Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  Finding Fredrick’s aunt wasn’t a problem. The problem came when I’d arrived at the address and found it to be a ramshackle of a house. At first, I thought I had gotten it wrong, that I was on the wrong street. Why would Mr. Clive’s sister be living in a rickety old house? And why would he have sent his son to live in it? I had more questions than answers. So, before I just walked up to her front porch, which sagged in the middle, I watched to see who came and went for a couple of days. The only person I ever saw was a middle-aged female who would leave before sunrise and come home after sunset. And with each view of her, she appeared tired, worn, and if I wasn’t mistaken, a little sad. It was the way she moved. Head bowed, shoulders flat, feet pointed straight, but there was no joy in her steps, like life had taken everything from her, yet demanded that she get up and keep going anyway.

  I’d tried convincing myself this wasn’t Mr. Clive’s sister. Surely, his family would be a source of pride for him and he would not want anyone looking down on a Clive family member. The way he elevated himself above others, I couldn’t imagine he’d want anyone finding out his own sister lived the life of a pauper. However, there was no way of truly knowing without speaking with her, so I had waited for the Sabbath to roll around—a day I figured she wouldn’t be out from sunup to sundown—and then I’d waited for her to come home from church. I’d given her time to make herself a bit of lunch and then I’d stepped onto her sagging front porch and knocked on her door.

  “What do you want?” she asked when she opened the door.

  No . . . hello. No . . . May I help you? Just a very firm, gruff . . . What do you want? It wasn’t at all how I imagined being greeted, but I removed my hat and gave her my best smile.

  “Hi,” I said. “I was hoping you could help me. I was looking for—”

  “If you say Fredrick, I swear on his black soul, I will haunt him ‘til the end of time. Get off my porch! The last time someone came looking for him, they left with scalded skin. Do you want scalded skin?”

  I blinked, blindsided by the woman I had been watching for several days. She hadn’t seemed capable of that kind of brutality. She hadn’t seemed capable of much of anything, truth be told.

  “No ma’am,” I said, feeling like I’d been duped. I rubbed the back of my neck, halfway expecting her to shout, “Fooled ya!” But she hadn’t known I’d been watching her house; therefore, she wouldn’t have known how surprised I was by her tart tongue and wild eyes.

  “Then do yourself a favor and get off my porch. And do yourself a future favor by never coming back!”

  She started to close the door. I stopped her with my palm. Surprised or not, I had to talk to this woman, and I couldn’t let her close the door in my face. “Wait. May I have just a minute? Please. Someone else came looking for Fredrick? Who was it?”

  “You should know. He sent you, didn’t he?”

  “No one sent me. Who else is looking for him?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

  “I went to school with Fredrick. Who else is looking for him?”

  “The only other person looking for him . . . besides you . . . is his father. And that no-good rat ain’t getting anything from me. And neither are you.”

  “Wait, I’m confused. Why would his father be looking for him? Doesn’t he know where Fredrick is?”

  “Not anymore. Now, begone.”

  When she went to close the door on me again, I stopped it with the toe of my boot. “Please, I need to speak with you.”

  “You’re pissing me off,” she hissed.

  “Listen to me, please. I need to find him. My best friend in the whole world was nearly killed. I think . . . we think . . . Fredrick may have been involved. That’s why I’m looking for him. His father didn’t send me.”

  “So, you want to . . . what? Find him and what? Get even?”

  “No. But I do want justice. If Fredrick committed a crime, he deserves punishment, in a court of law, do you not agree?”

  She opened the door wider, squinted her eyes at me like I was a bug she wanted to squash. “Why do you think it was Fredrick?”

  Again, I’d gone for honesty, not knowing any other way to answer her or soften what I had to say. “Fredrick wasn’t known for his kindness, ma’am. He was a cruel kid back in school and he made no secret about hating my friend. In fact, Sam’s only enemy was Fredrick. When Sam was attacked, I can’t imagine anyone else vicious enough to inflict that kind of . . .” I clamped my mouth shut because talking about Sam and what happened to him always brought out the worst in me, and I could feel my pulse quickening. It made me want to pummel something, and I knew I needed to stay calm. I turned my head, not wanting her to see all the emotions that simmered behind my eyes.

  “Sam,” she said. “So, you must be . . . Noah?”

  I blinked in surprise. “How did you—”

  “Get in here,” she grumbled. “Shut the door behind you. I need to clear up a few things.”

  I scrubbed my hands over my face and got up to stare out the window. People milled about down below, everyone going here, there, or yonder. As I watched them, I pondered thoughts of a woman alone in the world, in a house ready to fall in on her, while she worried about one person.

  Her nephew.

  “Sit,” she ordered. “I’ll make some tea.”

  “You don’t need to go through the trouble, ma’am. If you could just—”

  “I said sit. I’ll answer your questions. But I need some tea first, so you’ll just have to wait a minute.”

  I put my hands up in surrender and sat as ordered. When she came back from the kitchen, she handed me a tiny little teacup that had chips all around the rim, but I graciously accepted her offering and took a sip. And nearly spat it back out.

  “I didn’t say it would be good tea. I’m rot at making it. I still try. One day, I expect I’ll make a perfect cup. Sorry you weren’t the recipient. Now, let’s clear up some things, shall we?”

  I fought the smile I wanted to set free because this woman was bold. And if I didn’t believe she would scald my skin like she’d promised she would, I might like her. Instead, I set the God-awful cup of tea on the table in front of me and said, “First, do you know where I can find him?”

  “Fredrick? No. He pulled foot when his father came looking for him and I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Why would he do that? He and his father . . . back in Bridgeport they seemed to have a decent relationship. They were just alike, as far as I could tell.”

  “You’re not wrong,” she said. She took a sip of tea, then said, “But after Fredrick came to stay with me, things changed between them.”

  “In what way?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Fredrick was fifteen when he came here. His father had already done a lot of damage to him. By that, I mean, the way he treated people. His father had taught Fredrick all the ways to be cruel, that power and money were all that mattered.” She waved her hand. “You knew him. You know how he was. He was an angry kid, and he absolutely did not want to be living in this hovel with me. It wasn’t an easy transition.”

  I nodded, imagining her trying to handle a kid like Fredrick. Maybe that was why she’d developed this attitude. I couldn’t blame her. A person could only handle someone’s hostility for so long before you dug in and found your grit.

  “After Fredrick got away from his father, I started to get through to him. Little by little. I made him work, taught him what an honest day’s pay meant to someone and why that person would want to hold on to it. Not give it to someone like his father, a man in a suit who showed up demanding more rent yet refused to fix what’s broken. That sort of thing. Fredrick worked down on the docks, unloading cargo when the ships came in. He did that until his father came and took him to apply for college. By then, Fredrick didn’t want to leave, though he never admitted that to anyone. I could tell.”

  “How? What made you think so?”

  “Fredrick had made friends on the docks. He didn
’t have his father constantly berating him about . . .” She trailed off like she wasn’t sure what or how much to say.

  “Berating him about what?” I prompted.

  She pursed her lips and her eyes drifted down to her chipped teacup. “My brother is a brute of a man. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this?” Her eyes lifted to meet mine. I shook my head. “When we were children, our father was also a brute. Cruel, cared little for others. Taught Theodore, my brother, everything he is today.” She stared at the wall a moment as though she was latching on to a memory. “Theodore used to tell me he wouldn’t be like our father. He would be different, kinder. I believed him. And when we were children, my brother was kind. It wasn’t until he suffered his first broken heart that he became the man he is today. Bitter, unbending, hateful . . .” She looked at me when she said, “Vengeful. It’s as though if he can’t be happy, no one can. So he married the first girl who came along that said yes to his proposal, and they had a son. Fredrick. My brother was determined to rear that child to our father’s way of thinking. Theodore had said to me once that if he had just believed what our father had said about women, he wouldn’t have endured the suffering. He believed he was doing Fredrick a favor by teaching him people weren’t worth your tears, and if you inflicted pain on them first, they couldn’t inflict pain on you. So, yes, Fredrick was as cruel as you say. His father had made him so. And each time he did something awful, it was his father’s voice in his head telling him to do it. It was all he’d ever known. His mother died when he was too young to remember her. When you’re raised by a wolf, you’ll behave like one.” She raised her hand. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not excusing Fredrick’s cruelty. I’m simply explaining its origins. But you’re not here for that. You’re here because you believe Fredrick attacked your friend, Sam.”

  “Yes. But how did you know my name, and Sam’s?”

  “Was Sam’s father not the reason he was sent to live with me?”

  “You knew about that?”

  “Theodore didn’t reveal too much, although Fredrick eventually told me after he’d been here a while. Your name came up on occasion as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Fredrick couldn’t mention Sam without mentioning you. Jealousy, I think.” She took another sip of tea. “Bah, it’s even worse when it’s gone cold. How about some soup? Would you like that?”

  “I’m fine, Miss Clive.”

  “It’s already warm. It’s no trouble. It’s better than the tea, I assure you.”

  “All right. Soup would be fine.”

  She was up before I’d even finished my sentence. From the kitchen, she called, “I bet you haven’t eaten a homecooked meal since God knows when.”

  “Longer,” I said.

  “Well now . . .” She emerged from the kitchen, handing me a warm bowl of something dark and chunky. “Eat up. There’s a little meat in there. Not much, but a little. Mostly potatoes, carrots, and onions.”

  “All things I like. Thank you.” Taking a bite, I had to admit her cooking was better than her tea-making. “It’s good. Aren’t you having any?”

  “I’ve already eaten. I started more tea. I’m still trying for that perfect cup. But I brought water for you. Here. I won’t make you suffer twice.”

  I laughed, accepting the offer. “My thanks.”

  She disappeared back into the kitchen and a few minutes later she returned, carrying a fresh cup of tea. I watched her take a sip. “Not yet, but I’m still determined. Now, where was I?”

  “Fredrick was jealous of my friendship with Sam? Did he say that?”

  “No, he didn’t say that. But I’m about to get to the part you came here for, so eat your soup and let me talk.”

  I nodded for her to continue.

  “After Fredrick didn’t get into college, he chose to come back to live with me.” She raised her brows. “Imagine that. He chose to live in this hellhole than to go back to live well with his father. I’m bettin’ the only reason Theodore allowed it was because he’d have to explain Fredrick not getting into college to everyone back home, and, well, he had no designs to do that.” She took another sip of her tea, then set it in her lap. “I’m half convinced Fredrick failed that entrance exam on purpose. Not getting into that college would get him out from underneath his father’s thumb and back up here where he’d found friends.”

  “And you,” I said. “He found you as well.”

  “Yes, and me. We didn’t start out so good. But he’s my nephew and I love him. I wasn’t able to see him growing up. I suppose I have Sam’s father to thank for sending him to me in a roundabout way.”

  “You said Fredrick left. When?”

  “Three months ago. Theodore showed up one day and demanded Fredrick go back to Bridgeport. He said it was time for him to go home. Well, by then Fredrick had already established a new life here. He had saved up enough money that we were going to move into a new place together, a nicer place. He didn’t want to leave.”

  “Mr. Clive never gave you or his son any money?”

  “No. And I wouldn’t have taken any if he had. I told him to keep his damn money. I’d care for the boy my way or no way. If I was taking money from him, Theodore would have been telling me what to do and when to do it. It’s just the way he is. Once he relinquished Fredrick’s care to me, I decided what Fredrick needed and when. Those were my demands if he was going to live with me.”

  I set my empty bowl of soup on the table and leaned forward. “Miss Clive, Fredrick’s leaving . . . the timing of it . . . that would have given Fredrick time to go to Bridgeport, make plans to hurt Sam and do the deed.” I held up my hands. “I’m just telling you how it appears from my perspective.”

  “I understand. That’s why I said I wanted to clear up a few things. Theodore got angry with Fredrick when Fredrick refused to return home with him, so Theodore decided he would throw out bait, lure him in, you see. He knew Fredrick hated Sam, so he told him it was time to make Sam and his father pay for making him come live here . . . in this ‘pile of sticks,’ he’d called it . . . and then he’d accused Sam’s father of sabotaging Fredrick’s chance of getting into college.

  “But Fredrick told him no. And that’s when Theodore lost his temper. He had Fredrick by the throat against that wall over there.” She pointed to her left . . . to a wall with peeling blue paint and a picture of wildflowers that hung cockeyed. “I was trying to beat Theodore off Fredrick. He wouldn’t release him. I thought he was going to kill him. I ran to the kitchen. I had set a kettle of water for my tea over the fire, so I grabbed the kettle, came back, and threw the steaming water on Theodore’s back. He finally let Fredrick go. Then Fredrick ran out of the door. Theodore chased after him. I haven’t seen either of them since.”

  “Fredrick didn’t come back?”

  “No.”

  I sat there, staring at her.

  “What?” she said.

  I shook my head. “You don’t know where he is or where he’s been,” I stated.

  “No. I’m worried about him. He quit his job. I checked. He just never went back. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I don’t think he’s gone far.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Every once in a while, I’ll find things left for me on the porch. Food mostly. Once, there was a tin can with money inside.”

  “You think Fredrick is leaving that stuff for you?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “Miss Clive—”

  “Fredrick had never told his father no. This time he did. You didn’t see the look on Theodore’s face, the venom in his eyes.”

  “Would he kill him? For not doing what he demanded?”

  She drew her shoulders up to her ears and lowered them. “I wouldn’t have thought so if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. I’m convinced he would have killed Fredrick if I hadn’t done something to stop him.”

  I said nothing. Could say nothing. Because what do you say to
that? God, how did she live with this . . . knowing her brother was capable of murder? It must eat her up inside. It would have to. Wouldn’t it?

  I must have said what I was thinking out loud, because she answered, “It kills me.”

  For the first time since I’d walked into her home, there was a distinct silence, and I let it curl around my feet, afraid to disturb it. I’d had so few moments of just . . . quiet, that when I got one, I tended to befriend it, if only for a minute.

  I stood, unable to stay seated, and I moved around the room, taking in the cracked plaster, blistered paint, and water stains on the ceiling. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine one of my sisters living here and I just . . . couldn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “What are you sorry about?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry this is your lot in life. You deserve better.”

  She shrugged. “I have very little in the way of earthly possessions. I can’t deny that. But we’ll leave it all behind when we die, won’t we? We’ll leave this world the same way we entered it, naked and vulnerable. We’re all back on even footing in the end, aren’t we? Judged not by what we owned, but by how we lived our lives. I would rather live in this ‘pile of sticks’ and have love than to have my brother’s wealth and no love. If those are my choices, my lot in life is just fine.”

  “Then I’m sorry he’s your brother.”

  “I’m sorry too,” she said softly.

  I nodded, having nothing to say to that.

  “Where do you go during the day, Miss Clive?” I asked, my voice sounding raw to my own ears.

  She raised one speculative brow. “Been watching me, have you?”

  “Observing.”