The Weight of Silence

by Heather Gudenkauf

  They both heard the rustling through the trees, heavy, lumbering stomps.

  “Calli! Calli!” Calli and Griff both recognized Ben’s voice as he crashed through the brush and placed himself between Griff and Calli. “Leave her alone. Get away!”

  “Ben, what’re you doing here?” Griff asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Get away from her!” Ben shouted again, searching around him for something to grab, a stick, a rock.

  “Ben, shut up!” Griff yelled as he stood. “We need to get help up here.”

  Ben’s eyes flicked to Calli, then Petra, and back to Griff. “Run, Calli,” he whispered. “That way.” He indicated the trail from which he came. “Go down, all the way down. It will lead you to Bobcat Trail. Run, Calli, don’t stop.”

  “Ben, shut up,” Griff said. “You don’t know what happened here. We have to get outta here. Maybe we should carry her out,” he said, looking down at Petra. “But maybe we shouldn’t move her.” Griff bit his lip in indecision. “We can’t leave her here.” He looked up at Ben again. “You stay with her. Calli and I’ll go down the trail and get help.”

  “No,” Ben said.

  “What’d you say?”

  “No, I’m not letting you go anywhere with Calli.”

  Ben reached behind him for Calli, never taking his eyes off his father. He found Calli’s hand and pulled gently toward him so that her cheek lay against his back.

  “Ben, we don’t got time for this. I think Petra’s dying. You go then and get help. I’ll stay with her.”

  “No, Calli will go,” Ben said. “We stay with Petra.”

  “Who made you boss?” Griff scoffed. “Who’s she gonna tell? What’ll she do, mime it? You stay. Me and Calli will go.” Griff began to walk past Ben to take hold of Calli, but Ben stepped to the side, blocking his path.

  “Ben, I will knock you silly if you don’t get outta my way. This isn’t a game.” Griff made to move past Ben again, but Ben sidled in front of him.

  “No, Calli’s going down to get help. I’m not leaving you alone with Petra.”

  Griff blinked. “What? You think I had something to do with this?”

  Ben said nothing. He stared warily at his father, his arms stretched out to the side, a wall between Griff and Calli.

  “What? You really think I did this, Ben? I’m your dad.”

  “I know,” Ben said, walking backward, trying to ease Calli toward the trail that would lead her downward. “Why are they even up here?” Ben asked, sweeping his arm to indicate Calli and Petra. “Why are you even up here? You never go up here.”

  Griff faltered, stammered, said nothing.

  “You’re here, they’re here, Petra’s hurt bad and Calli’s a mess. What am I supposed to think?”

  “Don’t think, Ben. You might hurt yourself. Now get the hell outta my way. Calli, let’s go.” Griff reached around Ben and snatched Calli’s arm and began dragging her toward the trail.

  “No!” Ben exclaimed. “Keep your hands offa her!” Ben shoved at Griff, who stumbled backward, caught surprised.

  Ben moved quickly and swung around to Calli. He grabbed her shoulders and lowered his nose to hers. “Go, Calli, get help. I’ll take care of Petra. Run. You run as fast as you can. And you tell ’em. You tell ’em where we are.”

  Calli hesitated, but Griff had recovered and was lunging back toward them. She turned and was gone.

  BEN

  Dad looks crazed as he gets back to his feet. What the hell have I done?

  “Ben, you stupid son of a bitch. Why the hell did you do that? Now she’s gone. Once we get outta here I’m gonna beat the crap out of you.”

  “I don’t care,” I say as I move to get away from him. “You’re gonna stay here with me until the police come.”

  “The hell I am,” he laughs. He is always laughing at someone.

  “Go ahead, laugh, I don’t care,” I say, sounding like a stupid son of a bitch.

  “Stay here with her. God knows the sick fuck who did this is prob’ly still hiding behind a tree, but you stay here, and I’ll go get help,” he says.

  “No, you’re not going anywhere.” I stand my ground.

  “Fuck that,” Dad says and he runs at me and stiff-arms me right in the chest.

  I think I shocked him by not falling over and crumpling into a little ball like a baby. I’d grown a lot this summer, gotten a lot stronger. He bounces offa me like a spring and falls backward. He looks funny, the surprise on his face. I would laugh, if the look on his face didn’t scare me to death.

  “Little fucker,” he whispers as he struggles to get to his feet.

  For once in my life, I think my dad looks old. Not ancient old, like an eighty-year-old man, but just tired old. Like a middle-aged man who spent too much time drinking and being mean to others, time sits on his face like some Halloween mask.

  He comes at me again, this time more prepared. He swings his right arm as if to smack me in the head, but lunges at me down low, hitting me in the stomach, and lands on top of me. My air is instantly gone. I try to suck more in, but can’t and I fight wildly to get him off of me. I pound on his back, at his face, even pull his hair, I’m embarrassed to say, anything to get him away from me so I can breathe again. He tries pinning my arms down above my head but I am flailing around like a maniac and he can’t quite get a good grasp on me.

  “Ben, goddammit, stop it. Hold still!” he shouts.

  But I won’t. I can breathe again and it’s a few seconds before I realize that he is trying to get off of me, but I won’t let him go. He is trying to get away from me. He is trying to crawl over the top of me, but I have hold of his leg and am holding on with all my might. He stands on one leg and sorta drags me along with him a few feet, but like I said, I’m a pretty big kid and he can’t get too far. He falls backward on his butt. That is just enough to loosen my grip a bit, and he pulls his foot back and then kicks forward, hitting me smack-dab in the nose. I think we both hear it break. I don’t see stars like they always show on Saturday morning cartoons, but I think I see what looks like a few fireflies blinking at me. We both freeze for a second, I honestly don’t think he can believe he did this to me and I can’t, either, though he sure has hit me enough. Blood comes rushing outta my nose and it feels like someone pinched my nose off with pliers.

  “Goddammit, Ben,” he says. “What’d you have to go and do that for?”

  He means it, too; this is my fault, like I broke my own nose. I have never felt like killing something before, not even Meechum. But I feel like killing my own dad, right now in these woods. Instead I wallop him in the side of the head with my bloody fist.

  “I know you think I had something to do with this, but I didn’t. I really didn’t, Ben.” He tries to reason with me as he moves to block my blows.

  “I don’t believe you. I’m gonna tell, I’m gonna tell what you did to Petra and to Calli!” My hands are slick and slimy with my blood and my punches slide uselessly off him. He crawls away from me. I don’t go after him, but I stand and wipe my bloody hands on my shorts. Ruined.

  “Ben,” he gasps, “you want me to go to jail? You want me to get sent away for something I didn’t do? ’Cause that’s what’ll happen. They’ll send me away, prob’ly forever.” He rubs his face; I see that his hands are shaking. “Jesus, Ben. I think Petra’s dying. We gotta get her help.”

  “Calli will get help. She’s probably near the bottom now, she’ll get help up here,” I insist.

  “Christ, Ben, she hasn’t talked in four fucking years! You think she’ll talk now? How’s she gonna tell what happened?”

  I don’t answer him. I am too worn out and my nose hurts, but I watch him carefully through my swelling eyes.

  When I was five, I remember thinking that my dad was the biggest, strongest guy around. I would follow him around the house when he was home; squeeze in next to him when he was sitting in his La-Z-Boy chair. I would watch his every move, the way he stuffed his hands into the front of his jeans
when he would talk to one of his friends, the way he held his beer in his right hand and popped the top with his left. I would watch the way he would close his eyes, take big drinks of the beer, roll it around in his mouth and swallow. I was amazed at how much pleasure I would see on his face when he drank his beer, the way that all of us—Mom, baby Calli, and I—would just seem to disappear when Dad was drinking.

  During the first two or three beers he would be nice and funny, even, playing tickling games and pulling Mom down onto his lap to hug her. He might play card games like Go Fish or Old Maid with me or he might hold Calli, her back on his thighs, holding her little feet singing, “Bicycle, bicycle, cruise…” as he moved her legs like she was pedaling a bike.

  But after that fourth beer it started to change. Dad would pick on Mom for stupid stuff, for not hanging up his shirts just right or the kitchen floor wouldn’t be swept good enough. He’d yell at her for spending too much money on groceries and then yell at her for not making anything good to eat. He would get bored playing cards with me and quit in the middle of the game, even if he was winning. Dad just plain ignored Calli after beer number four.

  Now after beer number seven he’d get all impatient and not want to be touched. When I’d try to snuggle in next to him in his chair, he’d push me away, not hard, but a person could tell he wanted to be left alone. Mom would take Calli and me upstairs to read stories. I’d get in my pajamas, I remember they were white and had these grinning little clowns holding balloons all over them. I wouldn’t tell any of my friends this, but I loved those pajamas. It was like sliding into something happy when I put those on after a bath. One time, though, after beer number seven, Dad said I looked like “a goddamn sissy” in those pajamas and that he should burn ’em. I didn’t wear them after that; I wore an old T-shirt of Dad’s to bed. But I didn’t throw the pajamas away, either. They’re still folded underneath my winter long johns in my bottom drawer. Personally, I don’t think they’re sissy pajamas, I just think they were happy. Every five-year-old kid should have a pair of happy pajamas.

  After beer number twelve we left. If it was during the day and it wasn’t raining Mom would take us for a walk in the woods. She’d put Calli in this harness thing that hung in front of her and we’d head off into the woods. She’d show me all the places she played when she was a little kid, Willow Wallow, Lone Tree Bridge, and, of course, Willow Creek. She’d take us down to where the creek was wide and had these big boulders sticking out like steps. Mom would lift Calli out of the harness and lay her in a blanket in a shady spot and then she’d show me how she could cross the creek using those boulders in twenty-five seconds. When she was younger, she’d be able to make the trek in fifteen seconds flat, three seconds faster than her friend would. Her friend, I knew, was Deputy Louis, though she’d never call him by name. He was just her “friend.”

  One time, after beer number twelve, before we up and left the house, Mom said something about Louis, something about when they were kids, like nine, and Dad hit the roof. He started ranting about Mom, calling her all these horrible names, threw a beer can at her. So Mom doesn’t talk about when she was little anymore around Dad.

  After a couple of hours clomping around the woods, after Dad had a good chance to get up to beer number who knows what, she’d take us home. Beer number who knows what was usually followed by a long sleep. We could make as much noise as we wanted to; Dad would be completely passed out. But we didn’t, we stayed quiet, didn’t even watch TV when he was like that. I was always a little worried that he’d wake up when I was caught up in some old rerun and he’d smack me upside the head when I wasn’t ready for it.

  I used to walk around, holding my pop can the way Dad held his beer can. I’d hold it in my right hand, popping the top with my left, even though I’m a righty. I practiced tilting it back to my lips, taking a big gulp and swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing hard, then tossing the can to the floor when I was finished. Mom caught me doing this once. She looked at me long and hard and I thought for a minute that she was gonna get mad at me, even though I never saw her get mad at Dad for doing it. But she didn’t. She just looked at me and said, “Benny, let me get you a glass of ice for your pop next time, and a straw. It tastes so much better that way.”

  And she would—every time I had a pop, out came the frosted glass, ice, and a straw. She was right, though, it did taste better that way.

  Sometimes, after beer number who knows how many and the long nap, Dad would wake up and still be real nervous-like. Then he’d go into his bedroom clothes closet, dig around in there for a while and then pull out a dark bottle of something. The minute Mom saw him searching through his closet for that bottle, we were outta there. Mom would stick us in her car and off we’d go. If it was evening time, she’d take us out to eat over in Winner, which was a bigger town and had a Culver’s. We’d get hamburgers and French fries and share an order of onion rings. Calli’d sit in her high chair and Mom would break off tiny pieces of her food and lay them on the tray in front of Calli. It was funny watching Calli try to pinch those tiny bits of food between her fingers. Sometimes she’d miss, but still stick her fingers in her mouth, hoping to get a taste of something. Afterward, before we’d leave, Mom would buy me a big thick Oreo shake all my own. She’d buckle me into the backseat and I’d settle for the long ride home, sucking on my shake. Winner wasn’t all that far from Willow Creek, but Mom would take what she called the scenic route and we’d drive and drive and drive.

  One night after driving and driving, I was jerked awake when our car bounced down the side of the road, in and out of a ditch. Mom stopped the car on the edge of the road and turned back to Calli and me.

  “You okay?” she asked. I nodded yes, even though she couldn’t have seen my face in the dark.

  “I spilled some of my shake, though,” I told her.

  She handed me some napkins to wipe up my pants and then laid her head on the steering wheel. “I’m sorry,” she said, but not really to me. “I’m sorry, I’m just so tired.”

  Then she started the car up again and we went on home. Dad was sleeping in his chair, beer cans everywhere. I bet if I had counted them there would have been at least twenty-one, plus the dark brown bottle sitting on the end table. Mom didn’t bother picking up all those cans that night. She walked right on past them, saying something about how “he can just pick up after himself from now on,” and took Calli and me on up to bed.

  From then on, if Dad started digging around for his bottle from the closet, he could never find it. This made him furious, but after a while he’d just stagger around until he found another beer in the refrigerator and then he’d settle back into his chair. Once in a while, when Dad started acting kind of scary, Mom would put us in the car and take us over to Winner, but we never drove around for as long as we did that one night she went off the road. She’d pull into a park area, lock our doors and close her eyes for a while. “Just resting,” she’d tell us. On one really cold winter night we got to stay at a motel in Winner. It didn’t have a pool or nothing, but it had cable and Mom let me flip through all the channels as much as I wanted to. Mom just sat on the bed with me, holding Calli, trying not to cry.

  I hope I’m not doing the wrong thing. I hope that Petra doesn’t die because of what I am doing; I hope that she isn’t already dead.

  Now Dad and I are just sitting here, all bloody, looking at each other, waiting for the other one to make a move, but we don’t. Not yet.

  ANTONIA

  Ben has not returned yet, so on top of everything else, I need to worry about him, as well. The comments from the Gregorys didn’t help matters, either. I know Ben, he wouldn’t hurt the girls, and I know Griff, he just plain doesn’t find kids interesting enough to spend very much time getting mad at them. Besides, the number of beer cans strewn around the house this morning was much less than normal, well short of his mean drinking. If he’d gotten to the mean drinking stage I would have been much more concerned.

 
Louis has not returned my call. I know he is busy with other aspects of this case, as well as his other duties, but I am surprised that he isn’t here. Louis has always been there for me, except when he left for college. Even I know that me asking him to stay was asking too much. Louis was there when a fifth-grade bully was terrorizing me when we were nine, he was there when I had a panic attack about presenting a speech for my tenth-grade literature class, and he was there when my mother died.

  Even though my mother and I were so different, had so little in common, Louis knew that the loss of her was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. He knew that those hours that my father and I spent nursing her while she lay in bed, rotting from breast cancer had left a deep-seated imprint on me. Louis would drive me to the public library in order to check out whatever book my mother had requested I read to her, while a morphine pump deadened some of the pain.

  My mother was a great reader. I was not. I liked books; I just didn’t have time for them. Between school, working at the convenience store and spending time with Louis, I never made the effort to read. My mother was always placing books on my bedside table, hoping that I would pick one up and have a wonderful discussion about it with her. I never did, not until she got sick. Then, out of guilt more than anything, I began to read to her. One day, near the end, my mother asked me to find her old copy of My Ántonia by Willa Cather. I had seen this book before; my mother had set it on my bedside table many times. I had never taken the time to read it, even though my name was chosen because this was my mother’s favorite book. I could not imagine what I could possibly have in common with the Antonia ofWilla Cather’s world, so long ago. But at my mother’s request I began to read. I tumbled, reluctantly, into the turn-of-the-century Nebraska, and loved what I found. Louis would often sit with me while I read aloud to my mother. I was so self-conscious at first, not used to the sound of my own voice in my ears, but he seemed to enjoy it and my mother often had a weak smile on her face as I read.