Sound of Silence

by Mia Kerick

  TWENTY MINUTES later his BMW pulls up in front of my house, and I climb out of my porch swing, ready to greet Seven and Morning.

  Seven rolls down his window, leans over, and calls to me, “Hurry up! I’ve got your Speak & Spell in the front here.”

  It’s only after I’ve planted myself in the very toasty seat that I realize we’re alone in his car. No Morning at all. Seven pushes his iPad into my hands and drives away from the house.

  I slowly type a message and after some fumbling, find a command that makes it read aloud. The noise is jarring and ugly. It fills the space with its almost-but-not-quite-human voice. Uncanny Valley. My skin begins to crawl. It’s “speaking,” I guess. But it doesn’t convey me or my thoughts at all. Of all the ways I’ve ever put my thoughts out into the world, this is one of the worst.

 

  “At the spa.”

  I cringe as I continue to write, feeling ill as the iPad “speaks” again.

 

  “You’ll find my sister changes her mind with the wind. And don’t misunderstand me, I wouldn’t have bothered coming to get you, except I imagined it was more hassle to cancel the outing than to simply pick you up.”

 

  “So now that we can finally talk,” Seven says to me. “Why don’t you tell me what exactly your problem is?”

  Chapter Eight: Seven

  I SWEAR he looked at me like I punched him in the face. No, that’s not it. He looked at me more like I violated him.

  My gut tightened up as soon as I recognized that the way he twisted his lips to the side and glanced up and to the left was identical to what Morning did with her lips and eyes when I’d gone into her bedroom to wake her up on the morning after she was raped. It was almost nine months ago but still seems like yesterday.

  Despite my rage with regard to Renzy’s odd behavior and Morning’s continuing depression, I experience relief when he types a couple words and that too-loud, admittedly strange, electronic voice utters, “CVS Pharmacy, please.”

  Renzy appears as if his state is rather urgent, like maybe severe intestinal troubles have him in dire need of Gas-X. So, I drive to the pharmacy with haste, he jumps out of my Bimmer before it comes to a full stop, and bolts for the store’s glass doors.

  So I’m sitting in the parking lot with the car windows wide open, hoping the cold outdoor air will calm me down. I’m glad to have a moment to think about what the fuck I did to upset him, not that I much care. But why did he put on the “I’m not gonna cry” face and run off?

  The problem is, I’m a blasé sort of guy. Shit like hurting some loser’s tender feelings doesn’t faze me in the slightest, especially since I don’t give a crap about anyone’s feelings but Morning’s.

  But still, Renzy and Morning both made “the face.”

  And just prior to them making “the face” I had asked both Renzy and Morning a question, hadn’t I?

  Let me think… not that this makes much of a difference to me.

  My question to Morning had been, “It’s noon, lazy-ass, what the hell are you still doing in bed?”

  And Renzy’s question was, “Why don’t you tell me exactly what your problem is?”

  Both are fair enough queries, I’d say. I was merely seeking need-to-know information.

  It is, however, quite odd how low my heart has sunk, especially when I really don’t care that Renzy is probably crying into the pharmacy’s supply of ACE bandages.

  But shit—he’d probably have already filled me in on why he doesn’t talk, had he wanted me to know. Renzy wouldn’t even open his mouth to tell me his address so that he could enjoy an afternoon out on the (backwoods) town with his new, and maybe only, pals, Barbie and Ken. Looks like maybe I screwed up.

  What-the-fuck-ever. So I’m an extremely direct guy. It’s certainly not a crime. I’ve had to be a to-the-point person, since my job has been to serve as Morning’s mother, father, counselor, babysitter, best friend, teacher, and advocate since I was ten years old. With that kind of responsibility, a person can’t afford to be ambivalent.

  I so badly want to convince myself that I’m justified in being pissed-off at Renzy for making me feel like a damned criminal. Then I could drive him home without another word between us. I search my brain for a way to look at this awkward situation that places the blame entirely on his slim shoulders.

  But I can’t find one.

  What. The. Actual. Fuck.

  Renzy’s face is suddenly peering in the open passenger window. Not a violated-looking face, but the pleasant face of the Renzy I’ve come to know over the past few days. He swings open the door and sits easily on the still-warm leather. From the white plastic bag on his lap he pulls a tiny notepad and a lovely color teal marker. Not that this detail matters.

  Quickly he writes.

  To answer ur ?: There are many ways to say the sky is a beautiful shade of blue.

  Huh? I slap my own cheek to see if I’m dreaming this complete insanity.

  “I asked you what your frigging problem is? In other words, why don’t you talk? And you tell me that there are plenty of ways to say the sky is blue?”

  He shakes his head, and with the teal marker circles the word beautiful.

  “Okay, excuse my omission—a beautiful color blue.”

  Renzy puts the cover on the marker and I have an urge to shout, “What the hell are you doing? We need that goddamned marker—it’s a fucking lifeline!” But instead I pass him the iPad so he can explain himself more clearly. He folds his arms—covered in blue pen designs—across his chest, shakes his head, and turns to stare out the window, simultaneously using three nonverbal cues to express no fucking way.

  There are many ways to say the sky is a beautiful shade of blue.

  But I must be turning into some kind of a mind reader, because I catch his drift. Looks like we don’t need to exchange oral words to grasp each other’s thoughts. He’s telling me that there are many ways to say what needs to be said.

  I take the marker and notepad from his hand and write.

  So where should we go first? No pressure, but, I expect you to thrill me.

  Renzy looks at me strangely because I’m writing my thoughts on a pad of paper and he’s the one who can’t or won’t talk. But I figure that two can play this game.

  He points to the road and proceeds to clearly direct me, with gestures, head nods and shakes, on a slow tour through the main streets and backroads of this small Midwestern town. He finally makes a “chop your head off” gesture when he wants me to pull over.

  The first place we stop is on Mill Street, by the side of a stream. I had no idea this quaint, trickling stream even existed, not that I would have cared. I’m not sure that I give a crap now, but I am curious. So when he gets out of the Bimmer, I follow along.

  How can it hurt?

  Renzy climbs down the steep bank and marches straight to the water. The stream’s crooked edges still hold a trace of ice, but the muddy ground has started to thaw.

  “If you think you’re getting back in the Bimmer with muddy boots, then think again.” I use my loftiest voice, but Renzy squats down in the muck without hesitation.

  And then his fingers are scraping away at the mud, pulling off the top layer and rolling it into a ball. As he molds it into a shape, I realize that this is no ordinary mud. It actually has a claylike quality. It’s an artist’s tool, and it’s Renzy’s latest way of speaking to me.

  I’m spellbound as I watch his fingers manipulate the clay. I will admit to entertaining a less than appropriate thought with regard to a very different task that would put those nimble fingers to better use. But I shake my head to knock away the fantasy, and in a matter of minutes, Renzy has fashioned a small building from the clay. A building whose shape I recognize as this hokey town’s library.

  “That’s Redcliff Hills Public Library, isn’t it?” I ask, already confident of his answer.

  Renzy smiles and nods. Then
he passes me the… the sculpture and it’s resting in my clean, manicured fingers before I have a chance to tell him that I’ve never been one to play in the dirt. The tiny building feels cold and damp, but firm, in my hand. The exterior is smoother than I expect. And when I look up from the sculpture at Renzy, he’s doing a fairly decent impression of a person driving. It hits me suddenly that he wants me to drive to the town library.

  I return the sludgy library facsimile to Renzy, who places it gently on a rock. Then he bends deeply, allowing me a sneaky glimpse of what looks like a tight ass, and rinses his fingers in the flow of water. After a brief rush of guilt over sizing up this naïve guy’s backside, I follow suit. We climb the bank and return to the car.

  I will admit that my concern over the mud on the soles of my Italian leather loafers and his work boots slips to the back of my mind as we climb into the car. I glance across at Renzy who is fastening his seat belt. When I start the car without doing the same, he sends me a look that asks, “What the fuck?” more clearly than spoken words could. I buckle up for safety like the obedient boy that I’m not.

  Renzy fiddles around with the car stereo on the trip across town. He finds a station that’s playing what I consider to be music in its most humble—and I’m just going to call it as I see it—lowly form: country music. As the twangy-voiced man sobs his heart out about how his lady friend up and departed his barn and his life, Renzy picks up an imaginary fiddle, and serenades me as I drive.

  It is, surprisingly, quite an impressive sight. I want to stare as he picks and grins, his air-fiddle resting on his shoulder, but I’m not sufficiently skilled behind the wheel to take my eyes off the road for more than a second or two at a time.

  If he hasn’t in actuality been learning to play the fiddle since he was three, sitting on his daddy’s lap on a front porch swing, I’ll eat my beanie.

  But before I can pull the knit hat off my head, we’re at the library, and I’m again stunned by Renzy’s ability to make me think and feel without uttering a word. He’s out of the car in a flash, brushing back his unruly dark brown spikes of hair with those clay-molding, fiddle-picking fingers. And like the total follower I’ve become in the past forty-five minutes, I’m hot on his heels.

  Renzy seems to know where he’s going. I ask no questions, seeing as he wouldn’t answer them if I did. He stops when we get to a beautiful, antique topographical globe at the back corner of the library, in the travel section. For a moment Renzy spins it slowly, using just his index finger. I admire the globe. I’m certain it’s rarely used, and is more of a relic from days before ours, when the world became obsessed with computers. In fact, the entire travel section is fashioned to be an escape from the modern world. Travel posters plaster the walls, many of them depicting people and places and vehicles of transportation from many years ago. There are strategically placed decorations—handwoven baskets on low shelves, intricate tapestries laid out on the floor, miniature imitations of art and sculpture cluttering the windowsills, many of which I have seen in Europe, but still invite me to touch them.

  I’m caught in a travelopia trance of sorts, glancing back and forth from the rich decorations to the spinning globe, when Renzy stops the globe with his finger on the Far East. Or more precisely, on China.

  With one finger on China, he uses his other hand to point to his mouth, then his stomach.

  “You want to go out for Chinese food!” Unfortunately I shout out my best guess as if I’m a grade school kid playing twenty questions, and the old man at a corner table, who seems mesmerized by a handsomely crafted abacus, shushes me.

  But Renzy nods and his smile is victorious.

  I whisper, “China Magic, on Bay Road?” It’s the only Chinese food restaurant in town.

  Again, Renzy nods, just once, as if he was confident I’d get his point.

  “Okay, let’s go.” I’m certain that the Chinese food available here in Redcliff Hills will be as ho-hum as the education offered. But I’m hungry, so I’m game.

  I SIT across from Renzy in a darkened corner of the quaint restaurant, having sipped on tea and indulged in a shockingly superior Chinese food buffet. I have to bring Morning here. There’s a strong possibility that the kung pao chicken will wake up her stagnant appetite.

  We’re too busy eating to converse much, though Renzy’s notepad and teal marker are placed neatly beside his unused cloth napkin. The dim setting, coupled with the tasty delicacies, provide for a sort of intimacy with which I’m unaccustomed.

  I study the boy-man opposite me, who is licking his fingers innocently, but which I would easily have misconstrued as invitingly, had I not known better.

  Why doesn’t he talk?

  How was he damaged in a way that left him this broken person?

  When did it happen?

  Who is responsible?

  And is there anyone to look out for him in life?

  Well, there is now.

  I serve as Morning’s mother, father, counselor, babysitter, best friend, teacher, and advocate; what’s to prevent me from also becoming Renzy’s private detective, speech therapist, and shoulder-shimmying chef?

  I can do this. I can fix them both.

  Chapter Nine: Renzy

  IT’S LATE when Seven drives me home. We’ve spent the day filling almost half of my little notebook. Sometimes he forgets not to talk and he’ll say something aloud, other times he’s intent on writing everything down. His handwriting is sloppy, and I sort of love that about him. He’s so polished, so well put together, that having bad penmanship is just… perfect.

  Look at that, Seven. You’re human after all.

 

  I look down at the message and frown. He’s been asking some hard questions for the last thirty minutes or so. I don’t know how to answer in a way that satisfies him.

  I look back at him and shrug.

 

  Well, that one’s easy enough. I nod. Sure, I laugh all the time. I’m pretty sure he’s heard me even.

  “Why don’t you talk, Renzy?”

  Jesus. Is there even an answer I can give to that? I mean, I sort of know the timeline of how and when I stopped talking, but it’s blurry. Plus, I don’t know that a timeline really explains things.

  I was so shy as a little kid that it was always hard to speak.

  Then I developed the stutter and the other kids laughed.

  There’s some stuff that’s kind of… fuzzy.

  Then there was that time I pissed my pants when….

  Anyway, it got so I couldn’t say anything when people would even look at me.

  I couldn’t make my vocal cords work.

  Now I like the “sound” of my way of communicating.

 

  We had a great day, and I didn’t have to move my tongue.

 

  “Don’t want to?” he asks, filling in my sentence. He seems really intent about this, about knowing why I don’t talk the way he talks.

 

  His BMW is idling by our curb, and I really should get my ass out of his car. The longer I wait, the more awkward it gets. But I don’t want to leave—I really don’t. I had the best time today. It may have been the best time of my life.

  I shouldn’t tell him that.

  Instead I place the notebook back on my knee and scribble.

 

  I’m trying to be playful, but when I look up, Seven is studying me in the hazy evening. He says so much with his eyes, I wonder if he knows? Without actually moving, he pushes back my hair, fingering the buzzed side. He touches my cheek, running his fingers down the side of my face, up under my chin. He leans forward and kisses me. All of this he does with his eyes only. I lick my lips and his gaze unabashedly follows the movement of my tongue.

  “There are ways you could thrill me more,” Seven says, and I die.


  I’m dead now. Dead, gone, buried because I don’t know exactly what he means, but I know enough to know that we’re going to kiss for real, and goddamn I’m ready.

  I lean forward at the same moment he leans forward and we share a barely there whisper of a kiss.

  Okay, yes. That happened.

  I just kissed Seven Moreau-Maddox. In his BMW. In front of my house.

  Holy shitballs, that just happened.

  “You’re blushing.”

  Is he surprised? This is my first kiss—who doesn’t blush at their first kiss? Maybe Seven didn’t. That makes me flush even more.

  “It’s a nice shade of pink, though. Reminds me of the spring cherry blossoms in Paris.”

  MY SISTER is sitting at the table, and I pluck the iPod out of her hands. “Hey!”

  While grappling for the iPod, I get her Beats earbuds too.

  “I swear to God, Renzy!” Flora shrieks, but I just smile at her and wipe the earbuds on my jeans. She makes a grab for her player, but I’m miles taller than she is and way too wise to her classic knee-to-the-groin trick. I sidestep her and pick Jackie up out of his booster chair. I stick one bud in his ear and one in mine while still avoiding my sister’s crazy claws. With minimal difficulty I find the song I want.

  Jackie laughs and holds on tightly to me as I tango him through the kitchen.

  I’m full-on lip-syncing to Andy Grammer’s “Good to Be Alive (Hallelujah)” and Jackie’s singing along, completely off-key. He doesn’t know most of the words, and the ones he thinks he knows aren’t quite right. The mute and the gabbling baby, singing along together. I think we’re pretty adorable.

  God.

  I feel really damn good right now!

  I mean… I kissed a boy. I kissed a boy! My first time ever. I might not end up having to move to the mountains and live in a monastery with Egger after all because, goddammit, I kissed Seven and he kissed me and—holy shit!