The Voiceover Artist. Dave Reidy
at him, demanding an explanation, Frank said, “I— I— I— d— did the s— same th— th— thing w— when I was a kid. He— he— he’ll s— s— snap out of it.”
“The last time I remember hearing him speak was Friday night,” I said.
Frank shrugged and brought a beer can to his lips.
“What happened?”
He put his beer down and pulled the wooden handle on the right side of his recliner, bringing the footrest down. “W— w— what do you m— mean w— w— what happened?”
“What happened on Saturday? When I put him to bed Friday night, Simon was speaking. When I got home from taking Connor to the doctor, Simon wouldn’t say a word. And he’s staring daggers at you!”
“He bet— bet— better not be,” Frank said, shifting in his chair.
“What happened on Saturday, Francis?”
“N— nothing!” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “Nothing happened. N— now tur— turn up the v— v— volume and g— get out the way.”
He stared past me to whatever was happening on the part of the screen I’d failed to block. I stalked off to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me and leaving the television’s volume where it was. If he was content to let Simon stay silent, Frank could turn up the TV himself.
Clumsy with outrage, I struggled out of my clothes and caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. I pushed a strand of my thick, wavy hair out of my face. The bags beneath my eyes were dark, and deep wrinkles slashed across the skin of my long neck.
A ballerina’s neck, Frank used to call it.
To hell with Frank.
I didn’t need anyone to give me the particulars. It was enough to know that Simon remained silent because of something his father had done or failed to do.
•••
SIMON'S SILENCE WENT up like a wall between us. His nods, headshakes and gestures could not create the closeness I felt when Simon had risked speaking to me, and I’d made good on his risk by listening with my eyes and ears until he had finished. Even as Connor wowed me with his knack for the speed and rhythms of adult speech, I found myself wishing for a chance to sit next to Simon on his bed and show him, just by listening patiently as he started and restarted his words, that there was nothing he couldn’t tell me. But Simon would not say anything to me or anyone else.
Every day or two, I’d try to draw him out. Once, when he was listening to his radio in the early evening, I knocked on his door and said, “Dinner is ready.”
Simon nodded and gave me a flat, close-mouthed smile.
“Would you like something to drink?”
He nodded again.
“What would you like?”
I knew the answer was Sprite. Simon always picked Sprite if given a choice. But Simon wouldn’t say the word. So he shrugged.
“You don’t know what you want to drink?” I asked.
He raised his shoulders again, even higher, and let them fall.
“Why don’t you tell me what you want to drink, and I’ll pour it for you?”
I turned toward the kitchen, trying to suggest with body language that the Sprite was as good as poured if Simon would only say what he wanted.
Simon looked at me. He seemed to be asking me, with his eyes, to let him be. But I wouldn’t.
“It’s no trouble,” I said.
Simon turned off his radio. He hopped off his bed and scooted past me in his stocking feet. By the time I reached the kitchen, he was hoisting himself onto the counter to retrieve a tall, green plastic cup from the cupboard. He lowered himself to the floor, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a two-liter bottle of Sprite. Then Simon poured himself half a glass—the same limit I would have set—carried his drink to the table, and took his seat without a word.
With his obedient refusal, Simon sent me the unspoken message that there was nothing, big or small, I could do to help him out of his silence, and that I should save myself the trouble of trying.
But I didn’t quit trying. I couldn’t.
I sat Simon down and told him how much we valued what he had to say, no matter how long it took him to say it, whether he stuttered or not. Driving home from the grocery store with him, I praised the strength of Simon’s will—his ability to make a decision and stick to it—in the hope that he might decide he had made his point. And when my birthday came, I asked Simon for only one gift.
I waited all evening for him to speak to me. After my birthday dinner—burgers from Wendy’s, the best meal Frank could serve up on his own—I sent Frank and Connor into the living room to watch the ballgame so that Simon might feel safe enough, or generous enough, to say something. But when he had finished his piece of the birthday cake I had baked—yellow cake with chocolate frosting—Simon wiped the crumbs from his lips, slid off of his chair, and set his plate and fork in the sink. Then he kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into his bedroom.
The day after my birthday, when Simon had brushed his teeth and changed into his pajamas, I went into his room, closed the door, and sat down on his bed.
“I’m worried about you, Simon,” I said, allowing myself to cry. “And I miss you.” Simon would not look at me. His radio, muffled by the leg under which he had stashed it when I came in, mumbled commercial messages.
“I want to hear you again,” I said. “Please. Say something to me.”
When he was certain I was finished speaking, Simon raised his glistening eyes to mine.
At last! I thought. He’ll speak!
Then Simon closed his eyes and shook his head. No.
My crying kept up for the rest of the evening. Frank must have heard me sniffling from the living room. I was folding a load of whites on our bed when he walked up behind me, laid his hand on the small of my back, and asked, “W— w— what’s wrong?”
It was Frank’s bad luck that this tender gesture—his first in months—hardened my sadness into something brittle.
“If you don’t know,” I said, “I’m not going to tell you.”
With that, Frank pulled his hand away and stormed out of the bedroom, stuttering and muttering his curses.
•••
IT WAS ONLY a few days later when, having spent the night chewing my nails down to the quick and nibbling my cuticles, I asked Frank for his help.
“Will you talk to him?” I asked.
Looking up from the game, he said, “W— w— what about?”
“Anything, Frank! He hasn’t said a word in almost six months! Were you ever silent for six months?”
Connor, sitting on the couch, said, “What are you guys talking about?”
“Please,” I said. “Just try to make him talk.”
With his shoulders slumped forward even as he sat back in his chair, Frank looked defeated already.
“F— fine,” he said. “Br— br— bring him in here.”
I leapt into action before Frank could change his mind. “All right, Connor,” I said. “Let’s get you in your pajamas and you can watch the little TV in your room.”
“Okay, Mommy!”
With Connor settled, I knocked on Simon’s bedroom door, opened it, and asked him to come with me. I led him into the living room and stood him in front of his father.