The Silence of Bonaventure Arrow (38 page)
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 special 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.
T
HIS
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.
And how do I thank my editor, the talented, funny, and darling Maya Ziv? Her editing savvy, sharp eye, and even sharper instincts well and truly brought out the best in my work. She helped me develop my manuscript in every imaginable way. Maya is dedicated and tireless. I admire her as a professional and cherish her as a friend. I’m also grateful to the staff at HarperCollins, including: Jonathan Burnham, Cal Morgan, Erica Barmash, Amy Baker, Martin Wilson, Rachel Levenberg, Kate McCune, Lillie Walsh, Samantha Hagerbaumer, Diane Jackson, Cathy Schornstein, Mary Beth Thomas, Eric Svenson, and Kathryn Walker.
I owe a mountain of thanks to my literary agents, Wendy Sherman and Kim Perel. Wendy has been my champion from the beginning—uncommonly generous with her expertise, enthusiasm, and care. Kim put her trust in a manuscript that was too short by half. But she saw something in my writing and took me by the hand. We workshopped the manuscript together until it became so much more. Kim’s encouragement helped me through those times when I felt overwhelmed. What an angel she is.
I would also like to thank the wise and delightful Jane Rosenman for helping me focus on theme, mood, and character development, specifically that of Trinidad Prefontaine.
I would be seriously remiss if I failed to acknowledge the excellent teachers who helped me hone my craft: first and foremost, Professor John Kimsey, my mentor at DePaul University’s School for New Learning. John devoted endless time and attention in order that I might realize my ambition. He directed me to the likes of James Joyce and Flannery O’Connor, and I can never thank him enough. Contrary to Miss O’Connor’s famous proclamation, in this case a good man was not hard to find.
Bonaventure Arrow began as a short assignment in Dan Stolar’s graduate fiction-writing class at DePaul. A talented author himself, Dr. Stolar enthusiastically encouraged me to continue developing my magical realist story. Craig Sirles, professor and linguist
par excellence
, introduced me to the concept of
le mot juste
and helped me develop my own voice and style. As I struggled with working full time, going to school, and trying to progress as a novelist, I was fortunate enough to be part of Kristine Miller’s Advanced Writers’ Workshop at the College of DuPage. Her instruction spurred me on at a critical point.
And now I wish to thank those near and dear, most especially my sons, Neil and Tom Gorman, for the joy and pride they inspire and express in me. I will love them eternally. My spunky mother, Ella Iris, is a constant inspiration. She and the rest of my family have always let me know how proud they are of me, and honestly, sometimes it moves me to tears. My love and thanks to Mike and Cindy Iris, Bruce and Mary Raith, Celia Amerson, and Mark and Jamie Wojcik. I also wish to thank my first readers for their helpful comments and nonstop encouragement: Alisa Waldman, dear friend and fellow writer who read this book more than anyone; Karin Vojtech; Carol Boyke; Carol Grudzinski; Amy Boschae; Amelia Orozco; and Mike and Tracey Leganski (Tracey helped me see how the story should begin). Last but not least, I really must thank Maisie and Harry for lifting my spirits ever so high.
I am indebted to the following people for the professional expertise and kindness they extended to me during my research: Mr. Charlie Farrae, historian at the Hotel Monteleone, for bringing the New Orleans of the forties and fifties to life, most especially the French Quarter; Cher Miller, manager of the New Orleans Visitor Center and wellspring of information, for steering me down every right path; Anita Kazmierczak-Hoffman, library cataloguer at the Williams Research Center on Chartres Street, a division of the Historic New Orleans Collection, for her diligence in helping me access and sift through a vast number of documents to find those pertinent to my story; and finally, Claire Henderson at the National Railroad Train Station Museum on Basin Street, for helping me envision exactly where The Wanderer would have gotten off the train.
Invaluable to my research as well were the aforementioned Williams Research Center; the Historic New Orleans digital collection at www.hnoc.org; the Louisiana Digital Library at http://louisdl.louislibraries.org; the Catholic Encyclopedia at http://www.newadvent.org/cathen; the Catholic Study Bible Second Edition (New American Bible); and the King James Bible online at http://www.kingjamesbibleonline.org.
Anyone familiar with religious texts knows about the Psalms. My hope is that someday I’ll be able to turn the joy in my heart into a Psalm of thanksgiving and offer it to God, for He has been good to me.
P. S.
Insights, Interviews & More . . .
Meet Rita Leganski
R
ITA
L
EGANSKI
grew up in northern Wisconsin, and believes it was the long and magical winters of her childhood that cultivated her imagination and love of books, especially Southern literature. She holds a BA in literary studies and creative writing from DePaul University’s School for New Learning, where she won the Arthur Weinberg Memorial Prize, as well as an MA in writing and publishing from DePaul. She currently teaches writing courses at the School for New Learning. She and her husband, Paul, live in the Chicago area with a Siamese cat named Tiramisu and an orange tabby named Jeebz.
The Southern Side of My Heart
I
GREW UP IN NORTHERN
W
ISCONSIN
, where winter makes the snow squeak under your boots and turns your breath into crystals of ice. But summer does come around, full of sunshine and the smell of earth and most usually a breeze from the west. Whatever the season, it was a wonderful place to curl up with a book; I did it all the time in a well-worn wing chair in my room, or on a makeshift couch in the sunporch.
Southern writers were my favorites—Carson McCullers, William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Tennessee Williams, Harper Lee, and many, many others. They took me from the plains of my northern home to a landscape vined in lushness, where flora had names like magnolia, scuppernong, and trumpet creeper; where people had names like Scout, Calpurnia, and Battle Fairchild; where places had names like Yoknapatawpha; and where a streetcar was named Desire. I got lost in that place of different constellations, with its mint juleps and velvet evenings.
