrs. Grant is standing in the mist. She floats above the floor like a wraith. But could you have a chubby wraith? I think she must have a special fondness for bowling. It would be rewarding to be on a bowling team; there would be togetherness and companionship and sisterhood.

  Actually, the cookie is remarkable. I check on it from time to time; it crumbles at the edges, but it doesn’t break. I would like to eat it but it’s dry and brittle; I can’t manufacture enough saliva.

  I think my mother has been here to visit me today, but I can’t be sure. My metal statue is here in my room, so it must be that she’s been here to visit me.

  Every night at supper, Mrs. Higgins makes me eat my Jell-O. Sometimes there are grapes in it, or grapefruit sections, or peach slices. I suppose I could survive forever on Jell-O and nothing but. I suppose anyone could. Jell-O with nuts, or raisins, or shredded carrots, Jell-O with chopped celery, or pears, there’s almost no limit to the possibilities.

  But it takes a lot of saliva to eat a cookie. The cookie is large in circumference, but extremely thin. It is chocolate chip, but it also has M&Ms baked in it. Since it doesn’t break, it must be that my head doesn’t weigh very much. Of course it could also be that my head is actually quite heavy, but the pillow is an effective cushion.

  Some days I talk to Dr. Rowe, but I can’t remember what we say to each other.

  I don’t like to go to sleep at night. I like to sit in the lounge by the open window and listen to the mourning dove and hear the cattle lowing at the university farm at milking time.

  “Grace, it’s time for your medicine, and you need to get dressed.”

  Mrs. Grant means well, and she has my best interests at heart, but she is often in the mist. I say to her, “Mrs. Grant, floating in the mist must be disorienting for you.”

  “There’s no mist here, Grace. Did you hear what I said to you?”

  There is a farm report on television. Miss Ivey is sitting in her usual chair in front of the set. I wonder if anything she watches penetrates her brain.

  Mrs. Grant takes a seat beside me.

  “Mrs. Grant, if you’ll be very, very still, there’s a good chance you will hear the mourning dove.”

  “At least you know who I am today. I like mourning doves too, but you’re not listening to what I’m telling you.”

  “No bird could ever be more precious to humanity than a dove, Mrs. Grant. Throughout the ages, the dove has stood for peace and harmony and healing. Even at the baptism of Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit descended in the form of a dove.”

  She just says something more about getting cleaned up. Her voice is beginning to pop with static. She is making a pest of herself. I suddenly feel cold, and start to quiver. I say to her, “If I’m clean enough, Mrs. Grant, will I get well?”

  “That’s not the point, Grace. Why are you shaking?”

  “It’s the static and the mist. It gives me the chills.”

  “There’s no mist and no static either.”

  “Maybe if I scrubbed and scrubbed, I would be cleansed and purified. With thick, shiny hair, and lots of deodorant and baby powder and manicured, oval fingernails, and a transformation would take place. I would be in control.” I am shivering and my teeth are chattering; I am giggling, or it might be sobbing, I’m not sure. I’m so glad Mrs. Grant is here.

  Dr. Phyllis Rowe asks me about my me
tal sculpture.

  “My father made it. It is made of old metal scraps, welded together. Beauty is painted with bronze-colored spray paint, but not the Beast. I wonder if he had it to do over again, if he would paint the Beast too.”

  “Maybe he thought it was appropriate for Beauty to be shiny and the Beast to be rusty.”

  It seems like a keen observation. I like it when she talks to me like this. I say, “I think you’ve hit the nail on the head. I think that’s it exactly.”

  She says, “It’s a lovely skill to take discarded materials and turn them into something beautiful.”

  Dr. Rowe is in her fifties, but quite attractive. Her long hair is grayish blond; when she was younger she was probably chic, like Miss Braverman. I say to her suddenly, “Dr. Rowe, I think I’d like to stay here.” There are tears stinging my eyes; I don’t know from whence they came or how fast.

  “This is a hospital, Grace. People don’t come to hospitals to stay, they come to get better.”

  “I’d like to stay here forever.”

  “Nobody stays here forever. If they don’t get better, they go to a long-term facility.” Her voice is starting to crackle with static; she is shorting out.

  “I would like to stay here, it’s so far from the world that hurts and scares.”

  “Not as far as it seems. A hospital is not as safe as it seems and the real world is not as scary as it seems.”

  “I love to sit at the open window in the lounge, in the early morning when it’s so peaceful and quiet. I listen to the mourning dove and the cattle lowing at the farm at milking time. The dove is the sky and the farm is the earth. When you have the earth and the sky, you have the mother and the father; you have the ultimate meaning of life.”

  “If all your experience came through the window of an institution, I don’t think you’d have much of life at all.”

  Her voice is full of static. If she insists on quarreling with everything I say, I’m going to get scrambled. I don’t want to get scrambled, I have to change the subject. “Do you think if I loved my statue enough, it would come to life?”