Cut To The Bone

Cut To the Bone

Henry was a bang of a man.  When he walked, you could imagine that you could hear gristle moving and tendons stretching and retracting. He was rough-hewn, tall, and muscular. His eyes a deep green, and when his hair was long, it was held with an ivory clip he had carved. His clothes were not remarkable, but he wore them well.  When he went to town to shop or to mail something at the post office, the women would stare.  He always smiled, and touched the bill of his cap with two fingers when a woman smiled at him, or said hello.

He lived independently, and only shared his cabin with his dogs. He did not hunt or fish, so he was an anomaly in his country town.  Most of his time was spent writing or drawing, or tinkering with his pickup.

He never spoke, as he was ashamed of his high voice.  It was a falsetto…”a girl’s voice”; and if he spoke, most of the people were shocked or amused, thinking he was just kidding.  His voice never changed.  When he was twelve, he anticipated the day his voice would crack and he would have a “manly” voice.  His vocal cords, stretched across the larynx, never grew thicker or tightened. Henry did his best to communicate, but in a soft, almost whisper-like, manner so he would not be discovered.  The women thought his voice was very sexy when they met him, but if they spent any time with him, they came to know his real, speaking voice – especially if he called out to one of his dogs - squeaking away; warning them away from traffic or to come closer if they spotted a deer in the woods near the cabin.
 
Henry tried everything.  He took up smoking and drinking straight bourbon for a while to make his voice hoarse or deeper.  He would yell into a pillow for hours to make himself hoarse, but it didn’t deepen his voice.  If he answered his cell phone, people would ask for his parents, or they would start the conversation with, “good day, mam”. He didn’t know what to do, so he spoke less and less, and even took to using hand signals with his dogs.  He would nod and smile if someone asked him a question, and everyone thought he was deep and introspective.  If the situation required him to answer a complicated question, he would point to his throat and scratch a quick note on a pad he carried.  After a while, everyone assumed he had lost his voice.  He started wearing a bandana around his neck; so many thought Henry had some kind of operation on his thyroid, his throat or his vocal chords. 

He made up his mind to get surgery to improve his voice.  He sought out a nose and throat surgeon in the city, and made an appointment for a consultation.  Dr. Manukian told Henry that a full and complete restoration of his vocal chords could not be guaranteed. At worst, Henry would lose his voice altogether, or there would be little, noticeable improvement.  Henry went ahead with the surgery. After three days, he spoke his first words. He croaked them out. He sounded like a sick, sleepy frog. His voice was deeper, but he was perpetually hoarse. Everyone thought he had a bad cold.  The scar tissue made him cough, incessantly. He was hoarse and he coughed continuously. He gasped, and his eyes filled with tears. His eyes were red and swollen. 

People were afraid to be around him for fear of catching whatever he might have.  Even Henry’s dogs shied away, as his hoarse voice unnerved them.  They didn’t recognize him, so he quit speaking altogether, only making hand signals to his dogs and writing on his little notebooks for everything else.
Years passed and Henry found himself comfortable with his predicament.  His dogs were in tune with his hand signals and the most subtle gestures.  They seemed to anticipate his commands and shadowed Henry everywhere he walked.

His words, scribbled quickly on his notebook, grew more enduring and poetic.  People would engage Henry to say hello, but more to be able to read his notes…each one a perfect poem, each one cut to the bone.