me one day not long after I had moved in. "the sound
of that Girl's laughter was as rare as a birdsong in
winter."
I quickly realized that in a home in which the
young person was deaf, silence ruled the day. There
was rarely any music and signing had replaced the
sound of voices. Mrs. Westington had gotten into the
habit of talking aloud to herself and for the first few
days. I was confused by it. I wasn't sure if she was
speaking to me or to herself, or even to someone else
who I hadn't realized had entered. After a while she
did it less and less if I was within earshot. but I
suspected she still did it when she was alone and
needed the comfort and society of only her own voice. In the short time I had lived with Uncle Palaver and had traveled with him to help with his magic and ventriloquist's road show, I had begun to understand how painful and frightening loneliness could be. It helped me appreciate why he had invented his lifesize replica Destiny doll. She had real human hair, long eyelashes, full lips, and she was soft in places where a woman should be soft. He had kept Destiny's clothing and shoes and he would dress the doll in them. He even sprayed the doll with Destiny's perfume. Instead of talking to himself, he would talk to her, to the memory of her, to the illusion and image of her he cherished in his mind. He had died with that image in his eyes and a smile on his lips. I think now that he deliberately drank himself to death so that he could join her. Behind those dying eyes he saw her and saw himself holding her hand, hearing her voice, guiding him safely through the darkness to a world in
which their love shone brightly.
Maybe the dead haunt us as well as guard us. I
thought. They don't haunt us like ghosts in an old
house: they haunt us from within ourselves. We
encourage it, even seek it. How many nights had I lain
awake talking to Mama or Daddy and hearing them
talk? Have respect for the dead, we've been taught.
We should also have respect for the bereaved, for the suffering bereaved. And now I would have poor Uncle Palaver to mourn as well. I think the reason why I liked Mrs. Westington so much was she seemed to
understand all this and even appreciate it.
"Your uncle was a truly troubled soul," she told
me when I described what it was like living with him
in the motor home and seeing how he related to his
doll. "The only peace he found was probably when he
was in front of those audiences you described. It
doesn't surprise me he chose magic and illusion. It
was a way out of this world, a way to stop the pain in