Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  Lucy took my mother’s hands, kissed each one, then released them to sign, “Mama Burke.”

  Mama’s eyes widened, brightened, shined, shimmered. There was the faintest tremor in her chin before my mother hugged Lucy with everything she had.

  After Mama released her, Mr. Clerc again signed, “Happy to meet you,” with a pleasant smile.

  Lucy moved on to my father next. He smiled at Lucy. She smiled at him. Then she turned to Mr. Clerc and said, “My papa Burke.”

  I closed my eyes at that moment. I just . . . I needed to catch my breath. Lucy loved my parents so well that she called them Mama Burke and Papa Burke. I never knew she did that. And by the looks of my parents, they never knew it either. My father hugged Lucy like she was the daughter he never had. Eventually, Papa let her go and Lucy moved on to her own father.

  Mr. Hallison’s smile wasn’t as easy as my father’s smile had been. It wasn’t as confident. Their relationship was a complicated one. But in Mr. Hallison’s smile, there was hope. Hope that his daughter would be happy to see him.

  “I love you,” Mr. Hallison signed, not giving Lucy the chance to go first. Then he lifted his head, sought Mr. Gallaudet, and asked, “How do you say ‘forgive me’ in sign?”

  Mr. Gallaudet showed him, and Mr. Hallison looked again at his daughter’s face and said, “Forgive me,” the way Mr. Gallaudet had shown him. When she didn’t move or step away, he whispered, “Please.”

  I couldn’t see Lucy’s face. All I could see was the back of her head. I did, however, see her right hand come up into a fist about shoulder height, bob forward once, twice.

  “That means yes,” Mr. Gallaudet said.

  She then wrapped her arms around her papa’s waist and rested her cheek on his chest. Mr. Hallison let out a slow breath. Mr. Clerc waited off to the side, smiling. When she lifted her head, she signed for her teacher, “My papa.” And that was all. But really, that was all that needed to be said. The love in her eyes had said everything else.

  When she turned to Noah, he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. She quickly said, “My Noah. My brother.” And they were in each other’s arms. She cried hard and fast. He shushed her, turning his face away from mine. He didn’t want me to see his tears. I understood. I turned my head and gave them their privacy. All the while, my heart beat wildly.

  Because I was next.

  When they broke apart, I swallowed the knot that had been inside my chest for the past several months and had now lodged itself inside my throat. Her honey-colored eyes were now red and puffy, and I knew at that moment I didn’t want my girl crying anymore. I stole Noah’s topper right off his head and placed it on mine. She laughed and I felt buoyed by the sound of her laughter. I bowed before her, tipping my hat, as though we were at a ball. She curtsied, smiling brightly. I felt blinded by it. “Dance with me,” I signed.

  I held my hand out for her. Before she slipped her small hand in mine, she signed to Mr. Clerc, “My Sam.”

  Then we danced, keeping my promise that when we met again, I would dance with her. She fit into my arms exactly as she did the first time, although it was awkward that our families were present, as well as her teachers. So awkward. She was red as a tomato and I couldn’t look anyone in the eye. I had to keep my eyes closed as I hummed a tune I very much loved. But she wasn’t crying, and I was holding her. I decided I would suffer Noah’s ribbing for eternity for those two things. And so it wasn’t any wonder when I finished humming the tune I loved, that I did what I had to do to keep Lucy in my arms and started the tune again.

  When I finally had the courage to look around the room at our families and her teachers, there was no one there. They had all left the room, leaving Lucy and me to our dance.

  “Oh good, the lovebirds decided to join us,” Mr. Gallaudet said with a wink when Lucy and I emerged from the classroom, holding hands. They had all been waiting outside in the hallway. “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Certainly,” our fathers said.

  He pointed behind us, to the room we had just vacated. “Let’s return to the classroom. Clerc and I can give you a quick lesson in fingerspelling. Then, Lucy can give you a tour of our fine school. Maybe later you can take a tour of our fair town as well. Yes? Does that suit everyone?”

  It suited everyone fine. And it was exactly what we did. We learned the alphabet on our fingers, Lucy choosing to sit between Noah and me, helping us along.

  Occasionally, she looked over her shoulder, to her father, as he formed the letters with his fingers. When she caught him struggling with the letter k, she got up and made her way over to him. She took his hand and extended it out flat. She massaged his wrist, rolling it from side to side, coaxing him to relax. Then she bent his wrist and fingers in the correct position to form the letter.

  Her father looked in his daughter’s eyes and nodded. She patted his hands and started to walk away when he reached for her. She stopped and looked at him.

  “Thank you,” he signed.

  She blinked at him, and for a few seconds, she just stared. And she then signed, “You’re welcome, Papa.”

  We met Alice Cogswell a short time later. Alice was fifteen. Lucy was thirteen, but the two got on famously together, seemingly to be the best of friends. They had both given us a tour of the school, showing us the library, the many different classrooms, the chapel, the apartments abovestairs, and the gardens out back, where we gathered to eat a late meal prepared by the staff of the school. At one point, Noah and I stood shoulder to shoulder and watched the two girls talk to each other, laughing and carrying on.

  I had already given Noah back his topper. It sat on his head, askance, when he said, “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?” He was staring at Alice when he said it.

  She was impersonating Mr. Gallaudet now, putting on a show for our family—for us. No one needed to know sign language to understand Alice. She had a way about her that drew you in, and you couldn’t help getting sucked in by her. Noah and I both laughed at her ability to be comical without being insulting or mocking.

  But when I failed to answer his question, he said, “You think she’s pretty, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I think she’s pretty.”

  He went back to watching Alice. She was impersonating Mr. Clerc now. Everyone laughed. Then she turned to Lucy and convinced her to impersonate someone. She chose Noah, taking the hat off his head and then plucking a leaf off a nearby bush and wrapping it around her finger. She then proceeded to take food off everyone’s plate and eat it, causing everyone to nod, point at Noah, and laugh.

  Noah smiled unapologetically.

  I smiled too. Because Lucy had come alive at this school. So much so, I thought my heart would burst. She laughed and communicated in ways she never had before. She glowed from the inside out. She had made friends. And I was glad about that. Because Lucy deserved friends. She deserved to have people who cared for her and who she could care for in return.

  The next day, we took a tour of Hartford, a beautiful town, bustling with activity, but there simply wasn’t enough time to see it all. We had to leave by noon if we wanted to be back by suppertime. We had gotten up early, ate breakfast, and casually walked the streets as we window-shopped and breathed in the cool morning fresh air. Lucy and I held hands as we toured the different shops and took in the different sights with our families.

  As the hours fell away, my chest felt heavy, and I no longer cared about the beauty of Hartford or what was in the windows of the shops. I didn’t care about smiling at strangers on the street or talking about mundane things to fill a gap in conversation. I cared about holding Lucy’s hand for as long as I could. And that was all.

  When noon came and we stood beside the hired coach outside Lucy’s school, I felt like I was standing on my front porch all over again eleven months ago. She hadn’t come home during the fall. Storms had prevented her from coming. My eyes had ached to see her. And here we were, having to say goodbye all ove
r again. I didn’t know if I could do it a second time.

  “Sam,” my father said. “We have to go, Son. We’ll let you say goodbye, but don’t take too long.” He patted my shoulder and climbed into the coach.

  Her family was already inside, having already said their goodbyes. The doors were shut, the curtains were drawn, leaving us a modicum of privacy. However, we were outside in the light of day, so the privacy was an illusion.

  Lucy hugged herself, turning her face toward the place she now called home. A tear slid down her right cheek. She wouldn’t look at me. She worked really hard not to. I remembered how I did that when she was seconds away from leaving. It hurt to look at her. Strange that I couldn’t not look at her now. Because I knew when I looked away from her, my world would feel upside down and inside out. And I would have to start the process all over again of regaining my bearings without her.

  So I stared—for as long as I could.

  No one likes to be stared at, my younger self said.

  I’m not staring. I’m—memorizing.

  Lucy must have felt my gaze, because she turned toward me, her eyes a watery haze, and I held out my hand to her. She came to me and we held on to each other, embracing like it would be our last.

  The door to the coach opened and my father’s voice floated over our heads. “Sam, we need to leave now, Son. I’m sorry.”

  I swallowed. “All right, Papa.”

  The door clicked shut again. I pulled back, held Lucy’s face, brushed the tears that leaked from her eyes with my thumbs, and pressed my forehead against hers. Her breath feathered across my lips and I closed my eyes. I opened them when I felt her pull away. There was a distance between us now, and I longed to have her in my arms again.

  “I love you,” she signed.

  My heart was a drum. And it beat only for her. “I love you,” I signed back.

  “Dance with me when you dream.”

  “Always.”

  She smiled. I managed a smile too.

  Then she turned and walked away. I watched her back as her feet carried her away from me, and I didn’t look away until she disappeared inside the school.

  I waited for my world to tilt, for it to spin in the wrong direction. It didn’t. I climbed into the coach, closed the door, and sat beside Noah.

  “How are you?” my mother asked. “Saying goodbye is hard, I know.”

  I felt the lurch of the coach and knew we were being pulled away from the school, from Lucy. Part of me wanted to open the door, get out, and run and get her. But logically I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I stayed seated and thought how best to answer Mama’s question.

  When I took the time to think about how I was doing, I realized something . . .

  Lucy loved me! She told me she loved me. And I loved her.

  I looked down at my lap and smiled. “I’m great, Mama. Thank you for bringing me to see her. It’s been,”—I looked up and parted the curtains, letting the light in—“the best two days of my life.” Then I leaned over Noah, bracing my hand on the back of the seat between him and Papa.

  “What are you doing?” Noah asked.

  “It’s dark in here.”

  “Could you not lean over me?” Noah whined.

  I stretched my hand out and opened the curtains. Light poured in. “There,” I said.

  Papa laughed. “You could have just asked me to do that.”

  I plopped back down in my seat. “And miss the opportunity to mess with this guy?” I pointed to Noah.

  “Your butt was in my face,” Noah said.

  “Noah Winston Hallison!” his mother scolded.

  “Well, it was,” Noah mumbled under his breath.

  I grinned. “Sorry.”

  “You’re not,” he said, fighting his own grin.

  “You’re right, I’m not.” I elbowed him. “So, Alice, huh.” I waggled my eyebrows. “You like her?”

  “Stop,” he said, elbowing me back. “I said she was pretty. That’s all.”

  “No, you said she was beautiful.”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I think I figured it out.”

  “Figured out what?”

  “What I was feeling about her.”

  “You were feeling something?”

  “Yes. The second I looked at her . . . I just . . . I had this feeling come over me.”

  “What feeling?”

  “Remember when Mr. Gallaudet told us how her father lobbied for the school because he thought his daughter and others like her deserved an education?” I nodded. “I think the feeling that came over me when we met her was gratitude. Such gratitude. If it wasn’t for her and her family, Lucy wouldn’t be here and she wouldn’t have looked so happy, Sam.”

  That made sense. I nodded again and said, “Can’t argue with that.”

  I let what Noah said linger inside my head for a bit while our parents talked. Hartford was behind us and in front of us was home, though it would be several hours before we saw it.

  After a while, everyone started to doze off. Everyone except Mr. Hallison and myself. He peered out his window, watching the scenery go by. Noah had once said he wasn’t the quiet type, and maybe that was true. However, I thought he might be the thinking type. I could tell he had things on his mind, although I dared not to ask. It was none of my business, and I doubted he would be inclined to discuss his thoughts with me anyway. Besides, the swaying and the rocking was making me sleepy as well, and I was having trouble keeping my own eyes open.

  Then I heard him say in a hushed voice, “I think back to Lucy’s early years and I can’t help feeling that her life was a lot like being in this coach with the doors closed and the curtains pulled together, no light ever getting inside.”

  I sat up, aware he was talking to me and no one else, but I didn’t say anything. I just listened.

  “I didn’t help her. I didn’t know how. None of us did. We just all sat with her in the dark—together.” Mr. Hallison chuckled to himself. “Being inside this coach is a metaphor for our lives.”

  “Sir?”

  “You opened the door, sat down, made a little small talk, and gently peeled back the curtains you could reach. When that wasn’t enough, you climbed over everyone else, not waiting around for someone else to do it, and opened the rest. You don’t leave people in the dark, Sam.” His eyes moved away from his window and met mine. “You did that for us just now. And you did that for Lucy then.”

  “Mr. Hallison, I . . . don’t know what to say to that.”

  “I haven’t known what to say for a long time. Not to Lucy. Not to anyone in my family. But thanks to a young man I’ve grown to admire over the years, I’m beginning to find my words.” He settled back in his seat, situated his hat over his eyes, and for a long time, neither of us spoke again. And just when I thought he had drifted off to sleep, he said, “Thank you for letting the light in, Sam.”

  I said the only thing I could think to say. “You’re welcome, Mr. Hallison.”

  Seasons passed. Then years passed with them.

  Lucy continued to excel at the American Asylum at Hartford for the Deaf. She came home for visits every spring and fall, and I looked forward to those visits. I looked forward to them very much. But they were never long enough. And at the end of every visit, saying goodbye only got harder. Never easier.

  In between her visits, she and I continued to write letters. She kept me abreast on all she was learning, and I kept her up to date on all the goings-on back home, which wasn’t all that much. Our lives were fairly simple. Still, I got rather good at writing letters, although Lucy’s were always more eloquent than mine.

  Noah and I eventually finished school, and the two of us went on to work for his father, making and repairing saddles. I enjoyed the work. I’d been fascinated by saddle-making since hearing about it at the age of eight. And here I was, learning the craft with my best friend and what felt like my second father, teaching me.

  But by my eighteenth year, I needed something more. Some
thing I could do after work or after church. Something that was purposeful. Something that gave meaning. Something that would distract me from missing Lucy, that took away my lonely thoughts and replaced them with something else. And I’d found that something.

  His name was Adam, a six-year-old boy who had recently lost his father. Papa had presided over the funeral, and at church a few weeks later, I’d glanced across the aisle and saw Adam and his mother sitting in the pew. I’d never seen two sadder-looking people. I knew I couldn’t do anything for the mother, but maybe I could do something for the little boy. So, after service was over, I’d waited outside and then I’d crouched down, eye level to the boy, and asked him, “Do you like fishing?” When he’d nodded his head, I’d said, “I was thinking about going this afternoon. If it’s all right with your mama, would you like to come with me?” Adam had looked up at his mother, asking for permission without saying the words. “You don’t mind taking him?” she’d asked. I’d assured her I didn’t mind. It would be a distraction from missing Lucy. Of course, I’d left that part out.

  When she gave her permission, I wasn’t sure who was more excited, Adam or me. And for about a month, he and I went fishing every Sunday after church. We’d stay all afternoon. I’d even pack us a lunch and we’d eat on the bank of the river.

  And then Noah had asked to join our little party of two, and then it had become a party of three. Adam and Noah became fast friends, and Sundays became my day of reprieve.

  I loved Sundays.

  Until the day I loved became the day I almost died.

  But I was lucky. Someone had saved me.

  I was lucky.

  I was lucky.

  I was lucky.

  I kept telling myself that. I was lucky. But I’m not the same as I once was. I’m not the same at all.

  I’m not the same.

  I will never be the same.

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  1824

  What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?