The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow

by Rita Leganski

  Between Dancy, Letice, and Trinidad, someone checked on her every day. The only one she let through the door was Dancy. Adelaide would open the door to Letice but immediately wave her away, and she would not even answer the door to Trinidad, and so missed another chance at redemption week after week after week.

  Adelaide didn’t have much to do. She took to rummaging through the house and found a pair of binoculars Theo had kept in a drawer. She used them to spy on her neighbors, but couldn’t even tell her African violet about the private things she saw. The frustration took over everything, and Adelaide became bitterly angry. After several months of self-imposed isolation she was found by Dancy, slumped over at the kitchen table, dead of a heart attack, just like Theo.

  Trinidad Prefontaine kept that smooth and speckled stone on the altar in her front room.

  When the light from the stone had gone that day, she’d put the prism relic of baby’s blood and the note that had been written by Dancy into her apron pocket. The next morning she took them back to Christopher Street and placed them both inside the box that Bonaventure had returned to that niche in the chapel wall. She stayed in the chapel for a moment more and said a prayer of deep thanksgiving.

  After that day, Trinidad began to look back at her past in search of her personal prophets. There was good Sister Sulpice, who’d given her the Canticle of Brother Sun and Sister Moon with which to bless endeavors; and of course there was Trinidad’s first prophet, Mam Judith, with her silks and her tea kettle, who’d spoken in that snake-hissy whisper of Purpose and of Knowing.

  Those look-backs became a regular habit and always brought new Knowing. For instance, it came to Trinidad that her mother had been raped and left with a child she had not known how to love. She knew that Calypso had been hurt beyond repair and didn’t know how to fix herself, and Trinidad forgave. She withdrew enough money from her savings to purchase a stone for her mother’s grave. The artisan had done as she requested, engraving Calypso’s name as Mrs. Fontenaise, which happened to incorporate that bit of punctuation that kept it from being a superstitious thirteen characters long. In addition to marking the grave, the monument bestowed the respectable title the living Calypso had never attained. Trinidad also placed a small bunch of chickweed on her mother’s grave, in order that Calypso might soothe that bite of a poisonous thing and walk without soreness to the Promised Land.

  Now, one might suppose that the itching would return and cause Trinidad to move on. It did not. Though she remained in the employ of the Arrow family, she continued to live in her house on the Neff Switch road, harvesting simples and turning them into cures. It was, she felt, her permanent Purpose.

  Romantic love came into Trinidad’s life, taking her by surprise. Her Knowing had not foretold that love, for it had come from inside a mystery.

  Personnel records at the Rouge provided Detective Tate with the names and last known addresses of four possibilities. They all had lived in Melvindale. Pairing information gathered from the Department of Veterans Affairs with his belief that the John Doe had been an army man allowed Tate to eliminate two of the possibilities because they had been in the navy and so would have carried a different uniform button. The remaining two were army guys, and the similarities between them were striking. Both had volunteered to serve; both had been born in the New Orleans area; neither had listed any living relatives when they joined the military.

  The first possibility was George Heckert, who’d lived on Maple Street in Melvindale. Tate went around to the address on record and introduced himself to the owners of the house as a private investigator who’d been hired to resolve a family situation. He promised compensation for a moment of their time. When he showed them the police photo of the John Doe, they said it was not George Heckert. They knew him well and had kept in touch after all these years; in fact, they’d had a letter from him just the other day. He’d moved to Louisville, Kentucky, a year or so ago, which meant he was not incarcerated in the asylum for the criminally insane. What Tate didn’t find out was that George Heckert had been the maker of the wagon with the plow blade handle, the one who couldn’t get a loan to save his family’s farm.

  Tate went to the remaining address, a rooming house on Taylor, stated his name and his purpose, and made the offer of compensation. The owner took one look at the photograph and said he remembered the guy all right; he’d stiffed him on the rent, just took off without notice. The man consulted an old green ledger and matched a name to the photo. It was that of the last possibility. The Wanderer had been identified.

  “It was strange,” the man said. “He’d never been any trouble, kept to himself. You know the type. A lot of those war wounded were like that.”

  “Do you recall when he made his sudden departure?” Tate asked.

  “It was winter. Let me see now—it would have been between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I think it was in 1949. Yeah, it was definitely in 1949. I remember all the talk at the time of hitting the half-century mark on New Year’s. And I remember all the trouble I had finding another tenant so close to the holidays. He had the basement apartment; it’s a tough one to rent out. Most people don’t like living in a Michigan basement. Too dark, they say, and too cold.”

  Tate paid the man and tipped his hat. Upon returning home, he checked the name against bank records in Bayou Cymbaline. It was easy to establish a connection to the Molyneaux family. He reported his findings to the police, who undertook formal confirmation.

  Finally, Tate set down his summation. When it was finished, he removed his glasses, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was what he always did at the end. He thought back through every step of the investigation and all he had done to bear out his conclusion.

  “It’s all there, Mrs. Arrow,” the detective said as he handed Letice the envelope. “Would you like me to tell you or would you prefer to open it in private?”

  “In private, Mr. Tate,” she said, and then handed him final payment. When Coleman Tate had gone, Letice took the envelope into her chapel and stood still before the crucifix. The words fell all around her then like a kind and curing rain: Father, forgive them; they know not what they do. Right there and right then, Letice Arrow knew in absolute clarity that forgiveness is unconditional; it is complete in and of itself and always rises above the facts.

  She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then she sat down at the table, the envelope before her, and took a sip of tea. She had waited so long to finally know the man’s name, and now it did not matter. The envelope remained sealed that day and the next. But on the third day, Letice decided to open it.

  She went into her library and slit the envelope in one swift motion and then pulled the paper out slowly. It was folded, and for a second or two she considered leaving it that way.

  Her hands shook, and she’d suddenly gone cold.

  There were just a few lines on that single sheet of paper. The case was no longer in progress but closed.

  FINAL REPORT

  IN THE MATTER OF WILLIAM EVEREST ARROW (DECEASED)

  The man who murdered your son has been identified as one Tristan Duvais. Confirmation has been ascertained by legal authority. Details provided upon request.

  Letice bent over double, her body wracked with pain. When the sobbing was through, she inhaled the present and exhaled the past. For the first time in forever she slept through the night and woke up knowing that Saint Bonaventure had been right. The mind can take in many things, but it cannot take in God.

  Letice still owned the Molyneaux family home—she’d never been able to bring herself to put it up for sale. Once or twice a year she met with the caretaker to discuss maintenance issues of one sort or another, but that was the extent of her dealings. And then she got into the habit of driving out there on Sunday mornings after mass. She never did more than pull into the driveway before turning the car around and heading back home, but one day for reasons she couldn’t quite make out, she left the car and went to stand in the stables where sh
e collected what remained of the long, long ago.

  With every succeeding pilgrimage, she grew closer to personal peace.

  She forgave her mother.

  She forgave Tristan.

  She resolved that God still loved her.

  On what Letice calculated would have been her first baby’s birthday, she went to her chapel and removed the carved wooden box that held the relic, not knowing that it now held Dancy’s note to William too. Letice did not open the box but took it out to the Molyneaux home and buried it beneath the elm tree, near about the grave of the fragile little sparrow. When her task was done, she recited from Ecclesiastes: There is a season for everything, a time for every occupation under heaven: A time for giving birth, a time for dying. Then she went on to her next destination.

  “Someone to see you,” the asylum guard said.

  Tristan sat down to face his visitor, a flicker of memory passing over his ruined face, but only for an instant. Letice reached across the table and gently took his hand, telling him she was sorry. She visited him every week after that. They sat in the garden and watched the birds and finally were at peace. The visits ended when Letice Arrow died at the age of seventy-eight.

  The Wanderer remained in the asylum the rest of his natural life. The memory of what he’d done left him for good. He wasn’t in pain and he no longer cried. Each time Eugenia Babbitt visited him, he would press her hand to his chest by way of saying goodbye.

  On a day when Letice and Bonaventure were out, Dancy Arrow sent Trinidad to the store because she wanted to be alone. She entered her bedroom closet and took down the box that held William’s ruined clothes and the note. She did not know that the original note was missing—she opened the lid only enough to slip this new note in:

  Dear William,

  I wish it never happened. I will always remember our happiness. You will ever be in my heart. Rest well.

  Love,

  Dancy

  Dancy removed the box from the closet and placed it on her bed. She took a bath and did her hair and took great pains with her makeup. After putting on a cotton summer dress in two shades of yellow, she slipped her feet into new espadrilles and dabbed drops of perfume behind each ear and at the pulse points on her wrists. She checked her appearance in the full-length mirror, inhaled deeply, and then blew the breath out as slowly as she could. She picked up the box and held it against her body, close to where her breath had grown thin as a wedding veil.

  Dancy walked down the staircase with grace and with trembling. Her feet barely made a sound. She stopped in the kitchen and soaked a dish towel with cold water and held it to her neck to avoid becoming faint. She gave herself a moment more and then continued on.

  When the darkness of the garage cooled her heat-covered skin, Dancy fell into a clammy cold sweat. But it had nothing to do with the sun or the shade. The car keys rattled in her shaking hands and her left foot missed the clutch. She was powerless even to start the car. Panic shot from her gut to her throat and exploded out her mouth. Her breathing turned into great gulps of mourning. Her whole body shook with the dread that she felt until she was finally too weak to shake more. She placed her hands on the steering wheel and laid her head against it. When her agony was spent, Dancy looked in the rearview mirror and reached for her purse. Then she took out her compact, powdered her face, and applied a touch of pink lipstick.

  She clenched her jaw, turned the key in the ignition, depressed the clutch with a sure foot this time, and backed out onto Christopher Street. Dancy went to the caretaker’s office at Père Anastase and asked the sexton to please open the Arrow family crypt. The man asked if she’d like him to wait outside, and Dancy said, “Thank you, but no.”

  She stood for a moment in the tomb’s deep-bronze quiet before placing the cloth-covered box on the floor and giving her husband his shroud.

  And that was the thing that allowed Dancy Arrow to let go of hatred and guilt. She no longer wanted to bring vengeance down upon a man who couldn’t tell right from wrong; she understood that nothing would bring her husband back, not even loving him as if he were alive.

  William had met his three challenges, and though he’d gained access to Real Heaven, he couldn’t make himself go without one last goodbye.

  Bonaventure heard that familiar sound of the air zipping open its pocket and letting his father’s voice in.

  —Hey, Dad!

  “Hey, Bonaventure. What’s happening with you?”

  —I got a new Captain America comic. Oh! And I made a friend in school!

  “You did?”

  —Yeah. His name is William too, just like you, but everyone calls him Billy. He got polio when he was two, so he wears a brace on one of his legs and he needs crutches to walk, but he’s a really good swimmer.

  “He sounds like an interesting guy.”

  —He is. He’s my best friend.

  “I’m glad. Everybody needs a best friend.”

  —Did you have a best friend when you were a kid?”

  “I did. His name was Clark.”

  —Clark? That was Superman’s real name.

  “I know. This kid’s last name wasn’t Kent, though. It was Andrews. He wasn’t exactly Superman, but he sure was a terrific pitcher. We played on the Blue Gators together.”

  They were quiet for a while, and then William said, “It’s time for me to go to Real Heaven.”

  And Bonaventure said, —I know. I can hear Almost Heaven moving away from you, but I don’t want you to go.

  “I have to, son, but we’ll meet again. I promise.”

  —Do you have to go so I can get a voice? I don’t want a voice. I want you to stay.

  “No, I have to go because it’s right. You’ve always had a voice, Bonaventure. It just doesn’t come from your throat. Maybe someday.”

  Bonaventure hung his head and said, —Yeah, maybe someday.

  William summoned all his strength then and spoke: “Hey, Bonaventure, look up.”

  Bonaventure was the only one in the family who had never seen William, and now when he raised his head, his father stood fully visible before him. William grabbed his son in a desperate deep hug and held him for a very long time. Then he kissed him goodbye and faded.

  Bonaventure listened as hard as he could, but all sound of his father was gone.

  William went to the shore in Almost Heaven, where he stared at that strip of land in the distance. He felt his mother’s prayers spill over his feet, soothing him where he stood. He remembered the warmth and the feel of Dancy as he’d held her close and they’d moved to a song. He thought of Bonaventure’s small arms around his waist, and then he began to walk.

  He met up with the tide some twenty yards out, its waves so sublime he could only surrender. The waters washed over him, body and soul, cleansing him of every earthly desire. He rode on the breakers high up and away, and then on the crest of the highest great wave, William Arrow crossed over to the opposite shore, while his saltwater tears fell home to the sea in a weeping Alleluia.

  The mournful sounds that had lived in Dancy’s closet and Grand-mère’s chapel were gone, replaced by grateful prayer. But votive candles still burned bright in red glass, and a carved Virgin Mary still looked out upon a garden that was filled with periwinkle and angels made of stone.

  The wagon handle stayed warm even after William had gone. Through the years its steadfast solidity would provide Bonaventure with a sense of his father during times of indecision.

  Bonaventure would come to know that life is not always made of beautiful sounds, that too many sounds make cacophony, and that every voice matters.

  He would come to understand that there’s a difference between the will of God and the will of man, that the acts of one person affect the lives of others, and that God reaches out when it all goes wrong.

  He would come to accept that he was different, but different in a good way and for mystical reasons.

  He would marry a girl he fell in love with in college—someone with a speci
al gift of her own.

  He would hear the sound of his own voice.

  But before all those future things happened, while still in that summer of 1957, Bonaventure Arrow conducted a symphony as the sunset softened that place in the sky where a newborn dusk meets an elderly day. He did not plan that symphony; it happened on its own.

  He’d pulled his memento box from beneath his bed to sort through the souvenirs of his favorite sounds. As he handled each precious reminder, he thought of its time and its place and its cause and tried to relive the moments from which they’d come, moments that had offered a glimpse of God’s intentions. The sounds came first as a quiet sonata that grew into a composition of glorious proportion.

  The symphony reached Dancy where she was walking with Gabe near Saint Anthony’s Garden some fourteen miles away. And in that masterpiece of memories Dancy Arrow heard the voice of Love, singing to her of the living. She turned to look at Gabe Riley then, and she was overcome.

  The music interrupted mockingbirds and cardinals and half-hour church bells. It was at times orchestral and at times a cappella, a mighty love song made of lullaby, angel chant, opera, and hymn. There were the tap water and scissor sounds of wished-for beauty; the gumball rattle of giant kindness; the crinkly-page sounds meant for Creathie LaRue; the joyful, last-sip gurgle from Bixie’s Luncheonette; the moist-earth sounds of healing; the echo of wind in trees; the pinging of broken sunlight; and the courageous buzzing of a bluebottle fly all mixed together in a wonderful, powerful, magical gris-gris.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS book would never have been written were it not for my husband, Paul. He encouraged me to go back to school, he was patient with my endless anxieties, and he believed in me every step of the way. This book took nearly three years to write and develop; it dominated my life and conversation, yet Paul’s love and support never wavered and his interest never flagged, not even a little bit. But, more important, Paul taught me about forgiveness, and constantly reminded me of the power of faith. He is ever my strength and my solace, and not only that, he makes me laugh. I have no words to express my love and gratitude.