Viktor’s cello. Only it wasn’t music really. Viktor’s music sounded more like suffering than songs. Whines and cries and shrieks. A playground fight. The howl of children hurt. Other times, there was the clang of his piano or the whine of a violin. Diego said Viktor’s dreadful music didn’t break the silence rule because music was his art. And besides, he composed in the infirmary with all the windows shut. Far enough away that the artists couldn’t hear it in their sheds.
Why does all his music sound so sad? I wrote down in my sketchbook. Why does he drink tea with Lillian at night on the side porch? Why does Mama go to the infirmary so often? If Viktor was a prodigy, how did he end up here?
I flipped the page; I didn’t want to daydream about Viktor.
What was? I wrote to get my dreaming started. What was or what could be?
Your days, I wrote. Did you have to sit in silence just like me? Often if I asked a question, my orphan’s story would get started.
I closed my eyes and pictured his mop of thick brown hair, his chipped front tooth, the scar across his eyebrow. The more days I imagined him, the more alive he seemed to be. Real, the way people were in books.
My days , he finally said. They were like everybody else’s. We were quiet during classes. At dinner during prayer. In summer we played baseball right there in the meadow. There were so many of us kids, we made up our own teams.
Everyone is gone, I wrote. Your orphanage is closed.
Closed? he asked. Did the orphans all find families?
I don’t know, I wrote. I wonder that myself.
“Do you think they all found families?” I asked Josie. Most nights, after we’d dried the final dishes, Josie and I liked to take a nightly sojourn to the attic. Nightly sojourn, that’s what Josie always called it. The attic was the only place I ever saw her still, her voice dropped to a whisper like we were visiting a church.
“I don’t know.” Josie shook her head. Even calm, she looked too wild for the attic. Every dress she wore was made from colored scraps of fabric stitched together, rainbow clothes as lively as her braids. “But I’d sure like to find out.”
“Me too,” I said. “It’s like their time here ended in midstream. Suddenly.” I looked around the room at the tiny toys and trinkets. The emerald rosary hanging from the bed. Yellowed sheets of cursive work like I did back in third grade. “It feels like the orphans wanted us to find it all and wonder. To think about their days. The way things used to be.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Josie said. “And for some reason, Viktor let it be. Left all of it untouched.”
I walked over to a drawing. It was a chalky sketch of snowy hills colored on black paper, Sparrow Road in winter. The neighbors’ small red barn set far off in the distance. The white hills so cold and empty, I could almost feel the chill.
I stared hard at the bottom of the paper. There, in faded pencil, someone had printed LYMAN CHASE . And under that AGE 12 .
Lyman, I said inside my heart where my orphan always heard me. So far no one knew his story, even Josie; I was happiest to keep my daydreams to myself. Lyman Chase. I finally know your name.
Yep, he said. I’ve been Lyman all along.
12
“Raine.” Lillian’s weak voice shocked me from my daydream. From the swing on the front porch, I’d been imagining the orphans building snowmen in the winter. Coming in for oatmeal. Warming their cold hands around the fire in the parlor. A chapter in my story I still wanted to write.
“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. Even though Mama and Viktor had gone to town again, and Josie and Diego were working in their sheds, Eleanor was here. From an open upstairs window I could hear the constant click of typing. If I could hear her, she could hear us, too.
“I just need some company,” Lillian said, like she was sad. “Would you read to me, dear child?”
I shook my head no. Josie said the silence rule was serious—one
Why does all his music sound so sad? I wrote down in my sketchbook. Why does he drink tea with Lillian at night on the side porch? Why does Mama go to the infirmary so often? If Viktor was a prodigy, how did he end up here?
I flipped the page; I didn’t want to daydream about Viktor.
What was? I wrote to get my dreaming started. What was or what could be?
Your days, I wrote. Did you have to sit in silence just like me? Often if I asked a question, my orphan’s story would get started.
I closed my eyes and pictured his mop of thick brown hair, his chipped front tooth, the scar across his eyebrow. The more days I imagined him, the more alive he seemed to be. Real, the way people were in books.
My days , he finally said. They were like everybody else’s. We were quiet during classes. At dinner during prayer. In summer we played baseball right there in the meadow. There were so many of us kids, we made up our own teams.
Everyone is gone, I wrote. Your orphanage is closed.
Closed? he asked. Did the orphans all find families?
I don’t know, I wrote. I wonder that myself.
“Do you think they all found families?” I asked Josie. Most nights, after we’d dried the final dishes, Josie and I liked to take a nightly sojourn to the attic. Nightly sojourn, that’s what Josie always called it. The attic was the only place I ever saw her still, her voice dropped to a whisper like we were visiting a church.
“I don’t know.” Josie shook her head. Even calm, she looked too wild for the attic. Every dress she wore was made from colored scraps of fabric stitched together, rainbow clothes as lively as her braids. “But I’d sure like to find out.”
“Me too,” I said. “It’s like their time here ended in midstream. Suddenly.” I looked around the room at the tiny toys and trinkets. The emerald rosary hanging from the bed. Yellowed sheets of cursive work like I did back in third grade. “It feels like the orphans wanted us to find it all and wonder. To think about their days. The way things used to be.”
“Yeah, I see that,” Josie said. “And for some reason, Viktor let it be. Left all of it untouched.”
I walked over to a drawing. It was a chalky sketch of snowy hills colored on black paper, Sparrow Road in winter. The neighbors’ small red barn set far off in the distance. The white hills so cold and empty, I could almost feel the chill.
I stared hard at the bottom of the paper. There, in faded pencil, someone had printed LYMAN CHASE . And under that AGE 12 .
Lyman, I said inside my heart where my orphan always heard me. So far no one knew his story, even Josie; I was happiest to keep my daydreams to myself. Lyman Chase. I finally know your name.
Yep, he said. I’ve been Lyman all along.
12
“Raine.” Lillian’s weak voice shocked me from my daydream. From the swing on the front porch, I’d been imagining the orphans building snowmen in the winter. Coming in for oatmeal. Warming their cold hands around the fire in the parlor. A chapter in my story I still wanted to write.
“Shh.” I put my finger to my lips. Even though Mama and Viktor had gone to town again, and Josie and Diego were working in their sheds, Eleanor was here. From an open upstairs window I could hear the constant click of typing. If I could hear her, she could hear us, too.
“I just need some company,” Lillian said, like she was sad. “Would you read to me, dear child?”
I shook my head no. Josie said the silence rule was serious—one
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