The Weight of Silence

by Heather Gudenkauf

  I thought of Antonia out in the forest with that desperate, sad man and I say, “I hope not.”

  She sighs and tells me she loves me, no matter what, and to hurry up and get over to Iowa City.

  When we arrive at Mercy Hospital, as I am wheeled into the emergency room, a police officer keeps stride with the gurney and speaks with me. “We’re going to have to interview you after you have your head checked out.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, closing my eyes as I think of Calli and Ben Clark ensconced somewhere above me, waiting for their mother to return to them. How could I explain to them what happened, what I did, if their mother does not come back?

  DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

  Fitzgerald and I crash through the brush, trying to move silently but failing miserably. It is black as tar. The quarter moon and the stars are swallowed up by the night and do little to light our way.

  “Jesus,” Fitzgerald curses, “we’ll never find them in here.”

  “We will. Griff doesn’t know his way around in here, but Toni does. She’ll make sure that they stay on a path.”

  “God, I hope so,” he mutters.

  I lead Fitzgerald through the brush slowly, cautiously. I do not want to stumble upon Griff and Toni and cause him to panic. Shortly we come to a thinning of the trees where the forest intersects with the path and we both look out onto the trail squinting into the darkness. Nothing. We creep as quietly as we can up the path. Occasionally Fitzgerald or I step on a twig and the snap of wood causes us to stop and tensely look around. I am ashamed to realize that Fitzgerald is in better shape than I am and I have to work hard in order to keep in front of him. After several minutes of hiking I am only aware of my own breathing and Fitzgerald stops me by yanking on my sleeve.

  “Listen,” he orders. Gradually the voices become clear to me, one male, one female—one angry and one full of anguish. It is them. I nod to Fitzgerald to let him know that I hear it, too, and we proceed slowly, silently. We need to observe Toni and Griff without their knowledge, get a good handle on their position and verify that Griff has a weapon.

  I move down the path in small increments, making sure that Fitzgerald is always in my sight, stopping every few steps to listen. It isn’t long before I hear Griff screeching, “Shut up, shut up!” and hear Toni’s frantic cries. I inch down the path, forcing myself forward in deliberate, slow movements, not wanting to give up my presence prematurely. The sliver of moon illuminates Griff pinning Toni to a tree, his mouth against her ear. If I hadn’t seen a gun in Griff’s hand, I would have thought it was simply two people in an embrace, that and the fact that Toni’s sorrowful weeping assaults my ears. Farther on down the trail I spy Fitzgerald edging forward, gun drawn. I, too, pull my gun from its holster and step behind a tree.

  Fitzgerald yells, “Police! Put the gun down.” They don’t appear to hear him.

  “Oh, God! It was you, it was you,” Toni howls.

  “No, no, I didn’t do it!” Griff whines. “I didn’t hurt that girl!” He presses his hand against Toni’s throat, and I crouch and take aim. He is too close to her.

  “No,” Toni wails, her words difficult to understand. “Calli, Calli. It’s because of you she doesn’t talk.”

  “Drop the gun, Griff,” I shout. Griff pauses for a minute as if acknowledging our presence.

  “What are you talking about? Shut up!” Griff tells her, confusion in his voice.

  “I thought it was because of what she saw, when I lost the baby, I thought it was my fault. But it was you. You whispered something to her. What did you say? What did you say?” Toni’s words muddle together and the ferocity of them make Griff step back. Again I take aim.

  “Shut up, Toni! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Griff is trying to keep his voice low. I can see his body shake with rage. Or DT. He begins to weep himself. He leans forward so that his forehead rests on Toni’s and then presses the barrel of the gun to his temple.

  “Drop your weapon!” Fitzgerald booms. He is slowly edging farther away from me. If Griff chose to shoot, he would only be able to hit one of us.

  Again I take aim, but he is too close to Toni and I can’t risk the shot. In an instant, Griff moves slightly away from Toni, holding his gun toward her face, my chance. I reposition the grip on my weapon and I hear a shout and then the discharge, a loud pop that does not come from my gun. I am too late. I see both Griff and Toni collapse to the ground, both not moving.

  Within seconds Fitzgerald is standing over Griff and Toni. I can’t go any closer, I feel ill and disgraced.

  “Come help me, hurry up!” Fitzgerald calls to me as he tries to roll Griff off Toni. I see her arms push at Griff, trying to force him off her. She crawls out from beneath him, covering her face with her hands.

  I stand above her, not equipped to comfort her, not there, not then. I call for backup and an ambulance, even though it is plain that Griff is dead. Fitzgerald is the one to kneel down beside her and whisper reassuring words to her. I don’t believe that she even knows I am here. She clutches onto Fitzgerald and will not let him go. Even as he leads her down the trail, she leans heavily on him while I stay behind to wait for the coroner and the forensic team.

  Hours later I receive word that the gun that Griff was holding was not loaded. I console myself by telling myself that I was not the one to shoot him. Given the chance, though, I would have. Gladly.

  CALLI

  Her brother’s words wash over her, the story he is telling her. She tries to ignore the many eyes staring at her expectantly. She thinks back to that moment on top of the bluff, to when she saw him and then saw Petra.

  She was bent down to pick up the necklace, Petra’s necklace. She sensed his presence before she saw him, could feel the weight of his gaze upon her. Fear, cold and black, sidled into her chest. Still bent over, she slowly raised her eyes and saw his mucky, thick-soled hiking boots that led into mud-splattered olive trousers; and this was where Calli’s gaze stilled. He was standing above her on a broad flat rock the color of sand. She saw, hanging limply, a hand, small and pale, lightly grazing the drab of his pants, level with his knee. Calli straightened, the necklace gripped in her fist, to see her friend bundled in his arms. Petra’s eyes were closed as if sleeping, an angry two-inch gash resting above her left eyebrow. A collage of purple-smudged bruises traveled along her cheek to her lips that were cracked and bloodied, down to her neck which lolled helplessly as he readjusted her in his arms. Her blue pajamas were filthy, caked with a deep-brown substance; her grungy, once-white tennis shoes were untied, the dirty laces hanging flaccid around her ankles.

  “Help me,” he pleaded. “She’s hurt. I can’t get her down the bluff on my own.” He stared levelly into Calli’s eyes, his wounded voice not matching the resolve she saw in his hard eyes. She knew him.

  He was perched on the highest point on the bluff, where the trees cast long, sullen shadows, and every few moments a breeze swept across his sunburned forehead, lifting his hair briefly. A deep valley, a basin of lush greens and honey-yellows, lay in a blanket far behind him. Calli’s eyes darted to Petra’s fingers, which twitched briefly.

  “She’s too heavy. I have to put her down.” He carefully moved to set Petra down, resting his hand behind her head as he laid her on the altarlike rock. Once again he stood, shaking his arms free from the residual weight of Petra.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he remarked. “I could never do this on my own.” He looked at Calli, trying to read her expression. “If we hurry, we can get her down the bluff and to the hospital. She’s hurt badly. She fell,” he added as an afterthought.

  The bluff on which he stood ended abruptly behind him and sloped into a steep, rough wall lined with slick green moss, and ended in a narrow, dry ravine.

  “Please,” he begged, “I think she’s going to die if we don’t get her out of here.” His chin quivered and tears seemed to gather in the corners of his eyes.

  Diffidently, she moved forward. Her gaze, though, neve
r wandering from his face. He reached down a hand to help pull her to the top of the crumbling limestone; powdery bits breaking away as she tried to find a foothold for her toes. His hand, smooth and cool, enveloped hers and she felt herself being lifted, the disconcerting feeling of being suspended in air fluttered in her stomach. His grip tightened and a moment of dread swept through her. A mistake, she thought, I should have run. She helplessly tried to free her hand in a futile tug of war.

  She heard it before he did. The unmistakable beating of wings, slow and deliberate, followed by a drawn-out caw, almost like laughter. She felt the rush of air on her neck as it swooped over her. It was huge, the biggest bird Calli had ever seen, so black that it almost looked bluish, its wings spread so wide it looked nearly the same size as she was. The man faltered as the great black bird skimmed his shoulder, casting a dark shadow over the look of fear and revulsion that danced across his face as he released Calli’s hand. She fell backward and struck the ground, finding herself dazed, looking up into a muted blue sky brushed in shades of pink found on the underbelly of clumps of Spring Beauty that bloomed in early spring. When she sat up and carefully looked around, she didn’t see him.

  She scurried up the rock where Petra was and peered over the side to the rift below. Then Calli crawled over to Petra and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at Calli.

  “Mommy,” Petra moaned.

  Calli placed a dirty hand on Petra’s forehead, nodded to her and patted her arm. She turned in every direction, looking for him. He was gone, but she had seen him before, she knew him, he had a funny name and a dog. He was out there, maybe watching her. She scuttled backward into the brush and hid.

  Calli blinked her eyes and returned to the present.

  “Lucky,” Calli said simply to her brother, speaking for her friend who had always spoken for her. “It was Lucky.”

  BEN

  Well, Calli, you did it. You finished the story and I know that wasn’t any easy thing for you to do. I am surprised that it wasn’t Dad, but that student of Mr. Gregory who ended up taking Petra into the woods and doing all those bad things to her. I wonder if Dad will ever forgive me for blaming him, but he looked so guilty and he did drag you out into the woods. I don’t know how I am going to face him. I mean, I walloped him pretty good for a twelve-year-old. Mom isn’t back yet with our stuff and I am just plain tired. But there is no sleeping for us tonight, what with the police coming in and asking you to tell the story over and over again. You do it, though. You retell that story over and over and they keep asking you over and over again if this Lucky guy did anything to you, but you say no, it was Petra, he hurt Petra.

  Finally, Rose comes in and tells the police officers to beat it, that we both need a good night’s sleep. We aren’t sleeping, though, are we? We’ve decided to wait up for Mom, but she hasn’t come to us, not yet anyway. You are so excited to show her that you can talk again, you just ramble on and on, I think just to hear your own voice, to listen to what it sounds like after so many years. It surprises me, too, the way you sound. Older of course, but I don’t know, you sound smarter. No, that isn’t it. Wiser, I guess. You sound wise. And I guess you are. I ask you if you think that Dad will ever forgive me for me thinking what I did about him and for hitting him. You say, “No,” so softly I almost can’t hear you, but I do. “No,” you say, “but don’t be sorry. He wasn’t himself up there.” You stop talking for a second and then change your mind. “He was himself up there, but still don’t be sorry, you saved us.”

  I have to smile at that, you thinking that I saved you and Petra, and maybe I did. I guess I’ll never know. It’s nice, sitting here with you; we don’t know what is coming next with Dad, but I figure it’ll all turn out okay. “What do ya want to watch, Calli?” I ask you and you answer me, just like it should go.

  DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

  I do not go home after the shooting. It is an empty place, what with Christine and Tanner gone. In one crazy day I have lost my wife and my son. I end up at my desk at the station, writing my report, trying not to forget any of the key details. I’ve seen a lot as a deputy sheriff; I have seen the aftermath of suicides, meth lab explosions, I have seen women beaten by their husbands who somehow decide to go back for more. That makes me think of Toni, staying with Griff, who was obviously a mess and didn’t take good care of her, not the way I would have, anyway. But there is something about seeing someone you know inside and out on the edge of being killed. Nothing prepared me for that, no amount of training or years of experience readied me for seeing the barrel of a gun pressed to the head of the girl I first saw careening down a hill of snow on a sled when we were seven. Maybe it is a gift, not being the one to shoot Griff. Now maybe I can go in and help pick up the pieces of Toni’s former life. Start where we had left things so many years ago. Maybe this is my second chance with her. I hadn’t been the one to kill her husband. But will Toni think of it that way? Would Calli and Ben?

  Maybe I’m no better than Griff was. He gave up his family for alcohol and it looks like I gave up my own family, as well. But for me it was because of a woman I had grown up with, one I couldn’t ever let go. So who is the bigger villain in the end? Is it Griff or is it me? I think that’s a question I don’t want to look at too closely, an answer I can live without finding.

  Once when Toni and I were in the third grade we went walking in Willow Creek Woods. It was just the two of us, when all was innocent and a boy could still be friends with a girl and not be teased mercilessly by his peers. It was a brisk spring day, the light from the sun bright but lacking anywarmth. Toni wore an old sweatshirt of her brother’s and snow boots. We were walking across Lone Tree Bridge, carefully making our way across the thin tree trunk that had fallen across Willow Creek, holding hands, steadying each other so we wouldn’t fall. There on that day, holding the hand of my best friend, I could not imagine a life without her, without Toni, and I still can’t.

  This morning I find myself calling Charles Wilson and apologizing on behalf of the sheriff’s department for any inconvenience we have caused him.

  “No problem,” he says. “I’m just glad you found the girls.” I hesitate before hanging up. “Did you ever find your dog, Mr. Wilson?” I ask.

  “Oh, yes,” he says. “He came home last night, tired and hungry. And embarrassed, I think, for the trouble he caused.”

  I apologize once again and wish him well. He’s a good man, Mr. Wilson.

  I go to the hospital, hoping to find Toni there with Ben and Calli. I come across her sitting in the waiting room, next to the information desk, looking at her hands. It strikes me that she looks much the same way as she did on the day she found out her mother had died.

  “What am I going to tell them?” she asks me, not looking up at me when I stand next to her.

  “I don’t know,” I tell her truthfully. I don’t envy her that task.

  She stands and wobbles for a moment uncertainly and I hold her elbow to steady her and follow her to the elevator doors. “Do you want me to come with you, Toni?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says and reaches out for my hand.

  ANTONIA

  Louis helps me tell the children that Griff is dead. These are the hardest words that I have ever had to say, “Your father has died.” It is strange, though, they don’t ask how, they don’t ask why. Ben and Calli just accept the fact, no tears, no anger, just acceptance. Not for the first time, I wonder what in the world have I done to these poor children. I think that perhaps they are just numb. It has been a confusing, painful two days on many counts. One more piece of horrific news probably weighs the same as all the other pieces of bad news that are being piled on them.

  Do I cry over Griff’s death? A good wife would say yes. But I am not a good wife. How many times did I wish that I would get the call that Griff was injured so badly on the pipeline that there was no chance for recovery, or that he was in a terrible auto accident and had died? Too many to count. Notice that these scenarios are
all accidental deaths. I am too civilized to wish that someone would shoot my husband. But do I feel relief? Yes, I felt relief when his body slumped against mine, shot. I am relieved that it was not me who was shot, and I am relieved that I will not have to endure one more drunken tantrum from my husband, and that my children will not have to suffer through one again, either. I was not a good mother; a good mother would have packed her children up the first time her husband began throwing beer bottles at her; the first time he smacked her child a little too hard for spilling the orange juice; or the first time he made her child sit at the kitchen table for three hours because she did not, could not say, “May I please be excused.” A good mother would not have tolerated any of these things. But as I said, I wasn’t a good mother.

  But I get a chance to start over, brand-new. To be a good mother, the kind of mother who protects her children, who will lay down her life for her children. Louis says that I already am that kind of mother, that I always was. But I don’t think so, not really. Here’s my chance. I want what I never got with my own mother, enough time. I just want enough time.

  MARTIN

  It takes eleven stitches to sew up the damage that Griff Clark did to my head when he hit me with the gun. As a result, I’ve got a concussion and have to spend the night in the hospital away from Petra and Fielda. This morning my head aches terribly, but I know that my daughter is in so much more pain and I am quickly preparing to leave, to make the trip to the hospital in Iowa City to be with my girls. Just as I finish tying my shoes, Antonia Clark comes into my hospital room. She sits on the edge of a chair while I wait for the doctor to sign my discharge papers.