Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “Within those pages are exactly the things that I promised you.”

  “Then I’ll only print those things,” he said smugly.

  “I’ll give the story to someone else.”

  He slapped his palm on the desk. “I don’t like being manipulated, Mr. Burke.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “Yet you seek to manipulate me?”

  “No. I seek to work with you. You can say no.”

  “By your rules,” he hissed.

  “Yes, by my rules. It’s my story. And if you want it, then you take all of it or none of it. This is a business opportunity, one that will help your newspaper when it all comes to light. If you don’t want it, then I’ll take back my pages and be on my way.”

  When I stood, Mr. Davenport held up both palms. I waited.

  “May I at least read it first before agreeing to anything?”

  “Can I trust that you won’t print what you read until such terms are met?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “A man’s word is his bond, Mr. Davenport. If a man’s word isn’t worth anything then he isn’t worth anything. Would you agree?”

  Mr. Davenport rose from his chair, squared his shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Burke. When I give my word, I keep it.”

  I nodded once. “All right, then.”

  He reached his hand across the desk. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I accepted his proffered hand and shook it. “You know how to reach me.”

  The following evening, I was working late at Mr. Hallison’s shop to finish a saddle a customer had ordered. The father had wanted their family’s crest carved into the leather. It was to be a gift to his son.

  I was just finishing up the details when James said over my shoulder, “That’s beautiful, Sam. Mr. Rochester should be pleased when he sees it.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You’re really good at that.”

  “Thank you,” I said, clearing my throat. I leaned over the saddle, inspecting it with a critical eye. Coming back to work for Mr. Hallison had been an easy decision. I’d needed to earn money. I had a future wife to provide for, after all. The wedding was fast approaching. Lucy was making her own wedding dress with the help of her mother and sisters. And my mother had been busy sending out invitations and whatever else planning a wedding entailed. Admittedly, working for Mr. Hallison wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, although it filled a need to do something. And I was grateful—grateful that I had learned his trade and that, even now, Mr. Hallison continued to teach me. Turning to James, I said, “Your father was the one who—”

  “Who showed you how to carve into leather,” Mr. Hallison said, coming to stand beside me. “You are the one who’s blessed with talent enough to create designs. James is right. This is beautiful.” He slapped his hand on my back. “Be proud of it.”

  I was choking on pride, truth be told, but I swallowed it as best as I could and managed a small smile.

  In the distance, the bell above the showroom door rang, alerting us that someone had entered. Noah was at the front, so Mr. Hallison, James, and I stayed in the back. I blew out a breath and ran my hand over the leather. The saddle was ready. Mr. Rochester could pick it up first thing in the morning.

  “Sam,” Noah said from the doorway leading into the backroom. “You know a Mr. Davenport? He’s up front to see you.”

  “He came here?” I pulled out the timepiece from my waistcoat pocket. It was after eight in the evening.

  “You know him, then?” he asked.

  “Yes, I know him.” I tucked the timepiece back inside my pocket. “You mind giving me a minute with him? I need to speak to him privately.”

  Noah pressed his lips into a flat line, clearly not liking the idea. “I suppose I can find something to do back here.”

  “Have you seen the finished result of the saddle Sam has been working on?” James called out to his brother. “Come have a look.”

  When I passed by Noah, he asked, “Who is he . . . this Mr. Davenport?”

  “I’ll explain once he leaves,” I promised, shouldering past him.

  As I entered the showroom, Mr. Davenport was turning in a slow circle in the center of the room, wearing his tailored clothes, holding his hat in his hands, viewing the inventory for sale.

  “Did you make any of these, Mr. Burke?” he asked, hearing my awkward gait, not looking in my direction. Rather, he was admiring the saddles on display.

  “A couple,” I answered.

  “Nice,” he said as he made his way around the showroom.

  “It’s late, Mr. Davenport. How did you know I would still be here?”

  “I took a gamble,” he said.

  “I see.”

  “I finished reading your pages. That’s why I’m here. I came straight over.”

  “And?” I asked.

  He finally spared me a look. I braced for his words. “Your story will go to print,” he said. “You delivered on your promise. Provided you do, in fact, have the written testimonies from Mr. Clive’s sister and his son? I’ll need to speak to them, of course. Do a proper interview.”

  “I do,” I answered.

  “Good. Very good.” He eyed me for a moment and then . . . “You could have just given me the facts,” he said.

  “I could have.”

  “You want everyone to know every rotten thing Theodore Clive has done—every injustice on display.”

  “That’s exactly what I want.”

  He stepped closer, his voice lowering, but each word spoken was with thoughtful deliberation. “You chose to paint a very descriptive picture.” He bobbed his head toward the room I’d just come out of. “The Hallisons,” he said. “You included them in your story. And certain people in this town. The Salvadors, for example. You’re not doing this for you, are you, Sam?”

  “You can’t possibly know my motives, Mr. Davenport.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “No, I suppose I can’t. I did read what you wrote, however, so I feel I know a little about the man behind the words.”

  I said nothing. He could think what he wanted. Though it was unnerving how easily he could deduce my reasons.

  He slapped his hat against his leg. “I, too, would like to see Mr. Clive pay. And he will. He can buy off one magistrate in one town. He won’t be able to buy off the entire state of Connecticut when this goes public.”

  “I hope you’re right on that score,” I murmured.

  Mr. Davenport smirked. “I couldn’t put it down once I started reading, you know. Your story, this town’s story . . . it’s all finely woven together, isn’t it?” He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “And you’re the one to bring Mr. Clive’s reign to an end. I’ll see to that. Your voice will be heard.”

  “Thank you,” I said hoarsely.

  “I should be thanking you,” he said before donning his hat and turning to go. “For choosing my newspaper, young man.”

  “Do you think I could submit some other writings to your paper sometime?” I asked, then closed my eyes, hating that I’d asked.

  Mr. Davenport paused at the threshold of the open door. A conveyance passed by and also a few pedestrians.

  “What kind of writings?” he asked.

  My throat suddenly felt parched. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’d like to try my hand at poetry in the future. I’d also like to write some inspirational pieces. Nothing dry. Nothing long.” I quirked a nervous smile.

  He casually smiled back. “I suppose I can make room in my paper for Mr. Samuel Burke. I have a feeling you’ll be infamous in this town soon enough. Send me whatever you have whenever you have it. I don’t even care if it’s long.”

  I just stood there after Mr. Davenport’s departure, thinking on our conversation, when the sound of a boot scraping the floor made my back arch. I turned toward the sound, knowing I’d find Noah.

  “I was worried about you,” he said.

  “I don’t need y
ou watching over me. I need privacy when I ask for it,” I said, my words not stinging. I’d not meant for them to be.

  “I know. But you can’t ask me not to worry. I don’t know that man.”

  I sighed and propped my weight on the counter. “If you were listening, then the mystery of the man is solved.”

  Noah said nothing for the longest time, and I began to wonder if he’d heard me. Eventually, he came forward. “Here,” he said, holding out my cane. “You left this in the back.”

  “Thank you.” I met his eyes, which seemed . . . not sad, but . . . something akin to it. Wanting to lighten the mood, I fisted the head of my cane, weighing it. “You know,” I said. “This could make an excellent weapon if the need ever arises.” I stepped back and made several slashing motions through the air.

  Noah rolled his eyes. “Let’s pray it never comes to that.”

  I pretended to jab him with it. He pretended to almost be gutted.

  “See? I am a force to be reckoned with,” I bellowed.

  He laughed. And even though the room was dim, his laughter brightened it. But when his laughter faded, I again found myself bracing for someone’s words.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.

  “I was going to.”

  He shook his head. “Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t you tell me you were writing a story for the paper? Why didn’t you tell me your plan? You made me think you had given up on the whole getting justice thing—on Mr. Clive getting his due.”

  I rubbed my hand over my mouth and jaw. “I told you I hadn’t given up.”

  “Yes, but you never explained. And whenever I brought it up, you would change the conversation.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But what was I supposed to say—that I’m writing a story for The Bridgeport Courant?”

  “Yes! It’s brilliant. And I would have supported you. Because exposing Mr. Clive publicly, even if he’s paid off the magistrate, he’ll be forced to act now.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure if Mr. Davenport would help me until a few minutes ago. I didn’t want you to face more disappointment if he refused.”

  Noah said nothing. Instead, he dropped his gaze from mine and meandered around the room.

  When his avoidance got to be too much, I said, “Noah, I’m sorry. Please. Forgive me. I should have told you.”

  “I’m not mad, Sam.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s the matter?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean why are you here?” He waved his hands around. “You’re not for this place. You never have been.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m saying it’s time for you to listen to your heart. What is it telling you? I assure you it’s not telling you to make saddles for a living.”

  “What’s wrong with making saddles?”

  “Nothing is wrong with it. I plan on making a living at it. But you?” He shook his head. “I think we both know you were never meant for saddle-making.”

  “Your brother thinks I’m good at it.”

  His boots continued to chuff against the wood-planked floor. “Can you honestly tell me you are satisfied . . . content . . . just being Samuel Burke, the saddle maker? And before you answer that, I heard what you said to that Mr. Davenport fellow. You want to write poetry and other uplifting stories. Sam, you want to inspire people. How best could you do that, I wonder?”

  “You think I should become a writer?”

  He gave me a droll look from across the room. “I think you already know what you should be doing. I’ve known you all my life. I know you know the answer. Why are you resisting it?”

  My leg had begun to ache, so I sat on an old wooden chair next to the counter, resting my palms on the head of my cane. Noah was right and he was wrong. I did know what I wanted to do with my life. I guessed I had known for a long, long time. I wanted to be a pastor. I wanted to inspire people. But I wasn’t resisting it. I was just . . .

  “I’m afraid,” I said, admitting it out loud . . . to Noah. Because for some reason I could never admit it to myself.

  He stopped his pacing. “Afraid of what, Sam?”

  “That I won’t be as good as my father.”

  Noah put his hands on his hips. “Not as good as your father? Not as good as . . .” His words trailed off. He pointed his finger at me. “Stay right there.” He headed off to another room then popped out shortly after, holding something.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Is that—”

  “Your topper? Yes, it is.”

  “Where did you find it?”

  “You never lost it. I took it with me to Boston.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to be away from home for a while. I didn’t know when I’d be back. And you were . . . not well. I needed to take a piece of you with me, you know?” He shrugged. “I took your topper and whenever I got lonely, I would stare at it and think of you and remind myself what I was doing and who I was doing it for. Sometimes I would pray over it—pray for you to get better.”

  “Noah,” I whispered.

  “Listen to me. Remember that day in your room, after Lucy left for school? You were quoting scriptures. I started reading the Bible after that day. You did that. Not your father. And you didn’t even know it. You are the reason I even believe there is a God. And before Mr. Clive attacked you, what were you doing, Sam? Spending time with a little boy who’d lost his father, taking him fishing after church every Sunday. Because that’s who you are! And now this . . . the story that will be coming out next week in the paper. You didn’t do that for you. Or, not just for you. I heard what Mr. Davenport said. You did that for us. You’ve been ministering all your life, Sam! So, don’t tell me you won’t be as good as your father!”

  I . . . was speechless.

  Noah crossed the room and stood before me. “Here’s your topper. I’m sorry your best friend is also a thief.” He grinned. “I should have given it back when I returned. I just . . . I found it hard to let it go.”

  “You can keep it,” I said, barely recognizing my own voice.

  “No, I don’t need it anymore. I have the real thing right in front of me.”

  I took it from him and felt the weight of it in my hands. I’d missed my hat. It held all my best memories. Now, it held one more. “Thank you for taking care of it for me.”

  “Sam,” Noah said.

  I looked up. “Yes?”

  “You were joking before, but you are a force to be reckoned with. The only person who needs to believe that is you.”

  The story came out in Tuesday morning’s paper. I’d finally told my family and the Hallisons about what I’d done. I didn’t think they understood the scope of it, but they had been supportive. All they cared about was whether the story would bring down Mr. Clive. I had given them hope, and that hope had given them joy. They would soon understand the breadth of it; however, I wouldn’t be around when they did. I hadn’t truly understood either until the paper had been delivered and I saw my father put on his spectacles to begin reading. I slipped out of the house and headed straight for the woodshed. The sun hadn’t even winked itself fully awake. I was contemplating just moving into the ramshackle hideaway when I sat down on the makeshift bed and buried my head in my hands.

  What have I done?

  What if there were ramifications I’d not considered? What if I’d made a terrible mistake? What if I’d misjudged? What if all I’d managed to do was make the bad people angrier and the good people more of a target?

  I fell back on the bed and closed my eyes, frustrated with myself. No, I was right. I was sure I was right. I did the only thing I knew to do. I took a risk. Surely the risk would be . . .

  The door opened, and Lucy was there, the paper tucked underneath her arm. I sat up slowly, catching Lucy’s eye. I squirmed, I admit, not
knowing what was going through her mind. When her honey-colored eyes began to shine, I didn’t know what to think.

  “You wrote this?” she asked. “I know you said you put something in the paper, but this? This is what you wrote?”

  My eyes fell to my knees. I didn’t know what she wanted me to say. The proof was right there in her hands . . . in black and white. “May I see the newspaper?” I asked instead.

  She untucked the paper from her arm, hesitated a moment, holding it tightly to her chest before walking it over to me. Our eyes locked, held, and then she stalked to the window, giving me her back. I took a deep breath and unfolded the paper, snagging on the headline splashed across the page:

  LOCAL BRIDGEPORT RESIDENT, SAMUEL BURKE, TELLS ALL. Below the headline read: The Bridgeport Courant was approached by Samuel Burke, a resident of Bridgeport, Connecticut since moving here in the year 1814 with his parents, The Reverend and Mrs. J. Burke. When he approached us, he said he had a story that would set this town back on its heels. A story that involved attempted murder, his attempted murder, and he knew who tried to kill him. Of course, we were not only interested, we felt we had an obligation to Samuel Burke to get his story told. We allowed him to tell it in his own words as he saw fit. Let the record show, we have spoken with the individuals mentioned here, the ones you will hear who gave written statements, and we find them to be credible. Let the record also show that we have spoken with other persons mentioned within these pages and their accounting of events is in accord with Samuel Burke’s. (They were not privy to this story ahead of us speaking with them.)

  We believe a grave disservice has been done to the Burke family. It is our hope that the public calling out of the named individual you are about to read will prompt the local magistrate to now do his duty and arrest said individual instead of taking bribes. Of course, if this doesn’t work, we’re sure there is someone in our local and state government who can’t be bought. We shall see. However, we here at The Bridgeport Courant have said enough. We now leave you in the capable hands of Samuel Burke.

  The rest was what I had written. I knew what it said. I didn’t need to read any further. I folded the paper in half and set it beside me. When I looked up, Lucy was watching me, her eyes still shining.