Chapter 3 - THE NAME ON THE CLOSURE NOTICE
“Next for what?”
My voice barely sounded like mine.
I stared at the red writing beside Owen's photograph.
Salvatore reached toward the picture, but stopped when he saw me clutch it.
Instead, he signed.
“Your brother is not responsible for whatever this means.”
I nodded, though my hands were shaking too badly to answer.
Marco turned toward Brett.
“Who delivered the folder?”
Brett rubbed his forehead.
“A man from the foundation office. He said the instructions came from Victor Hale.”
Salvatore went completely still.
I noticed the change immediately.
Until that moment, he had looked angry.
Now he looked hurt.
I didn't understand why until Marco explained.
“Victor Hale has managed the Marquetti Foundation for nearly twelve years.”
He hesitated.
“He was also a close friend of Mr. Marquetti's father.”
Salvatore signed sharply.
“Victor knows my communication requirements.”
Marco translated.
“He would never send an instruction forbidding sign language.”
Brett looked desperately toward the doorway.
“I didn't know anything about the photograph. I swear.”
“Then why did you keep the card?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“Because I thought refusing an instruction from the Marquetti Foundation could cost this restaurant its biggest account.”
That answer made me angrier than another insult would have.
“You were worried about losing money, so you let everyone make fun of a man who couldn't hear them?”
Brett's face flushed.
“It wasn't supposed to become this serious.”
Salvatore watched our expressions.
Marco interpreted what had been said.
Then Salvatore signed something slowly.
“Cruelty becomes serious the moment someone decides another person cannot defend himself.”
Brett lowered his eyes.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then I remembered Owen.
He usually spent Thursday evenings helping our ASL instructor prepare classroom materials.
I knew exactly where he should be.
“I need to find my brother,” I said.
Salvatore nodded immediately.
He signed a question.
“Would you like someone to drive you?”
I hesitated.
Accepting help from a man whose reputation frightened half the city seemed dangerous.
But leaving Owen alone frightened me more.
“Yes.”
Salvatore stood.
He looked toward Brett one final time.
His hands moved.
Marco translated.
“Preserve every service record from tonight. Nobody is to be punished for telling the truth. We will discuss your management tomorrow.”
Brett nodded quickly.
I didn't look back as we left.
Twenty minutes later, I stood outside the community center on West Harrison Street.
Salvatore had insisted on accompanying us.
Marco drove, while another guard remained discreetly across the street.
Inside, the building smelled of coffee, old books, and floor cleaner.
It was the smell of my Wednesday evenings.
The smell of the place where I had first learned how to tell Owen I was proud of him in his own language.
I found him in the main classroom.
He was sitting on the floor beside a projector, surrounded by rolled architectural drawings.
When he saw me, he smiled.
Then his expression changed.
He signed.
“Why are you here? Are you okay?”
I knelt beside him.
“I'm fine. But something happened at work.”
Owen looked past me.
His eyes widened when he recognized Salvatore.
Unlike my coworkers, Owen didn't appear frightened.
He looked surprised.
Then he signed.
“You're Salvatore Marquetti?”
Salvatore nodded.
Owen grinned nervously.
“My teacher says your mother helped open this place.”
The smile vanished from Salvatore's face.
He signed.
“She did.”
A woman appeared from the adjoining office.
Mrs. Alvarez, our ASL instructor, was sixty-one and had the kind of steady confidence that made people listen even when she spoke softly.
When she saw Salvatore, she stopped.
“Oh,” she said.
Then she signed a greeting.
Salvatore answered.
Mrs. Alvarez looked relieved.
“Perhaps you can explain something.”
She walked toward the front desk and picked up a white envelope.
“Your foundation sent this yesterday.”
Salvatore opened it.
I watched his eyes travel across the page.
Owen came to stand beside me.
The document was a formal notice.
It stated that the community center would close on Monday morning at nine.
The property was being transferred to a redevelopment company.
All programs were to cease.
All equipment was to be removed.
And all occupants were required to leave.
At the bottom was a familiar name.
Salvatore Marquetti.
Salvatore stared at the signature.
Then he signed to Mrs. Alvarez.
“I never agreed to close this building.”
She pointed toward the notice.
“Then why does it say you personally approved the sale?”
He examined the signature more closely.
Something terrible crossed his face.
Finally, he turned toward me.
His hands moved slowly.
“That is my signature.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
May you like
Then he added:
“But I have never seen this document before.”
