Wimberley

This is a story about a boy who lost his ability to hear at a young age. It was written by my granddaughter who has been hearing impaired since birth. 

Wimberley's

“It’s snowing,” Henry mutters.

He’s sitting at table next to the window in Wimberley’s coffee shop sipping hot chocolate, waiting for his brother, Aaron, to get off work.

  Unlike many eleven year-old boys, Henry isn’t happy to see it snow. While it’s warm inside Wimberley’s, the small trailer he shares with Aaron is always cold. Their small space heater fights a losing war with the January cold.

  The cold seems to have brought more customers than usual into Wimberley’s. Since a Starbucks opened down the block, business has tailed off. It’s been bad enough for the owner to hint he might have to close the place. Afraid of losing his job, Aaron is glad to see them. 

  “You are staying, aren’t you?” she asks. “If we stay this busy, I can’t handle it on my own."

  “Yeah, I just need to tell Henry.”

  Henry is looking out the window but looks over as Aaron squats down, putting his face level with Henry’s. 

  “Hey, Bro, I got to work over. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Henry shrugs: “No, I’ll play my game.” 

  “You do that. Want some more hot chocolate?”

  “Sure.” 

  Aaron picks up the cup and walks back to the counter. Watching him go, Henry notices an old man sitting at the table next to him. He didn't see him come in, which was strange, because he looks up every time the door opens. 

  Maybe, he came in while I was looking at the snow, Henry supposes.

  Holding it up, covering most of his face, the man is reading a newspaper. Henry’s eyes widen. The date on the newspaper is January 13, 1915. The paper is one hundred years old today. 

 A copy of the same paper is framed on the back wall of Wimberley’s. The back wall is covered with newspaper clippings and pictures of customers and employees from Wimberley’s past. The   building is over a hundred years old, and although it hasn’t always been a coffee shop, Wimberley's has been a place where people gathered since it opened. 

   The paper the old man has looks new. The paper in the frame is yellowed with age. 

   After puzzling over it for a moment, Henry pulls out his handheld game and starts playing. Game sounds, music and explosions, blast from the device.  Several patrons look over. Aaron looks up, but a customer is at the counter placing an order, and another one is in line behind him.

 The old man looks up from his paper:  “Turn that noise off, Boy."

  Not looking up from his game, Henry continues playing, the sound still blasting. 

  “I said turn that noise off,” the man shouts, and reaches for his cane. 

  Finished with the first customer’s order, Aaron says to the next one, “I’ll be right back.”  He rushes to Henry’s table, squats down to get his attention, and says, “Bro, you got to turn the sound off. It’s way too loud. You’re disturbing the customers.” He gestures with a toss of his head at the old man. 

  Henry looks over at at the man, says, “Sorry,” and turns off the sound. 

  “Why will he listen to you but not to me?” asks the old man.

  “He didn’t hear you,” says Aaron. “Henry is deaf. He didn’t realize he had the sound on. Usually, he remembers to turn it off.” 

  “He heard you.” 

  “No,” Aaron said. “He read my lips. He’s real good at that, but he has to be able to see you speak. That’s why I squat to talk to him.”

  Aaron looks back at the counter. Kathy is busy making drinks, and another customer has joined the first.    “I have to go,” he tells Henry.

  “Sorry,” Henry says again. 

  Aaron hurries back to the counter to help the customers. 

  With difficulty, the old man rises from his chair and steps over to Henry’s table. Bending over, he puts his face almost level with Henry’s. The boy looks up from his game.

  “Do you understand me?” the man says, speaking slowly.

  “Yes,” says Henry. “You don’t have to speak so slow. It’s better for me if you talk normal.” 

  “How do you speak so well, if you’re deaf?” the man asks. 

  “I could hear some when I was little,” Henry says, "but my hearing went away."

  “May I sit down? It will be easier on me, and we can talk.”   Henry nods, and the man sits in the chair across from him. “I had a boy like you,” the man continues. “He was born deaf. He never learned to speak.” 

  “What happened to him?” 

  “He passed away a long time ago," the man says.

  “I’m sorry,” Henry says. “My mom died a couple of years ago.”  

  “What about your father?”

  Henry shrugs: “He left soon after I was born. I don’t remember him. It’s just me and Aaron. He takes care of me.” 

  “Your name is Henry?” 

  “Yes, Sir.” 

  “My boy’s name was Henry. He died when he was about your age.” 

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Henry says.

  The man shrugs: “It was a long time ago. Time might not heal all wounds, but it dulls the pain.” 

 “I know,” says Henry. “I still miss my mom, but it don’t hurt so much anymore.”

  “Henry, I haven’t been in here for a long, long, time, and I wondered why I was compelled to come in today. I think you are the reason I came.” 

  “Me, why?” 

  “I’m not sure, Henry, but the resemblance between you and my Henry is remarkable. Would you like to see a picture of him?” 

  “Sure,” Henry says.

  “I don’t have it with me,” the man says. “It’s at home. If you’ll come with me, I’ll show it to you.” 

  “I have to ask Aaron.” 

  “If you ask Aaron, he won’t let you come. We’ll just be gone a little while.” 

  Although he’s been told countless times not to go anywhere with strangers, Henry doesn’t sense danger from the old man. He leaves with him. Busy with customers, Aaron doesn’t see them leave.

  They walk to the man’s house. It’s only a few blocks. Henry has passed the place, a big, old, house behind a stone wall, many times. He thought no one lived there. People say it’s haunted. Today, it doesn’t look so old. The iron latticework in the gate baring the driveway is no longer rusted, and the padlock and chain locking the gate is missing. The man opens the gate, and they walk down the driveway to the house. 

  A fire burns in the fireplace. A picture of a boy hangs over the mantle.

  “Is that your Henry?” Henry asks. He isn’t sure about the resemblance. The clothes the boy wears are old fashioned, and his hair is parted down the middle.

  “Yes. I have something of his I want you to have.” He opens a drawer in a small table and pulls out a pair of earmuffs. “Will you wear these, if I give them to you?” 

  They aren’t like earmuffs Henry has seen in stores, but he says, “Sure, they look warm.” 

  “You better go, Henry. Your brother will be worrying about you. It was nice meeting you.” 

  “Nice meeting you,” Henry says. “I think I would have liked your Henry.” 

  “I’m sure he would have liked you. I’ll walk you to the gate.”

  At the gate, the man puts the earmuffs on Henry, tying them on with their strap under Henry’s chin. He bids Henry goodbye. 

 After taking a few steps, Henry turns to wave to the man, but he’s gone. The gate is once again locked with a padlock and chain; the iron latticework is rusty.   Was it a dream? Henry wonders, but he wears the earmuffs, so how can it be a dream?

 “Where were you?” Aaron yells, when Henry walks into Wimberley’s. “I was about to call the police.” 

  For a moment, Henry doesn't speak. He heard Aaron yell at him. He had his head turned, looking at the door while closing it. He wasn’t looking at Aaron; he wasn’t watching his lips. He heard him. 

  “I can hear,” he says. “I heard you.” 

  “Henry, you’re in enough trouble already. Lying will just get you in more.” 

 I’m not lying. I can really hear. Say something. I’ll look the other way. I won’t watch you.” Henry proves to Aaron that he can hear.

  “The paper,” Henry says. “The old man. I thought I’d seen him before.” 

  He runs to the back of the shop and looks at the old newspaper in the frame on the wall. It’s dated January 14, 1915, a hundred years ago tomorrow. On the front page is a picture of the old man with the caption:   Ronald Hathaway, lifelong resident of Reynoldsburg, died yesterday. 

Hope you like it. Maybe I can get her on Steemit, and she can post more of her stuff.