Sound of Silence

by Mia Kerick

  “Underneath the saw is a hammer—it is kind of pointy on one end—and there are white lilies resting across it.”

  Renzy sketches, again, lost in the imagery, as I look on.

  “No, they form an X. The hammer in one direction, and the lilies crossing over in the other direction… yes… like that.” Renzy has easily read my mind. Which is unsettling.

  “So, what’s the plan, Seven? We’re going to drive past every damned church in the area to see if that ridiculous tools-and-flowers symbol is on their sign?”

  “Not all the churches. From what I see online, there are only two St. Joseph churches in the area.”

  “Why are you so convinced it’s St. Joseph’s Church?”

  “Because St. Joseph was a carpenter, and the saw and hammer are carpenter’s tools. And white lilies are the symbol of his virtue. They clearly point to St. Joseph.” Then with a devilish grin I remind my sister, “Plus, Google said so.”

  Renzy is nodding, so I know that he sees my logic.

  Morning swipes my computer from my lap and stares at the screen. “So there’s a Catholic St. Joseph’s and an Episcopal one—which one?”

  “I think we have to check both.” I grab the pad of paper and pencil from Renzy’s hands and scribble down the two addresses beneath his drawing, and then I rip out the page. “The Bimmer leaves in thirty minutes.”

  AN HOUR and a half later, we park on a treelined road in front of St. Joseph’s Episcopal Church in a small town called Wilder, and stare dismally at its sign.

  “Shit. The only symbol on this sign is the Episcopal Shield.”

  “But on a positive note, wedding congratulations are in order for Michael and Alan,” Morning remarks from the back seat as she reads the portable sign’s letters. “It’s a gay-friendly church.” She reaches forward and pokes me and raises her eyebrows suggestively. “You and Renzy can come back here and get hitched when the time is right.”

  My face heats up, and I can’t miss that Renzy’s turning a striking shade of magenta as well. Time for a topic change.

  “Maybe they have a different logo on their paperwork. We need to go inside the church and look around. Maybe there’s something on their bulletin board.”

  We get out of the car, and I lead the way up to the front door of the tall brick church. I half expect the building to be locked because God seems to have shut his doors to the three of us lately, but the large, rust-colored door easily swings open and we go inside. As I stand in the foyer and look toward the altar, I notice that the interior is far narrower than it appears on the outside. It’s also lighter and prettier than I anticipated, with stained-glass windows depicting modern symbols of what I think may represent the Nativity, Palm Sunday, and Easter.

  “It’s beautiful in here,” Morning whispers, her voice as soft as her eyes are wide.

  Renzy also appears reverent. He actually bows his head.

  I am not feeling particularly awed, however, and I stomp into the church with my single goal in mind. “Hello? Is anybody here?”

  I sense movement in the front left of the church and the fragile form of an elderly woman slides across a bench of pews and heads toward us, down the center aisle. “Hello, and welcome to St. Joseph’s. May I help you?”

  Not feeling shy, I meet her halfway, leaving Morning and Renzy in the foyer. “Yes, thank you.” I pull the sketch Renzy made of the parking sticker out of my pocket and push it in her face. “This—see this symbol? It represents St. Joseph, right?”

  The woman removes the paper from my hand and examines it carefully. “Yes, dear. These symbols point to our beloved St. Joseph. As you can see there are carpenter’s tools that bring to mind—”

  “Great. That’s what I figured. Is this a parking sticker for your church?”

  “Oh, no, son. We have free parking out in back of the church.” She smiles patiently, despite the fact I cut off what was to be her certainly enlightening explanation of the image on the parking sticker. “This picture makes me think of St. Joseph’s Catholic Church over in Rutherford. It is a lovely symbol, isn’t it?”

  I nod, unwilling to engage in mindless banter. But Morning is suddenly beside me, Renzy in tow. “This guy drew it. Isn’t he talented?”

  The elderly woman smiles sweetly. “Yes, I dare say he is a budding artist. But… I sense urgency in the three of you. Are you trying to determine the origins of this image?”

  Morning answers politely. “Yes, ma’am. This picture is an important clue.”

  “Well, I was just telling your… brother?” She looks back and forth between us and Morning nods. “You will find a very similar image to the one on this paper on the sign in front of the St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. It’s a lovely sign for a spectacular church building.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” I hold out my hand to collect the picture that the old lady is gazing at with such a serene smile. As she starts to hand it to me, Renzy reaches out and pushes both of our hands back.

  “He wants you to keep the picture, ma’am. He wants you to have it,” Morning tells her. Renzy nods his agreement.

  How the fuck does Morning know Renzy’s every thought? And isn’t that picture kind of critical to our search?

  The woman looks directly at Renzy. “Well, I thank you so very much, son. It has been a very long time since I’ve had a piece of hand drawn art hanging on my refrigerator.”

  I stare at Renzy, who looks like the cat that swallowed the canary, he’s so damned smug. What’s up with all of these sentimental people?

  “Stop gawking at your boyfriend and let’s get to Rutherford, Seven.” Morning grabs Renzy by the wrist and drags him from the church. “We haven’t got all night.”

  OUR SMALL search party doesn’t arrive in Rutherford until nearly nine o’clock at night, given the four-hour trip from Wilder. It’s dark and cold, and as predicted, the church is locked. Standing in front of the elaborate stone building on the heavily traveled main road, the three of us gawk at the sign.

  “This is the right symbol, Seven. It looks just like what Renzy drew.”

  I nod at Morning, but I’m not sure that we have hit the nail on the head with our discovery. “But there are two huge parking lots on either side of this church. There’s no need whatsoever for parking stickers.”

  Renzy is pacing back and forth in front of the sign as if he’s ready to return to the cottage suite, where we’ve extended our stay indefinitely. He looks tired, and maybe a little bit needy. I find myself wishing that what he’s in need of is a large dose of moi.

  “I’m exhausted, and you know I must have my beauty sleep, brother, or I will become very cranky.” Morning doesn’t appear nearly as tired as Renzy, which could be because she slept half of the trip, curled up in the back seat of the car. But I still think she’s again doing what she seems to do best: speaking for Renzy.

  “You guys go sit in the car. Give me a minute to think.” My passengers look at me and then each other, shrug, and trudge off to the parking lot.

  I stand on the side of the busy street, shivering slightly in the frigid, early March breeze, gazing at the sign as if it’s going to spill the answers to all my questions.

  It isn’t logical that Larry Alexander is a member of this parish, even if the parking sticker was for this church. It’s nearly three hours away from his home. Nobody would drive three hours each way to attend church unless Jesus, Himself, were preaching.

  “You must be freezing your ass off, dude.”

  I’m not one to make small talk with strangers, so I don’t even look at, let alone reply to, the husky male voice that incidentally sounds as if its owner is smiling.

  “Look, I’ll help you out if you help me out. See, I’m in need of a cup of coffee, but I don’t got the cash. And you sure as shit need something or you wouldn’t be standing out here in the cold staring at a sign, right?”

  Still studying the images on the sign, I say as dismissively as possible, “You can’t help me.”

  “Ju
st go ahead and try me.”

  Finally, I turn and face the man. He’s short but sturdy, and I cannot see much of his face because of the scarf he wears wrapped high around his neck. “You want some money?” I reach into my trench coat pocket where I stuck the change from a fifty when we left Starbucks. “Here. Now you’re good as gold. Go get your coffee or your booze or whatever it is you’re going to use that money for and get the hell out of my hair.”

  The man reaches forward and takes the money from my hand. I turn back to study the sign.

  “I ain’t leaving ’til you ask me your question, kid.”

  “For Christ’s sake…,” I mumble.

  “So go on ahead. What is it you wanna know?”

  This guy isn’t going to leave until I ask him a question. “Why is the sky blue, huh?”

  “That ain’t what you wanna know. Try again.”

  “Shit.” I’m officially Captain Annoyed.

  “That ain’t a question, dude.”

  I sigh. “You really want to know? Really?” I’ve just about had it with my new “friend” here and St. Joseph’s Church and this backwater state. “Okay, let me lay it on you: I’m trying to figure out why St. Joseph’s Church needs a frigging parking sticker with a hammer and a saw and a damned white flower on it.”

  The guy doesn’t reply, but I swear I hear him chuckling, which further pisses me off. If that’s even possible.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re standing in front of a house of saints when you ought to be at the house of nuts.”

  “Nuts? What are you talking about?” Speaking of nuts, my voice is so sharp it could crack them.

  “The only place around here that requires you to have a parking sticker like that is St. Joe’s Behavioral Health Center.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “It’s the mental hospital, dude. I should know. If I’ve visited once, I’ve visited fifty times. St. Joseph’s is a nuthouse.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Renzy

  IT’S AFTER midnight by the time we get home.

  Home.

  Back to the cottage, I mean.

  Morning makes an exaggerated show of taking the couch, throwing herself down on it with her arms out.

  “Look at how much I love you two,” she says grandly, snuggling down into the covers she took out of the linen closet earlier. “Taking this heinously uncomfortable couch so you two can stretch out on the bed and… snuggle.”

  Snuggling sounds nice.

  Peeling off our clothes, pressing against each other’s warmth, and pulling the blanket over our heads so we make our own little world of breath and heat and heartbeats? That sounds fucking amazing. See, I may be exhausted, but my dick isn’t.

  “Your sacrifice is appreciated, little sister,” Seven says amicably. “But we’re only going to sleep.”

  LATER, WHEN all is quiet in the house and I’m lying naked in the crook of Seven’s arm, my mind drifts to a mental box of things marked DANGER.

  Here’s where I keep all the crap I shouldn’t—and normally don’t—let myself think about.

  How are my siblings doing?

  Does anyone miss me?

  What am I going to do about school?

  What’s gonna happen once Seven solves this mystery?

  It’s the last one that freaks me out the most because I feel like sated-Seven is bored-Seven.

  Oh, I’ve had this particular flavor of caviar and Renzy-sex before. Next please!

  I don’t know that he knows how to be comfortable with a happy resolution. So, what does that mean for me?

  When I first met him, if you’d told me I’d start feeling… I mean, I’m really growing to…. Argh! I don’t know how to say it without saying it. So I’m just going to fucking say it.

  I think I might be growing to love this refined, arrogant asshole who doesn’t have to care about my life… but does anyway.

  ST. JOSEPH’S Behavioral Health Center is nothing like I imagined it would be.

  On the car ride over, Seven practically buzzed with anticipation, while Morning spoke gently about what we should do once we arrived. I sat in the back and tried not to lift the edge of that mental DANGER box, but it was pretty much impossible.

  I thought a lot about what the building would look like and pretty much cloned Arkham Asylum in my head.

  But St. Joseph’s isn’t a looming stone building with parapets and barred windows, and there’s no oppressive gloom blocking out the otherwise cheerful afternoon. No steely-eyed nurses in hats from the fifties push patients around the grounds in wheelchairs. Instead, it’s just a hospital: bright, open, and… well, not necessarily inviting… but not repelling either.

  I turn to ask what Seven thinks about St. Joe’s, but he’s already taking long-legged strides toward a sign marked Visitors. Morning and I are left behind in his pressing need to get there and get answers.

  I wonder if they will even let us in.

  Morning sighs softly and pats my arm.

  “You know we don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to. I’ll tell mon frère to stop with the theatrics.”

  I shrug at her. This is important to Seven—right now, it seems like it might be the only thing that’s important to Seven. Besides, I’m curious. Sorta.

  I should be more frightened. I really don’t want to run into Mr. Alexander again, and I don’t want another confrontation with it. But things feel different here—much different than at Mr. Alexander’s house. Plus, I haven’t heard any voices today. I haven’t seen anything either.

  I smile at Morning reassuringly, shrug again, and follow Seven.

  We’re barely through the door of the waiting area but already he’s at reception, asking to see the man that until this week, I didn’t even know existed.

  My father….

  I almost snort, but somehow keep it inside. God, why was that funny? Because he’s not my father. He’s just a sperm donor and of all the shit that’s been messing me up these last few days, with floating, faceless creatures of horror being at the top of the list, and temporary lack of underwear being at the bottom… Mr. Alexander having fathered me? Rates a two.

  My dad is my dad.

  Morning shakes my arm. I bet she mistakes my contemplative look for fear of what we’re about to do.

  “We’re here to visit Laurence Alexander,” Seven announces loftily. For half a beat, I wonder if he’ll add “he’s expecting us.” I have to fight back my smile. There I go again! The humor.

  The receptionist eyes him for a moment before typing at her keyboard with skilled fingers. The monitor is reflected as distorted little squares of light in her glasses. When she looks up again, we all know what she’s going to say.

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  If I was one to speak, now’s about the time I’d let out a long, Dude. What good is it going to do us anyway, following my sperm donor to his place of employment? Or occasional treatment center?

  “Check again,” Seven says tersely and suddenly my mood shifts. I feel a headache coming on—a bad one and all the humor drains from me. I’m feeling a bit crabby. Seven’s tone is pissing me off.

  I never feel crabby.

  The receptionist raises an eyebrow, and they square off. I’m not going to mess around with this. Let them have a battle of the stone-cold glares, I’m going to find a water fountain and—but seriously, wait. Something occurs to me and I freeze. Why would someone have a parking tag for a psychiatric facility?

  Unless they work there.

  Or they get treatment there.

  Or they visit someone frequently.

  I grab Seven’s arm, and he shifts toward me, the frustration clear on his face. I pull him to where Morning is waiting and huddle with them as if I’m about to whisper. Instead, I look around for something to write with or on, and that’s when I see a plastic sign on the wall listing the visiting hours.

  Perfect!

  I point to it and his eyes follow the tra
il of my finger.

  “Visiting hours? But Alexander’s not here….” Comprehension enters Seven’s eyes. “Ah! He’s not here now, but he’s been here… to visit someone else.”

  I nod eagerly.

  For a moment, the three of us are silent, then Seven says, “The wife. Dorothy—Dot.” Seven practically sprints back to the counter.

  “Dorothy Alexander,” Seven says before the receptionist can even look up and when she does, her expression is unimpressed. “We need to meet with Dorothy Alexander.”

  “Visiting hours don’t start for another forty-five minutes,” she replies coolly. She squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. Try me, kids, her face says, especially after your rude-ass attitude. But score one on her, right? Because she’s told us more than when visiting hours are. She’s confirmed for us that Dorothy Alexander is here.

  “We can wait for visiting hours, but you’ll tell her we want to see her, right?” Seven asks.

  “Fill out this form. Anyone who wants to visit will need to sign in before you can be admitted to the visiting area. If your request is approved, you will need to wear badges. And a word of warning, if you cause even a little trouble, our staff will not hesitate to remove you from the building.”

  Well, that’s a warm welcome.

  I can see it’s taking all the control Seven has left not to mouth off to her. My lips twitch just a little as I imagine sweat breaking out on his forehead at the strain this atypical self-control must be causing him. But I guess being part of Team Truancy means more to Seven than getting the last word, because he thanks her—politely even—and takes the clipboard with the forms.

  Turns out Morning has the best handwriting of any of us, so she fills out the forms while Seven and I lean uncomfortably together in an attempt to grab a catnap. Any time I think I might doze off, Seven’s hand slides down into my lap and startles me awake, or Morning needs to know something about me for the paperwork.

  I wasn’t nervous before, but my headache is getting worse and now my nerves are jangling.