An Invisible Sign of My Own

  The famous O’Mazzi arm.

  He glanced over at me fast, scared, wondering if I’d stop him.

  But I nearly clapped my hands with delight. I’d never seen the rumored arm, had only read about it repeatedly in my mother’s History of the Hospital brochure. I nodded at Danny, and his face lit up.

  This is my dad’s arm, he said. It’s kind of like a big 1.

  He lifted it on its side, vertical.

  The class was totally silent, staring. Ellen drew in her breath in a thick heave. Danny kept glancing at Lisa expectantly, but she was quiet and seemed impressed. Ann had her arms folded. In the bottom right-hand corner of the glass, I could see the fancy engraving that read FIRST SURGERY.

  I’m so glad you brought it in! I said. Danny beamed, all ready to start with the subtraction when I told him that today for a change how about trying some multiplication. His face lit even more; Lisa made an enraged sound from her desk. Danny picked up the glass case, and hugging the bottom he held it as high as he could; inside, his father’s arm was slightly bent, with the palm half open in a vulnerable kind of way, like a bud crumpling out to the sun. 1 times 88 is 88, Danny said. There was a tan mark where his father’s watch had once been, and a neatly sewn-up shoulder. I saw no sign of blood.

  What’s 1 times 156? I said. 156, he said, shifting the weight of the arm on his knee. 1 times 387? I asked. 387, he said.

  Your dad has hairy arms, said Ann from her chair.

  It’s not fair that he gets to do multiplication! said Lisa. All the other kids were shifting in their seats, and Ellen’s face was whitening by the minute, so I told her to go use the bathroom because she tended to pee when upset. She left quietly but I heard her run as soon as the door shut.

  What’s 1 times the world? called out John Beeze.

  The world, said Danny O’Mazzi.

  He balanced the arm again on the table by the chalkboard and showed us where it was cut off at the shoulder. My dad got stuff in it in the war, said Danny. But it only got really bad in the hospital. He spent the first night of anyone in there, before the elevator even worked.

  Does your father use a wooden arm now? I asked.

  No way, said Danny. He’s no cheater.

  Elmer raised his hand. Can he eat? he asked.

  Danny rolled his eyes.

  Does he have cancer? Lisa asked. No, she answered herself.

  What war? I asked.

  Danny shrugged. The one, he said. In another country.

  The whole class nodded sagely, so I didn’t press it further.

  He did a few more multiplication problems, and then stood proud next to the arm, a small sergeant with his glass flag, when Ann raised her hand.

  Yes Ann? I said.

  I don’t think it looks like a 1 at all, she said. It just looks like an arm. I don’t think it should count for Numbers and Materials.

  You should talk, said Danny, gripping the glassy blue corners. So far I’ve brought in a stick 11 and a gelatin 4 but you haven’t brought in anything all year except that bad 3 of nothing.

  Ooooh, said John Beeze.

  Kids, I said, walking to the board.

  Well, I have something today, said Ann, voice priggish, as if it were the most normal thing ever.

  I raised my eyebrows. At the table, on a piece of scratch paper, Lisa was writing out her multiplication tables at a breakneck speed.

  I have a great number today, said Ann. I really do. It’s way better than that arm that is not a 1.

  Ann, I said. Cut it out. I put her name on the board: Ann.

  Danny, I said, thank you for a terrific addition to Numbers and Materials.

  I’m done? he asked.

  I smiled. Do you have anything to add? I asked.

  He put his arm around the arm. One times a million billion trillion is a million billion trillion, he said.

  Very nice, I said. Maybe the rest of you can look more at Danny’s dad’s arm at recess.

  Danny nodded, smug. I led the class in a short round of applause, and he returned to his seat where he stuck out his tongue at Ann.

  Enough, I said. Lisa stopped writing, and put down her pencil.

  Then Ann DiLanno stood up.

  So can I go? she asked. We still have ten minutes, right?

  You really have a number today? I said. A solid number?

  She glared at me. I’m not a LIAR, she said. Of course I have one. I have the best one of all.

  I leaned against a bookshelf.

  We hadn’t had a peep from Ann since the 100 of rhinestones that I still was irritated about, and which turned out to be stolen. It belonged to some old lady who baby-sat Ann and her sister on Thursday afternoons.

  All right Ann, I said. Show us what you got.

  I waited for her to wave her arms and produce another 3, this time made of noxious gas from science class, but instead she walked straight over to her blue backpack and very carefully unzipped it.

  And … here … it … is! she said.

  She raised her arms and held up a 42 made of wax.

  See, she said. Look. Look at this perfect number I brought.

  It was about the size of a tennis ball, hanging from a dirty string. I recognized it instantly.

  Isn’t it beautiful? she said.

  Bo-ring, said Danny O’Mazzi, clutching the blue glass arm.

  Now. As much as I was supposed to be the same to all my students, I wasn’t, and Ann had made me annoyed first by the 3 and then by the fickle rhinestone 100, but far more than any of that, most of all, I did not like seeing that 42 separate from its obvious owner.

  Where did you get that? I asked, sharp.

  I made it, she said. Out of beige crayons.

  There are no beige crayons, said Lisa.

  Ssht, Lisa, I said. Ann, I know you didn’t make that. I know who that belongs to, I said. Here. I’ll give it back today.

  No, said Ann, hugging it to her. It’s my number. I brought it in. I made it out of beige crayons. There are too a lot of beige crayons. I want to do some adding and subtracting and multiplying with it, she said.

  Lisa held up her page with all the problems and cracked it in the air. No multiplying allowed, she said.

  Ann took a deep breath. 42 + 1 = 43, she said. 42 + 0 = 42.

  Okay, I said. Now—

  42 + 6 = 48, Ann said.

  Good adding Ann, I said steadily. This number belongs to my neighbor. It’s very important. Where did you find it? Hand it over.

  She clung to it. 42 + 3 = 44, she said. Now, subtraction. 42 − 1 = 41.

  She got one wrong, said John Beeze.

  That’s all fine Ann, I said. Now, I’d like the 42 please. Numbers and Materials is over for today.

  Danny was carefully pulling the pillowcase back over his father’s amputated arm. The rest of the kids were stirring in their seats, restless. 42 was too tricky a number to get really involved with. Lisa was out of her seat now, standing at the supply cabinet, holding up a pack of crayons.

  See, she said, sorting through. Red, green, blue. None of these are beige, she said.

  Ann held the 42 tight to her chest.

  42 − 0 = 42! she said. What do you use to draw bread? she asked. What do you use to draw potatoes?

  Ann, I said, trying to keep my tone calm. You’re right, good point. Lisa, sit down. Those things are beige. I need the 42 please.

  But I don’t want to give it to you, Ann said, words rising.

  I use brown for bread, said Lisa. I like wheat bread.

  My voice leveled out. Ann, I said, have you ever been in the hardware store? Where did you find it?

  Ann clutched the 42 closer.

  I found it in the park, she said. Under my pillow.

  And I use gray to draw potatoes, Lisa continued, from across the room.

  I found it in my dinner, Ann said. In the mashed potatoes. All beige.

  That’s a lot of mashed potatoes, said John Beeze, impressed.

  Come on, I said. It belongs to a ma
n named Mr. Jones.

  I know Mr. Jones! piped in Ellen.

  Good, I said. Well then you know that he makes these numbers himself and he needs them. He absolutely needs every single one of them. Lisa, come back and sit down.

  Ann clung to it. I love 42, she said.

  I hated seeing it get dirty and melted from the warmth in her arms, and the string was old and fraying and I had just seen it bouncing on Mr. Jones the other day, a grand permission slip for the universe. His face lifted, eyes clearer than usual, skin brighter, with light inside it. And I couldn’t stand to think of it gone, of him waking up and feeling exactly precisely 42 and not being able to locate his mood and searching and searching but finding only 41 or 43, neither of which was quite right, not quite right at all, and having to drop down to the thirties, having to settle for something lower because he couldn’t announce it exactly.

  Lisa walked back to her chair, making popping sounds with her mouth. John was in a thoughtful stupor, thinking about how big the plates must be at the DiLanno house. I held out my hand. Ann glared at me.

  My 42, she said, twisting with it. It’s perfect, she said. It’s not like that dumb arm that doesn’t look like a 1 at all.

  Danny stood up. My arm is great! he said. My arm is number one! My dad fought in the war! he said.

  I’m not kidding around Ann, I said.

  The bell rang for recess. Half the class ran out. Danny stood, taut and peacock-like for a second, and then picked up his 1 and hauled it away. Lisa hung around by the door. Ann remained in her seat, firm.

  I found it in my ear, she said.

  Lisa pulled in her breath. That is gross, she said. Can you hear me? She raised her voice. Helloooooo, she said.

  I sat across from Ann.

  I have an idea, I said to her. Why don’t you go to the hardware store with me after school. That’s where he works. We can give it back together then. He’ll be so happy you found his missing number. Maybe he’ll even give you a reward.

  Ann’s eyes were shifting around the room. I was trying my hardest not to grab the 42 out from her lap when she wasn’t looking. I didn’t want to risk breaking it.

  With you? she said.

  With me, I said.

  Today? she said.

  Today, I said.

  But I have ballet lesson at 4:30, she said.

  We’ll go right when school is out, I said. That’s plenty of time.

  Okay, she said. Her face had been hard with determination but it softened a bit now.

  I found it on my front lawn, she said. It was there waiting for me, just on time. Right there hanging from the front tree. It was perfect, she said.

  42.

  You found it on your front lawn? I asked.

  Exactly, Ann said. Right on the tree in the middle of the front lawn.

  The seat I was sitting on was wood and I reached my hand down and knocked on it then. Because Ann was 8. It was highly likely, it was almost ridiculously possible, that one of her parents was 42. I couldn’t even stand to ask right then; I just wanted to get the number back to Mr. Jones and be done with it. My stomach unsettled itself, fearful.

  Can I go? asked Lisa from the doorway, above the sounds of screaming students getting their snacks.

  Sure, I said to her. It’s recess.

  No, I mean to the hardware store, she said. Can I come too?

  I looked at Ann. She waited for a second and then gave a shallow nod.

  Fine, I said. We’ll all go at 3:00 and you can all meet Mr. Jones.

  Until then I’m wearing it, said Ann, standing up. She put the string around her neck and stood there, defiant. The number fell to her belly button, slightly distended under her red T-shirt.

  Be very careful, I said. 42 is a good number.

  It’s six times seven, Lisa said from the doorway.

  It’s how old my mom and dad are, said Ann, running out to the yard for recess.

  19

  I had gotten one postcard from Joanna Stuart, my old neighbor, now in Florida. She smeared sand all over it and glued it on the card and sent it to me because I had begged her for one before she left. Look, I showed my mother—Florida. We put our noses up close to smell the sand which smelled like glue. My mother hung the postcard in her office. On it, Joanna had written: Hi Mona, I live in Florida, Bye.

  They’d buried the baby here. I visited it sometimes, when walking around town, a quick detour through the cemetery, patting the grass and dirt, pretending I was Joanna. Hi baby, I said to it, this is your big sister here. I figured it wouldn’t know the difference.

  The headstone was the same size as all the others. It was the only one with that last name.

  Lisa, Ann, and I entered the hardware store at 3:20 that afternoon, after a difficult walk from the elementary school through the park. The girls clambered over the benches and tree roots, fast and nimble, playing some pirate game made up clearly by Lisa, who was the bad pirate and was persecuting Ann, the slave pirate. Ann wasn’t happily playing along. Whenever she said, Let’s change games, Lisa said: Ohoy! Bad pirate wants to change games! Three hundred lashes with a whip! And that was the end of that. Ann finally retaliated by telling Lisa that her hair was beige. No it is not, Lisa huffed. My hair is called dirty blond. I use a yellow crayon to draw it, she said.

  I didn’t intervene. I had no chalkboard to put names on. I only asked Ann once if her parents seemed okay and she didn’t understand the question; I shook my head, worried, grazing tree trunks with the edges of my knuckles.

  When we reached the street, I asked Ann and Lisa to hold hands to get across. They refused for a few minutes and we just stood there, stuck on the sidewalk, and finally I agreed to let them touch elbows, faces turned away, like a mean-spirited country-western dance. We crossed and then walked into the hardware store, bells signaling our arrival. I looked to the cashier. Mr. Jones was not at the counter.

  Ann and Lisa were sniffing down the aisles.

  Doorknobs! Lisa cried out, holding up one of blue glass.

  Ann was peering in the bin of iron nails and gently dipping her hand inside as if it were a tub of water. I looked to the empty spot on the wall where my ax had been.

  Mr. Jones? I said.

  There was no sound or movement anywhere.

  I guess he’s not here, I said.

  The girls weren’t listening. Ann was putting a flashlight to use and spotting the walls with circles of white light, jiggling them into squiggles and lines and pluses.

  Lisa had a knife out.

  Put that back, I said.

  She curled a smile at me, coy.

  NOW, I said, my voice harsh, and she hung it back on the wall. Ms. Gray is mean, I heard her whisper to Ann. Ann giggled.

  Still no Mr. Jones.

  I went over to the place where my ax had been and just stood near it, still loving the space it had held, visiting its absence here in the hardware store. Ann and Lisa were back to the pirate game and Lisa was telling Ann she was going to staple her to a shower curtain.

  Mr. Jones? I called out, again.

  Mr. Jones, said Lisa.

  I have your 42, said Ann.

  I have your 42, echoed Lisa.

  There is nothing on earth more annoying than a kid doing echoes.

  Stop the echo, I said. I heard a tiny, barely audible Stop the Echo from Lisa. I glared at her and walked to the back door, looked around, but still saw no one.

  Well, I guess he’s not here, I said.

  I found the girls at the rack of hammers.

  Get away from those, I said. You know, you really shouldn’t come into hardware stores, I said.

  Ann is a human nail, said Lisa. She needs to be hammered. You brought us here Ms. Gray, she said. Hey, Ann, bend your head.

  Lisa lifted a huge hammer off the wall. Ann, not thinking, bent her head. I pulled Lisa aside. What is going on? I hissed.

  She wouldn’t look at me. I don’t know, she said. I’m in a bad mood, she said.

  I took the h
ammer out of her hands and stuck it in a pile of pliers.

  Is your mom okay? I asked.

  She hardened visibly. Get away from me, she said.

  I found Ann standing solo by the drills. I’m going to keep the 42, she said. He’s not here. Finders keepers.

  Ann, I said, he’ll be here any minute. I don’t know why he isn’t here. Maybe he’s getting a cup of coffee or something. Are your parents healthy? I asked.

  Lisa went and stood by the door.

  I’m going to count to five hundred by twos, she called out.

  Great idea, I said, relieved.

  And then, unless we are leaving, I’m going to go get hit by a car, Lisa continued. Here I go: two, four, six …

  Ann’s fingers were gliding up to a drill.

  My parents are healthy, she said. My dad said he needs a drill.

  That’s good, Ann, I said. But you’ll have to come back.

  I want a drill, she said. The owner isn’t even here, that’s his fault that he’s not here. No one would ever know.

  No way, I said. Come on.

  Fifty-two, fifty-four …

  Okay, how about one nail? she pleaded. Can’t I have one nail?

  They were loose in the bin, little tiny T’s. Dark brown-gray.

  So I can hang up the 42 on my wall? she asked.

  But you’re going to be giving the 42 back, I said. Remember? That is not your 42. Remember? Mr. Jones! I called. Are you here?

  One hundred and twenty, Lisa said, loud.

  Ann kicked her feet around. I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said.

  Ann! I said.

  Her face soured. Fine, she said, I’ll give it back.

  Then you can take one nail with you, I said. But just one.

  She spent what felt like an hour picking out the perfect nail, named it Howard, and walked over to the door. Still no sign of Mr. Jones. Lisa was on the verge of finishing up and I hurried Ann toward the exit and Lisa shouted, Five Hundred! but by then I had my hand firmly on her shoulder and she pretended to rev up to run into the street into the cars but I held her back, hard, and said: Don’t you even DARE, in a really mean voice, and her shoulders sank and she moved closer to me and suddenly became very loving. We walked through the door, and the sun was a notch lower, and in the park kids were out of school, jumping around the benches, flicking the drinking-fountain water.