by Todd Borg
I continued, “The person who helped with the mental house-cleaning and subsequent garage sale and trash bonfire and then planted flowers in planters all over the attic was a girl with the funny name of Street Casey, a girl who studied bugs and got a Ph.D. in Entomology from Berkeley, a girl entirely too thin with small acne scars on her face and bigger scars embedded on her own memory circuits, the ugly scars of an uglier childhood. Of course I know that hers and my struggles and wounds and pain are nothing against yours, Ms. Remmick, but at least I found a way to let someone help me get through.”
I was breathing fast, eyes narrowed at Marlette. “But while I’m pushing my brand of help your way, trying to help you find your daughter, you’re free to find my shallow no-account efforts fatuous and fraudulent, and you are welcome to find a macho gun-slinging lawman to put together a posse and bust up a gang of bikers. There’ll be a lot of flash and noise, and it’ll look like your hired hand is getting a lot done and maybe that’ll make you feel better.
“Meanwhile, I’m going to keep on pushing and poking and looking under the rocks and seeing what slithers out. It’s not glamorous, and you will no doubt think that it won’t help you save anything meaningful from your past life, but it’s the only thing I know how to do.”
I took a couple of steps back, ready to turn and leave. I paused and looked at the mess of a woman who stood, still doubtful, before me. “And if I find your lovely daughter Silence, I’m going to take her out on Nevada beach to a place where the few remaining tourists never go and the sand stretches on for a mile, just Silence and me, and I’m going to ask her to show me how to spin and how to make the ugly parts of the world go away a little and how to look down at the ground and make that mischievous grin and I’m going to put that experience on the very top of the moonbeam memories.”
Marlette’s face stiffened and quivered and contorted itself into a sadness I didn’t recognize. Her body lost its rigidity. Her wide square shoulders softened and caved. Her spine swayed and began to melt. When her knees gave way I stepped over and grabbed her from the side, holding her up by her far shoulder and her close elbow.
I walked her that way, propelling her forward and holding her up. She was a good-sized woman and it took some effort, but it was like clutch-starting a car that doesn’t want to go. You can keep pushing it until it fires and moves under its own power, or you can leave it in the road.
After half a block Marlette stiffened a little and began her own listing walk. Then came the torrent. It began as a gush of tears and sobs and grew to a series of violent explosive tremors more like a seizure than a serious cry. She tripped as she howled and I caught her and turned her to me and held her as she jerked and spasmed. Her head beneath my chin made me worry that she would buck and I’d bite my tongue, so I held the head and put my nose to her scalp and smelled the scents of skin and stress and worry, and I squeezed her like I’d learned that autistic kids like to be squeezed.
It was a long time before she got her breathing calmed down to a series of regular gasps, much longer still before she tried to speak. She didn’t look up at me. I was still holding her close when her arm raised up.
The only words she managed were “I... I didn’t mean...” She began sobbing anew, calmer, without the jerking, but still serious tears.
“Don’t,” I said. I turned her, and, holding her shoulder and elbow, once again propelled her forward, tiny steps at first, then gradually more like a walk.
THIRTY-NINE
It occurred to me that Spot could serve as a distraction, so I propelled Marlette over to the Jeep, let Spot out and told him to stay. I showed Marlette how to hold his collar – no leash necessary because of his height – and how he would walk nicely at her side.
She held his collar as instructed and seemed a little calmed by the focus.
We walked down the street toward the corner. Marlette’s breathing had subsided from convulsive jerks to a heavy inhalation with small periodic hiccups. After a few minutes she was able to speak with a semblance of calm.
“I’m sorry, Owen. What can I do to help? I’m kind of on brain scramble right now.”
“Understood. We are revisiting everyone who knows Silence.”
“Friends, neighbors, people at church,” she said.
“Right. Let’s start with neighbors. Anyone in any of these houses who knows Silence?”
Marlette slowly shook her head as she glanced up and down both sides of the street. “Not really.” She pointed in front of us to the left. “The gray house there, with the shutters with the little pine tree cutouts, that’s where Michelle and her sister Tracy live. Michelle is Charlie’s age. And Tracy is a couple years younger still. They liked Charlie and are okay with Silence. Not friendly, but not weird about her the way so many other kids are.”
“Their parents?”
“I’ve only just met the mom. Her name is Nancy, but I don’t know their last name. She works at the day-care center down off Pioneer Trail. The dad I’ve seen, but I don’t know his name. He drives an old pickup with ladders up on the overhead rack and boards and stuff in back. I guess he works construction.”
“They ever pay any attention to Silence?”
“None that I’ve ever noticed.”
We kept walking, came to the corner and turned left.
“Did Silence know anyone else on the block?”
Marlette shook her head. “Nobody until the next street over. I’ll show you when we get there.”
“Tell me about her teachers while we walk.”
“Well, Silence goes to most of the normal classes except for physical education. I think they usually keep kids like Silence out of most all regular classes. Too much stress for autistic kids. But Henrietta really feels that Silence should be mainstreamed as much as possible. Not PhyEd because the physical interaction isn’t something Silence can handle. But the other classes.”
“Any of those teachers ever pay any attention to Silence?”
Marlette shook her head. “Not to speak of. Of course, at the parent teacher conferences they say the usual things I’ve come to expect. Like how they don’t think she is getting anything from class, that she doesn’t pay attention. But then they always agree that she doesn’t cause any trouble, so why not? Plus, there’s some kind of Federal law that requires that kids like Silence be schooled in the least restrictive setting possible. So if she can be in regular classes without causing a problem, then they have to put her in those classes.”
“Henrietta thought Silence was smart from the first time they met,” I said.
“Something she’s told me many times,” Marlette said with an edge to her voice. “Silence is kind of a mission with her. I think it is partly because Henrietta never had a family. She told me once how she always wanted a daughter. The truth is, Henrietta’s been a very good advocate for Silence. Every year, she asks the other teachers to include her in things even though she can’t talk.”
“Meaning?”
“Just that when they’re teaching and use the children’s names, Silence should be part of that. Of course, Silence doesn’t act like she knows what’s going on. But she is quiet and doesn’t disrupt. Henrietta says Silence understands the classroom lessons just like the other kids, even though she doesn’t show it.”
Marlette paused, thinking.
“Henrietta told me I should include her in things, too, talk to her a lot and use her name whenever I can. It’s hard because Silence has never really been there in so many ways. Henrietta says she’s totally there – and I appreciate her enthusiasm for Silence’s potential – but Henrietta sometimes doesn’t face reality. I mean, from the day that girl was born she wasn’t there. She never even noticed me, her own mother. She never squeezed my finger, never held onto me. I’d pick her up and try to be a good mother, but it was like picking up a doll. No response at all.” Marlette was shaking her head as she walked.
“For years now, I’ve been doing what Henrietta says. When I cook or clean or take Si
lence grocery shopping, I talk to her just as if she is responding. It’s not easy, let me tell you. And after she comes home from school I ask her how her day was. I say, ‘Did you have a good day in school? I bet you did. I heard from Ms. Johanssen just last week. She said the school band was going to perform today out on the field and that all the classes were going to watch. Did you like that? I bet it was fun, huh.’” Marlette turned to me. “That’s what I do. I suppose the way I do it isn’t really, what’s the word, inspired. But I try. I really try.”
“It sounds like a good approach to me, Marlette.”
“Really? Does it? Oh, thank you.”
She said it with such earnestness that I got a glimpse of what a lonely, difficult struggle it must be to go on day after day attempting a communication and love with a child who seems to be absent in the most critical ways.
We turned another corner and Marlette spoke.
“Up here on the right is where Salina Cortez and her kids live. Three of them. Cutest little guys. Three boys all under the age of five. Cesar, the dad, works at Heavenly in food and beverage. Salina does phone work from home. They know of Silence. Say hi to her and stuff. But that’s all. Maybe that’s not enough to make it worth even mentioning them.”
“No, I want to hear about everybody.”
“Anyway, Salina and Cesar are the hardest working couple you’d ever hope to meet. I guess that’s common with immigrants, isn’t it? Someday they’ll own their own home, unlike most of us in this neighborhood. Someday they’ll get good promotions and make a lot of money. You can just tell.”
Marlette scanned the street. “No one else on this street knows Silence. But the next street over goes up the hill toward Mr. Baylor. I think I mentioned him. I’ll show you in a minute.”
We turned at the next corner.
“Do you think Henrietta is right?” Marlette suddenly said. “That Silence is totally there, that she just can’t talk and respond normally? I mean, I’m the one who should know. I’m her mother. But I’m so confused. I love that girl. My heart aches for her. But because I don’t see the response, I have a hard time imagining what Henrietta thinks. What do you think?”
“Having never met Silence, I can only go by what you and Henrietta say. Henrietta is a highly experienced teacher, so I have to give some credence to her ideas. But she also strikes me as someone who gets very enthusiastic about certain things, so there might be some extra enthusiasm when it comes to Silence.”
“That’s exactly the case,” Marlette said. “It’s like Silence is Henrietta’s pet project. I don’t doubt Henrietta’s intentions, but I often feel like I’m not good enough, like because I’m not so sure of Silence’s abilities, I’m holding her back. It’s hard. I do the everyday work of taking care of Silence, and then Henrietta swoops in and becomes Silence’s cheerleader. It makes me feel like I’m just the dumb mom who doesn’t know the score and doesn’t care enough.” Marlette stared off through the trees. “And maybe that’s just what I am,” she said.
“I recall you pounding on my door in the middle of the night, demanding that I find your kids. Seems like caring to me.”
We walked down the block without speaking, then turned up the next street, which rose steeply up toward the mountain. Out of sight from where we stood, 3600 feet above us, was the top of the Sky chair at Heavenly, from which the vast network of runs spilled down into both California and Nevada.
“This is where the money begins,” Marlette said, gesturing at the fancy houses that occupied the higher part of the neighborhood. “We don’t come up here a lot. Too much work to hike.” She was already breathing hard. “But sometimes we do it for the view. When Shane was here he would carry a little lunch for us in his pack, and we’d all climb up toward the Baylor’s house.” Marlette pointed at a sprawling house near the top of the street. “You can sit there on those boulders and see the lake and all the way to the North Shore. Mostly, we’d do it to watch the fireworks over the lake on the Fourth and on Labor Day. The fireworks are far away, but it’s a good view. Do you want to go up?”
“Sure. Does Silence like the fireworks?”
“It’s like everything else, you can’t tell. But the nice thing about this place is the sound isn’t too loud. She hates all loud noises. We could never take her to the beach, down close to them. One boom and she’d completely freak out. But from up here the fireworks just make little popping sounds.”
“You mentioned the Baylors.”
“Yeah. Nice people.” Marlette was panting and put space between each of her words. “Only, Claudette died last year. Some kind of terrible cancer. Stage four when they found it. Now Emerson lives alone in that big house. He acts normal. Smiles at you and says hi. But you can tell he’s pretty broken up inside. It’s in his eyes. You can always tell by the eyes.”
“What’s Emerson do for a living?”
“Oh, don’t you know Baylor Ford? Those funny commercials on TV where the farmer keeps pulling the last pig out of the Ford pickup, but the pig keeps climbing back in because he wants nothing more than to ride in a Baylor Ford?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have a TV.”
Marlette looked at me, frowning. I was a little bit of an alien again. “He’s retired now, but I suppose he still owns them. There’s something like eight or ten Baylor Fords across Northern California and up into Oregon and Washington.”
We got to the top of the street and Marlette sat down on one of the boulders, hands leaning on her knees. She gasped for air like a runner after a race. She let go of Spot and he sat next to her boulder, his head facing out toward the view like a sentry on watch. I took another boulder. There was a bit of haze in the air, and thirty miles in the distance the North Shore mountains had a shimmery softness about them. The recent snow had melted off the lower elevations, but Mt. Rose and the high massif above Incline Village shined a blazing white and made a blurred white reflection that stretched all the way down the lake toward us.
“Does Emerson Baylor ever take an interest in Silence?”
Marlette nodded, still breathing hard. “Oh, yes. He’s so sweet. Even when she was a toddler and we’d walk up here to these boulders, he was always kind to her and acted as if she were completely normal. When she was really little, he’d pick her up and bounce her on his knee.”
“Did she ever respond to that? Smile? Or look at him?”
Marlette shook her head. “No. It was so sad. This man trying so hard and my little girl not even noticing.” Marlette chewed on her lip. “But that’s what’s so great about Mr. Baylor, he just always acts like everything is fine. Nothing fazes him.”
“When Silence got older, was it the same? The way Baylor treated her?”
“Yes. He’s always consistent. I can always count on him to be just right with Silence. Even since Claudette died. He still comes out to say hi.”
There was a sound from behind us. We turned and saw a man walking down the curved brick drive. He moved gently and with grace, a man who looked trim and fit beyond what his white hair would suggest. As he got closer I saw that he had impeccable grooming, hair swept carefully straight back, glasses freshly washed and shining, canvas shoes bleached a bright white, trousers creased and unwrinkled. He had a small pencil moustache, white as his shoes, trimmed very close like those of film stars from the thirties.
“Hello, Marlette,” he called out as he got closer.
“Hi, Mr. Baylor,” Marlette said in a soft voice.
He reached out both hands as he approached, took her hand and held it firmly. “I want to say how terribly sorry I am about Charlie and Silence. Terribly sorry.” His pale blue eyes crinkled with emotion. “If there is anything I can do.”
“Thank you, sir. This man is helping me. Mr. Baylor, meet Owen McKenna. And this is his dog Spot.”
“Hey, beautiful dog.” He gave Spot a single soft touch on the top of his head like the pope blessing a parishioner. Then Baylor turned to me. “McKenna. I’ve heard of you, haven’t I? Priv
ate Investigator?”
I nodded as we shook, with Baylor reaching up with his left hand and clamping me on the shoulder. “Good to meet you, Owen. Like I said, if I can help in any way.”
He seemed very sincere. I could probably send him the bill for my services to Marlette. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything,” I said. “Perhaps I could ask you a couple of questions?”
“Certainly.”
“Were you around on the day Silence and Charlie were kidnapped?”
“Yes. I didn’t know it was happening at the time, of course. But when I heard about it the next day, I thought about the time they reported in the paper, and I realized I was at home.”
“Were you alone?”
Baylor took a moment before he spoke. “I’m alone most of the time, these days.”
“Did you hear anything unusual? Voices? Motorcycles?”
He shook his head. “I thought about that, too. Nothing came to mind.”
“We’re considering the possibility that Silence and Charlie were kidnapped by motorcyclists. We’ve also wondered about a van being involved.”
“It would make sense,” Baylor said, “much easier to pack someone off into a van than any other vehicle, correct?”
“That’s our line of thinking. I’m wondering if you recall seeing a van in the neighborhood before the kidnapping. Especially a panel van.”
Baylor shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. At least, not any strange van.”
“Vans you recognized?”
“Just the vans in the neighborhood. The Monroy’s, of course.” He flicked his finger down toward the houses below on the left. “And Bobby Riley’s van, the one that says Robert and Sons Plumbing and Heating. That’s even a panel van. But of course, no way could Bobby be involved. He’s worked for me. I can tell he has good character.”
“Any others?”