The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow (15 page)

She began by saying the Prayer to Saint Thérèse de Lisieux, which was a plea for guidance. Then she turned to Saint Anthony of Padua, who could restore lost things, even speech to the mute. But her prayers did not ask that her grandson find a voice; rather, she asked Saint Anthony to help them find whatever means of speech God meant for Bonaventure to have. Letice did her praying at all times of day and in all kinds of places: in her garden, or at her dressing table, or in the rear seat of her new Cadillac while Mr. Silvey drove her where she needed to go. Sometimes she even woke up in the night and went to her chapel, as if a saintly messenger waited there to take her prayer to heaven. And then it occurred to her to beseech Saint Bonaventure for help, for wouldn’t a mystic understand their dilemma? Forever after, she would credit Bonaventure di Fidanza with leading her to Saint Gerard, patron saint of motherhood, who in turn led her to the Saint Gerard Community for the Deaf. And that is how she found Gabe Riley, a very nice fellow who came to the house on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at four in the afternoon to teach the hearing Arrow family how to speak in sign.

Gabe Riley was of average height and slender. He had fine, light brown hair, a smooth, calm voice, and very kind hazel-colored, near-sighted eyes. He was the son of a hearing father and a deaf mother, and he’d learned to sign before he’d learned to speak. Gabe actually preferred sign over speech; he felt it was more honest, since no trick of tone or modulation could work to bend the truth. He firmly believed that hands and faces were more expressive than voices could ever be. Gabe didn’t view his new pupil as handicapped at all.

He explained to Dancy and Letice that sign language has its own grammar and vocabulary, and that words could be spelled out letter by letter or communicated through a distinct motion. He told them it involves not just the hands but the face and the rest of the body as well. As an example, he hung his head and let his shoulders slope in dejection to show how loud a posture could be. He told them to imagine words being acted out, but in consistent, specific ways.

It so happened that Bonaventure was a natural at signing, helped along by the fact that he could indeed hear. Dancy and Letice were good at it too. Grandma Roman had been offered the opportunity to learn but declined. Her exact words were “I won’t have any part of it, and I don’t think you should either. You might just as well stick some big sign on him that says: ‘There’s something wrong with me
.
’ ”

Both Dancy and Letice were secretly glad to be free of her. They were also secretly glad that Gabe was the same age as William would have been, with Bonaventure being short a father. Both women admired Gabe and thought him an ideal teacher. He was patient yet demanding, and he knew how to strike a fair balance between the two. Inside of two weeks, members of the Arrow family were trying to sign to one another every time they spoke, in consideration of the fact that practice makes perfect. Their signed conversations were uncluttered and meaningful and right to the point.

All the while, the telepathic conversations Bonaventure had with his father went deeper.

—Last night before I fell asleep I heard someone toasting marshmallows, he said to William in one of their talks.

“Which is louder, the marshmallow or the fire?” William asked.

—They’re the same kind of loud. The fire sings to the marshmallow, and the song turns the marshmallow brown because that’s what marshmallows do when they’re happy.

“You should listen real hard inside the house. You might hear some interesting things.”

—Like what?

“Oh, I don’t know, like things that might help somebody. Maybe you’ll be a hero someday. Come to think of it, you sort of look like a hero.”

—Are heroes different from regular people?

“Nope. Heroes are regular people who do something special.”

—Are you a hero?

“I don’t think so. Why?”

—Because you can still be here like regular, but you’re not regular; you got dead.

“Well, I don’t think that makes me a hero.”

A thoughtful expression came over Bonaventure’s face as he changed the subject. —How exactly did you get dead?

“Did you forget? I died in an accident.”

—But what kind of accident?

“It’s hard to explain,” William said.

Sometimes they talked about very ordinary things. For instance, William might ask, “What’s new?”

And Bonaventure might say, —I heard a caterpillar out in the garden, and when I went there, it crawled over my hand. But more often than not his reply was along the lines of:

—I watched some kids play ball in the park.

or

—I watched some kids play tag on the playground.

or

—I watched some kids play jacks on the sidewalk.

And William could see how it was for his boy.

Up until the sign language came along, William never had to worry about Bonaventure telling anyone about him. Because Bonaventure couldn’t speak and wasn’t writing things out, there hadn’t been a problem. But now all that was changing, and William wasn’t ready. He felt some anger toward Gabe Riley, because what really bothered him was the bond that was forming between the Arrows and the tutor. It also bothered him that Gabe could talk to Bonaventure in a private, special way. William wanted to be the only one who could do that. He began to attend the tutoring sessions so that he could learn sign too. Even though no one would ever see him do it, he would see them and know what they said.

“We need to talk about keeping secrets, Bonaventure,” William said one day.

—What’s a secret?

“It’s something you don’t tell anyone else.”

—Are secrets bad?

“Some are bad and some are good. For instance, I don’t want you to tell anyone that we talk to each other. That’s a good secret.”

—Why can’t I tell?

“Well, it might hurt their feelings, because they can’t hear me.”

—And then they would wish they had super hearing like me, wouldn’t they?

“Exactly.”

There was a pause in conversation before Bonaventure returned to what he was most curious about. —Do you remember
anything
about your accident?

“I remember that it happened on my birthday.”

—Did it hurt?

“Not really. I think it happened too fast to hurt.”

—Oh. That’s good.

William didn’t say that there are many kinds of hurt.

T
HE
Wanderer came down
with a cold. It went from his head to his chest, enflaming and infecting his bronchi and lungs. He coughed as if to die from it.

A feeling came to Trinidad Prefontaine that she must will away the suffering of one unknown to her. She did this by handling herbs and roots as she prayed for that nameless soul.

The Wanderer began to get better, and he started to read again. He tended toward the classics, especially the books of Alexandre Dumas. When Eugenia Babbitt became aware of this preference, she made sure he had them all.

The Wagon

J
UST
as he was short one father, Bonaventure was short a couple of grandfathers too, but that void was nicely filled by Mr. Silvey, who conducted himself with a grace born of gratitude. He felt he’d been given another child to love, so long after the death of his own.

Bonaventure had designated certain hallmarks of the workshop experience: the heft of the tools, the cold smell of iron, and the handmade solidity of the old hemlock bench. He and Mr. Silvey spent entire afternoons examining the contents of cast-off sewing machine drawers and rusty coffee cans, while Mr. Silvey provided a history of purpose for such things as ball-peen hammers and square cut nails, planes and chisels and a brass plumb bob. But Bonaventure’s hands-down favorite was the hawk’s bill snips that could cut a circle in a pipe if the need for such arose.

February 1, 1956, was Bonaventure’s sixth birthday. It was a school day, and when he got home, he chose to spend the rest of it out in the workshop with Mr. Silvey. He was writing in complete sentences by then, so in addition to keeping up his side of a conversation through the likes of gestures, facial expressions, and sign, Bonaventure often wrote things out on a small notepad. One such conversation with Mr. Silvey marked a significant turn of events.

—What is this? Bonaventure asked with the point of a finger and the raising of his brow.

Forrest Silvey reached for the article in question and said, “Why, that’s a nail puller. It’s used to remove horseshoes. Yup, that’s what it is all right. Don’t know why I’ve kept it though; there hasn’t been a horse around here since I don’t know when.”

—Did my dad have a horse? Bonaventure wrote the question out because he wanted to be very clear. One thing about school was that most kids talked about their dads. He desperately wanted to join in but wanted to get the facts from a person anyone could talk to, just in case they wanted proof, which meant someone other than his father, who had to be a secret because he was dead.

Bonaventure’s reading and writing skills surpassed those of his classmates, but he was aware of that fact and would make adjustments if it meant he could somehow join in. Ever since the hidden pumpkin incident in kindergarten, Bonaventure had remained on the outer edge of acceptance, a place assigned to those who are different. It was the reason he never tried to tell anyone, in any way, about the sounds he heard.

Mr. Silvey reached up and scratched the place on his head he referred to as his thinking spot and replied, “No, I know for a fact that he didn’t have a horse. But I’ll tell you what he did have is that wagon over there,” and he pointed toward the corner to the left of the window where a wooden wagon stood still in the shadows.

—Did he get it for Christmas?

“Nope, not for Christmas. There was a young fella knew your grandpa Arrow, and it was him that made it and brought it around one night after supper. I remember it like it was yesterday. He made the handle from an old plow blade, and you won’t find a better one.”

—Does he still make things?

“Now, that I couldn’t say. He left town not long after he brought that wagon over. Nobody ever heard from him again. There was talk that he joined up to fight in the war, but I can’t say for sure that he did.”

—What was his name?

“By golly, I sure can’t think of it right now, but I’ll let you know if it comes to me.”

Bonaventure went over to the corner and took hold of that very fine handle, and when he did, he felt the warmth of his own father’s hand the same as he would feel it in a handshake. It was the first time something like that had happened.

“Happy Birthday, buddy,” he heard his father say.

—Hey, Dad! Could you feel my hand? Because I think I felt yours!

William chuckled and said, “That was my birthday present to you. It’s something I’ve been working on for a while.”

—It was great!

“Can you come back later, pal? I’d like to talk when it’s just you and me.”

—I’ll come back. I just have to eat dinner.

After his birthday meal, Bonaventure gulped down his milk and wolfed down his cake.

“Did I miss something?” Dancy asked.

A stop in mid-chew, eyebrows raised, eyes shifting side to side as if to say, —Miss something? I don’t know what you mean.

“Did somebody forget to mention that we’re supposed to be in a race here?”

Shoulder shrug, casual reach for milk as if to say, —I’m just eating like I always do.

Bonaventure knew he had to slow things down, but it was difficult. When he finished eating, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, cleared his plate, pushed in his chair, and gave his mother a quick kiss on the cheek before he took off for the workshop.

Everything looked the same. All the tools still hung in their places or rested in metal boxes or in wooden ones if they were very old, and they gave off all their special smells of sawn wood and oiled steel, which was very reassuring. The silence had opened up like it always did to let Bonaventure and his father use their thoughts for conversation.

—Hi, Dad. I’m back.

“I see that.”

—Can I ask you something?

“Sure.”

—Are you part alive or are you all the way dead?

“I’m all the way dead.”

—Do you sleep in our house with us?

“No. I sleep different now.”

—Do you have a cape that makes you invisible?

“Where are all these questions coming from? No, I don’t have a cape. I’m just invisible.”

—I sure wish I could see you.

“I wish you could, too.”

—Hey, Dad?

“Yes?”

—Will I
ever
be able to tell Mom our secret?

“No, buddy. Not ever.”

—Why not?

“We’ve talked about this. She can’t hear me like you can; it might hurt her feelings.”

—Would it hurt Grand-mère’s feelings, too?

“Yes, it would.”

—Okay. I won’t tell her either.

“You can’t tell anyone, Bonaventure, just like we said. Got it?”

Bonaventure gave a disappointed nod.

“Okay, then. I have to go now. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and to say Happy Birthday one more time.”

—I love you too, Dad.

“It makes me happy to talk with you, son.”

—It makes me happy to talk with you, too. Bye, Dad.

“G’night, buddy. Go ahead and get back to your birthday now. Your mom is probably waiting for you. Maybe she’ll let you have another piece of cake.”

—Maybe she will!

“See ya soon.”

—See ya. Oh, hey, Dad! I almost forgot! I’ve been listening real hard around the house like you said I should. Guess what I heard today!

“I can’t guess; you’ll have to tell me.”

—I heard some powder come off a moth’s wing, and he was way up in the attic and I was way down in the kitchen.

“That’s my boy!” William praised Bonaventure’s listening the way another father might praise a home run. Then he went to the sea in Almost Heaven and sat there staring at the waves, trying to remember what birthday cake tasted like.