Her Son
written by: Kathy Whipple
Dory knew her son was different even before he was born. The fetus in her womb kicked to the beat of the Stones. I-can’t-get-no—sa-tis-fac-tion, perfect kicks for each syllable. That was the gospel truth, though no one believed her.
‘Preggo-brain does things to a woman’s judgement,’ her friend said.
“Probably your imagination,” said another.
But she’d been right about her son, born early and a crier; incessant wails with the intensity of Van Halen, until the landlord asked them to leave. The next landlord did the same, and the one after that, until the day her son fell silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
“He’ll likely outgrow it,” the doctor said.
“And if he doesn’t?” she asked, more frightened for the silent child than she’d ever been for the crier.
***
When her son toddled, he took to stomping. By then, they were in a stand-alone home with no neighbors to bother, so she let him. He seemed to take great joy in the stomping, first march-style, one foot in front of the other. And an occasional giggle. Then, more intricate patterns: stomp, rest, stomp, stomp, rest. He added a shuffle and a squeal of delight. And his first word.
Not a word exactly, rather, a rhythm
“Bum-pa-dum-pa-dum.”
***
The kindergarten teacher put her foot down on the stomping, so he took to tapping. First, with a pencil against the edge of his desk. That too was not allowed. A finger was fine. But at home, the pencil became two, with a cooking pot and wooden bowls. And his first words: “Hot water sounds different than cold water.”
Dory cried over his first full sentence, relieved he could talk.
***
The school held him back in third grade, then again in fifth. He muddled along, but High School graduation was no celebration. The diploma was out of courtesy for showing up to the special program, a participation award. Dory knew it, and so did her son.
He tapped eighth notes on a Tupperware bowl, quarter notes on the casserole lid, the kind of ruckus she’d come to love while she made a tuna casserole.
***
The house lights dimmed and the crowd stilled. Dory took a deep breath, alive in her memories of those days: the wailing baby, the silent, stomping toddler, and the tapping boy. She remembered her son’s first words, that full sentence of hope which had broken the despair she carried all those years but never let on about.
She watched as the curtain rose in the gilded hall, filled to the brim with tuxedoed men and women in sparkly gowns. The audience applauded. Dory held her breath. There was a moment of pause, an anticipatory second before the first note. Only it wasn’t a note. It was the low rumble of a timpani, slow, then building in a frenzy to host the entrance of the violins and trumpets.
A timpani, commanding the stage—played with the confidence of a king, by the man who was her son.
Dory closed her eyes and let the music fill her. That deep drum rumbled under the notes, sustaining the orchestra like the hands of a giant holding a pea. Her pride rose in a joyful swell. She leaned into the stranger beside her. “That’s my boy,” she whispered.
She knew her son was different before he was born.
The fetus in her womb had kicked to the beat of the Stones.
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