Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “I’m sure you can keep Mama company for a while until I’m finished. I’ll be down soon.”

  “She’ll try to feed me. It’s not a hardship.”

  I waited for Noah to descend the stairs to finally read Lucy’s letter. Afterward, I made myself comfortable inside my father’s study, and then cut myself open for the first time, for a girl, and bled for her in the form of words and ink.

  May 9, 1819

  Dear Lucy,

  I read your letter. I have it sitting here beside me. I keep reading it repeatedly. We had the same teacher, my mother, so it doesn’t seem fair that you command words better than me, but there your letter sits with proof, and here mine is, also with proof. I apologize now before going forward that I will stumble a bit with what to say. I always have with you. Always. But there is one thing you must know, and that is I will never forget you. I couldn’t if I tried. And if I had looked out and found you underneath my window, I’m certain I would have thought I was dreaming. Because I had been dreaming of you that night, Lucy. You were wearing that smile that makes not just your face soft, but the world soft. And we were dancing. In my dream, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I want that feeling again. So, learn all the things you need to learn, Lucy Marie Hallison. And come home. And then we’ll dance again.

  Until then, I want to hear all about your time there, and when you get the chance, write to me.

  Oh, one more thing. Don’t ever say you aren’t brave. You are the bravest girl I’ve ever known.

  Yours Truly,

  Sam

  When I was finished, Papa caught me sitting on his chair. “What are you doing, Son?”

  “How long does it take for a letter to reach Hartford from here?” I asked.

  “Oh, I’d say about seven days, give or take.”

  I folded my letter. “Tomorrow, will you take this to the Post Office and mail it to The American Asylum for the Deaf, addressed to Lucy Hallison?” I stood, stretched out my hand to him. “Please?”

  “She already left?” Papa asked, confused.

  “They left before you returned from your walk. She and her father were waiting for us when we came home from church.”

  Papa stepped forward, took my letter, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I see. I’m sorry, Son.” He caressed the folds with care. “I’ll deliver it as soon as they open.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you need me to do anything else?”

  “No, sir.” I stood and tucked the letter that Lucy had written to me inside my pocket, and said, “Noah’s waiting. I should get going.”

  “Sam?”

  I was halfway out the door when he called my name. I stopped, turned. “Yes, sir?”

  “Stay away from Fredrick Clive, will you? I don’t trust that kid or his father.” Papa’s voice may have been quiet, but there was no mistaking the sharp tone underneath his words.

  “I’ll not go looking for a fight, Papa. I’ll stay away from him as much as I’m able.”

  Papa nodded once. “Some people . . . some people are just . . .” He bit off his words and removed his hat before claiming the seat behind his desk. He tossed it on a stack of papers and sighed. “Go on, Son. No need to keep Noah waiting.”

  “Was there something you wanted to say?”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face and said, “No. I’m tired. I need to rest my mind and spirit. Go spend time with your friend.” He picked up my letter and held it up. “I’ll see to this for you first thing tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” I took one step back into the room. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “All is well, Sam. All is well.”

  Lucy

  Papa and I sat inside the hired coach, across from each other, me looking out over the harbor at the ships docked there. It was midafternoon. The high sun fell over the water, making it sparkle. So much beauty, and yet, I knew not to miss it, knew not to miss what I’d never truly been a part of—the people and this pretty town. I was as much an outsider as those ships coming into port.

  We passed through the town of Bridgeport, the coachman driving his two-horse team over the long bridge. I looked for my papa’s shop on the wharf, spotted it, smiled sadly.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the seat, trying not to cry, to be strong. I was leaving the only home I’d ever known, and even knowing I shouldn’t miss it, I already did. I may not have been a part of Bridgeport, but Bridgeport was a part of me. It was where I had grown up. It was where Noah and I had played together. It was where I’d met Sam. How could I not love a town that had brought me the best thing I’d ever known? Sam. And I’d left him standing on his front porch, his green eyes red-rimmed and shining like two broken pieces of glass caught in the sunlight.

  I sat up straighter, needing to breathe, to move, to readjust my position. My skin felt too tight. Or perhaps it was my dress causing the muscles underneath my ribs to ache.

  Papa tapped my knee. I looked up. Concern etched across his rugged features. I watched his lips part, then form odd shapes. I shook my head, not understanding. His lips tightened and a puff of air blew from them. He picked up the slate beside him and began writing. He wasn’t very good with signing, even if it was to say a simple word like good night. I suppose he wasn’t comfortable with it. His hands were made for saddle-making, holding tools, building things. They weren’t made for speaking or expressing feelings. Surely, not that, I mused irritably. I looked at them now as he held up his slate.

  Are you all right?

  Papa had always thought me frail, weak. It angered me that he could never see past my deafness. It angered me that he had, for much of my life, never truly seen me, or known what I was capable of. It angered me that it had taken another family to show him. It angered me that even though Papa was seeing me now, why couldn’t he have seen me then?

  I looked out the window, took a deep breath, and pushed the anger back down. Because I wanted to reassure him, no, prove that I was not frail, and I was not weak. I was just sad. I could be sad.

  I picked up the slate beside me and Papa handed me a piece of chalk. I’m fine, I wrote. I held it up for him to read and found a new position, one where I was turned more to the side, away from his prying eyes. I was fine. I would be fine. I would.

  I stared out the window again and tried to think of something else as the scenery changed from busy streets to parks and trees and eventually to more sparse surroundings. With every mile behind us, my thoughts drifted from memory to memory. No noises outside my own thoughts for company. Sam’s face flashed in my mind’s eye many times. I had favorite ones, of course. The most recent one, from the evening before, with him so handsome in his tailcoat and top hat, smiling at me, telling me I was beautiful was one of my favorites. Weightlessness came over me. For as long as I lived, I will never forget that moment. Or the many others Sam had given me over the years.

  Sam had been my first friend. The first person to hold my hand who hadn’t been family. My first teacher. My first kiss. My lips still tingled the slightest bit whenever I thought about that. I had to bring my hands up to my cheeks because they felt warm and flushed. It wouldn’t do for Papa to see me blushing.

  And, of course, he had been my first dance. Since meeting Sam, he’d had all my firsts. I had more firsts still left to discover. And I was leaving behind the person I wished to discover them with.

  Papa tapped my knee again. Turning my head toward him, I read the words on the slate he held in front of me.

  We can turn around. We can go back.

  I stared at the words, unsure why he was suggesting such a thing. Then my eyes swept up to meet his. I shook my head while reaching for my slate, and then I wrote: You wanted to leave a day early. You, Papa. What is this about?

  I wanted you out of Bridgeport. I’m wondering now if we’re making a mistake.

  I blinked, and then asked: What do you mean by mistake?

  You don’t look happy.

  I’m goi
ng to miss Sam and Mrs. Burke. And Noah. And my own bed. I held up the slate for him to read. I watched his eyes move over the words. Then I erased them and wrote. I’m going to miss home. But I want to go to school. I held the slate up again and let him read.

  He responded: What more do you hope to learn?

  I was so shocked by his question that I wasn’t certain what he was asking. My hand shook as I wrote: Are you suggesting that I can’t learn anything else?

  Papa’s eyes widened when he read my response, though he made no move to deny it. He sat like a stone. An unmovable, unaffected stone. Anger flared hotter; the resentment I’d buried inside rose to the surface again. All those years of being ignored by Papa. All those years of feeling like he didn’t see me. I’d always had Noah. And Mama, most days. My sisters were there some of the time. But Papa—he’d never seen me, not until Sam and his family moved to town. Why had it taken another family to make him see his own daughter?

  I could barely look at him anymore. I pressed harder on my slate with the chalk in my hand and asked him: Or other deaf people can’t possibly teach me anything else? I sat there shaking my head, blinking back tears as he read the words. Again, he didn’t respond. I suppose it was fine. It would be fine. It would. And I would let it go after saying one final thing. Why do you not believe in me? I showed him the words and then cast the slate to the side as if it was a tired old dress I never wanted to wear again.

  Then something happened. The stone moved. His eyes fell to his lap and then they were drawn to the window for a bit. His mouth started to form odd shapes again, but he wasn’t speaking to me, his eyes still staring out. He was speaking to himself. My father hung his head, his shoulders slumped. He was no longer the picture of a strong man with callused hands made for building, carrying, and lifting. He was no longer the picture of an unaffected stone.

  I let out a breath. He must have heard me, because he turned in my direction. Chalk still in hand, he started to write again. He stopped and started many times. I waited patiently. I thought about writing something myself, but I didn’t know quite what to say either.

  Eventually, he settled on something. I hope they teach you more sign words. I promise to learn them all when you come home. He held up the slate, allowed me to read the words. I didn’t understand. He’d never wanted to learn sign. He erased those words and wrote again. Because this isn’t working. He waved between us, pointed to my discarded slate, then tapped his—to the words he’d written. Because this isn’t working.

  Guilt poked at my conscience. Papa and I, we’d always had trouble communicating, even when we wrote our words down. Something was always lost in the translation.

  We didn’t speak again for a while, and I think we were both grateful for the reprieve. We wouldn’t, maybe couldn’t solve our problems any time soon.

  A tear slipped down my cheek. I wiped it away and told myself Save it for later, Lucy. You’ll have plenty of time to cry later.

  I did just that, and held myself together, with nothing but a thread of determination and a stitch of stubbornness.

  And maybe a stitch or two of pride. Because I was going to immerse myself in this new school, learn all I could. Whether or not I could ever make my papa proud, I was going to make Sam and Noah proud. I was going to make Mama and Mrs. Burke proud. I was going to make myself proud.

  No matter what.

  Sam

  It had been five weeks since Lucy left. Every day when Papa walked through the door, I’d ask him if a letter had come for me. He’d remove his hat, hold it in his hands and sadly shake his head. I’d shrug and say, “Well, maybe tomorrow, then.” Determined to be more like Papa, I’d go up to my room and try to find comfort in the scriptures and I’d pray for Lucy, wanting more than anything for her to be happy in a new place surrounded by new people.

  When I wasn’t doing that, Noah and I somehow carved out a new normal for ourselves, though it had taken a bit of effort. Fortunately, some things remained the same. We still walked to and from school together. We still took our lunch on the bank of the stream behind the schoolhouse, and we still joked and played around as often as we could. But Tuesdays and Thursdays had lost their specialness. I no longer anticipated those days, no longer burst through the door to get to the music room, no longer felt the desire to play without Lucy there to play for. So, for the past five weeks, instead of going home on those days, I’d gone home with Noah and helped him split wood. Occasionally, I would find myself in the music room, just looking around. While I may not have had the desire to play, I did have the desire to be near Lucy, and I felt the closest to her there. Sometimes, I felt so close, I could hardly breathe, and I had to leave the room. Other days, I couldn’t feel her at all. I had yet to decide which feeling felt worse.

  The days were long. The nights were longer. And in the mornings, I got up and did it all over again.

  Noah hadn’t talked to me much about his feelings. I knew he would when he was ready. Currently, he needed to talk to me about his father. Apparently, Mr. Hallison had been quiet after returning from Hartford.

  “Not in a bad way,” Noah explained. “But Papa has never been the quiet type before and lately he seems to be . . .” He trailed off, wiping the sweat off his brow. “Thinking.”

  “Thinking?”

  “He keeps wandering off by himself. And whenever he’s not wandering off, he’s just sitting around, staring out windows.”

  Noah picked up his axe and brought it down on the hunk of wood in front of him, successfully splitting it down the middle. He picked up both pieces and threw them in the pile.

  “Are you worried about him?” I asked and then swung my own axe, breaking open the wood in a satisfying crack.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, just ask him.”

  “Ask him what?”

  “What he’s thinking about.”

  Noah barked out a laugh. “My father is not your father. I can’t just ask him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t.”

  “What would he do, beat you?”

  Noah looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Of course not.”

  “Send you to bed without supper?”

  “No!”

  I shrugged. “Then why can’t you ask him? What’s the worst that will happen? Tell you nothing? So what. You already know nothing, so you have nothing to lose by asking.”

  Noah’s eyes hit me like daggers before he said, “You know, Sam, sometimes I hate you when you make sense.”

  “You must hate me quite a lot.” We were laughing when we noticed Mr. Hallison coming toward us, head down, and our laughter died off. “You could ask him now,” I said.

  Noah’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No. And don’t you go asking him either.”

  “Why would I ask him? He’s not my father.”

  “No, but you’re good at—”

  “Noah,” Mr. Hallison called out, looking at the pile of wood we had chopped. “You’ve done a fine job.”

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  When Noah’s father stood before us, he looked at me and said, “You too, Sam. “Thank you for helping.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Hallison.”

  He continued to stand there as if he had something else to say, though he didn’t. He just stared off over Noah’s left shoulder, clearly thinking about something. Noah had been right. This was a man who had things on his mind. I frowned. I remembered what Noah had said to me the first day we had walked home from school together—when he had told me about the guilt he’d carried over yelling at Lucy before she’d gotten sick.

  “Why did you tell me this?”

  “I’ve been needing to tell someone for a really long time. You looked like a good someone.”

  Perhaps Mr. Hallison could use a someone now. I urged Noah with my eyes . . . ask him.

  Noah shook his head.

  “It looks like my work here is done,” I said conversationally. “I’m goi
ng to head home while Noah asks about your day, Mr. Hallison. It looks like you have things on your mind. Noah’s a good listener, in case you were wondering.”

  “Sam,” Noah hissed.

  “Have I been a bad father, Noah?” Mr. Hallison asked softly.

  “What?” Noah asked, stunned.

  “A bad father—have I been a bad father to you?”

  “No, Papa! Why would you ask me that?”

  “You think me a good father, then.” Mr. Hallison sounded disappointed in the answer he received.

  “Of course I do. What is this about?” Noah asked.

  “I’m going to go,” I said.

  “No, Sam. Stay,” Mr. Hallison replied. “Noah, tell me the truth.”

  “I am telling the truth.”

  “Then let me ask a different question. Do you think I have been a good father to Lucy?” This time Noah didn’t immediately respond. “Ah, there it is,” Mr. Hallison said. “There it is. The truth.”

  Noah sighed. “We all have our failings where Lucy is concerned.”

  I eyed the fields between their house and mine. I wanted them to talk. However, my plan was to not be present for it. I felt like an intruder. This was a private matter. I inched away, taking small steps, hoping they wouldn’t notice my retreat.

  “Do we?” Mr. Hallison said. He pointed to me. I stopped dead in my tracks. “What about Sam? Where has he failed Lucy?”

  Noah’s eyes sparkled with mirth. “Sam is a damn saint.”

  My eyes flew to Mr. Hallison’s, then darted back to Noah’s. The first time Noah chose to curse he did so in front of his father?

  But Mr. Hallison said nothing to address Noah’s cursing. He was too busy staring at me. “Teach me,” he said.

  I blinked. Teach him? Teach him what? Surely, he didn’t think . . . “I’m not a saint,” I said, my voice sounding rusty. “I can’t teach you—”

  “To communicate with Lucy. I’m ready to learn.”

  All I could do was stare back at him for a long stretch of time. “But Noah could teach you,” I said finally. “Mrs. Hallison could teach you. You don’t need me for that.”