Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “You are assuming poems are supposed to be brilliant and special and . . .” Papa eyed me again. “Not dry. Why are they supposed to be anything other than a thing made, created by their ‘thing maker’? Are some poems brilliant? Yes. Are some poems special? Yes. But if you approach every poem as if they all must fit into the same box, you will be disappointed, Sam.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d never thought about poetry in that context before. Huh. “Where did you learn the origins of poetry?”

  “I attended college before attending seminary. I might know a thing or two.”

  “You might,” I said, and waited for Papa to turn his head to give me one of those ‘beg your pardon’ looks before I flashed him a big, toothy grin.

  He ruffled my hair. “You are just like your mother.”

  “Funny. She also says I’m just like you.”

  Shaking his head, he pulled the carriage up to Mr. Brook’s place. “I don’t know whether to feel proud or if I should pray for you.”

  Climbing down from the carriage, I said, “My guess is both.”

  “Scamp. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  All smiles and toothy grins disappeared. Papa opened the door, and a tiny bell jingled over our heads. A slim man carrying a bolt of gray fabric came out from a back room.

  “Ah, Reverend Burke. And Samuel. What can I do for you today?”

  I had already begun to shift from foot to foot.

  “My son needs to be fitted for new clothes,” Papa said, removing his topper. He pulled me further into the shop by my elbow. “His mother wants—”

  “Pantaloons for daywear, breeches for more formal occasions, waistcoats, shirts, stockings . . .” Mr. Brook looked me over from head to toe, inspecting me like he would if he had suspected an insect in his soup bowl.

  “You spoke with my wife?” Papa asked.

  “No. It is my job to know what the young man needs.” He raised a thin brow. “What did she say your son needed?”

  Papa cleared his throat. “Pantaloons, breeches, waistcoats, shirts, stockings.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Brook put his hands together. “Splendid. Now then, Samuel, why don’t you go into the back room and get undressed down to your undergarments? I’ll need to take your measurements.”

  I closed my eyes for a second or two. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be right here, Sam,” Papa said, running his eyes over the different colors of silks and linens and wools.

  I inwardly grumbled all the way to the back room.

  After I had my measurements taken, Mr. Brook began draping fabrics over me, pinning here, tucking there.

  “Stand up straight. Don’t suck in. Stop slouching, Samuel.”

  If I heard Mr. Brook say those words once, I heard him say them a dozen times. I was beginning to feel like a human pincushion when he finally announced we were done.

  “I will have his things boxed and sent over when I have them ready,” he told my father as we were leaving.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brook,” Papa said, placing his topper back on his head. “Good day, sir.” Papa checked his timepiece he kept inside the pocket of his waistcoat. “We have time if we hurry.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Time to go to the bookshop—see if they have that poem from that Lord Byron you liked. What do you say? Want to see if they have it?”

  “Really? You’d do that?”

  Papa draped his arm around my shoulder. “I would. And I’d also like to acquaint myself with Lord Byron.” We climbed into the carriage and headed for the bookshop. “I’m glad his poem has left such an impression on you.”

  “It just—spoke to me.”

  “Then let’s go see if we can get you a copy of it.”

  When we arrived back home, I was in high spirits. The bookshop had had a copy of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, and I was also happy to have spent time with my father. However, we had not yet exited our carriage when another carriage pulled in behind ours.

  “I wonder who that could be?” Papa said.

  “No idea.” I gathered up my things and stepped down, Papa right behind me.

  Mr. Clive exited his carriage and both Papa and I ground to a halt.

  “Reverend Burke, I was just leaving the Hallisons’ place when I saw you coming home.”

  Papa drew to his full height, his shoulders square as blocks, and his spine straight as a walking cane. “Oh?”

  “Yes. I was wondering if I may have a word?”

  “You may,” Papa intoned.

  As Mr. Clive walked toward us, I couldn’t help noticing how his eyes were black pools of nothing, cold and empty. I stepped closer to Papa.

  “You see,” Mr. Clive said, “there was a matter that happened today that involved the Hallison boy, yours, and mine.”

  “What matter?” Papa asked, then looked down at me. “I haven’t heard about a matter involving the boys.”

  “It would seem your son and that Hallison kid were mocking my son at school today,” Mr. Clive replied. “The other kids saw them laughing at Fredrick.”

  “What is he talking about, Sam?”

  I shook my head, my fists bunching at my sides. “We didn’t mock him. Fredrick came over to us when we were having lunch. We were minding our own business. He was trying to bait us into an argument. Noah and I chose to laugh at the situation instead.” I narrowed my eyes at Mr. Clive. “The only mockery here is this pathetic attempt to make Fredrick out to be a victim.”

  Mr. Clive stepped forward, his stubby finger in Papa’s face. “That Hallison boy attacked my son after school today!”

  “That is a lie!”

  I felt Papa’s firm hand on my shoulder. “Sam.”

  “Noah wouldn’t attack Fredrick. He’s lying.”

  Mr. Clive’s eyes slid to mine. “There are witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?”

  “The Thompson brothers and Billy Sanders. They saw the whole thing. That Noah kid attacked my Fredrick after school.”

  “Oh, the same fellas who surrounded Lucy and me at the dance. Fine gentlemen they are.”

  “What other witnesses does your son have, Mr. Clive?” Papa asked.

  “Other witnesses? Why, none that have come forward. What does that matter, Reverend?”

  “Being that you live on the busiest street this side of the Pequannock River, there would have been plenty of people to see this—attack on your unsuspecting Fredrick.”

  Mr. Clive opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened, then closed it again.

  “Were there no other witnesses, Mr. Clive?” Papa asked.

  “No.”

  “I knew it!” I said. “It’s a lie. He’s lying.”

  “Not another word, Sam,” my father admonished.

  “Disrespecting his elders! Your son called me a liar for the second time! You need to take a firm hand to the boy, and keep him away from that heath—”

  “Do not finish that sentence,” Papa hissed, leaning into Mr. Clive’s space. “And do not lecture me on the ways a boy should be raised. It is clear you do not possess the knowledge, wisdom, nor the heart of such a task.”

  Mr. Clive’s face turned the color of raw meat. “How dare you!”

  “I dare because you dare. You come to my house—daring to dictate to me who my son should and should not be friends with. With a story I find wholly unbelievable. I saw Noah just as he was leaving school today. He was not headed off to attack your son, but to chop wood for me, Mr. Clive. I suspect someone is telling tales. And I’ll not stand for an innocent boy to be besmirched by them.”

  “You’re calling me a liar as well, then?”

  “Your son has a history of harassing others, calling names, provoking them into fights. Are we pretending he doesn’t?”

  “Now you listen here—”

  “I have listened to you, and so far, you have done nothing but lie to my face. What game do you play, Mr. Clive? What do you hope to accomplish from this untruth? Is it to make it loo
k like . . . ?” Papa paused, inclining his head to study the red-faced man in front of him. “I do believe that’s it. Tell me something. Was the visit Fredrick paid to Sam and Noah today part of a scheme—a scheme hatched by you and played out by your son? Only it failed, didn’t it, Mr. Clive? You were both hoping for a fight, and when they didn’t give Fredrick what he wanted, he went after them instead. Only . . .” Papa’s green eyes flashed with fury. “Noah was alone. What happened to him, Mr. Clive? What did your son do to him?”

  “Noah is perfectly fine,” he spat. “But he’ll not be coming back to school for the rest of the week. I’ve already spoken to Mr. Goulrich.” He pulled at his coat’s sleeve and sniffed with his nose in the air. “People in town have already heard of the scene that happened today. I saw to it myself.”

  “And had Samuel been with Noah today, all the better, right, Mr. Clive?”

  “Perhaps it worked out for the best, no? I’m here to suggest you keep Samuel away from the Hallison boy, lest your son get a, shall we say, bad reputation?”

  “Like your son’s?” Papa folded his arms across his chest. “Do not threaten me or my family. I will not stand for it.”

  The blighter had the nerve to smile. “I own half the buildings in this town, Reverend Burke. Half the businesses in this town pay their leases to me. I also own the lumber yard. And do you know what that means?” He didn’t wait for Papa to answer. He went on talking as though he liked the sound of his own voice. “It means half the people in this town depend on me for their livelihoods. When you own someone’s livelihood, you own them, Reverend.” Somehow, Mr. Clive made smiling look like something one should avoid doing in public. It was a sinister thing, that smile of his—like the slippery tail of a snake.

  “Well, you don’t own me, Mr. Clive.” Papa jabbed a finger at him. “And it appears you don’t own the Hallisons either. I suspect that’s it, isn’t it? You don’t own the Hallison family and you want to see them punished.”

  “Sam,” Mama said, stepping out onto the porch. “I want you to go over to the Hallisons’ and see about Noah right this minute. Give me your things.”

  I handed my things over to my mother and ran. As soon as I rounded the corner of our house, I stopped and listened.

  “What is it, Mr. Clive? Mr. Hallison refused to let one of your properties? You have gone after that family with a viciousness that, until now, I had not seen as personal, just mean-spirited. Why the animosity? The hostility? What has that family ever done? Why, it seems . . .” Papa stopped midsentence. “That’s it, isn’t it? Someone in that family did something to you.”

  “You know nothing of what you’re talking about!” Mr. Clive snapped.

  “Oh, I think I do.” Papa’s voice dropped significantly lower. “Who was it? Was I right before? Did Jasper Hallison refuse to let one of your properties?”

  “I wouldn’t allow that swine near one of my properties!”

  “I see,” Papa said, voice dropping lower. “So, what did Emmaline Hallison do? Marry the wrong man?”

  “YOU’RE DAMN RIGHT SHE DID!”

  I sucked in a breath and plastered my body against the side of our house.

  “And now you must make Emmaline and Jasper pay? Make their children’s lives as unhappy as you can make them? Use your own son to see to your goals? What of your wife, Mr. Clive?”

  “She’s long since passed on, Reverend. She is of no consequence.”

  “No. I don’t suppose she ever was.”

  Mr. Clive had wanted to marry Noah and Lucy’s mother? And she had refused him? All these years he’d been making the Hallisons’ lives miserable because he’d been harboring a grudge, turning his own son against them and many of the townspeople, it would seem. Because he’d wanted revenge? The man had no soul. I wanted to vomit right where I stood.

  I’d heard enough. I peeled myself away from the side of our house and took off running. I didn’t stop until I hit the Hallisons’ front porch. I rapped three quick times on their door and waited, breathing heavily.

  Mr. Hallison answered. “Sam, what brings you here this hour?”

  “Mr. Clive is at our house. Where’s Noah?” I stepped through the door, not waiting for an invitation. “Is he in his room?”

  “I’m right here,” Noah said, coming from the kitchen, pressing a wet cloth to his eye.

  “How bad is it?” I asked, anger zinging through my veins, replacing the nauseous feeling I’d felt moments before.

  “I’ll survive.”

  I marched toward him. “Let me see.”

  He pulled the cloth away from his face. His upper eyelid was swollen and was already a hideous shade of purple. I hissed between my teeth. “Noah.”

  “I’m afraid I was on the little end of the horn.” The sound of a dish smashing against the wall in the kitchen caused us both to startle. “Mama is a little—mad that her baby boy was hurt.”

  “You were outnumbered,” I said, sympathizing with his mother, wanting to smash a few things myself. Noah nodded once. “I hope you gave Fredrick a facer, at least.”

  “Fredrick’s friends didn’t really interfere. He brought them to intimidate me, I think.”

  “You gave him a facer, then?”

  Noah grinned. “I fixed his flint in short order. No worries, brother.”

  I beamed, proud of my best friend, my brother, and turned toward Mr. Hallison, who still stood in their foyer. Hitching my thumb over my shoulder at his son, I said, “You’re proud of him, right?”

  Mr. Hallison stepped forward, his eyes landing on Noah’s swollen one. “I’m proud of him, yes, but also angry. They’re trying to make Noah out to be the ruffian in this ruse. The fact that Fredrick will be sporting a facer around town won’t help Noah.”

  “If it helps at all, Papa doesn’t believe a word of it. He called Mr. Clive out on his lies straight away.”

  “It helps, Samuel,” Mr. Hallison said, sighing. “The word of Reverend Burke will surely benefit Noah. Surely.”

  “What does it matter what the people of this town think?” Noah asked.

  Mr. Hallison walked over to a wooden bench, sat down, and proceeded to put his head in his hands. “It doesn’t,” he said. “But one day it might matter—when you meet a girl whom you wish to court. You’ll not want to carry this stain on your person like a coat, Noah. Because it’s not your stain. This is not your coat to wear. And if you choose to accept it now, this coat is all that future girl will see.”

  “Then perhaps, Papa, she will be the wrong girl for me. For the girl I would wish to court would look beyond the stains of my garments and see the man underneath them.”

  Mr. Hallison’s head lifted slowly from his hands. He stared at his son as if he hadn’t met him before. A little bit of wonder, a little bit of awe. “Indeed, you are correct. I hope you find that girl someday. If you do, you should marry her.”

  “Is that the kind of girl you married, Mr. Hallison?” When Mr. Hallison swung his gaze my way, I felt heat run up the back of my neck. “You don’t have to answer that, of course,” I said. “Forgive my intrusion.”

  I knew what had prompted me to ask that question, and as soon as I did, I wanted to take it back. It was none of my business why Mr. and Mrs. Hallison had married. However, one didn’t need to ponder too hard or too long as to why she had not wanted to marry Mr. Clive.

  “She was exactly that kind of girl, Samuel.” A small smile played at the corner of Mr. Hallison’s lips. “Still is,” he said quietly. His eyes took on a faraway quality to them for a moment, then he blinked and rose to his feet. “You should be getting home, Sam. You still have school tomorrow, even if Noah does not.”

  “I’ll be a man of leisure for a few days,” Noah joked.

  “Far from it,” Mr. Hallison said. “You’ll be coming to work with James and me.”

  “I was a man of leisure for all of two seconds.”

  “Did you enjoy your time?” I asked.

  “It was great fun. Next time, I’ll
have to try it without a blinker.”

  I laughed. He laughed. Then we sort of fell into a weird sort of silence.

  “Don’t say it, Sam.”

  “Say what?”

  “That you should have been there. I’m glad you weren’t.”

  “Why?”

  “That Fredrick—he’s an evil sort. He doesn’t like me. He never has. But I think he hates you.”

  “He’s sore about that night at the dance.”

  “I’m sure he is. You bested him in front of everyone. And then your father added insult to injury the following day. He hasn’t gotten over it and he won’t get over it. If you had been there—”

  “I wasn’t there,” I said guiltily.

  “I’m trying to tell you that it would have ended badly if you had been. I feel it in my gut. So, stop with the guilt. And don’t let your guard down,” Noah said, walking me to the door.

  “All right, all right,” I said, stepping onto their porch. “Go put another cold cloth on that eye. It looks awful.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I’ll do that. It’s starting to throb a bit.”

  When I returned home, I’d barely entered through the door when Mama called out, “How is he, how’s Noah?” She appeared very soon after, flushed of face and wiping her hands on her apron.

  Closing the door softly behind me, I said, “He’s fine. Just a black eye.”

  “Just a black eye?” she said. “He shouldn’t be hurt at all. His mother must be beside herself.”

  “Actually, I didn’t see her, but I’m sure you’re right.” I thought about the dish she’d smashed against the wall. Beside herself indeed.

  “Tomorrow,” Mama pointed a long, slim finger at me, “you are to ride to school with your father.”

  “It’ll look like I’m afraid if I do that,” I protested. Papa stepped into view then, pressing his tall, lean form against the doorway. “Tell her, Papa.”

  “I don’t care how it looks, Samuel,” she said, ignoring my protestation. “Fredrick Clive will trap you like he trapped Noah and I’ll not stand for it. No, I will have you safe and with your father while you travel to and from school. However, there is nothing I can do about that . . . that . . .”—she clenched her jaw—“him while you are at school, so I’ll have to trust your good sense and reason.”