One conspicuously absent from the gris-gris endeavors was Grandma Adelaide Roman.
“Oh, let’s not worry about it, Adventure Arrow. She would just say it was devil stuff anyway.”
A you’ve-got-a-point-there nod.
“Who else should we make one for?” Dancy asked.
—My dad.
“He doesn’t need one,” Dancy said.
—He wants one.
“You shouldn’t make up stuff like that, mister. Let’s talk about something else.”
William was in the room for this conversation. He watched while Dancy and Bonaventure shined a flashlight on the wall and used their hands to make shadow-bunnies that danced around until they got in a shadow-fight and got their ears all tangled up. Then he listened to them summarize the day and tuck in all its edges.
Dancy plumped up Bonaventure’s pillow and said, “It’s not like I don’t know you’ve got a book and a flashlight under the covers. Just don’t read for too long. You need your beauty sleep.”
—Mom! Bonaventure said in sign shout, —Boys don’t beauty-sleep!
Dancy chuckled and smoothed his hair from his forehead. “You’re right,” she said as she moved toward the door. “You’re beautiful enough already. I love you, Sweetie-pie. Good night.”
—Good night. I love you and you are beautiful too.
William waited a minute or so after she left before he said, “Hey, there, buddy.”
—Hey, Dad.
“So how’s the gris-gris business treating you?”
—Mom doesn’t think you need one.
“Maybe she’ll change her mind.”
—Yeah. Maybe.
“Well, don’t worry about it,” William said, and then he did something he hadn’t done since Bonaventure was in the newborn nursery: he sang a song to him, making it up as he went. As Bonaventure listened to that song, he heard a shower of comets go sweeping across the galaxy and raise a sparkling, whooshing, dazzling wind that blew stardust around in a swirl.
Dancy took a long soak in the tub and then polished the nails of her fingers and toes. She fussed with her hair and flipped through a magazine before going to the kitchen for a glass of warm milk.
Then she began to collect.
She opened a bottle of root beer, poured it down the sink, and kept the cap. She took a sugar cube. She tore the recipe for chicken etouffée from a cookbook. She went out to Mr. Silvey’s old workshop, where she found a compass and a piece of steel and she took those too. Then she went into William’s old room, where Letice had insisted that everything be left as it was when William lived. Dancy took a sock out of a drawer and took it back to her room, where she sprayed it with the same perfume she’d worn so long ago. She put one of her own earrings in with all that she’d gathered and slipped everything into the sock.
The recipe was to keep away hunger, and the bottle cap was to keep away thirst; the sugar was for William’s sweet tooth, the steel was to protect him from bullets, and the compass was to bring him home. The earring and the perfume weren’t part of the gris-gris; they were just to remind him of her.
William spent the rest of that night in Dancy’s room, watching her toss and turn, for sleep did not bring her rest. He was still there the next morning when Trinidad came in to change the sheets. She went about her business just as calm as could be.
“You should get some rest, Mr. William,” she said.
The Handshake
EVEN though Bonaventure thought Trinidad was wonderful, he still missed the Silveys sometimes. He missed keeping company with Mrs. Silvey in the kitchen, and how she always smelled like talcum powder, and how if he happened to break one of Grand-mère’s knickknacks accidentally when he was running through the house or maybe got some dirt on something that he wasn’t supposed to touch, he could go to her and she would say, “Well, now, let’s just see what we can do about that.”
And he missed Mr. Silvey something terrible. He went out to the workshop almost every day in search of the sounds left behind in the coffee cans and sewing machine drawers and the jars full of nuts and bolts and screws. Though he and Mr. Silvey had often worked side by side without saying anything, the workshop had never been quiet. The tools, every last one of them, spoke in pings and taps and catch-toothed ratchets about stair treads or railings or holes they had fixed. But now there were only breathing sounds for him to hear because no one ever used the tools or the hardware anymore, and so they just slept all the time. Bonaventure could hear them snore.
Sometimes he went to the workshop just to feel close to Mr. Silvey again. It was during one of these visits that he heard some whistling coming from the wagon by the window. He walked over to it and wrapped his fingers around the handle and was overjoyed that it felt warm once again.
“Hiya, pal.”
—Hiya, Dad!
“Hey, I wonder if you could do me a favor. It’s not as hard as going after that sound in your mom’s closet.”
—Sure.
“I’d like to meet that fellow who teaches you to sign, the one who comes during the week. What’s his name? Mr. Riley?”
—Yeah.
“I think he’s about my same age, and I was wondering if maybe I might know him from somewhere.”
—Gabe isn’t from here. He’s from New Orleans.
“Well, there you go. I lived in New Orleans for a while.”
—I thought I wasn’t supposed to tell anybody about you. How can I help you meet Gabe if I can’t tell him about you?
“You don’t have to tell him anything. All he has to do is touch the wagon handle here and it’ll be like a handshake, just like you and I do. You can tell a lot about a man by his handshake. I think he might be a pretty good guy, but I’d like to know for sure. Do you think you can arrange it for me? I sure would appreciate it, son.”
Bonaventure jumped at the chance to be helpful by doing something that wasn’t scary. —I’ll help you shake Gabe’s hand, Dad! You can count on me!
“Thanks, buddy. We’ll talk again soon. I promise.” And then William was gone.
Most of the paint had disappeared from the wagon, worn away by humidity and the passage of time, but Bonaventure spotted one small scab that had survived, which he peeled away and put in his pocket before going back into the house. The smile still beamed across his face, as his father’s words echoed and echoed in his head, I think he might be a pretty good guy. He wanted his father to like Gabe Riley.
He took an envelope from Grand-mère’s desk in her office and put the paint chip from the wagon in it; then he went to his room and carefully placed it in his memento box.
The following day, after finishing the part of his lesson that included Dancy and Letice, Bonaventure had a sign conversation with Gabe.
—You know square-cut nail?
“I don’t think so.”
—You know tool cuts hole in pipes?
“No. Do you?”
Spelling out letters of —Hawk’s bill snips.
“You are smart about tools.”
—I will show you.
“Okay.”
A waving motion as if to say, —Come this way.
Boneventure led Gabe out to Mr. Silvey’s workshop, where he showed him the square-cut nails and the hawk’s bill snips.
Holding up the wagon handle, —You know what is?
“It’s a wagon handle.”
—Come from plow blade.
Bonaventure placed the wagon handle in Gabe Riley’s hand.
“This was made from a plow blade?”
—Yes. I love.
Gabe stood motionless, as if maybe he was under a spell, and then he signed, “Heavy. Warm. Nice.”
Sometimes Gabe was mystified by Bonaventure, as teachers often are by gifted children. It was obvious that the boy had a high IQ, and it was getting more and more difficult to present him with something challenging enough to keep him from getting bored. Gabe did some thinking on the matter. One idea led to another, and eventually he saw no reason that Bo
naventure Arrow could not be multilingual. And so it came to pass that a flashlight, a set of bongos, and the naval flag semaphore system found their way into the tutoring that took place on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. It wasn’t that Bonaventure really needed to know Morse code or how to communicate with flags—it was just for fun.
Bonaventure was crazy about the idea. It was something he could talk about when other kids talked about stuff they did with their dads. His happiness was not lost on Dancy. She wanted to do something special by way of thanking Gabe for going above and beyond, so she invited him to come to supper on a Saturday night.
He showed up early, flowers in one hand and a comic book in the other. It was just the three of them having pork roast and dirty rice at the table in the kitchen. They would have eaten in the dining room if Letice had been there, but she was at a meeting of the Altar Society over at Our Lady of the Rosary. That was one thing about Letice: she was a dining room person. It was just how she’d been raised. Adelaide Roman, on the other hand, had never even seen a dining room until she was almost twenty-five years old and taking a tour of historic homes that were decorated for Christmas, after which Theo Roman didn’t get a moment’s peace until he’d added on to the back of their house.
There were only a few awkward moments in an evening that was more than a tutoring session but definitely not a date. They signed and talked and laughed, and Bonaventure joined in at first, but then he seemed to draw back some, and when the table was cleared, he asked to be excused. He said he wanted to read the Captain America that Gabe had brought him.
Dancy let Bonaventure go, which left her and Gabe to linger over coffee for a while before doing the dishes together, just like a regular couple. He washed and she dried, since he didn’t know where to put things away. Their hands never touched at all.
Bonaventure could hear his mom and Gabe talking, and he wished that Gabe could be there every night. He started to feel bad about that wish and sent a thought out to his father, but William didn’t answer.
William was out in the kitchen. Dancy had laughed quite a few times during the evening, but he thought it sounded different, at least from the way it had sounded back when it was for him. And he wouldn’t have thought Gabe was her type; he didn’t seem to be as athletic as William had been, but more bookish.
The next day William started to pull Dancy to Père Anastase, but then he changed his mind.
A Promise Made of Chains
A week after Gabe had come to dinner, Bonaventure brought something up with his dad.
—Did you like Gabe that time you shook his hand?
“Yes, I did. He has the grip of an honest man. You like him too, don’t you?”
—I like him a whole bunch. He knows a lot of jokes and he makes me laugh.
There was emptiness in the conversation then, just for five seconds or so, before Bonaventure, looking away, hands in pockets, said, —He makes Mom laugh too.
The emptiness sagged between them again until William said, “Laughing is good,” but then the emptiness came back.
—Yeah. Gabe knows a lot of stories too. And he lets me practice reading and signing with comic books. Did you read comic books when you were a kid?
“Not much. I mostly liked baseball. My dad used to read baseball stuff to me. He helped me keep a real good scrapbook too. But he died when I was eight.”
—You were lucky.
“How was I lucky?”
—He didn’t die until you were eight.
There was a pause before William said, “I’ve always wanted to talk to you about that, but I didn’t know what to say. I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet you, Bonaventure.” He had to stop then. It took two more attempts before he could clear his throat and get the words out. “I always wanted to have a son to hug and play with, to teach things to. I guess that’s why it felt so good to teach you about your special hearing. I’m so glad we have this way of talking together. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
—I like having a voice with you.
When his dad had gone, Bonaventure thought that William had sounded sad, and he decided to try again to help with that favor they hadn’t talked about in a while.
The very next day, he set about his task. It was going to be harder than he thought. He was still afraid, but William had promised that it wouldn’t hurt him, and Bonaventure trusted his father.
Bonaventure headed for his mother’s closet, taking the sassafras jar with him because it had helped him through scary times before, like hearing the echo of police coming to the door. He sat down on the closet floor and carefully opened the spice jar to let the dry voice out.
“I’ve already told you all that I know,” the sassafras said. “I was there the night your mother waited for your father to come home, a long time ago, before you were born. I heard the police come to the door. I don’t know anything more than that. But the box does. Open the box if you want to know more.”
Bonaventure looked up expecting something to happen. But no sound came from the box. He set the jar down and pulled out the small ladder used to help reach that top shelf. He unfolded it and set first his right foot then his left on the lowest step. Still no sound. He set his right foot on the second step and followed it with his left. Still no sound. He moved up to the third step and finally to the top of the ladder. Still no sound.
It should have been warmer up near the ceiling, especially on a hot July day, but it wasn’t. Bonaventure put a hand on either side of the cloth-covered box and was surprised at how cool it felt. Although there was no sound, several scents had swirled themselves into a smell-print and embossed the box with their combined characteristics. Unfortunately for Bonaventure, the extraordinary silence that let him hear extra did nothing at all for his sense of smell. He could identify only one of the odors: it was cologne like a man would wear. He did not recognize the cold, metallic scent of dried blood; he knew nothing of the smoke left behind by a bullet.
The box remained quiet, holding its breath because it was desperate to keep the boy there and not frighten him again.
Bonaventure stuck his fingers under the lip of the lid in order to pull the box toward him. He was surprised he had to tug so hard; the box was heavier than he’d expected. He managed to inch it forward and scoot it over the shelf’s edge enough to place a hand against either side and pull it toward him. He was breathing hard from the struggle and had to rest a minute. That’s when he got the idea to rest the box on top of his head before slowly making his way down the ladder.
He knelt down to set it on the closet floor and sat back on his heels beside it. Bonaventure noticed the lid was hinged on one side and held closed by a pin-and-hasp lock. He used his thumb to move the pin, but stopped at the edge of discovery. He took in a breath and held it, and he felt a little like he had to go to the bathroom, which is what happened whenever he got nervous.
The voice of doubt snuck into his silence then, warning him that the box belonged to his mother, that it was hers to open or to keep locked up. And then Bonaventure heard something besides that doubt—the crunching ruffle of tissue paper. He let out his breath and lifted back the lid. The wrinkly tissue crackled and creaked, and said to him, “Keep going.”
Bonaventure pulled back the tissue to find a man’s necktie lying crosswise over a neatly folded white shirt. Beneath the tie and shirt were the suit and the belt they’d been worn with. And beneath the suit and the belt were a pair of underwear, a pair of men’s socks, and a pair of black shoes. They were the clothes William had on when he died.
Bonaventure removed the garments one by one. The tie was silk and seemed to be solid blue until he looked closer and found a pattern of tiny diamonds. The white cotton shirt was expensive, but something had put holes in it and left a rusty stain. He couldn’t identify the mark, and the shirt offered no explanation. The coat and pants were of dark gray wool, and the coat had holes and rust stains too. The belt was black and made of very soft leather and was fitted with an engraved
silver buckle. The shoes were made of leather too, and shiny as a brand-new penny.
He laid the shirt out on the floor and undid every button before picking it up to slip his arms through the sleeves. It took a long time to re-button because he had to keep sliding the sleeves back up his arm. He managed to loop the tie around his neck and tie it in the same kind of bow he tied his shoelaces in; it was the only way he knew to tie anything. He pulled off his own shoes and stepped his small feet into the black leather ones that shone like a brand-new penny.
Bonaventure examined himself in the mirror that hung on the closet door and was amazed at how different he looked. Though the sleeves kept sliding down, and he’d gotten off track with the buttons so the shirt hung sort of crooked, and the tie didn’t look like it should, Bonaventure still thought he looked very fine. The last thing he put on was the soft leather belt, which wrapped around him twice. It was then that the clothes spoke to Bonaventure, telling him they belonged to William.
Bonaventure reluctantly took each article off, folded it as best he could, and returned it to the box. It was then that a good and tender silence took over, extinguishing every sound except one. From inside the pocket of the torn and rust-marked shirt came the whisper of a promise made of chains.
After what sounded like a clearing of the throat, the cloth-covered box found its voice. “Look in the pocket,” it said. “Your mother thinks it was all her fault.”
Bonaventure reached into the shirt pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a little note that wept, and it was written in his mother’s hand:
Sweet William,
If you’ll stop at the A&P on your way home and get some butternut squash, I will love you forever and ever and ever.
XoXo
Dancy
P.S. I would love you forever even without the squash.
And that is when Bonaventure heard the bullets, loud and fast, coming from those rusty holes in the clothing. There were four of them. He counted.
The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow Page 22
