Reverend of Silence

by Pamela Sparkman

  “I suppose she’s nice to look at, Burke,” he said. “But she’s still dumb.”

  I clenched my jaw. “Move, Fredrick.”

  Fredrick rocked back on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. “You heard him, fellas. Move.”

  They did, fanning out around us, forming a circle.

  I turned my head from side to side, then looked behind me to Lucy. Her eyes were wide, panicked. I wasn’t afraid. I was mad. I cut my eyes to the leader of this bunch and said, “What are you doing?”

  “Perhaps that’s the appeal,” he went on, as though I’d said nothing. “I mean, being with a mute would have its advantages, I imagine.” An ugly smirk painted his ugly face. “Maybe you could make her your wife someday. She’d never talk back. Never have an opinion. You could slap her around—”

  “What did you just say?” I hissed, grabbing Fredrick by the collar and shoving him until his bum landed on the keys of the pianoforte. I barely noticed the pianist move away. I hovered over him, the discordant sounds reverberating around the ballroom.

  Fredrick’s eyes bugged out. “She’s beneath you, Burke! What is the matter with you? Dancing around with her? She can’t even communicate! It’s what separates us from animals!”

  “Is that what separates us? I thought it was the ability to show compassion.” I didn’t even recognize my own voice. All I heard was my heart thumping in my ears. I wanted to draw blood. I tightened my grip on his collar. Fredricks’s face turned red. “And the ability to show mercy. Which I am sorely lacking at the moment. So maybe I’m an animal too. Hmm?”

  “SAM!”

  “Get him off me!” Fredrick wheezed.

  “Sam!” I felt strong hands tugging at my shoulders. “Sam, let go of him!” My father’s voice. “Let him go!”

  I was pulled off him and the world tilted and turned as I regained my equilibrium. I’d never been so angry.

  “You better get your son away from my boy! You hear me, Reverend Burke? Did you all see what he did?”

  “Sam,” Mama said, wrapping her arms around me. “Let’s get you home.”

  “Lucy,” I choked out. “Where’s Lucy?”

  “She’s gone, Sam. Her father already left with her.”

  “No,” I said, clenching my fists. I lifted my head and found Fredrick clutching at his throat. “You,” I said, pointing a finger at the miserable cretin.

  “Sam,” my father warned in the voice I knew not to cross.

  “Let’s go,” Mama said. She bent down, picked up my topper from the floor, and I placed it back on my head. Everyone stared as the three of us walked out of the ballroom.

  “Let them stare,” Mama said. “Let them stare.”

  We rode home in silence, and later in my room, my mother was seeing to my well-being.

  “I messed up,” I admitted. “I let them get to me. I ruined everything.”

  “Sam—”

  “No, I ruined Lucy’s night. Her father will probably never let me see her again.”

  Then I confessed something that I’d held inside of me for a long, long time. So wrapped up in my heartache, of not being able to say goodbye to Lucy, of losing more time with her, that I’d not heard my father’s footsteps in the hallway, hadn’t known he was there, listening.

  “Some days,” I said, “I wish I wasn’t the son of a pastor. The expectations are killing me.”

  It wasn’t until I heard his retreating footfalls down the stairs that I realized for the second time that night, I’d hurt someone I loved.

  The next morning at church was rather uncomfortable. Mama and I sat on the first pew, as always, on the left side, and as the church filled up, the gawkers gawked. I sat up straight, eyes forward, and tried to behave as I always behaved in church. Papa hadn’t spoken to me since we’d left the ballroom the night before. I kept waiting for him to assign blame, issue my punishment, and let it begin. The sooner the better. The waiting was excruciating. Perhaps that was part of the punishment, making me wait. I’d say it was brilliant if I weren’t the recipient.

  When Papa finally took his place at the podium, his face looked long and grim. I frowned.

  He had only said two words, Good morning, before Mr. Clive, Fredrick’s father, stood up, pointed a short, stubby finger at my father, and said, “That boy of yours left marks on my son’s neck last night. I want to know what you plan to do about it.”

  “I was going to come by your home after church and discuss matters, Mr. Clive. Now isn’t the time. Please take your seat.”

  “Ah, I see,” Mr. Clive said. “You would rather discuss matters privately when the entire incident happened publicly. I think it best to discuss matters now. I wish everyone to know how your son attacked mine and I wish everyone to know how you plan to ensure something like this never happens again.”

  Papa’s nostrils flared. “I said, Mr. Clive, now is not the time. This is the Lord’s House. Not yours. Take your seat or leave.”

  “Is there something you wish to hide, Reverend Burke? Something you’d rather not discuss out in the open?”

  “Hide? No, Mr. Clive. All right. You want a discussion. Fine. You’ll get one. You come into church, making demands, trying to bully me to your terms. I can see why your son thinks he can bully others. He’s had an excellent instructor.”

  “Now you listen here—”

  “No, you wanted to hear what I had to say, well, you’re about to find out. Now, sit down or get out. You’re not here to listen to the Word of God anyway. You’re here to make a spectacle. And anyone else that’s here to make a spectacle, you can follow Mr. Clive out the door.” Papa paused long enough to see if anyone was going to get up, but no one did; not even Mr. Clive was brave enough to leave. He sat back down and clamped his mouth shut.

  The church grew still, serious, almost grave, waiting to hear what Papa had to say. It was the most somber I can remember members of the church ever being, with the exception of funerals.

  And then my father spoke. “Heathens,” Papa uttered the word on a whisper. “You don’t think I’ve heard some of you say it? I have. To a child no less—and to her family who has done no harm to any of you.” He looked everyone over, slowly, purposely, accusingly. “If you’re looking for heathens, I’d direct your observations to yourselves. For you all have had the opportunity to help. Instead you’ve hindered. You could have offered comfort. Instead you’ve spread malice.” He paused, shook his head, and said, “In truth, Lucy Hallison is unsullied in that her ears have granted her a kind Providence against the cruelties of wagging tongues that blaspheme and utter profanities. She is spared the propensity to give in to rumor and scandal—to not act on these temptations because her mind is clear of debris that we ourselves are constantly having to filter because her ears cannot hear them. Yet, it is you who disparage her, and I ask . . . on what grounds? For the simple fact that she is deaf? A fact that she had no bearing in? It is like holding her responsible for being a girl. It is absurd. And it is a cruelty that has gone on way too long. It is our duty”—Papa pounded his fist on the podium— “as Christians to bring light where there is darkness, to bring cheer to lonely beings, to love our fellow brethren! Where is the light? Where is the cheer? Where is the love for Lucy and her family?”

  My father removed his spectacles, closed his eyes, like he needed to steal a moment, before placing them back on his face, and then he closed his Bible. “As for you, Mr. Clive. I’m sorry.” This was it, the reprimand I knew was coming. I hung my head. “I’m sorry my son had to defend the honor of a sweet girl because no one else was honor bound to do it.” My head snapped up. My mother placed her hand on my bouncing knee. “I’m sorry that it took a thirteen-year-old boy to speak the words that his father should have been instilling in him all along. I’m sorry my son was put in a situation where his emotions got the best of him because your son couldn’t control his prejudices. I’m sorry about that. But most of all, I’m sorry that we’re having this discussion at all. It’s unfortunate.
I had a nice sermon planned. Your provocation has dampened my spirits and it wouldn’t be fair to continue.” Papa looked behind him to the assistant pastor and said, “Do you mind taking over? I’m not feeling at all like myself and need to get some air.”

  Papa took his Bible and made his way down the center aisle. The door opened, the sun streamed in, and then the door closed, the sunlight winking out.

  No one said a word. The assistant pastor had his own Bible, and slowly walked to the podium. He had his pages bookmarked and then, as though he had a better idea, flipped to the front.

  “In light of—everything, I think it would do us good if we started from the beginning.”

  I leaned in and asked Mama, “Should we go?”

  “No,” she said. “We’ll stay. Your father needs a little time alone.” She patted my hands. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine.”

  “In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth,” Pastor Wilder began. “Now the Earth was a formless void, there was darkness over the deep, with a divine wind sweeping over the waters . . .”

  I looked out the window and saw Papa walking down the street. He looked a bit like a soldier coming back from war. Tired, but not defeated. And as I sat listening to the sermon and how we were created in God’s image, I knew I had been created in Papa’s image too.

  And I was so, so glad for that.

  When Mama and I came home, there was a coach in front of our house. Lucy and her father stood on our front porch.

  “Mama?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Sam.” We stepped down from the carriage and slowly climbed the steps. “Mr. Hallison?” Mama said. “What brings you and Lucy by?”

  “Is your husband not with you?” he asked.

  “No, he . . . no,” she said. “He’ll be along shortly. “Would you like to come in?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t stay. I . . .” He stopped midsentence and looked to me. “Samuel, I wanted to thank you for standing up for Lucy last evening. I want you to know you have a place in our home any time.”

  “I—I thought you were mad at me, sir. I thought that was why you left with Lucy.”

  “Mad? Yes. At you? No. I wanted to get her home. Get her away from all of this. In fact, we’re leaving a day early. Lucy wanted to say goodbye.”

  “I see,” my mother said. Holding her arms out, she and Lucy hugged. Then Mama signed, “Work hard” and “I love you.”

  Lucy nodded and signed “I love you” back.

  I couldn’t say anything. A knot had formed in my throat. It felt like the size of a melon. I couldn’t swallow around it. A tear slipped down Lucy’s cheek. I felt my lip tremble. I bit down hard on it. I thought it might bleed, and all the while I stared off at the porch railing, the trees, the birds, the clouds, anything really to keep from staring at Lucy’s tears.

  “You can hug her, Sam,” Mr. Hallison said softly.

  I don’t remember making the leap and closing the distance, but I had her in my arms in short order, and she was clutching me so tightly, I almost couldn’t breathe. She sobbed, and it broke my heart to hear it.

  Then she was pulling away, thrusting a letter into my hands, and dashing down the porch steps like her dress was on fire. She climbed into the coach and didn’t look back.

  “She can write from school and you can write to her as well,” Mr. Hallison said.

  I nodded absently.

  To my mother, he said, “I’ll send word when we’ve arrived.”

  “Thank you. Yes, we would appreciate that.”

  “Well,” he said, “we should be off now. Thank you, Mrs. Burke—for everything.”

  “Of course.”

  Mr. Hallison tipped his hat, walked away, and then they were riding off. It was as quick as that.

  “It’ll all work out, Sam,” Mama said. “Have faith. This is her home. She’ll come back.”

  I stared after that coach until it faded away completely, Mama beside me like an anchor. I didn’t know if it would all work out. I sort of felt like it wouldn’t. Because Lucy Hallison had been breaking my heart since I was eight years old. She didn’t intend to, or mean to, or even knew she was doing it. She just had a rare talent for it. And something in me believed she probably always would.

  May 9, 1819

  Dear Sam,

  Everyone is asleep, except for me. I cannot will myself to close my eyes, for every time I do, I see your face. Your sweet, handsome face. It is all I can do not to sneak down the stairs and run to your house just so I can stand beneath your window and know you are near. I confess this as if I am brave. I am not. I only say this under the cover of night, on paper, for I would never be able to tell you tomorrow, surely—unless I were leaving. Oh, Sam, my heart is so tender. It feels as if someone ran it through with a very sharp point! Tell me you won’t forget me. I couldn’t bear it if you did. I may be leaving, but this is not goodbye. I could never say goodbye. Not to you. Never to you.

  Yours Truly,

  Lucy

  Samuel

  I sat on the edge of my bed holding Lucy’s letter—just holding it for the longest time—and thinking.

  “Your mama told me I’d find you here. May I come in?” Noah asked.

  I nodded, not bothering to look up. “You don’t have to ask me that,” I said quietly.

  Noah came in and sat beside me on the bed. “Is that the letter Lucy wrote to you?” Again, I nodded. “You going to read it?” he asked.

  “I am. I just need a minute. Did she write you a letter too?” I asked him.

  This time it was Noah who nodded. “I read mine already,” he said, his voice thick. “I hate she’s gone. I hate she isn’t here. I thought I was prepared, you know? I thought I had prepared myself. How do I get used to her not being here?”

  “Psalm chapter one hundred forty-seven: verse three: He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds. Genesis chapter thirty-one: verse forty-nine: And Mizpah; for he said, The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absent one from another. First Thessalonians chapter five: verses sixteen through eighteen: Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing. In everything give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you.” I flipped Lucy’s letter in my hands over and over as I spoke the verses aloud. “Philippians chapter four: verse thirteen: I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

  Noah’s distinct laugh escaped him, then floated, bobbed, then drifted away. “You really are a pastor’s son. No denying that. Why are you quoting scriptures to me?”

  “I’m not quoting scriptures to you. They’re for me.” I shrugged. “Although they can be for you too.”

  “What for?”

  I ran my fingers along the edges of Lucy’s letter. From the moment I stepped into my room, I’d been trying to find a way to take the weight off my chest, to ease the constriction in my lungs. To be able to breathe without feeling the ache. Whenever my father was troubled, he always turned to scripture, and I thought . . . that’s what I should be doing. I knew the Bible backwards and forwards. I’d spent my life inside a church, sitting in a pew, listening to Papa preach God’s Word. But Papa brought God’s Word home with him too—working them into bedtimes stories, or at the fishing hole whenever he’d taken me. Memorizing Bible verses had been as much a part of my growing up as learning to play the piano or learning my sums.

  I slid my eyes to Noah’s as he waited patiently for an answer. “I’m trying to be more like Papa,” I said.

  “Your papa,” he replied. “By repeating scripture?”

  “No, not by repeating it. By seeking comfort in it.”

  Noah’s brow furrowed. “Is it working?”

  I stood and walked to the window, looking out to where I’d last seen Lucy’s coach before I could see it no more. The ache was still present. It would be for some time, but I felt ready to read her letter now. “It’s working,” I said. “I just need to keep reminding myself that I need to trust.”

  “Trust wha
t?”

  “God.”

  “To do what?”

  “To get us through. To watch over Lucy. To keep us sane.”

  Noah laughed. “Are you including me on that? Because I may prove challenging to God on that last bit.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, smirking. “I think He knows.”

  “As long as everyone is on the same page.”

  Silence stretched around us, heavy, thick, like smoke rising. Then Noah cleared his throat and the silence drifted away. “Do you think you could write those verses down? For me? If they give you comfort maybe—maybe I’d like to try—”

  “Of course,” I said. “You know you are always invited to attend church with me. My parents would be happy if you came.”

  “I know that. One day . . . maybe. Just . . . not right now.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, Noah,” I said, moving away from the window to stand in front of him. He was still sitting on my bed, and when he looked up, I made sure to look him directly in the eye. “We still have each other.”

  Much of the tension drained from Noah’s body. He expelled a breath of air, and with it, his shoulders relaxed.

  “What did you think?” I asked. “That we wouldn’t be friends when Lucy left?”

  “No, not that,” he said. “I suppose I was worried that I would be too much of a reminder—of her—for you—that you wouldn’t want to be around me as much as before.” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You are a reminder of her,” I said. “I assume I am a reminder of her for you. I think we both need those reminders. More now than ever. Can we even get through this by ourselves? I don’t want to. Do you?”

  “No,” Noah said. “I was rather hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

  “Me either.” I sat next to Noah again and tapped the letter against my leg. “But I need a few minutes, so off with you, I have a letter to read.”

  “And so it begins,” Noah said dramatically. “Dismissing me already.”