Frameshift

Pierre picked up Amanda again and held her in front of him. He started making goofy faces at her, and she giggled wildly. But after a few moments, she started flapping her hands about, trying to say something.

Pierre put her down on his lap, so that she could move her hands freely.

Drink, she signed.

Pierre looked at her sternly, and signed, What do you say ?

Please, she signed. Drink, please.

Molly smiled. “I’ll get it. Apple juice?”

Amanda nodded. For a while, Amanda had resisted learning sign language; it had seemed a needless bother — until she came to understand that although her mother could hear what she was thinking, neither her father nor anyone else could.

Molly reappeared a few moments later with a small plastic glass half-filled with juice. Amanda took it with both hands and drained it in a couple of gulps. She handed the glass back to her mother.

“I’ve got to make the salad,” said Molly.

“Thanks,” said Pierre.

She smiled and went away. Pierre lifted Amanda off his lap and placed her on the couch next to him. He knew that sign language was, at best, a poor substitute for spoken language, and an even worse one for having thoughts read directly, but to be able to communicate with her meant the world to him. When they were signing, it was like that wall between them had disappeared. Pierre’s hands moved. What did you do today ?

Played, signed Amanda. Watched TV. Drew a picture.

What did you draw?

Amanda looked at him blankly.

What did you draw? Pierre signed again.

Amanda shrugged a little.

Pierre didn’t get as much practice as he’d like at signing. He figured he must be making a mistake, so he tried a different way of asking. You drew a picture of what ?

Amanda’s eyes were wide.

Pierre looked down at his hands… and saw that they were shaking. He hadn’t felt it at all. He gripped his right hand with his left, attempting to steady it. He tried to make the signs again, but they weren’t coming out properly. He couldn’t get his left palm to open correctly for “drew,” couldn’t get his right index finger to move smoothly across the fingers of his left hand for “what.”

Amanda’s brow was creasing. She could clearly see that Pierre was upset. Pierre tried again, but the gestures looked clawlike, unfriendly. He realized he was scaring his daughter, but, damn it, if he could only control his fingers he would—$

Amanda began to cry.

“You know, hon, the Condor shareholders’ meeting is coming up next month,” said Molly that weekend. They were having steak, barbecued in their backyard. Molly had cut Pierre’s sirloin into manageable pieces; he had no trouble using knives on soft food, but had difficulty when consecutive slices in the same spot were required.

Pierre nodded. His hands moved constantly now, and his legs moved most of the time. “But they probably won’t let us in after what happened when we saw Craig Bullen.”

“They can’t legally bar you from attending. You’re a stockholder.”

“Still, it might be easier if we kept a low profile.”

“We could go in disguise,” said Molly.

“Disguise?” Pierre’s tone indicated his surprise.

“Sure. Nothing major, but — well, you could grow a beard. You’ve got four weeks after all, and…” She trailed off, but Pierre knew what she was thinking — that his jobs of shaving had been getting worse and worse as his hands had been shaking more and more. A beard would simplify his life anyway.

He nodded. “Okay, I’ll grow a beard. What about you?”

“No, I’d have to take testosterone pills for that.”

Pierre grinned. “I mean, what are you going to do about a disguise?”

“Well, I know Constance Brinkley over at the Center for Theater Arts pretty well. A lot of her acting students take psych courses. I’m sure she’d let me borrow a brown wig.”

Pierre considered. “Real undercover work, eh?”

Molly smiled. “Why not? That’s always been one of your strongest points…”

After a month of growth, Pierre’s beard turned out to be much more satisfactory than he’d imagined. Molly had brought home the wig the previous night. Pierre was startled by how different it made his wife look: her skin seemed almost porcelain white by comparison, and her cornflower eyes stood out piercingly. He’d talked her into wearing the wig to bed that night, and it inspired him to new levels of creativity. Molly gently teased him about being her six-foot vibrator.

The next day, Molly drove them to San Francisco; Pierre had quietly given up driving after an uncontrollable arm movement had almost sent them off Highway 1 into the Pacific.

As they approached the Condor Tower, Pierre caught sight of a small helicopter flying overhead. Although he couldn’t make out the markings on it, it was painted yellow and black, the Condor corporate colors. He shook his head as he watched it land on the roof of the forty-story building. More premiums well spent.

They parked the car and went inside.