Sobre a Deficiência Visual

Snakewalk

Charles Wheeler

excerpt

Two blind men - Leonard Baskin, 1952

After eleven weeks in the hospital, I returned home to Flatfield and Elaine, my skull a dull, empty morphine capsule, turbaned in white bandages.

A parade of well-wishers greeted me like a stranger, their eyes, their one big collective eye, watching, taking my hand between theirs, like a woman's. They spoke loudly, a patronizing touch to my shoulder, as if the eyes had something to do with hearing. One asked if I would play the piano, like Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles. Another placed a harmonica in my hand.

"There's another little blind fella," he said, "plays the guitar pretty good, but I can't think of his name right now. I think he's a Mexican."

"I've got to go light on the music," I said. "It fucks my cat up."

I overheard him in the kitchen later, asking Elaine where the cat was.

They disappeared in a couple of days, back to their manuals. Elaine kept them informed, lowering her voice on the telephone at night, giving her commentary. But seclusion was mine and for the next couple of weeks I lay in a beanbag chair, the television on.

Three weeks after I left the hospital, a registered letter arrived from the state, the Department of Motor Vehicles, demanding the surrender of my driver's license to their nearest office. I complied, mailing in my pickled card. They eventually sent me a facsimile, an official state identification card with a new picture. My name was misspelled, and along the bottom, in bold print, it said: not a valid driver's license. Elaine read it to me.

At the time, I was standing in the living room, trying to laugh, my hands searching for something to grab. She had to restrain me from tearing at my bandages.

In the hospital, it had always been injections, my body measled with punctures. At home, it was pills, four times a day, lying in that goddamn beanbag chair. My system crawled with antibiotics, my skull with Percodan, Valium, just enough to sweat. Behind them, my center had already begun to twist like a wet towel. So I dumped the pills, hundreds of them, right down the growler's porcelain throat. But that towel continued to tighten, twisting, and Elaine the martyr continued her commentary with the others, the voices on the other end.

"He's that way because he's lost his sight," they would say. "He's blind and angry. They have a very high rate of suicide, you know. It'll be hard for you. He's going to have to make some adjustments."

I would make some adjustments allright. I would adjust them all with right hooks. Christ, what did they know about anger. I came off the assembly line with my nuts too tight. I didn't even get along with other kids in the nursery and when they pushed me out into that goddamn Adipose world of theirs, I starved, fasting on the tough hide of solitude.

A few days later, a Saturday bright and warm, Mrs. Johnson from across the street knocked at the front door. The flower lady, that's what the kids called her. I had seen her over there, kneeling in her gardens, a thin, dark stem under the wide blossom of her straw hat, tending her rows of reds, whites, yellows, purples. Delicate, light colored butterflies rose from the daffodils, daisies, petunias, and snapdragons, dancing onto the air like puny paper puppets. She was somewhere in her eighties, I thought. She marched right in without saying a word to Elaine, just walked right by her and crossed the room to my beanbag. Then kneeling, she placed something in my lap.

"It's banana bread," she said. "I made it this morning."

My fingers moved over the foil wrapper, looking. Mrs. Johnson leaned down, close to my ear like an old friend, whispering.

"I know all about it," she said. "God saved you to do good things, you know."

When I did finally make it back onto the freeway, seven months later, I was headed south through a May morning, courtesy of the state, Elaine driving. My possessions, besides a suitcase, included a white cane, a braille pocket watch, and two braille books. A starter kit. My destination was a blind school, the California Institute for the Blind, 218 Butte Street, Brookings, California, no more than a mile from my birthplace, where I had made my first crooked little footprints in the sand. They weren't about to let me sneak off to Alaska with my eyeballs and a D-minus in social behavior. The whole fucking thing had been planned. I knew it. The accident, the twisting. It was all part of the wash. You got to fit, man. You got to crabwalk like everyone else. You got to eat, think, and breathe that make-believe. They were sending me back, wet and blind, hoping I'd get it right this time, be a good little boy, a harmless consumer of the public pie.

At least the 'California Institute for the Blind' represented an escape from the confines of my own house, for six months anyway. The night before leaving I celebrated alone at the kitchen table, a little brandy, some beer.

Relief kept its distance, watching me from across the room. Knowledgeable sorts, the big, collective eyeball that stripped me of my identity, had already assured me of waiting benefits, how great it would be, there with my own kind. My own kind, I thought, trying to laugh. Just who the hell was Patrick Todd.

Fear is the damndest thing, the manifestations of weakness that crawl your goddamn skin, in and out of your orifices at will. The following morning, as Elaine drove on, closer and closer to my new beginning, sweat started beading along my hairline, so I cracked the window open a bit for a little fresh air. It had rained that morning, thundershowers. The tires hissed through wet stretches of pavement, slinging spray up into the fender wells. I laid my head back against the seat, eyes closed, listening to the expansion joints in the freeway click by like film frames. Rewinding.

The old, silent film—first car, first kiss, first piece. In the Adipose People's Guide to Life, the chapter on common sense suggests that if time travel were ever possible, anyone going back would always stop at that first dip of the wart, when you thought you'd surely die, because in that moment you knew that nothing else in the world could possibly feel better. But I was headed all the way back to my literal beginning, my home town with the blind school I had never seen, dragging there at the other end of my minds umbilical cord. I learned to smile and hate and ride a bicycle there.

Elaine turned the radio on. Rock. I reached over and turned it down, then continued thumbing through the manual, looking for something on blindness. The appendix had it listed: Blindness—void. This is a visual book only Fuck em, I thought. I had never been in their club, never would be, either. I didn't want anything in their goddamn visual world.

I didn't want the sweat either, but it was there. A blind school, a nuthouse.

I had seen blind people around there before, on the avenue, groping along, head down, that goddamn cane switching back and forth in front of them. I would watch them for a moment, then turn away, like everyone else.

"What are you thinking about?" Elaine belted, shattering the still. My nerves grabbed each other and jumped, like I had pissed on an electric fence.

"Jesus," I said. "Throw a rock at me next time, will you? Let me know when you're comin'."

"I didn't mean to."

"Yeah. I know that, but you ought to get that amplifier of yours fixed.

Get a goddamn operation on it, or somethin'."

She would catch me like that all the time, like Al Hirt running a quick scale in my ear. No wonder my damn nerves were shot.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I just didn't want to drive all the way there without talking. You haven't said anything all week."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I don't know if you still want the divorce, or if you're going to come back home? Those papers just sit there and you never say anything. What am I supposed to do? Do you want me to sign them?"

Following the freeway, remembering the curves, hills, landscape, occupied the slack in my skull.

"Where are we now," I said, "Cordelia?"

"Almost to Red Top Dairy," she said.

Half an hour to go, I thought. A goddamn blind school, full of blind people.

"Do me a favor, will you?" I said, "and don't get all spastic over it. I don't feel like talking now, either."

"But that's just it. You never say anything. You never feel like talking.

You think you can live in your own little world and forget about everybody else."

"You got that right."

"Well I need to know about us. I've got the rest of my life too, you know. Are we going to try again, or are you just going to disappear? Everybody says you'll be different when you come back."

"Christ," I said, "everybody, huh? Bless their little hearts. Piss on 'em too, while you're at it."

The tires splattered through another wet spot, always a reminder, boats, bow spray. I felt a lot for that trumpeter swan next to me, but I couldn't tell her. It just didn't have a place anymore. She was right too, about the world thing, my own little world, with my own little fucked-up skull. I just couldn't let my guard down any further. That swamp, the dark hole in my skull where fear waited, was just too close.

"Can't you just tell me how you feel about me?" Elaine said.

"Nothing's changed. I can guarantee you that."

"You probably can't wait to get there, so you can fuck your brains out."

Jesus, I thought. Fuck your brains out. I could see them, what was left anyway, lying bruised and swollen on an unwashed sheet. Nothing else, just the brains, the shades drawn, a little daylight squeaking in.

"There's girls there too, you know." Elaine said. "There's probably even some young ones. You could go for that, couldn't you?"

"You're a trip, you know that?" I said. "I've got enough trouble in my skull without you throwing gas on it, and I'll tell you something else too, Flower. I've seen plenty of blind people and never once got a hard-on."

"Well you've been saving it for something, that's for sure. You're probably going to call your old girlfriends."

"My, my, and I thought you were worried about the rest of your life."

"I am, and I can't take much more of this."

"You got the bank and all your tight buddies. You don't need me around to crack your nuts."

"At least I've got some friends."

"Yeah, I know. Half of them were trying to lay me behind your back."

Elaine chewed her sock for a while on that one.

We topped the ridge overlooking Vallejo. I erased all buildings, all other signs of man from my film, leaving just the bare hills, like assorted buttocks, cropped with their spring grasses, and the bay beyond, a lively blue.

"I love you," Elaine said. "I've always loved you."

San Francisco Bay, I thought. Jesus, that first sail must have really loosened some sphincters. All those brown eyes watching Frank Drake and his boys cruise in.

"I'm sorry you're blind," Elaine said.

"Jesus H. Fucking Christ," I said. "I should've taken the goddamn bus."

"Well why didn't you? I didn't ask for any of this either, you know."

"I'll tell you why, goddammit. I didn't take the bus because I'm fucked up in the head. I cross a street half a block from my own goddamn bathroom and start sweating, because I don't know if I'll hit the other side, and it's all so fucking senseless, but it happens. I could stand there in the middle of a thousand goddamn people, and still sweat, because I'm afraid of being lost—and I ain't talkin' lost like you on a goddamn one-way street either. That's just simple mental illness. With me, it's crazy, because I know I'm not lost. I got all those people around me, and I know I can ask any of 'em, and they'll take me by the arm and lead me, and that's just it.

Can you understand that? I don't want anybody leading me, and inside my skull, everything comes apart, my spit tastes funny, my body feels like it belongs to somebody else, and I want to take my fingers and just rip my goddamn face open. . . . That's why."

"You don't have to shout," she said.

I sat there, listening to my breathing, wishing that leaden weight in my skull would take me, like the anesthesia did, quick and heavy, if that's how insanity came.

"What would you like to discuss, dear?" I whispered.

"Will you stop that. It's not funny I know I haven't been much help, but I do love you."

"Maybe I should've invited you to go to Alaska with me."

"If you don't stop whispering, I'm going to scream."

The laughter felt good, like opening a window. I told myself it would all be over in a couple days. A new life. I wouldn't even remember her.

"You know," I said. "Even if the Indians had known what was about to happen, they couldn't have done anything about it."

"What?"

"I loved you too, you know," I said. "I know it don't mean much, but I just ain't got room for it now. I wrote you that poem, you know, trying to explain it."

"You should've read it to me then."

"Christ," I said, turning my face to the window. Terry's Waffle Shop, I thought, right about there. Moving. Almost to the bridge—fifteen minutes to go, and now she wants the poem. At the time, I thought that had been something. A counselor with the Department of Rehabilitation had brought me two braille books and a cane, and I'd rubbed my goddamn fingertip raw learning those dots, cab, bag, cat. . . . Man. It was great, the first damn thing I found to feed my brain. I had been lying in that beanbag chair for nearly four months, listening to game shows, "The Rifleman," "Leave It to Beaver," slowly going mad. Two years, they said.

That's how long it might take me to learn it. In two weeks, I was one braillin' mutha. I could read it, write it on a hand slate, and even understand it. The cane helped too. I would force myself to go one more block each day, sweating. But I could get into those dots. I was proud too.

Elaine and I hadn't made love in all those months, so I wrote her that first poem, trying to explain the fear and love, so proud of my new language, the new me.

I wrote that poem, corrected it, and rewrote it, waiting for the sound of her car in the driveway and her big feet coming up the walk to the door.

Christ, a hard-on hit me so fast, I nearly passed out, thinking we might even wind up in the sack. I would read her my poem, she would grab me by the pecker and lead me down the hall. The scent from our hot and hungry funichingilario would drift back out to settle atop that page of dots, my first poem.

When the car pulled in I was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting, following her feet up to the door. She jammed by me, in a whisk and rustle of polyester, set her thermos on the sink in the same goddamn place she always did. Not a word. Too long, I thought, too twisted, both of us. "I wrote you a poem today," I said. She ripped off a good laugh, standing there at the sink. I could see her head back, those big, front teeth hanging out, like she was eyeballing an apple on a limb. "You're a construction worker," she said. "What would you know about poetry."

We crossed the bridge then, Carquinez Strait. I remembered that easy, numbing grip of hypothermia.

"I'd like to hear your poem someday," Elaine said. "Maybe you could read it to me when you get back."

She just didn't understand. There was no going back.

"I stood in the rain today, while downspouts bantered of love, and laughter, and inside, my mind beat helpless, like a fly at its window, mouth open."

"What's that supposed to be?" Elaine said.

"That's the beginning of the poem."

"That didn't rhyme, did it?"

"Yeah, I know. Piss on it anyway, huh."

Silence seemed to increase our speed. Pinole, Dam Road, Beach Avenue, Cutting Boulevard, the old apartment, there on Tenth Street—the faces.

I made love to Elaine there, the first time, the first hundred times, naked, young. Then Hamilton Boulevard, our turnoff, and as the car began to slow, I felt like a coyote, trapped, chewing at his leg, with the sound of a four-wheel-drive moaning up the near canyon.

At the stoplight, we waited. Across the street, 40 Flags Motel. I remembered the article in the Tribune, the junkie they found there, some young gal, chopped into pieces, drug culture, accused the Angels.

We turned left, passing under the freeway, our sound trapped, then out, sunlight through the glass, onto my face. Standard station on the right, Exxon to the left, some guy in two-tone blue leaning over a windshield, wiping, the black hose out the back like a tail. I could do that, pump gas, wash windows. And a block farther on the right, Bayview Elementary, kids playing, sounds like geese feeding. Bending at the knees to shoot their basketball, the hoop so high.

Bay windows watched me from between trees. "He's coming back you know. Christ, I thought we got rid of him. He's blind now. No shit?"

Elaine shot down a side street to the avenue, San Gabriel. Plastic banners above a used car lot rattled at me as I rolled the window down, the morning breeze stale with used time. We turned right and slid into line, light to light with the others, idling, gassing, braking—everybody in a hurry except me. Grass Hut, Bear Club, The Corral, Playtime Club, Rosie's, The Buckhorn, Blue Door, then stopping again. The last light.

"Do you know where we are?" Elaine said.

I didn't answer.

"You want a hint?"

"We're at the goddamn Plaza," I said. "You got a Shell station over there, and the candy joint to the right here."

"How do you know?"

"Sixth sense. Comes with the conversion."

The school had to be somewhere in the next block, I knew that.

"Are you nervous?"

"Yeah, I'm nervous. So what."

"You look like you're thinking about something again."

"You're right. I'm thinking about some blind kid I saved here one day."

"You saved him?"

"That's right, just like Jesus."

"What did you save him from?"

"From himself. He was losing his mind out there in the middle of the intersection, on a red light."

It was some young guy, wearing a Giants cap—dark hair, some of it stuck to his forehead with sweat, pale useless eyes, and the spittle slinging off^ his lips as he tried to thank me. He had bounced out there like a jackrabbit in the headlights, and every time someone honked, his nerves exploded. I damn near needed pliers to get his fingers off my arm, and later that evening, in Ducci's, I was the local hero. Boyd Lynch, the bartender, had seen the whole thing. "They oughta have somebody out there watching those poor bastards, you know?" Boyd had said, and I nodded, drinking the free beer, thinking about the guy's baseball cap and how he might be in some dark room, the radio blaring, a ball game.

"I could sure go for some morphine," I said.

Elaine punched it, moving again, past the Red Barn burger joint, the car wash, water hissing, then the long wall of Brookings Bowl, our sound bouncing back. We turned right, then right again, behind the bowling alley. She crept down the street, looking, then hung a U-turn and parked at the curb. I swallowed.

"So this is where they hid it, huh? What's it look like?"

"I guess this is it," she said. "I can't see an address ... it doesn't really look like a school. There's a two-story building over there to the right.

This one in front of us looks like it might be the office, or something, but I don't see anybody."

I had my head out the window, taking deep breaths, cool air — nothing but my sweat and what sounded like a couple sparrows doing their thing in a nearby tree. I remembered the cartoons — when somebody was out of their mind, they always heard birds singing.

"Are you all right?" Elaine said.

"I'm fine. I just have to get in there and get moving."

I checked my watch then, running a fingertip across the open face, 7:45, fifteen minutes to wait.

"Why don't you just go ahead and take off," I said. "I wouldn't want you to be late for work."

"Could we please talk about the divorce for a minute?"

"Jesus," I said. "Can't you get it through your skull, it's over? We screwed each other for four years. Wasn't that enough?"

"You'll need somebody when you get out of here."

"Oh yeah, just like I'll need another asshole."

"Would you want a blind girlfriend?"

"You just don't understand, do you. Flower? I'm so damn sick right now I can't see straight. I think I'm losing my mind and all you can think about is crotch."

Elaine let the tears flow. I stuck my head out the window again, breathing, thinking the time had come to get my butt out and move. It didn't matter where.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry."

I took out my handkerchief and handed it to her.

"Yes," I said, "I know. So let's just do our little good-bye number now and I'll give you a call in a couple weeks. After the lobotomy."

"You know what my father said last week?"

"I don't think I even care."

"He asked me about the divorce, if we were still getting it. I told him I didn't know."

She blew, coughed a couple times, and wiped at her nose to stifle another sob.

"And he said, well you don't want to spend the rest of your life with That anyway, do you?"

"That? He called me that? Christ, and I used to like that bastard. Hell, I used to love 'im."

Elaine blubbered. The birds fooled around in their tree. The school was quiet, waiting—too quiet. It seemed cold, spooky Attendants in white coats, I thought, a nuthouse.

"To hell with it anyway, huh?" I said. "I never wanted to be in their club in the first place, and when I get out of here, I'll tell 'em. I'll tell 'em. Hey, looky here all you dumb bastards. I feel, and bleed, and speak the same goddamn language, just like the rest of you, but you know what? I just flat don't give a damn. Never did, and never will. You bastards can't even feed your kids and keep your dogs off the freeway."

I had it then. Ready. Getting out, I took my suitcase from behind the seat and started down the sidewalk. Elaine opened her door and stood there.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Don't let it bother you."

"You don't hate me?"

"'Course I don't hate you. I don't hate anybody I just don't know how to love at the moment. My teeth are too tight. My face aches and something's prying at the back of my skull with a claw hammer, but it ain't gonna last forever. You can tell 'em all I got Jesus, if you want. They'll believe that."

I took a couple steps, off balance with the suitcase, but moving. That seemed to be enough.

"Do you want me to help you?" she said from the car.

I stopped again, fighting, then softened. Everything was so quiet.

"Sure," I said. "You can show me where the damn place is."

She came around the car to the sidewalk, moving in front of me. I followed her footsteps.

"Better than that," I said, "tell 'em I fell in with the devil worshippers."

Elaine turned right. My cane hit grass then followed the edge around onto a walkway, the sound bouncing back from the building in front of me.

"I feel like a water balloon full of red paint heading for the side of a bus," I said.

She waited at the building. The sound off my cane shortened with each touch, sweat flooding my throat, and the old film, the old life, began spilling fi-om its reels.

"Are you all right?" she said.

I was down on one knee, the pavement cool, steadying.

"This is crazy," I said. "I think I need a beer ... I think I need about fifty beers."

"I could take you somewhere. To a bar, if you want?"

I shook my head, blowing.

"I'm never going to see again," I said, "but that ain't the problem. I don't even think that has anything to do with it, you know. Flower?"

She stood quietly, a couple feet away, watching me. I shook my head again and laughed.

"Jesus," I said. "It's all in the head, you know? The whole thing. None of it's real, not even love. We just made that up for something to do."

"I could get you some beer," she said. "We could sit in the car for a while."

"I ain't gonna wear no goddamn baseball cap either."

"What?"

"Nobody'll know who I am, and when I get it all figured out, I ain't gonna say a goddamn word. Nobody'd believe me anyway."

I knew then why I had screamed that night, lying on the bottom of the boat. It had to do with insignificance. Aside from getting a hard-on and propagating, the rest was all in the head. You either make it up yourself, or somebody makes it up for you. And once in a while some idiot has to fight it, because he thinks there's more.

I stood up then and reached out, looking for the door handle.

THREE

The window behind my bed cranked open, and I knelt there, face to the heavy screen, Hstening to the sounds of traffic out on the avenue. Jesus I hated waiting. My nuts ached too, from an encounter on the way in.

The room itself wasn't bad, for a two-man cell. My bed was a little short, with mattress and pillow both encased in plastic piss covers. Besides the bed I had a nightstand and a locking wardrobe with a coat rack and chest of drawers. A writing desk and chair separated my side from the other, where the stench of dirty socks hung like a dog blanket on a fence.

That side belonged to Damond, my roommate, a side-show freak I had run into downstairs. Another door on my side led into the bathroom, a tiled chamber loud with disinfectant. Damond and I shared the can with Rusty and Reno, the act on the opposite side.

I had already put my clothes away, hung my jacket up, and checked the place out, a little squeamish about touching things in the tiled chamber.

I had a lid tucked into one of my dress boots in the wardrobe and I considered a joint, then passed. Christ, I could do something right for once.

What the worm needed was activity. Peace and quiet was giving me acid indigestion of the skull.

Opening the hall door, I listened. Quiet, too quiet, just that long tunnel, well waxed and douched with that same disinfectant. So I returned to the bed and lay there, my feet dangling over the end, both hands on the pillow, waiting for some unknown person to come and start my life for me.

When Elaine and I had entered the lobby half an hour earlier, I had set my bag down and straightened, an idiot smile pinching my face, my right hand ready to greet the whitecoats—nothing. Just a cold, empty room, stale with the smell of concrete and disinfectant. The smile palsied.

I considered the door behind me, fresh air, freedom, a twelve-pack, maybe three, just to make the adjustment a little more casual. I had just reached for my bag when the sound of a woman's footsteps, from another room, straightened me again, smiling. She entered, crossed the room to our left, and pulled out a chair. A switchboard began to crackle and buzz where she had seated herself. I still held the smile.

"Excuse me," Elaine said. "This is Mr. Todd. He has an appointment this morning?"

"Fine. Just take a seat. Someone will be with you in just a moment."

Elaine nudged me across that dance floor to an armchair. I seated myself, a little soup beginning to bead along my hairline. My throat remembered the cold, wet sensation of beer and I damn near lost my tonsils in a fit of involuntary swallowing. Then the switchboard crackled again.

"Good morning, Zeke," she said. "Mr. Todd is here. . . . Yes, thank you."

Elaine leaned over toward me.

"I think she's blind too."

Her voice filled the room with all the subtlety of herring gulls announcing the arrival of a garbage truck. I nodded, wishing she would leave, just get the hell out of there. Long seconds groaned by in silence, and just as I started to turn, her hand lit on the back of mine, trembling, sending the lice of apprehension scampering through my body hairs.

"Will you be all right?" she said.

I nodded again, raising my eyebrows.

"I'm going to leave then."

She stood, leaning down to kiss me, her cheek wet.

"I'll give you a call in a couple weeks and let you know what's happening," I said.

Her feet moved quickly across the floor, out the door, and down the walk to the car. I listened to the motor start, pulling away, and then leaned forward, part of me racing to catch up. As her sound grew faint, pain and love flashed through my skull like dead rabbits alongside some country road, and in a mad flurry of inner wings, I ached, wanting to tell her I still loved her. Then she was gone, lost to the sound of a switchboard.

"Good morning. C.I.B. May I help you?"

My blind sister, I thought, sitting at her switchboard job, pleasant, happy I could be that way. I wanted to be that way. Then another door opened somewhere in the building, and the clockwork tapping of a cane filled the hallway, coming for me, I thought. The sound grew louder, passed the open door, and continued on down the hall.

Someone else entered the lobby to my left, at the end of the room. No cane. A slice of morning snuck in around his feet like a dog.

"And you must be Mr. Todd," he said, stopping in front of me. "I'm Zeke Potter."

Black, I thought, then stood, smihng, as we exchanged hands—shorter than me, good hand though.

"He's a big one, Stephie," Zeke said. "I think I'm going to keep him on my side."

Pleasant Stephie had a very sweet laugh. My well-adjusted blind sister.

"Mr. Potter will show you to your room and help you get situated," she said.

"I've already got your bag," Zeke said. "Why don't you just take my elbow here."

I laughed a little, found the elbow, and latched on.

"Here we go," I said.

"You find something amusing, Mr. Todd?" Zeke said.

"Just me. I was laughing at myself for being so screwed up."

"Oh, I see. Are you really screwed up, Mr. Todd?"

"Yeah. Took a while, but I've been practicing on it."

"And you find that amusing?"

"Some of it. I was just thinking about you being black, and remembering a few things about eyeballs, and how they used to work."

"What makes you think I'm black?"

"Aren't you?"

"Well yes, my skin is black, but I thought you might be referring to something else I wasn't aware of."

"Nah. I was just thinking, that without the eyeballs, everybody's black—just seemed kind of funny, you know?"

"Oh, I see. Well I suppose everybody's entitled to their own opinion."

We exited the lobby, crossed an open, paved area, then entered the dormitory—another well-waxed floor, more disinfectant. I noticed footsteps then, somebody running down stairs. A small body bounced out a doorway to our left, hit the hall a couple times, and smashed into me head-on, scattering my nuts and sending my cane clattering off down the hall. Zeke dropped my bag and trotted after it.

"Damond," he shouted. "Where the hell is your cane?"

The small form in front of me put a hand to my belly and began feeling its way up. When it touched my beard, it jerked back like it had hit hot grease.

"Who is this, Zeke? One of the new students?" the voice croaked, high, raspy. An old lady or a midget, I thought, trying to ignore the pain in my nuts, laid out with little X's in their eyes. Zeke apparently recognized the expression as he handed my cane back.

"You're going to hurt somebody someday, Damond," he said. "If I ever catch you without your cane again, I'll damn sure report you."

"Sure Zeke. Whatever you say."

He slid around me, then banged out through the main door, running.

Zeke nudged me with his elbow. I took hold, and followed him into the stairwell.

"That's your roommate, Mr. Todd."

On the second floor, I tapped my cane a couple times to let Zeke know I was out of shock.

"You'll be in room sixteen, Mr. Todd. If you count doors, it's the fourth one down on this left side."

Inside the room, Zeke set my bag in front of the wardrobe, then gave me a quick tour. In the bathroom, he pointed out two sinks just to the left of the door.

"You and Damond share the first one. There's a shelf above it for your shaving gear, if you ever decide to shave. To your right, there, is the shower. There's a bench and some hooks for your duds, and directly across the room is another door. That's Rusty and Reno's room, and just to the left of their door is the commode. It's a stall. The door locks."

I followed him back into my room, leaving the door open.

"Do you read braille, Mr. Todd? Good. The school rules are printed here, on the side of your wardrobe. I suggest you read them."

Zeke grabbed my hand, placing a key in the palm.

"This is your door key. It also fits your wardrobe. I suggest you keep them both locked whenever you leave the room. If you have any more questions, there's a house phone on the wall, by the stairwell. Pick it up and you'll get Stephie, down at the switchboard. Connie's the night counselor.

She's in after five-thirty, downstairs. Don't leave any of your gear on the floor or under the bed. The janitors come in to mop every couple days. Someone else will be up shortly to show you around. It's been a pleasure, Mr. Todd."

I stuck my hand out. The door almost closed on it, so I moved it to my crotch, standing there alone between dirty socks and disinfectant. I moved to the window then, cranked it open, and pushed my face against the screen.

"That's right, you bastards," I said. "I'm back."

They ignored me. Chapter 2 of the Adipose manual. Always ignore anything you don't understand, and hope it goes away.

Traffic brings an odd sound to the observer, motion, the sound of time, people driving. Elaine driving north, somewhere on the freeway, the world moving by. Something I would never do again. I was starting over, but waiting first like some goddamn vegetable in a produce stand, waiting for someone to come and do something with me.

I lay down for a while, trying not to think, then got up, took a leak, checked the nuts out, both of them still there, then I remembered the rules on the side of my wardrobe. They pushed the usual kid stuff, keep your bed made, the floor clean, 11:00 p.m. curfew, keep the noise down, no stereos after 10:00 p.m., get your clean sheets and towels on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Number six was a little more challenging. No alcohol, drugs, or persons of the opposite sex in the room with the door closed. Number ten explained the feeding schedule: 6:30 a.m., 11:30 A.M., 6:00 P.M. Two meals on weekends, 10:00 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. just right for hangovers.

Out in the hall, the sound of a cane caught my attention. I followed it coming my way, tapping past my door, then stopping at the next, keys jingling, Rusty or Reno. He entered his room and rustled about, humming a pleasant but unfamiliar tune. The bathroom door was still open and that tiled chamber amplified everything. Before I could move to close the door, my blind brother entered the can, just humming away. The stall door banged. A belt buckle jangled. He sighed. I stood there like an idiot, my hand over my mouth, trying to think of something painful. Then the humming stopped and a couple farts cracked the still.

Christ, I thought he'd never finish, but he finally flushed and made his exit. I tiptoed to the bed, lay down, and pulled the pillow over my face.

Ten minutes later, he left his room and tapped back down the hall. I waited another few minutes, then grabbed my cane and tapped down- the hall, running my hand along the wall. At the stairwell, I felt like a goddamn window washer feeling for the phone.

"This is Mr. Todd," I said when Stephie answered. "I'm ready to get started. I thought maybe you could tell me who to contact."

"Somebody will be with you shortly, Mr. Todd."

Counting back four doors, I tapped my cane along the way, using sonar, letting my bat sense get an idea of the hallway. I'd get that down quick, I thought. To hell with feeling walls and counting doors. I would get that cane technique down perfect—use the sound, the ears.

Back in my room, lying on the bed awaiting the sound of footsteps, I vacated my skull and took a little transcendental trip outside with the traffic. I used the cane, conscious of blind technique, but could still see clearly. This was similar to my dreams, which remained visual. They were always awkward too, twisted with an unnatural, double vision as I watched people react to my blindness.

All along the avenue familiar cars waited in bar parking lots, company trucks, pickups, junkers. I could see the faces inside those bars too, suspended in their dull, dark aura of smoke. They had been sitting there since I left town. Across six lanes of San Gabriel Avenue, Carson and Klein Mortuary rose like a southern mansion, white wood, the red brick porch, circular drive, lush lawn, ivory curtains, and that black Caddy hearse in front, waiting. My old man had always said he would go at sea.

No funeral, no expense, no smiling parasites, just a crab dinner.

As I moved along one store front, I caught a reflection in the glass — somebody following me, some guy in blue jeans and a T-shirt, sleeves rolled up to show off his guns, clean shaven, his hair dark, slicked back in a conk. Whenever I stopped, he would stop and lean against a pole, watching me, legs crossed, a toothpick in his mouth. When I moved, he moved. He seemed friendly enough, so I kept walking past the bars, their jukeboxes thumping, pool tables cracking, the dram dispensaries, mental cleansers. They had their own religion, all the essentials of the cocoon, without evolving. What the hell, everybody gets tired of fighting.

At the Bay City Limit sign, where the BART tracks cross, I made a Liturn and headed back. I was suddenly very tired and found myself estimating the distance back, questioning, but knowing I would make it. My buddy was waiting for me, leaning against a telephone pole, sucking at that toothpick, his hard blue eyes scrutinizing, following me close. As I passed, I smiled and nodded. He pulled the toothpick out.

"You really think there's more than that?" he said.

I didn't answer. A rush of guilt swept its hot breath across my face. Guilt for having never accomplished anything. Guilt for the double vision, for impersonating a blind man. I closed my eyes, but nothing changed.

It was nearly three hours before the knock finally arrived in the form of Stan DeLucca, head coordinator of school activities. I accepted his apology, forced a smile, and followed him downstairs. "I needed the nap anyway," I said.

We started with the east end of that first floor. He pointed out the TV room, coffee room, night counselor's quarters, and nurse's office. "How 'bout a shrink?" I said. "You got one of them hangin' around?" His laugh said a lot.

"We get a few cuts and bruises now and then, but nothing too big. The nurse is here mostly for the diabetics. Insulin shots, blood counts, that sort of thing, you know?"

"You go blind from diabetes?" I said.

"About half our students are diabetics. It usually affects more than just their eyes though, Pat. They lose a lot of sensitivity in their hands too.

Makes it kind of rough on mobility and braille. Most of them wind up with guide dogs."

Christ, I thought. What the hell have you got to complain about, idiot.

"What I'd like you to do, Pat, is walk the length of the hall, down to the other end and back. See if you can stay in the middle. It'll give me some idea how far along you are with your mobility."

With a tunnel quiet like that, the sound bounces evenly. I just tuned in, like stereo, centering myself, and at the end, the sound pitches, like liquid leaving a bottle. Pretty damn easy. Going back, the hall widened at the main entrance, the sound giving way on the right side.

"Not bad, Pat. You look like a natural. Why don't you grab my elbow here, and we'll start on the other buildings."

Motion at last, I thought, brain food. But just outside the door, Stan stopped to check his watch.

"I tell you what, Pat. It's so close to lunch now, I think what I'll do is drop you off at the cafeteria, and we'll continue this later."

My slack snapped taut with the idea of waiting again in a strange place.

I had no idea where the cafeteria was in relation to the dorm, but grabbed the elbow and followed. We made a couple turns, crossed an open area, and as Stan pulled the door open there was the disinfectant again. It smelled like they cooked with it. That was all I needed.

"You've got six tables along each side, Pat. They sit perpendicular to the windows. See here?"

Stan took hold of my cane, rapping table legs as we moved, the sound dissolving into the room's wide cavity.

"Straight ahead of you now are the silverware and trays. They don't like students getting in line until they're ready to serve, so I think I'll leave you here."

He put his hand to my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

"The other kids ought to be here in about five minutes, and I'll see you back at your room about one. Shouldn't have any trouble with that, huh, big guy?"

Sound swirled through the room as the door banged closed behind Stan. I stood there like a wooden Indian, lost. Yeah, sure, big guy, my saliva turning acidic. What's a matter, big guy, you're sweatin' again.

I began moving my cane around me like a second hand, looking for a table, or wall, a chair, anything. You're just crazy man, I thought. That's all, just sick. The sound of other canes and voices arriving outside helped, but not a hell of a lot. I had my back to the door, playing wooden Indian, when they entered, loud, crawling by me like some shod centipede, the room filling with their sound. Canes swatted my legs, nudging at my boots, as the length of its body moved past, grunting, laughing, the air beginning to vibrate, then adding the slap of trays and high tinsel tone of silverware.

I moved in the opposite direction, listening for the door, my own cane touching hmbs, other canes.

"Hey, watch it, you creep."

"'Scuse me, scuse me."

"You're going the wrong way, you idiot."

Ten feet in front of me, I could hear the door swinging, fresh air. But as I moved toward it, a hand grasped my arm, pulling me into the line.

"I'll help you," she said, her face close, breath sweet with spearmint.

Speech mired itself in mud at the back of my tongue, choking that weak, idiot grin onto my face.

"You're Patrick, aren't you?" she said.

I nodded, turning to move with her.

"I'm Sally Andrews."

Eyeballs, I thought, counselor or something—she knew my name.

Young. Saved for the moment. She looped her arm through mine and snuggled close, the soft, unmistakable curve of her breast against my forearm, no bra, and blood rushed to my crotch like dogs to wounded prey.

We continued through the line like that, arm in arm, quiet, Sally leading.

Trays, silverware, mashed potatoes, peas and carrots, pork chop, slice of bread, and a carton of milk. She led me to a table next, and sat beside me, scooting up close so her leg touched mine. All about me, blind brothers and sisters hooked a healthy grease, gabbing as they fed—laughing, not sweating, their sound rising, swirling, then settling again, and Sally, the angel of darkness, beside me, touching, calling out names, introducing me.

"Are you a total, or a partial?" some guy asked from the other end of the table.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think I know what you mean."

"Are you totally blind, or partially blind?"

"I guess I'm a total. I just never looked at it that way."

"You'll get used to it," the same voice said.

Blinks, I thought. That's what we all were, or what regulars fancied, according to the Adipose manual—close your eyes for a second and you'll miss it. I wasn't missing a damned thing.

Several others at the table squeezed giggles out through their mashed potatoes. My goddamn leg had even started to sweat where Sally's touched it, transferring heat.

"Who's your roommate?" a woman asked.

My answer ignited a common reaction—food spewed out from open mouths. Across the room I could hear Damond's voice flap to the top of its fence post, like a banty rooster crowing back.

As the others finished eating and vacated the table, my sweat subsided with the noise. I picked at my food a bit and drank some milk.

"This is the best table," Sally said. "I think they like you so far."

She continued talking while I ate, filling me in on who was cool, who wasn't. All the creeps sat across the room at their own tables. The battle for blood raged on inside my body. Lust screamed ragged invectives at reason, and Sally sat there, waiting patiently, as if we were going to fuck as soon as I finished the pork chop.

When I did finish, she showed me to the tray window, and once outside, wrapped herself about my arm again like we had something special.

She didn't use a cane.

"I'm a partial," she said. "A month ago, I could see perfect."

Christ, I thought. If I had just a hint of eyesight, I would have been running, not walking arm in arm in the sun, my cranial worm on the critical list, heading for the rack with someone I didn't even know. ... I just wasn't ready, and with each step the battle royal raged on inside, my nuts pummeling the brain, sensing victory, their spasm of orgasm building, preparatory to the warmth of contact, how she'd feel about me, tight, hot, moist. Christ, I thought I was going to pass out.

In the dorm, I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, facing her, one last feeble attempt.

"I'm in room sixteen," I said. "I can make it all right from here."

She moved up close, arms about my waist, looking up at me.

"I'm just a little out of sorts," I said. "I don't know what to tell you."

She pulled tight, face to my chest, hard against the pelvis.

"It's okay," she whispered.

I turned, taking her arm again up the stairs. On the second floor, stereos and voices pushed quietly through open doors. Somebody laughed behind us, or at us, I thought—some partial noticing my obvious physical condition.

At the door Sally held close, rubbing her breasts against my arm while I fumbled for the key.

"You're the best-looking guy here," she cooed.

I was having one hell of a problem finding the keyhole, my brain a balloon again, racing for the side of the bus. Then, from inside the room, salvation croaked.

"It's ooopen."

My breath broke free, relieved. My crotch sank into its corner, disgusted, disappointed with the decision.

"Do you still want to come in?" I said.

"I don't think so. Classes are going to start in a few minutes anyway."

"It's ooopen," the room croaked again.

Sally tiptoed up, pecked me on the lips.

"I'll see you later this afternoon, okay?" she said, and trotted off down the hall.

I could still sense her body, warm, how it would have been, entering.

How crazy the whole damn thing was, and I could see my slick-haired buddy, leaning against his pole, legs crossed, laughing his ass off.

FOUR

With sound, there are no white Hnes or right angles. Everything curves. The structural world I had learned through my eyes no longer applied where simple mobility was concerned. I knew it, but it was like the metric system, just taking a while to convert.

I stood in the open area between buildings with Stan drawing a diagram of the school on the palm of my hand. It looks a lot easier than it sounds.

"Okay," Stan said. "Now what you've got in front of you here is a T.

See here? Like this? We're facing the entrance to the main hall, right now.

That hallway is this part, here, and then you've got your top of the T up here, like this. Got it?"

I said, "Sure, no sweat." I didn't want to tell him the worm had lost the picture. Christ, as far as I could tell, in front of me was open air and beyond that the sound of traffic.

"All right. Now everything on the left side of the main hall here is administrative offices and the lobby That's where you came in this morning.

Was that your wife that brought you in? She's a good-looking gal."

They had checked us out. I should have known. The eyeballs didn't miss a thing, just like Sally scoping out my rounds in the cafeteria.

"Then on your right side here are classrooms. The last one up here by the top is the laundry room, and across the top here you've got two homerooms and the cooking and sewing classes. Pretty easy, huh?"

"Nothin' to it."

"We'll go in and check it out here in just a minute, but first, there's one more thing. On this right side here, the building extends a bit toward us.

That's our only classroom with an outside entrance. It belongs to Ginelle Blase. She's one of our business instructors. Great gal too, Pat. Blind, got her masters in economics from U.C.L.A. I'd introduce you, but she's not in today In fact, that's what took me so long getting around to you this morning. I had Lieutenant Farnsworth here, from the Brookings Police Department, and had to go over a few things with him."

"She got busted, huh?"

"Well? We don't have all the details yet, but apparently Ginelle was raped yesterday evening, in her home."

I don't know why I took it so personally, but I did. My skull narrowed down to the dark, angry radius of my arms. If I could just get my hands — "She lives only about four blocks south of here. Same street. Walks it both ways every day. Everybody around here knows her."

That wasn't even animal, I thought, just man. Not weak, or young, or old, or predators, just man, some miserable useless joint. I could see that bastard, watching, waiting.

"Is she all right?" I said.

"Well, like I said, Pat, I don't have all the details yet, but I talked to her on the phone, and to listen to her, you'd never know anything happened.

She's a strong gal, Pat. A beautiful black gal. . . . It's funny, you know? You never think much about it, till it happens to someone you know. I can't even imagine something like that happening to my wife."

"They get the guy?"

"I guess they're working on it. Nothing yet though. C'mon, grab hold.

We'll go inside."

Outrage and injustice banged their washtubs against the walls of my skull, trampling some soft, heavy lump under their feet. Something male, some twisted, sexual, sickening . . . And that idea of the weak and the predator kept flashing through, but it wasn't natural. It wasn't caribou and wolves. It was a miserable, sickening violation, I thought, sickened even more by my own inability to function normally. Whatever the hell that was.

Inside the building, the first room, right side, Lou Abrams taught abacus and business skills—short man, small hand. I could tell he was blind by the way he stood and came around the table, talking, but watching his step too. He handed me his abacus. It was about the size of a postcard. I could hear other students, seated, quietly clicking their beads.

"The closest I've come to this," I said, "is keeping score over a pool table."

"Yes, yes," he said. "I can understand that. It doesn't make much sense to anybody until they become familiar with the process. But! By the time you leave here, I will have you adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, maybe even a few square roots, if you're up to it, and we'll do it all on a simple set of beads, like the one in your hand."

Thirteen rows of beads, five beads to the row, one upper case, four below, set in a flat plastic case. I returned them.

"What're we lookin' at in business skills?"

"Well to begin with, I usually spend some time with my students, so I have some idea of their capabihties, and, if I think they show some potential for the business world, we'll look into it further."

Something about his tone seemed insinuating, like he smelled gas on me. I could see myself, pushing beads, making change in a gas station — some asshole hands me a one and says it's a twenty.

Between rooms, a drinking fountain droned. I homed in on it—ice water.

"Didn't take you long to find that, did it, Pat?" Stan said.

I nodded, wiping a backhand at my mouth. Across the hall, through a doorway, the switchboard crackled—Stephie, my pleasant, happy, blink sister. How many times had she been raped.

"Next to the lobby here, Pat, is Dan Oakes's office. Dan's our chief administrator. Sharp guy, Pat, you'd like him. Blind too, blind from birth.

He's been with the school since it opened in 1960. Before that he had a private law practice, and from what I hear, I guess he was pretty good at it. So, if you ever have any legal questions, he's the man to see. You can make an appointment through his secretary."

We started down the hall again. I tapped my cane, listening for the next opening, and when the little man, with his beads and business skills, had faded sufficiently behind us, Stan spoke low, confidentially.

"Lou Abrams used to be an attorney too."

The next classroom, right side, belonged to Ben Daly, the braille instructor.

Ben and I had a good laugh, trying to get our hands together. He sounded taller. I couldn't remember the last time I'd laughed, clean like that. It was a large room, numerous tables and chairs, a braille library along the south wall and several small, individual workrooms along the opposite wall. As Ben continued with our tour of the room, typewriters, braillers, transcribers, I listened to the tone of his voice, pleasant, energetic, happy I thought, like Stephie. I hadn't expected blind instructors.

Next came the laundry room. Three washers, three dryers, free soap.

At the top of the T, we turned right. Restrooms on the one side, the sewing and cooking class across, on the left, then we exited, out into fresh air.

"Just to your left now, Pat, is the woodshop. It's a metal door. Go ahead, tap it."

Concrete bordered the door on both sides.

"Now if you turn right, and follow this wall along the back side of the classrooms here, you're headed straight for the dorm. Why don't you go down and back, just to get the idea. See if you can tell where the building ends there."

The building ended where the sound oflF my cane broke free, where the sun touched my forearm and the side of my face. It ended at the corner of an empty classroom, Ginelle Biases, open air, and beyond, the avenue, regulars with their white lines, their Donald Duck eyes jockeying for position, and at least one eyeball sonofabitch who preyed on blind women.

A rectangular courtyard separated the cafeteria from the main building.

It was maybe 100 by 150 feet, patched with lawn, shrubs, and walkways.

The dorm and woodshop formed its other boundaries. All the walkways and buildings were laid out in parallels and perpendiculars. You could find a line easily enough. Each building had its own sound too.

The gym extended south off the cafeteria, spacious, with a high, open ceiling. Stan showed me around—stationary bikes, parallel bars, wall pulleys, speed bag, weights, rowing machine, mats, and half a basketball court.

I laughed, a single note. "Get some real high-scoring games, I'll bet."

"Hey, you'd be surprised," he said. "Hang on a minute. I'll get the ball.

You can take a couple of shots."

"That's all right. I think I'll pass on it, for now."

"Hey, it's good for you. C'mon. Take a crack at it."

Stan retrieved a basketball from an adjoining office and dribbled it back toward me, the sound spreading, rolling through the chamber like smoke.

"Here you go, Pat, comin' at you. One hop."

Every nerve in my body rushed to the front, extending like cilia, screaming in unison as they waved about, helpless. I held my hands just above my waist, palms out. My nuts filed a formal protest just after impact.

"Whoops, almost got you there, huh, Pat. Why don't you move right over here, like this. That's the free-throw line. See? You can feel that tape with your toes. Then I get under the bucket, like this, and clap my hands to give you a line of sight."

I took three shots, Stan clapping. No prizes. Shooting the ball was a trip. Releasing it like that into the void stirred the worm as much as anticipating its arrival on one bounce. The former was a quiet strangeness, though, free of the latter's shock potential.

"You guys don't really have games, do you?" I said.

"The partials will get in here and fool around once in a while, but you'd be surprised, Pat. We had a congenital here last year who made fifteen in a row. The partials haven't even beat that. I think my own best is only about eleven."

I checked the weights out, then the speed bag, taking a couple of raps before barking my knuckles on the frame. Stan was shooting free throws.

"That thing's adjustable, Pat," he called. "We might have to raise it a bit for you."

I flexed the humble hand, thinking of the rapist, hearing that queer again in the hospital, laughing at me. Weak. You just have to get your hands on 'em, I thought. Work close and fast.

We left the gym, headed back toward the woodshop. I walked beside Stan, without the elbow, concentrating on the echoes off my cane—eat good, sleep good, study hard to be a good blink, I thought, and whatever was left, blow that out on the weights.

"You're not going to have any trouble. I can see that," Stan said. "You can come out here in the evening, when it's quiet, and practice the buildings.

In fact, you can get into just about anything you want here, Pat.

Like the sewing and cooking classes. They're mandatory for the gals. The woodshop is mandatory for you guys, those that can handle it anyway. But if you're interested, I'll put you on the waiting list for sewing and cooking.

They come in pretty handy, you know, if you're the independent type."

"I'll do it all," I said.

"That's the spirit. I'll work your schedule up this evening and get it to you by tomorrow morning."

Ramey Arreanas, the shop instructor, laughed a lot and talked fast with a slight Latin accent. I could tell by his voice that he kept eye contact when we talked. Not many regulars did that. Rubber mats coursed the interior of his shop between the tables and equipment, table saw, lathe, jointer, radial-arm saw, panel saw, cabinets of hand and power tools—and no disinfectant. Just that comforting odor of fresh-cut wood.

"You can make a house if you want," Ramey said. "I don't know how you'll get it out of here, but you can sure make it, kitchen cabinets, everything, but you'll have to show me you know what you're doing first.

Right? Our number one rule in here is to keep all the blood inside the body."

Working wood, the idea of making something with my hands, caressed my twisted skull like cold beer—pleasant sensations forcing their way through the cramped, stagnant channels of my mind.

"The first thing you have to do is learn this place like the back of your hand. You'll have to pass a safety test and get checked out on every piece of equipment before you can use it. Then you'll draw me up a plan of your project, measurements, everything, what kind of wood, and why you want to use that particular wood."

Across the room, another voice rose, critical—somebody with Stan.

"What the hell's she expect," he said. "She oughta have more sense than to be living alone like that."

"Yeah, what's the latest on that?" Ramey said. "They get that guy yet?"

"I don't know," Stan said. "I haven't heard anything more."

"When they git 'im, you tell 'em to bring 'im in here. I'll make sure he don't do it again."

"They're gonna have to catch 'im first," the other said.

"And they oughta castrate any attorney that defends a bastard like that, too," Ramey said. "You can bet there'd be a lot less of it going on. What'd that cop say, anyway? They must have some idea who did it."

"Ginelle says she knows who it is," Stan said. "She says it's some white guy that's been doing yardwork in the neighborhood for the past couple of weeks. ApparenUy he's come to her door a couple of times."

"Shoooot. They prob'ly got that dude behind bars right now," Ramey said.

"I guess they're trying to find an eyewitness," Stan said. "They're checking the neighbors, to see if any of them saw the guy around her place.

Farnsworth says the D. A. won't touch it unless they can come up with an eyewitness."

"Hey, that's a bunch, man," Ramey said. "Ginelle's ears work better'n most people's eyes. You know that."

"I'm just repeating what Farnsworth told me."

Once Stan and I were outside again, I stopped just before entering the main building."

"That cop really said that?"

"That's what he said. I got a little ticked off at him myself. He started right off the bat, asking me questions about Ginelle—personal things, you know? Was she promiscuous? Did she have aflFairs here at the school? Did she ever display a preference for white males over black? So I got a little hot, I guess, but if you knew Ginelle, you'd know what I'm talking about.

You can't find a better gal. I guess everybody's got their job to do."

"She's all right though, huh?"

"Some of the gals went down on their lunch break and saw her. I guess he knocked her around pretty good. She's got some bruises, and a little cut here on her neck, where he held a knife to her throat."

I could see the shadows, struggling, the dark shape kneeling, thrusting.

I couldn't see the knife.

"And you know, Pat? The guy laughed at her. She said when he was leaving, he told her there was nothing she could do about it because she couldn't see him . . . and he laughed."

The main building seemed hot, overly hot, as we entered, laced with disinfectant. Bernice, a cooking instructor there, was blind. She liked her cologne too.

"We're baking cookies today," she said, grabbing my hand, towing me along the backs of seated students, introducing me. That goddamn tight, unventilated room seemed stifling, as if all the heat in the building were generated there. The last voice in line belonged to Rusty, my can mate, a big hand, soft, like a full pup. The guy stuttered.

"Its a pleasure to be your neighbor, Patrick."

"You bet. Rusty."

Christ, I wanted to hug the guy I wanted to hug them all, tell them we could fight it. We didn't need their club. We didn't need their shit, either.

We were as good as anybody else, and I could see them all, sitting there giggling, making cookies, their baseball caps pulled down low over their eyes, and Bernice clucking about them like a goddamn mother hen. My guts started to rise, twisting the sweat out, as I passed Stan at the door.

Bernice followed him out, squawking about some damned thing.

"I've got to go down to my office with Bernice for a minute," Stan said.

"That's Gwenda's room next door, to your right there. She's your homeroom teacher. Why don't you go ahead on in. Introduce yourself. You can knock off when you get done there. You know your way back to the dorm, huh?"

As their feet disappeared around the corner, I knelt for a moment on the cool linoleum, my head down, breathing slowly against the hot sweat of nausea. The rape, the blatant goddamn intrusion, the laughter of eyeballs, sitting in some goddamn nuthouse sauna playing with dough. That goddamn disinfectant. As my head cleared, I felt the distinct, skinprickling sensation of eyeballs checking my act, someone nearby. My face reddened as I stood, and a couple of taps to my right I found the open door and walked in. The eyes were waiting, quiet, watching me—not a bad feeling, just intense.

"This is homeroom?" I said.

"You got it," she said. "It's nothing like next door, either."

"I guess I'll sleep better knowing that."

"We get into some practical arts occasionally," she said, "but not like that Sesame Street bunch over there. If you want to learn to cook, we'll get a braille cookbook and let you try some serious recipes."

"Anything else?"

"Anything your little heart desires. As long as it's within reason. Maybe some shopping, how to iron your clothes and do your laundry and pay your bills. We can set you up with a braille checking account. That's always a good place to start, and after that, who knows? Maybe some letters to your congressman, or some wine tasting."

She was very attractive, the voice, the way the eyes held on me, both strong, sexual maybe. That seemed to be the first connection my idiot skull usually produced. I wanted more though. I wanted to think she was sharp, caring, that she knew about blinks and how they could twist. I wanted to give in and open to her, like a breeze, or a saxophone. Trust it, move right up close and let it wrap around you.

"Who do I have to bribe to stay out of there?" I said, tilting my head toward the next room.

"Don't worry about that. It's already been taken care of. Believe me.

You just wouldn't fit over there. They'd lose you."

I tossed my head, trying to smile, wondering what the hell she meant by that. She moved a chair then and came around the end of the table.

She was a small woman, small hand, but strong like her voice, and the eyes again, still watching me close.

"So you're Gwenda."

"Yes, I know that," she said, "and you're Patrick Todd."

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, believe me, I probably know you better than you know yourself."

I tossed my head again, the laugh silent, defensive. "Well, at the moment," I said, "that's not saying a hell of a lot. There isn't much to know."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"I'm curious then. What makes you think you know me?"

"I read your file. All I needed was the face."

My smile came slow, flat, covering tight teeth.

"It's quite an accomplishment," she said. "Where do you plan to do your graduate work, San Quentin?"

I excused myself, maneuvered the main hall easily enough, then lost it just outside the door. It should have been simple, but it wasn't. Echoes off my cane came faint, distorted, then gone, erased by a slight wind. I found bushes, the side of a building, a locked door. My goddamn skull throbbed, screaming obscenities at its own ignorance, my entire body aching, crawling through some twisted heat of madness, of prey and laughter and intrusion and so fucking dependent. Just to be able to move, to get in a car or on a bike and move away from it.

Then it eased. I had hold again, files and all, and moments later a car pulled up in front of the school and parked. I took a quick bearing, moved straight ahead, registered a familiar sound, and found the dorm entrance.

Upstairs in my room, someone had left sheets, towels, and one blanket stacked neatly at the foot of my bed, so I made it and lay there, tired, the tang of bitterness still sticky in my saliva. I could see them clearly through a dark place in the mind's eye, a thousand Adipose hands working my file like a K mart blue light special, their goddamn shallow eyeballs reading, nodding, studying through my past. Oh yes, note the fluctuation, the extremes of emotion, the abnormal highs and cold, silent depths. And let's not overlook the sexual inconsistency. Page after page of white paper rattling through their hands, then stacked again, neatly, into a shadow.

The End

Charles Wheeler, 1989

Following a boating accident in which two of his friends die and he is blinded, Patrick Todd goes to a school for the blind. His anger and frustration are fueled by the other blind students who are adjusting or not, one way or another. When Patrick meets the blind Geri, he begins to have hope for a future. There are some raucous bar scenes, plenty of sex, and some of the best dialogue in print. The author's rat-a-tat style is a plus. by Robert H. Donahugh

The story unfolds at the fictional California Institute for the Blind, in a San Francisco Bay Area town not unlike Wheeler’s blue-collar boyhood hometown, El Cerrito, Calif. The snakewalk is a serpentine path where new “blinks,” or blind-school students, gather to drink and talk. As the most direct route from the school to a busy street, Wheeler adds, the snakewalk also is the metaphorical link between the worlds of those who cannot see and those who can. Wheeler’s protagonist adjusts slowly to the school, where he comes to learn to read Braille, translate such routine tasks as banking into other senses and develop the ability to navigate without eyes. by Mark A. Stein

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Snakewalk
excerpt (pp 10 to 39)
Charles Wheeler
Harmony Books / New York
Copyright © 1989 by Charles Wheeler