Whisper (28 page)

Terms of agreement for the continuation of her scholarship:

1. Whisper will attend classes and fulfill her obligations as
a student.

2. Whisper will attend private lessons with Solomon
Woodson while she studies at the university.

3. Whisper will maintain a reasonable GPA and will
comport herself in an honorable fashion (in other words, she
will absolutely not be allowed to “work the night shift,” and
if anyone asks her to work this shift, that person will be
reported to the university discipline board and punished
accordingly).

4. Solomon Woodson will be responsible for Whisper's
progress and for aiding her in her acclimation.

Signed,
I,________________, being of sound body and mind,
agree to the above terms. This signature has been witnessed by:

Solomon Woodson, PhD____________________
Quincy Tell____________________”

I looked up at Solomon, and he beamed at me.

“What does this mean?” I asked.

“What does it mean? It means that you will be attending school here, you will stay in the dorm, and I shall be your instructor. It means that you will become a master musician and I will be allowed to have a small part in your musical development. It means, dear girl, that you will have a safe place to stay and will never have to make a living on the street corner again.”

The paper shook in my hands. It couldn't possibly be true.

“Well, sign it, then. I didn't know what your last name is, so you'll need to fill that in at the top.”

Quincy handed me a pen. I placed the paper on Quincy's desk and slowly, carefully, signed my name. Solomon and Quincy both signed the contract when I was done. Solomon folded the contract, slid it into an envelope and handed it to Quincy. We then did the same for a second contract—this one he handed to me. He grinned at me and patted me on the shoulder. I worried that I would begin to weep uncontrollably if he showed me any more kindness and felt terribly relieved when he stood up from the desk and clapped his huge hands together.

“I will take her to the dorm myself,” Solomon said.

“You have class tonight.” Quincy looked at Solomon over the top of his glasses.

“Let them know I'll be a bit late. I'll show her the dorm room and the cafeteria. Tomorrow we get clothes from Randall and Burns.”

When Solomon said this, he gave me a big wink and a wiggle of his mustache. We would return to the store of my accuser. I didn't know what to feel. Why not go to Randall and Burns? I'd spent a night in jail and it hadn't killed me—how much worse could a fancy store be?

Solomon handed me the key to my room, which was on the first floor of a massive building about a block away from the music school. He opened the door to the dorm room and turned on all the lights, as though having control over locks and illumination was common and natural. He turned on the tap for the bathroom sink, looked in the closet and declared the room acceptable. It was noisy, located under the stairs where the tramping of feet sounded like tumbling rocks, but it was more than I'd ever had before. As he left, Solomon squeezed my hand, smiled and then quietly closed the door behind him.

Having my own place was odd—lonely, quiet, peaceful and incomprehensible. The bathroom had a shower, something I'd never experienced before. This couldn't be my place to stay, with my own bathroom, a real bed and a closet to hang my clothes in. The closet was empty and waiting for submissions, the desk against the wall had a small lamp that went on with a click of the button, the brown patterned curtains covered a window that looked out over an expanse of green and a walkway that led to the cafeteria. All of this was mine to use.

The mattress was a foam pad, as thick as the width of two hands, that bounced back into shape after I pushed on it. Blankets and pillows covered the bed, and after a shower I crawled beneath the blankets with the key to the door still in my hand. I'd never owned a key, never had the power to keep out whomever I chose. Such power needed to be with me at all times, and I held that key tightly through the dark night—a night without the sounds of the street, the hum of traffic or the friendship of Candela.

I awoke when light shone between the curtains. I listened. I had thought the camp in the woods was isolated, but there I'd had a makeshift family, and here I had only myself.

When I entered the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, I knew that clean clothes and shampooed hair would not help me fit in. I didn't know what a home was anymore. I had thought it was a place, a place of my own, but it was more than four walls and a roof. Home was belonging.

Nineteen

Only a few lights at the back of Randall and Burns were lit when we arrived the next morning. The clerks were refolding sweaters. The manager, the round fellow who had come after me the last time I was in the store, walked toward us with a large ring of keys in his hand. Solomon, standing outside the door with me behind him, tapped on the glass door with authority, as if he had every right to do so. I adjusted the veil over my head and wished it would stop fluttering and shaking.

“Not open yet,” the manager said to Solomon, opening the door just enough to speak through the crack. Solomon pushed his way into the store, crossed his arms over his chest, cleared his throat and placed himself in front of the manager.

“Whisper will be purchasing some new clothes and some other much-needed items. Could you tell me, perchance, if a young man named Swanny is working this morning? I would like to have a few words with him.” Solomon was as solid as a tree stump, and his arms remained tightly crossed.

“She can wait until the store opens, along with our other customers.”

“No, she can't,” said Solomon. “This child was taken to jail, was housed overnight in a cell where ruffians and villains are kept, and she lost twenty-four hours of her life to undeserved and unwarranted incarceration. You owe her not only time but reparation.”

The manager looked at me. He pulled at his bottom lip and then spoke to a nearby worker who was straightening a display.

“Get Swanny for me, would you?”

“Go on,” Solomon said to me.

I walked past the green coats and let my hand slide across the material. I picked a long brown skirt that reminded me of my mother, and I chose a black sweater with a high neck, long sleeves, wide pockets and no holes at the elbows. I saw a package of underwear and tucked it under my arm, as well as warm black leggings, plain khaki pants and short black boots that looked about my size. As I clutched these items, the prices rolled around in my head like gnats, confusing me. I knew I didn't have enough money, but I didn't know how to say this to Solomon. I didn't know how much reparation he had planned for me. Beneath the veil, I felt my cheeks burning, the flush creeping down my face into my neck.

Solomon waved to me, and I stood next to him, holding the clothing in my sweaty hands. A clerk stood with one foot on top of the other, an unbalanced stork, and chewed on the fingernail of his first finger. When he saw me approaching, his eyes widened, and he held his hands out in front of his face as though warding off the devil.

“Is this the fellow?” Solomon asked.

According to the police report, I had attacked this man with my claws and nails, had used my powers when he was most vulnerable. I examined his cheek, but I detected no bruises or scrapes. He was at least six inches taller than me, and even though he was thin, I was sure he weighed more than I did.

“Stay away,” shrieked the man, in a voice so high it sounded like the cry of a crow.

“Come on, man.” Solomon's hands twitched as though he wanted to wrap them around Swanny's neck. “This girl wouldn't attack you. Tell us the truth, now. What really happened?”

“She attacked me,” Swanny said while taking a step away from me. “She threw her arms at me. She was going to kill me, if not with her hands, then with her spells and her horrid, horrid face.”

“What did you do to her?” Solomon let out a long, huffing sigh.

“I touched her shoulder.”

I don't know what came over me, how I became so brave, but rather than remain mute, I spoke. It was as though the words were pressed out of me by a squeezing hand.

“He sneaked up and grabbed my shoulder from behind.”

“You grabbed her, did you?” Solomon said to Swanny. “Well, you probably scared her half to death.”

Swanny had taken two more steps back, and his hands still fluttered around his mouth, but the manager stood behind him.

Swan. Beautiful bird—long-necked, elegant, stylish.

“I wasn't sneaking. I wouldn't have surprised her.”

“And where did she bruise you? Where did she attack your face and leave you partially maimed?”

Swanny's right hand moved up past his mouth and touched his cheek with four unsteady fingers. Solomon took two large steps toward Swanny. He peered at Swanny's face, took his chin in his left hand and twisted Swanny's head back and forth, trying to locate the bruises, scratches, telltale marks.

“I don't see a thing,” he said.

Swanny glanced at the manager, but the little man shook his head and rolled his eyes. His voice was as low as Swanny's was high. “Swanny, she's only a child.”

“She attacked me, I tell you. She flew at me with her sharp talons and tried to scratch out my eyes.”

While he said this, I shifted the clothing to my right arm and raised my left hand, examining my fingers. Talons. My nails were chipped and broken but clean. My hands were red and raw but unremarkable. I was a beggar. I had spent a night in jail. I looked like a witch. I almost believed Swanny myself. Without intending to, I lifted my hand and touched my mouth through the veil. This face, this horrid, horrid face. I might play the violin like an angel, but this face would always be how people judged me—what they saw first.

“Didn't you say she was looking at the coat, Swanny?” the manager asked.

He waddled over to the rack of coats, flipped through them to find a size that looked appropriate and glanced back at the now shuddering Swanny. The manager held out the coat for me.

My hand stretched out tentatively to the coat. It would be withdrawn at any moment—I understood that—so I wrapped my left arm around it and then dug through my pockets with my right hand, locating the coins Candela had thrown at me and holding them out to the manager. I knew it wasn't enough—how could it possibly be?—but I wanted that coat as much as I wanted a home. The manager waved the money away and glanced quickly at Solomon, who still stood as though it would take an earthquake to move him. His eyebrows were low and his mustache quivered.

“Keep your money. Swanny gets a discount,” the manager said. “And he will withdraw the charges.”

Swanny sobbed but kept his hands over his face.

“Right, Swanny?” the manager said.

Swanny nodded.

I held the coat against my cheek, under my nose, all the way back to my room, my very own room with a bed that sat on a frame, a desk that contained two drawers, a closet that would soon hold my old clothing. I tried on the new coat and knew that whenever I wore it, I would think of mangoes, starlit nights, the company of friends and huts in the woods that had been my home.

The impromptu recital, organized to introduce me to Solomon's students, was scheduled for 11:00
AM
in the auditorium. A clock with glowing red numbers sat on my desk, announcing the time both day and night. At 10:45 I walked to the building where Solomon taught and looked for the auditorium. I thought the muted colors I had chosen would help me blend in, become part of my surroundings, as they would have in the forest, but here, in the ornate building decorated in white and gold, I stood out like a blemish.

Solomon sat on a stage in an enormous room where rows and rows of seats stretched forward like the cells of a wasp nest. In the rows facing him were about thirty students, scattered haphazardly in the seats. Lights hanging from the ceiling by long narrow cords illuminated the first ten rows of seats, and I slowed my pace, stopping where it was still dark. I tugged at the veil, wishing it would stretch and cover my entire body.

“Whisper,” Solomon said and motioned for me to come closer. I slipped one hand into the pocket of my green coat and held Jeremia's violin with the other. My heart pounded in my chest, ready to burst from its cage.

Solomon leaped off the stage and took huge steps up the aisle to where I stood. He put his arm around my shoulders and guided me down the aisle, into the beams of light. All of the heads turned, and thirty pairs of eyes watched me. Some were curious, wondering, questioning, while others were narrow, suspicious, appraising.

“This is Whisper,” Solomon said. He guided me to a seat about three rows up and right on the aisle. The girl in the next seat pulled her arm off the shared armrest and turned her head away from me. “She is the recipient of the Watts Scholarship and will be under my tutelage next term.”