2o12 | THE SILENT HISTORY | FictioN
Alexis Kitchen
Scuffletown Park, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.555404
longitude: -77.466759
3/21/2013
At Strawberry Street I stopped to get a pizza from the Italian take-out. Next door is a video store — hard to believe, I know, but there it is. I tend to avoid it since things ended with King. Where are you more likely to run into a film professor? That day, I went in anyway and left with a French movie about a doctor whose daughter has no face. On the cover all you can see are her eyes.
There was the pizza to carry, so I walked my bike across Strawberry and into the alley and all the way into Scuffletown before I saw him. It was late afternoon. There were shadows in the yards around the park, and King Baker was there in front of me, standing by those three Mario toadstools. With him was a toddler in a blue dress — his daughter, I knew. I’d never seen her, but she looked like her mother.
He said my name. Alexis, he said.
I thought I might vomit. I’d made an art of avoiding him and I’d gotten pretty good at it. He looked older than I remembered. There were channels under his eyes and his hair was wild, the gray taking over.
He spoke again. Marlene, meet Alexis.
The girl was staring at her hand, which she held just above the third toadstool, her fat little fingers spread. She was totally still. I remember thinking she had remarkable composure for a child. Her hair was blond and someone—her mother, probably—had pulled it back with a butterfly clip. It seemed an awful lot of hair for a toddler. What was she, two? I realized I knew nothing about children.
King started talking as if we’d never stopped. Sometimes I wonder if she knows her name, he said. Can you believe it? We’ve tried so many things. He sounded exhausted. And it hit me: weird babies. I was just finding out. A friend on Facebook had posted a link. And now they were for real — here was one, this little girl that belonged to King.
I wanted to meet her. I stood my bike and crouched down. Hello, Marlene, I said. She might not have known her name, but she turned her face toward me. Her irises were a crystalline blue. I’d never seen a color like it. I said, It’s nice to meet you. What I was thinking was: Are you one of the mystery kids? Also: Could you have been my child? King and I’d ended things when his wife got pregnant. Here was the result, the reason why.
She held her hand above the cement toadstool and looked at my face. The author of the piece I’d read worried they were dumb, a generation of imbeciles. But I didn’t see it. There was something there. Something like confidence. She was a baby, I know. But I thought of all the years I’d had to keep quiet, the truth killing me. In a way, I’d done it for her. And now I could see her, a child who couldn’t help being quiet. She seemed, I don’t know, content.
She stumbled back a step, the first genuine toddler move she’d made. I reached out, but she steadied herself and locked her gaze above my shoulder. I stood and turned. This was how I discovered the figures in the branches of the big tree. All those trips through Scuffletown and I’d never noticed. Who put them there? The park has caretakers who add their touches—footprints on a pole, the headstone for the dog. These seemed older than that. Like maybe they’d always been waiting. The one facing me was illumined with the afternoon light. Its face was blank, the features worn away, but there it was, regarding us. A silent witness, expressionless and unmistakable. When you look, it’s amazing what you see.
I turned once more to the girl and nodded. She’d shown me something, I knew. I said goodbye to King. He looked so sad. That night I ate the pizza and watched the movie I’d rented. In it, the father does what he can to fix his daughter. Things do not turn out well.
Name Withheld
Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.556753
longitude: -77.474846
6/12/2015
For weeks I sat on the bench beside the main entrance and watched the old lady approach the museum. She was funding a show of horse art, taken largely from her family collection. Her driver always parked in the garage beneath the hill and walked her down the ramp that curves around the side. Morning after morning I watched them do this. They never looked at me.
It’s tricky, working outside. Everything is a camera now. Every possible thing: phones, tablets, pens. Those freaking glasses. Everyone always recording. I thought if I caught her on the ramp there’d be less chance someone would see. I’d bump the driver, knock him over, help him up again, steadying the old lady with my free hand. The needle in my palm held a neurotoxin I liked. She’d be at the opening reception with her hors d’oeuvres before it set in. I’d be long gone through the garage.
The evening in question, I waited on the bench. Children were spread across the hill, screeching and running, parents following like buffoons with their phones. My eyes fell on the sole calm child. He had brown hair and was dressed for some reason in a suit. Maybe he’d had his picture taken. It was like they wanted him to look different. The other kids had t-shirts, jeans. He stood apart on the stone steps, hands on the rails, watching the channel of water rush past.
I fixed him for quiet. It was getting normal to see them. There were daily stories in the media, what it meant or did not mean. To me, it seemed no big deal. Think of all the things human existence has thrown at us — here was one more. But I sympathized with the kid, all by himself in his funny little suit. Trust me, my job? I know how it feels to be alone.
For an hour I waited to see silver hair on the ramp so I could start up. Then I glanced again at the kid and they were above him, the old lady and her driver, at the very top of the hill. It didn’t make sense. They always took the ramp. Always. It was an extra set of stairs just to come down the other way. Where was the sense in it? I’ll never know.
They were almost to the statue, the struggling man, before I moved. Across the bridge, around the pool, up the steps. What would I do? I wasn’t sure. There were parents, cameras. Maybe I could pull it off. I was halfway up that first flight when I realized I’d reached the quiet child. He’d turned from the water to face me. Maybe it looked like I was coming at him. He had eyes the color of his hair. When I say he spoke to me, I know, obviously, he did not speak. He did not move his mouth and make sound come out. But he looked at me and I could feel the air shift across my face. I could hear the rushing water, and then I heard something else. It’s not like he said, Don’t do it. It’s like he said, I know what you’re going to do. And in the tone of it was a question: Why would you?
When I regained my senses, the old lady and her driver had passed us on the steps. And then the swarm of children was around me. You can watch the video online. You probably have. Two million hits, right? Look at us there, the kid in the suit and me. I shake my head like I’m waking up. I push my way through the screeching children and down the steps. I plant my needle hand against the old lady’s back, way too hard. She falls forward. In half an hour she’ll be dead. I swing around and clock the driver. Then I’m up the steps again, the camera following me, past the child in the funny suit and on up to the statue, the struggling man, where I stop and hang my head. And the look on my face. The look on my face.
Morris Grayson
Main Street Station, 1500 E Main St, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.534230
longitude: -77.429525
8/7/2016
I had a buddy living on a Buddhist retreat in Vermont. One day after work, instead of going home, I walked to the train station and rode up there. I don’t know why. Six hours of mediation every day—half of it silent, half chanting. Lion tiger dragon garuda, slit the throat of the transgressor. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I said it. After two months, I thought, Why am I here? And I couldn’t answer. The next day I was on a train back to Richmond.
The train got in on Sunday evening. Walking out the front door of the station felt like stepping into water. I was wearing the suit I’d worn to work the day I left. Instantly, I was sweating. And the noise! It was crazy. Vermont had been quiet. Now there was a freight train clanging on the elevated track to my right, the Amtrak pulling away on the left, the roar of the interstate above, cars on Main Street below, pedestrians wandering around and hollering.
I sat down on the top step to think. How would I get home? There were two homeless guys about halfway down, both of them in heavy coats despite the heat. Across the way, I could make out the bright colors of the painted robots between two columns of the overpass.
Suddenly, I sensed someone behind me. I turned. There was a child kneeling there as if he’d just appeared. He was wearing a suit of his own and tracing his finger along a red “X” someone had painted on the stone. Hey, I said. At the sound he raised his head, then stood and walked around me and down the steps. Wait, I said. He didn’t wait, but when he reached the sidewalk he stopped and looked back up at me.
I stood and walked down. He let me approach. He had a suit, I had a suit—maybe that made us buddies. But where were his parents? The only adults around were the guys in their crazy coats. He was probably five or six. Very serious looking. Brown hair and brown eyes. I crouched down and said, Buddy, where are your folks? No answer. Is there someone I can talk to? Again, no reaction. No noise of any kind. I realized I was dealing with a silent.
For a while, I just looked at him. What was I going to do with a silent child? How would I find whomever he belonged to if he couldn’t help me? In Vermont, I often had to be silent, but we always ended up filling the silence by chanting. I found myself doing it again. I said, Lion tiger dragon garuda, slit the throat of the transgressor. Maybe it was the rhythm, the way it sounded, but he smiled.
A Mercedes pulled up and stopped. The passenger side opened and a woman got out. She was probably in her late twenties, dressed very well. She said, Don’t talk to that man. At the sound of her voice, the child turned. She grabbed his arm. Her eyes were fixed on me.
I stood and said, Just seeing if he’s okay.
She didn’t reply. She bundled him in her arms and glared at me and got back in the Mercedes. The car swung out into traffic, nearly hitting a hybrid coming the other way. Then they were gone. I stood there and in my head I said the things I hadn’t: Why was he alone at the train station? How do I know he’s your child? Why am I the bad guy?
I looked at the homeless guys in their coats. One shook his head. Some people, he said. I gave him what change I had and started walking toward home. As I did, the incantation came into my head again: Lion tiger dragon garuda. A garuda is a kind of bird creature, as I understand it. Slit the throat of the transgressor. Which I never got. What had the transgressor done to deserve it? I didn’t know. I didn’t know a lot of things. I suppose I never will.
Ray Trenchard-Smith
The Byrd Theatre, 2908 W Cary Street, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.552261
longitude: -77.477997
10/15/2016
For years, Phil and I had this podcast called Silent Pictures. After Dash was born, he kept us company when we recorded. It was a deal between parents: Phil got to talk about movies, Amy got some time to herself. When he was old enough, Dash watched the movies as well. It made sense to me: silent movies for a silent child. Who knows what he understood, but he sure seemed happy.
That weekend, the Byrd had a showing of Intolerance in honor of the film’s one-hundredth anniversary. We decided to do an episode about it. Three hours seemed a lot for a kid, but Dash was always so calm during movies. Phil thought we could try it. Plus, Amy had started crying that morning. Dash’s difficulty affected her in waves. He’d grow a shirt size, and suddenly she’d be despairing about his future again. This was one of those times. Phil wanted to give her space.
He was letting us out of the car in front of the theater when Amy called. I could hear her voice. It sounded strained. Listen, Phil said to me, can you watch him for a minute. Then he sped off. It was an unexpected move. I’ll confess I was surprised.
Sometimes, when Amy and Phil fought, I’d take Dash on walks around the neighborhood. We’d look at trees. So that part was no big deal. We were buddies. But what were we supposed to do? I didn’t have my phone. I wasn’t sure if I should buy tickets. For a while, we just stood there. Dash held my hand and stared at the Bob Gulledge sign swinging in the wind. He always responded to simple motions such as that—he’d just fix his attention and watch. Sort of like watching the movies.
But soon he started rocking, a sign he was restless. So I picked him up. I began to talk about the stores on Cary Street like they were trees on a walk. I said, Dash, which one’s the bookstore? And I turned him to face the bookstore and said, There’s the bookstore. Good job. Then, Dash, where’s the ice cream store? We turned to face the ice cream store, and I said, There it is. You’ve got it. Now where’s the donut shop? We turned to face the donut shop. I supplied the questions and the answers. Dash said nothing, of course. He just held onto my neck and looked where I pointed him. Still, it felt like he understood. It always did.
Then there was a voice behind me: Thank god I didn’t end up with one of those.
For a moment, I wasn’t sure I’d heard it. Then I was very sure. I turned around to see who had opened their mouth wide enough to let it out. Not the ticket seller in his booth. Not the Byrd girl in her dress, propping open the door. I knew them. They were nice people. But between us and them stood a sidewalk of candidates, milling about in their fall coats, waiting for the movie and trying very hard not to look directly at us. Average freaking people. How long had they been watching? Not one of them would meet my eye. I felt my stomach sink, and suddenly I understood. It didn’t matter who the speaker had been. I could see all the people who were going to treat Dash badly because he was different. I could see the easy cruelty with which they would do it. A whole lifetime of it. He was a little boy who liked Charlie Chaplin and dogwood trees. I wanted them to be ashamed. Every one of them. But that’s not how it works, is it? Maybe in the movies.
I turned Dash back to face the ice cream store. In the front window was a family. The kids were gesturing wildly, spinning on their chairs, moving their lips. The parents reacting with smiles. We couldn’t hear what they said. But it was a happy picture. I held onto the child at my side, and together we watched them, waiting for someone, anyone, to claim us.
Annabelle Charles
The Old Negro Burial Ground, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.537002
longitude: -77.427984
5/4/2018
That semester I was writing a long paper on the history of Richmond’s enslaved population. At night, I read to my son from my research. He may not have understood the words, but he listened, and that’s what mattered. One night, I was re-reading Egerton when it struck me: Although we’d named him for Gabriel, leader of Richmond’s slave rebellion, we’d never taken our Gabe to see the Old Negro Burial Ground, as it was called, where among other things the historic Gabriel was executed and probably interred.
That Friday, my husband got stuck at work, but I picked up Gabe from the school and drove over there. I parked in the VCU lot south of Broad, near the Lumpkin’s Jail site. We stood in front of the tunnel and I read to Gabe from the placard. The manmade hill under which we were about to pass had been constructed in part with stones from the gallows. If our visit had a direct connection to Gabriel, this was it. I took Gabe’s hand and we crossed through the dark of Broad Street and emerged onto the green expanse of lawn.
When I was growing up, my father often took me to the same spot. In those days, it was covered by yet another VCU parking lot — or part of it was, with the rest buried under Interstate 95. For my father, this was a lesson in the need to take back historic spaces. The interstate issue was never solved — how could it be? But in time, the parking lot was reclaimed and transformed into green space. To see all of that grass stretching away from us where everything had once been asphalt — I’ll admit, it was breathtaking still.
Gabe began to pull at my hand. My son was wild for open spaces. Parks, fields — he’d run for hours if I let him. When he was younger, it scared me. How could I let go if I couldn’t instruct him how to get back? Eventually, I realized the freedom was what he needed. As long as I remained visible, he found his way back to me. So I relaxed my hold and he took off, moving at his funny gait, his upper body pitched forward. Every time I turned around, it seemed he’d gotten bigger. Running across the grass of the burial ground, he looked almost like a miniature man.
I walked over to the commemorative markers installed by the road. The trees on either side were decorated with kente cloth and lengths of rope. Around the bases of the markers were candles, coins, various totems left by previous visitors. Above me was the interstate, and from it came the unmistakable sound of traffic. But I was struck by the stillness of the place, its ability to diminish even that noise. I closed my eyes and listened to the quiet of the cemetery.
I soon realized I’d lost track of Gabe. When I turned, he was on his back in the middle of the grass. Instantly, I panicked. I yelled his name, but of course there was no response. I ran over to him, frantic. Then I was above him and I saw he was smiling. He had his face pointed at the sky, his eyes dancing back and forth. His lips were moving ever so slightly. It was almost like he was having a conversation with himself — or with someone I couldn’t hear. I’d never seen anything like it. Suddenly, there were tears in my eyes. Did he get it? Did he understand where we were, what had transpired there?
So much of the past is abstract. But look at that space and imagine it full of people laid end to end. All the lives that ended there, all the bodies put in the ground. How better to honor those spirits than to lie down in the grass alongside them? Gabe showed me that. So I followed his lead. I laid myself down beside my son. And we stayed there, side by side, until it was time to go home.
Leah Shaffer
Henry “Box” Brown Plaza, Dock Street, Richmond, VA
latitude: 37.532348
longitude: -77.431355
10/17/2019
The floodwater had receded and the last of the rioting had been contained. I felt I could eat lunch outside again. At noon, I headed down to sit by the canal. There was a new smell coming off it. I retreated a few feet and found myself at the Box Brown site. Municipal crews had tidied up the place, and the statue appeared to have survived its time underwater. There was traffic on Dock Street, but in the parking lot beyond, cars were still overturned and pushed up against the columns.
I was finishing lunch — tuna substitute, coffee substitute, kettle chips — when a family came up the steps from the Canal Walk. A woman with long red hair, a gentleman with a beard, the daughter like the mother. I could see right away the girl was silent. Not that there was anything so unusual about her, but sometimes you could tell by the way the parents carried themselves. They seemed happy, though, an ordinary family out for a walk. I only remember them because of what the girl did next. That and the fact she became so famous later.
So you know how the statue is designed to look like one panel of the box has been removed? And how you can see inside it and get a sense of the very small space in which Henry Brown mailed himself to freedom? Well, as the family passed in front of me, the parents knelt down and started pointing out things about the space to the daughter. Clearly, they believed in talking to their child. Suddenly, the girl pulled away from her parents and climbed right inside. She scrunched up her knees and turned on her rear so she was facing the inner wall, almost in mimicry of the cartoon silhouette of Henry Brown.
At first it looked absurd to me — a red-headed white girl occupying the space used by a Black man to escape the tyranny of slave culture. The representation of that space, anyway. But as the girl stayed in the box, refusing to come out, and her parents gently tried to convince her otherwise, I found myself thinking about Henry Brown’s practical experience. He’d had to endure days of silence, sealed up in his conveyance, lest he give himself away in transit. In this way, and at great peril to himself, he was able to emerge from his box a free person. Maybe that little red-headed girl felt a kind of spiritual resonance in that space? Some sense of the person who’d lived through a silence of their own and come out the other side?
Not that she would, by any indication. Come out of it. But it was nice to think about. And anyway, quite a sight to see.
Eventually, her parents got her out of there. They brushed her off and nodded at me and kind of shrugged their shoulders. I waved at the little girl, who stared back for a moment. And then they were on their way. I went back to office. Just another day, and another and another. Then, years later, I saw her in the news, and I thought of that day and smiled.
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Text copyright Andrew Blossom. All rights reserved.