Dover and the Whistle

Dover sat at the window, watching the branches of a chestnut swing back and forth across the panes. Four raindrops had fallen when Mrs. McKiernan creaked the door open. Voices from the choir room drifted down the hall, shifting into a minor key as they hit the doorframe.

“Dover?” Her voice was near a whisper. “A letter for you. It’s from your mother.”

Dover sat up straight, almost as if on command, and reached up for the letter. Mrs. McKiernan handed it to him, and then sank out of the room as quietly as she had come.

The boy’s eyes swept eagerly across the page, his hands nearly trembling with excitement. But when he reached the first word of the second paragraph, he slowed. So that was it. He slumped back against the frosty window, still clutching the letter, and sighed. His heart sank back to where it usually lay, and his nerves settled. He squinted at the ceiling.

As the voices down the hall stopped, the door was suddenly flung open and Mr. Sloan emerged. He was a small but commanding man, his countenance quite similar to the funeral dirges he conducted during class. His way of speaking was quick, rather like a staccato note stuck dejectedly in the bass clef.

“So. Mrs. McKiernan tells me your mother is unable to have you come home this holiday. Is that so?”

Dover nodded.

“Did she give a reason?”

Dover shrugged, offering up the letter, which Mr. Sloan snatched up and read quickly. He sighed a long sigh, and then snapped to attention.

“You do realize you will be the only student staying through the holidays.”

The boy nodded.

“Some of the teachers will be staying. But we will all be very busy.”

Dover exhaled.

“Well. So be it.” Mr. Sloan turned on his heal and stalked towards the door, his shoes making a click-click noise as they met with the tiled floor. At the door, he abruptly turned. “Happy Christmas.” And he was gone.

Dover looked outside at the rain-soaked chestnut tree and wished, for neither the first time nor the last, that for once in his life he could have the voice to cry. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cry – there was nothing wrong with his tear ducts. But with Dover’s condition, if he began to cry, there would be no one to hear – and no one to comfort him. But he had begun to get used to it. He was used to laughing alone – he was used to crying alone. In his own silent world, he was his one companion.

He was used to it – but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

That night, Dover sat up in his dormitory and began to write a response to his mother’s letter – or at least, the part where she had asked what he would like for Christmas. The words “to be home” wouldn’t have meant anything. But Dover had thought long and hard about what he would do in this situation all year – and now, he had the chance. He penned the words, sealed the envelope, and went to bed. The boys in the other beds could only hear shaky breaths being drawn from somewhere in that dark room – they had no idea of the tears that accompanied them.

Three days later, on Christmas Eve, the post arrived. All the children had been packed onto a train the day before. Dover and a handful of teachers had stayed behind – none of whom were especially pleased with their company.

Dover had spent that morning at the same window he had been at three days previous. He liked to be by that large window. It never asked him questions in that apologetic tone – and it never expected an answer back.

The door gave a creak, and suddenly Mrs. McKiernan stood before him, a small parcel in her hands.

“Dover?” She said, looking at him with a sad smile. “This came for you. It’s from your mother.”

Dover jumped up and took the parcel from her. He tore off the brown packaging paper, disregarding the complete lack of a note, or even of any sort of festive wrapping paper. He sat down, holding in his little hands a wooden box, just over the length of his pointer finger. He smiled.

The lid slid off, Dover’s eyes caressed the inside view of the box – for there, sitting wrapped in velvet casing, was a little metal whistle. He pulled it out and put it up to his lips, blowing one single note. It was the first non-minor key to be played in that schoolhouse for years.

Henceforth, Dover was no longer silent. Wherever he went, he had a companion to articulate his thoughts.

He, Dover, the little boy from an unloving country household, had a voice.