^
HEAR, O
by Jeffra Hays
Copyright 2011 Jeffra Hays
Smashwords Edition
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To my father, this faith
I was a child and she was a child…Edgar Allan Poe
HEAR, O
“Cantor? Cantor, do you follow me?”
Cantor grinned at the charming stranger seated opposite him, a young woman whose delicate hands held a letter. Of course he followed her, but he was as courteous, as humble as ever, and listened again. The lilting nuances of her voice, its crystalline timbre, comforted him. And why was she here, sitting in his wife’s chair? She had such a kind smile, such even, perfect teeth. He leaned toward her, his hands folded on the kitchen table, and asked again to be sure.
“Hearing means they want to hear me sing, is that right?” Of course he would sing. His voice was a blessing bestowed upon him, simply, to praise his God, to please his God with song. “You said your name is Ellen.”
“Ms. Ellis. Anita if you like, Cantor. Please, try again. The hearing is before a judge, to determine whether you are incapacitated. To decide if you are capable of taking care of yourself, and your wife. The court appointed me as your attorney. That’s what this letter says.”
“Then who is coming to hear me sing?” Three generations had followed his resounding baritone through prayer and rejoicing, threnody and splendor. And if his God had chosen not to reward him with children, he had his faithful wife. And if his God had chosen to deprive her of health in their last years, she had Cantor to care for her.
“No singing. Only to talk, to ask you a few questions. The court, the judge, makes an assessment from three interviews. They shouldn’t take long. A psychologist will be here tomorrow morning, and a layman the day after. They should phone first, and let you know about the time. The last interview, with a social worker, is scheduled for the end of the week. If you need anything, just give me a call.” She held a business card for him, but he made no effort to take it. The erratic trembling in his hands was his secret.
He twisted in his chair, straining to look back into the shadows of his bedroom. His wife slept. From the kitchen, fading afternoon sunlight descended a shallow carpeted ramp and passed the doorway to the foot of her bed. He thought he saw something move, and stared into the darkness before turning again.
Ms. Ellis half stood to soothe him, once again, from across the table. Patting Cantor’s shoulder, she repeated, “She’s there, she’s still asleep. Please, Cantor, try to pay attention.”
He giggled and nodded. “My wife is asleep. But we can talk. You won’t wake her. She doesn’t hear much at all, no, not for years.”
“I know you prefer to remain here with her, but there have been complaints about fires in your kitchen, and your wife, as you know, that is, members of your congregation are concerned. Let’s see what happens this week with the interviews. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you two here, but the final decision, of course, is the judge’s. Is there a question before I go?”
“Oh, I understand. I’ll have three tests.” He bowed his head and sighed, squeezing his hands between his knees. “Just like an old story. If I pass the tests, I keep my wife. Is that right?”
Ms. Ellis, attaché case in hand, approached Cantor and leaned over to stroke his cheek. “I promise, Cantor, I’ll talk to the judge. He’s a good man. And I’m not without heart. My grandmother lives with me. If I could take you home with me, would you come?”
“Not without her.” He looked back again, then up at Ms. Ellis. “Oh, to have been blessed with a child like you. But I have no complaints.”
He accompanied her to the door and waited, until her car disappeared.
They had eaten nothing since morning. He struggled to open a can of soup, half-filled a saucepan with water, and set the open can in the center. Dropping two whole eggs into the water, he turned on the stove, then walked down the ramp to check on his wife. Although the dim light reached only to her knees he avoided disturbing her, and himself, with the lamp. Her muddy eyes, her hair on the pillow, confused him so, but his ritual of bending over her to listen for regular breathing assured him that his God had provided them with one more day.
She opened her eyes, raised her left hand to his chin and brushed its stubble.
“I’ll shave in the morning,” he whispered slowly, “shave, tomorrow morning.”
She watched his lips and nodded.
“I’m making something to eat. I’ll be right back.”
He returned to his place at the table to read his newspaper, saw the irritating letter and the business card, and buried both in the drawer of cutlery. The eggs simmered. Yes, he was sometimes forgetful, but he knew how to care for his wife.
“He who lives in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones. What does that mean to you, Cantor?” He sat facing her, his newspaper rolled in his hands. He had asked his God for strength and forgiveness since early morning. This ugly woman -- phoning him every hour, notifying him of every delay, verifying each time that he would await her imminent arrival, Dr. Crouch and her laptop finally arrived at quarter past three. Grant me patience, he begged silently. Now I know that a woman with a spinning grogger voice looks like a shriveled, runty rodent. Her hypnotic, furry eyebrows twitched as she typed, and he asked her to repeat the riddle once more.
“Riddle, you called it? By no means, not a riddle, no, no, rather, it’s a saying, I would say.” Her face fur puckered as she recorded his remarks.
“Ah, a saying,” said Cantor.
“Well? Whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting.”
He tapped his lower lip, his upper lip, in preparation. “Stones. What kind of stones? Gem stones, or gall stones? There are so many different kinds.” He tried to laugh. “And who but a madman, or a wealthy hermit, would live in a glass house?” He watched her. Yes, she typed quickly. “Unless, perhaps, you mean the house of God. Yes, you might imagine heaven that way, where no one has secrets, where everything is so pure that nothing is hidden. And stones? Why would anyone there throw stones? Unless to play with a child. But who would want a child in that house? No, it would mean – don’t you think? – that the poor child had died. Sickness, or an accident. We all know of so much sadness, don’t we? Have I answered your question?” He waited, confident that his request had been heard.
“If you think so, then yes. Next is the second of three. A stitch in time saves nine.” She typed and sat forward. “Take your time.”
She was taking his, but he had no choice. Should he sing for her? No, not for everyone. “Yes, well, my wife, who is ill now, did most of the mending, so I couldn’t vouch for the truth of what you said.” He glanced back into the dark bedroom. “No, not with her sewing. She still doesn’t know, and if she does, she has kept it from me all these years. She, her sewing, her sewing was so sloppy that I would take my pants and jackets to the tailor after she fixed them.” He giggled. “But I hate to criticize her. She was, is, talented in so many ways.”
She stopped typing, pulled her cell phone from her purse, and punched several buttons as she turned her back to him. He waited, tearing strips of his newspaper along its edges.
“I’m through here in five minutes. You have the address. Yes, dear, or I’ll never make it before six. Not more than five minutes. This one? A shut case. See you soon.” Yawning, Dr. Crouch turned around and laid her phone on the table. “One more, then a few quick questions, and we’re all done. Now, number three. Spare the rod and spoil the child.” She dropped the phone into her purse and typed.