The Weight Of Silence Part 19

"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 rea.s.suring 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, never 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 sweats.h.i.+rt 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 embarra.s.sed, 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 st.i.tches 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.

"I should be coming to see you," I say apologetically. "How are Calli and Ben doing?" I ask.

"They're going to be fine," she tells me. "How is Petra?"

"She is out of surgery. She's still asleep, but it appears the surgeon was able to relieve some of the pressure on her brain from the injury."

We sit in silence for some time until I am finally able to choke out the words that need to be said. "I'm sorry, Antonia. I am so sorry I came to your home with a gun. I truly believed that Griff had something to do with what happened to Petra. That is no excuse, I know, but I am sorry. It is because of me that he is dead."

"Martin, look at what Griff did to your head. Look what he did to Calli. Drunk, he took her from her home at four in the morning without shoes and dragged her through the woods so he could take her to who he thought was her real father. He ended up getting them lost, beat up his son and held a gun to my head. Griff wasn't all that great of a guy, Martin."

"No," I say cautiously. "But I'm sorry that he died. I'm sorry your family has to go through another bad thing."

"We'll be okay. We've got each other and that's what's important, right?"

I nod.

"Do you have a ride to Iowa City? You're not going to drive, are you? Your head must still be hurting."

"Louis said he would drive me to the hospital," I tell her.

"He told me they caught the man who did this," Antonia says.

"Yes. I believe he is somewhere in this hospital," I reply.

"You're not going to go after him, are you?"

"No. I learned my lesson the first time. And besides, it sounds like Lucky managed to hurt himself all on his own by falling down the bluff."

"I remember him. I met him at your house that one time, with his dog," Antonia says gently.

"Yes. I thought I knew him well," I respond. She reaches out and touches my arm.

"It's not your fault," she says kindly.

"That will be the question that I ask myself for a very long time. If a father cannot keep his child safe, who can?"

"You're a wonderful father, Martin. I've seen the way you are with Petra. Fielda chose you well. I wish I would have made such a wise choice myself."

"If you had chosen differently, you would not have the children you have," I remind her.

She smiles. "I do have great kids. We both do. Now go to Petra. When she wakes up, she'll want to see her father standing there. You two can compare st.i.tches."

I laugh. I have not done that in such a long time. It feels good. It feels like things one day could go back to normal. I stand, shakily, my head still aching, and go off in search of my doctor. I am leaving. I need to get to my daughter and my wife.

EPILOGUE.

Calli Six Years Later I often look back upon that day, so long ago, and wonder how it was we all survived. For each one of us it was a dark, sad day. Especially for my mother, I think, though she always says, "It was good in some ways. You found your voice that day, Calli. That made it a good day."

I have never thought of it as "finding" my voice because it wasn't really lost. It was more like a bottle with a cork pushed deeply into the opening. I picture it that way often, my voice like some sweet-smelling perfume, sitting in some expensive-looking bottle with a beautifully curved handle, tall and slender, made of gla.s.s as blue as the bodies of the dragonflies I see down in Willow Creek Woods. My voice was just waiting for the right moment to be let go from that bottle. No, it was never lost; I just needed permission to use it again. It took me such a long time to figure out that I was the only one who could grant that permission, no one else. I wish my mother would understand this. She still blames herself for everything, and isn't that a heavy weight to carry around?

This I know firsthand. I, for a long time, had thought it was my fault that my baby sister, Poppy, died when I was four. Silly, you think. How could a four-year-old be responsible for a baby's death? Now imagine this: that same four-year-old watching her mother and father arguing at the top of the stairs and that four-year-old seeing her pregnant mother tumble down the steps backward, reaching out for her with her outstretched hands. Now picture that four-year-old crying and crying, not being able to stop. Understandable. Now see the four-year-old's daddy trying to get her to quiet down, not with hugs or soft kisses, but other whispered words. "Shut up, Calli. If you don't be quiet the baby will die. Do you want that to happen? Do you want the baby to die? If you don't shut up your mother will die." Over and over and over, whispered in that four-year-old's ear. And the baby died, my little sister who had hair as red as poppies, whose skin was as soft as a flower's petals. I ate my words that day. Actually bit down, chewed them, swallowed them and felt them slide down my throat like gla.s.s until they were so broken and damaged that there was no possible way that the words could rearrange and repair themselves enough to be spoken. So I know what it feels like to feel responsible for something I really had no control over. That's how it is for my mother.

Petra never did return to school the year after this happened. She was in the hospital for a very long time. She had several surgeries and spent nearly two months in Iowa City, then another month at our local hospital. My mother would take me to the hospital to see Petra once a week, when she was well enough to have visitors. It's funny, we didn't talk much during those visits even though I was able to talk then. We just didn't need to, to talk, that is. We could just be.

Petra and her family moved away about a year and a half after she was hurt. She was never quite the same after it all. She walked differently and school was a lot harder for her because of her head injury. I don't think anyone made fun of her; they didn't when I was around, anyway. I think that everyone, kids and adults, just felt so bad for her that no matter what, they couldn't let her be the same girl she was before. Kids our age didn't know what to say to her, and adults would get this sad, concerned look on their faces. All Petra really wanted was to be like everyone else.

I think, though, that it was the trial and all that went with it that really made the Gregory family want to leave. Her father felt the worst. He was the one who had welcomed Lucky into his home, hired him to do odd jobs around the house and who had got him a job at the Mourning Glory. The morning that Petra disappeared it was Lucky and his dog Sergeant who she saw through her bedroom window. She went after them to say h.e.l.lo and he grabbed her when they were well into the woods. I found out later that Lucky worked really hard trying to get Petra to trust and like him. He would give her little presents when he came over to their home or when Petra went to the Mourning Glory. He even told her that he went walking through the woods in her backyard all the time with Sergeant and that he would love if she came with them sometime. Lucky killed his dog, too. It seems Sergeant actually tried to protect Petra when Lucky was hurting her. Sergeant bit Lucky and he ended up strangling the poor dog with his own leash.

The entire Gregory family had to testify and so did my whole family. It was a long, tiring, confusing ordeal, what with lawyers asking questions, reporters asking questions, and friends and neighbors asking questions. I think the prosecuting attorney was terrified that I would stop talking again; he would call our house every night during the trial to talk with me, just to make sure. Lucky was found guilty on all counts-kidnapping, attempted murder and s.e.xual abuse. The only halfway funny thing about the whole ordeal was that old black crow who brushed by Lucky right when he was going to grab me, too, knocked him right over the bluff. He fell about fifty feet. Broke his leg and his collarbone. They didn't find him until late that next afternoon. As far as I know he is still in prison and will be forever. It was never proven that Lucky had anything to do with Jenna McIntire's death.

Petra and I still write letters back and forth to each other. She lives in another state; her father has retired from teaching. They live on a farm now, renting their land for the actual farming part, but they have a few animals, lambs, chickens, a pig, some dogs. Petra has invited me to visit a time or two but it's never quite worked out. She never wants to come back to Willow Creek, which I can understand.

My brother turned eighteen this year and has been working, saving up for college. He's leaving in the fall and my mother and I are already crying about it. He is big and tall and looks just like my dad, but softer, if you get what I mean. He wants to be a police officer and he will be very good at it, I think. I don't know what I will do without him when he goes away. I know many of my friends cannot wait for their brothers or sisters to leave, but it's different with Ben and me. It makes me just so sad to think of him leaving that I can't.

Louis is still a deputy sheriff, but my mom and Ben think he should run for sheriff next year, when the old sheriff finally retires. Louis comes over for dinner a lot and went to all of Ben's football games throughout high school. Ben and Louis are very close and I am sure this is why Ben is going to become a police officer. I wonder at times if my mother and Louis will end up together. I know he got divorced a while back and I think it's about time my mom had some fun for herself. I asked her the other day why she and Louis didn't just get married, it is so obvious that they love one another. Her face went all sad and she said it was complicated, so I let it go. At least for now. She still has these horrible nightmares, my mother does. I can hear her yelling from her bedroom and more than once I've seen her peeking into our rooms, checking on me, checking on Ben.

Louis's ten-year-old son, Tanner, comes to Willow Creek most weekends and on some holidays. His ex-wife ended up moving to Cedar Rapids, about an hour from here. Tanner is a funny little guy, quiet with serious eyes. Louis is crazy about the kid and gets all sad and depressed when he has to take him back to Cedar Rapids.

I still don't talk much, and that scares my mother. I can go for days and not say anything. I won't ignore anyone or refuse to answer, but I just go quiet. Sometimes my mom will get this very worried look on her face that lets me know she's afraid I've gone mute again. When I see that, I make a point to talk to her. It makes her feel better anyway. My mom got herself a job at the hospital as an aide, working on the skilled care floor. She works with old people, changing their sheets, helping them eat, giving them baths, helping the nurses. Not the most glamorous of jobs, she says. But she's always coming home telling us stories about who did what and who said what. She complains about the grouchy, persnickety ones, but actually, I think those are her favorites.

I have a picture of my dad that I keep in my treasure box. It's faded and curled around the edges, but it is my favorite picture of him ever. It was taken before I was born, before Ben was even born. My dad is sitting in his favorite chair and he has the biggest smile on his face. His face looks young and it's as pale as milk, except for the freckles that are on his nose. He looks healthy and his eyes are a bright green. They don't have that yellowish color to them that he had later. He is wearing a faded pair of jeans and a Willow Creek Wolverines football jersey. But best of all, the very best of all, is what he is holding in his hand. It isn't a beer bottle, but a can of pop and he's holding it out toward the camera like he is toasting whoever is snapping the picture. Cheers, he seems to be saying, cheers.

I don't hate my dad. I think I did for a while, but not anymore. I don't hate him, but I certainly don't miss him, either. After the funeral my mother took us into town and we bought as many gallons of yellow paint that we could put in our car. We painted the house, the three of us. Now it's a happy soft-yellow color. Warm and cozy. And anyway, that whole entire week was just incredibly hard for all of us. We needed something to look forward to, some hope, and having a yellow house was a start anyway. That's what Mom said. I told her that if my father hadn't been drinking that morning and dragged me out into the woods, I never would have come across Petra and she would have died. So in a way, he actually saved the day. She just looked at me for a long time, not sure of what to say. Finally she said, "Don't go making your father into a hero. He wasn't a hero. He was a lonely man with a bad disease."

We do go to my father's grave once a year, on his birthday. Ben grumbles about it, but Mom insists. She says we don't have to like the things he did but he was still a part of our family and wouldn't he be sad knowing that not one of his children came to visit him once in a while? Last year Ben laughed when Mom said this and answered her all sa.s.sy, "The only way Dad would be glad to see us was if we brought a six-pack with us." He did, too. Ben brought a six-pack of beer with him to the cemetery last year. Set it right next to his gravestone. Mom made him take it away, but Ben and I laughed over it later. It was kind of funny, in a sick sort of way.

As for me, I'm pretty much a regular kid. I go to school and do okay. I have friends and even run track and cross-country for my school. I like to run, I always have. I feel like I could run forever some days. And I like that I don't have to talk when I'm out for a run. No one expects you to chat while you're running five miles.

I don't go into the woods anymore very often, and definitely not alone. That makes me about as sad as anything. I loved the woods once. It was my special spot. But when I'm in there, surrounded by trees, I am always looking behind me to see if anything is creeping up on me. Silly, I guess. Mom asked Ben and me if we wanted to move, to go into town, away from the woods. We both said no. Our home was our home, and there are a lot more good memories there than bad. Mom smiled at this, and I was glad that we could make her feel better. The woods are still Mom's favorite place and she and Louis go walking there quite a bit. I asked her if she ever got scared while walking, afraid. She said no, that the forest was in her blood, that she couldn't be scared of something that had actually been so good to her. "It sent you back to me, didn't it?" she asked. I nodded. Maybe one day I would feel the same way about the woods, but not now, not for a long time.