Sign language, although highly nuanced in its own right, was, after all, a form of shorthand. Byrne did his best to keep up. He had learned the language when Colleen was still very young, had taken to it surprisingly well, considering what a lousy student he had been in school.
Colleen found a spot on the bench, sat down. Byrne had stopped at a Cosi and picked up a pair of salads. He was pretty sure that Colleen was not going to eat-what thirteen-year-old girl actually ate lunch these days? — and he was right. She took the Diet Snapple out of the bag, worked off the plastic seal.
Byrne opened the bag, began to pick at his salad. He got her attention and signed: "Sure you're not hungry?"
She gave him the look: Dad.
They sat for a while, enjoying each other's company, enjoying the warmth of the day. Byrne listened to the dissonance of summertime sounds around them: the discordant symphony of five different types of music, the laughter of children, the high spirits of a political argument coming from somewhere behind them, the endless traffic noise. As he had so many times in his life, he tried to imagine what it was like for Colleen to be in a place like this, the deep silence of her world.
Byrne put the remainder of his salad back in the bag, got Colleen's eye.
"When do you leave for camp?" he signed.
"Monday."
Byrne nodded. "Are you excited?"
Colleen's face lit up. "Yes."
"Do you want me to give you a ride there?"
Byrne saw the slightest hesitation in Colleen's eyes. The camp was just south of Lancaster, a pleasant two-hour ride west of Philadelphia. The delay in Colleen's answer meant one thing. Her mother was going to take her, probably in the company of her new boyfriend. Colleen was as poor at concealing emotions as her father was practiced at it. "No. I've got it covered," she signed.
As they signed, Byrne could see people watching them. This was nothing new. He used to get upset about it, but had long since given that up. People were curious. A year earlier, he and Colleen had been in Fair- mount Park when a teenaged boy who had been trying to impress Colleen on his skateboard had hopped a rail and wiped out big time, crashing to the ground right near Colleen's feet.
As he picked himself up, he tried to make light of it. Right in front of him, Colleen had looked at Byrne and signed: What an asshole.
The kid smiled, thinking he had scored a point.
There were advantages to being deaf, and Colleen Byrne knew them all.
As the businesspeople began to reluctantly make their way back to their offices, the crowd thinned a little. Byrne and Colleen watched a brindle-and-white Jack Russell terrier try to climb a nearby tree, harassing a squirrel vibrating on the first branch.
Byrne watched his daughter watching the dog. His heart wanted to burst. She was so calm, so even. She was becoming a woman right before his eyes and he was scared to death that she would feel he had no part in it. It had been a long time since they lived together as a family, and Byrne felt that his influence-that part of him that was still positive-was waning.
Colleen looked at her watch, frowned. "I've got to get going," she signed.
Byrne nodded. The great and terrible irony of getting older was that time went way too fast.
Colleen took their trash over to a nearby trash can. Byrne noticed that every breathing male within eyeshot watched her. He wasn't handling this well.
"Are you going to be okay?" she signed.
"I'm fine," Byrne lied. "See you over the weekend?"
Colleen nodded. "I love you."
"I love you, too, baby."
She hugged him again, kissed him on the top of his head. He watched her walk into the crowd, into the rush of the noontime city.
In an instant she was gone.
He looked lost.
He sat at the bus stop, reading The American Sign Language Handshape Dictionary, a very important reference book for anyone learning to speak American Sign Language. He was attempting to balance the book on his knees while at the same time trying to fingerspell words with his right hand. From where Colleen stood, it appeared that he was speaking in a language either long dead or not yet invented. It certainly wasn't ASL.
She had never seen him at the stop before. He was nice looking, older-the whole world was older-but he had a friendly face. And he looked pretty cute fumbling his way through the book. He glanced up, saw her watching him. She signed: "Hello."
He smiled, a little self-consciously, but was clearly excited to find someone who spoke the language he was trying to learn. "Am… I… that… bad?" he signed, tentatively.
She wanted to be nice. She wanted to be encouraging. Unfortunately, her face told the truth before her hands could form the lie. "Yes, you are," she signed.
He watched her hands, confused. She pointed to her face. He looked up. She rather dramatically nodded her head. He blushed. She laughed. He joined in.
"You've really got to understand the five parameters first," she signed, slowly, referring to the five basic strictures of ASL, that being handshape, orientation, location, movement, and nonmanual signals. More confusion.
She took the book from him and flipped to the front. She pointed out some of the basics.
He skimmed the section, nodding. He glanced up, formed a hand, roughly, into: "Thanks." Then added: "If you ever want to teach, I'll be your first pupil."
She smiled and said: "You're very welcome."
A minute later, she got on the bus. He did not. Apparently he was waiting for another route.
Teaching, she thought as she found a seat near the front. Maybe someday. She had always been patient with people, and she had to admit she got a good feeling when she was able to impart wisdom to others. Her father, of course wanted her to be president of the United States. Or at least attorney general.
A few moments later, the man who would be her student got up from the bus stop bench, stretched. He tossed the book into a trash can.
It was a scorcher of a day. He slipped into his car, glanced at the LCD screen of his camera phone. He had gotten a good image. She was beautiful.
He started the car, carefully pulled out into traffic, and followed the bus down Walnut Street.
5
The apartment was quiet when byrne returned. what else would it be? Two hot rooms over a former print shop on Second Street, nearly Spartan in furnishings: a worn love seat and distressed mahogany coffee table, a television, a boom box, and a stack of blues CDs. In the bedroom, a queen-size bed and a small, thrift-store night- stand.
Byrne flipped on the window air conditioner, made his way to the bathroom, split a Vicodin in half, swallowed it. He splashed cool water on his face and neck. He left the medicine cabinet open. He told himself it was to avoid splashing water on it, thereby avoiding the necessity to wipe it down, but the real reason was that he wanted to avoid seeing himself in the mirror. How long had he been doing that, he wondered?
When he returned to the living room he slipped a Robert Johnson disc into the boom box. He was in the mood for "Stones in My Passway."
After the divorce, he had come back to the old neighborhood: the Queen Village section of South Philadelphia. His father had been a longshoreman, a Mummer of citywide fame. Like his father and uncles, Kevin Byrne was, and would always remain, a Two-Streeter at heart. And although it took a while to get back into the rhythms of the neighborhood, the older residents wasted no time in making him feel at home with the three standard South Philly questions: