to do with his ability to open up to her. Ever since birth, she had
never heard the spoken word and therefore had not learned to speak
clearly. She responded to Clint-and would later tell him about her own
day-by way of sign language, which he had studied in order to understand
nimble-fingered speech. Initially he had thought that the m
encouragement to intimacy was her disability, which ensured that his
innermost feelings and secrets, once revealed to her would go no
further; a conversation with Felina was anyway as private as a
conversation with himself. In time, however he finally understood that
he opened up to her in spite of deafness, not because of it, and that he
wanted her to understand him.
his every thought and experience-and to share hers in return-simply
because he loved her.
When he told Felina how Bobby and Julie had adjourned to the bathroom
for three private chats during Frank Pollard’s appointment, she laughed
delightedly. He loved that sound; it was so warm and singularly
melodious, as if the great joy in life that she could not express in
spoken words was entirely channeled into her laughter.
“They’re some pair, the Dakotas,” he said.
“When you first meet them, they seem so dissimilar in some ways, you
figure they can’t possibly work well together. But then you get to know
them, you see how they fit like two pieces of a puzzle, and you realize
they’ve got a nearly perfect relationship.” Felina put down her soup
spoon and signed: So do we.
“We sure do.”
“We fit better than puzzle pieces. We fit like a plug and socket.”
“We sure do,” he agreed, smiling. Then he picked up on the sly sexual
connotation of what she’d said, and he laughed.
“You’re a filthy-minded wench, aren’t you?” She grinned and nodded.
“Plug and socket, huh?” Big plug, tight socket, good fit.
“Later on, I’ll check your wiring.” I am in desperate need of a
first-rate electrician. But tell me more about this new client.
Thunder cracked and clattered across the night outside, and a sudden
gust of wind rattled the rain against the window. The sounds of the
storm made the warm and aromatic kitchen even more inviting by
comparison. Clint sighed with contentment, then was touched by a brief
sadness when he realized that the deeply satisfying sense of shelter,
induced by the sounds of thunder and rain, was a specific pleasure that
Felina could never experience or share with him.
From his pants pocket he withdrew one of the red gems that Frank Pollard
had brought to the office.
“I borrowed this one ’cause I wanted you to see it. The guy had a
jarful of them.” She pinched the grape-sized stone between thumb and
index finger and held it up to the light. Beautiful, she signed with
her free hand. She put the gem beside her soup bowl, on the cream-white
Formica surface of the kitchen table. Is it very valuable?
“We don’t know yet,” he said.
“We’ll get an opinion from a gemologist tomorrow.” I think it’s
valuable.
“When you take it back to them make sure there’s no hole in your pocket.
I have a hunch YOU’D have to work a long time to pay for it if You lost
it.
The stone took in the kitchen light, bounced it from prism to prism, and
cast it back with a bright tint, painting Felina’s face with luminous
crimson spots and smears. She seem to be spattered with blood.
A queer foreboding overtook Clint.
She signed, What are you frowning about?
He didn’t know what to say. His uneasiness was out of proportion to the
cause of it. A cold prickling sweat swiftly progressed from the base of
his spine all the way to the back of his neck as if dominoes of ice were
falling in a row. He reached out moved the gem a few inches, so the
blood-red reflections on the wall beside Felina instead of on her face.
By ONE-THIRTY in the morning, Hal Yamataka was thoroughly hooked by the
John D. MacDonald novel, The Last One Left The room’s only chair wasn’t
the most comfort :it.