Expectations

Chapter 12

Tom always seemed to get nosier after a few beers. Today was no exception.

"So, you read Braille, Jim?" he asked.

Jim thought of rehab and of those old-fashioned Braille typewriters he had been taught to use and of the even older-fashioned slate and stylus and of his rough fingers painstakingly going over tiny bumps on a page, trying to distinguish the pattern of each character. Learning the Braille alphabet had been easy enough. Even Grade II Braille hadn't been much of a challenge—when it came to memorization. He had a good memory and thought Braille was logical enough to grasp without too much difficulty. But his big fingers, hardened by years of being an active and hard-working man, couldn't seem to tell the difference between them. Christie had nearly given up in her attempt to get Jim to improve. He hadn't been much of a reader back when it had been effortless so why should he go to such great lengths now? Braille had become more of a labeling system than something to be used during times of leisure.

He popped the face of his watch open and felt for the time. "You mean like this?" he asked Tom.

Marty pulled Jim's watch arm toward himself. "That's Braille?"

Jim nodded. "Of course. What'd you think it was?"

"I mean…real Braille? Cuz these all look kind of the same. Two dots at twelve, three, six, and nine and one dot at each of the other numbers. That's not what those numbers would be like in regular Braille, is it? It can't be."

Jim extracted his arm from Marty's grip and closed his watch face. "Right as always, Marty. It's called a 'Braille watch' because you feel the hands. The real numbers would take up too much space."

"So, do you know Braille?" Tom asked. Now his voice sounded hesitant.

"I do," Jim said. "In theory."

Marty made a scoffing sound. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that I'm spoiled by technology, I guess. With scanners and talking software and books on CD, I almost don't need to read anything for myself."

"But…" Marty stopped before he could get much out and then seemed to want to try again. "You mean you can't read?"

"Of course I can read," Jim said irritably. He tapped a finger against his forehead. "The knowledge is still in here. I wasn't illiterate before and I have the concept of Braille down. I just—I can't really tell the difference between all the bumps on a page—even when I know what to look for."

"Must've been weird," Tom said after a long silence. "Learning everything over again. Meeting new people and not knowing what they look like."

"You know what I look like, right?" Marty asked.

Jim shot a sarcastic look in Marty's direction. "And how would I know that, huh?"

"Well…I assumed Karen told you. Doesn't she go around telling you what everything looks like all the time?"

Jim laughed, thinking of Karen's short descriptions, nearly devoid of all adjectives. "We have better things to discuss."

"Hey, that's true," Tom said, sounding like something had just occurred to him. "Jim didn't even know I was black until he had been at the squad for four months."

Marty's voice went high with shock. "What? You've got to be kidding me."

"No, it's true," Tom insisted. "Right Jim? Remember?"

Jim's smile started to feel cringy and apologetic. "I always knew you were black, Tom."

Tom inhaled sharply. "But you said something about the word 'groovy' and…" his voice dwindled to a stop as laughter from Jim and Marty drowned him out. "You got me," he said, laughing at himself.

"Not that that's too difficult," Marty pointed out. "It's a wonder you're such a good detective when you fall for stuff like that."

Tom clicked his tongue. "I know. I should have learned not to trust you guys ages ago."

Jim wondered if Tom had been so trusting with him because, at that time, it hadn't occurred to him that the blind guy might have a sense of humor. The thought made him laugh to himself, but his smile faded as he realized he would need to do something before he left.

It shouldn't have been a big deal, but Jim hated seeking out restrooms in strange environments. It didn't get much better once he was inside. Using touch to explore a bathroom before being able to attain his goal was never a pleasant thought, especially today. Scoping out the sink and towels in advance, determining which towel was for guests, finding the soap, the toilet. Stupid moments like this brought home to Jim just how easy his life used to be and caused him to have to consciously decide not to indulge in a mini-moment of self pity. He had always detested self pity in others and was disappointed whenever he felt himself being drawn into that mindset himself. Before losing his sight, he had honestly believed self pity to be beneath him.

He hadn't had a casual day like this at a friend's house since losing his sight; not without Christie, at any rate, and never in a home he hadn't seen. Just asking about the rest room was bound to make blindness impossible for the others to ignore. Jim sighed over the inevitability of having to make it obvious after such a comfortable day. Something like this always had to come up. It had happened even that first night he had gone out for drinks with Tom and Marty. Jim hadn't quite been able to make it out of there without asking for last-minute subway directions. He hadn't thought a thing of it as he asked—such questions had become commonplace for him—but as he turned away, he had sensed a distinct shift in the mood around him, like something had just crashed into the others.

Just part of the package, he told himself. Galloway had been pushing the whole "package" concept lately. Sure, being blind sucked sometimes, but didn't his marriage to Christie make it all worth it? Whenever Christie was at her most difficult, Jim couldn't help but to think the price he had paid for that marriage—against his will—had been too high. But sometimes, when he and Christie dreamed together, planning for their family, listening to the heartbeats of their girls, he had no regrets.

Jim turned to where Tom was seated. "How do I find the bathroom?"

"Sorry, Jim," Marty said. "He doesn't have one. Just shoot from the balcony."

"It's down the hall, first door on the left." Tom's voice made Jim picture him glaring at Marty as he spoke.

Jim stood, wondering if he needed Hank or of he could make it there on his own without being too conspicuous. "Where's the hall?" he asked.

"Well…it's to your—want me to just show you? Is that the easiest way? What do you normally do?"

Jim thought a moment and then surprised himself with a short laugh. "I usually just…figure it out. You can show me if you don't mind."

Tom was one of those people who naturally seemed to know how to lead a blind person and he had an intuition that let him know when something visual needed to be explained.

"The sink is to your right," he told Jim. "Toilet is directly across from it to your left. The light switch is…"

"Really unimportant," Jim finished.

Tom laughed. "I see your point. So you just want me to leave it—dark?"

Jim shrugged. "I really don't care."

He followed their voices back to the living room when he was done, feeling both gratified that Tom hadn't felt the need to wait for him in the hall and self-conscious to be walking through a strange home without dog or cane or guide. The last thing he wanted was to be caught feeling around by those guys, so he tried to keep a normal pace, his arms loosely at his sides but ready to come up at the slightest sign of imminent collision.

"You got it, Jim?" Tom asked.

"Pretty much," Jim said, readjusting his direction at the sound of Tom's voice. "Are you still in your same seat?"

"Yeah."

Jim nodded and, his bearings intact, was able to find his way back to his seat without much trouble, although he did bash his shin against the coffee table just before finding the couch. The impact threw him off, causing him to have to feel for the couch more than he liked to in front of Tom and Marty.

"You okay?" Tom asked.

Jim nodded, his smile tight. "I'm good, Tom. Thanks."

"So Jim," Marty said in a certain tone he got when he was about to go into his own kind of nosy mode. "I've always wondered something. You told me you can only move freely at home and at work. What about the rest of the time? What's it like when you can't 'move freely'?"

Jim felt himself doing the motion of a double take as he tried to process the question. He never could predict where Marty's curiosity would lead. He didn't mind trying to figure out how to answer such a question but…how much information would be too much? When people had the guts to ask basic questions about blindness, he was comfortable answering. But a question like this? This went deeper than blindness. This was about finding words to describe his most vulnerable moments—but without making anyone feel sorry for him. Was that even possible?

"Marty," Tom said irritably under his breath. "You don't have to answer that, Jim."

Jim nodded, more because he was thinking than because he was agreeing with anything. "That's not it. I just don't really know what to tell you. What do you think that would be like, Marty?"

No answer at first, but Jim could still hear breathing beside him.

Then Marty finally spoke. "You don't want to know." Something in the firmness of his words surprised Jim. His gut told him Marty had just experienced empathy and, after imagining himself in Jim's shoes for a moment, had emerged shaken.

You don't want to know. But Jim did know.

A silence spread as Jim felt his blindness separating him from the others. All day long it had been easy to pretend they were on equal footing, just three guys hanging out, but now it was back to one blind guy and the two guys who were being nice to him by inviting him over out of pity because he didn't have anywhere else to go. A sound from where Tom sat caught his attention. The click of voiceless consonants being mouthed. Then he heard the same thing, but with more of a whisper behind it, coming from Marty.

Jim dropped his hands to his lap in exasperation. "You're still not good at that," he said, smiling so nothing else could be detected in his expression. "Maybe you should learn Sign Language or something if you want to keep having these conversations in front of me."

"Sorry, Jim," Tom said.

Marty sighed. "Tom was just ragging me for being—well—myself."

Jim managed half a smile. "Thanks, Tom, but it's a little late to be teaching Marty manners. Anyway, you can ask whatever you want. I may not always have an answer, but I don't mind being asked."

"Sure, Jim," Tom said, but his voice was subdued.

The silence felt thicker than ever. Jim sighed and felt the face of his watch again. It was almost seven o'clock.

"I should head home," he said, relieved. "The shower has to be over by now and Christie may need something."

"I'm really glad you could come," Tom said, patting Jim on the upper arm. "Seriously, man. You're welcome any time."

Jim stood and took hold of Hank's harness. "I appreciate that."

"I'll head out too," Marty said.

"You don't have to because of—"

But Marty cut Jim off. "I'm not doing it for you. It's just time for me to go. I'll stay half a block behind you if it makes you feel any better."

Jim rolled his eyes and suddenly everyone seemed to realize it was okay to laugh again. It was better to leave on that kind of note. A few awkward moments hadn't ruined his day after all. It had been fun and Tom had sounded sincere about his standing invitation. Maybe Jim did fit in with them—as long as Marty didn't get too curious about topics that were sure to suck the life out of their conversation.

They walked in silence down the sidewalk and the further they went without talking, the more Jim wondered what Marty had expected when he had asked Jim about not being able to move freely. Explaining the blind part was easy. How did he do this? How long did it take him to learn that? What's it like? Jim knew he could take pride in all he had learned and he loved being in a position to educate because he never failed to impress others when he did that. Jim liked being impressive. But some line had been crossed at Marty's question, even if Jim couldn't clearly define where that line was, even to himself.

"Hey," Marty said when they had covered a block without speaking. "No hard feelings, okay?"

"What?" Jim asked, taken aback. "What are you talking about? I have a thicker skin than that. I liked it better when you didn't care if there were hard feelings or not."

Marty's laugh had an easy feel to it. "Yeah," he said. "I know what you mean. You'd have to have a pretty thick skin to even think about being reinstated. I'm sure they put you through hell."

"No more than you did," Jim said casually, a smile tugging at his lips. "You were every cop they warned me about rolled into one. Still are, half the time. Keeps me on my toes."

"Happy to oblige," Marty said in a way that made Jim imagine him inclining his head in a mocking bow. "So, about that room for the babies…"

"Where did that come from?"

"Just popped back up in my mind. What all needs doing to it?"

Jim didn't even want to think about the job he had ahead of him with that room so discussing it with Marty wasn't something he had any urge to do.

He shrugged, trying to appear careless. "You know. The usual. I need to get all my crap out of there—it's nearly all boxes of my stuff. Things I haven't unearthed in ages, mostly. Then we're going to have to paint. One wall is exposed brick so we're leaving that alone. Christie likes it that way. But the other walls need some attention so…"

"You're not going to be painting it, are you?" Marty asked, incredulous. "I know you're a superhero and everything, but—"

"No, I wasn't planning to paint," Jim said, hearing an edge of bitterness in his voice. "Shannon's an interior designer and she was going to handle that part for me so I thought…"

"You need help with that?" Marty asked suddenly. "I'm a pretty decent painter and I'm sure—"

Jim stopped walking and faced Marty. "You're so subtle."

Marty laughed, but when he spoke again, something pleaded through his voice. "I know how it looks, but I was gonna offer anyway. Seriously. I thought about it right when you told me about the room."

Jim didn't mean to look skeptical, but that feeling must have shown through his expression.

"Forget about it," Marty said.

His tone made Jim start—not because he had never heard Marty speak in that sardonic voice before but because he hadn't heard that particular sound from Marty in quite a long time.

Had Marty mellowed? Did Jim even want him to? The old Marty never gave Jim an inch and Jim was starting to appreciate what a rarity that was; the chance to find someone who genuinely expected him to perform as if he was sighted—and who was angry whenever this didn't happen. Marty was an ass, but he was an honest ass. He was the only one Jim could trust to tell him harsh truths the others, even Karen, evaded.

Yes, he was exactly the kind of cop Jim had been warned about prior to his reinstatement. But Jim had also been warned about another kind of cop. The kind who would baby him. Pity him. Jim had feared that more than he had feared the blatant antagonism he had been quick to receive from Marty. Whatever Marty thought about a blind cop, he did nothing out of pity.

Until now? Jim resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably under the weight of this new thought. Offering to paint that room because he knew Jim couldn't do it? That didn't sound like the surly Marty Jim had come to appreciate.

"We're at the subway," Marty said, breaking what had been a long silence.

Jim nodded. "I know."

"Of course you do." All of Marty's old-time sarcasm poured out as he spoke.

"Marty, I—"

"Just drop it, Dunbar. I get it. I'll stay away from you…and your sister. You've been pretty clear."

They didn't speak again until they were on the train, which seemed fairly empty.

"Marty," Jim said, trying again. "I appreciate the offer and I—"

Marty cut in. "You know, it wasn't about your sister. I really—I just—I thought I could help."

Jim sighed, resting his chin on his clasped hands. Then he turned toward Marty. "I know," he said. "I'm not good with help. I should be, but—"

"Yeah," Marty said. Again, Jim got the strange feeling that Marty had just empathized.

Jim straightened his back and smiled at Marty. "Shannon is going to come over next week—day after Thanksgiving—and get started on the room. You free that day?"

"Yeah."

"The paint is all picked out and ready to go and she was planning to try and get as much of it done as possible. I know she could really use the help. That we could use the help."

"I'll be there."

"A warning, Marty? Be prepared to follow very strict orders. Shannon is a tyrant and she will own you that day."

Marty laugh sounded as relieved as it did amused. "Maybe you're right. Maybe she is too much like you."