“I think they’d die without ocean water,” I’d explain. Then she’d gently tap the glass again and let me lead her away.
Of course this was before, when I didn’t have to wonder if the next word would ever come. Before I woke up from dreams where Calli was speaking to me and I would be grasping at the sound of her voice, trying to remember its pitch, its cadence.
I have tried Griff’s cell phone dozens of times. Nothing. I consider calling Griff’s parents, who live downtown, but decide against it. Griff has never gotten along with his mom and dad. They drink more than he does and Griff hasn’t been in the same room with his father for over eight years. I think this is one of the things that drew me to Griff in the beginning. The fact that we were both very much alone. My mother had died, my father far away in his own grief from her death. And Louis, well, that had ended. Not with great production, but softly, sadly. Griff had only his critical, indifferent parents. His only sister had moved far away, trying to remove herself from the stress and drama of living with two alcoholic parents. When Griff and I found each other, it was such a relief. We could breathe easily, at least for a while. Then things changed, like they always do. Like now, when once again, I can’t find him when I need him.
I nervously fold and refold the dish towels from the kitchen drawer and I think I should give my brothers a call, tell them what’s happening. But the thought of putting the fact that Calli is lost or worse into words is too frightening. I look out the kitchen window and see Martin and Louis step out of Louis’s car, Martin’s shirt already soaked with the day’s heat. The girls are not with them. Ben will find them. They are of one mind, and he will find them.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS
Martin Gregory and I approach Toni’s front door. Martin has had no luck in locating his daughter or Toni’s, and I am hopeful that the girls will be sitting at the kitchen table eating Toni’s pancakes, or that they have shown up at the Gregorys’ where Fielda waits for them. I am still distracted by my quarrel on the phone with Christine and I try to dismiss her harsh words from my mind.
Toni’s door opens even before I can knock and she is there before me, still so beautiful, dressed in her typical summer outfit—a sleeveless T-shirt, denim shorts, and bare feet. She is brown from the sun, her many hours in her garden or from being outside with her children, I suppose.
“You didn’t find them,” Antonia states. It is not a question.
“No,” I say, shaking my head, and we both step over the threshold into her home. She leads us inside, not to the living room as before but to the kitchen, where a pitcher of iced tea sits on the counter, along with three ice-filled glasses.
“It’s too hot for coffee,” she explains and begins to pour the tea. “Please sit,” she invites, and we do.
“Have you any idea where else they could be?” Martin asks pleadingly.
“Ben’s still out looking in the woods. He knows where Calli would go,” Toni says. There is a curious lack of concern in her tone. Incredibly, she doesn’t appear to think anything is actually amiss.
“Does Calli explore the woods often, Toni?” I ask her, carefully choosing my words.
“It’s like a second home to her. Just like it was for us, Lou,” she says, our eyes locking and a lifetime of memories pass between us. “She never goes far and she always comes back. Safe and sound,” she adds, I think, for Martin’s benefit.
“We don’t allow Petra in the woods without an adult. It’s too dangerous. She wouldn’t know her way around,” Martin says, not quite accusing.
I’m still thinking of the way Toni has called me “Lou,” something she hasn’t done for years. She resumed calling me Louis the day she became engaged to Griff. It was as if the more formal use of my name acted like a buffer, as if I hadn’t already known the most intimate parts of her.
“Ben will be here soon, Martin,” Antonia says soothingly. “If the girls are out there—” she indicates the forest with her thin, strong arms “—Ben will bring them home. I cannot imagine where else they may have gone.”
“Maybe we should go out and look there, too,” suggests Martin. “A search party. I mean, how far could two little girls have gone? We could get a group together, we would cover more ground. If more people were looking, we would have a better chance of finding them.”
“Martin,” I say, “we have no evidence that that is where the girls went. I would hate to focus all of our resources in one area and possibly miss another avenue to investigate. The woods cover over fourteen thousand acres and most of it isn’t maintained. Hopefully, if they’re out there, they have stayed on the trails. We’ve got a deputy out there now.” I indicate the other police car that is now parked on the Clarks’ lane. “I do think, however, we need to let the public know we have two misplaced little girls.”
“Misplaced!” Martin bellows, his face darkening with anger. “I did not misplace my daughter. We put her to bed at eight-thirty last night and when I awoke this morning she was not in her bed. She was in her pajamas, for God’s sake. When are you going to acknowledge the fact that someone may have taken her from her bedroom? When are you—”
“Martin, Martin, I didn’t mean to suggest that you or Toni did anything wrong here,” I say, trying to calm him. “There is no reason to believe they were taken, no signs of forced entry. Her tennis shoes are gone, Martin. Do you think an intruder would stop to make Petra put on her shoes before they left? That doesn’t make sense.”
Martin sighs. “I’m sorry. I just cannot imagine where they could have gone. If they have not been…been abducted and they are not at their usual playing spots, the forest just seems to be the logical place for them to go, especially if Calli is so comfortable there.”
Antonia nods. “I bet Ben will be here shortly with the two of them, their tails between their legs at the worry they have caused.”
A thought occurs to me. “Toni, is there a pair of Calli’s shoes missing?”
“I don’t know.” Toni sits up a little straighter, her glass of tea perspiring in her hand. “I’ll go check.”
Toni rises and climbs the stairs to Calli’s room. Martin sips his tea, sets his glass down, then, unsure of what to do with his hands, picks up the glass again.
Martin and I sit in an uncomfortable silence for a moment and then he speaks.
“I have never understood how Petra and Calli became such good friends. They have nothing in common, really. The girl does not even talk. What in the world could two seven-year-olds do for fun if only one of them speaks?” He looks at me with exasperation. “Petra would say, ‘Could Calli and I have a sandwich? Just peanut butter for Calli, she doesn’t like jelly.’ I mean, how would she know that when Calli did not speak? I just do not understand it,” he says, shaking his head.
“Kindred spirits,” a soft voice comes from the stairwell. Toni steps into the kitchen carrying a pair of tattered tennis shoes in one hand and an equally worn pair of flip-flops in the other. “They are kindred spirits,” she repeats to our questioning looks. “They know what the other needs. Petra can read Calli like a book, what game she wants to play, if her feelings are hurt, anything. And Calli is the same. She knows that Petra is afraid of thunderstorms and will take her to her bedroom and play the music so loud that it covers the sound of the thunder. Or if Petra is feeling blue, Calli can get her giggling. Calli makes the best faces—she can get all of us laughing. They are best friends. I don’t know how to explain how it works, but it does for them. And I’m glad of it. Petra doesn’t care that Calli can’t talk and Calli doesn’t care that Petra is afraid of thunder and still sucks her thumb sometimes.” Toni pauses and holds up the shoes. “Her shoes are still here. We’re going shopping for school shoes next week. Her cowboy boots are still in the garage, I saw them earlier. Calli doesn’t have her shoes on. She wouldn’t go into the woods without her shoes.”
Toni’s chin begins to wobble and for the first time since her girl has gone missing, she looks scared. I put my hand on her arm, and she does not pull a
way.
BEN
I have been to all the places where we play. First Willow Wallow, where we would swing from the branches of the weeping willows, pretending to be monkeys. I looked underneath each of the seven willows, thinking that I would find you and Petra there, hiding. I went down to Lone Tree Bridge, one skinny fallen tree over Willow Creek. We would take turns walking across, to see who could cross the quickest. I always won. You weren’t there, either. I walked up and down Spring Peeper Pond Trail, sure that I’d find you two looking for tree frogs. But I was wrong on that count, too. I don’t want to come home without you.
I begin to think that maybe Dad did take you with him fishing. That would be just like him, to all of a sudden want to do the dad thing and spend time with you. He could ignore us for weeks, then look at us all interested-like and take us to do something real fun. One time he decided to take me fishing down at the creek. We went in the evening, just him and me. We didn’t have any night crawlers so we swiped some Velveeta cheese from the fridge and used that. We sat for hours on the shore, just where the creek is widest. We didn’t even talk much, just slapped at mosquitoes and pulled in bullheads and sunfish, laughing because they were so small. We had a bet on who could catch the smallest fish, five bucks, and I won. I caught a sunfish the size of a guppy. We ate peanuts, threw the shells into the water and drank soda. When the sun started to go down we could hear the crickets chirping and Dad said that we could figure out just how warm it was out by the number of chirps that a cricket made. I said, “No way!” and he said, “Yes way!” And he told me how. That was the best day. So I’m thinking he thought you and him should do some bonding and took you fishing with Roger, but didn’t think to tell anyone. But then again, I don’t think he would take two little girls fishing with him. Who knows, he’s tough to figure out sometimes.
You’ve always been a good sport, Calli, I’ll give you that. You’re no girly-girl. I remember the time when you were one and just starting to walk—all wobbly and unsure. I was six and Mom told us to go outside and play. You followed me around, trying to do everything I did. I picked up the bruised apples from the ground under our apple tree and threw them at the side of the garage and you’d do the same. I didn’t much like having a baby following me, but I loved how you’d say, “Beh, Beh!” for Ben. Whenever you’d see me, it was like you were all surprised that I was there, like you were all lucky because I stepped in the room, even if you’d seen me, like, ten minutes earlier.
Mom would laugh and say, “See, Ben, Calli loves her big brother, don’tcha, Calli?” And you would stamp your fat little feet and squeal, “brudder, brudder!” Then you’d come over and grab my leg and squeeze.
Later that same year, when I turned seven, I got the coolest pair of cowboy boots for my birthday. They were black and had red stitching. I wore those things everywhere, all the time. And if a baby could be jealous of boots, you sure were. You’d catch me wearing my boots and admiring myself in the mirror and you’d just go right after those boots and try to pull them off of my feet. It was actually kinda funny; Mom would sit on the bedroom floor and laugh her head off. I don’t know if you thought I loved those cowboy boots more than you, or if you just enjoyed seeing me all riled up, but that got to be your favorite pastime for a while. You always ended up getting at least one boot off of me, because you were so much littler than me and I couldn’t just kick you away from me. I’d get in a ton of trouble if I did that. Lots of times you’d just sneak up on me while I was watching TV and you’d latch on until that boot just slid right off my foot, then you’d run. Most of the time you’d just throw the boot down the steps or out in the yard, but one time you threw it in the toilet. Man, was I mad. I refused to wear them after that. Mom washed it out and set it out in the sun to dry, but still I wouldn’t wear those boots. But you sure did. They were yours after that, even though they were way too big for you. You’d wear them with every outfit you had, shorts, dresses, even your pajamas. More than once Mom had to pull them off your feet after you fell asleep in bed. You still wear them once in a while. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t out in the woods in them right now, stomping around.
When you stopped talking isn’t real clear to me, but I know you were four and I was nine. One day you’re wearing my boots, telling me the dumbest knock-knock jokes and giggling like mad, and I’d roll my eyes. Then one day nothing, no words. It just got so quiet around here. Like when you step outside after the first real big snowstorm of the year and everything’s all smothered in white and no one has shoveled yet and no cars are on the road. Everything is still, and it’s nice. For a while. Then it gets kind of creepy, a quiet so big you yell just to hear your own voice, and the buried outdoors gives nothing back.
CALLI
Calli ran down Broadleaf Trail until it intersected with River Bottom, where the trail traveled downward at a steep angle, winding its way down to the creek. Each dip or rise in the forest had its own smell, sweet with spiral flower, pungent with wild onion, fetid with rotting leaves. Each hollow and turn had its own climate, warm and moist, cool and arid. As Calli ran down toward the river and deeper into the woods, the temperature dropped, the trees grew closer together, the vegetation gathered in tight around her ankles.
Calli could hear Griff’s large body pounding the trail above her. Her chest burned with each breath, but still she ran, spindly tree trunks and craggy bluffs blurred in the corners of her eyes. Patches of sun briefly shone brilliantly on the ground before her. A stitch in her side caused her to slow and then stop. She listened carefully to the woods. The narrow creek gurgled, a cardinal called and insects droned. Calli searched for a place to hide. Off the trail, she spotted the remains of several fallen trees arranged in a crisscross pattern, behind which she could rest for perhaps a few moments, unseen. She climbed over the gnarled pile and dropped carefully to the side away from the trail. Once seated, Calli pulled stray twigs and branches around her to camouflage her pink nightgown. She tried to steady her breathing. She did not want Griff to hear her huffing and find her trapped within the middle of the branches with no quick escape.
Minutes passed with no Griff, only the comforting knock of a woodpecker somewhere above that rang out over the usual forest sounds. Calli shook in spite of the heat, and rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. The rage that radiated off Griff needled at Calli’s memories and she tried to close her eyes to them. That day.
On that day in December, it was cold. She was four, and Ben was off sledding with some of his friends. Her mother, belly heavy with pregnancy, was making hot cocoa, plopping white cushiony marshmallows into the steamy chocolate, then adding an ice cube to Calli’s mug to cool it. Calli was at the kitchen table, drawing paper in front of her and an arrangement of markers around her.
“What should we name the baby, Cal?” her mother asked as she set the hot chocolate before her. “Don’t burn your mouth now.”
Calli set aside her drawing, a picture of Christmas trees, reindeer and a roly-poly Santa. “Popsicle, I think,” she replied, pressing a spoon against a melting marshmallow.
“Popsicle?” her mother asked, laughing. “That’s an unusual name. What else?”
“Cupcake,” Calli giggled.
“Cupcake? Is that her middle name?”
Calli nodded, her smile filled with sticky white marshmallows. “Birthday Cake,” she added. “Popsicle Cupcake Birthday Cake, that’s her name.”
“I like it,” her mother said, grinning, “but every time I say her name, I think I’ll get hungry. How about Lily or Evelyn? Evelyn was my mother’s name.”
Calli made a face and tentatively took a sip of her cocoa. She felt the burn of the liquid traveling down her throat and she waved a hand in front of her mouth as if to fan away the warmth.
The back door opened, bringing with it a swirl of frozen air that made Calli squeal. “Daddy!” she cried out, “Daddy’s home!” She stood on her chair and reached her arms out, snagging onto his neck as he passed by her. Th
e cold that hung on his parka seeped through her sweatshirt and he tried to set Calli down.
“Not now, Calli, I need to talk to your mom.” Calli did not release his neck as he clumsily approached her mother and he shifted her so that she rested on his hip.
The smell of beer bit at her nose. “Stinky.” She grimaced.
“I thought you were getting here hours ago,” Antonia said in a measured tone. “Did you just roll into town?”
“I’ve been gone three weeks, what’re a few hours more?” Griff’s words were innocent, but had a bite to them. “I stopped at O’Leary’s for a drink with Roger.”
Antonia scanned him up and down. “From the smell of things and the way you’re lurching around, you had more than a few. You’ve been gone for a month. I figured once you got back to town, you’d want to see your family.”
Calli heard the tension in their voices and squirmed to get out of Griff’s arms. He held her tightly.
“I do wanna see my family, but I wanna see my friends, too.” Griff opened the refrigerator and searched for a beer, but found none. He slammed the door, causing the glass bottles to rattle against each other.
“I don’t want to fight.” Antonia went to Griff and hugged him awkwardly, her belly an obstacle. Calli reached her arms out toward her mother, but Griff whisked her away and sat down at the kitchen table, Calli on his lap.
“I had an interesting chat at O’Leary’s,” Griff said conversationally. Antonia waited, poised for what she knew was to come. “Some guys were saying that Loras Louis has been hanging around here lately.”
Antonia turned to a cupboard and began pulling dinner plates down. “Oh, he shoveled the drive one day for me last week. He was over checking on Mrs. Norland. The mail carrier said she wasn’t getting her mail out of her mailbox. She was fine. Anyway, he saw me out shoveling and asked if he could help,” she explained, turning to see Griff’s reaction. “Ben was sick, throwing up. He couldn’t shovel, so I went out to do it. He stopped by, no big deal. He didn’t come in the house.”
The Weight of Silence Page 5