"You want the dog?" I say. "You want Mason?"
Nathaniel's face goes several shades sunnier. He nods, his mouth gaping wide in a grin. This is his first whole sentence in nearly a week.
At the sound of his name, the dog lifts his shaggy head and pokes his nose into Nathaniel's belly.
"Well, you asked for it!" I laugh. By the time Nathaniel has managed to push Mason away, his cheeks are flushed with pride. We have not learned much-the signs for want, and more, and drink, and dog.
But we have made a start.
I reach for Nathaniel's tiny hand, one I have fashioned into all the letters of the American Sign Language alphabet this afternoon . . . although soft, small fingers don't stay tangled that well in knots.
Folding down his middle and fourth fingers so that all the others are still extended, I help him make the combined I, L, Y that signifies I love you.
Suddenly Mason leaps up, nearly crashing over the table, and bounds to the gate to greet Caleb.
"What's going on?" he asks, one glance taking in the thick manual, the rigid set of Nathaniel's hand.
"We," I say, pointedly moving my index finger from shoulder to shoulder, "are working." I make two fists-S handshapes-and tap one on the other, to simulate hard labor.
"We," Caleb announces, grabbing the book from the table to tuck it under his arm, "are not deaf."
Caleb is not in favor of Nathaniel learning American Sign Language. He thinks if we give Nathaniel such a tool, he might never have the incentive to speak again. I think that Caleb hasn't spent enough time trying to divine what his son wants to eat for breakfast. "Watch this," I urge, and nod at Nathaniel, trying to get him to do his sentence again. "He's so smart, Caleb."
"I know he is. It's not him I'm worried about." He grabs my elbow. "Can I talk to you alone for a minute?"
We move inside and close the slider, so that Nathaniel cannot hear. "How many words do you think you have to teach him before you can start using this language to ask him who did it?" Caleb says.
Bright spots of color rise to my cheeks. Have I been that transparent? "All I want, all Dr. Robichaud wants, is to give Nathaniel a chance to communicate. Because being like this is frustrating him. Today I taught him to say 'I want the dog.' Maybe you'd like to explain to me how that's going to lead to a conviction. Maybe you'd like to-explain to your son why you're so dead set on taking away the only method he has to express himself."
Caleb spreads his splayed hands like an umpire. It is the sign for don't, although I am sure he does not know this. "I can't fight with you, Nina. You're too good at it." He opens the door and kneels down in front of Nathaniel. "You know, it's an awfully nice day to be sitting here, studying. You could play on the swings, if you want-"
Play: two Y handshapes, caught at the pinkies to shake. "-or build a road in your sandbox ..."
Build: U handshapes, stacking one on top of the other over and over.
". . . and you don't have to say anything, Nathaniel, if you're not ready. Not even with words that you make with your hands." Caleb smiles at Nathaniel. "Okay?" When Nathaniel nods, Caleb picks him up, swinging him high over his head to sit on his shoulders. "What do you say we go pick the crab apples in the woods?" he asks. "I'll be your ladder."
Just before he breaks the edge of our property, Nathaniel twists on his father's shoulders. It's hard to see from this distance, but it seems that he's holding up a hand. To wave? I start to wave back, and then realize that his fingers are making that I, L, Y combination, then reconfiguring into what looks like a peace sign.
It may not be technically right, but I can understand Nathaniel, loud and clear.
I love you, too.
Myrna Oliphant, the secretary shared by all five assistant district attorneys in Alfred, is a woman nearly as wide as she is high. Her sensible shoes squeak when she walks, she smells of Brylcreem, and she can allegedly type an astounding hundred words a minute, although no one has ever actually seen her do it.
Peter and I always joke that we see more of Myrna's back than her front, since she seems to have a sixth sense about disappearing the moment any of us need her.
So when I walk into my office eight days after Nathaniel stops speaking, and she comes right up to me, I know everything's wrong. "Nina," she says, tsking. "Nina." She puts her hand to her throat-there are real tears in her eyes. "If there's anything ..."
"Thank you," I say, humbled. It does not surprise me that she knows what has happened; I told Peter and I'm sure he filled everyone else in on the relevant details. The only sick days I've ever used have been when Nathaniel had strep or chicken pox; in a way my absence from work now has been no different, except that this illness is more insidious. "But you know, right now, I just need to get things taken care of here, so that I can go back home."
"Yes, yes." Myrna clears her throat, going professional. "Your messages, of course, Peter's been taking care of. And Wallace is expecting you." She heads back to her desk, but hesitates a moment, remembering. "I put a note up at the church," she says, and that's when I remember she, too, is a member of the congregation at St. Anne's. There is a small roped square on the News and Notes bulletin board, where people can request that a Hail Mary or Our Father be said for family members or friends in need. Myrna smiles at me. "Maybe God's listening to those prayers even now."
"Maybe." I do not say what I'm thinking: And where was God when it My office is just the way I left it. I sit gingerly in my swivel chair, push the papers around on my desk, scan my phone messages. It is good to come back to a place that looks, and is, exactly the way I've remembered it in my mind.
A knock. Peter comes in, then shuts the door behind him. "I don't know what to say," he admits.
"Then don't say anything. Just come in and sit down."
