-Bury Me Deep, Megan AbbotMarion brought in her mother's sturdy currant jelly and, later in the week, steamed bread she had spent all evening making in the kitchen of the rooming house. Neither could eat it. Louise crossed her eyes like Ben Turpin. "It's for the birds, kid," she said. "But a girl as pretty as you, what could it matter?" Marion was embarrassed, mostly because she thought she was a very good homemaker and Dr. Seeley had dined on her food for years with never a complaint. He always smiled and said, "Very good, Marion. Very fine, indeed." "You come by our place," Louise said. "You should try my creamed onions. You'll think your tongue ran across a cloud." What might a cloud taste like, she wondered. Like Mother's snow pudding made for birthdays and Sunday summer suppers. No, no, like dew, like rain gathering on the edge of your winter muffler, brushing against your lips.
The house was mostly quiet. It was always quiet when Goldie wasn't around. Regina had developed a comfortable relationship with silence over the years. Background noise was a distracted from her search for subtext, she'd never cared for it even before she began interpreting. Today was no different. There were no children playing outside, the birds were quiet, and it was a cool enough day that even the rumble of the air conditioner rarely intruded between pages. It was calm. You almost couldn't tell there was someone else home.
Occasionally she would catch him going about household chores. He hadn't been asked, but every day she found him at some new task. Every time she would smile and urge him to relax. He would stare for a moment, then rub his chest in apology. Pressing further did her no good. He had to adjust at his own pace. Other than that, though, he barely stirred from his room unless she came for him. Their exchanges had been limited and she worried she might be doing something wrong. Some seclusion was understandable, it would take some time before this was home, but...he didn't seem upset. At times she was sure she could hear him crying when she passed his room in the night, but he showed nothing to her during the day. Invading his privacy could drive him further away, and she was certain he didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering him, but maybe she could open up communication another way.
There was music playing in his room. Through the crack she could see him sitting on the bed, blue and white striped linens neatly tucked into the mattress. It was made so well it almost looked unused. In his lap was a silver CD player connected to a tangled pair of headphones. He was swaying back and forth and mouthing words; not all of them, she could see pauses, flashes of frustration, but he was trying. It was more verbal expression than she'd ever expected from him. The effort meant something, silent or not. Regina pulled back and knocked on the door frame.
She heard a click and rushed movement on the other side of the door. When he responded it was barely above a whisper. "Hello?"
"May I come in, Jeremiah?"
There was a long pause. "Okay."
He was still when she entered the room. If she didn't know to look for it she might have missed the CD player at his side. The emotions she'd seen had been replaced by his blank, attentive stare. Her hands moved first "WANT--I--SIGN--VOICE--WHICH?"
"YOUR--DECISION. I--MAY--SIGN?"
"YES."
"THANK-YOU."
He relaxed a little at that, so she chose to follow his lead. For now she lingered in the doorway, it might set him on edge to get into his space. "LISTEN--WHAT?"
"MUSIC." Regina smirked and shook her head. It was difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. "WHAT--MUSIC?"
Another pause. His fingers dug into the bed. The question seemed to make him nervous. As he finger-spelled his gaze shifted away from her. "B-I-G-P-U-N."
"LIKE--RAP?"
"YES."
"HAVE--MUSIC--YOU--LIKE--GOOD. NOT--HIDE. PROUD."
His eyes stayed on her hands long after they stopped moving. She waved to get his attention again. "UNDERSTAND?" As he moved to reply "YES," she noticed his non-dominant hand still clutched the mattress. Maybe he didn't understand, or maybe he didn't believe her. It was a start. They could build from it. Back to her original purpose; she waved at him again. "YOU--WANT--FOOD?"
Jeremiah looked up to the ceiling and touched his stomach. Before she could ask for clarification he was on his feet and moving for the door. "YES," he signed on his way past her. Her laugh caught his attention before her waving hands did. "WAIT. EXCUSE-ME--SORRY--NOT--EXPLAIN. I--WANT--COOK. SPECIAL--NIGHT. CELEBRATION. YOU--HERE--WEEK."
There was confusion on his face. "SORRY. AGAIN--PLEASE?" She repeated the sentence, trying to catch what was throwing him off. He just kept staring.
"WHAT--WRONG?"
"NOT--KNOW--SIGN."
"WHICH?"
He tried to mimic her, his right hand laying perpendicular in the palm of his left and flipping back and forth. She fingerspelled for him, "KNOW--C-O-O-K?"
Again his eyebrows sunk in on each other. "MEANING?"
"MAKE--FOOD?"
He didn't seem to understand. Fishing for more information was a delicate task. She knew he could make food, he'd seen to himself despite her offers the last few days. Come to think of it though, he'd never made anything more complex than a sandwich. Some canned goods, instant ramen, that kind of thing. It wasn't surprising that he didn't know how to cook, but even what cooking meant was evading him. "SAME-AS," she began hesitantly, "BOIL--FRY--BAKE. MANY--TYPE--COOK. DIFFERENT--FOOD. YOU--KNOW?"
There were obvious questions hanging in the air. When was the last time someone cooked for you? Who was it? What did they make? What do you like? She didn't ask those, though. There was an unspoken understanding that neither of them were ready for the answers. Jeremiah didn't answer in detail. His hand went to his chest. "SORRY."
That was enough for now. Instead of telling him, she could show him. "FOLLOW." As they exited the room she tried not to let him see the tears in her eyes.
He was getting the best meal she'd ever made.
