Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  She put her teacup down forcefully. “I don’t appreciate being observed.”

  “I haven’t been following you, or else I would know where you went during the day, wouldn’t I? I’ve just been . . . watching the house mainly. I’d hoped I’d see Fredrick. You’re the only one I’ve seen.”

  “I don’t like it,” she bit out tersely.

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t like it either,” I answered sincerely.

  She looked at me long and hard. Then she softened, albeit not as soft as she’d been earlier, but softer than she should have been, probably.

  “Find Fredrick for me and I’ll forgive you.”

  I looked to the left and to the right. Then I looked at her with a side-eye. “Uh, I’m going to find him. I’m not leaving Boston until I do. I thought I’d made that clear.”

  “Perfectly. But now you’re doing it for me. I need to know where he is.”

  “You realize once I find him, I plan to bring him back to Bridgeport. If your story is true, then I . . . we . . . need his testimony.”

  “I’ll even come with you. But I need you to promise me you’ll find him. I’d rather you find him before his father does.”

  “His father may have already found him, Miss Clive. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You don’t really know where Fredrick has been all this time. He could have been afraid enough, been threatened enough to do what his father wanted, couldn’t he?”

  “He didn’t. I’m sure of it. Find Fredrick. Get your answers.”

  “Oh, I’m going to find him.”

  “And you won’t hurt him.”

  “Do I have a reason to hurt him?”

  “He may give you reasons.” She shrugged. “He’s Fredrick.”

  I eyed her for a moment. “If he gives me reasons, I can’t promise you I won’t go full chisel on his face. I’m sorry, but I don’t like him. We have a history. However,” I pinched the skin between my eyes. “For you . . . I’ll try not to hurt him too—badly. That’s the best I can offer.”

  “You didn’t have to offer me anything.” I raised my tired eyes to hers. She smiled. “You’re a good person, Noah. Find Fredrick for me, and I’ll help you get justice for Sam.”

  I stepped away from the tavern window and plopped back onto the lumpy bed. God, I was tired. If only I could sleep. But everything was keeping me awake. Miss Clive. Sam. The search for Fredrick. Some nights when I could fall asleep, I’d dream of Abigail slipping through my fingers like smoke and I’d startle awake in a room that wasn’t mine, disoriented, heart pounding in my chest. And then I’d hear Abbie’s words. I’m your thread, Noah. And like that, it would be like she was with me, tethering me to her, and I could lie back down, catch my breath, and I could breathe again. Those were the nights I would lie awake, thinking and planning of what I needed to do to get back home.

  And the plan had been to watch Miss Clive’s house. I wouldn’t be sorry about that. If Fredrick was leaving her gifts, I wanted to be there when he left the next one.

  It was easy enough to hide and not be seen. Her house had probably once been situated on a quiet street. However, the street was no longer quiet. Businesses were springing up all around, and there her house sat among it all. I simply retreated into the shadows in a smelly alleyway where the businesses on either side piled their rubbish and crates. But so far, I’d be more likely to catch a weasel asleep than to find Fredrick. It had been weeks and no sign of him.

  I lifted my head, scrubbed my hands over my face, and then my gaze snagged on the topper once again. I stared at it for a long minute, then closed my eyes and said a prayer. I suppose years of friendship with a pastor’s son had rubbed off on me. I’d been praying a lot lately.

  Finally, I got to my feet and reached for my hat and made my way to the door. I’d lingered in this room long enough. Time to go. Maybe tonight would be the night.

  Grabbing my coat, I shoved my arms in the sleeves and closed the door behind me. Halfway down the stairs, a man and a woman staggered up, slurring suggestive words to one another. I stepped to the side and allowed them to pass, ignoring the flirtatious smile the woman gave me. I hurried down the rest of the way, my hat low over my brows.

  The tavern was in full swing. Lots of people had a hankering for spirits, and it seemed they never quenched it. I weaved my way through the crowd and the sour air that reeked of sweat and desperation, and out the door where the air was cooler and less oppressive. The walk to Miss Clive’s house wasn’t far, and I could walk it with my eyes closed now, but pickpockets and ruffians would be out any time day or night, and I always kept my eyes peeled, knowing the best way to avoid them was to blend in, appear to be one of them.

  Shortly after arriving in Boston, I had gotten a quick lesson in the ways a hooligan thought he could upend me. He had gotten a quick lesson in all the ways he could not. But I didn’t want a fight. I’d rather avoid one if I could. So, if walking, talking, and dressing like one of them accomplished that, so be it.

  By the time I reached Miss Clive’s house, it had grown dark. I took my place in the alley and sat on a wooden crate with my back against the two-story building across the street. I watched people as they walked by: some old, some young. A group of boys passed by, roughhousing with one another, laughing and carrying on. It made me miss Sam—the way we used to grapple with each other, trying to gain the upper hand until we were both sticky with sweat and out of breath.

  I leaned my head against the brick exterior, reminding myself why I was there, in the dark, hiding in the shadows where no one could see me. I was doing this for Sam. All for Sam. And I would not let myself get discouraged. Though, sometimes, I did. Weeks had passed, and I was no closer to finding Fredrick than when I had arrived. I told myself that if Fredrick didn’t come tonight, I’d have to figure out another way of finding him. Perhaps start asking around about him. His aunt had said he’d made friends down on the docks. Maybe I should start finding who his friends had been, although I had deliberately not done so. If he still stayed in contact with them, I didn’t want him to know someone was poking around, asking about him. He may leave for good then and never come back. I hadn’t wanted to take that risk. At the same time, this way wasn’t working, sitting here night after night, waiting, hoping he’d emerge from his own shadowy hole.

  I had gone down to the docks a few times, though, just to see if he would be there. I had approached no one, asked no one anything. Just observed. There had been so much activity, no one had noticed me. I’d scanned every male’s face I could see. Fredrick’s had not been among them, and I had moved on, finding myself on the outskirts of Faneuil Hall, an outdoor market, the largest I’d ever seen. Once again, I’d observed as I skirted my way through the swarming crowds where vendors aggressively sold their goods and customers eagerly bought them. Everything from hay, to meats, to farming equipment, to produce was there for the taking. But a distinct lack of politeness made it less thrilling to witness.

  “Don’t touch!” vendors shouted. “Have your money ready! Buy something or move along!”

  It was clear there was no shopping at the market. You had to come prepared, know what you wanted to purchase and be on your way. And the customers, at least most of them, understood that.

  I’d tried to stay out of everyone’s path, not wanting to get tangled up with a vendor or a customer. But by the time I’d made it to the other side of the market, I’d at least solved one mystery—where Miss Clive went every day—because there she stood, selling fruit beside an older gentleman, quoting prices, making change, and shouting at the crowds gathered around her table not to touch her melons.

  “Put that down,” she’d said to one lady.

  “But how do I know if it’s ripe?”

  “They’re ripe!” Miss Clive responded. “We don’t have time for you to pick them up and inspect them. Do you see this crowd? Buy one or go.”

  Back home, a customer would have been insulted and walked away. Here? Customers complied.

  “I�
�ll take a melon,” the lady had said.

  I wasn’t certain whether I should be in awe of Miss Clive or disappointed. I couldn’t imagine treating people like that, although I did understand her point. The crowds pressed upon their fruit table, eager to make their own purchases, and there simply wasn’t time for customers to browse. Their fruit had to be sold. It couldn’t go to waste. The more people they could get through, the faster they could sell it, and start again the following day.

  I’d decided to get in line, help her out, and help myself. I needed to eat, after all. When it was my turn, I knew exactly what I wanted to buy, knew not to touch a thing, and had my money already in my hands, following all the vendors’ rules I’d heard shouted from one end of the market to the other. I certainly didn’t want Miss Clive shouting at me about accidentally touching a cantaloupe.

  “I’ll take three apples, three pears, and that bunch of bananas over there,” I’d said, pointing to the ones I wanted, not touching.

  Her eyes flicked to me once before she started putting the fruit in a cloth bag for me. “You found him yet?” she’d asked, not looking up.

  “Not yet,” I’d said.

  “You’ve lost weight. You need more than fruit to eat,” she’d said.

  “I eat,” I had answered. I mean, I was eating, just not as much as I normally did or as often.

  “Not enough. But we’ll discuss that later. After you find him.” Then she’d told me how much I owed.

  If I found him, I’d thought, handing her the coins. My optimism was waning.

  “You’ll find him,” she’d said as if she could read my mind. “I have faith.” Then she’d shouted “Next!” to the person behind me.

  I took my bag of fruit back to my room at the tavern that day and ate half of it in one sitting. I supposed I’d been hungrier than I thought.

  I didn’t know why Miss Clive had faith in me. I supposed it had more to do with me being her only hope than her actually believing in me, Noah Hallison. Which was fine. I was struggling with having faith in myself.

  I rolled my neck, stretched my back. Hours had passed, and the passersby had dwindled.

  Another night. Another disappointment.

  I was just thinking it was time to pack it in and head back to my room when I saw something move from the corner of my eye. I sat up straighter, straining to see. The pale glow of the moon shone across the back side of Miss Clive’s house, and a dark figure cut through it, tall, shaped like a man. I got to my feet and waited, holding my breath. The shadow made its way to the front of the house, moved to the porch, and looked to be leaving something behind. Then the shadow crossed the street, heading straight toward me. I stayed out of view, hiding behind the piles of trash and old crates. When the person was nearly upon me, I knew who it was, and a cold smile pressed upon my lips.

  “Hello . . . Fredrick,” I said, stepping out of the alley, keeping to the dark edges where the pale fingers of the moon’s light didn’t quite reach. “Going somewhere?”

  Fredrick jerked to a halt, startled, and immediately lurched back a step. “Where did you come from?” He looked around nervously, probably wondering who else would be jumping out of a dark hiding place.

  The cold smile I was wearing didn’t thaw. In fact, it had only grown colder. Everything I had been feeling since Sam’s attack decided to surface in his presence. The guilt of not being there in time to stop it. The agony of seeing him suffer—of seeing my sister suffer—his parents. And I wanted the suffering to pass from them to someone else. And Fredrick felt like a reasonable source to pass the suffering on to.

  “H-How do you know my name?”

  I tilted my head. “Come now, surely you remember me.” I stepped into the light of the moon and lifted the hat off my head. “We’re old school chums, Freddie.”

  Fredrick’s throat bobbed. “Noah.”

  “You know, you’re not near as tough without your band of bullies beside you. But then, I always knew that about you.”

  He took a step back. “Why are you here?”

  “If you run, I’ll catch you.”

  He planted his feet to the ground. “Why are you here?” he repeated.

  “You and I are going to have a nice little chat. And then you’re coming back to Bridgeport with me.”

  He shook his head. “No, no, I’m not going back to Bridgeport. I’m not going back to my father.”

  I lunged for Fredrick, grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him up against the wall, anger lashing against my skin. Weeks and weeks of searching for him had taken its toll, and I was ready to snap.

  “Oh, you’re going back to Bridgeport, Fredrick. But first, you’re going to talk. I want to know it all. Every last detail. Your aunt might believe you have some redeeming qualities, but I need some convincing. And if I find out you had anything, anything to do with Sam’s attack, your father will be the last thing you need to fear. Understand? The last thing. Because I’ll drag you through hell seven times over and make you wish you were dead. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Fredrick blinked, nodded, and uttered, “Y-Yes.”

  “Good. Start talking.”

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  1824

  Sam

  Doctor Kelly unwrapped the last of the bandages from my left arm and removed the splint and the gauze. The air on my skin felt cool. My arm appeared smaller compared to my right. I held them up, side by side. There was certainly a noticeable difference.

  “That’s not unusual. You’ve lost muscle in that arm. You’ll gain it back,” Doctor Kelly said, feeling along my arm. “How does it feel? Any pain? Discomfort? The bones seem to have mended all right.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel anything.” I had stopped feeling anything weeks ago. Physically and emotionally.

  “You may start using your arm now,” he said.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that right?” I pointed to my legs elevated on pillows, splinted, thickly bandaged, and completely immobile. “I suppose I can lift a book now, or a cup of tea.”

  “You could,” he said, undeterred by my sarcasm. “In fact, I encourage it. Any sign of pain, let me know. You have two more weeks for your legs. After that, we’ll see if you can walk.”

  I nodded slowly. There was a chance I wouldn’t walk. I knew this already. Doc had discussed this with me before. The breaks had been severe. The bones may not heal properly. There could be other complications. I hadn’t accepted it. I hadn’t not accepted it either. I had just gone to that place in between and settled myself there, turned everything off and shut everything down. It was a wasteland, this place in between. It was the only place that felt right since my life felt wasted. All my life, I’d done the right thing. Been a good person. Helped people. Or had tried to. And I got rewarded with this. Someone who tried to kill me—waste me—and throw me in the river.

  “Will you please close the curtains on your way out?” I asked Doc. “I’m tired. I want to take a nap.”

  “Sure,” he said, cleaning up the bandages that had fallen to the floor and all around the bed.

  He was about to start packing up his medical bag when the door flew open. The doc and I snapped our heads up in shock. I had no time to process what was happening. Lucy was moving toward me. Her skirts were snapping around her ankles, pieces of her brown hair falling around her pretty, yet angry face, and then she was dumping letters all over me. Some of them hit the floor. I was covered in them.

  My eyes swooped up to meet hers. “What is this?” I signed.

  She thrust a palm in my direction. “Your letters! All of them. Every single one you wrote to me for the past five years!”

  My pulse pounded in my ears. “You’re giving them back?!”

  “No! I want you to read them! Every last one!”

  This was ridiculous. I had written them. I didn’t need to read them. I knew what they said. And I told her so.

  Before I knew it, she was in my face, her hands planted on either side of my hips.
Her honey-colored eyes were staring directly into my green ones. Her breath feathered over my skin in angry gasps. But I . . . I couldn’t breathe at all. She had taken all my air. I hadn’t been this close to her since . . . since the last time I’d kissed her. My heart was beating so hard, I thought it would punch right through the cavity of my chest.

  Her eyes darted back and forth between mine, then they skirted down the slope of my nose, and came to rest on my lips. Was she remembering our last kiss too? It had been when she came to visit last fall. We had to sneak away from our families. We hadn’t had a minute to ourselves, and on the day she was to leave, I took her hand and we escaped outside, hiding behind the largest oak we could find. We didn’t have much time, so when we reached that tree, I let go of her hand, held her face instead, and I kissed her lips. I still remember her soft sighs and the way she felt and how she looked at me when she opened her eyes. Like I was her whole world. She was certainly mine.

  Lucy blinked then slowly retreated. I took in my first breath of air since she’d blown into my room.

  “Read them,” she signed. “Remember me. Remember us.” Then she pulled a letter from her skirt pocket and slapped it on the table beside my bed. “Then read that one.”

  She didn’t allow me to respond. She spun on her heels and closed the door on her way out.

  “Land sakes. What did you do to that girl?”

  I dropped my head on the pillow. I’d forgotten the doc was still in the room. He knelt beside the bed and began picking up letters that had fallen to the floor. Then he scooped them all up and stacked them in a neat pile, setting them beside my hip.

  “Thank you,” I croaked.

  “I don’t know what the two of you were saying to each other, but anyone with eyes could see she was mad as a wet hen.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Her throwing my old letters at me was a sure sign.”

  “Is that what those are?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” Doc gathered his medical bag and headed for the door. “She wouldn’t have gotten that worked up if she didn’t love you. Take heart, son. When they stop getting mad at you, that’s when things are dire. See you in two weeks.”