Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “I am so proud of you,” she signed.

  I let out a long breath, relieved. I’d not realized how shallow my breaths had become. It felt good to finally take in a full breath of air.

  “You didn’t let him defeat you,” she went on. “Everyone is going to hear you. You are going to make them listen.” She wasn’t just smiling. She was beaming. “You fought back. I’m so glad you fought back.”

  I nodded magnanimously. “He’ll be angry. Clive will be angry.”

  “Let him be angry. Do we care?”

  “No. But he will want to retaliate, don’t you think?”

  “It’s public now. He’ll be an idiot to try.”

  “Desperate men do desperate things.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. I’m going to have to put my faith in . . . in . . . in the things you said. I’m going to put my faith in you, Sam. I’m going to believe that people will read what you wrote, and it will strike at their hearts and justice will finally be served. Mr. Clive will serve time for what he did,” she said with a resolute nod. “I believe that. I have to believe that. You have to believe that too.”

  The corners of my mouth tipped up into a smile. “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know, if I didn’t already love you, that little speech would have done it.”

  “Done what?”

  “Made me love you.”

  Lucy’s smile was shy. “I can’t help it if I see a fighter standing in front of me and I want to cheer him on.”

  “Is that how you see me? A fighter?” I asked.

  “You are a fighter. No matter how many times you get knocked down, you keep getting right back up. If that’s not a fighter, then what is?”

  “You,” I said. “I’ve watched you fight your whole life—for things the rest of us take for granted. And you did it with grace—you made it look easy. But I know it wasn’t. If I’m a fighter, Lucy, it’s because you taught me how to be one.”

  One single tear slid down her cheek. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

  “It’s true.” I closed the distance between us and brushed the tear away with my thumb. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Our gazes clashed, then heated. Her honey-colored eyes began to glow. My heart knocked against my chest, the caged animal inside me roared. If I kissed her as I wanted, I wouldn’t be able to keep the promise I’d made to her—to wait until our wedding night. We’d been impulsive once. We mustn’t be impulsive twice. We could wait. We would. I took a step back, then another, and made myself breathe through the heat that swept through my veins.

  “We marry in two weeks,” she said as though she could read my mind.

  Ah, two weeks. It may as well be an eternity. I smiled weakly. “I wish it were tomorrow.”

  “Two weeks,” she reiterated. “Surely we can endure two more weeks.”

  “Surely,” I said, not feeling as certain as she.

  Her laughter peeled out like a bird taking flight, starting off low, then climbing higher. “We can manage, my love. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I get to marry my best friend. I can’t imagine anything more precious than that. I could wait a thousand lifetimes if that’s my reward. And if we’re lucky, we’ll have children, and I hope those children grow up to be just like their father. That will make me the happiest woman in the world, and I’ll get the story I’ve always wanted.”

  She was smiling so brightly, so full of joy, I had no words for the occasion. I kissed her hands instead of uttering words. And then I kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her nose, her forehead. And then I pulled her to me and hugged her so tightly, I hoped I didn’t bruise anything.

  And then I vowed to myself that I’d give her the story she wanted. If it was the last thing I did.

  Sam

  The day the story ran in The Bridgeport Courant, I did not go into town. In fact, none of us did. It was the first day, that I could recall, Mr. Hallison did not open his shop, not even allowing his oldest son, James, to open. Lucy and I had walked through the door of my parents’ house (everyone had been there), and the reception had been a bit overwhelming. They had all read the paper, and as we entered the parlor, I had been greeted with proud smiles, warm hugs, and an afternoon full of jubilant conversation.

  However, the following day, we prepared ourselves for the town’s reaction. Would they react? We did not know what to expect. Mr. Clive had been named. The magistrate had been outed for accepting bribes. Would there be retaliation?

  Papa had stayed home with the women while Mr. Hallison, James, Noah and I went about our normal routine . . . off to work at the saddle shop. Same as all the days before—only it felt different—like something cataclysmic was going to happen. We loaded up into Mr. Hallison’s carriage and when we turned onto Stratford Avenue, that briny scent wafted in the air, and it was a relief to have that familiarity—to feel like, perhaps, nothing would change, and yet knowing that everything needed to. We were nearing the harbor when we noticed the road was blocked. A wagon had overturned, spilling produce everywhere, the horses still tangled in the reins. Several people were trying to collect the fruit. Mr. Hallison brought the carriage to a stop, unable to proceed any further.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” he called to the horses as he tried to steer them to the side of the busy street. Another commotion was taking place a little further ahead. It looked as though a small crowd was gathering.

  “What do you suppose is happening?” Noah asked his father.

  “No idea,” he answered.

  “We can’t even get through,” said James. “We’re stuck here.”

  We waited in the carriage for a bit until Noah grew too restless.

  “I need to move. I can’t sit any longer.”

  When Noah descended from the carriage, he froze, his eyes zeroing in on the shop in front of him. The sign above us read: Salvador Bake Shop. A woman behind the counter caught his eye, and when she saw him through the glass window, she froze, too, for a moment. She put down a tray of pastries, wiped her hands on her apron, and made her way to the door, opening it, the little bell jingling above her head when she did. Noah’s throat bobbed up and down when she stepped onto the street and stood before us.

  “Noah,” she said.

  “Abbie,” he whispered.

  They stared at one another for the longest time. Really, it was as though no one else existed, and I suppose, for them, no one else did.

  James cleared his throat. “I’m afraid we haven’t met. I’m James Hallison. Noah’s brother.” He stepped forward, bowing before the lady, a smile on his lips.

  She blinked, turned her eyes toward James, a blush forming on her pale cheeks. “Abigail Salvador. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Noah seemed to remember himself and spoke up. “Pardon my rudeness. I hadn’t realized we were parked in front of your shop. I . . . was surprised to see you.” He turned to his father. “Papa, may I introduce Miss Abigail Salvador. My—” Noah’s words abruptly cut off and his eyes darted to the woman standing before us, his eyes stricken with heartache. “Thread,” I heard him whisper.

  “Mr. Hallison,” she said. “Honored to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine.” Mr. Hallison bowed and tipped his hat. He knew who this lady was to his son. Even if Noah had never said a word to any of us, the evidence of their feelings laid bare at our feet.

  Then her eyes landed on me . . . on my cane. “You must be Sam. Noah has told me so much about you. I feel as though I know you already.”

  I smiled. “Likewise, Miss Salvador,” I said, bowing, as was the proper thing to do when meeting a lady.

  “Abigail. Please. We must dispense with formality.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Excuse me,” a man asked as he approached, a woman with him at his side. “Are any of you Samuel Burke?” His eyes drifted to the bake shop signage, then to the Hallison men and me. “The one who wrote that st
ory in the paper?”

  “I am,” I said hesitantly. “And you are?”

  “George McGriff. This here is my wife.” Someone bumped his shoulder. He pulled his wife closer toward him. “We read what you wrote, and we just wanted to say that we hope you . . .”

  “Oh, is that him?” someone said, interrupting the man. “Sara! It’s him! Sorry,” she said to Mr. McGriff. “I overheard you talking. Mr. Burke, we read your story in the paper, my sister and me. My name is Elsie. You made us cry. Excuse me,” the lady said, edging herself in our little circle. “You have no idea how deeply your story touched us. I told Sara, that’s my sister, that that old Mr. Clive should pay for what he did to you and how he’s treated others in this town so poorly. We truly hope he does.”

  “Thank you,” I said. A commotion was taking place down the street. That small gathering had grown in size and shouting had ensued. “Does anyone know what’s going on?” I asked, pointing to the crowd.

  “A mob,” someone jeered from outside our little circle. Everyone turned to the man who had said it. Mr. Clive stood there, glaring at each of us. He stared up at the Salvador Bake Shop and his lip curled into a sneer. “I thought you weren’t supposed to darken this doorstep, Hallison?”

  “Don’t speak to him,” Mr. Hallison warned. “He’s looking for a fight.”

  “You’re damn right I’m looking for a fight! That cur,” he pointed to me. “Printed lies about me!”

  “There he is!” someone shouted in the distance.

  “Begone, Mr. Clive! No one wants you here!” Mr. McGriff said.

  Mr. Clive gave Mr. McGriff a scathing glare. “I’ll have you evicted for associating with these heathens! I’m still Theodore Clive, damn you!”

  The mob was moving in our direction. The shouting was getting louder, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  “Maybe we should fetch the magistrate,” Elsie suggested, panicking.

  “Fetch him,” Mr. Clive challenged. “He can’t and won’t arrest me. You all have been hoodwinked! Samuel Burke has no proof against me! I haven’t done a thing he’s accused me of. I’ll sue him.”

  “It was you,” I said. “Everything I said was true. You tried to kill me.”

  “Sam,” Mr. Hallison said. “Don’t.”

  “Lies!” Mr. Clive bellowed, coming closer, face reddening. Mr. Clive would have us believe he was merely angry, yet the closer he drew, I noticed how his jaw tightened, how his right eye twitched, how sweat dotted his forehead.

  “You’re scared,” I said, ignoring Mr. Hallison’s warning. “You should be. Because you’re going to pay for what you did. I won’t rest until you do. I won’t let you do this to someone else. I won’t.”

  “I’m going to sue you, Burke!”

  “From prison? Because that’s where you’re going.”

  “I should have finished—” He bit off his words at the last minute.

  “Finished? Finished what?” I tapped my cane on the ground twice. “Go on . . . what were you about to say?”

  “I hate you,” he seethed. He tore his eyes from mine and glared at Mr. Hallison. “I hate all of you. If you thought I made your lives miserable before, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

  “Someone fetch the magistrate!” Mr. McGriff yelled to the crowd who were now upon us. “Mr. Clive just threatened the Burkes and the Hallisons!”

  “I’m already here!” the magistrate called. The crowd parted; the magistrate stepped forward. “Mr. Clive. I need to bring you in for questioning. There’s been a development since we last spoke.”

  “What?” Mr. Clive snarled. “A mob? You’re going to give in to people pitching carts in the street and behaving like animals?”

  “You’re the animal!” someone yelled.

  “Murderer!” another chanted.

  Other voices joined in the cacophony of angry shouting.

  “Please . . .” the magistrate called out, holding his hands in the air at the people. “Please settle down. Please.” The crowd noise lowered to muffled groans. Turning back to Mr. Clive, he said, “An eyewitness came forward this morning. They saw you leaving the scene of the crime.”

  “They’re lying!”

  “Don’t make this difficult,” the magistrate pleaded. “Come with me peacefully.”

  “You told me last night you would make this go away!”

  The magistrate’s face turned red—either from embarrassment or anger, I couldn’t say, but he did not enjoy Mr. Clive’s announcement.

  “I didn’t have an eyewitness before,” he hissed. “A boy saw you!”

  “What boy? Who?”

  “Me.” A soft-spoken boy stepped out of the crowd, his mother’s protective hands on his shoulders.

  “Adam,” I murmured.

  “I saw you.” He jutted his chin forward, trying to be brave in the face of a murderer. The crowd grew still and quiet. Adam’s eyes found mine and they began to mist. “I’m sorry, Sam. I’m sorry I never said anything. I was afraid to. After Noah sent me to find help for you, I thought going through the woods would be faster, but I got turned around and panicked and started going in another direction. That’s when I saw Mr. Clive in the woods, wearing the same cloak I’d seen as the man dragging you into the river before Noah scared him away. I was so scared he saw me. I’d ducked behind a thick hedgerow. I saw him ditch the cloak in the woods. I watched him bury it too. I never told anyone it was Mr. Clive who attacked you. I was afraid he would do to me what he did to you.” A tear slid down his cheek. “Last night Mama read to me your story in the paper. She told me how brave it was of you to come forward like that—to out a man like Mr. Clive. I wanted to be brave too.” He nodded his head. “So I told her what I saw, and I told her I wanted to tell the magistrate that I saw him with my own eyes. I saw him, Sam. He did it.” He pointed his finger at Mr. Clive. “He’s the one that did it,” he said to the magistrate. “And I’ve been too afraid to tell anyone.”

  Mr. Clive, for the first time in his life, had nothing to say. His fate had been sealed by a six-, no, now a seven-year-old boy.

  “Mr. Clive,” said the magistrate. “You are hereby under arrest for the attempted murder of Mr. Samuel Jonah Burke.”

  “No,” Mr. Clive said, voice strained. “His testimony is not admissible in court. The boy is too young. The judge won’t allow it, surely.”

  The crowd roared at that proclamation, and someone bellowed, “Arrest him!”

  Mr. Clive’s eyes flashed with anger at the mob before settling on me. “This is your fault,” he hissed. “Your fault. You and your damn story!” He pulled a pistol from his person and aimed it at me. From the corner of my eye, I saw Noah shoving Abbie behind him. I was thankful Lucy was at home away from all this, away from the danger. I was terrified, of course, because I knew he would kill me. He would finally finish me off. But at least this time there would be no mystery to solve. My family wouldn’t have to wonder who or why. They would know and justice would be swift this time, at least. However, I didn’t want to die.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I said, my voice shaking.

  “I do, actually.” And then a gunshot rang out, the sound of death reverberating in my ears. I stumbled back, startled, waiting for the pain to start, but I was numb. Perhaps fear lessened the pain. I clutched at my chest, waiting, waiting, waiting. Still, I felt nothing. I opened my eyes, lifted my hands, expecting to see blood. There was none.

  Then Abigail screamed. I looked up. Her grandfather stood outside his bake shop holding a gun, Mr. Clive dead at his feet. She broke away from Noah’s grip and rushed to embrace Mr. Salvador.

  “Shh, dear girl,” he soothed. “It’s all right. Everything is all right.”

  “You . . . you killed a man,” she cried.

  “I killed a killer. I’d do it again.”

  “But are you . . . will you now go to pr-prison?”

  “No,” the magistrate answered. “He will not. I will make no such arrest.” Then he asked t
he crowd, “Can I get someone to help me remove him from the street?”

  No one volunteered . . . at first. Finally, two men stepped forward.

  He may not have been judged by a jury of his peers in a court of law, but Theodore Clive had been judged by his peers, nonetheless, on the streets of Bridgeport.

  I suppose, in the end, justice prevailed.

  Darien, Connecticut

  1834

  And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy

  Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be

  Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy

  I wantoned with breakers – they to me

  Were a delight; and if the freshening sea

  Made them a terror – ‘twas a pleasing fear,

  For I was as it were a child of thee,

  And trusted to thy billows far and near,

  And laid my hand upon thy mane – as I do here.

  My talk is done – my song hath ceased – my theme

  Has died into an echo; it is fit

  The spell should break of this protracted dream.

  The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit

  My midnight lamp – and what is writ, is writ –

  Lord Byron

  Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage,

  CLXXXIV - CLXXXV

  Darien, Connecticut. That was where Lucy and I lived now. After I graduated from college and then seminary school, I was assigned to the church, coincidently enough, where I once attended as a small boy, the one where my father had been an assistant pastor before my family and I had moved to Bridgeport. Funny, isn’t it, how life works. I’d come full circle.

  But perhaps I should back up a bit.

  I’d married Lucy on a bright sunny afternoon. Everyone our mothers invited had attended. Relatives on Lucy’s side. Some on mine. It had been a small, intimate affair, followed by a reception where I got to dance with my beautiful bride. I hadn’t been nervous when I’d vowed to love her forever. I’d only become nervous when I’d led her out onto the dance floor. I’d felt like a teenage boy again, taking the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about into my arms, and wanting her to feel the music, to feel my heart, to feel my breath on her face, to feel me.