Secret, Silent Screams

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  'That's enough. Will you call to let me know if you find out anything that helps?”

  “Of course. I'll keep in touch.”

  Marti watched Karen walk to her car before she closed and locked the door. Remembering the car that had frightened her, she briefly wondered if she should have told Karen about it; but all she could picture was a hysterical girl whimpering and racing and stumbling down the street for no real reason. No one had accosted her or threatened her. Marti sighed. Karen would probably put it down to an overactive imagination, and at the moment, Marti was inclined to agree.

  Marti returned to the kitchen and pulled a package of chicken breasts from the meat drawer of the refrigerator. Tossing onto the counter some margarine, lemon juice, and an onion, she began to assemble the ingredients she'd need for dinner. She'd have to hurry if she wanted everything ready by the time her parents got home.

  As she usually did, in order to break the lonely silence of the house, Marti flipped on the small television set on the side counter. She often watched reruns on Channel 26 or 39, but the channel selector was set to one of the network affiliates that was televising an early local news program. Holding a tin of powdered ginger, a box of rice, and a can of peas, Marti stopped still and stared at the familiar face on the screen. It was Dr. Jerome Emery, their family friend, the pastor of their church.

  “It's time that someone began a crusade,” Dr. Emery was saying, his voice vibrating with intensity, “against the evil that is being sold to our children under the guise of music. Three fine young people in our neighborhood, good students from moral homes, all of them so hypnotized by the hopelessness, by the death wish— oh, I've listened to the lyrics!—of this devil-worshipping rock group called Flesh, that they took their own lives.”

  “No!” Marti shouted at the face of a man so kind and caring that the pain of his feelings glittered in his eyes. “You don't understand!”

  Dr. Emery, seemingly unaware of the camera that was trained on him, ran his fingers through his thick shock of white hair, giving himself the appearance of someone who had just climbed out of bed. Marti had seen him do this when he was intent on what he was saying, and she had also seen the fond, exasperated glances from his wife. “I keep telling him,” Mrs. Emery had once murmured, “but it doesn't do any good. When Jerome puts his heart and mind and energies into something, he cares too much to worry about his appearance.”

  “I plan to go to the people, to the churches, to the media, for help,” Dr. Emery continued, in answer to a question from the newscaster. “I plan to devote every minute of my spare time to reaching good people across this country and making them aware of the dangerous and deadly spell cast over our young people by this evil music. And I dedicate this work to someone who was a member of my own congregation: the fine young man who was so influenced by this rock group that he took his own life—Barry Logan. Our memories of Barry will be my strength, my moving force, the impetus that will help me reach my goal,”

  Marti groaned and rested her head on the counter.

  Next to her ear the telephone jangled, and she started so violently that she knocked the onion and box of rice to the floor. She grabbed the receiver and shouted, “Hello!” over the sound of the television program.

  There was silence for a moment, until a voice so soft she could barely hear it mumbled, “Good. You've been listening to the right channel.”

  “Who is this?” Marti demanded as she jabbed the Off button of the television set

  The caller didn't speak again, but Marti was aware of steady breathing, of someone listening.

  “Who are you?” she screamed into the phone. “What do you want?”

  Her only answer was a soft click as the line went dead.

  CHAPTER • 5

  Marti slammed down the receiver and turned her energies to the chicken, viciously poking and stabbing the pieces that were browning in the melted butter, as though they'd been responsible for the telephone call. She added the lemon juice and seasonings, turned the cook-top dial to Simmer, and slapped a lid on the pan.

  Marti Mumped against the counter and tried to think. Who had rnade that telephone call? Who wanted to make sure she heard what Dr. Emery had to say? For that matter, who didn't? Karen was the only one who came close to agreeing that Barry's death was murder, and even Karen called her probe into the facts concerning Barry's death only an investigation. Could the person who telephoned be someone cruel who wanted to taunt her? Or could it have been a friend who just wanted Marti to face the facts as everyone else saw them?

  She glanced at the clock and quickly reached for the rice. She'd have tahurry. There was no time now to try to puzzle out the telephone Call. Carefully, she poured water into the glass measuring-cup, holding it up and squinting to see if the water met the red line. Tomorrow, Marti reassured herself, as soon as the church offices were open, she'd make an appointment to see Dr. Emery. She had to stop him from using Barry as a symbol for his campaign.

  Marti heard the electronic garage door begin to whir its way up and knew that her parents had arrived home. She stirred the rice, deciding to allow it another few minutes, and took the lid from the chicken. Expectantly, she turned toward the door that opened onto the short walkway to the garage.

  When the door didn't open, she hurried to it and threw it wide, blinking to see the garage door down again and no sign of her parents.

  Making sure the door wouldn't lock behind her, Marti ran across the walkway and turned the knob on the side door to the garage. The car was inside, but empty. Puzzled, Marti scowled. Where were Mom and Dad?

  “Marti?” her mother called from the kitchen, and Marti whirled and ran back inside the house.

  “Where were you?” the two of them asked each other at the same time.

  “We picked up the Logans’ mail and put it inside their house on the hall table,” Marti's mother said. She shivered. “It's a good thing that Alice and Paul went away for a while. The house has such a—a feeling.”

  As her mother tucked away the Logans’ front-door key on the shelf with the good china, Marti asked, “Where's Dad?”

  “Putting oil his old clothes. He's going to mow the Logans' lawn as well as ours as soon as it's not quite so hot.” She gave a little smile. “It's the least we can do to help.”

  Marti's tall, balding, and slightly stoop-shouldered father strolled into the kitchen, chin down, buttoning the last couple of buttons on a faded plaid shirt. He sniffed the air. “Something smells good,” he said, and smiled.

  It was the same thing he said every night, unless they had plans to go out to dinner. Marti patiently smiled back.

  He glanced quickly at his wife. “Have you talked to Marti yet?”

  Mom rolled her eyes up to stare with exasperation at the ceiling before she answered, “Afterdinner, Josh. Later this evening when we're more relaxed. Remember? I thought I made it clear.”

  “Okay, okay,” Mart's father said. “I remember now, but I've got a lot on my mind. That fectory case—I'll begin taking depositions tomorrow.”

  “So soon? I thought—”

  “What are you supposed to talk to me about?” Marti blurted out.

  “Yon see?” her mother said to her father; She turned to Marti and her voice became gentle again. “Miss Dil-lard called me, dear. She was concerned about your outburst in assembly.” She raised her hands, palms out, in a conciliatory gesture and quickly added, “She didn't criticize you, Marti. She was all sympathy, believe me. She just suggested—well, we can talk about that this evening.”

  Marti slapped the lids back on the pans and leaned against the counter, her arms folded tightly across her chest, pressing against the fear and hurt that churned inside her. “No. Please tell me now. What did she suggest? I have to know now.”

  “It wasn't any big deal,” Marti's father said. “She thought you ought to go for counseling.”

  “Go where for this counseling?”

  “To her, for starters.”

  Marti
groaned. “Maybe I'll get to be part of chapter seven.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Her mother looked puzzled.

  “Did Miss Dillard tell you that she's going to help some psychologist named Strawberry or Cranberry— something like that—research a book about teen suicides, and that she's going to write a dissertation about suicides to get her degree?”

  “I think you're misjudging her, Marti,” Mom said. “She was quite concerned. She was worried about you.”

  “If you approach Miss Dillard's help with an open mind,” Dad told her, “you may discover that she's more knowledgeable and therefore more highly qualified to counsel you than anyone else.”

  Marti's mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Marti. “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we want you to get whatever help you need.”

  Marti could feel Mom's cheek warm against her own and held her mother tightly.

  “We know it's so awful for you,” her mother said, “and we feel so helpless.”

  Marti gave a long sigh. “Mom, maybe counseling would be the right thing, but not just yet. Not now. Miss Dillard's okay, but right now we don't see things the same way.”

  “We're just asking you to think about it, Marti,” her mother told her.

  Marti felt her father clumsily patting her shoulder, and she reached for his hand. His fingers twisted around hers, and Marti felt the same sense of comfort she always did. ever since she wasa little girl and knew she'd be safe as long as her parents were beside her.

  “You'll have to understand that I'm not wrong about Barry,” she said. “He didn't kill himself.”

  She felt her mother tense, and her father's fingers stiffened. Marti closed her eyes and leaned against her mother. They'd never believe her until she'd proved herself. There was only one person who could help her, and that was Karen.

  The next morning at nine-thirty, between classes, Marti slipped into the office and used the pay phone to call Dr. Emery's secretary, Margaret Anderson, and make an appointment.

  “How about next Tuesday?” Mrs. Anderson asked.

  “That's too late!” Marti said. “I have to see Dr. Emery right away. Today!” She realized she was practically shouting into the phone and lowered her voice, stammering, “Mrs. Anderson, it's— it's important.”

  “If you could give me some indication of why you need to see him—”

  “It's about Barry Logan,” Marti said.

  Marti glanced around. One of the clerks was openly staring at her, but as their eyes met, looked quickly away and began fumbling with some papers. A few students were on Marti's side of the counter, a couple with their backs to her, three of them watching her with curiosity, all of them silent and listening intently. She turned away from them and hunched over the receiver, whispering hoarsely, “Please believe me. I heard Dr. Emery last night on television. He can't do what he said about—Listen, please! I know Dr. Emery will want to hear what I have to tell him.”

  “One moment,” Mrs. Anderson answered. It was obvious that she had covered the receiver with her hand, but Marti could hear the hum of voices in the church office, one high-pitched, one lower. The hand was taken away. “Could you make it about three-thirty?”

  “Yes,” Mai ti said. “Right after school. Thank you. I'll be there.” She hung up the telephone and left the office, hurrying past the eavesdroppers, who had suddenly become very busy.

  At lunchtime she told Kim what she was going to do. Kim immediately said, “That's what I heard.”

  “You heard?”

  Kim shrugged. “You know the school grapevine. Faster than satellite news on TV. Anyhow, I'll go with you to see Dr. Emery.”

  Marti shook her head. “No,” she said. “Your face always shows exactly what you're thinking. Since you don't believe me about Barry, Dr. Emery will pick up on it.”

  “Then, I'll wait for you outside.”

  “No, thanks,” Marti said. “You've got other things to do.”

  Tears welling at the corners of her eyes, Kim said, “I want to help you. That's what being a best friend is all about. Somebody should be with you when—” She stopped.

  “You think that Dr. Emery won't listen to me either,” Marti said.

  “I don't know. I … oh, Marti, do you have to do this?”

  “Yes,” Marti said, “For Barry. I really have to.”

  Kim rubbed at the outer corners of her eyes with the knuckle of one finger. “Come over to my house afterward. Why don't you call your parents and ask if you can stay for dinner?”

  “Maybe,” Marti answered. Relenting as she saw the hurt expression on Kim's face, she tried to anile and said, “I'd like to come. Ill see how everything goes.”

  Marti arrived at her English lit. class a few minutes early, slipping into the chair at one end of the horseshoe arrangement Mr. Thompson had set up. Charlie immediately plopped into the seat next to her, and Tony sat down next to Charlie. Tony's glance darted around the room. Once he was assured that Mr. Thompson was busy with one of the students and no one was in earshot, he nudged Charlie, who leaned close to Marti and mumbled, “You've got to give this up, Marti. Leave Barry in peace. What you're doing is tough on all of us.”

  Marti stared at him, surprised, “Don't you think it's worse that Dr. Emery isgoing to use Barry as an example? I'd expect you and Tony to be just as upset as I am. The two of you were his best friends, part of the Cua-tros.”

  Tony started. “Leave the Cuatros out of this,” he muttered.

  “What do you mean?” Marti asked.

  Charlie glanced at Tony sharply, then shifted in his seat as though he couldn't find a comfortable spot. “Never mind” he said to Marti. “None of us are making much sense. Barry didn't know how it would be for the rest of us, OT he wouldn't have done it.”

  “Dammit!” Marti hissed. “He didn't! Can't you believe that?”

  “Even his own parents don't. They believe what the police and coroner said. And you have to, too.”

  “I have to?” Marti rebelled at the intensity in Charlie's voice. “Is that supposed to be an order? Does an or else go with that?”

  Most of the others in the class had drifted into the room, choosing seats at random, as part of Mr. Thompson's plan for an unstructured seating arrangement. A few of them glanced toward Marti and Charlie.

  “That's not what we mean,” Charlie muttered, squirming down in his chair and shoving his long legs straight out. “We don't mind if you want to make a fool of yourself, as long as what you do doesn't involve Barry. All your talk about Barry being murdered makes us all look bad and makes you look stupid. We just want you to—”

  “Who's this we you're talking about?”

  “Who else? Tony and me. That's all.”

  “Barry's best friends. The Cuatros.” Bitterness had slipped into her words, and Charlie flinched.

  “Hey, look, Marti. We—”

  “Marti,” Mr. Thompson called, “there's a note here for you.” He pushed his chair back from his desk said stood as the bell rang and the last stragglers slid into the remaining chairs in the horseshoe. He handed the note to her before he began his head count.

  Marti unfolded it and read: Please stop by my office after school I'd like to talk to you. It was signed Elizabeth Dillard.

  Marti scrunched the note and shoved it into the pocket of her jeans. Not today. She had other things to take care of today. She took a few deep breaths, trying to calm down. She'd have to keep her mind on the work they'd be doing in class.

  Mr. Thompson, as usual, mumbled names aloud, not expecting answers, as he checked off the attendance list. “… Emmet Miller … Debbie Field. … Tony Lopez …Charlie … Marti …okay. All present and accounted for. One or two announcements before we get down to work. Beginning September 25, they'll be taking individual pictures for the yearbook. Those of you in the twelfth grade, you'll have two weeks to make appointments. Those of you in eleventh grade, your turn will come next Now, turn to page 108. Let's get back to Coleridge; and
, Emmet, we'll begin with you.”

  Marti snapped to attention. She had to keep her mind on what was going on in class. She couldn't repeat the excuse that she hadn't been listening. Emmet began a detailed answer to Mr. Thompson's question. He was bright, and he'd obviously done his homework on Coleridge. For a couple of reasons she felt a little sorry for Emmet. He didn't have many friends. He didn't seem to wspit many.

  Emmet finished his answer, then glanced across at Marti. scowling ays though he could read her mind. Guiltily, she quickly looked away.

  “Debbie, suppose you read the next verse,” Mr. Thompson said, and Marti tried to concentrate on the poem.

  Finally, the last bell rang, and she quickly gathered up her books.

  Charlie put a hand on her arm. “Marti—” he began, but she shrugged him away.

  “You're not going to change my mind,” she said, and made a dash for the door. She had an appomtment to keep with Dr. Emery.

  Dr. Emery's office was dim and cool and smelled of leather books and the pale, full-blown Peace roses that filled the white china bowl on his desk.

  The smile lines at the corners of his blue eyes deepened as he followed Marti's glance to the roses. “Taking care of my roses is a relaxing hobby,” he said. “I planted two new varieties last March. A full, deep pink and a yellow floribunda, but this old-fashioned Peace rose will always be one of my favorites.”

  Marti wasn't interested in the roses. She desperately groped for a way to tell Dr. Emery what she had in mind. “I—I saw you on television last night,” she blurted out.

  He leaned toward her, his forearms resting on his desk, his hands lightly clasped. “Then you know about the project I'm beginning,” he said. “It means a great deal of work, a total commitment.”

  “Yes, but … you said that Barry … that he would be—”

  “I said that I would dedicate my work to Barry.”

  “But you can't!” For a moment Marti closed her eyes. When she opened them she saw such sympathy on Dr. Emery's face that she wanted to cry out in agony.

  “Marti,” Dr. Emery said, “I know what good friends you and Barry were. You are suffering a great deal now. It's hard to accept the death of a loved one, even when it's a natural death. The process of acceptance is made even more difficult when someone takes his own life.”