CHAPTER • 3
Marti felt herself being led from the room, someone's arm around her shoulders, and she didn't resist. She recognized the voice of her chemistry teacher, Miss Abrams, who murmured over and over, “You'll be all right, Marti. You'll be all right.”
I am all right. It's everybody else who's wrong. Marti resttized she had spoken the words only in her mind, but it didn't matter. Miss Abriums would be like everyone else. She wouldn't believe her, either.
A door opened and then another, and the school nurse was gently pushing her down onto a cot. “Just lie down here for a while, Marti,” the nurse said in a cheery voice. “Your color's good, but we'll take your temperature and blood pressure in a few minutes and just let you rest until you feel better.”
Marti did as she was told, lying back and closing her eyes. She let out a long sigh. She was so terribly tired, The two women went into the next room, but Marti could hear their whispers: “They were close friends. It scares me to death. What if she—?”
“It's probably just stress.”
“I hope so. I keep thinking about that copycat theory. I mean, so many, many kids. Someone commits suicide, and others follow. It's horrifying. I can't believe they really understand what they're doing.”
“All I can do is make sure Marti doesn't need medical care. We'll have her talk to her senior counselor. As a matter of fact, Betty will probably be in here looking for Marti as soon as the assembly's over. Betty's going to be working with that Granberry fellow on his book. Did she tell you?”
“The book on suicides? Nobody's told me anything. You mean Betty's going to help write that book?”
“Just research stuff. That kind of thing. She's going to tie it into the project she's doing for her doctorate.”
“Speaking of which—guess who else is going for the degree?”
The topic of their conversation shifted, and Marti tuned them out. She was furious with herself. She wanted people to listen, to take seriously what she had to tell them, and she had blown it when she had acted like that in assembly. Now she was back to zero. But I won't give up, she promised herself.
“Marti.”
Marti opened her eyes to see Mrs. Allen, the school nurse, standing over her. “Open your mouth, dear. We're going to take your temperature.”
In a short time the digital thermometer registered, and Mrs. Allen said, “Normal. Just what I thought.”
Next the blood-pressure cuff was snugly wrapped on Marti's upper right arm. Mrs. Allen seemed to be pleased with the reading.
“So here she is” A voice spoke from the doorway.
Marti looked up to see Elizabeth Dillard, the senior-class counselor. Marti had met with Miss Dillard briefly to go over her senior schedule and to get information about college applications, but she really didn't know the woman. Miss Dillard was shaped somethmg like a pear. Her head was small, and with her hair pulled back tightly, it looked even smaller. Her shoulders were narrow, her chest almost flat, but her hips and thighs spread out magnificently. Mr. Billingsly had made the mistake in assembly last year of mentioning that, in regard to student problems, Miss Dillard had a very broad understanding; After the initial snickers had subsided, hif words became an “in” joke for the entire senior class, and Marti couldn't look at the woman without mentally attaching the label. Miss Dillard's smile was pleasant, but Marti wondered how she really felt about the joke.
“Marti checks out physically,” Mrs. Allen said to Miss Dillard. “I'm guessing the stress just got to be a little too much for her.”
With one finger, Miss Dillard pushed her glasses back up her nose to peer at Marti. “Would you like to come into my office and talk with me?” she asked.
“Yes,” Marti said. She stood up a little too quickly, swaying for just an instant as she fought to regain her equilibrium. She saw Miss Dillard glance at her sharply before she led the way to her office. Marti followed close behind her.
Miss Dillard seated herself behind her desk, waved toward the only other chair in the room, and leaned forward intently as Marti sat down. “Let's be open and straightforward with each other,” she said. “If you're on something, tell me.”
i don't do drugs,” Marti said. “I'm not stupid.”
Again the inquisitive, searching look before Miss Dillard asked, “Not even once in a while? Not even with your friend, Barry Logan?”
Marti fought the hot anger that welled up, flushing her cheeks and forehead. It was important to stay calm. “No. Barry didn't use drugs, either.”
Miss Dillard picked up a pencil and flipped it back and forth between two fingers, “Studies have shown,” she said, “that in many cases, when a good and popular student takes his life, abuse of drugs was involved.”
“We're not talking about ‘studies.’ We're talking about Barry, and you can take my word for it. I knew Barry, and I would have known it if he'd ever done drugs.”
“I'm sorry, Marti,” Miss Dillard said, and she sighed. “Unfortunately, it's a question that can't be dismissed lightly.”
Marti shook her head. “The question doesn't even matter,” she answered. “I know I sounded off in assembly when I shouldn't have, but what I said is true-Barry didn't commit suicide.”
Miss Dillard paused as though she were trying to find the right words before she answered. “Marti, I know this is terribly hard for you, and I sympathize. Maybe it would help you to understand that there are various stages toward the acceptance of death of a loved one. The first are anger and denial.”
Marti slid to the edge of her chair and leaned her forearms on Miss Dillard's desk. “Please listen to me,” she begged. “Someone has to listen.”
“I'm listening. That's what I'm here for.”
“Okay, then.” Marti took a long breath and said, “Forget all the rules and labels in your psychology books. I'm talking about a person, not a case. I know that Barry didn't kill himself. I'm trying to do something to prove it.”
“Surely the police and coroner's office would be better able to know how—”
Marti jumped to her feet. “But they don't know! They didn't eveil khow he was left-handed” She shook her head. “That doesn't matter right now. The important thing is that Barry had no reason to kill himself. Can't you understand?”
A film came over Miss Dillard's eyes, and the corners of her mouth softened. “My favorite uncle killed himself— she said quietly. “I was younger than you—eleven —and for a long time I couldn't make myself believe it. I'd invent stories M which he was off on a trip to some marvelous country, and he'd come home and walk toward me with his arms held out.” She stopped speaking for a few moments, and Marti could see the muscles in her tharoat work as she gulped, trying to regain control overJher emotions.
“I'm sorry,” Marti murmured.
When Miss Dillard spoke, her voice was back to normal to you see, the memories still are painful. However, the point I'm trying to make isthat I had to face the truth, and you must too.”
Marti shook her head. “People who kill themselves are depressed. They can't take it anymore. They don't have any hope left. Isn't that right?” Without waiting for an answer she continued. “Barry didn't have any of those reasons. He'd just gotten his early acceptance letter from Texas A & M, and he was really happy about it. He asked me last week if I wanted to go in fifty-fifty with him and give a Halloween party, and he talked about a camp job he was going to try to get next summer. He wasn't making all those plans and at the same time thinking about committing suicide.”
As Miss Dillard listened she poked at her chin with the eraser end of a pencil. Finally she said, “You knew Barry well?”
“Very well. We lived next door to each other. We'd been good friends ever since our families moved here.”
“Do you know of other suicides in his family?”
“I'm sure there weren't any, or someone would have said so. Barry never talked about any.”
“Hmm. No depression, no drugs, no family history of suicidal
behavior.” Miss Dillard put down her pencil and waved toward the empty chair. “Sit down, Marti. Please. What you've told me is very interesting,”
“Then help me,” Marti said. She slowly lowered herself to the edge of the chair and waited. Maybe this was it. Maybe Miss Dillard would understand.
Miss Dillard bent over her desk, making some notations with her pencil on a lined pad of paper. When she looked up at Marti she said, “Maybe there issomething I can do to help you. Let me give you a little background first. I've been doing some intensive research on teen suicides and plan to write my doctoral dissertation on the subject. I became interested in this social problem when two of our students committed suicide last year. Did you know them?”
“Yes,” Marti said.
“Very well. Youlnay not know this, Marti, but they fit into a pattern that researchers have noted. The students exhibited depressive symptoms, apparently due to the ending of their physical relationship; they showed a change in sleep or appetite, along with a certain amount of aggressive and impulsive behavior; and it was established that they both had a history of mild drug abuse.” She sighed again. “It doesn't take much,” she added, and slid her glasses back into place on the bridge of her nose.
Marti shivered. “Yoti make it sound so technical. We're talking about Robin and Al,” she said. “They were people.”
“Oh, Marti,” Miss Dillard said, “I don't mean to sound like a textbook. Believe me, when they died it was such a shock and hurt so much—” She took a deep breath and said, more calmly, “Maybe talking about suicide in technical terms is a way of stepping back, of getting away from the pain.”
“I-I think I know what you mean.”
“What you've been telling me about Barry leads me to believe that he may not have exhibited some of the warning signs. Was he friends with either of the students?”
“Yes. He was on the tennis team with Al, but—”
Miss Dillard propped her elbows on her desk and rested her chin on her fists. “Have you heard of the term copycat suicide?”
Marti gasped and slid to the edge of her chair. “If you mean Barry, he didn't—” Marti stopped. “You don't believe me.”
Miss Dillard leaned forward, her hands gripped together so tightly that her knuckles were white. “Listen to me, Marti. Don't go. Listen. I should have gotten right to the point. After your—uh—after you were so upset, Dr. Clement Granberryasked about you. He's quite interested in talking with you.”
“But I don't want to talk to him.” Marti stood and walked to the door.
MissDillard struggled to her feet. “I understand. I really do. Right now you're under a great deal of stress, and it's hard for you to think clearly about what happened to your friend. But Dr. Granberry will be staying in Farrington Park for a while. Please consider meeting him and listening to what he has to say. He's making a detailed study of teen suicides, and I really believe that he can help you accept the truth of the situation.”
Marti didn't try to explain that she was nevergoing to meet with Dr. Granberry if she could help it. She walked from the office and into the main hall as Miss Dillard called after her, “Marti, I want to help you. Remember, I'll be right here anytime you need me.”
Kim appeared at her side. “I waited for you,” she said.
“You cut class?”
“It wasn't going to be much of a class. Just a review on world events. I don't think the countries of the world know what they're doing themselves, so how should anyone expect me to?”
Marti couldn't help smiling. She headed toward her locker, Kim at her side.
“So how'd it go with the broad understanding?” Kim asked.
“She tried to help me understand that my faith in Barry is all wrong.”
Kim looked down as her face flushed red. “Look, Marti, I—”
“It's okay,” Marti said, “I'm just letting you know that you aren't the only one who doesn't believe me.”
Kim took a deep breath, and Marti could almost see her change gears. “The bell's going to ring for lunch pretty soon,” Kim said. “Let's get to the cafeteria before the mob arrives.”
Marti shook her head. I'm not hungry.”
“You have to eat something,” Kim said, “whether you want to or not.”
Marti didn't feel like arguing. She let Kim take charge and even ate what Kim ordered for her. Later she thought it might have been vegetable soup. It didn't matter.
The day went badly. Marti couldn't concentrate. In English literature she had to stammer, ‘Tm sorry. I didn't hear what you said,” to Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson—who'd been teaching for as long as anyone could remember, and who had good-naturedly started the semester by explaining that the reason for his total balctoess was that all the activity went on inside his head and not on the outside—simply nodded patiently before tossing the question at someone else.
Marti felt someone staring and glanced over to see Emmet Miller's gaze fixed upon her. Same olive-green eyes as his brother Thad's, but in a thinner, narrower face. Emmet immediately dropped his glance to his book and hunched over it.
“How many looked up the quotes I gave you last week?”
Most of the hands went up, so Mr. Thompson said, “Okay. Then you know they're from Coleridge's ‘Kubla Khan.’ Now, if we look for sensory perception in ‘Kubla Khan’ …” He went on, and Marti tried to follow his explanation.
She began to wonder about Emmet. Most of the people in this class had attended Barry's funeral, but not Emmet As Thad Miller's little brother, just one year younger, he'd spent years tagging after Thad, Barry, Charlie, and Tony, even though they'd usually chased him away. Sometimes she'd felt sorry for Emmet, who looked so eager to belong, so lonely without his brother. Once, when the Cuatros had been in Barry's backyard and had loudly jeered at Emmet and told him to get lost, she'd climbed up in the elm tree, where they could see her, and shouted at them that they were pigs.
“Why are you so mean to Emmet?” she'd yelled, but they'd laughed and yelled insults back at her. Even Emmet—who had only reached the gate—had furiously screeched at Marti to mind her own business.
She had climbed down from the tree, skinning her right knee and grumbling that boys could be horrible to each other. Later Barry had brought over a fistful of his mother's home-made chocolate-chip cookies, and she'd easily forgiven him. She really didn't blame them for not wanting Emmet around. She wouldn't have liked it, either.
After Thad had left Farrington Park, Marti hadn't seen much of Emmet. There was nothing unusual about that. Emmet had his own friends in his own class. He was a quiet person and usually kept to himself, but it was odd that he hadn't gone to Barry's funeral. He could have given Barry that much.
Marti was grateful when the final bell rang and she could head for home. She walked briskly, swallowed by the flow of others who poured from the building.
“Marti, wait!” Kim squeezed and elbowed until she was beside her. “I'll walk you home.”
“Your house is inthe opposite direction.”
“I need the walk. I'm trying to lose weight.”
Marti shook her head. “I don't need a shadow. I'm not going to do anything dumb.”
“I know you won't.” Kim dropped her books and stooped to pick them up again. “We're good friends, Marti,” she said. “I think you'd like to have someone With you, and I want it to be me.” She shifted her weight to her right foot and her books, off-balance, tumbled to the ground again.
This time Marti helped Kim pick them up and tucked them firmly into her arms. “I don't need help as much as you do,” she said.
A girl rushed past them, calling, “You're going to be late, Kim, Better hurry up.”
Kim did a bad job of trying to look innocently surprised, and Marti couldn't help smiling. “Remember what day this is? You're supposed to meet with the Yearbook committee.”
“I know, but—”
“I'm tired, Kim,” Marti said, “and I'd like to sleep for a while be
fore Mom and Dad get home. Honest. I didn't sleep much last night, and I really need to now. Don't worry about me. Go to your meeting.”
Kim studied her for a moment. “I'm not going to worry about you, Marti,” she said. “But if you want me to come ovei. later, just call. Okay?”
“Okay,” Marti answered. She turned and walked down the now deserted sidewalk, feeling Kim's eyes on lier back until she turned the corner.
She was the only one on the wide street, which wound in a circular fashion to meet other streets, which formed their own semicircles. Clusters of pines, purple-leaved flowering plum, and crepe myrtle, planted along the median strip in the center of the street, were growing tall enough to provide shade, and landscaped front yards bloomed with bright touches of purslane and periwinkle, flowers strong enough to last through the summer's heat. For once, Marti didn't mind the houses with their empty glass eyes. She felt as empty as the houses. She was a hollow shell that walked through a silent, lonely void.
Marti heard the low throb of the automobile motor long before it registered on her mind that the car hadn't passed her. Its purr in the far background was a steady, unchanging hum, and she glanced over her shoulder to see a nondescript and dusty light gray sedan idling near the curb far back at the corner where she had turned. With sunlight glinting against the windshield, it was impossible to see the driver. Someone waiting for a friend, no doubt.
She walked on, going over in her mind the unhappy conversation with Miss Dillard, until she realized the sound of the automobile motor was still with her. She stopped and turned to look back. The car was near the curb, but it had moved to keep pace with her. She gripped her books tightly and tried to tell herself that the driver of that car—whoever it might be—had nothing to do with her. Deliberately, she turned and walked on, her steps a little quicker.
As Marti reached the next corner she glanced back again, this time furtively. The car was creeping up the street behind her. Now she knew for sure that she was being followed. But why?
Secret, Silent Screams Page 3