Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “No.”

  “Do you feel like you could put some weight on your right leg?” the doc asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “All right. Easy, though. Not all at once.”

  I gradually shifted a little weight onto my right leg by unbending my right knee in small increments. My ankle protested the shifting weight with pinches of discomfort. Like someone pushing on a bruise. When I had nearly completed the transfer, a spark of pain alighted along the joints. I felt like someone had stabbed me with a hot poker. I hissed through the pain and took the weight off the ankle again.

  “All right, all right. Sit down,” Doctor Kelly said.

  “I don’t want to sit down! I’m tired of sitting. I want out of this room!”

  “Sam,” Mama said. “Just for a minute.”

  Papa and the doc eased me onto the edge of the bed.

  “The ankle is bad. We can work around that,” the doc was saying. Mentally, I was somewhere else and not listening. All I knew was that I needed out of that room. I couldn’t be in there another minute.

  “Get me out of here,” I said.

  “What?” Papa asked.

  “Now. Get me out of here. Take me outside. Please. I can’t breathe in here. Take me outside.”

  Without another word, Papa picked me up, like he used to do when I was little. Only I wasn’t little. Then again, neither was my father. He carried me down the stairs, through the parlor, and out the front door. He sat me down on the top step, and then he sat beside me. Together, we listened to God’s world play a melody of chirping birds and rustling leaves. I closed my eyes and felt the breeze play with my hair and whisper across my skin. Oh, how I’d missed this. I’d missed the outdoors. I’d missed the fresh air.

  I opened my eyes, recalling all the times Noah and I had run up these steps after walking home from school, racing to get inside the fastest. And I thought of all the times I’d held Lucy’s hand as we walked down the steps to slip away to find five minutes . . . just the two of us. I smiled wistfully.

  I wanted my life back. I wanted Noah back. I wanted Lucy back.

  “Have you given any thought to what I said before?” Papa asked.

  A bluebird swooped down and plucked something from the ground before soaring back into the sky.

  “I have,” I said, still watching the bird.

  “And?”

  I listened to the harmony around me, wondering, thinking, contemplating how I could describe certain sounds to Lucy. I wanted to describe the whole world to her the way she liked. I guessed, in a way, I was sort of like a poet. Lucy’s poet. And that’s when I knew what I wanted. I supposed I’d always known. I had just needed to be reminded.

  “You know,” I said, “growing up, I thought I was like Childe Harold in Lord Byron’s poem, only . . .” I paused. “Metaphorically, I guess. But a traveler all the same. And if I’m a traveler, then I need legs. I need my legs, Papa. Help me stand on my own two legs again.” Papa turned to look me in the eye, father to son, man to man. “I may not need them to love Lucy, that’s true. But I need them to show her the world the way I see it. And she deserves the world. Will you do that?” I asked. “Will you help me show her the world? Please.”

  My father’s countenance brightened, but his voice hitched when he said, “Yes, Son. I’ll help you.” He nodded and combed his fingers through my hair, his eyes glistening. “I’ll help you.”

  “I’ll help you too.”

  Papa and I looked over our shoulders. Our front door was open. Papa hadn’t closed it after he’d carried me out and sat me down on the porch step. Doctor Kelly was standing there in the doorway, his medical bag in hand like he was on his way out, ready to go home.

  “I want to help you, too, Sam,” Doctor Kelly said. “If you’ll let me.”

  My eyes veered to my father. His veered to mine.

  “He knows more than I,” Papa said.

  “I’m serious about walking again,” I said to Doctor Kelly.

  The doc stepped onto the porch, donned his hat, and stood in front of me. “I’m serious about helping you.”

  My face split into a smile. “All right, then, Doc. If you want to help me walk, I’m eager to let you.”

  Doctor Kelly smiled in return. “All right, then. We’ll start tomorrow.”

  The day Noah returned is a day that will be forever etched into my brain and carved into my heart.

  It had only been a couple of weeks since the bandages had been removed, and I’d been hopeful when I’d asked Doctor Kelly when I could start walking . . . taking actual steps. We’d been running through leg exercises in what used to be the music room/classroom. My mother had never removed Lucy’s old desk. For some reason, she’d kept things exactly as they were. Until then—until we’d needed the room to serve as my temporary bedroom/rehabilitation room because it was large enough, and it was downstairs—because no climbing steps for me. At least, not yet. Also, I’d spent enough time in the room upstairs. The change in scenery served me just fine.

  The skin around Doc Kelly’s eyes had tightened. “Let’s give it a couple more weeks,” he’d said. “I want your legs . . . this ankle . . . as strong as possible.”

  I still recall how my chest deflated—how it felt as though Doctor Kelly had kicked me in the gut. It had not been the answer I’d wanted to hear.

  I thought standing on my own two feet again would have been easier. It wasn’t. It was deuced hard. Taking steps proved to be even harder. Doctor Kelly wouldn’t allow me to even try until I’d started to regain my strength and rebuild muscle. He made me exercise my legs without putting my full weight on them. The process was agonizingly slow. My patience with myself, with him, with everyone around me, wore thin at times. I didn’t like myself some days. I was moody, irritable, an all-around unpleasant sort, although I did try to keep it locked down, to keep it to myself. I didn’t want to take it out on those around me . . . on those who cared for me.

  Like Doctor Kelly.

  I was about to tell him I would be patient . . . that I would do what he said, but the sound of a carriage coming up the drive had him padding to the bank of windows to look out. I didn’t much care who it was. Since everyone I cared about (sans Noah) were in other parts of the house, I assumed it was another visitor from church. They stopped in every now and then to ask about my well-being, and while I appreciated their concern, I wasn’t much in the mood for company.

  However, shrieks of excitement rent the air outside the glass panes of my newly appointed bedroom/rehabilitation room, and I was forced to now care who the newcomer was.

  “Who is it? Who’s out there?” I’d asked Doctor Kelly, wanting to climb to my feet, wishing I was mobile so I could see for myself.

  When Doctor Kelly’s eyes found mine, I knew. I knew before he even said the words, “Noah is home.”

  They were the best words I never knew I needed to hear.

  Noah is home.

  For the rest of my life, I will remember the day he came back. I will remember. Because I’d missed my friend. I just didn’t realize how much I loved him until he stepped through that door.

  Sam

  “Help me up,” I demanded, trying to stand.

  “Listen,” Doctor Kelly said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “As I already said, not yet. We’re building muscle. We don’t want to re-injure your bad leg.”

  I closed my eyes, heard laughter from the parlor—male and female. I sank back to the floor and tried to breathe through the disappointment—again.

  Several long minutes passed as I listened to the reunion taking place without me. I longed to be a part of it, wishing I could see Lucy’s face when she saw her brother alight from the carriage. I wanted to see her eyes light up. She’d missed him so. With my legs stretched out in front of me, I wanted to curse the fact I was a cripple. However, I squashed the feeling because I would walk again. I would.

  Just not today.

  Booted footsteps started up the hallway . . . one
set, and as they neared, the more my heart rate increased. When they stopped in front of the door, I wasn’t sure I was even breathing. Then the door opened, and there Noah stood looking road-weary, exhausted, and like he hadn’t changed his clothes in a week, but he’d never looked more alive to me . . . more real, standing there, filling up the doorway, exuding an air about him—like a man who knew his place in the world. And here I sat on the floor, trying to find mine again.

  “Noah,” I murmured.

  “Sam,” he said, his throat working up and down. “It’s been . . . too long.”

  I nodded. Had we even spoken since I was lying on the bank of that riverbed? Tears pricked my eyes.

  “Doc, mind giving us a minute?”

  “Oh, right. Yes. Certainly. Noah,” he said, collecting his things, “it’s good to see you again. I pray your travels were prosperous. Your father mentioned you were away on business.”

  “Yes, they were. Thank you,” Noah replied softly.

  “Good. Very good,” Doc said. “Well, I’ll let you two catch up. Samuel, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The door closed, and silence greeted us. I found I could not look at him. Nor could I speak, could not utter a sound, for the lump in my throat made me fear I would choke on the words.

  I felt Noah’s eyes trained on me and I heard him take one step, then two.

  “Wait,” I said, forcing the word between my lips, and then forced a few more out. “D-Did you find him? Fredrick?” I tilted my head up to look at him.

  Noah paused his steps, nodded once. “I found him.”

  Of course Noah had found him. Of course he had. I never doubted he would. I just hated that he felt he had to go in search for him at all.

  “I thought.” Noah said, “no one was supposed to know I was away.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder to the closed door where the doc had just exited.

  “We couldn’t hide your absence from Doctor Kelly. He was here every day. Your father made up a story to tell him.”

  “It’s possible Mr. Clive knows I’ve been away, then?”

  “I don’t think the doc has said anything to anyone.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “When you spend a lot of time with someone like I have with Doctor Kelly, you get to know them a bit. Hopefully, I’m not being a fool for trusting. However, I already have to trust him a great deal, don’t I?”

  Noah’s eyes fell on my outstretched legs and lingered on my right, the one that didn’t look quite right from the knee down. He nearly winced, though he suppressed it. “I suppose you do.”

  To the right of me was the piano. I gave it a long considering look, and then with a thundering heart, I made the decision to drag myself over to it.

  “What—what are you doing?” Noah asked.

  I reached up, grabbed hold of the top, and started to pull myself up. “S-Standing,” I wheezed.

  “Sam—”

  “I’m doing this,” I said, teeth gritted. I put my weight on my left leg first and leaned on the piano for temporary relief, panting. “D-Did you find out who did this to m-me?”

  A pause. “Yes.” And then . . . “Sam, you’re hurting. Why don’t you sit down?”

  “No.”

  “Get off your feet!”

  “No,” I grunted. “No. I owe you . . .” I straightened. “I owe you . . .” I put my weight on my right leg, my ankle screaming in protest. “Goddamn it,” I hissed.

  “Sam—”

  “I owe you a proper welcome home.” I forced myself to turn around and face my best friend. I stood as tall and as proud as I was able. “Welcome home, Noah,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks like rivers on a map.

  “Damn you, Sam,” Noah whispered, a tear sliding down his own cheek. He marched across the room and pulled me into his arms. “Damn you,” he said again. “You owe me nothing. You’re my brother. You owe me nothing.” He pulled back but didn’t let go. Instead, he held me steady. “Get off your feet before things get ugly.” He smiled, though it trembled. “I don’t want to have to wrestle you to the floor.”

  “Afraid I’d win?” I joked, sweat dotting my brows from the pain.

  “Definitely. You’re ten times tougher than I am, clearly.”

  “Right,” I said, wincing. I let him help me sink to the floor, then he sat beside me.

  “How have you been?” he asked after I caught my breath.

  “I’m better now than I was.”

  “That’s obvious,” he answered, bumping my shoulder.

  I appreciated him trying to lighten the mood. I did. However, there were words I needed to say. Words long overdue.

  “I’m alive, Noah, thanks to you.”

  “Stop,” he said.

  “And there were times I hated you for saving me,” I went on. His eyes flashed in surprise. “I won’t trouble you with everything that happened while you were away. Needless to say, I think we’ve both changed since we last saw one another.”

  “Do you still hate me?” he murmured.

  “No. It wasn’t you that I hated. I hated the pain I was in. There was a time when I thought death would have been kinder. But I realize I was out of my mind in agony. I’m rather glad you weren’t here for it.”

  Noah grew contemplative for a while. He didn’t move. It was like his thoughts had suddenly grown roots and he was now as attached to the floor as I was. When he finally did speak, he had much to say. “You’re right. You’re not the same. You’ve had to come back from near death. No one would be the same. But you are stronger for it. I can see it when I look at you. You can’t hide that kind of strength.” One corner of his mouth rose, and his gaze drilled into mine. “They picked the wrong guy when they chose you, Sam. And I can’t wait for the day you let them know it.”

  “I wish I felt as strong as you make me sound.”

  Noah studied me with quiet interest, then his gaze cut away and I watched him as his eyes panned the room that we had grown up in. “Strength isn’t about feeling strong,” he said. “Strength is feeling weak and standing up anyway.”

  I sat beside Lucy on the sofa, my mother seated next to me. All eyes were fixed on Noah as he stood in the center of the room. He had just finished telling us what he’d learned from Fredrick and his aunt. Papa was the first to speak.

  “So, Mr. Clive . . . it was him? He was the one who attacked my son?”

  “Yes,” Noah answered quietly.

  Papa leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and scrubbed his hands over his face. They shook. “This is my fault.”

  I gasped at that. “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because that miscreant came after you to punish me!”

  “He’s evil,” Noah interrupted. “Mr. Clive is evil. He abandoned his humanity. You should understand that better than anyone, I should think. This is your domain. Good and evil. Don’t waste another second on guilt that isn’t yours, Reverend.”

  Papa nodded stiffly. “You’re right, son.” His words came out strangled, broken, like the last words of a dying man.

  “What do we do now?” Mama asked, squeezing my hand. “We have to do something.”

  “Where are Fredrick and his aunt? Are they in Bridgeport?” Mr. Hallison asked.

  “No. They’re staying at an inn in a small town not far from here. As long as they work for their lodgings and food, the owners agreed to let them stay.”

  “Fredrick is truly hiding from his father?” Mama asked.

  “He doesn’t want his father to know where he is. He’s afraid he’ll show up and try to make trouble for him or his aunt,” Noah explained. “He promised to help us with the magistrate if I didn’t bring him all the way back to Bridgeport. We compromised.”

  “Help with the magistrate, how?” my mother asked, fidgeting with a decorative pillow she had set in her lap.

  Noah withdrew two letters from inside his coat pocket. “These are written statements in the hand of Fredrick and Miss Clive. I am to present them to the mag
istrate on their behalf. Any questions the magistrate may have for Fredrick and Miss Clive, they are willing to meet with him and answer his questions.”

  “Then we go to the magistrate in the morning,” Papa said, his voice coming back to life. “Give him the facts as we know them.”

  “Yes, with Fredrick and his aunt’s cooperation—” Mr. Hallison started, but Noah promptly interrupted.

  “They didn’t see Mr. Clive commit the act.”

  “He asked his own son to do it!” Mr. Hallison finished.

  “True. However, playing devil’s advocate here . . . there are no witnesses that he came back and committed the act himself,” Noah stated, his eyes softening when he looked at me. “Unless you remember something? Anything?”

  I could feel everyone’s stares even as my eyes fell to my lap. I couldn’t remember the face I’d seen. Or recognize the voice I’d heard. It was still a blur. I couldn’t help feeling I was letting everyone down, including myself.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”

  Mama patted my knee. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

  It felt like my fault. Why couldn’t I remember?

  “We have written testimonies,” Mr. Hallison said. “People have been convicted with far less.”

  “That is also true,” said Noah.

  “He was setting him up,” Papa murmured.

  “What was that?” Mr. Hallison asked.

  “He was setting Fredrick up. When you and I went to see Mr. Clive that day. He wanted us to believe Fredrick was the one who hurt Sam. He didn’t care what we thought about his own son—that he could be capable of murder. He only cared we didn’t suspect him,” Papa spat.

  Mama seethed beside me.

  Papa’s eyes glittered with contempt. “We tell the magistrate everything we know.”

  “I agree with Jonah,” Mr. Hallison chimed in. “We go with what we have. It should be enough.”

  “And then what?” Mrs. Hallison asked, speaking up for the first time. She had been signing for Lucy so she could keep up with the conversation.

  Everyone grew still like we were patiently waiting for someone to have the answer, to know what to do next, or at the very least, what to expect. No one knew anything.