On the other side of Timber Ridge is another line of trees, not the forest that lies behind our homes, but a high bluff that separates us from the rest of Willow Creek. Many miles down Timber Ridge a few other homes are situated in much the same manner, neighbors here and there with backyards fading into the forest. My feet crunch on the grass, burned yellow from the sun and lack of rain. From a distance, I see some officers speaking with Antonia in her front yard. She is pointing and gesturing, but I cannot see her face.
I see a van speed past and turn down the Clarks’ drive. It is a television van. I can’t quite make out the call letters, and they are obviously in a great hurry. Again my heart flutters and I quicken my step. I decide to cut through the back of our yards to hopefully avoid any reporters or cameras. Antonia, too, sees the media van and hurries into her home while the officers stride toward the vehicle, arms waving, ordering the driver to stop. I run a football field’s length to the Clarks’ back door and a police officer stops me short. I am covered with sweat and I bend over to try and catch my breath. Why so many police officers, I wonder.
“Sir,” the officer addresses me, “you are not supposed to be here. This is a crime scene.”
“I’m Martin Gregory,” I explain as another police officer steps past me and begins unwinding yellow crime scene tape and attaching one end to a concrete birdbath settled among Antonia’s garden. “What’s going on?” I ask.
“Martin Gregory?” the officer asks.
“Petra Gregory’s father,” I say impatiently.
“Uh, yes, sir. I’m sorry. Please step toward the front of the house.”
“What’s going on?” I repeat. “Did you find something?”
“I think I should let Agent Fitzgerald speak with you,” he says over his shoulder as he walks into the house. “Please stay here.”
I ignore his direction and follow him into the house. “Antonia,” I call out. She is sitting on her couch, her face in her hands. “Antonia, what’s going on? Did something happen? Did you find something out?” My voice is trembling.
“Footprints,” Antonia says, shaking. “We think we found Calli’s footprints and a man’s.”
“What about Petra? Did you find some footprints that may be hers?” I ask.
Agent Fitzgerald speaks up, I had not even seen him in the corner of the room, speaking with another man who could have been a policeman, but was dressed in everyday clothes. “Mr. Gregory, I’m glad you’re here.” He reaches out his hand to shake mine, and I wipe my sweaty palm on my slacks before I accept his.
“What is going on?” I ask yet again. No one is really listening to me.
“Please, come sit down,” Agent Fitzgerald says as if this is his own living room.
I sit.
“Mr. Gregory, Mrs. Clark has noticed a child’s footprints, along with an adult male’s shoe prints. They could have been there for quite some time. As you know, it hasn’t rained for a few weeks. We’re concerned because it appears, from the impressions in the dirt, that there was a struggle between the adult and the child. We are investigating this. We will also be checking more thoroughly around your home, as well. At this point, however, there appears to be only one set of child’s footprints.” Agent Fitzgerald pauses, letting this information soak into me, then continues. “We’ve called in a crime scene unit from Des Moines. They’ll be here shortly. The crime lab will be doing a thorough search of this yard and of your yard, as well, to see if any other footprints or evidence can be found.
“The media has arrived,” Fitzgerald announces. “This is a good thing for you and Mrs. Clark, although it makes things somewhat more difficult for us logistically. We don’t want anyone getting in the way of us doing our job.”
“I need to go tell Fielda what is going on. What should I say to her?” I ask.
“Tell her the truth. You can’t hide anything from her during this. You two need to stick together and be strong. But I have to insist that you stay away from your home.” To Antonia he says, “Mrs. Clark, we need you to also stay away from your home. This is now a crime scene. Do you have anyone with whom you can stay?”
Toni looks dazed. “I think…I suppose Mrs. Norland’s house—over there.” She motions weakly toward our neighbor’s home.
“Good. If the reporters ask you questions, tell them you will be speaking with them in about…” Fitzgerald checks his watch “…one hour. Will that give you enough time to gather your thoughts and speak with Mrs. Gregory?”
I nod, though, in fact, I have no idea if I will be ready or not.
“You and Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Clark will speak first. Then I will give the press a brief overview of the status of the investigation and answer any questions that may be asked. Okay?”
I nod again and stand. “I’ll go and get Fielda,” I say resignedly.
All at once there is a commotion outside, a series of shouts, not in anger. The press, perhaps. Agent Fitzgerald moves quickly to the front of the house.
“Mr. Gregory, you better get out here,” he instructs. “Damn press,” he mutters.
I rush to his side and see what concerned him so. I see Fielda emerging from her mother’s car, walking dazedly down the Clarks’ lane. A lone reporter and cameraman begin to press in around her, and she looks so confused. Her eyes dart anxiously around for help and I fly out of the house and run to her side.
“Are you related to one of the missing girls?” the reporter asks. “What do you know about the evidence that was found in the backyard?”
Fielda looks at me desperately. Her flowered sundress is wrinkled, her hair is flattened on one side, disheveled, her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes and one cheek bears a slight imprint left behind from the bed linens.
“We have reports that the mother of Jenna McIntire is in town. Have you met with Mary Ellen McIntire? Has she given you any advice on how to handle this?” The reporter, a serious woman in a red suit, thrusts a Channel Four microphone under her chin.
Fielda goes rigid and she gapes up at me. For one horrible moment I think she will faint. Her eyes briefly roll back in her head, but I wrap my arms firmly around her shoulders and hold her close to me. She steadies and I lead her away from Antonia’s house. Antonia follows close behind us. Agent Fitzgerald steps forward and introduces himself to the reporter.
Fielda takes several deep breaths. “I’m fine, Martin. Tell me what’s going on. I can handle this.”
I must look doubtful, because she gives me a steely glare. “Martin, I am fine. I promise. I need to be fine if I am going to be any help to Petra. Tell me what is going on so we can figure out what to do next.”
BEN
Calli, remember the time I slept in a tree? The huge climbing tree just past Willow Wallow? I was nine and so you must have been four, not talking anymore. I was just so sick of everyone trying to get you to talk. That’s all Mom cared about anymore, getting you to say something, anything.
She’d sit you at the kitchen table and say things like, “Do you want some ice cream, Calli?”
You’d nod your head. I mean, what kid wouldn’t want ice cream at nine-thirty on a Tuesday morning?
“Say please, Calli,” Mom would tell you, “and you can have some yummy ice cream!” She’d talk in this high, annoying voice, like she was talking to a baby, trying to feed it crappy mashed up sweet potatoes or something.
‘Course, you never said anything back to her. But Mom would try forever. The ice cream would get all soupy and warm, and she’d still be sitting at the table, trying to get you to eat it, when all you really wanted to do was go watch Sesame Street.
In the end, you wouldn’t say anything and Mom would give you a fresh bowl of ice cream to eat in front of the TV anyway. So it wasn’t much of an incentive, if you ask me. After one or two times of that, even a four-year-old is smart enough to figure out that if you wait long enough you’ll get the ice cream.
One day I just had enough. I was sick of sitting there watching Mom trying to bribe you into t
alking, when even I knew it wasn’t gonna happen. Mom pulled the ice cream out of the fridge and reached up into a cupboard for the sugar cones.
Oooh, I thought, she’s pulling out the sugar cones, big-time bribes today. Mom started as she usually did. “Do you want some ice cream, Calli? Hmm, what do we have here? Tin Roof Sundae! Your favorite, Calli!”
“How do you know?” I asked. I couldn’t help it.
“What?” Mom asked. She was digging into the ice cream container with the ice cream scoop.
“How do you know her favorite is still Tin Roof Sundae?” I asked, and Mom looked at me kind of confused-like.
“I just know,” she answered. “Look, Calli, sugar cones!”
“She doesn’t like the peanuts in it anymore. She always eats around them,” I said.
“Ben, go play,” Mom said, kind of snotty-like, I thought.
“No, this is stupid,” I said loudly, surprising myself.
“Ben, go play,” Mom said again, like she meant business.
“No. Calli can’t talk, she can’t do it! No matter how much ice cream you give her, or candy or pop, she isn’t gonna say anything. She can’t talk!” I shouted.
“You be quiet, Ben,” Mom said real soft.
“No!” I said, looking her in the eye, just daring her to make me. “You wanna know why she can’t talk, I’d go talk to Dad.” I remember looking around me to see if maybe he could hear, even though I knew he was traveling.
“Ben, stop it!” Mom shouted back, her chin trembling.
“No!” I grabbed the ice cream scoop out of her hand and walked to the back door, opened it and flung it out into the yard. I don’t know why, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.
The whole time, Calli, you just sat there, with your big eyes, all scared. Then, when the yelling started, you put your hands over your ears and closed your eyes.
For a minute, I thought Mom was going to hit me. She had that same look in her eyes that Dad gets.
I yelled, “Go ahead, hit me! You’re turning into Dad anyway. A big bully, trying to make people do what you want them to do, no matter what!”
I ran and ran and ran. Kinda like what I did today. Not so brave, huh? I spent the night in that old tree down by Willow Wallow. You and Mom came looking for me and I sat on my branch all quiet, looking down at you two, thinking that you didn’t see me. But I caught you looking up at me, you gave me a little wave and I waved back. Mom must have figured out where I was because later on she came back with a paper sack full of sandwiches and some pop.
She set it at the bottom of the tree and said to you, “I’ll just set this here for Ben, Calli, so if he gets hungry he’ll have a little something to eat.”
I spent all day and night in that tree. I came down only to grab the bag of food and to go pee. You and Mom came back to check on me a bunch of times that day, and I was just sure Mom was going to try and make me come down. But she didn’t, she just lay an old pillow and blanket down on the ground under the tree.
I slept in that old tree and climbed down the next morning all stiff and sore, but I did it. Mom didn’t get mad like I thought she would. She didn’t say a word about the whole thing. She stopped trying to bribe you into talking with ice cream, though. She never did that again. Oh, we had ice cream, but it was never Tin Roof Sundae and it never came with a “Say please, Calli.”
Calli, if we get you home safe today, I’ll buy you the biggest ice cream sundae, without nuts, that I can buy with my paper route money.
CALLI
Calli walked slowly down the trail. It opened up to a golden meadow on either side. Dainty Queen Anne’s lace waved at her. She had never been this far before, but the open sky made her feel safer. There were fewer shadows and hidden figures behind trees. Orange tiger lilies framed the trail, as did wilting purple coneflowers.
Petra always called them purple daisies and would pick one from a ditch in front of her home and tuck it behind her ear and then gather armfuls of flowers. She’d plan intricate weddings with dolls and stuffed animals. Once when one of her father’s students, a man named Lucky, stopped by the house this summer with his dog, Sergeant, Petra and Calli had hurriedly designed invitations for the wedding.
Please join us to celebrate wedded bliss between
Gee Wilikers Gregory
And
Sergeant Thompson
This afternoon in the backyard
Gee Wilikers was Calli’s stuffed Yorkshire terrier. Calli slipped black-eyed Susans into Sergeant’s red collar and had woven crisp white daisies into chains for Gee Wilikers, Calli, and Petra to wear as crowns. Petra presided over the ceremony and Calli was the flower girl. Lucky, Martin, Fielda and Antonia were all guests and sat in lawn chairs in the backyard. Ben wanted nothing to do with all that business.
Petra hummed the wedding march as Calli walked Sergeant and Gee Wilikers down the makeshift aisle, an old lace table runner. Lucky pretended to cry with happiness, wrapped his arm around Petra, drawing her close to him, declaring the wedding “Just beautiful!” Antonia took pictures and Petra’s mother served lemon sherbet ice cream and Kool-Aid.
She remembered playing tag with Lucky and Petra. Remembered trying to climb the oak in Petra’s backyard, Lucky boosting her up from below and then climbing up himself. They had tossed acorns down, watching Sergeant chase after them. With Lucky’s arm steadying her, she felt no fear of falling. It was such a happy day. Calli remembered throwing her arms around Sergeant, his bushy reddish-brown fur heated by the sun. It came out in shaggy tufts and stuck to Calli’s fingers and face, sticky with ice cream.
Now sitting among the wild grasses Calli wove a chain of purple coneflowers into a wreath and set it on her head. Then she began to make another crown for Petra. Petra, she missed Petra. After Petra and Calli had become friends, Petra became her official spokesperson at school. From that day forward, Petra was Calli’s voice, her verbal communication with the world around her. Mrs. Vega, their first-grade teacher, was very accepting of this and often regarded the girls as one entity. Once, while on a field trip to Madison to visit the zoo, they stopped the school bus at a fast-food restaurant. Mrs. Vega, asking Calli what she would like to eat, looked at Petra to answer.
Petra answered with little thought. “She wants a hamburger with just mustard, French fries and a Sprite. Calli loves mustard.”
Most of the adults that Calli encountered at school were accommodating to her special needs. However, one day when Calli came to school, it was not Mrs. Vega greeting them at the classroom door, but a substitute teacher. She was a large woman, round and doughy, with a great mound of gray, curly hair and a stern, wizened face. Her name was Mrs. Hample and she had none of the good humor or patience that Mrs. Vega had. When Mrs. Hample asked each child his or her name and came to Calli, she did not respond, but just looked shyly down at her desktop.
“Her name is Calli,” Petra piped up.
Mrs. Hample looked sharply at Petra. The first hour of school passed uneventfully enough, but after the third time that Petra spoke for Calli, Mrs. Hample erupted.
“Petra, do not answer for Calli again, do you understand? I did not call on you,” she ordered in a firm voice.
“But Calli doesn’t…” Petra began, but Mrs. Hample interrupted her.
“You’re not listening to me. Now, do not speak for Calli again! If she has something that needs to be said, she can tell me herself.”
Just before recess Calli timidly approached Mrs. Hample and made the sign for bathroom. Her thumb was pushed up between her first two fingers to form the letter T for toilet and then she rotated her wrist side to side.
“What is that supposed to mean? Are you deaf?” Calli shook her head no. “My goodness, if you need to say something to me say it, Calli!” Mrs. Hample said exasperatedly.
“She’s shy. She doesn’t talk. She has to go…” Petra tried to explain, but Mrs. Hample held her hand up to stop her from speaking further.
“Petra, you m
ay stand against the wall at recess time for not listening to me!” she barked. “And Calli, if you won’t tell me what you need, then you can just sit at your desk until you decide to do so. The rest of you, let’s line up to go out to recess.”
So while Calli sat in her desk, squeezing her legs together, Petra stood last in line while the first graders filed one at a time out the door to recess. Instead of going outdoors with the others, however, Petra snuck up the steps and down the corridor to Mr. Wilson’s office. The counselor was sitting at his desk, speaking on the phone, but when he saw the desperate look on Petra’s face he quickly hung up.
“Petra, good morning, what’s the matter?” he asked.
“It’s the substitute teacher,” Petra whispered as if afraid that Mrs. Hample would be able to hear her. “She’s real mean. I mean really mean.”
Mr. Wilson chuckled. “I know substitute teachers aren’t like your regular teachers, Petra, but you still have to listen to them.”
“I am, but it’s Calli. She’s being really mean to Calli. She won’t let her go to the bathroom.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Wilson asked.
“I’ve been trying to help Calli, like I always do, by sayin’ stuff for her, but Mrs. Hample won’t let me. Calli tried to tell her she had to go to the bathroom, but Mrs. Hample said, ‘If you can’t tell me yourself, you can’t go!’” Petra said in a remarkable likeness of Mrs. Hample.
The Weight of Silence Page 13