Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  It was my father’s voice that broke the stillness. “And then we wait.”

  I watched the sunrise, glad now for the days that I could come out to the front porch on my own without my father’s help. Or my mother’s. I could stand on my own two feet again. Although I was grateful . . . I wasn’t graceful. I imagined I looked a bit like a baby colt finding his legs for the first time, wobbly and uncertain, although I managed to stay upright. The aid of my newly appointed cane (gifted by Doctor Kelly) was sure to be credited for that. Also, the pain was less than before . . . manageable, even. However, walking was agonizingly slow. As I said . . . wobbly and uncertain, but small steps were better than no steps.

  It had been over two months since my father and Mr. Hallison had gone to see the magistrate. As of yet, there hadn’t been the slightest scandal or a hint of a rumor of Mr. Clive’s arrest. Everyone in our families was on tenterhooks, waiting to hear word when it would happen or if it would happen. Every morning we woke with a sense of hope. By nightfall, our hope would wane. But then morning would come, hope rising again like smoke from a chimney, and everything would start anew.

  The front door opened, and Mama walked out carrying two cups, balancing them in one hand while she struggled with closing the door. After she managed the task, she came and settled next to me on the porch step.

  “I brought coffee,” she said, handing me a cup. I thanked her and then she asked, “Ready for your first day back in church?”

  “Are you?” I inquired.

  She took a long sip of her coffee. I took a long sip of mine. Neither of us had been to church since my beating, since my—since Mr. Clive had tried to kill me. My mother had not left my side—not even to attend Sunday services. My father had only taken a temporary leave of absence, allowing the assistant pastor to step up and step in for a time. However, he had resumed his duties, at least in part, as soon as he was certain I would survive. At first, he would only give his sermons on the sabbath and come home straight away. They weren’t his typical sermons which were long and thoughtful and heartfelt because Papa used to spend hours in his office reading scripture and contemplating what lessons he wanted to impart. No, the sermons Papa gave during my recovery were much shorter but no less heartfelt. I only knew this because I knew my father, and he would not deliver anything less. The fact he’d spent less time working on his sermons and more time with me . . . I didn’t see that as a fault. I didn’t think his parishioners did, either. But as time went on and I began to heal, Papa resumed more and more of his role as pastor, and now that I was better, it was time for his family to resume our role by his side.

  “I am,” Mama said. “It’ll feel good to sit in church again.” She took my hand. “To feel like a family.”

  “We don’t feel like a family?”

  “Of course we do. We are. However, we haven’t been outside this house together in a very long time. It’ll do us all good, I think, to be out again, to regain a bit of normalcy.”

  She was right. I knew she was, and while I was eager to feel normal again and leave the confines of my house, I was also anxious because normal for me meant being a cripple, and I had not been a cripple in public before.

  “Well,” I said, taking another sip and handing her back my cup, “I best get ready. Thank you for the coffee.”

  She smiled, and for the first time in a long time, my mother’s whole face went soft. And when her whole face went soft, I still thought she was one of the prettiest ladies I’d ever known. Lucy was the prettiest.

  “You’re welcome, Sam.”

  The walk back to my room was dreadfully slow. By the time I’d gotten dressed, I was tired, and I’d wasted time looking for my hat.

  My father knocked on my door. “Need any help?”

  “You may come in, Papa.” When he stepped inside and closed the door, I said, “I can’t find my topper. Have you seen it?”

  “I haven’t. Do you want me to check your room upstairs? I imagine that’s where it is.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  While Papa went upstairs to look for my hat, my mother and I made our way outside to wait. To our surprise, Lucy and Noah were coming around the side of our house.

  “Oh my,” Mama said, hand over her heart as they made their way up the porch steps, then remembered herself and signed, “We were just on our way to church. Didn’t we mention we were going today?”

  Lucy and Noah looked at one another, shared twin lopsided grins before Noah said, “Yes, ma’am. We wanted to go with you.”

  “Go with us?” Mama asked. “To church?”

  “Yes ma’am,” Noah repeated.

  I leaned on my cane, my eyes taking in Lucy’s solid green day dress, the color of sage and made of silk. There wasn’t anything particularly special about the dress, but for some reason, I thought Lucy looked especially beautiful that morning. Her hair had been swept up into a sweet-looking bonnet with the ribbons tied delicately underneath her chin, and a rebellious ringlet fell over her left temple. I desperately wanted to tuck it back inside just to have a reason to touch her.

  “I’m sorry, Son,” Papa said, closing the door behind him. “I couldn’t find your hat. “We’ll have to look . . . Oh, hello, Noah . . . Lucy,” he finished by signing.

  “They want to attend church with us,” Mama explained, eyes brightening, smile widening.

  “They do?” Papa asked, eyebrows rising into his hairline.

  In all the years Lucy and Noah had been in our lives, not once had they been to church with us. Oh, we had hoped they would someday, though we were not prepared that it would be today. Not that I was complaining. I certainly was not. In fact, I was overjoyed.

  I flashed a full set of teeth. “They do, Papa. Shall we leave? We don’t want to tarry and be late, do we? I’m not the fastest these days.”

  My father immediately set out for the carriage. We followed. He sat outside the covered portion so he could drive, while the rest of us sat inside. Lucy and my mother on one seat, Noah and I sat on the other, facing them. It was a tight fit. Our carriage was small, though because it had open windows, no glass, the air flowed, making it less stifling.

  Noah removed his topper and placed it on his lap, staring out as we began to make our journey down familiar streets.

  Lucy tapped the toe of my shoe with hers. “Why so pensive?” Her eyes drifted to Noah’s topper and then to me again. “Did you forget yours?”

  “I can’t find it. I’m sure it’s somewhere,” I said.

  Her lips slid into a shy smile. “I lost a hair ribbon.”

  “Did you?” I asked, enjoying her smile. It looked like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud.

  “We were almost late because I was looking for it. It matches this dress. I wanted to wear it today.” She lifted a shoulder. “I had to wear something else.” She touched her bonnet.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Noah shaking his head . . . saw the grin on his face.

  “Do we amuse you?” I asked.

  “You two are made for each other. Perhaps your hat and her ribbon ran off together.”

  Mama laughed. It was wonderful to hear her laughing again.

  “Do you think?” Lucy asked, playing along.

  He twirled his hat a moment then set it on his knee. “They’re probably off together right now, planning to have beautiful little hat ribbons someday.”

  “Oh, stop,” Mama said, biting back her laughter. “Behave yourself, Noah.”

  “Yes, Noah,” I said, grinning ear to ear. “Behave.”

  Noah pressed a palm to his heart. “I happen to be on my very best behavior.”

  “Indeed?” I asked.

  “Do you doubt me, brother?”

  “Oh, I would never doubt you. Never.”

  “That’s better,” he said, flashing his best smile.

  Papa laughed from his seat, our voices carrying over the tlop, tlop, tlop of our two-horse carriage. It was the first time in a whil
e I felt a sense of peace . . . like old times . . . like we had been here before and we were coming for a visit. I wondered how long we could stay before we had to leave.

  “Here we are,” Mama said, looking out, the church coming into view.

  Once we eased to a stop, Papa and Noah helped the ladies alight from the carriage and then I scooted to the edge of the seat. Noah stepped forward, prepared to help me out as well. A crowd had gathered outside the church and everyone was looking our way. That old childhood voice of mine chimed inside my head . . . No one likes to be stared at. The boy inside me wanted to go back home and not subject myself to the scrutiny of my peers—to the whispers behind the ladies’ fans as I passed by. I didn’t want to be what they talked about over tea—how Samuel Burke was now a cripple, the poor man. The thought of being what they would gossip about had me grinding my teeth.

  But the pull of Lucy’s honey-colored eyes had me looking up at her—at the girl who had always been invisible, and I thought what a fool all these people were and how sorry I felt for them for never knowing the extraordinary creature right here in their midst. I realized then I wasn’t to be pitied. They were.

  I placed my cane on the ground and then my left foot, and I mumbled to myself, “Let them stare.”

  “Sam,” Noah said, reaching for me to assist.

  “Stand back. I can do this.”

  He took a step back, then another. Papa stood off just to my right. My mother and Lucy were to my left. I eased my weight onto my right foot, though my cane was more help than anyone realized.

  “You steady?” Noah asked. Gone was the jovial young man from the carriage ride over, and in his place was the I would lay down my life for you protector.

  And I would lay down my life for his.

  Squaring my shoulders, I said, “As a mountain. Shall we proceed?”

  Noah nodded and Papa placed a hand on my shoulder. “You made that look easy,” he said in my ear.

  It hadn’t been easy at all and he knew it.

  My father asked me to lead the way. He and my mother fell in line behind me, shaking hands with the parishioners as we went up the aisle, though Noah and Lucy were at my side. Each step felt momentous, like a feat, a battle I was winning.

  “Samuel, glad to see you up and about,” said Mr. Wilkshire, stepping into my path. He was a soft-bellied gent and had always been friendly to me.

  “Thank you for your good wishes,” I said, pulling Lucy tighter to my left side, my right hand gripping my cane.

  He spoke pleasantly, telling me how he prayed for me, for my parents. His eyes never once wandered to my companions, though. “Such an awful thing that happened to you. I’m glad to see you are doing well. Very glad indeed.”

  “Thank you. May I introduce you to Lucy Hallison, my . . .” I paused, not sure the appropriate term of endearment when Lucy Hallison was my everything. But sweetheart was the first word that came to mind, and that was the word that came out of my mouth.

  Mr. Wilkshire glanced at Lucy, refusing to meet her eyes, his lips pursing into something bitter and cold. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Lucy pivoted toward me, confusion marking her features. She couldn’t read lips and wanted me to interpret . . . to sign. My blood was currently frozen in my veins as I stared at the man who had just shown warmth to me mere moments ago and couldn’t show the same warmth for the woman on my arm.

  Frustration bloomed. Mr. Wilkshire wasn’t the man I thought he was, and I wasn’t certain I could interpret the icy introduction for Lucy. Because it was a lie. Mr. Wilkshire wasn’t pleased to meet her at all. Fortunately, Noah stepped in and signed to his sister, which I was grateful for.

  “This is Noah Hallison,” I explained to Mr. Wilkshire, my voice clipped. Even though he knew who the Hallisons were, a proper introduction was in order. “Noah is Lucy’s brother and my best friend.” I wanted him to know who he was insulting . . . to know if you insult them you might as well insult me too.

  She signed her response, which Noah related to Mr. Wilkshire. “She says you have kind eyes.”

  He blinked in surprise, and so did I. “She did?” he asked, and Noah nodded. He looked at Lucy again. Really looked at her this time. She smiled at Mr. Wilkshire. He blinked again in surprise. “T-Tell her thank you for me.”

  “Tell her yourself. Like this.” Noah showed him how to say thank you in sign language. The look of joy on Mr. Wilkshire’s face was like that of a child.

  “She can understand me?” he marveled.

  “Of course she can,” I answered.

  When Mr. Wilkshire excused himself to find his seat, he was still smiling at Lucy. I told myself I would speak with her about this later. After that encounter, we were forever stopped before reaching our seat at the front of the church, or rather, I was forever stopped.

  “So good to see you, Sam.”

  “Sam, you were sorely missed.

  “We’ve been praying for you, Sam.”

  Though everyone spoke to me with kindness, no one looked at Lucy, and only barely there glances were given to Noah. I remembered the whispered word of heathens from the social dance all those years ago, but I also remembered my father’s stern dressing down the day after. Had they not listened? If it didn’t feel like a hundred miles back to the carriage, I would have insisted we leave. As it was, I needed to sit down, lest I collapse on Noah in front of everyone, and I had no particular will to do that.

  When we made it to our seats, I let out a sigh and rubbed my right knee.

  “You doing all right, dear?” Mama asked, concern in her voice.

  “Fine,” I answered. “I’m fine.”

  But when my father stepped up onto the dais and then behind the podium to begin Sunday service, I belatedly had a realization. Eyeing the three small steps leading up to the raised platform, I left my seat and lowered myself onto the bottom step, directly in front of Lucy.

  And I signed my father’s sermon.

  Everyone stared.

  The day had been beautiful. Mr. and Mrs. Hallison and Noah and Lucy’s other siblings decided to join us for a nice lunch after we arrived home from church. The day had been a rare one indeed, and we were all rejoicing in having our families together when a visitor arrived unexpectedly. And not just any visitor. It was the one person we’d all been waiting to hear from—the magistrate.

  Papa answered the door in haste to let him in. We started to rise from our seats but were encouraged to keep them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, doffing his hat when he stepped inside, wasting no time on pleasantries. “Please, don’t get up. I can’t stay. I only came to tell you that I can’t arrest Mr. Theodore Clive.”

  Everyone’s gazes pressed upon me. Papa was the first to ask, “Why?”

  “At the end of the day, it was Mr. Clive’s word against his son’s.”

  “I don’t understand,” Papa said. “What about Mr. Clive’s sister?”

  “Mr. Clive said it was a bitter family dispute. That they had gotten together and are lashing out at him in a public way to shame him. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has accused someone of a crime they didn’t commit. And without proof . . . some sort of evidence . . . I have nothing.”

  Mr. Hallison sprung to his feet. “How much did that snake pay you?”

  “Jasper,” Mrs. Hallison gasped. “Please.”

  “He hasn’t even made any inquiries! Questioned not a single person! Have you?”

  The magistrate lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.” He donned his hat and left without a backward glance. The room fell into a pitiable silence when he left.

  “What?” Lucy asked. “What did he say?”

  “He’s not going to arrest Mr. Clive,” I answered, and then I told her the rest of it.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  I cupped her cheek. I didn’t understand either. Then I grabbed my cane, stood from my seat and made my way to the front door.

  “Where are you goin
g?” my mother called.

  “I need to think.”

  “Sam—”

  “Let him go, Sarabeth,” my father said. “Let him go.”

  Lucy

  The minute Sam walked out that door, I wanted to cry . . . I wanted to scream . . . I wanted to howl—finally understanding why a poet would choose such a word. Because I wanted to fall to my knees and howl to my God and beg Him to hear the cries of my soul.

  Noah sat down beside me, his misery a reflection of my own, and held my hand while everyone else moved around us as though we were mourners attending the dead. Celia and Louisa’s eyes were vacant. My mother stood morosely apart from the others. My father stood near the hearth, staring absently into the fire, my brother James at his side. And Mama and Papa Burke faced each other, heads bent, foreheads touching, wiping tears from each other’s cheeks.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. No vindication for Sam. No justice. And the person who did this was still free to walk among us. How must Sam be feeling?

  Rising to my feet, I set out to find him.

  “Where are you going?” Noah asked.

  “Sam needs me.”

  Noah stood too. He towered over me. I never realized how tall he was. Or perhaps I never felt so small and fragile. “Give him a little more time,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Just a little. Then you can go to him. Trust me. He needs to be alone right now.”

  A tear slipped down my cheek and Noah caught it with his thumb. “I promised I wouldn’t leave him in the dark.”

  “You’re not leaving him there,” Noah said. “You’re just letting him wander around for a bit.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Come with me.” He took my hand and led me outside where the air was cooler. It felt good on my overheated skin. Not once did Noah let go of my hand as we trooped across a field. We didn’t stop until we came upon an old hickory tree, standing tall on its own as if it were proud to be there, a majestic beauty against a plain backdrop. He beckoned me to sit underneath its canopy of sprawling branches, and so I did, wondering why my brother had brought me here.