Читать книгу A Sharp Intake of Breath - Джон Миллер - Страница 7

My first word was the subject of spirited debate; the cleft in my palate made it hard to make out. Aside from my sister Lil, who was too little to care, each relative was certain I’d said something different. My father, whose hearing wasn’t good, thought I’d said “coat.” My mother declared I was saying “Ma!”, and she stood her ground, hopefully. A cousin was sure I wanted “up” to her eager, childless arms, and my grandmother, always critical of Ma’s housekeeping, insisted I was pointing to the mop.

My other sister, Bessie, was only seven, but she was already looking out for me. She said I was asking for help.

FOR A LONG TIME, A SIMPLE BREATH could pack terror into the spongy expanse of my lungs, because I couldn’t hold it forever, and so much depended on what happened next. They said that cleft lip and cleft palate didn’t always afflict the same child, but I had the bad luck to be born with a split that wasn’t satisfied remaining either outside or in—it ran down my upper lip and all the way to the back of my mouth’s roof.

If I simply exhaled, if I allowed that breath to flow freely, barely a sound was made. That was the perilous decision I had to make as a boy: having no voice or using the one I was given. If, on the other hand, the air I exhaled passed by the vocal cords, and if those cords were allowed to vibrate, voicing was produced.

Voice isn’t really what I’m talking about, of course, except metaphorically. Voicing is animalistic, feral, instinctive. It’s what chimpanzees, or hyenas, or even small infants do: they groan, they screech, they cry. It’s saying “ahhhh” when the doctor prods with his tongue depressor.

Speech, on the other hand, is a phenomenon not as much produced as it is shaped. Each word is a small sculpture.

Any person can squish a lump of clay through his fingers (provided he has fingers to begin with) and produce a random form, determined only by grunting pressure, how much or how little, and what oozes out here and there. Fashioning that shape into something recognizable or useful requires more than a haphazard neural impulse and a contraction of the muscles.

When a word is spoken, air first travels up the vocal tract, but then it must be directed, through either the nose or the mouth, depending on the action of the soft palate and the velopharyngeal valve. By the time the word reaches our ears, many instruments have had their chance with it: cords, valves, palates, tongue, teeth, lips. Obviously then, having good tools is essential to proper enunciation. I can work soft clay free of the spinning wheel if I apply strength and temper that force with measured restraint, but it’ll take me time, and in the process of dislodging, I’ll squash the bowl I’ve worked on. A wire passed underneath will do it swiftly and cleanly each time.

Problem was, I was handed defective tools.

Hare-lip n. 1. A separation of the skin of the upper lip running right up to the nose, making the child’s face look like a bunny rabbit. Meant to be adorable. Mildly offensive.

I had only a partial separation of the skin, slightly to the right of centre as you took in my face, and the nostril on that side was a little flattened and askew. In that respect, I wasluckier than some, who had a double cleft, or whose deformity was bad enough that their nose was a piece of cauliflower. In my case, “hare” didn’t really fit me. I had an indent rather than a split, making my upper lip a bracket tipped over. A pointed, grammatical bracket calling attention to the tip of my tongue, which just sat there because I hadn’t grown teeth yet and my tongue had nowhere to hide:

Here! Just down here is the tip of Herman’s tongue!

A neighbour told my mother that if there was any animal to compare me to, it might be a serpent. She said she hoped for my sake that my teeth grew in properly because everyone knew from the story of Adam and Eve that a serpent wasn’t to be trusted.

Serpent-tongue n. 1. The child’s tongue, resting there in the opening of the malformed mouth, appearing ready to dart out at any moment and test the air to see if the climate is right for treachery.

When I was six years old, Ma decided I needed speech lessons. Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children had one therapist then, but her time was stretched thin and she worked mostly with kids who had lisps or stutters. There was a long waiting list and my parents were advised that time was slipping by. Fearing that if I didn’t soon have lessons, I might never speak properly, they hired an elocutionist who had experience with cleft palate children.

She had a body that was thin and extremely long from bottom to top, which is how I first took her in. Our house consisted of a kitchen, a stockroom at the back of the store, and a dining room stuck on the rump end of the living room. Also, there were three bedrooms and the bathroom above. I was chasing after Lil, playing a game of tag, and we’d just thundered down the wooden stairs and turned the corner through the dining room/living room. Lil had darted past the new obstacle, but as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I ran smack into it, right into its long, scratchy wool skirt. I stared up. The lady’s perfume made my nostrils twitch, and her face reminded me of a prune. Did people make fun of her too? Did she have older sisters who teased her, called her prune-face when her mother wasn’t looking?

“Hello,” she said. Lil bolted outside, eager to avoid the company, and I made a move to follow her, but Ma came back into the kitchen from hanging the lady’s coat near the back door and thwarted my escape with a scoop of her arm. She stilled my kicking legs by putting me down in front of the prune-lady.

“This is Mrs. Debardeleben, darling. She’s going to help you learn to speak normally.”

Debardeleben. I couldn’t believe it. Two sets of alternating ds and bs—it was a cruel joke. The measure of a successful student must have been one who could finally pronounce her name.

Mrs. Debardeleben said, “I need a pitcher of water, a glass, and a wash basin,” and when Ma produced these for her, she took me into the living room. She moved the lamp onto the floor and placed the pitcher, glass, and basin on the small table beside us. I glanced to see if Ma was watching, but she’d returned to the kitchen. You rearranged furniture at your peril.

Mrs. Debardeleben sat in Pop’s wingback chair and propped me upright on the ottoman. She poured a glass of water and said, “Gargle for thirty seconds and then spit into the basin. This will exercise the throat muscles.”

I took the water into my mouth and tried to gargle, but it wouldn’t stay in the back of my throat. Some of it drib-bled out my nose and the rest of it seeped back down my air passages. I started coughing and choking until I hacked and spewed into the basin and onto Mrs. Debardeleben’s scratchy skirt. Her lips pursed.

After a few attempts that produced much the same result, she declared, “We will leave that exercise for now. Next, I want you to concentrate on the back of your throat and make it move without making any sound at all.”

This was a feat I could no more do than wiggle my ears. Neither Lil nor I could wiggle our ears, but Bessie could. I thought if Bessie had a cleft palate, she would manage it better. That was the first time I remember questioning why I’d been born the way I was. It was also the first time I wished that my sisters had been born that way instead of me. This thought came with surprisingly little guilt and even carried a syrupy satisfaction that coated my tongue. I imagined what it might be like to tease Bessie, who fooled Ma and Pop into thinking she was a goody two-shoes, or Lil, who was hot and cold, one minute my best buddy, the next my tormentor.

After a few weeks, Mrs. Debardeleben decided we’d try different exercises.

“Place your fingers in your mouth to stretch the muscles of your palate.”

I tried, but when it was clear my fingers were too short to reach far enough back, she drew from her bag a scary metal instrument that she said should do the trick. She prodded it into my big, gaping maw.

Those were the words she used. “Open up, now. I want to see a big, gaping maw!”

The first time she said it, I stared at her goggle-eyed until she explained that my maw was not the same thing as my mother.

“A maw—m-a-w—is an animal’s mouth,” she said, with a slight smile. “Learning to speak like a proper human being is what distinguishes us from the animals.” The implication was clear, even to a six-year-old. Which was I, though: a hare or a serpent? Maybe it depended on my mood.

She gave me breathing exercises to ensure air would be expelled through the proper channels and with appropriate force. These I was good at, as long as I didn’t get distracted by Mrs. Debardeleben when she exercised along with me. She was a gaunt woman of advanced age, and when she pronounced an o, all the lines on her prune-face travelled from every direction towards the edges of her mouth, stopping cold at her lipstick. A few times, I couldn’t keep a laugh from escaping.

“Stop it!” she would shout. “Focus and pay attention!”

Of course, she also had me repeat sentences, giving me drills in what she called “the sounds of the body’s own alphabet”—b and d (for these she used her own name: “Debra Debardeleben deliberated daily!”), and also s, k, g, and ch.

“Give Gary the chocolate cake!” she’d say, adopting a scolding tone I felt wasn’t entirely make-believe. It was as though she could see into my heart and knew that, had I really been in possession of chocolate cake, and had there actually been a Gary, I wouldn’t have given him squat.

“Ib ’ary the ’oclate ’ake!” is how it came out when I tried. I can’t even approximate what I made of “Debra Debardeleben,” but it was unrecognizable to her, and she made no bones about telling me so.

My improvement was slow, and I could tell she was frustrated.

“It’s Susie, not Oozie! You must listen! And you must force yourself to stop grimacing every time. Practise in the mirror when I’m not here—you look like an ape.”

I’d been wrong, then, about which animal.

Ape-cheeks n. 1. The child’s lips curling outwards, causing his cheeks to bunch up around the nostrils in an attempt to form a word, making his maw appear ready to emit a simian screech, and giving him the appearance of being a retard.

I stood in front of the mirror and practised—“Five frogs flipped and flopped!”—but I couldn’t control my cheeks, no matter how hard I tried.

After several weeks of gargling and poking and breathing and repetition, Mrs. Debardeleben brought out the last weapon in her arsenal. It was yet another scary instrument, but this one she gave a name: the obturator.

The obturator was a rubber device to be inserted and pressed flat against the roof of my mouth, with a tail-piece that extended back farther, against the soft palate. Even though, by then, my palate had been surgically closed, it was still too short and didn’t quite block the air at the back. Like the metal instrument she’d used earlier, this contraption was to help train and exercise my disobedient muscles, but this one was also designed to prevent the air from escaping into my nose. I had to concentrate in order not to choke on the obturator and I was nervous.

“Let’s call him Ozzie Obturator! Think of Ozzie as your friend!”

“My friend?” I scowled, taking in Ozzie’s full malevolence.

“Yes, or like a friendly houseguest who helps you with your chores,” Mrs. Debardeleben crowed, with a strained smile, “and stays for afternoon tea,” she added, puzzlingly. Who had time for tea in the middle of the afternoon? Certainly not families who ran a store.

I looked at the device and felt a panic I didn’t understand until Ma came in briefly and said, “You’ll get used to it, darling. It’s a bit like the special bottle I used when you were little.” Many cleft palate babies die because the gap in the roof of their mouth prevents them from building up the suction needed to get enough milk down their throat. Their mother’s breasts become squishy annoyances, milk-engorged menaces that clog the air passages. Ma’s midwife was able to find her an ingenious nipple for the top of the bottle. It had a special flange that she inserted into my misshapen mouth and held firm against its roof.

Like any good houseguest, Ozzie didn’t overstay his welcome. A few days after giving him to me, Mrs. Debardeleben asked me where he’d gone.

“Home,” I said, which earned me a slap across the face.

After that, Mrs. Debardeleben didn’t overstay her welcome, either. Ma had witnessed the slap, and even though she later cuffed me herself for losing Ozzie, she didn’t take kindly to others hitting her children. Besides, I’d improved a bit, and any lingering speech impediments were characterized by Mrs. Debardeleben as wilful failure on my part, an obstinacy out of which I might or might not grow.

For losing Ozzie, I had to sit in the store with Ma for a whole week on a chair by the cash register while the other kids were outside playing. I concentrated on my bottom lip, the more reliable of the two, and tried to make it quiver every time she looked my way.

Ozzie’s new home was a secret hiding place behind Mr. Rothbart’s International Pharmacy. Ma had trusted Mr. Rothbart implicitly ever since the influenza epidemic of 1918, when he’d slept above his store to dole out capsules, emulsions, decoctions, and infusions in the middle of the night to distressed customers. Ma had gone to him several times to try to save my sister Fannie, born just after me. Fannie died anyway, but the herbs he prepared seemed to help Pop and Lil pull through.

A row of red brick buildings formed a defensive line on the north side of St. Patrick Street, blocking access to the Ward everywhere except beside Mr. Rothbart’s front door, where there was a narrow laneway. Lil and I first discovered this lane one day, the year before, when Ma was picking up eardrops for an infection Bessie was whimpering about at home in bed. I’d never had an ear infection, but I couldn’t imagine it hurt more than the operation I’d just had five months back to repair the cleft in my palate. Ma told us to play outside until she picked up the medication. As soon as the door closed behind her, Lil said, “C’mon,” and pulled me past the garbage can that blocked the opening of the lane.

We ran the length of the building towards a small backyard filled with clutter, dragging our hands all the way along the wall, saying “aaaaaaaaaaah” as our fingers bounced against the knobbly brick. Lil’s ponytail flopped about in front of me.

At the end of the alley, there was a fence. We could’ve easily climbed it, except that we were intrigued by the discarded old chairs and crates with strange writing on the sides.

“That’s Chinese,” said Lil.

“Chinese?” I didn’t even wonder how, at six years old, she might know this. She was my older sister, and it didn’t occur to me that she might make things up.

She soon lost interest in the supposedly Chinese writing and moved on to one of several piles of wet sawdust beside the crates. “Let’s look for treasure!” She dropped to her knees, and I started into a pile beside hers, my heart pounding with the awesome possibilities.

Lil found two bottle caps and three pennies: a fortune to us. When I plunged both hands into the damp lumpiness, it felt like the mixture of ground almonds, flour, and egg for making mandelbroyt cookies. My pinky grazed something slender and pointy. I pulled it out. A fountain pen! This was much better than bottle caps, even better than pennies, and Lil knew it.

“Lemme see that. It looks expensive. I bet it belongs to Mr. Rothbart and he threw it out by accident.”

“Too bad, it’s mine,” I said. I knew what she was up to.

“Itsh mine! Itsh mine!” she taunted, making an ugly face. In addition to my muddy-sounding ds and bs, I couldn’t do ss at all. “You don’t even know how to write—what are you gonna do with it?”

“Shut up!”

“Okay, I’m serious, I really am.” Now she made her best adult-giving-a-lecture voice. “If Ma finds you with that, she’ll take it away and give it back to Mr. Rothbart. So the best thing is to give it here.”

“No way.” I squinted. I held the pen more tightly in my fist and put my hands behind my back.

“Suit yourself. I’m tired of this game, anyway,” she said, and started back along the wall. She’d hardly gone more than a foot when she paused and crouched down to look closely at one of the bricks.

“What?”

“This one’s loose.” She pushed with one finger and it sank slightly in. She turned and announced, slowly, like I was an idiot, “I’m going ... to try ... to pull it out.” She often talked to me like that. Pretty much everyone did, and not just because I was five.

She picked at it with her fingernails, gingerly, but they weren’t long enough. She pulled two barrettes from her hair and inserted them into the crevices—it worked. She dropped the brick on the ground, then stuck her hand inside. “It’s perfect!” she said. “This can be our secret hiding place. Only you and me will know about it. Swear not to tell. Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye.”

“I swear,” I said, full of wonder and excitement, not only at the hiding place, but also at a shared secret.

She placed her found pennies and bottle caps in there, and then stuck her hand out. “Gimme the pen.”

“No! I wanna take it home and show Bessie!”

“You can’t show it to her—she’ll tell.”

Just then, we heard our names called from the street.

Lil put the brick back and grabbed my hand, pulling me up the lane to where Ma was waiting, arms crossed, expression stern.

“What have you two been up to back there?”

“Nothing, just looking around,” said Lil.

“And what’ve you got behind your back, young man?”

“My barrette,” said Lil, before I could think of an answer. “I’ve been trying to get him to give it back, but he won’t.” Lil grabbed the pen, smothering it with her hand so Ma didn’t see it, and she stuffed it in her dress pocket. “He got cooties all over it—I have to clean it off at home.”

I frowned at Lil. She’d gotten her way, again, and managed to make me look bad too. I wished I were as smart as she was. How did she think of things so quickly? As we walked home, she whispered, “I just did you a favour. I told you Ma would’ve taken it away.”

I wasn’t sure about Lil’s true motivation. I hardly ever was. Had she been helping me or just seizing an opportunity? She did give the pen back, but only a few days later, and only briefly once we’d returned to the alley behind Rothbart’s. Then Lil took it again and put it in our new secret hiding place, where she would have access to it whenever she wanted.

From then on, the wall behind the pharmacy harboured all sorts of found objects Lil and I didn’t want our parents to know about—an extra stash of marbles, a shiny gold crucifix we discovered behind a church and would never have dared to bring home, a box of matches, and countless stray pennies we saved up to buy ribbon candy.

The next year, when Mrs. Debardeleben was torturing me with the obturator, I went to Lil for help. One morning after my therapy session, we grabbed Ozzie and took off early to St. Patrick Street. We scanned the sidewalks as we always did, to see if anyone was watching, then ran to the end of the alley. Lil counted ten columns in from the back and five rows up. She picked at the brick, worked it out, and stuck her arm in the hole to pull out our accumulated loot. We sat with legs splayed in front of us, scattered the treasure, and started counting. When Lil declared that nothing was missing, she popped everything back and I crammed Ozzie in last. Lil placed the brick into its slot and off we shot, out of the alley and home again.

IF A CHILD IS BORN WITH BOTH a cleft lip and a cleft palate, most parents are so distraught about the lip that they choose that operation first, even though it’s less pressing from a medical perspective. The goal for the lip is to stitch it seam-lessly, until it’s as pretty and perfect as Cupid’s bow. That’s the shape the textbooks tell surgeons to aim for: Cupid’s bow. They know the power a smile has to shoot love’s arrow straight and sure.

Ma, however, was of the opinion that vanity was an indulgence, and since they weren’t able to save enough money to fix both the lip and the palate, they made a choice. Besides, since I had a partial cleft, the doctors advised my parents to consider that scarring from the operation might be more severe than the deformity itself. What a laugh. In choosing not to pursue the lip operation, my parents made the sensible decision, the one that ensured my survival, but they didn’t consider how disfigurement might make survival a capricious gift. They couldn’t know what it would feel like to have a warped bow, one that would cause the arrow to miss its target nearly every time. Ma frowned on vanity, but can a beautiful person, or even someone who is merely plain, truly understand what it means to be ugly?

Not just ugly. Different enough to draw attention to it.

Hare, serpent, ape.

Nowadays, comparisons with the animal kingdom are rarer. Ma didn’t like them, even then. She declared, when I was born, that my notch was like a pinch of dough, raised up too high by the fingers, making a point where there should only have been a slight lilt. She said it made my mouth triangular, like hamentashen, the pocket pastries named after King Hamen’s hat and eaten at the holiday of Purim. The tip of my tongue, showing there in the gap, was like the poppy seed filling, only the wrong colour. I don’t think they filled them with cherry in those days.

She started calling me her little Hermantashen, a humiliating term of endearment only someone who loved you would inflict. Eventually, everyone used this nickname—except Pop, who said it was ridiculous—and in no time at all, it evolved into ’Tashen, and then finally just Toshy. Doctors, teachers, prison guards, my late wife ... for seventy-seven years, people have called me Toshy, a childhood nickname that still follows me.

I’ve always thought it’d be easier to be led to the gallows than to be brought handcuffed into a police station in front of your family. At least when they hanged you, they had the courtesy of putting a bag over your head.

When they brought me in for questioning, the desk clerk sneered, as if to say he knew he’d see me eventually; all he had to do was sit back and wait for me to screw things up. Bessie sat on a bench in the corridor; on either side of her were my parents. But Lil was missing. Ma had one hand over her mouth; the other reached out. My chest tightened. The look on Bessie’s face I can only describe as wild confusion mixed with intense grief, as though trying to make sense of what was happening was causing a firestorm in her head. Though my mother was the one with the outstretched hand, I felt it was Bessie whose expression was calling out to me, more to ask for help than to give it. Pop just looked deeply sad, and shook his head almost imperceptibly as I was led past. He was sitting on his hands, his palms flat on the bench as though he had to stuff them there in order not to leap up towards me—in love or anger, I didn’t know which one it would be. Perhaps they’d told him to be still; it didn’t matter, the effect was a pupil waiting to be pulled into the principal’s office.

I smiled weakly, hoping they’d believe that I’d be okay, even though I wasn’t sure of anything. I wondered how or why they’d managed to get my family to the station so quickly. It didn’t occur to me then that they might question them too.

They brought me into an interrogation room and left me there for the better part of an hour. The room was claustrophobic, the air thick, and contained only a small table with a chair on either side. Finally, a plainclothes detective entered. He was tall and had a bushy moustache that hung down over his top lip, the kind I wished I could grow myself. His overcoat stank of cigar smoke. I’d never seen him before; he was the sort of man you wouldn’t spot as a police officer, either because he wasn’t in uniform or maybe because he came out of the station only to investigate crime scenes. I’d never stuck around once I’d created one.

He paced a few times in front of me, his hands behind his back, and then he said, “All right. Now suppose you tell me how the hell you thought you were going to get away with stealing that diamond.”

It was an odd question. I’d expected him to stick to facts, not strategy, and I was unprepared. I couldn’t think of a thing to say. Adrenaline made my mind race, sharpen, and yet fog over all at once.

“I don’t know...”

“I guess not,” he said, and sat down across from me. He brought a cigar out of his breast pocket and lit up, puffing huge clouds in my direction. “So you stole your sister’s key, did ya?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Now suppose you tell me what was going through your mind when ya threw that diamond out the window.” Another strange thing to ask. What could it matter to him what I was thinking?

“I guess I thought I could get it after I jumped.”

“It was pitch black. The house backs on a ravine. How’d ya think ya’d find it? I’ve had three men lookin’ for it for the past two hours and they still haven’t turned it up.”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t know much, do ya. You slow or somethin’?”

I paused before answering. “Ya,” I said. “Why else would I throw it?”

He tilted his head and squinted at me, probably to see if I was bullshitting. “I think maybe because you’re a little dumb-ass shit and you thought, if I can’t have it nobody else can either.”

“Okay. Whatever you say,” I answered, not so much because I was defeated or trying to give him any lip, but because I was still figuring out if it was better to appear stupid or spiteful, since he’d presented me with both options.

He leaned over the table and grabbed my throat. His hand was so enormous that his fingers nearly met at the back of my neck. His cigar was bitten between his teeth, and as he spoke, he blew smoke in my face. “What I say, is that you’d better give me some straight answers, and fast, and stop playing me for a chump.”

He stared into my eyes, and I tried to hold his gaze, but I began to tear up from the cigar. I coughed and tried to suck in air, and then all of a sudden he let me go, and we both fell into our respective chairs.

Spiteful. For now, I decided on spiteful.

An hour later, after he’d asked me each question in a half-dozen different ways, slapped me around a little, and choked me a few more times, I was led back into the hallway. My family was still there, but now Bessie’s eyes were puffy, and her boyfriend, Abe, had arrived. He had his arm around her. Lil was now with them too, and just before we reached their bench, the detective handed me over to a uniformed officer and said, “Miss Wolfman, please come with me.”

As we passed in the hall, Lil searched my eyes. Not the way Bessie had, in desperation. Lil was trying to divine some clue from my expression. She wanted to know how much I’d given away. The one time in my life I’ve actually wanted to open my lips to speak, I couldn’t say a word.