Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “I need a miracle worker,” he said, stabbing his finger in my direction. “You.”

  My eyes flickered to Noah’s. What’s he talking about? Noah shook his head.

  “Papa,” Noah said, approaching his father gently. “Sam isn’t a miracle worker, nor a saint. I was joking. Sort of.” Noah grinned. “I’ll teach you if you want to learn.”

  Mr. Hallison continued to stare at me with pained eyes. Something had happened with Lucy on the way to Hartford. I could see it in his face, and I found myself asking, “What happened?”

  “She hates me,” he said.

  “Lucy isn’t capable of hating.”

  Mr. Hallison peeled off a humorless laugh. “You didn’t see her.”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “That’s why she hates me.”

  “No,” I said. “That’s why she’s mad at you. She doesn’t hate you. You’re her father.”

  “Her father,” he said. He sat on the stump Noah and I used for splitting wood. “She thinks I don’t believe in her. I make her feel worthless. How am I different from the others in this town who have treated her so poorly?”

  “Because you love her,” I answered.

  “I’ve hurt her.” He looked at me, and in his eyes, I knew what it cost him to admit that, to me and to his son.

  Stepping toward him, I rested a hand on his shoulder. “My papa always tells me that as long as we pull air into our lungs, we have a chance to right wrongs. You’re breathing, Mr. Hallison. Right your wrongs with Lucy. It’s not too late. She’ll forgive you.”

  Mr. Hallison patted my hand. “You’re a good boy, Sam.”

  “I’m also right.”

  “Oh, he’s never wrong, Papa,” Noah cut in. “Just ask him.”

  I dusted off the day’s work with nonchalance. “I’m humble to the core. I probably wouldn’t admit to always being right.” Mr. Hallison smiled for the first time, and I was glad for it. “There you are,” I said, smiling back. “Everything will be all right.”

  Mr. Hallison’s smile slipped. Mine did too. “Will you teach me, Sam?”

  “To sign, you mean?” He nodded. “Why me? Noah can—”

  Mr. Hallison stood. “You taught a deaf girl to read her first words. I’m asking you to teach a blind man to see his daughter—the way you always have.” He took a step toward me. “Please, Sam.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. I couldn’t help thinking it wasn’t so hard to see someone like Lucy. It was the easiest thing in the world, and why would anyone need to be taught? I didn’t say that aloud, though. Instead, I swallowed it down and said, “All right, Mr. Hallison, I’ll teach you to sign. But I don’t know how—”

  “I just meant that I want to know her through your eyes, Sam. I want to know Lucy the way you do.”

  Oh. I smiled then. In fact, my world lit up in bright colors. He was giving me permission to talk about a girl that filled my every waking thought. I wanted everyone to know Lucy the way I did—to know how special she was. May as well start with her father. “Well, did you know,” I said, taking a seat on the grass, “that Lucy loves music?”

  The distinct sound of an approaching carriage had us all stopping to see who was coming up the Hallisons’ drive. I stood back up when I realized it was Papa and met him when he came to a stop.

  “I was at the Post Office,” he said. “This came for you.” Papa handed me a letter addressed from Hartford. My heart thrummed a rhythm in my chest. “I wanted to bring it to you now since I’ll be late coming home. The Mezners have a sick child, and I told them I would stay and sup with them this evening and pray over the boy’s bedside.”

  “Thank you, Papa,” I said, looking up from the letter. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Son.” He tipped his hat to the shadows at my back. “Hello, Mr. Hallison. Noah. I can’t stay. I just came to drop off a letter to Sam.”

  “Well, it was good to see you all the same, Reverend.”

  “Likewise. Noah, happy to see you as always. Sam, I’ll see you at home.”

  With that, Papa was on his way again and I was left in the Hallisons’ drive, clutching Lucy’s letter.

  “Go,” Mr. Hallison said. “Go home and read the letter. We can talk later.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. Go. We have plenty of time to talk.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” I promised.

  “Tomorrow it is.”

  May 27, 1819

  Dear Sam,

  I received your letter with a glad heart. I have been missing home since my arrival in Hartford. More to the point, missing you. But your letter lifted my spirits. Thank you for reassuring me that you could never forget me. We must never forget each other. I dream of you often, and so, you are always with me. Perhaps, now that I know you dream of dancing, I’ll meet you on the dance floor. I’ll wear the smile you like. You wear the hat, the one from that night. I quite liked it. We’ll meet in our dreams for now, until we can meet again in person.

  I’ll tell you about school now. Mr. Gallaudet is the principal. He has kind eyes and an energetic face. He wears spectacles like your father, and he preaches God’s word to us. We have a chapel here too, where we gather for Mr. Gallaudet’s sermons and for prayer. You would like him very much, I think. The first time I met him, he spoke to me in sign. So many sign words! Most I didn’t know, but I am now learning with much delight. Mr. Clerc is teaching me the manual alphabet by hand. He is deaf, too, and came over from France to teach the Deaf and Dumb at the request of Mr. Gallaudet. Oh, Sam! They are wonderful.

  I finally met Miss Huntley, who aided your mother when she came to Hartford. I admit I got rather emotional upon meeting her. I didn’t expect to be, but her face had been so open. I could read every emotion pressing forward like the title page of a book. I could see the love there and I couldn’t hold back the tears. Next to your mother and mine, she is the kindest, gentlest lady I’ve ever met.

  Coming here has been a blessing to me. I am surrounded by other pupils who love to talk and be happy. I am grateful to your mother for this gift, for if it were not for her and her correspondence with Miss Huntley, I would not be here. So please, do tell my Noah not to worry for me. I am well. My one regret is that I cannot be with you and be here at the same time.

  Until I am home, I’ll meet you at the dance.

  Yours Truly,

  Lucy

  “Is that another letter from Lucy?” Mama asked. “You father came by here looking for you earlier.”

  I folded it, then set it on top of the pianoforte with the utmost care. I’d come into the music room to read it. “Yes,” I said, my throat feeling like it was made of splinters.

  Mama pushed off the door frame and stepped into the quiet room, the heels of her shoes echoing off the wood floors. Her eyes roamed every nook and cranny, the look of nostalgia playing across her face, memories that weren’t so long ago fresh on her mind as she ran her fingertips over Lucy’s desk.

  “Does she say how she’s doing?”

  “She mentioned you. She said you gave her a gift. She’s grateful to you.”

  She let out a breath. “I’m glad. I was worried that maybe she wouldn’t like it.”

  “She’s loving it. And she met Miss Huntley. Lucy cried.” I laughed softly. “You did a good thing, Mama. A very good thing.”

  Mama smiled in that special way of hers, but it was lacking the brightness, the softness.

  “What’s wrong, Mama? She’s happy there. Why do you still look—”

  “Sad?” she finished for me. “Because you do. What’s wrong, Sam? I thought a letter from Lucy would have you smiling ear to ear.”

  I got up from my seat at the piano and crossed to the window. A wren was building its nest on one of the tree branches outside. I watched it for a moment while I gathered my thoughts.

  “Sam?”

  “I ache, Mama. Right here.” I rubbed at my chest even though my back was to her. “All the tim
e now. It never goes away.” I kept my eyes trained on the wren because if I looked at my mother, I would break. And I didn’t want to break. I needed to stay whole. For Noah. For Noah’s father. I closed my eyes for a second and swallowed the splinters in my throat. It made my eyes burn.

  “Oh, Sam.”

  “Don’t,” I said, hearing her stepping toward me and begging her not to. “Please don’t.”

  The clacking of her shoes came to a stop and the room was flooded in silence.

  “It’ll get easier,” she whispered. “With time.” I nodded and swallowed a few more splinters. “Do you want me to stay with you?”

  “No. I’m going to watch this bird build its nest for a while. I’ll be all right. Just—give me some time. That’s the cure, right? Time?”

  “Time heals all wounds,” she said. “So they say.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a report, let you know if what they say is true.” I glanced over my shoulder and offered her a barely there smile. “Go. I’ve birdwatching to do.”

  “I love you, Sam.”

  I turned my focus back to the wren. “I love you too, Mama. I love you too.”

  June 11, 1819

  Dear Lucy,

  Mr. Gallaudet and Mr. Clerc seem like fine fellows. I am happy to know they are making your stay at school everything you hoped it would be. Beyond happy, really. It eases my mind to know you are doing well. Thank you for that kindness. I have yet to have the chance to speak with Noah after reading your letter. However, the moment I see him, I will assure him that all is well with you.

  It’s early now, the sun has yet to rise. I had a dream we were dancing. Thank you for wearing your smile. It got me through a difficult hour of missing you. You looked beautiful. I wore my topper as per your request. You said I looked dashing. We danced to The Sussex Waltz. And then we danced to it again. It was a perfect dream. Thank you for meeting me there.

  Around here there isn’t much news to report. Your Noah misses you. We both miss you. Mama and Papa miss you. I know your parents also miss you very much. We are all just waiting patiently for your letters, and in between that we continue to do what we’ve always done. I will let everyone know how well you are doing your first weeks there. They will be very glad to hear it.

  The sun is starting to rise now, and I must be getting ready for school. I just couldn’t start my day without bidding you good morning, Lucy, and thanking you for the dance.

  May I have another?

  Yours Truly,

  Sam

  Sam

  Six months later.

  Noah had stopped asking if he could have half my bread a long time ago. Or half my anything for that matter. Whenever I unpacked my lunch now, he just reached over and helped himself to half of whatever Mama had packed for me. It wasn’t as though his mother didn’t pack him a hearty lunch. She did. Fruit, cured meat, and yes, bread. But Noah would devour his and always half of mine. I didn’t mind. My mother always packed too much. But for the love of all things holy . . .

  “Where do you put all that?” I asked, watching him take my last boiled egg and pop the whole thing in his mouth.

  He held up one finger, allowing himself time to chew before answering. “In my belly. Where else?” Then he reached for my carrots.

  “How are you not full yet?”

  “I’m full,” he said.

  “Then why are you still eating?”

  “You don’t let food go to waste.”

  I laughed. “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  “Tell your mama to stop packing for an army and I won’t have to eat for an army.”

  “Are you serious?” I looked at him with doubt as he bit into a carrot. When he didn’t answer, I asked again, “Are you serious?”

  “Why do you think I spend so much time doing extra chores? I need to work off all this extra food.”

  Blink. Blink, blink. “Are you serious?” I asked again.

  “No! I’m joking! I’m a growing boy, Burke! I’m hungry all day, every day.” He eyed the berries between us. “You going to eat those?”

  I didn’t eat everything in sight as Noah did, and had a healthy appetite—or so I thought, anyway. But I couldn’t eat another bite. I practically threw the berries at him.

  Noah grinned and dug in. “Thanks,” he said, talking around a mouthful.

  “Yes, yes,” I said, putting my things back inside my lunch pail. When a shadow fell over me, I didn’t think much of it until I glanced up and found Noah’s eyes. They had turned hard as flint.

  “What do you want?” Noah asked.

  Fredrick came around then, chewing on a piece of field grass. “I don’t want anything,” he said. “Why, I’m just walking around.”

  “Walking around,” Noah echoed.

  “You don’t own this stream,” Fredrick said.

  “No,” Noah said. “I don’t. Neither Sam nor I own it. We haven’t owned it in all this time, and yet, today, you decide to point that out. How peculiar.”

  “Not peculiar. I’m just stretching my legs, fellas.”

  “Let’s go,” I said. “Mr. Goulrich is about to ring the bell anyway.”

  “Yes, run along, Noah,” Fredrick taunted. “Do what Samuel says.”

  Noah’s laugh burst forth like the report of a musket ball firing, startling Fredrick, who turned from the stream in surprise. “It took you seven months to gather enough courage to open your mouth again and that was the best you could come up with? Do what Samuel says?” Noah doubled over laughing, then leaned back while holding his stomach in a belly laugh. Noah wiped his eyes. “What say you, Sam? Shall we go inside?” He bowed deeply at the waist. “Your wish is my command.”

  I was trying not to laugh, but Noah was making it difficult. “Well, I suppose we should.” I dusted off my jacket like I was royalty. “Come, my dutiful servant. Let us take our seats.” We started to march off to the schoolhouse, but then I remembered . . . “Oh, my lunch pail.”

  Noah held up his hand. “I’ll get it, Sir Samuel. It will be my honor.” Then he mumbled, “I forgot mine too.”

  I shook my head and looked away from Fredrick—from Noah. I was still trying to keep from laughing. I bit my lower lip to keep composed.

  “T-Thank you,” I said when Noah handed mine to me. “Is he still there?”

  “Yes. His face is red as a cherry.”

  “Embarrassed or angry?”

  “Both, most likely.”

  “Maybe he’ll leave us alone now,” I said.

  “Yes, maybe.”

  “I doubt it,” I said.

  “I doubt it too, “Noah said.

  The rest of school went on as it normally did. Small favors. But afterward, Papa was waiting for me, which was unusual.

  “Papa?” I asked, approaching the carriage. “Why are you here?”

  “Your mother insists you need new clothes. I told her I’d take you to see Mr. Brook today.”

  “Do we have to?”

  “Afraid so. She’s been on about it for weeks. I told her today I’d take you to get your measurements. Now, climb up.”

  “I’ll see you later, Sam. Have fun getting fitted for pantaloons and breeches. I’m off to see a tree about some wood.”

  “You have enough wood chopped by now, don’t you?”

  “The wood I’ll be chopping today is for your family.” Noah grinned. “An act of kindness for the many lessons your mother has given my sister. And also, to get out of having to go with you to your tailoring. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  I narrowed my eyes at my best friend. “Fine,” I grumbled.

  Papa chuckled and bid Noah farewell. “It won’t be so bad,” he said as he steered the horse and carriage into the direction we needed to go.

  It had been a while since I’d had to have new clothes, and in truth, I did need them. My trousers were too short in the length and my shirts were also a bit too small. Still, what boy liked getting fitted while standing in their undergarments? I couldn’t im
agine any boy liked it.

  “If you would stop growing, we could stop this nonsense,” Papa said, his mouth kicking up at the corners.

  “I’ll see what I can do about that,” I answered, the corners of my own mouth kicking up a notch.

  Papa bumped my shoulder and winked. “How was school today?”

  “Mr. Goulrich read aloud parts of a poem from a copy he had of a George Gordon, Lord Byron. Ever heard of him?”

  Papa tilted his head in thought. “Yes I have, come to think of it.”

  “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage was the name of it. It’s long. Pages and pages. I’d never really cared for poetry. But I liked this one. It reminded me of this place—of this town. Isn’t that odd? Because he wasn’t at all on this continent when he wrote it. And I’m certain he’d never even been to Bridgeport, Connecticut either.” I laughed. “How funny is it that I see my own town in his poem?”

  “Why is that odd? What did you think poetry was?”

  I shrugged. “Whenever I see a poem, I feel like the poem is saying to me ‘I’m brilliant and special, and you should read all my special brilliantness.’”

  Papa chuckled. “What?”

  “And I get tricked into reading it and I’m often disappointed because the poem either lied about being brilliant and special, or it made absolutely no sense, or it was just so dry. Shouldn’t poetry be, I don’t know . . .” I waved my hand in the air. “Not dry?”

  Papa’s chuckle turned into a full-on laugh. We crossed over the bridge onto Stratford Avenue, a briny scent in the air now that we were close to the harbor. It wasn’t until he’d turned onto Pembroke Street when he said, “Perhaps it’s not poetry that’s the problem, Samuel. Perhaps it has been your approach to it that has been the issue.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The origin of the word poem came from the Greek poiema, which literally means ‘thing made.’ A poet is a ‘thing maker.’” Papa gave me a side-eye glance as he continued to drive the carriage.

  “All right. I don’t understand what any of that has to do with me not liking—”