Martin and I look at each other. “I’ll call Fielda and explain what we are doing. Louis, call Mrs. McIntire and have her drive over to my mother-in-law’s home. Antonia, go outside and tell the reporters that there will be a press conference at the Mourning home in—” he looks at his watch “—in fifteen minutes.”
BEN
I am so tired and I keep nodding off. My eyes are nearly swollen shut and my head is throbbing. Dad looks like he is sleeping, so I relax a little bit. Through my slits for eyes I see Petra move, just a little bit. So she’s not dead, thank God. I stand from where I am sitting, using a tree to steady myself. I feel dizzy and so, so tired. All I want to do is take a drink of water, ice-cold, and crawl into my bed and sleep for days. I stumble over to where Petra lies; she has tucked herself into a little ball, her arms covering her head so I can’t see her face, which is prob’ly a good thing. My stomach isn’t feeling so great; I don’t think I can stand to get too close a look at Petra’s face beaten to a pulp. But I need to get her to talk to me, to tell me what happened while Dad is sleeping.
“Petra,” I whisper. “Petra!” I say a little bit louder. I kneel down and place my hand on her shoulder. My fingers are covered with dried blood and no amount of wiping them on my shorts will clean them off. Petra curls up tighter into her little ball.
“Petra, it’s Ben. Please wake up. I gotta talk to you.”
She moans a little bit as if it hurts her even to hear my voice.
“It’s okay, Petra. You’re safe now. I won’t let him hurt you anymore.” I glance over to where my dad sits, still sleeping. Petra moans again and I pat her on the arm.
“Mommy,” she cries softly.
“You’ll see your mom soon, Petra.” I try to make her feel better. “Petra, did my dad do this to you?” No response. “Come on, Petra, you can tell me. Did my dad hurt you? Who brought you here?”
No answer. I sigh and sit back on my butt. At least she said something; she isn’t going to die this instant anyway. Petra is okay for a seven-year-old. And she is real good to Calli. I gotta give Petra some credit. It couldn’t have been easy having a kid who didn’t talk, ever, for a best friend. It didn’t seem to bother her any, though. Those two would just play like any first-graders, except that Petra’d do all the talking.
“Ben,” she’d say when she was over, “Calli and I were wondering if we could borrow your baseball glove and bat?” or “Calli’s not feeling very good, is your mom around?” It was pretty amazing, come to think of it. As long as Petra was around, I didn’t worry too much about Calli.
Those two would go off together with their heads bent toward one another, looking like they were having this serious conversation. It made me wonder sometimes if Calli just wouldn’t talk to us. Maybe she and Petra really talked all the time. I asked Petra once. I said, “Petra, has Calli ever talked to you?”
“We talk all the time,” she said all casual-like. “But not out loud. I know what she is thinking and she knows what I am thinking.”
“Weird,” I had said.
“Yeah, I guess,” she said.
“But a good kind of weird,” I said quickly. Having Petra around made my life easier and I didn’t want her to go thinking she was nuts to be Calli’s friend.
“Yeah, a good weird,” she agreed and then skipped off to where Calli was waiting for her.
It’s a mystery to me. I pat Petra on the shoulder again and she cringes at my touch. She begins crying softly and moaning again.
I look back to where Dad is, do a double take. He’s gone. I stand up real quick and look around me, spinning in a circle. Not there. He has gotten away. I feel tears burning my already sore eyes. I let him go. Had Calli gotten down to the bottom yet? I’m not sure how much time has passed. She is fast, though, faster than I would have been, but did she have enough time to get to help before Dad got to her? I didn’t know. Maybe he’s just hiding behind a tree somewhere, waiting for me to turn my back, then he can finish both me and Petra off. I feel only a little bit of shame in thinking that Dad would kill me, but he had broken my nose and Petra was lying there half-dead. I don’t feel so big and strong just now. I can almost hear Dad laughing at me, “Oooh, the big hero, Ben! What’cha gonna do now? Them tears, Ben? A crybaby on top of it all.”
Then the tears really come pouring out and I can’t stop them. What if Dad got to Calli? I let her down again. I was tired of being the big brother, tired of taking the licks for everything. What should I do? Do I stay with Petra until help comes or do I go on down the bluff looking for help myself? I don’t know what to do. I am twelve years old and I shouldn’t have to make these decisions. What would Mom do? I think about that as I settle to the ground next to Petra, my back resting against a large rock. Not the Mom who was around when Dad was home, but the Mom who was there when Dad wasn’t. The Mom who single-handedly whacked down the bat that flew down our chimney one night with an umbrella, and then carried it out to the woods to get rid of it. The Mom who, when I was eight and fell out of a tree and cut my head on a rock, wrapped a towel around my bleeding head and held my hand while the doctor put five staples in my skull. She didn’t even cry or get sick. She just sat there, made me look at her, and told me it was going to be okay while they shot those staples into my head. What would that Mom do in my place? I chew on that for a while and finally decide that Mom would stay with Petra until help came. That would be the right thing to do, I could keep Petra safe. That is what I’m going to do. I will stay and hope that Calli made it down the bluff by now. But what would she do when she got there? How would she let them know where we were? I just have to trust her. She’d tell them. In her own way, she’d tell them.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS
Antonia is describing again to me Calli’s favorite spots in Willow Creek Woods, and I am writing them down in my notebook, though I don’t need to. I know these places; we both grew up here and played in these woods since we were kids. I know each hollow and gully as I know the curve of Antonia’s face. I know the trails as I have known the map that is Antonia’s skin.
My cell phone rings and I consider ignoring it, but it might be someone with info on the girls. I answer it and hear my wife on the other end.
“Loras, what are you doing?” she asks impatiently.
“Working,” I tell her, turning away from Toni and Martin.
“You weren’t even supposed to work today,” she reminds me. I don’t answer, knowing she has a lot more to say to me.
“Lou?” Toni asks, coming up behind me and placing a hand on my shoulder. “Is there news?”
“Who is that?” Christine asks. “Is that Toni Clark? Loras, what’s going on? Are you with her?”
“I’m working,” I repeat. I know I’m acting cold toward my wife. But this is serious. Two girls are missing, even if one of the girls belongs to my ex-girlfriend.
“Loras, you need to come home,” Christine’s voice is dangerously low. “You haven’t spent time with Tanner in days.”
“I can’t do that at this time,” I say, my voice professional. I could be talking to the dispatcher. Why am I acting this way? It’s as if I don’t want Toni to know I’m speaking with my own wife.
“Loras.” Christine is on the verge of tears. “You’re talking to your wife, not another deputy. I need to know what’s going on!”
“That’s just not possible at this time. I’ll contact you later.”
Christine explodes. “Dammit, Loras, knock it off! Don’t you care?” Her voice shrieks from the cell phone, and I know that Toni and Martin can hear her. They both look down, embarrassed for me. “You are throwing this marriage away!” she rants on. “You’re with her, aren’t you? You are going to fucking ruin our marriage over that sad, stupid woman who can’t keep her husband from drinking or even look after her own kids.”
I feel Toni’s hand on my arm and I look over at her, expecting her to try and yank the phone from me and give Christine hell. But she doesn’t. Instead she points toward the tre
es. I follow her outstretched finger and hang up on Christine without even saying goodbye.
Tearing out of the woods is Calli. Seeing the anguish fall from Antonia’s face when she realizes her daughter is coming toward us sends a burst of relief through me. I cannot stand to see Antonia in pain of any sort; she has carried around too much of her fair share anyway. Calli and Ben are Antonia’s life, even if her no-good husband doesn’t have the same priorities, his being a bottle of beer and a place to flop.
Calli is out of the woods and I see Martin looking behind Calli hopefully, searching into the hawthorne trees that edge Bobcat Trail. No one is coming behind Calli, not yet. As she stops beside me, Calli appears unharmed. She could be any seven-year-old playing a running game, but for two things. In her right hand she is holding a silver necklace with a charm in the shape of a musical note. The necklace, I know, belongs to Petra because her mother described it to me in perfect detail when she called me at four-thirty-five this morning to tell me that Petra was missing from her bedroom. As is procedure, I also got a photograph of the girl and a full description of the clothing she was wearing when she was last seen. Short blue pajamas, white underwear with yellow flowers, and of course, the necklace. Petra’s white tennis shoes were also reported missing. Martin has seen the necklace, too, and briefly collapses, but he is up quickly. In long, purposeful strides he approaches. I have seen this look before, a tortured, keening need to know brushed raggedly on the face of a desperate parent, most recently on the parents of ten-year-old Jenna McIntire.
Calli clutches at my sleeve and I stoop so as to be face-to-face with her. I expect no words; Calli hasn’t spoken for years. Perhaps she will point and lead us to Petra. Hopefully to a positive end. But she doesn’t indicate with a finger or lead me by the hand to the woods. She speaks. One word. As Antonia steps closer I see both confusion and relief. Martin is crying, great inconsolable sobs. And I see what they both do not. Bunched up in Calli’s other hand is Petra’s white underwear with yellow flowers.
MARTIN
I turn when I hear the rustle in the trees. I see Petra’s little friend, Calli, running down the path. It is what is in her hand that I am drawn to. From so far away it glints as it swings from her hand. It has never been off Petra’s neck, and my stomach seizes and the strength rushes from my limbs and I stumble to my knees. I look to her face, and on it I see fierce determination, not fear, not terror. A smile almost plays on her grimy face. A moment of hope. I look behind Calli and do not see Petra following. She’s cleared the brush now and I stand up, my hand already outstretched to take back my child’s necklace. The girl stops in front of her mother and the deputy sheriff, her breath coming out in ragged puffs. This mute little creature who never speaks, and I feel desperation roiling up in me. I need to find my Petra, now. I am running to where the girl stands, ready to shake her bony shoulders. “Tell me! Tell me!” I will scream, my nose touching hers.
I stop a few steps from her. She is tugging on the sleeve of the deputy sheriff. He bends down, his ear level with her mouth. One word crashes into me, and I weep.
ANTONIA
In the woods, through the bee trees whose heavy, sweet smell will forever remind me of this day, I see flashes of your pink summer nightgown that you wore to bed last night. My chest loosens and I am shaky with relief. I scarcely notice your scratched legs, muddy knees, or the chain in your hand. I reach out to gather you in my arms, to hold you so tight, to lay my cheek on your sweaty head. I will never wish for you to speak, never silently beg you to talk. You are here. But you step past me, not seeing me, you stop at Louis’s side, and I think, You don’t even see me, it’s Louis’s deputy sheriff’s uniform, good girl, that’s the smart thing to do. Louis lowers himself toward you, and I am fastened to the look on your face. I see your lips begin to arrange themselves and I know, I know. I see the word form, the syllables hardening and sliding from your mouth, with no effort. Your voice, not unsure or hoarse from lack of use, but clear and bold. One word, the first in over three years. In an instant I have you in my arms and I am crying, tears dropping many emotions, mostly thankfulness and relief, but tears of sorrow mixed in. I see Petra’s father crumble. Your chosen word doesn’t make sense to me. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t care. You have finally spoken.
CALLI
Calli ran on legs that she could no longer feel, just a heaviness below her waist, but the need to move forward kept her going. For Ben. For Ben who always came through for her, who took beatings and cruel words that in all rights belonged to her. Calli gripped more tightly to the items in her hands, Petra’s necklace and her underwear. Why Petra wasn’t wearing them, Calli did not understand, but she knew that they were important in all of this. Petra, hurt so badly, he had said she might die. Oh, God, would that be her fault, too? Out of the corner of her eye she saw a straw-colored lump among a patch of brown-tipped ferns. Calli stopped abruptly. The dog. The dog she had seen earlier, wandering playfully through the woods. Dead. Lying there in a heap, its long, pink tongue poking from between its pointed teeth. Its eyes open wide and unseeing. The dog’s collar had been removed. Calli had the unnerving feeling that something was watching her and she turned away from the dog and continued her trek down the bluff. Faster, faster, not even watching the ground in front of her for rocks or roots that could cause her to stumble. Ben said to go down, go down to find help, and she would. That man. That scary man, up there, too. His dog. Yes, that was his dog. Daddy, she thought, Daddy, he was so angry with her and he would take it out on Ben, she knew, and Petra, maybe. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man…The words spiraled through her mind. Then she could see it, the end of the trail, where the trees abruptly stopped. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man. She ran out into the clearing, saw an unexpected sight, her mother, oh, her mother, and Deputy Louis and Petra’s daddy! She could stop running now. She did what Ben had told her to do, get help. Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy. Who to go to? Deputy Louis, yes, he would get help right away, get that man, get Daddy. She was at the deputy’s side, her mother’s arms stretched out toward her…Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man…
“Ben!” The name erupted from her, it didn’t feel like it came from her mouth exactly, but somewhere deeper, from just below her breastbone. She didn’t recognize her own voice, it sounded so strong, so clear and she wanted to say more…Ben, Daddy, Petra, that man, Ben, Daddy…But then her mother’s arms were around her, rocking her. She was so tired, so thirsty, they were all moving now, and she went silent once again.
MARTIN
Calli is still holding Petra’s necklace, surrounded by her mother and Deputy Louis. Through my tears I go toward her to get it back. Ben? Ben did this? I could not believe it, though, yes, it crossed my mind when Fielda had broached the subject hours ago in anger. Ben? I try to pry the charm from Calli’s fingers, but Louis steps between us.
“Martin, give her space,” he orders.
“Where is she?” I croak. Calli has her face buried in her mother’s stomach; my hands are shaking in desperation.
“Martin,” Louis says gently, “we’ll find her. I’m calling for backup right now.”
I can see Louis fumbling and retrieve something from Calli’s hand, not the one holding the necklace. I crane to see what it is, but cannot. He crumples the item into his fist, so I cannot tell what he is holding, and then he lopes off to his car to call for help.
“Calli, tell me, is Petra all right?” I ask as soothingly as I can. “Did you just come from her? Please tell me. Is Ben up there with her? Did Ben hurt you?”
Antonia gives me a searing stare and shields Calli from me. As if I am the dangerous one here. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Ben had nothing to do with…” Louis hurries back to us, interrupting Antonia’s angry reproach.
“I’ve called for more officers to help us go up a
fter Petra and Ben.” He pauses and looks Calli up and down. “And for an ambulance. The medics will check Calli over and will be available if Petra and Ben need assistance,” Louis tells us. He bends down to face Calli. “Calli,” he says soothingly, “is Petra okay?” He waits for a response from her. Slowly, she shakes her head no and I moan and head toward the trail.
“Martin, wait! We need more information before we go up there! There are three trails—we need to know which one to take!” I stop and return to them, agitated.
“Ask her, then, ask her where they are! She can talk, she said, ‘Ben!’ Ask her!” I shout, spittle flies from my lips and both Calli and Antonia cringe at my outburst.
“Martin, go stand by the road,” Louis orders. “Stand there and flag down the ambulance so it knows that we are here. I’ll talk to Calli. She’ll let us know exactly where to go.” His voice softens as he adds, “It will save us time this way. I promise. Now go, wait for the ambulance and the other officers.”
I do as he says, however petulantly, and he returns to where Calli and Antonia stand, holding on to each other. The injustice of it stings me. I should be hugging Petra, reassuring her, not still wondering where she is, alive or dead. I tromp over to the road, where gravel meets the pavement and wait, scanning the distance, searching for the ambulance. Not yet. I lean against the police car, its metal still exuding the day’s monstrous heat, and I leap away.
Antonia calls back to me, hesitation in her voice. I must have frightened her. “Martin, can you grab a water bottle for Calli? They’re in the backseat.”
I hear Louis yell, “No, wait!” and he comes running toward me.
The Weight of Silence Page 18