“The very next afternoon after school, I drove down the road, found the press, and went looking for them. It was just as the children had described: Tobacco Road. Those pathetic shacks- and they were a lot worse before we fixed them up. No indoor plumbing, electricity, or gas heat, water from an old hand pump with God knows what kind of organisms in it. Before we supplied the trees, just a dry dirt patch. Shirlee and Jasper just standing there, smiling at me, following me around but not putting up a lick of protest when I went into their shack. Inside, I got my first surprise. I’d expected chaos, but everything was scrubbed down with lye soap, extremely well-kept- all the clothes folded neatly, beds you could bounce a dime on. And the two of them are very diligent about their hygiene, though they do neglect their teeth.”
“Well-trained,” I said.
“Yes. As if someone had drilled the basics into them- which supports the institution theory. Unfortunately, that training didn’t extend to child care. Sharon was filthy, that gorgeous black hair so dusty it looked tan, all matted and tangled with burrs. The first time I laid eyes on her she was up in one of the willow trees, crouched on a limb, naked as a jay, with something shiny in her hands. Staring down with those huge blue eyes. Looking, indeed, like a little monkey. I asked Shirlee to have her come down. Shirlee called up to her-”
“Called her by her name?”
“Yes. Sharon. That we didn’t have to improvise. Shirlee kept calling, begging her to come down, but Sharon ignored her. It was clear there was no parental authority, they couldn’t control her. Finally, after I pretended to ignore her, she scampered down, kept her distance and stared at me. But not afraid- on the contrary, she seemed actually happy to see a new face. Then she did something that really took me by surprise. The shiny thing she’d been holding was an open jar of mayonnaise. She stuck one hand into it, scooped out a big glob, and began eating it. Flies smelled it and began crawling all over her. I took the jar away. She squawked, but not too loudly- she craved discipline. I put my arm around her. She seemed to like that. She smelled foul, looked like one of those feral children you hear about. But despite that, she was absolutely gorgeous- that face, those eyes.
“I sat her down on a stump, held up the mayo jar and said, ‘This is eaten with tuna or ham. Not by itself.’ Shirlee was listening. She started to giggle. Sharon took her cue, laughed, and ran her greasy hands through her hair. Then she said, ‘I like it by itself.’ Clear as a bell. It shocked me. I’d assumed she was retarded, too, had little or no speech. I took a close look at her and saw something- a quickness in her eyes, the way she responded to my movements. Definitely something upstairs. She was also very well coordinated: When I commented on what an excellent climber she was, she showed off for me, shinnied up the tree, did cartwheels and handstands. Shirlee and Jasper watched and clapped their hands. To them she was a toy.
“I asked them if I could take her with me for a few hours. They agreed without hesitation, even though they’d never met me. No parent-child bond, though they were clearly delighted with her, kissed and hugged her a lot before we left.”
“How did Sharon react to being taken away?”
“She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t fight it. She especially didn’t like it when I tried to cover her- with a blanket. Funny thing is, once she got used to clothes, she never liked to take them off- as if being naked reminded her of the way she’d been.”
I said, “I’m sure it did,” and thought of backseat love.
“She actually became quite a fashion plate- used to pore over my magazines and cut out the ones she liked. She never liked pants, only dresses.”
Fifties dresses.
I said, “What was it like the first time you brought her home?”
“She allowed me to take her by the hand, and climbed up into the car as if she’d ridden in one before. During the ride I tried to talk to her, but she just sat there, staring out the window. When we reached my house, she got out, squatted, and defecated on the driveway. When I gasped, she seemed genuinely surprised, as if doing that sort of thing was perfectly normal. It was obvious there’d been absolutely no limit-setting of any sort. I took her inside, sat her on the commode, washed her up, combed out the tangles- at that point she began screaming bloody murder. Then I dressed her in one of Mr. Leidecker’s old shirts, sat her down, and fed her a proper dinner. She ate like a lumberjack. Got off the chair and started to squat again. I hauled her into the bathroom, made her mind. That was the beginning. She knew I cared.”
“But she did talk fluently?”
“It was strange, uneven. Sometimes whole phrases would pour out, then she’d be at a loss to describe something simple. She had giant holes in her knowledge of the world. When she got frustrated she’d start to grunt and point like Jasper. But not in any sort of sign language- I was trained in American Sign, and neither she nor Jasper knew it, though I’ve taught him a little bit since. He has his own primitive language- when he bothers to communicate at all. That’s the environment she was living in before I found her.”
“From that to Ph.D.,” I said.
“I told you it was a miracle. She learned astonishingly quickly. Four months of steady drilling to get her talking properly, another three to teach her to read. She was ready for it, an empty glass waiting to be filled. The more time I spent with her, the clearer it became that not only wasn’t she retarded, she was gifted. Highly gifted.”
And previously educated. By someone who’d taught her about cars, whole phrases… then punched holes in her knowledge of the world.
Helen had stopped talking, was holding her hand to her mouth, breathing deeply. “All for nothing.”
She looked at the clock on the wall. “I’m sorry, I have to go now. I hitched a ride with Gabe. He bought me a helmet with his own money- how could I refuse? Poor thing’s probably beside himself, suspecting God knows what.”
“I’d be happy to give you a lift.”
She hesitated, then said, “All right. Give me a couple of minutes to close up.”
30
Her house was large and peak-roofed and floodlit, trimmed generously with white gingerbread, and set back from the road behind half an acre of thriving orchard. Gabe’s bike was parked near the front porch, next to an old Chevy truck and a Honda Accord. She led me around to the side door and we entered through the kitchen. Gabe sat at the table, his back to us, husking corn and listening to loud rap music on a ghetto blaster not much smaller than the Honda. Ears of corn were piled chin-high. He worked slowly but steadily, bobbing in time to the music.
She kissed the top of his head. He gave her a sympathy-begging look of misery. When he saw me, the misery turned to anger.
She turned down the volume on the blaster.
He said, “What’s with
“Don’t be rude, Gabriel! Daddy taught you better than that.”
The mention of his father made him look like a small, lost child. He pouted, picked up an ear of corn, tore off the husk, and idly shredded the silk.
His mother said, “Dr. Delaware is a guest. You will stay for dinner, Doctor?”
I had no need of food but was hungry for facts. “Be pleased to,” I said. “Thank you very much.”
