I slide out of the driver’s seat and begin to make my way toward the police car. The officer steps from his car and greets me.
“I’m so glad to hear that your kids are safe, Mrs. Clark,” he tells me.
“Me, too,” I say. “And thank you for all you’ve done. Is it all right if I go in the house now to get a few things for the kids?”
“Sure,” he replies. “We’ve gotten everything that we need from the house. Do you want me to go in with you?”
“No, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll be out in just a few minutes.” The officer smiles at me and climbs back into his car. I trudge up the front steps. I am so tired. I open the door and quickly go upstairs. I stop first at Calli’s room and switch on her light. It’s hard for me to imagine that just hours earlier strangers had been tromping through this room, gathering evidence, looking for traces of violence, dusting for fingerprints. I am surprised at how undisturbed her room looks, the crime scene officers were very conscientious, cleaning up after themselves, replacing toys and books to their proper spots. Only Calli’s bed looks wrong, stripped of bedding, naked. I grab some clothes, shove them in Calli’s backpack, and pick up her stuffed monkey and yellow blanket. I do the same in Ben’s room and hurry down the steps. As I put my hand on the knob of the front door, I pause. I turn and head back to the kitchen. I flick on the outside light over the back door, open the door, and step out into my backyard. Looking out across my large, beautiful yard, visions of the day swim in front of my eyes. Would I ever look at these woods in the same way? Would I ever be able to find comfort in a place that swallowed up my children and spit them back out at me damaged and broken? I walk closer to the dark, towering trees until I feel a strong hand clamp onto my arm and my heart stops in alarm. But just as quickly I recognize Martin’s smooth, cultured voice, hushed to a whisper.
“Antonia, quiet. Someone is in the woods. Come on.” And he pulls me silently to the side of the yard, next to the shed behind a snowball bush where we are well-hidden.
“Martin,” I murmur, “what are you doing?”
“Shh,” he orders and points toward the woods. I see nothing.
“What is it?” I whisper.
“Griff, I think,” Martin says. I can’t help but notice how lifeless his voice sounds.
“Good,” I respond in a normal voice. “I need to ask him a few questions about where he’s been today.” I begin to step from the bush toward the woods. Martin yanks me roughly back.
“No,” he demands. “Stay here, listen to me.” I stop and he releases my arm from his grasp.
“Have you talked to Ben about what happened up there?” Martin speaks again in a low, hoarse whisper.
“No,” I admit. “We really haven’t had the chance. I’m just so glad they’re okay. What about Ben?”
“He was up there when we found Petra. He told us what happened, who hurt Petra and Calli. It was Griff.”
“Ben said this?” I ask.
“He did. Ben said that Griff was up there when he got to the top of the bluff. That Griff was standing over Petra and was going after Calli.” Martin’s voice breaks when he says his daughter’s name.
For the first time I notice that Martin holds something tightly within one hand.
“What is that?” I ask and reach out to it, my hand brushing against the cool metal. “My God, is that a gun? Martin, what are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he says in a small voice. “I don’t know. I thought…I thought…”
“You thought you would come over here and shoot the man who you think hurt your daughter? Without even speaking with him first, without the police questioning him? Martin, I know Griff has troubles, but he would not have hurt Petra.”
“How do you know that? What about the bruises your son has? Your son was up there, Antonia. Are you saying he is the liar? Who did this, then? Was it Ben? Was it your husband? Which one, Antonia? Which is it?” Martin hisses.
“Yeah, Antonia, which is it?” an oily, familiar voice asks conversationally. My heart seizes in my chest. It is Griff. He smells of sweat and his face looks haggard and tired. “Who you gonna believe? Me or Ben?”
“Griff, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know. Ben and Calli are in the hospital. Petra is, too, she’s hurt really bad. I don’t know what happened.”
“But you think I coulda done something, don’t you? You’ll believe that little bastard, but you won’t believe your own husband…” Griff, the man who sent me sweet notes every year on the anniversary of my mother’s death, steps toward me.
“Get away!” Martin yells.
“What the hell?” Griff shouts. “You’ve got a gun? You’ve got a goddamn gun. What? You two come here to shoot me? Jesus, Toni!” In one powerful movement Griff slaps the gun from Martin’s hand toward me. I scream as the gun goes off with a loud blast and I cover my face as the bullet explodes into the ground, sending up chunks of dry dirt. Both Griff and Martin scramble for the gun, but Griff is faster and reaches it first. With one hand he picks the revolver off the ground and swings it with a sickening thud against Martin’s skull. He crumples immediately to the ground clutching his head.
“Griff, don’t!” I scream. “Please don’t!” I cry as I kneel down by Martin.
“He was gonna shoot me,” Griff says in a dazed voice. “You were here to shoot me.”
“No, no. I didn’t know he was here. I didn’t know,” I sob. “I was here to get some pajamas for Calli, to get her monkey!” I point to the sock monkey on the ground; it is smiling up at us. Griff has the gun aimed shakily at me, but he glances down at the toy and then at Martin’s now motionless form.
“I don’t believe you.” His hands continue to tremble, whether from nerves or lack of drink, I don’t know.
“Please, let’s talk about it, please,” I beg. “Tell me what happened, Griff. Tell me.” Where was that police officer, I wonder, looking through the darkness for him.
“I didn’t do it.” His voice is full of emotion. “I know it looks like I did, but I didn’t, I didn’t hurt that girl!”
“But why were you up there? Why were you in the woods with Calli?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. It was stupid. I took her into the woods. We got lost. And then Calli was gone and Petra was there all bloody. And Ben, Jesus, Ben. He kept coming at me and I hit him. I hit him. God, and her underwear.”
I feel as if I have been socked in the stomach. My husband had taken Calli into the forest; he had hurt Ben and Petra, poor little Petra. I force the bile that has crept into my throat back down.
“God, my head hurts!” He presses his fingers to his eyes and in that instant I run. I duck behind the shed and run for the woods. If I could just get to the woods then I could hide. I know these woods. I keep expecting gunfire, but none comes. But despite the pain in his head and his trembling hands, Griff is still quicker than I am. Before I can step into the safety of the trees, he is here, his arms around me in a crushing bear hug. I try to kick him away from me, but he holds on tightly. We hear the sirens at the same time; we both freeze midstruggle for a brief moment. Then, before I can scream or break away, Griff drags me into the forest.
DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS
I watch as Christine pulls away from the hospital parking lot, and I momentarily consider chasing after her, jumping in the car with her and Tanner and driving off to Minnesota. It is a brief thought, however, because I spy Toni, head down, rushing once again out of the hospital. I begin to go toward her, but notice Fitzgerald and the other agents observing me through the tall windows that line the front of the hospital. I make a beeline back toward the main doors, back to the investigation.
Fitzgerald is waiting as the automatic doors open and cold air from the air-conditioned main lobby once again strikes me in the face. My uniform is dirty from my trek through the woods, I stink of sweat and am perspiring heavily again after my heated conversation with Christine.
“She won’t let us talk to the girl, or the boy for t
hat matter,” Fitzgerald says as I walk to a vending machine to buy a bottle of water.
“Who won’t?” I ask, slugging the whole bottle back in one gulp.
“Antonia Clark,” Fitzgerald replies. “She says Calli isn’t up to talking now and she doesn’t want Ben talking to us, either. I think she’s hiding something.”
“What would she be hiding?” I ask as I thread more change into the machine, this time choosing a soda full of caffeine and sugar. It is going to be a long night.
“I think she knows something about her husband. I don’t buy that she didn’t know he didn’t go on that fishing trip today. Maybe she’s covering for him,” the agent named Temperly says.
“That’s bullshit,” I say, looking him in the eyes. “Have you even talked to Toni Clark? Have you even had one conversation with her that makes you believe this?”
“Just the one we had a few moments ago, when she absolutely refused to cooperate with us,” Temperly says snidely. “I don’t know, I guess if my child was kidnapped and my son beaten to a pulp, I’d want to know who did it.”
“And so does Toni,” I say in an even, low tone, trying to keep any anger out of it. To be thrown off this investigation was the last thing I needed. “She just wants to keep her kids safe. She’ll let them speak with you when they’re able.”
“Yeah, she really kept them safe, didn’t she?” Temperly mutters under his breath.
Agent Simon steps forward, a good thing because Temperly is pissing me off. “Let’s talk to the doctor, see how long he thinks it will be before Calli will be able to speak with us. Then we can go from there.”
“Where was Toni off to, anyway?” I ask the three agents.
They all shrug and look at one another.
“Her crazy husband is out there and you just let her leave?” I ask in disbelief.
The agents raise their eyebrows at each other. “Let’s go find the doctor,” Simon says.
As we walk past the receptionist’s desk the clerk calls out, “Can one of you speak with a Fielda Gregory? She’s on the phone, very upset about her husband.”
“I got it,” Fitzgerald says before I can grab the phone. I step as close to him as I can, hoping to hear what is happening with Martin. Fitzgerald listens for several moments before he tells Fielda that he will get back to her shortly. “Jesus Christ,” Fitzgerald mumbles. “What next?”
We all look at him expectantly. “It appears that Martin Gregory is now the next person to go missing out of our two little families.”
“What do you mean? I had Jorgens take him home. He told me that Martin said he and Fielda were heading over to Iowa City together to see Petra.”
“Gregory never went with them. Fielda drove to Iowa City with her mother and Mary Ellen McIntire,” Fitzgerald explains.
“Jenna McIntire’s mother?” Temperly asks.
“Yes. Let me finish,” Fitzgerald says impatiently. “Petra needs surgery and Mrs. Gregory doesn’t want to consent to the operation until she speaks with her husband. But she can’t find him. She tried at home, at the police station, here at the hospital, friends, family, everywhere with no luck. Then Mary Ellen McIntire piped up that she might have an idea where Martin Gregory is.”
I wait for a moment for Fitzgerald to continue. Then it clicks. “Jesus, he went looking for Griff,” I whisper.
“Yeah, he did. Mrs. McIntire said she and Martin had a brief conversation and that he alluded to the fact that he was going after whoever had done this to his little girl,” Fitzgerald says grimly.
“As far as we know, Griff Clark is still up in those woods. Would Martin go back in there at this time of night?” Agent Simon asks, looking to me.
“If I know Griff Clark like I think I do, he’s probably taken off for good. Right after he gets a few drinks into himself.” A horrible thought skitters across my brain and I turn to the receptionist. “Can you tell me where Calli Clark’s doctor is?”
A few minutes later Dr. Higby introduces himself to us and quickly makes it clear that under no circumstances are we to try to speak with the Clark children.
“No, no,” I say. “It’s Toni Clark. Do you know where she went, when she left a little while ago?”
“She went home. Said she wanted to get some clean clothes for the kids. Why, is there a problem?” Dr. Higby asks as a look of genuine concern creases his face.
“I don’t know yet,” I answer as a transmission comes over on my walkie-talkie. We all stop to listen as a dispatcher relays a report of a disturbance at 12853 Timber Ridge Drive. The reservist stationed at the house had reported that he heard angry voices at the back of the Clark home and what could have been a gunshot.
BEN
Rose has come back with a tray full of food. Pudding, Jell-O, soup, ginger ale. All soft food, she says, so I won’t hurt my face chewing. I have to smile at that. She is a nice old lady. She leaves me alone so I can eat; she says she’ll be sitting out in the waiting area if we need her. Says she knows I probably don’t want some strange lady sitting in our room watching us. She’s right. I just want to lie in bed, eat my mushy food and watch TV.
Calli, you’re still sleeping. I keep looking over at you, wishing you’d wake up. Because even though I don’t want Rose sitting in here with me, I’m still pretty lonely, and it seems like it’s taking Mom forever to get back here. Your nurse stopped in a few times to check on you, taking your pulse, checking your IV, feeling your forehead.
I try not to think of Dad. I’m beginning to feel a little bit guilty about what happened up on the bluff, but what was I supposed to think, with Petra all hurt and you looking so scared? I don’t think that I can ever look him in the eyes again after what happened. I hope Mom understands. I couldn’t even tell her that Dad was the one to break my nose, but I think she knows, deep down.
I remember, Calli, before you stopped talking, you’d lie at the end of my bed, waiting for when I’d come home from school. Every day I knew that you’d be up there. I didn’t mind so much. You always left my stuff alone—you did like to play with my rock collection, but you couldn’t hurt a rock collection, could you? I’d open up my bedroom door and you’d be sitting there sorting out the rocks. You’d have a pile of black ones, of shiny metallic-looking ones, of pink feldspar and of yellowish calcite. You didn’t call them by their scientific names, though; you had your own names for each one.
“This is Magic Cat’s Eye,” you’d say about my black obsidian. Or you’d hold up my shiny quartz. “This is Ice Rock. If you bury it in the backyard, everything will all turn to ice.”
Sometimes I thought you’d never shut up. And now that you haven’t talked for so long, I can hardly believe that you ever will again. I miss it now. I never would tell anyone this, but I still talk to you, and in my mind you talk back. Of course I’m still the older, smart one, and you’re still my little sister, who couldn’t possibly know as much as me. In my head you’d say, “Ben, do you think that Daddy will ever stop drinking?” And I’d say back, “I just don’t know, Calli, but I suppose anything’s possible.” Or we’d just talk about stupid, everyday stuff like what we’re having for supper or what we’re going to watch on TV. I wish you’d wake up right now and say, “Ben, I want to watch channel seven, give me the remote!” But you don’t. Never once have I asked you why you don’t talk. I know it’s got something to do with the day Mom lost the baby, though. I came home from Ray’s house and there Mom was on the couch. Someone had put a blanket over her, was it you? Someone had put a blanket over her, but the blood was seeping through. I asked you what happened over and over, but you didn’t say a word. You just sat on the floor by Mom, rocking back and forth, holding on to your stuffed monkey, and I called Louis and he called an ambulance. I thought for a minute you might say something when the baby came out. For the life of me I still don’t know why they let us two kids watch that. When the baby came outta Mom and they wiped her clean, and you reached out to touch her red hair, I thought you were gonna say something. But
you didn’t. You just held your monkey a little tighter, rocked a little faster, until someone noticed us and called Mrs. Norland over to take care of us. At first, I thought it was because it must have been so scary seeing Mom fall down the stairs, but I watched you. I watched you real close after it all. I watched you when you were around Mom and when you were around me. And I watched you when you were around Dad, and I could see it real clear then. Your little face would go all stiff and you’d curl your fingers up real tight when he would come into the room. It wasn’t real obvious, but I knew something was up. I think Mom did, too, but she never said anything. Sometimes I think that’s what’s wrong with Mom; she doesn’t say what she should when she should.
I think you might be waking up. You are kind of wiggling around, trying to open your eyes, but you can’t. You’re so tired. I’m half-afraid that when you do finally open them up you’re going to start hollering like you did when you first saw me. I start to go for the nurse’s buzzer, thinking maybe you’re hurting somewhere, but then you stop moving around and fall back asleep. I finish eating my chocolate pudding and keep flicking through the channels and when I look back at you, you are awake, just staring at me, like you can’t quite believe I am here. Then you smile, just a little bit, but it’s a smile anyway. I climb out of my bed and come over to your side.
“You okay?” I ask and you nod yes. “That’s good,” I say. You look at me kind of funny and I hurry up to say that I am okay, too. Then you do something that surprises me. You pull back your bedcovers and pat the space right next to you. I climb in next to you, being careful of the tube stuck in your arm, it’s a tight fit in your little hospital bed, but I squeeze in.
At home, at night, sometimes you’d climb into my bed with me if you couldn’t get to sleep and I’d tell you some story. Lots of times I’d tell you the regular fairy tales, Red Riding Hood, the Three Little Pigs. But sometimes I just made something up, like you and Petra being princesses and going on these great adventures. You liked them, though, those lame stories. And I figure you want me to tell you one now. I don’t know where to begin. It seems stupid to tell you a story about the Gingerbread Man after what happened today. Then I get an idea. Probably a really dumb idea, and if Mom had known I was going to start telling you this story, I’m sure she probably would ground me for life. But it just sorta begins to spill out of me.
The Weight of Silence Page 24