A50

The hallway was wide and dark. Much wider and darker than anything Jean had seen in a while. The many doors leading off the corridor were all closed, as Jean was late and the others had all gone to bed. He rubbed his sweaty palms anxiously against his jeans, unable to shake the feeling that he could have been on time if he had just driven another way, if he had just driven faster.
He stepped cautiously down the hallway, aware of the strips of light below many doors that spilled into the carpeted hallway. He passed A42, A44; three more doors until his own, two, one. The space beneath A50 was dark. Jean pulled the key the woman at the front desk had given him, along with a pamphlet about the program, out of his jacket pocket. The key was heavy and metal, unlike the credit card imitation keys that he so often found at hotels. He shifted his duffel bag on his shoulder and slid the key into the lock, careful to be quiet though he himself could hear nothing.
The room was as dark as the hallway. Jean waited for his eyes to adjust before groping his way to the bathroom. He turned on the light and closed the bathroom door most of the way so he wouldn’t wake his roommate. The room was rather dim, the two beds covered with matching floral bedspreads and salmon colored sheets. The walls were salmon, too, and the curtains a dingy lace. There was a small TV in the corner and a desk with a regular telephone and a deaf-compatible telephone, its small screen flashing that there was a message.
Jean quietly changed out of his clothing into sweats and a t-shirt. The room was warm compared to the frosty New England fall weather outside, but he hadn’t anticipated this and had brought nothing cooler to sleep in. His roommate had taken the bed closer to the window, and so conveniently closer to the television, but Jean was too tired at this point to complain. After his seven hour drive, he’d been confronted by the dumpy receptionist who hardly spoke sign language and glared at him when he didn’t understand her jagged motions. Finally receiving his room assignment and key, Jean had wandered the musty hallways to find his dark room and silent roommate.
Jean climbed into bed and turned his back to the door. There was enough light coming through the sheer curtains to show his roommate’s face; the man was older than Jean, thirty, maybe thirty five, with brown hair that was graying at the temples and a clean shaven face. He was curled on his side, his body forming a mountain beneath the blankets and his hands folded beneath his cheek. Jean closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the room was darker and the man had shifted so his face was towards the window. There was a bald patch forming at the crown of his head.
Jean awoke to the sunlight pouring through the window. The lights were still off in the room, though his roommate’s bed was empty. Jean turned to the bathroom and saw the door was closed. He curled up again and waited for his roommate to emerge.
When Jean woke up again, the man was dressed and rummaging through his bag. Jean watched the back of his grey polo shirt rumple as he bent over and stood up again. Jean waited for the man to turn so he could sign to him. Growing impatient, he stood and began searching through his own bag. He hadn’t brought much clothing, as he would only be away for a few weeks and the retreat brochure had boasted a professional laundry service, although upon seeing the room, Jean was skeptical.
Jean pulled clothing and books from his bag and set them on the unmade bed. One book dropped from his hand, and the man turned around and mouthed something. Jean quickly signed his apologies and greeted his roommate. The man stumbled towards him and mouthed again. Jean stretched out his hand, and the man blinked unseeingly at him. Jean pulled his hand back in horror. He tried to read the man’s lips.
“… two days, but I’m not sure,” he was saying. Jean stepped backwards.
“I’m Jean,” he said loudly. He was blushing, he knew it, but it didn’t matter. The man had turned away and Jean didn’t know if he was still talking or not.
“Please turn around,” Jean begged. His hands were trembling. The man turned back towards him, the crease between his eyebrows growing deeper. Jean took a deep breath. He still wasn’t used to the feeling of his own voice in his throat.
The man groped for the bed behind him and sat down. Jean focused on what he was mouthing.
“…don’t understand. Are you deaf?” The man was asking.
Jean nodded and then remembered the man couldn’t see him. “Yes,” he said, again too loudly.
“I’m…” the man said something beginning with a P. Jean swallowed. There had clearly been some confusion with the room assignments. Jean thought back to the squat receptionist who had met him the night before. He was still shaking when he glanced up again.
“…going to figure this out,” the man was saying. Jean could only catch half of the words. “It’s not… can’t communicate… they were thinking… checked the box with…” he was scratching his unshaven chin. Despite his nerves, Jean noticed that the man had extraordinary control over his motions and expression.
“You would make an excellent signer,” he blurted out. The man looked up, puzzled. Jean’s eyebrows shot up. He had never spoken spontaneously before.
“Well I always… to learn,” the man laughed. “… to see to sign, but… never know what one… do with a little… and some…”
Jean’s breathing had slowed, though his hand was still clutching his pant leg. The man slowly stood, reaching for his key on the faux-wood nightstand.
“I’m going to… breakfast. Do you… eat?” he offered.
“Yes,” Jean said. “Wait while I change.” He turned to go to the bathroom, but realized it would make no difference. Staring at the man, Jean pulled off his t-shirt. The man was turning the key patiently in his hands. Jean dropped his sweatpants and watched the man for any response. He was blinking pleasantly at the ceiling. Jean quickly pulled on pants and a button down shirt and grabbed his own key from the table. The man hadn’t moved.
“I’m ready,” Jean said. He cleared his dry throat. The man held his hands before him and walked zombie-like across the room. When he reached Jean, he felt for the younger man’s shoulder and stopped beside him. Jean stepped towards the door, and the man moved with him. If he was talking, Jean couldn’t tell.