Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  How many times had we written to one another . . . I’ll meet you on the dance floor? And there we were—dancing as husband and wife. It was quite simply the happiest moment of my life.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t mention Noah. I was getting ready in one of the church’s back rooms before the ceremony when Noah had entered the room, all smiles.

  “Today’s the day,” he’d said. “The day we become brothers, officially.”

  I’d straightened my cravat in the mirror, grinning. “I was thinking . . . today’s the day I marry the love of my life.”

  He’d waved his hand dismissively. “Well, yes, that too.”

  And while I’m speaking of Noah, six months after I’d married the love of my life, he had married the love of his. Abigail Christiana Salvador became Abigail Christiana Hallison. May they live happily ever after.

  But back to Lucy and me. After the wedding, I’d applied to colleges and was accepted into Yale. The story I’d written for The Bridgeport Courant had hit other newspapers around the country and apparently that had made an impact on the decision-makers at Yale, because not only did they accept me, but they also had given me a scholarship.

  After college came seminary school, and during those years, Lucy and I began our family. We lived meagerly, of course, though we managed. We always managed. We now had four beautiful children: Benjamin Jonah, Eva Marie, Simon Thomas, and Hattie Anne. Their ages were currently eight, five, three, and one. Yes, our hands were gloriously full. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Lucy’s sister, Celia, lived with us now. I couldn’t always be at home. Ministering to the people took me away unexpectedly at times, getting called away to pray over the sick in their final hours or someone needing counseling in times of trouble. It eased my mind to know Celia was there to help. It eased Lucy’s mind too. Our children were all hearing children; however, they all communicated by sign when they were with their mother—even the one-year-old was learning the language. But Lucy could not hear if something got knocked over or if a child had fallen in another room. Those were her fears—that she wouldn’t know if one of her children needed her. Every parent had a fear, though, didn’t we? That we would somehow fail our children—that we wouldn’t be there when they needed us? Our fears came in all different shapes and sizes. But every parent had them, I should think. Lucy was no exception. I feared that I wouldn’t be home should something happen to one of my babies. What was I to do about it? Quit ministering? Stay home? Give up my job as a pastor? Of course that wasn’t the answer. We persevered. We pushed through our fears and we did the best we could. It was all any of us could do.

  Of course, those were the fears we had no control over. There were other fears—fears we brought upon ourselves—secrets that we kept—like the one I’d been keeping from Lucy. I wasn’t keeping it from her because the secret was bad. It wasn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. However, I wasn’t sure she would like it or even understand. And so, I hadn’t told her, although the time was drawing near. She would learn of it soon. And whenever she did . . . waiting for her reaction would be . . . well . . . I felt confident it would be the longest I would ever hold my breath. I was most certain of that.

  Sam

  The candle burned low in the lantern, the fire crackled in the hearth, and the soothing pitter-patter of the rain outside my office window was enough to convince any man to put down his quill and go up to bed. And I would. I just needed a few more minutes. The project I’d been working on for the past year was near completion.

  Thunder rumbled. Seconds later, lightning flashed. I checked my timepiece. Eleven twenty-seven. Lucy would be abed with Hattie. Which meant any minute now . . .

  Tiny footsteps above my head . . . on the staircase . . . and then . . . the door creaked open. “Papa?”

  “Ava.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Come here, sweetheart.” I placed the quill on the blotter and sat Ava on my lap. “The storm can’t get you in here, nor can it get you in your room. It’s all the way outside.”

  “It’s loud and mean.”

  “Oh, it’s not so mean. You know what my papa used to tell me about thunder? That God was moving His furniture.”

  Ava giggled. “That’s silly.”

  “Do you think? I always liked the idea. It helped me not to be afraid. And he used to tell me that lightning was God lighting candles. If you think about it like that, it’s not so scary, is it?” She shook her head. “Come on, sweet pea. Off to bed we go.”

  “You too?” she asked.

  “Me too.” I blew out the candle and carried Ava up the stairs (my right leg—particularly my ankle—aching under the extra weight, though I endured it) and tucked her back into bed. She shared a room with her older brother, Benjamin, who was sound asleep, dead to the world. I couldn’t help smiling as I pulled a blanket over him. He had always been a heavy sleeper. Lucy had said he was like Noah in that regard. When the realization dawned on me that I had children who had Noah’s blood running through their veins, well, it was a revelation that made me quite proud. I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought about it before. I mean . . . I had in an abstract sort of way. Noah was their uncle, sure. But I hadn’t really considered my children inheriting any of his traits, talents, habits, or any of that sort of thing. I found myself hoping they inherited a good bit from him. Even sleeping habits made me proud.

  “Good night, Papa,” Ava said as I moved toward the door.

  “Good night, sweet pea.” I was just about to leave when thunder rumbled in the distance. I turned back to Ava. Was she going to bolt back into my arms?

  She pulled the covers up to her chin like a brave little girl. “God’s just moving His furniture around.”

  “That’s right,” I said softly. “He’ll get it situated soon.”

  Lightning flashed.

  “He just lit a candle,” she whispered, trying to convince herself all was well.

  “He did,” I whispered back. Rain lightly rapped on the windowpane, and together we listened to the weather outside for a moment.

  “I’m all right, Papa,” she said. “You can go.”

  “Are you certain?” She nodded. “All right, then. Good night, sweet pea.”

  “Good night. See you in the morning.”

  “See you in the morning.”

  I closed the door and smiled, my heart feeling so big, so full. I contemplated going to bed, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep having left things unfinished downstairs.

  I relit the candle and sat down behind my desk. Dipping the quill in the inkpot, I went back to work.

  An hour later, Lucy was standing at my office door, tapping on it to gain my attention. “Coming to bed anytime soon?” she asked

  “One more minute,” I said. And when I crossed my final t and dotted my final i . . . I rubbed my eyes and said, “Now I’m ready.” I stood up, stretched my back, gripped my cane, and blew out the candle. When I reached Lucy, I wrapped my arm around her waist and took my wife to bed.

  “Everyone ready to go?” I asked.

  A round of yeses passed through the coach before I set the team of horses into motion.

  It had been several months since the night of the storm. Little Ava no longer sought me in the middle of the night when she heard thunder. Although, once, I had put my ear to her and Benjamin’s bedroom door and I heard her say, “God’s just moving furniture.” I had smiled at her innocence and her bravery and moved on to check on the rest of my babies before turning in for the night. I was always the last one to bed. Celia almost always was the first. Lucy tended to stay up a little later. After she put Hattie down, she would come sit with me in my office while I worked on my sermon for the following Sunday. We would also catch up on our days. She would tell me about hers. I would tell her about mine. It was the best part of my day, truth be known. And when her eyes would start to droop, I would take her by the hand, lead her up the stairs and watch her prepare for bed. Sometimes, I’d help
her unpin her hair, brush it out, and then I’d help her with the buttons on her dress. After nine years of marriage, I was still enamored with my wife, and every day I grew more and more in love with her. I never knew it was possible to love someone this much. But Lucy Hallison Burke had stolen my heart from the start. I’d stopped fighting it a long time ago.

  Lucy bumped my shoulder, grinning. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said.

  She had chosen to ride in the box with me while Celia and the children rode in the back. She knew I couldn’t drive and sign at the same time. I needed both hands on the reins. But I could kiss her because that’s what I’d been thinking about, so I did. It wasn’t a quick kiss, either. I let it linger a bit longer than I probably should have. When I pulled away, she was blushing quite nicely.

  She looked this way and that. I did too. We hadn’t pulled onto the main street yet. No one had seen us.

  “You cad,” she said, still grinning. “We’re on our way to church. Behave yourself.”

  I gave her a wolfish smile and turned my attention back to the road ahead. Soon we were at the church. I disembarked first, then helped Lucy climb down. Next, I helped Celia and the children. We all went inside where I prepared for Sunday services . . . opening the doors . . . lighting the candles . . . setting my notes and Bible on the lectern.

  Two hours later, I was wrapping up my sermon (Celia always signed my sermons for Lucy, standing behind me, off to the side where Lucy could see her) when I saw an old friend come in and take a seat on the last pew in the back. The doors had been open, letting in fresh air and sunlight, so he’d not made any noise upon his entry. No one had looked his way.

  At the end of service, we did what we always did . . . we made our way down the aisle as a family and greeted all the parishioners at the door on their way out. And as everyone filed out, Mr. Davenport shook my hand.

  “Reverend Burke,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

  “You know, no matter how many times I hear someone call me that, I always want to look over my shoulder for my father.”

  “I’m sure you do,” he said. “I still look over my shoulder for Mr. Davenport.”

  “Just so,” I said.

  His eyes veered to Lucy. “This must be your wife. I regret we’ve never met.”

  I signed his words and Lucy smiled. “This is Mr. Davenport,” I said. “The owner of The Bridgeport Courant.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  Again, I translated, and he responded with, “The honor is mine.” He lowered his eyes to the child on Lucy’s hip “And who have we here?”

  “Hattie,” I said. “Our youngest. And this is,” I said, pointing to the children who were lined up by age, “Benjamin, Ava, and Simon. Say hello to Mr. Davenport.”

  “Hello,” the children said. And then Ava snapped, “Stop stepping on my shoes, Simon!”

  “Children,” Celia scolded. “Manners.”

  “I don’t believe we have been introduced,” Mr. Davenport interjected.

  “This is Celia Hallison,” I said. “My sister-in-law. And our saving grace.” I smiled at Celia because she truly was our saving grace, and she well knew it. However, her cheeks pinkened with Mr. Davenport’s sharp gaze concentrated on her.

  He extended his hand, and for a moment Celia acted as though she had no idea what to do with it. Then she pulled herself together and extended hers in return, where he gently dropped a kiss upon her gloved knuckles. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Hallison.”

  “Likewise,” she said softly.

  “So, what brings you to Darien?” I asked.

  “You are what brings me to Darien,” he said.

  “Beg pardon.”

  He cocked his head. “You do remember the parcel you had delivered to my office several months ago?”

  “I do,” I said. “I asked you to help me find someone.”

  “And so I have. He would like to meet with you.”

  “He would? When?”

  “Today. This afternoon, actually.”

  “This afternoon?” I gulped. “Why . . . why this afternoon?”

  “He’s only in town today, visiting a distant relative. Can you meet for lunch? Your lovely wife may join us, of course.”

  “Today?”

  “Is that a problem?”

  I looked at Lucy. She looked at me, confused. She had no idea what I’d done. None at all. But she was about to find out.

  “No, no. It’s not a problem,” I said to Mr. Davenport. “Tell us where you’d like to have lunch and we’ll meet you there.”

  “Excellent. I’ll let Mr. Schubert know.”

  We met Mr. Davenport and Mr. Schubert at a little corner café. They were already seated when we arrived. On the way there, I was nervous, and by the time we approached their table, I was terrified.

  They both stood when they saw us. “I took the liberty of ordering tea while we waited. I hope that’s all right,” Mr. Davenport said, sketching a bow.

  I signed this to Lucy, of course. Then pointed to the tea service. “That’s lovely,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “And this is Mr. Schubert,” he said, gesturing to a lean, well-dressed man in a crisp white linen shirt and white cravat with a black waistcoat, topcoat, and black breeches.

  He kissed my wife’s hand and shook mine. “Pleased to meet you,” he signed.

  Lucy and I both blinked in surprise.

  “You sign?” she asked.

  “My sister is deaf,” he said.

  “Did your sister attend The American Asylum at Hartford for her education, by chance?”

  “No,” he said. “She attended the New York School for the Deaf.”

  “I see,” she said. “I thought perhaps since we’re in Connecticut, she may have attended the same school as I. But I suppose that’s silly. It’s been years. I don’t even know your sister’s age.”

  “Twenty-three.”

  Lucy smiled. “Then it’s possible I would have known her had we attended the same school. Even if she’s a bit younger.”

  “I have no doubt you two would have gotten on well,” Mr. Schubert said, his smile reaching his eyes.

  “I do wish I knew what the two of you were saying,” Mr. Davenport said good-naturedly.

  “They were speaking about his sister and what schools she and Lucy attended,” I explained. “Shall we sit?”

  “Yes,” Lucy said.

  I pointed to the tea service, then asked, “Would you like a cup?”

  “I’ll pour,” she said, patting my hand.

  Bless her. She could tell I was nervous. She just had no idea why.

  Mr. Davenport began a new topic with, “Henry . . . that is . . . Mr. Schubert works for a publisher in New York.” Lucy handed him a cup. He nodded his thanks. “We went to college together. We go way back, he and I. You know what that’s like, don’t you, Reverend Burke?”

  “Please, call me Sam.”

  “Sam. Then you may call me Nigel.” He laughed. “All these years of you sending me poems, short stories, what have you, to print in my newspaper and we’re finally dispensing with formality.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “Do you know I still call my in-laws Mr. and Mrs. Hallison? Old habits. I cannot fathom calling them by their Christian names.” The corners of my mouth tipped into a smile. “And I’ve considered them family long before I married their daughter.”

  Mr. Davenport . . . Nigel . . . raised a brow. “I do believe I know that. Did you not think I would read what you sent me?”

  I squirmed. Of course he knew that. “Right.” I cleared my throat. “Right.” Lucy handed me a cup of tea. “Thank you.” I reached for the sugar and tried to ignore how much my hands trembled.

  “Which brings me back to what I was saying. I sent Mr. Schubert your book, Sam. He wants to publish it.”

  “What book is he talking about?” Lucy asked.

  Mr. Schubert had been kind enough to sign our conversation while Mr. Davenport—Nigel—and I spo
ke.

  “You haven’t told her?” Nigel asked.

  I tugged on my cravat. I felt like I was choking. “No. I . . . didn’t believe it would get published, to be honest and I . . .” I stole a glance at Lucy and said, “I was going to tell you.”

  “Mr. Schubert wants to publish your novel, Sam.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Your novel,” he repeated slowly. “What do you think of that?”

  “I . . .” Had no idea what to think! When I’d sent off my manuscript to Mr. Davenport—Nigel—and asked him to help me find a publisher, I didn’t really think he’d find one. Not truly . . . not one who would really consider publishing . . . me. Was this really happening?

  “I can see you’re speechless.” This came from Mr. Schubert. He bent over and removed something from his bag. To my utter surprise, it was my book, a copy of it. He placed it on the table right between Lucy and me.

  Lucy tilted her head. “Is this it? The book you wrote?”

  Before I could respond, Mr. Schubert tapped the top of it, bringing Lucy’s eyes to his. “That,” he said, “is your husband’s gift to you.”

  “Gift to me?” She turned her gaze on me. “Sam, what’s he talking about? What gift?”

  I rubbed my chin, the corner of my eye. Then I tapped the table. Basically, I was stalling.

  “Sam?”

  “Why haven’t you told her?” Mr. Schubert asked.

  I frowned. “I . . . don’t know.”

  “What haven’t you told me?” she asked.

  I sighed. I had thought whenever I told Lucy about this, it would be in the privacy of our home . . . just between us. Apparently, that wasn’t how I would tell her. Fantastic. I was sure if Noah were here, he would find the humor in this and tell me it was my own fault. I could see no humor, but it was my own fault. No point in lying to myself. And no point in lying to her.

  “Remember how you told me you wanted a story?” I said, trying to explain. “You’ve told me more than once.” She raised a brow. “This is your story, sweetheart. I wrote it all down. From the moment I met you. Everything that makes you amazing. It’s all right here.”