The Language of Ducks

by Marge Simon

Just at dawn, the old women come to sweep the streets. A field of poppy kerchiefs moving on a gray counterpane. One of them sees me at the window. She pauses, peering up. Her lips part as if she has something to say. The others continue their work. I study her. Why I do this is not logical, still I wish to do it. They live on fish, so I’m told. There’s no poetry in that, so I imagine she smells like the ocean. I wonder what it would be like to be her, to know that when you’re done, you can go home. Perhaps someone waits for her on the board steps of their house. His hair is seagull white, his eyes marine. They narrow as he lights his pipe.

I sit beside my father in the sun. His hands are large and he has long fingers. His fist would make two of my hands. He is holding up a book for me and I’m saying the words I see aloud. I am looking forward to the mathematics, which is next. I like to watch his face while we do that. I like to surprise him. But we don’t do the mathematics today. He has to leave. Momma is very sad and that makes me sad too. He picks me up and puts me on his shoulders. I’ll get bigger soon. I say this as I kiss his head and he laughs before he puts me down. All at once, I’m scared. I think he’s not coming back. But how can I know that?

I am twelve when they find us, the long men in uniforms with eclipse eyes. My mother is standing at the window with a watering can. They take her clothes, her voice. At my feet, a pot of broken geraniums. Then night and a room full of the long men. There are things that happen in the night that hurt.

In this room, there is one window. It is too high for me to see out. I wish it would stay dark, but the light comes in pressing my eyes open. I am awake inside the bad dream that is too big for me to hold inside. My face is wet. I wonder how I can cry when I don’t feel anything. A woman comes to bathe me. She doesn’t speak but gives me food. When I’m done, she takes me down a hallway to another room.

A man is sitting at a desk at the far end of the room. He is not wearing a uniform. I’ve never seen him before and he is very fat. His eyes are far apart, like a toad. He asks me questions. Simple ones, at first: How old are you? What does your father do? Can you read? Then: What is your favorite book? What was it’s meaning? He is surprised by my answers. After a time, he stands up and waddles to the bookcase. We talk about the novels, since I know them all. I ask him if he has any books on physics or calculus, and we talk about them too. When I tell him about the long men, he scowls. I know I must never mention this again.

I have my own room, thanks to the Toad Man. I may come and go as I please, but I’m not to leave this house. They gave me a typewriter and paper for my lessons. The books are boring, so I make things up. I’m sure the Toad Man told the long men not to bother me again, because they’ve disappeared. He says I’m being educated as a ward of the State, that I’m to be a teacher. That makes no sense, since the long men took all the children away. I don’t know what was done to them. I wonder who I’m being trained to educate.

I flick the curtain, she’s still there. A bright stain I’m afraid to touch like the time of the high window. I went out once, a whole afternoon of freedom before they noticed I was gone. There is a park not far from here with trees that circle a small pond. I sat on a bench beside an old man in a frayed uniform. When I spoke, he turned away to call the ducks. I watched him feed them crumbs from a brown paper sack. When all the crumbs were gone, he folded up the sack and put it back in his coat pocket. He sat by me a little longer before he left. If I knew the language of ducks, perhaps he would have talked to me. Over my shoulder, a breeze made dimples on the pond, like laughter. I’d forgotten what that was.

She says she knew me years ago.“Before the third war, we were neighbors,” she says. “Your mother and I would meet for tea. You remember that, don’t you? You’d sit on my lap and I’d feed you cookies from America. She didn’t approve, your mother. But she let me do it anyway, since I’ve no child of my own.” And I say no, I haven’t forgotten. I dust the snow off her scarf, stitch my fingers into hers. “Your parents are waiting for us,” she says.

It’s very cold. I go to the door to invite her in. But the street is empty.