I collect the words unheard. I pluck them from the air, rescue them from gutters, retrieve them from branches—they don’t vibrate for long after the words are spoken. I often wonder if I weren’t Deaf whether I’d hear them. I gather them on my morning walk, along with bottles and cans from recycling bins, and again after supper at St. Joseph’s soup kitchen.
I dodge the broken glass while pushing my cart along Seventh Avenue. The front left wheel wobbles and shimmies. It jerks off course when I run over some twisted metal from a wreck. I strong-arm it back on course. Harold waves at me from the next block. He can usually hear me coming.
A flicker in the bushes catches my attention. I stop, bending closer to peer into the plant along the sidewalk. The phrase is easy to spot; I know what to look for. The vibration flutters in the bush like a trapped butterfly. Carefully, I ease the vibration from its hiding place until it merges onto the string. It quivers for a moment, I’m unsure what it’s saying—sometimes the common ones are easy to decipher, but this one’s weak and faint.
It takes a special eye to see them. I cut notches along the top of a tin and thread horsehair I’d salvaged from broken instrument bows or filched from the stables when I participate in the Homeless to Work program. I observe my latest find for clues as to its message.
Vibrations tremble for hours, sometimes a few days before they fade. I love you has a distinct vibration—quick, long, quick—but so does I hate you. I pay close attention to the sharpness of the visual tone.
Harold meets me at the corner. He’s wearing a poncho he bought from me, burnt-orange and woven with broken promises. He pats my arm, alerting me that he’s about to talk, so I watch his lips. You got a good one? he asks.
I nod and hold the tin out to him.
He inches closer, taking care not to touch it. He straightens, facing me. Oh, that’s special, Maggie Mae.
What’s it saying? I sign, but Howard looks away and pretends he didn’t see my hands. He doesn’t know sign. I point to the tin and then to my ear.
He glances at me. A grin builds on his face until he’s shaking from holding in his giggle. It’s a good one. Different. It’s sorrow, hope, wishes, and goodnights all in one. Harold can’t hear the exact message, just the intent. He once told me that maybe it’s part of his power from his extra chromosome.
He unfolds a few blankets on my cart and displays them on the park bench. You got a nice selection today. A nice selection.
I weave the best phrases into blankets or sweaters and it doesn’t seem to matter. Negative or positive, the merchandise woven with phrases sells best at the farmers’ market. They say these pleas fall on Deaf ears. It’s poetic irony that I’m the only one who listens.
I pull out a few unfinished projects, hunting for a place to weave my newest find. It doesn’t seem to fit on a tapestry of prayers, or a rug filled with apologies.
Harold tugs on my arm. I catch his lips moving, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. He notices and repeats, his mouth moving slower. You can’t use that one. It’s special.
I glare at him. What does he mean? These are my phrases, my finds. If people wanted them they wouldn’t be so careless and listen. I continue to weave the phrase into the blanket, but it doesn’t work. The ends fray.
Harold’s eyes widen, his mouth a perfect “O” of shock. It don’t want to go. It don’t match. Maybe this is the first one you gotta return.
I’ve never returned any of them. It’s the one thing that brings me money. It’s the one thing that connects me to the world of the hearing.
I flap my arms and shoo him away, fed up with his morals. He swats at my hands like I’m an annoying bug, but leaves, shooting me expressions of disbelief. I thread the vibrating phrase back into the tin. It quivers like a wounded animal. I’ll find a place for it tonight.
#
The phrase continues to vibrate, weak, but persistent. It doesn’t match any project—Not the mutters-of-indifference handbag, not the scarf of wishful thinking, not the mittens with bits of excuses.
I throw my yarns at my cot.
Harold sits on top of the tangled lump, hands me a magazine. I’m volunteering at the shelter today. You want a magazine?
I glare at him.
I’m slow, teachers say I’m slower than most people, that’s why I got special needs, but I know you’re mad. I don’t like it when people are mad at me.He crosses his arms and looks at the ground.
I sigh and he peeks at me.
His face is like a hopeful puppy waiting for a treat. I can help you. I can find more phrases like that one, enough to make a big cozy blanket.
For being slow Harold is a genius. I give him two thumbs up, smiling so hard my jaw aches.
We’ll find more similar phrases and make a spectacular design. I imagine what I’ll buy with the money I make. A new dress? Fancy pants? Maybe I’ll look good enough that someone will hire me, something permanent.
I gather my things into the cart; got to take it all, anything left behind is fair picking. We go to hunt more phrases, to find something that’s sorrow, hope, wishes, and goodnights all in one.
#
We find a goodnight first, and then a wish. Nothing sticks. I braid them together, but the phrase doesn’t weave with the others. It doesn’t match. I sit on the street corner, lay my scarf out so people can drop change while I work. Harold watches the shop owner change a toy display in the window. He stomps with excitement.
I stare at the stubborn phrase. It fits nowhere, but now I’m obsessed to find where it fits.
A police officer walks toward us, eyes focused on us, hand on his belt. I don’t need to hear to know we need to move along. The officer’s lips tell us to leave and he tips his chin to my things. Harold jogs over and we gather things quickly. The officer stands on the corner watching us walk away.
Harold stops. He points wildly at the newspaper stand. I grab his arm, urging him to keep walking. The officer crosses his arms, still observing us from a distance.
Keep moving, I sign, the police are watching. Harold won’t understand, but hopefully the officer will see I’m trying. I don’t want to be a burden.
Look, Harold taps on the glass. It’s our park, Maggie Mae! They got a nice picture of our park.
The officer frowns and crosses the street, heading our way. I pull harder on Harold.
Harold claps, jumping up and down, pulling at his hair and grinning. The newspaper people like our park. Maybe more people will come buy your blankets.
The picture catches my attention. It’s the park from a long angle view. The focus of the scene is a blue sedan with the driver side completely crunched inward. Glass and twisted metal are sprayed around the sidewalk. The car is wrapped around a tree. The back end pokes out from the tall bushes where I found the phrase this morning.
Tragic Wreck Claims Life, the article says. I read the first few lines before the print disappears under the folds.
The police officer approaches us again. This time Harold follows with ease, telling the officer about the park and my blankets. The officer fiddles with his radio, nodding, and after a few blocks he leaves us.
Harold bounces next to me. My thoughts wander to the phrase. Harold was right. This is one that needs to be returned. It won’t match in any of my blankets, but I know where it fits.
#
I nod to Harold from my hiding spot behind the dumpster.
He pats me on the shoulder. You’re doing a good thing, Maggie Mae. More phrases will come along. Phrases that will bring in lots of money. A good deed brings good things.
I don’t believe in Karma, but I smile at Harold, pat him too before he crawls from the hiding spot to wait for me across the street. It would be easier for one of us to make the delivery.
I’m sitting in the alley for only a few minutes when a nurse pushes a laundry cart through the hospital exit. She doesn’t see me; I catch the door before it shuts. Shift change is the best time to enter the hospital unnoticed. The nurses and doctors are going over charts, summarizing patient care, and getting coffee.
I scan the doors of the trauma unit. I see her: young girl, seven years old, black hair, dark skin. The panels slowly blink reds and blues. The monitor flashes green. I carefully unwrap the tin from a blanket and hold it over the girl’s ear. She moves. Her lips open. The monitors blink a little faster. Her eyelids flicker, her forehead creases.
I miss you. Her breath is uneven, her closed eyes squeeze together, wetting with unshed tears. Mommy, don’t leave.
I tuck her in, laying the blanket of lullabies over her legs.
Okay, mommy, I’ll stay. I’ll be good.
I hold the tin for a moment longer, until the vibrations slow, as if a fading heartbeat. A hair falls over the girl’s eyes; I sweep it away. The girl falls into a deeper sleep and I weave the string with the bygone phrase into a bracelet. It braids and bends with ease. I thread the gift into the girl’s fingers. As I sneak out the door, I glance one last time at the bracelet. It flutters two short bursts, which could mean a few things:
Be good.
I’m home.
Thank you.
Good-bye.
***End***
Thank you so much for reading my story, Pocket Full of Mumbles. The title is taken from the Simon and Garfunkel song "The Boxer" --The story idea came from these lines of the song: "...I have squandered my resistance/ For a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises/ All lies and jest/ Still a man hears what he wants to hear/ And disregards the rest.
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