The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow (26 page)

Headshake no.

“Well, that’s when boys and girls can think better than they could when they were six. I’ll bet you’ve been coming up with questions and answers ever since your birthday,” she said.

This conversation, like so many he had with Grand-mère, was taking place in the library, that wonderful, hushed room that held some of the very best sounds within its walls. Inspiration and thought came together in a lovely crescendo formed by harmonious words in the library. Bonaventure had the idea that all those silent books standing tightly together on Grand-mère’s shelves formed a kind of shield.

He had figured out that thoughts exist in silence and have no color or sound or shape until they are turned into words. Spoken words exist in the mind first and then go to the voice and sit temporarily inside ears, and if words are conveyed through sign language, they exist in the motion of hands. He resolved that words remain invisible unless they are put into letters and set down on a page. Bonaventure wondered what the very first word was and what language it might have been in, and if the sound of it still echoed somewhere out in space. He often tried to listen for it, and when he was in the library, he felt as though he was close to the answer; his silence catching echoes of color and light. Some of the books made the sound of flowing water and others of pebbles under footsteps in a very dry place, which made him think of someone trying to find Bayou Cymbaline. One of the books held the secrets of feathers, telling him all about hollow quills and flight, while still others knew the ways of scattered seeds or widespread spores that travel aloft on the wind.

He wondered if the age of reason was maybe connected to all the sounds he heard, but decided that it wasn’t. Grand-mère had said the age of reason meant that you could think better, but Bonaventure was pretty sure he was thinking the same. Hearing better was another story. Ever since his birthday he’d been hearing new kinds of sounds: melodies of anticipation or vibrating strings of suspense. When they came to him many at once, some sounds formed into a spectrum of color and merged together behind his eyes until there was only whiteness in his head, and that whiteness would take him up out of his body. It was a very heady feeling.

At their next lesson Grand-mère said, “Did you know that you have more than a guardian angel to help you?”

Raised eyebrows, tilted head, as if to say, —I do?

“Yes. You have Saint Bonaventure; he’s your patron saint.”

Curious hands moving in sign. —What is that?

“A patron saint is someone very special who had your name before you did. All the saints live in heaven, but at one time or another they lived here on earth, and they were very, very good and they helped people who were sick or in trouble. They still do, just from heaven.”

And then she spoke to him of Saint Bonaventure and her own favorite, Saint Francis of Assisi, and she showed him pictures in a book. Bonaventure always liked pictures because even though they had no mouths they managed to speak. When his eyes fell on a picture of Saint Francis holding a very small bird in his hand, Bonaventure could actually hear that bird sing—a sound that lifted right out of the past, off the page, and into his silence’s hand.

While Saint Francis’s bird sang to Bonaventure, Letice got caught up in a memory of another time and place, and of another little bird.

The year was 1916, the season was spring, and the time of day was mid-morning. Eleven-year-old Letice sat on a window seat, a book in her hands. She’d been transported with Alice through the looking glass to where the White Rabbit was in a hurry and the Walrus and the Carpenter walked beside the sea. She was just to the part in the story where the Queen of Hearts says, “Off with her head!” when a thumping wild wind drew her attention away. Letice left the window seat and headed for the kitchen’s back door, but the wind pushed back as she tried to open it. She pushed harder three times more before she managed to get out.

That wind swirled all around her then, strange in its coldness, coming as it did from the south. It bounded westward, rolling through the bayou where it dried up the dampness and bullied old orchids. Lilac-tree fingers snapped out a protest while the elm tree next to them groaned. Letice stood at the edge of the drive, which was made of russet-red clay, hard-packed except where tracks had worn ridges and left watery ruts still squishy in their dips, full as they were of yesterday’s rain.

Letice stood under a sky that was lustrous with the patina of mother-of-pearl and filled with gray-blue gauzy clouds that hid the sun and held that wind down. This was unusual in the bayou. The earth and Letice were caught in a between-time, no longer winter but not yet summer; no longer little but not yet grown.

Her gaze moved across the drive, over the fallow garden to the fence, sliding past the eighth post from the corner where she’d lately buried a cat who had used up all nine lives. She decided to go around front, maybe play a game of hopscotch on the bumpy sidewalk that led from the front door to the culvert.

The wind made clappering noises as it slurped and gulped at shingles and clotheslines and root cellar doors while Letice set out for the east side of the house. The lone, gnarly plum tree and its wild rhubarb stepchild occupied a corner of her eye, when all of a sudden the wind called her name.

She turned to see Tristan Duvais coming toward the house from a good way off. He was the son of their hired man and was the same age as she, though unlike Letice, Tristan was allowed to wander wherever he wished. Accompanying Tristan was his dog, Storm, a black and white English springer spaniel whose name was meant to confront a fear of thunder. The dog ran in circles around the boy, keeping slightly ahead and twisting his body in a leap every ten feet or so. Letice wondered if the dog’s behavior had to do with that strange, cold wind.

“Letice, come here!” It was less a command than an urgent plea; a Duvais issuing a command to a Molyneaux was not even to be considered. She ran toward him and they met at the edge of the vegetable garden.

Tristan had rescued a bird—a sparrow—and needed her help. It was a life or death situation; there was no room for indecision. She held out her hands and accepted the tiny body. Tristan slapped his leg and whistled for Storm to follow him, while Letice stood alone in that unusual wind, a faltering life in her hands.

The bird seemed no more than a wisp, nearly weightless. She believed she could feel its bones and imagined them to be made from straw, all hollowed-out and light. Letice decided the bird was a girl sparrow, a young and delicate one. The tiny creature lay on its left side, breathing very fast. Letice could feel its heart beating in sync with her own.

With all the gentleness she could summon, she used her thumb to caress the top of the little bird’s head, making the sign of the cross as she sought to comfort, to somehow anoint her. Letice wondered what had caused this bird’s life to fold over on itself and put her in human hands, a place no wild bird would have chosen on its own.

And then she was torn from her reverie—English springers are excellent bird dogs. Instinctively, Letice held her hands high from Storm’s leaping. His nails scratched the exposed skin of her arms where her sleeves had ridden up just past her elbows. She could hear his gravel-roughened footpads snagging her dress. She could feel his warm, moist breath and hear the low growl that originated in the back of his throat. She could smell his exertion, a musty, wet-dog smell.

“No, Storm, no!” The wind pushed the words to the back of her mouth.

The dog’s eyes were fixed above Letice’s head. The force of his forelegs nearly pushed her down. She tried to turn, to get away. Where was Tristan?

Storm kept barking and jumping higher. He’d caught her collar, his nails raking her ear as he fell back from a leap. Her hands were going numb, and she felt a stinging all over from that strange, cold wind. The dog kept on circling, jumping, and pushing against her from every side.

Finally, Tristan came and grabbed Storm’s collar, managing to drag him away so Letice could lower her arms. The bird was as nothing in her hands then. There were no more rapid breaths, and the only detectable heartbeat belonged to Letice.

They buried the sparrow under the old elm tree, and the earth accepted the gift.

Letice’s past was something she’d locked up a long time ago, and she still believed it was safely shut away. But she was only fooling herself. Her past was anything but shut away.

Gentle shake. —Grand-mère?

“Oh. What is it, sweetie? I was lost in thought. Where were we?”

—Patron saint.

“Oh, that’s right. Did I tell you that Saint Bonaventure was very smart?”

Eyebrows raised, eyes opened wide. —Oh?

“Yes. In fact, he said there are two ways to be smart: You can be smart with your mind and you can be smart with your heart.

—What does that mean?

“It’s part of reaching the age of reason. As you get older, you figure out a lot of things with your mind, and you get better and better at it. But one day you realize that some things can’t be figured out at all, no matter how old you are or how much you use your mind, and then you just have to listen to your heart. That’s what Saint Bonaventure did. That’s what made him a mystic.”

Slow nod. —I see.

This was good news, Bonaventure thought. Maybe his patron saint would help him be smart with his mind and smart with his heart.

Letice stayed behind after Bonaventure left the library. She was thinking about the sparrow, and about Remington and William, and about her long-ago secret loss. She wrapped a request in a petition she’d made so many times before:

Agnus Dei, agnus Dei

Qui tollis peccata mundi,

Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem,

Sempiternam, sempiternam requiem.

Lamb of God, Lamb of God

You who take away the sins of the world,

Grant them rest, grant them rest,

Rest everlasting, everlasting.

William stood in the rear of the room, terrified of the word
everlasting
.

When Bonaventure said his prayers that night, he asked his patron saint what to do about that sound in the closet, the one that really scared him.

Good Afternoon, Miss Babbitt

C
OLEMAN
Tate sat in a straight-backed chair in front of the police officer’s desk. After reviewing reports and newspaper articles written about William’s murder back in 1949 and 1950, he had a couple of questions for Sergeant Turcotte.

“There was a report that the perpetrator had been seen at the public library. What did you find out about that?”

“Nothing much, Mr. Tate. Just that he was seen there several days running. He didn’t do anything that bothered anybody.”

“Did you talk to the librarian at all?”

“We did. In fact, we talked to several. All they could remember was that he would write out a note if he wanted to see a book.”

Tate seized upon the statement with the speed of a snake: The perpetrator had made specific requests.

PROGRESS REPORT
IN THE MATTER OF WILLIAM EVEREST ARROW (DECEASED)

After speaking with Sergeant Turcotte, I turned my attention to the library in which John Doe had been seen in the days prior to the murder. When I returned to the asylum for further inquiry, a review of sign-in sheets from the past six years yielded the information that one Eugenia Babbitt has regularly visited John Doe; she is his only caller. Seeking to confirm that the name signed in was genuine, I found out that all visitors must show identification. Subsequent investigation revealed that Miss Babbitt is a librarian at the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library and also that she is the only individual in the state of Louisiana with that name. Further findings to follow.

Bonaventure could hear the conversations that took place between Grand-mère and Mr. Tate, who she said was getting some business information for her. But Mr. Tate only ever said, “Here it is, Mrs. Arrow. I believe there is reason to continue,” and Grand-mère would thank him and tell him Good Day.

Odd sounds began to filter into Bonaventure’s silence, ones possessed of the sharps and flats of mysterious information. When Mr. Tate delivered this latest report, Bonaventure heard the sound of an index finger sliding down a certain page in a certain book in search of a certain word. He knew that sound well; it was one he himself made on a fairly regular basis. And then he heard the thump of an arrow hitting a bull’s-eye.

As Coleman Tate walked through the house to leave, Bonaventure set both those sounds to the rhythm of the man’s footsteps: step, slide, thump—step, slid, thump. Those sounds went out the door with Tate and worked their way from his feet to his mind and attached themselves to the decision he’d made to visit Eugenia Babbitt.

The next day, Coleman Tate stood in front of the library’s card catalog. A lidless box containing slips of scratch paper sat atop it, and near the scratch paper stood a leather cup full of short sharpened pencils. The slips of paper were of a yellowish hue, thin and fibrous. He thought them to be a good match to the one among the perpetrator’s possessions.

He moved to sit at a table in the reference section, perusing a book of maps and admiring the permanence of latitude and longitude and the concept of true north. Tate enjoyed the ambience of a library—all that knowledge just waiting to be found.

From the corner of his eye he watched Eugenia Babbitt and he waited. He’d already confirmed her identity. He knew when she took lunch. And now he knew about those slips of paper. Right before her break, he went over.

“Good afternoon, Miss Babbitt,” he said. “My name is Coleman Tate; I’m a private investigator. Might I trouble you with a few questions?”