Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  I blinked at Noah. I didn’t have enough air for any more words.

  I closed my eyes and found Lucy waiting for me. She was dressed in white. I was dressed in black. I tipped my hat and bowed. She curtsied. We met in the middle. We danced to Noah’s tune for as long as I was able to hold on to the dream.

  And then I dreamt no more.

  Sam

  “Do you know where you are, Sam?”

  Fire. I’m on fire. Help me.

  “Guard that door! Do not let his family in this room!”

  Help me. The fire is burning.

  “Sam, if you can hear me, I have to set your bones. They’re broken. This is going to hurt. It’s going to hurt like the devil. But I must do it. I must. You are going to thrash and move, and I cannot let you do that. These people are going to hold you down. Edward, Stuart, John—do not let him move. Ben, I will need you to help me with his right leg first . . .”

  FIRE! Fire swept through my body, melting . . . everything melting in its wake, turning everything to ashes. I can’t . . . I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  I can’t breathe.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry. But we’re not finished. Ben, help me with the other leg. Gentlemen, hold him steady.”

  Unholy flames licked me, devoured me. I moved closer to God. I pounded on Heaven’s door. Stop this fire, God! Please! Stop this fire!

  “No, Reverend! You cannot come in here! Let me do my job! Please! Phillip, push that dresser in front of the door. I cannot have them in here!”

  Stop this fire. Stop this fire. Stop this fire.

  “We need to set his arm. Give Sam more laudanum. And hand me the whiskey from my bag. My God, I don’t know how much more of this I can take either.”

  “Doc, are you all right?”

  There was a beat of silence and then . . . “Let’s give the laudanum a few minutes to work. Then we finish putting Sam back together. After that, we go home and pray. Pray, gentlemen. He’s going to need them.”

  I wasn’t cognizant of my surroundings, drifting in and out of consciousness. Occasionally my eyes would open, and I would see shadows and hear whispers.

  “Did you see who did this, Noah?”

  “No. They were cloaked and hooded. I never saw their face.”

  “I can’t leave him.”

  “You have to rest.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “His injuries are severe . . . life-threatening . . . risk of infection . . .”

  “I’m going to Hartford to get Lucy.”

  Lucy. Her name rattled in my head. I tried to grab hold of it—grab on to her. But she would slip just beyond my reach and I would drift back to unconsciousness.

  “Will he be all right, Jonah? Will our baby be all right?”

  I awoke at the sound of my mother’s voice. She was crying again. I wanted to comfort her, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t even open my eyes. Instead, I strained to hear what my father would say. I needed to know his answer too. I didn’t feel all right. I felt half-dead.

  “He will be,” Papa said quietly. Almost too quiet. “He has to be.” I felt my father’s hand slip into mine, and I felt my mother’s lips on my forehead.

  “Sam.”

  “Mama,” I croaked.

  “Sam, you’re burning up.” Mama’s palm replaced her lips. “Jonah, get the doctor. Sam’s burning up!”

  “Mama,” I croaked again.

  “Shh,” she said. “We’re getting the doctor, baby. You’re going to be all right.” Her voice cracked. “Hold on, Sam. Hold on.”

  I tried to dream of Lucy. But all I saw was fire and all I felt were flames.

  Hartford, Connecticut

  1824

  Lucy

  I was sitting in class when someone tapped my shoulder. I glanced behind me, expecting it to be a student. Certainly not Mr. Gallaudet, yet, there he was, gesturing for me to follow him. Obeying, I gathered my things and left the classroom as discreetly as possible.

  He stopped just outside the door. “Your brother, Noah, wants to see you.”

  My eyes widened. Excitement coursed through my body. “He’s here?”

  “My office. I’ll take you there.”

  Mr. Gallaudet walked stiffly beside me. His affable nature was absent, and my heart raced against my breast. I shifted my books to my left arm and asked, “Something wrong?”

  He faltered in his steps. I gripped his arm. He stopped walking and turned squarely to look at me. His lips thinned; his eyes softened. “I’m afraid there’s bad news from home. I’m sorry, Lucy.”

  My eyes started to burn. My nose began to tingle. My heart took a giant leap into my throat.

  Mr. Gallaudet offered me his arm. For a moment, all I could do was stare at it. Then I collected myself as best as I could, re-shifted my books, and placed my hand on the crook of his arm. Together we walked to his office like two stoic soldiers.

  When we entered, Noah was sitting on a chair, alone, holding his hat between his knees, hunched over. I wanted to fly into his arms, and on any other day, I would have. I imagined him standing almost too late, and nearly losing his balance. I wouldn’t care because I would be so happy to see him. He would hug me fiercely. So fiercely, in fact, that I would struggle to breathe. And I would laugh. And I would pull away and slap playfully at his chest and I would ask, “Miss me?”

  But I didn’t fly into his arms. I couldn’t get my feet to move beyond the door. I did, however, manage to ask the question, only this time with tears in my eyes.

  “I always miss you,” he signed. His eyes dropped to his hat again. He brushed his fingers across it. His mouth turned down into a frown. I wasn’t sure when he had stood, but he was standing now. He set his hat down on the chair and met my eyes. I saw the emotion swimming there. It knocked the breath out of me. “I have something to tell you, Lucy.”

  “Who?” was all I asked.

  The muscles in Noah’s jaw tensed, his throat bobbed up and down. “Sam.”

  Sam? My brow furrowed. I wasn’t expecting the news to be about Sam. I had been bracing myself to receive bad news about Papa or perhaps Mama. But not Sam. Inside, I was screaming, WHAT HAPPENED TO MY SAM?!

  “He was,”—Noah searched for the words to sign—“someone beat him.”

  I blinked in confusion. “What?”

  Noah’s eyes watered. “I found him. I found him on the ground. He was—”

  I held up my palm, stopping him. I needed to catch my breath. I paced the small space a minute and then asked, “Sam . . . alive?”

  Noah’s eyes shifted from me to the closed door, looking like he could see beyond it, or perhaps wishing that he could. When he did not answer, my heart collapsed, plummeted, crashed, then splattered all over the floor. I walked angrily toward him, demanding a response. “Answer me!”

  “Yes. He’s alive.” He gathered me in his arms. I pushed away from him. I needed to get to him. I needed to get to Sam. But Noah, he held on to me tighter. I tried to shove away from him again. Noah refused to let me go. My resolve began to slip, and tears began to slip with it. A sob escaped next. Then another, and another. Noah held me through it.

  We held each other.

  Then the arms of Mr. Gallaudet were there to hold us both.

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  1824

  Lucy

  Walking inside the Burke home had always brought a smile to my face, a gladness to my heart, a rumble in my stomach, and comfort to my soul. Such comfort. Because walking in their front door had always meant family and home. It meant smelling Mama Burke’s food cooking in the kitchen. And Papa Burke reading at the table with his spectacles tilted just to the left as he shared moments with the people around him. It meant Sam smiling at me as I entered their home and making me feel like the most special person in the world.

  It meant peace.

  However, entering through their front door now, I did not smile. My heart did not beat with gladness. My stomac
h did not rumble with hunger. I did not feel comforted. And I did not feel peace.

  I felt scared.

  We moved further into the house, Noah and me, and I took stock of the rooms this family had always gathered in. Their kitchen was the heartbeat of their home. However, as I looked inside the hearth, a fire had not been lit for days. Cold ash filled the bottom. Warmth had absconded this home like a thief running off with treasure, and a chill scuttled down my spine.

  The parlor was equally void of life. A husk of its former self. Dust coating the furniture, another fireless hearth, ornaments that sat, forgotten; a clock that kept time to a room with no audience.

  We ambled our way toward the staircase leading to the second floor. Noah held my hand and urged me forward. I hesitated, staring at the top railing, imagining all the times Sam had come running down those stairs. I wanted so much for this to be one of those times.

  Noah gave my hand a tug once more. This time, my feet unstuck themselves and I followed behind him, one step at a time, one hand on the railing, the other tucked firmly in my brother’s grip.

  When we reached Sam’s door, Noah knocked twice. I held my breath and said a quick prayer. Please help me help Sam. Help me help this family, for they have always helped me.

  Papa Burke was the one to open the door. He was a shell of his former self. Like this house, gladness, comfort, and peace had been robbed from him. Red-rimmed eyes, pallid skin, disheveled hair, and rumpled clothes were what greeted us. His spectacles were halfway out of his waistcoat pocket. It broke my heart to see him like this. I let go of Noah’s hand and hugged the man who had become my second father. His arms came around me in a tight embrace.

  And then he cried.

  I know because he trembled in my arms. I held him tighter. I fought the urge not to cry too, but this was my papa Burke, and he was hurting. I was hurting. We cried in each other’s arms.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he signed when he pulled away and wiped his eyes.

  “Me too.” I wiped my own eyes and noticed the makeshift bed beside Sam’s. Mama Burke was sleeping on it. It was just a straw mattress on the floor with a pillow and a blanket. It broke me to see how they were living—on the floor in Sam’s bedroom. Afraid to leave him—living in fear. Living with their hearts beating outside their chests.

  “How is he?” Noah asked in sign, not leaving me out of the conversation.

  “He has fever. Doctor said there’s nothing we can do. Give him liquids. Laudanum for pain. Try to keep him comfortable. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” Noah signed, frustrated. “How can that be it?”

  Papa Burke didn’t answer. His eyes fell to his son, lying on the bed, shirtless, but not bare. Sam’s entire chest was wrapped in thick bandages. As well as his head. Both legs and his left arm were splinted and also wrapped. An angry wound with jagged stitching marked him from his left upper cheek to the corner of his lip. His right arm was, thankfully, uninjured, save for a few cuts, scrapes, and ugly bruises.

  I moved toward Sam on shaky legs and sat on the chair wedged between his bed and the one on the floor, careful not to wake Mama Burke. I took Sam’s uninjured hand, cupped it between both of mine before kissing each finger and then kissing the inside of his palm. Tears fell. It couldn’t be helped.

  Oh! My Sam, my Sam, my Sam. I love you. I love you, my Sam. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

  Sam squeezed my hand.

  I lifted my eyes. His were closed. He didn’t appear to be conscious. But I kissed each finger again and the inside of his palm. I’m here.

  Noah put his hand on my shoulder. I couldn’t look at him. I could feel the trembling in his fingers, and I knew. Noah was crying.

  He’d told me in the coach ride home how he’d found Sam—how the person had run away when he’d called out—how he had sent the little boy they had befriended to get help while he ran to Sam, unsure what he would find. He told me how Sam had fought to breathe. He told me how he and Sam’s parents and ours had stood outside the door while the doctor reset his broken bones. How Papa Burke nearly broke the door down every time Sam cried out in pain. He told me how Mama Burke had sat on the floor in the hallway, knees curled up to her chest after the doctor had left, staring at the closed door to Sam’s room, her eyes blank, no expression on her face. He said everything about her had looked as though someone had taken her soul and had left her body there on the floor.

  I shook my head and kissed Sam’s hand again. I’m here. I’m here. But I felt guilty in saying so. I felt guilty because I was glad I wasn’t here when it had first happened. My heart wouldn’t have endured the torture of seeing Sam that way. I know it wouldn’t have. I could barely endure seeing him all bandaged up. Because I knew, I knew he was hurting. His face was pinched in pain, he was hot to the touch, and he had miles to go before he got better.

  Oh, my Sam. My beautiful Sam.

  Noah squeezed my shoulder and then gently pulled me up to stand. He hugged me. My mind was racing. Who did this? Who did this to my Sam? And why? Why? WHY?

  Noah was convinced it was Fredrick. “It has to be,” he’d said to me in the coach. “Who else would hurt him? He hates Sam.”

  I’d nodded, staring absently at the passing landscape, my fists balled tightly in my lap. Whoever it was, I wanted them to pay. I wanted justice. I wanted it so badly, I could taste it on my tongue. I could feel it vibrate underneath my skin.

  I pulled away from Noah, wiping my eyes. I didn’t understand any of this.

  “Let’s go,” he signed. “They need to rest.” He pointed to Papa Burke, who looked like he hadn’t rested in so long. Then he pointed to Mama Burke, who had yet to stir on her mattress on the floor. She must have been dead on her feet when she’d finally succumbed to sleep.

  I gave Papa Burke another hug before leaving and watched him from the doorway as he slumped into the chair I’d vacated.

  Noah led me down the stairs, and when we reached the bottom step, I knew I couldn’t leave them.

  “I can’t leave,” I signed.

  His brows knitted together and his head tilted to the side. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell Mama and Papa I will see them tomorrow. Tonight, I stay here.”

  “Where will you sleep?”

  I pointed to the box sofa and said again, “I can’t leave. They need me.” I nodded resolutely. Determined, I folded my arms across my chest. This family of three had been everything to me growing up. I wasn’t going to leave.

  Noah stared at me a moment, then seeing my determination, a whisper of a smile ghosted across his lips. “All right. I’ll help you get a fire started.”

  We stood at the bottom of the stairs with me blinking back tears, then swallowed thickly before Noah and I made our way to the kitchen to begin the process of scooping out cold ashes and placing them in an ash bucket. After that, we set fresh logs inside the grate and lit a fire. Not a large one, just one big enough to bring a little warmth inside this home again.

  Noah dusted off his hands when we were through. “You’re certain—”

  “Of course,” I said, not allowing him to finish. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

  He kissed my forehead. “All right. I’ll tell Mama and Papa you’re here. They will understand.”

  I missed my parents and wanted to see them, but I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t. “Tell them I love them.”

  “I will.” Another kiss to my forehead and a promise he would be back in the morning and Noah slipped out the door.

  Once Noah left, I stared at the fire we’d made. It would die down by morning. That was fine. Because I would be here to build it back up again. And I would keep building it up—the fire and this family—and every morning thereafter.

  Until I was no longer needed.

  I filled mugs with tea, and plates with freshly scrambled eggs and crisp bacon. I was buttering toast when Mama Burke stepped into the kitchen, wearing a fresh
dress she was smoothing down with hands that seemed unsure. Her hair wasn’t styled in her usual manner, parted down the center and pulled smoothly back into a pretty chignon. Rather, her hair hung loosely around her shoulders in a bit of a tangled mess.

  She’d paused at the door leading into the kitchen, looked at the table I’d set, then looked at me. Her chin trembled.

  “Mama Burke,” I signed, then moved swiftly across the room. She hugged me so hard, it nearly hurt. Nearly. But it also felt good to have someone hold me with everything they had.

  When she pulled away, I saw up close the pain she carried, the worry, the fear, the anger. All of it. Every broken piece.

  “You’re here,” she said. “I’m glad.”

  I led her to the table, and she sat, staring at everything.

  “Eat,” I said.

  She smiled, though it was slight. She bit into a piece of toast, chewing slowly at first, then took another bite. I left her to it by not staring at her and concentrated on my own food.

  We were a few bites in when Mama Burke’s hand found mine. She patted it twice. “Thank you.”

  “I wanted to do it,” I said. “And you need someone to care for you.” I looked up toward the second floor. “Papa Burke too.”

  Mama Burke turned her head toward the front door, mouthed something. Soon after, Noah and my parents entered the kitchen. I stood and gave my parents a hug. I’d missed them terribly.

  “How did you sleep?” Mama asked.

  “Fine,” I lied. I’d barely slept at all.

  Mama looked around the kitchen—at the fire I had started the night before and rekindled when I’d gotten up, the food I’d prepared, the tea I had made. She cupped my cheek with her palm. I leaned into it. She dropped her hand and said, “You did well.”

  I turned Mama away from everyone else and asked her a question that had been burning inside my heart since I’d walked through the door. “Why haven’t you been here?”

  She glanced over her shoulder, then took my arm and led me into the parlor. “I try. Papa too. They won’t eat! We are here every day! I try to help. She won’t let me.”