Mute

by Brian Bandell

  First he felt the displacement of the water. Then he saw it. Something broad and flat barreled through the water in front of him. It disappeared into a sand cloud along the bottom. Aaron nearly swallowed a gallon of water through his snorkel. He blew it out before it reached his lips and poked it above the surface so he could suck some wind into his scorching lungs. It was as if the air on the other end of his snorkel was a giant soda and he felt like slurping it all down. Aaron would have stuck his head above water and called for help, but turning his gaze away would leave him easy pickings for whatever lurked down there. It was probably gazing up at him that very moment.

  Aaron held the camera before his face, as he didn’t have anything better for a shield, and snapped a bunch of photos. As the flash illuminated the water for a second at a time, he saw that long broad shape again. It was a loose piece of wood—or nearly loose. It hadn’t come completely free from the busted lobster trap.

  The trap should have resembled an airplane hangar made of a wooden cage and rope mesh, which had a hole that lobsters and crabs could crawl into, but not exit from. This one rolled with the current along the sandy bottom like a tumble weed of wood and rope. It had been stripped of its metal nails. Aaron didn’t see a single one left. A wide swath of its net mesh had been broken, not by tearing or cutting, but by something that had burned right through it. Since fire didn’t work so well underwater, Aaron figured acid had once again done the trick.

  The lobsters staged a prison break. That is freaking awesome. I better alert the seafood restaurants to put bars on their lobster tanks.

  Despite its near annihilation, the trap had succeeded in catching one of the spiny sea bugs—part of one, anyway. Aaron found a lobster’s hind leg tangled in the netting. It must have broken off when the crustacean dude made a break for it, he thought. He snatched it from the busted trap and surfaced for a better look.

  Sliding his goggles over his forehead, Aaron examined the thing. He gasped and dropped it. The lobster leg had revolting purple lumps on it. If someone had served that up for him in a restaurant, he would puke right on the plate.

  Nasty purple shit. Just like the sea turtle tumor!

  “What’s going on?” Swartzman hollered at him from the skiff as it motored closer.

  “Uh, wait a minute,” Aaron said.

  He secured his goggles and dove again. This time, he swept his arms through the water and patted down the sand as if he were looking for a lost wedding ring. He felt something slimy with spiny hairs and he knew he had it. Aaron surfaced with it above his head in triumph.

  “Yeah! I got it!”

  The two scientists on the skiff exchanged perplexed glances. Swartzman rolled his eyes.

  “You’ve got what—one-tenth of a lobster leg platter?” Heingartner asked.

  “No way,” Aaron said. He tossed his prized lobster leg on the skiff. Swartzman knelt down and pushed it aside dismissively. Then he did a double-take. “Not unless you like the rare delicacy of purple lobster. But I wouldn’t suck the meat outta that leg. I think it’s got the same bug our sick sea turtle has.”

  Aaron started climbing into the boat. Consumed by the purple leg, his professor didn’t offer him a hand. Heingartner helped him aboard.

  “The chances of a disease spreading from a reptile to a crustacean are pretty remote, but not impossible,” Swartzman said. “That and all the acidity in the lagoon merits further study.” The professor faced Aaron with a hint of a grin, which would have been a beaming smile on most people. “You weren’t half bad today. I think you’ve earned a trip to the sheriff’s office with me. But first, we’re pulling an all-nighter in the lab until we understand what we’ve got here.”

  The last time Aaron pulled an all-nighter, he had been working on an intense study of beer pong physics. By the time he would figure out what that purple really meant, he couldn’t find beer that carried enough kick to help the startling reality sink home.

  Chapter 6

  She spent the last few days preparing emotionally for the moment when Mariella Gomez would finally walk through her classroom door. It didn’t work. Mrs. Robin Mint still shed a few tears in front of her second grade class.

  “Welcome back, Mariella,” the teacher said as she wiped the droplets away with her sleeves. She knelt down and opened her arms for a hug.

  Instead of skipping into her arms like she had always done, the Mexican girl sent her nothing more than a blink. She quietly followed the mocha-skinned African-American policewoman to an empty desk.

  “Don’t worry about it,” the officer said. “She hasn’t said a word since we found her. I’m sure seeing all her oldfriends will cheer her up.”

  “It is good for traumatized children to be in a familiar, non-threatening environment,” Mrs. Mint said. “I’ll see you at three, officer…”

  “Detective Monique Williams, but you can call me Moni.” Despite the clear hint from the teacher, she remained standing in the middle of the classroom. The boys were pointing at the gun on her hip and firing off their imaginary finger pistols. The officer didn’t even notice all the fuss. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to stick around today. I haven’t left the girl’s side since the event.”

  Of course she’d mind. As if the teacher’s tears did make enough of a scene for her class, having an officer in full uniform really placed the spotlight on the returning child. But she couldn’t exactly argue with a woman who carried a badge and a gun.

  “That’s fine for today, while she adjusts,” Mrs. Mint said as she brushed her frizzy brown hair away from her glasses. “Just please, try not to disrupt my class or be overbearing while protecting the girl. If you give a damaged child some space and be patient with her, she’ll eventually recover.”

  The officer nodded and took a seat at a table in the back of the classroom. Mariella immediately ran to detective Williams. She patted the girl on the shoulder, kissed her on the cheek and aimed her toward her desk. Mariella walked over and sat down, but kept one eye on the officer the whole time.

  “That must be her immigration officer,” Kyle Buckley told his brother, Cole Buckley loud enough so the whole class could hear. “Her daddy got caught running across the border with a sack of tomatoes on his back.”

  Their curly mops of blond locks bounced as the brothers whooped it up. Their friends smiled at the racial humor, which the brothers must have picked up from their obnoxious older brother. The bigger Buckley boy tore his way through her class eight years ago and now sat in a juvenile detention center. He sure had paved the way for them—him and their grandfather, a “former” card-carrying member of the KKK.

  “That’s the last dirty thing I want to hear out of your mouth today—both of you,” Mrs. Mint told the twins. “We’re all very lucky that we have Mariella back. We should treat her nicely so she stays.”

  She hoped they’d go easy on Mariella, who the bullies had found an easy target from Day One because of her ethnicity and heavy accent. What did most children know of loss and grief? Nothing—unless they had lived through it. Yet they could detect a grieving kid getting special attention, which hyperactive children crave above all else.

  In her nineteen years of teaching, Mrs. Mint had comforted a handful of students who lost a parent and one student who had lost both parents in a car accident. She had helped students from abusive homes that showed up for school with bruises underneath their shirts. The teacher had nurtured students who bounced between foster homes and didn’t know a single adult they could trust.

  Then in walked Mariella, who had been afflicted with all of these plagues at such a tender age. And on top of it, the police were pressuring her to hurry up and identify the monster that ruined her life. Mrs. Mint had spoken with detective Sneed over the phone that morning and she got the impression that he cared more about catching the killer than easing Mariella back into class smoothly. Still, she promised the detective that she’d let him know if the girl dropped any clues in class.

  At first, Mariella d
idn’t do much of anything. Mrs. Mint set the paper and pencil on her desk as the class began copying words from the blackboard. The girl watched her classmates write without even touching her pencil.

  Eva Hernandez, the only other Mexican girl in the class and Mariella’s best friend, waved at the girl from a few seats away and said, “Hola.” Mariella gave her a quick glance and then averted her eyes. She picked up her pencil. She pressed down so hard that the lead snapped. Mariella stabbed the hollow point against the page a few times before finally setting it down.

  The girl had been so friendly before this happened, Mrs. Mint thought. She loved Eva. She could write and sharpen her pencil by herself.

  A horrendous loss can change children completely. Mrs. Mint had seen it in some of her less fortunate students. She had felt it herself in the weeks after her father’s death. Socializing becomes too painful because every word and every gesture reminds them of the person they lost. The numbing grief impedes every function like grimy tar clogging up an engine. It shouldn’t alarm her that Mariella acted like an entirely different girl.

  But it did. Her thin lips had once glowed around her smile. As she twirled her black hair around her finger, Mariella had asked her about unicorns and princesses with such innocence. Seeing those lips gone silent and cold profoundly disturbed the teacher. Someone so young should never experience such brutality. She reminded Mrs. Mint of the black and white photos of the hollow-eyed children who had survived the Holocaust.

  Mrs. Mint offered Mariella a new pencil. Staring at her outstretched hand apprehensively, the girl didn’t take the pencil until the teacher set it on her desk and backed off. She took a walk around the room and inspected her students’ papers until she came back behind Mariella. She had written the first word on the board, “Jump”, perfectly. Meticulously tracing the letter, “R”, the girl started on the next word. Without speaking, Mariella had demonstrated that she harbored the desire for interaction. She had made the first step toward recovery.

  “Great job, Mariella,” Mrs. Mint told her. “You wrote it beautifully.”

  Mariella responded with a momentary glance, but Kyle and Cole Buckley gave their teacher a bitter stare. Each of them had written four words and Mrs. Mint realized she hadn’t said a word. She figured they didn’t need it, as their egos were already plenty big enough. But, as usual, the Buckleys would demand attention another way.

  It happened in recess. Mariella leaned against a fence with a bush on her side that blocked her off from viewing half the playground. It also kept her hidden from many of the students. Eva found her and kicked a ball her way. Mariella sidestepped it as if the ball had been covered in paint and let it bounce off the fence. Laughing as it rolled back to her, Eva punted it toward Mariella again. This time, Mariella snatched it up, cradled it in her arms and curled up against the fence. Seeing that the girl who had been her friend all year wouldn’t give the ball back, Eva started pleading with her in Spanish. Even as the girl yelped in her face, Mariella watched her without making a sound.

  Detective Williams started marching over. Mrs. Mint nearly twisted her clumsy ankles catching up with her. No wonder the teacher had gotten so plump despite chasing the kids all day. She had a much harder time keeping pace with a long-legged adult.

  “Officer Williams, please,” Mrs. Mint said as she tapped her on the arm.

  Whipping her braids over her shoulder, she turned around and eased up on her pace toward the child. “Why are you letting her jaw at Mariella? Let the girl have her space.”

  “I’ve watched these girls play together all year. They’re friends. Eva is frustrated and confused that Mariella is acting differently. I know it’s hard to watch, but it’s part of the healing process.”

  “You call that healing?” The officer stopped and got up in the teacher’s face. As her brow tightened with anger, her skin suddenly appeared a lot darker to Mrs. Mint. “Because I call that torturing a kid who’s already been through enough.”

  She stood a good five inches taller than Mrs. Mint. She didn’t have a hard, muscle-toned body like the stereotypical female cop, but detective Williams looked plenty pumped as she grew ultra protective of the girl. Even with her uniform, she wasn’t as intimidating as that meddling Principal Callahan. Mrs. Mint wouldn’t let him teach her class for her and she wouldn’t let this brash policewoman do it either.

  “We have a saying in this school: progress isn’t painless,” Mrs. Mint said. “We can’t swoop in and rescue children every time they’re in an uncomfortable situation. First of all, there aren’t enough eyes and ears in the school to do that. But most importantly, children must learn conflict resolution through experience. If things get really heated, of course I’ll step in, but not for a pithy argument.”

  “You didn’t see what this girl’s lived through. You didn’t see how her parents’ bodies were mutilated before her eyes. So please excuse her if she’s just a little sensitive.”

  Wiping the beads of sweat out from under her stubby nose and plump chin, Mrs. Mint swallowed a gulp of humility. Her first instincts as a teacher had blinded her to Mariella’s plight. She couldn’t treat this girl like any other student, at least not yet. If that required walking on eggshells with the entire class, then so be it.

  “Okay, Officer Williams. I’ll handle this,” Mrs. Mint said. “Just please sit down while I… Hey! Stop it boys!”

  While they were arguing over Mariella, the girl had been cornered against the fence not by an offended former friend, but by kids who never were her friends. Kyle Buckley blocked her off on one side and Cole Buckley grabbed the ball. Mariella wouldn’t let it go, but she couldn’t stop him from dragging her away from the fence and out into the open field, where the whole class could see her ridicule.

  “My daddy pays his taxes,” Cole shouted at the Mexican girl. “This is my ball, not yours!”

  “If you want our ball, you should ask us,” Kyle said. “Come on, speak some English. Let me hear it. Can you say baaaaall? Or is it ballo? El ballo?”

  Mrs. Mint lumbered across the field on her aching feet as Officer Williams dashed out ahead. They both were slowed by the kids running the same direction for a front row seat at simmering confrontation. A chorus of boys started chanting “fight”. It made the teacher absolutely sick. How could those young minds in her class have been molded so cruelly? Cole stood nearly a full head taller than Mariella and must have outweighed her by 25 pounds. Her slender hand could barely fit into the boy’s palm.

  Squeezing the ball with both hands, Cole swung Mariella around so fast that she left her feet. The determined girl wouldn’t release it. She didn’t look angry or even afraid. Mariella seemed bewildered, as if she had awoke from a coma and found someone stealing her blanket. As the boy dragged her into the sand box surrounding the jungle gym, Mariella found her footing. Suddenly, Cole couldn’t move her an inch.

  “You wanna get hurt?” the boy asked her. “If you don’t let go, you will get hurt really bad.”

  “Cole Buckley! Don’t you dare!” Mrs. Mint shouted as she hurried over. She wouldn’t make it in time, and neither would the officer.

  “Make her eat dirt!” Kyle commanded his brother.

  Cole grabbed Mariella around her shirt collar with one hand and kicked at her ankle so she would fall into the sand. As she released the ball, Mariella avoided his foot by stepping into him and delivering an explosive shove to the boy’s chest. Cole flew backwards, flinging the ball into the air. He banged his head on the bottom rung of a metal ladder with a jarring ping. When the shock wore off after a few seconds, Cole started wailing. His sobs were so ear-splitting that Mrs. Mint didn’t care whether he brought it upon himself or not. Cole didn’t deserve such pain. Blood streamed out of his mouth from the hole left when his baby tooth had been knocked out on the bar.

  Mariella turned her back on the boy as if he didn’t exist and calmly retrieved her ball from the sand. Williams ignored the wounded kid as she finally reached the girl. She scooped the
unharmed Mariella up in her arms.

  “I got you now, baby. Don’t worry,” the detective told her foster child, who still held the ball tightly. “I’m so proud of you. You defended yourself from that bully. I promise, next time he won’t even touch you.”

  Mrs. Mint didn’t understand where the girl’s sudden outburst had come from. Mrs. Mint had seen grief transform into aggression many times, but never such cold aggression. Mariella didn’t seem mad when she pushed Cole. She must have tapped some deep reservoir of adrenalin-filled rage to chuck him across the playground with the force she did. She should suspend Mariella for that. Yet, given all that the poor girl had been through in the past few days, Mrs. Mint decided she’d call the DCF and let them figure out how long a leash they should put on Mariella.

  They can’t let Mariella in my class unless she’s under control. It’s going to be a nightmare explaining to the Buckley parents that I let a socially-disturbed girl attack their son. I better not mention she’s Mexican or they’ll really flip.

  Mrs. Mint unfolded Cole from the fetal position and got a good look at the large red bump growing on the side of his head like an apple budding on a branch in fast motion. His eyes were glassy and could barely follow her fingers. He had a concussion. He should consider himself lucky that he didn’t have something worse. A fall like that could have fractured his skull.

  With his brother watching in pale-faced shock, Cole got scooped up by Mrs. Mint. She trudged across the playground toward the nurse’s station. She didn’t tell him anything about how he had misbehaved, even as he bled all over her white shirt. Mariella had told him plenty.