Rachel Alexander 04 - Lady Vanishes

since it was slick with sweat. He had a round face, a roundish nose, full lips, and a great broom of a mustache. He bounced on the balls of his feet, singing as loud and as clear as a human being could without shouting, his short-fingered hands chopping the air forcefully as he conducted his little choir with such fervor, you’d think there was going to be a performance tomorrow.
    For a while I became so enthralled watching him, his short, chunky body, shirt soaked with sweat despite the air conditioning, energetically tapping his feet and moving around, that I forgot all about David. Then I remembered what had happened earlier; one way or another, I’d passed by him without seeing him. Some people do that, I thought; the opposite of the vibrant, little man leading the singing, energy swirling about him, they pull their energy in, so far that they become almost invisible, like prey animals who change their color to blend in with the environment, their only protection against the predators. I wondered if this was just the way David was, if he had been born like this, or if something had damaged him so severely that he needed to hide this way, thinking of what Venus said, how he tugged at her, how even as closed as he was, he’d taken her heart.
    I sat then, cross-legged on the floor. After a moment, David sat, leaving only Dashiell standing, but not for long. This time, based on their earlier communion, Dashiell slipped artfully down David’s leg, but not into a sit. Instead, he moved his body forward, so that when he finished sliding, he lay across David’s lap, gazing up at him with adoration.
    The song ended, and Samuel began to clap, those residents who could joining in. When that was that, he turned, noticed me, and came over.
    “Samuel Kagan,” he said, bending down to shake my hand, his eyebrows rising, asking my name.
    “Rachel Alexander,” I said, my eyebrows staying right where they were, “and Dashiell,” since he was too occupied to introduce himself.
    At the sound of his name, Dashiell lifted his head, sneezed, took a sniff, then sighed and laid his head back on David’s lap. Samuel squatted so that we’d be face to face, reaching out for my hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you’ve joined the team,” he said, leaving my hand warm and damp.
    A thin stream of saliva glistened at the comer of David’s mouth, stringing its way down to Dashiell’s side. I was finally going to have a use for those paper towels I’d been carrying around—two uses—but for now, I let it be and looked back at Samuel.
    “I was so sorry to hear about the accident,” I said, “and coming so soon after the other loss.” I couldn’t assume that because David didn’t speak, he didn’t understand, and I didn’t want to remind him of the two tragedies that had happened so recently, changes for the worse in a place where nothing was supposed to change at all. “I’m happy to help out during this difficult time.”
    “Venus says Dashiell is working out really well with the kids.” Samuel looked at Dashiell sprawled across David’s lap and nodded his approval. “Really well,” he repeated. “How often do you work with the kids?” I asked.
    “Oh, I’m here every day.”
    “They sing every evening?”
    “Most evenings.”
    “What a lovely way to end their day.”
    “I also do dance and art with them, speech therapy, and a movement class, more structured than the dance class, very important with this population. They can lose motility if not reminded to exercise their muscles.”
    I got up and took a few steps away, Samuel following me. “What about David? Does he ever do more than watch?” Samuel sighed.
    “He’s a difficult man.”
    I looked back at David, Dashiell lying across his legs. “That’s one of the reasons we were so frantic when Lady disappeared. It’s the only contact he’s ever accepted, other than medical things, you know, a shot, or a checkup.”
    “He’s okay with that? With the doctor touching him?“
    „Yes. It’s one of those funny things. I worked with a young man years ago, when I was still studying speech therapy. Back when I still had hair,” he said, his lips spreading into a smile, dimples showing on either side of his mustache. “He was incapable of most of the activities we take for granted—getting dressed properly by himself, making a sandwich without destroying the kitchen and everything in it, walking without stumbling—but he could drive a