What Love Sees Read online

  “No, too hot.” Dale’s drawl.

  “Too hot to play. Too hot to go to bed. Might as well stay up,” said Ray.

  “We could tell ghost stories. Or jokes,” Jean said.

  “What’s the funniest thing that ever happened to you?” Ray threw out the question to the group.

  “The time I walked into a women’s restroom,” Ham said. “Some screamy broad didn’t believe I couldn’t see. Thought it was a trick and that I was about to rape her. ‘Lady, I wouldn’t touch you if you were built like Mae West,’ I said. She had a voice like a hyena.”

  They all laughed. “Boy, she mighta had a couple of big ones to bump into.” Ray snorted through his laugh.

  “Lady present,” Vic cautioned, but Jean listened intently.

  “What was the most embarrassing thing?”

  “Going to a job interview with shoes that didn’t match.”

  “Same thing happened to me with socks.”

  In the oppressive heat, without their instructors there, without their families and friends, without the world, they were finally free to reveal their private selves. Out spilled stories of buttoning shirts wrong and of cutting themselves re-learning to shave. They told of the panic of dropping keys and forgetting phone numbers. Everyone had a story of getting lost. They laughed at the universality of their experiences.

  “Just because we can laugh about it now doesn’t mean we’ll never get lost again, even with our dogs,” Ham said. The stark realization quieted them.

  “Getting lost is more than a surrender and a lowering of pride.” Dale Richardson spoke even more slowly than usual, and his voice sounded hollower. “You’ve got to admit it. I’m not the only one who feels it. Why not say it? Terror.”

  Jean swallowed. Yes, that was it. In Munich on the bridge, that was it. In New York when Madame Flagstad grabbed her arm in the crowd. And the countless times she didn’t know where she was—at school, at Icy’s house, in the riding ring. Terror. No one with sight could possibly know.

  The word hung there in the darkness and then it unleashed a flood of talk. “What’s worse even than that is to have to admit to my kids when I need help,” said Louey. “When panic is private, it ain’t so bad, but when you have to ask, then it’s public and—”

  “Humiliation, that’s what you mean. It’s humiliating to ask for the privilege of movement.” It was the first entirely serious thing she’d ever heard Ray say.

  “But our families won’t have to help us so much any more,” Jean said. She felt the conversation digging itself in and wanted to stop it. “They’ve got to see that we can do more for ourselves now. And look at what all of you have already done, earning your own living. That makes me feel I haven’t accomplished anything.” Her voice cracked. “They can’t help but see we’re even more able now.”

  She wished she didn’t sound like she was trying to convince herself.

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “If my wife doesn’t, then I’m not sure what will happen,” Dale said slowly. His words stretched out as if there were more to come. Everyone waited. “Sometimes I wonder just how long she’ll stay. She didn’t sign on for this when she married me.”

  In the long silence, a wicker chair creaked when someone shifted. “Does she baby you?” Ray asked.

  “Yes, and then resents doing so much but never admits it.”

  “Wrong. It’s wrong,” said Ham. “Treating us like we can’t do anything just because we can’t do one thing. The world is just plain stupid sometimes. Ever notice how people talk louder to you than they do to anybody else?”

  “Or they talk slowly and exaggerate the words like they’re speaking English to a foreigner or a kid,” said Dale.

  “Or an idiot,” added Ham.

  The remark stopped the conversation. Chiang began to snore. A siren a few blocks away whined its lonesome call through the open window.

  “I guess we don’t have any right to tell the world in just what way we want it to be kind,” Vic said softly, the first thing he said since he’d rubbed her back.

  No one could counter Vic’s remark, and it hung there in the humid room a long time. The pain in that truth breathed like another presence among them until Jean couldn’t stand it any longer. She got up and made her way to the piano. Her hands touched the keys with a gentleness that seemed to ask permission to break the silence. She played a Chopin nocturne. It was something she could offer. Not a sound disturbed the melody. Even the dogs were quiet. When she finished, the men gathered up their dogs and slowly headed for their rooms.

  “Thank you, Jean,” Vic said in a tender whisper.

  In a halting gesture, someone patted her awkwardly three little pats on her shoulder, but said nothing. She recognized Ham by his stomach as she brushed past him while he held the door open for her and Chiang to go out before him. Coming from him, the gesture made her feel like a lady.

  When she found her bed that night, she let out a deep lingering sigh. What good people, she thought. She sank into the injustice of it as she lay down absolutely still. What could she do? What could anyone do? Well, she could invite them all to Hickory Hill after graduation.

  A silly idea. It wouldn’t work. There, they wouldn’t have what they had here tonight. Nowhere would she have again what she had here tonight. There would never be another night so honest and intimate. She rolled onto her side and tried to keep it alive by staying awake, but the work of the day descended and the stillness made her fall asleep.

  Two days later she wrote:

  Dearest Father and Mother,

  I won’t be coming home on Monday after all. I have to stay another week. I failed the big test in Newark. I couldn’t get Chiang to go in revolving doors. After I tried to make her do that, she wouldn’t go in any doors to stores at all. It’s not her fault. I have a swell, steady pooch. It’s my own. I just have to speak up and sound like I mean it. Maybe I couldn’t do it because Miss Weaver wasn’t here saying, “Of course you can, Jean.” It will be awful saying goodbye to everyone. I’ve become attached to them so. Their last night is tomorrow. Who knows when I’ll see them again. If ever. Please don’t worry about me.

  I got a wire from Elsa Flagstad. She got married last Saturday out in Montana. I guess it’s the cowboy. I’m afraid Madame Flagstad will be sorry she ever took Elsa on that tour. At least she’s married, though.

  Please get a dozen one-pound cans of Pard and a package of Vita-cubes. I’ll phone soon. You don’t have to drive down and pick me up. I can take the train now.

  Ever lovingly, Jean and Chiang

  The next week was grueling and terribly lonely. She didn’t particularly want to put effort into knowing the new class. All she could think about was how the men in her class were doing back with their families. She ate at the end of one table and didn’t talk much and didn’t stay in the recreation room in the evenings. Instead, she worked alone in the yard with Chiang as long as Lee would let her. When she gave commands it sounded to her as if all of Morristown could hear. After that she worked on quarter turns in the corner of her room. She didn’t even write any letters. What if she failed the test again? Did they ever send someone home without a dog? She was afraid to ask. Each night she fell into bed exhausted.

  At the end of the week Chiang lay on her side breathing heavily in the heat. Jean moved in jerks, putting everything into her suitcases. The last thing was to put Chiang’s harness on.

  “Forward,” she said. There was new authority in her voice that told Chiang something important was happening. Chiang led her downstairs, her hand firm on the harness. They went into the secretary’s office to review her record and sign the release papers.

  “Promise me one thing, Jean,” Mrs. Campbell said softly. She put her hand on Jean’s wrist. “Whatever you do, marry a sighted man.

  Chapter Twelve

  On her own territory at Hickory Hill and with no trainer in sight, Jean was the only authority. That in itself made her more relaxed. The first day, she gave Chi
ang a tour of the whole house, even the maids’ quarters on the third floor and the wine cellar in the basement. She taught Chiang the way to the pool through the library and verandah. She taught her to go through the living room and out the French doors to the terrace and rose garden.

  Jean stopped Chiang when she caught the fragrance of a rosebush in bloom. She leaned down, carefully, and took a deep breath. By its sweetness and by their position in the garden, she decided that it was Peace. She imagined its fluffy whiteness tinged in pale pink. The outdoors held new riches for her now and she felt the same elation as she had at Camp Hanoum.

  The next morning they made a complete circuit of the garden. Chiang remembered. Jean thought of the woods beyond the landscaped grounds. “I haven’t been there alone since I was a kid,” she said. She felt a little foolish, talking out loud, as if Chiang could understand as well as see. But Chiang did understand, sort of. A path led off to the woods from the bottom of the driveway. Surely Chiang could find it. “Forward,” Jean said, and they headed around the side of the house to the driveway.

  The path through the woods felt dry. They crunched leaves as they walked. She stepped on something hard that twisted her ankle slightly. She bent down and felt along the ground. Acorns. She picked one up and pulled off the cap to smell the dry, woodsy odor of the coming autumn. The deep shade was cool and inviting after the sweltering heat of New Jersey streets. Chiang kept up a steady pace. Jean held out her hand to the side, more to find out what was there and to push away twigs and branches than to help guide her along. Her hand brushed the tough bark of a tree. A hickory, she decided. She began looking for a birch. Its satiny bark would be peeling away. Instead, her arm passed through a spider web. Its filaments clung to her skin. She stopped to brush it off.

  The woods were suddenly silent without their footsteps crunching the blanket of leaves. She heard the low, throaty sound of robins interrupted by a blue jay’s raucous screech. She listened more carefully for the gurgle of the creek, but couldn’t hear it. It had been a dry summer. The scent of wild violets told her she must have stepped on some. There must be a lot of them here, she thought. Too bad I didn’t find them first so I could pick some. But I wouldn’t have found them unless I smashed the petals enough to let out the scent. “Do you know what forgiveness is, Chiang? It’s the fragrance of a violet on the heel of him who crushed it. That’s a saying I remember from I don’t know when.” She let out a satisfied sigh.

  “Forward,” she said. Her stretched-out arm caught the thin smoothness of a birch trunk. They stopped again and she reached up to find a twig. She bent one back and forth until it weakened and broke off. She peeled away the soft bark and chewed on the stem. It was tender and fibrous and tasted like sarsaparilla, a flavor left over from childhood. She felt like swinging her arms and skipping, but she went on more cautiously, stopping frequently, sometimes stumbling over a root or a rock. She stretched her arm out low to find some undergrowth. Her hand touched a lady’s-slipper. Its bulbous bloom hung heavily. She remembered it was a soft lavender pink. Something crawled on her forearm. She didn’t move so she could concentrate. Long. Maybe a caterpillar. She brushed it off, stood up and turned around 180 degrees to go back. “Woods remind me of Icy and camp.” She felt more comfortable talking to Chiang now, as if she were a companion as well as guide. “I wonder, Chiang. Have you ever been in woods before, or always in some concrete training yard? Have you ever been able to run free?” Chiang was silent. “Well, I can’t remember what it was like, either, so I guess we’re a pair. Hop up,” she said. There was more world to explore beyond Hickory Hill.

  They walked back through the woods, down the driveway and onto the streets on the Hill. “We’re going to Federal Hill Green, Chiang.” She remembered the way; she’d walked there for years to Federal Hill Grammar School. Of course she could find it.

  On two sides of the triangular green stood its two most prominent buildings, the First Congregational Church and St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, as if confronting each other from a safe distance. They had occupied these plots of ground since the days before the Revolution. Jean felt the shadow of St. Joseph’s Parochial School, then the sunlight glancing at a low angle between it and the convent. Shadow and sunlight took turns as she passed the convent, rectory and finally the long shade of the church. She knew that beyond St. Joseph’s church was the graveyard. They walked along its edge in the sunlight until she felt another shadow, the grammar school. She hadn’t been there alone since the sixth grade. Chiang stopped. That meant Jean needed to make a decision, either to go straight, away from the Green on residential streets, or turn left to walk the perimeter of the common. Jean pivoted what she thought was more than the customary ninety degrees. “Forward.” Chiang understood and led her along the edge of the Green. Militia had drilled right here in order to fight for independence. A private similarity occurred to her. She took big strides, her shoulders square. Freedom of movement was as important as freedom of speech or freedom of religion. Her step became more sure. She smiled again even though she was alone, in fact, because she was alone.

  On the third day, when her parents were away, she decided to go to Tready’s house. It was better to tell them after she had done something. As soon as they left she phoned Tready and asked her to watch for them. Tready’s house was a few blocks farther than the Green. She knew the way. She could count the blocks, but Tready lived in the middle of a block. Once on Tready’s block, it would be up to Chiang to learn the right walkway to take to the right house. They walked briskly along Oakland Street and at the right block Jean slowed down the pace.

  “Congratulations, Jean,” Tready called from her porch. Her voice sounded wonderful. It was the first time Jean had visited anyone alone without Vincent to drive her.

  Her brother Bill and his wife Ginny would be next. They lived ten blocks away. Jean called and invited herself to dinner for the following day. Father was just coming home from work when she stepped out the front door. Oops. She had left too late. “I’m going to Bill and Ginny’s,” she said cheerfully.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, I’m almost late,” she said, avoiding the point of his question.

  “I don’t like the idea of you coming home alone after dark.”

  “After dark? What do I care about that?” Tactical error. It shouldn’t have been a question. This wasn’t a time to be cute. “I’ve got the best bodyguard anybody could have. Lee said Chiang looks meaner than any dog he’s ever trained. Don’t worry, Father. I’ll call when I’m ready to leave and you can watch for me.” She knew she had to react as if his concern was just that, concern and not prohibition. “Bye. Forward, Chiang.”

  In two or three weeks the ten blocks to Bill and Ginny’s became easy. It was time to venture all the way downtown. There would be traffic lights and cars. She rehearsed in her mind the streets leading to her hairdresser’s, made an appointment and started off. They walked at a hearty pace and found the office building easily enough. It was on a corner. Inside, Jean had to feel along the corridor wall for the third door. After going there a few times Chiang learned it and took her right there. What a marvelous pooch. Jean loved her more and more each day, for the one thing even Father couldn’t give her, mobility.

  As Jean stretched her radius of travel, her thinking stretched, too. She took on more piano students at the Girls’ Club and organized a recital for them. She walked to the Congregational church on the Green to ask if they knew of any shut-ins she could visit downtown. The activities held a double purpose. What helped others helped her. That recognition gave her satisfaction. For the first time in her life, she felt useful.

  Fall came and she walked in the rain. It felt refreshing, except for the time she slipped on a leaf or something on the wet pavement and nearly went down. Winter followed and she walked through the first snow. The first Saturday in December, she went around the block in minus-two degree weather, just to write to Dody in California that she’d done it. It was invigorating, but afte
rwards she felt contrite. It wasn’t a kind thing to do to Chiang.

  The next morning in the library, Jean and her parents were listening to the Sunday radio broadcast of the New York Philharmonic. Toscanini was directing. An announcer interrupted. Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor. Many lives and ships were lost. At present they didn’t know how many. The family was stunned and outraged. “It doesn’t seem real,” Mother said.

  “It does to me.” The sick-hearted feeling Jean had had in Germany with Miss Weaver returned. She heard again the pulsing thud of boots, felt again the constriction in her throat at the hated word, “Heil.” All that was only a build-up to this. And where would it go from here? The war was engulfing the world.

  Life changed. Uncle Ed and Uncle Dudley switched the Ingraham Company from making clocks and watches to timers for explosives. Jean’s cousins went to work there. Father’s factory, Horton Manufacturing Company, formerly making sports equipment—golf clubs and fishing rods—now made antenna shafts for communication systems on tanks. Bill and Mort and Lucy all went to work there. Neither brother could join up. Classification 4F. Poor vision. Jean folded bandages at the Red Cross downtown. She knitted the bulky gray Red Cross sweaters for refugee children and delivered them downtown. She was part of the war effort.

  Even though there was a war, there was still good in the world. She felt almost guilty for thinking so, for feeling the exhilaration of freedom. And if that fellow from California ever sent her a letter again, she wrote to Dody, she’d tell him about Chiang. She wrote to Sally Anne about Chiang. She wrote to Elsa. She wrote to Jimmy. And she posted her own letters.

  Independence had its price, she learned. While her own activities increased, her dates with Jimmy decreased. Strange. He didn’t invite her quite so often to New Jersey, but when he did, she stepped off the train at Grand Central more firmly with Chiang leading her down the steps. Once when she arrived, Jimmy wasn’t on the platform as he always was. Jean waited a few moments, listening for his familiar voice. Shoulders brushed by her own. She felt she was an obstruction in the middle of the platform. She turned in the direction they always went. “Forward.” In the station she heard him call out to her. He introduced her to two women he had been talking to, a mother and daughter. Their bubbly friendliness gave Jean an uneasy feeling of insincerity. Jimmy didn’t say anything more about them as they walked out of the station.