Weight of Silence (7 page)

At my desk, cluttered with the horrible reminder of two missing girls, I wait for the agent from the state. I have just asked Meg, our dispatcher, to send one of our reservists, David Glass, a pharmacist, to be our point man at the homes. He will park our oldest, dented squad car at a point between the two homes. All the information gathered during the investigation will be relayed to David.

The picture of Calli that has been passed out to all police officers stares up at me. She looks so like her mother, the same chestnut hair and brown eyes, the same messy ponytail that Toni had when she was young.

Toni and I met when we were seven, in the winter of our first-grade year. My mother, my sister, brother and I had just moved to tiny Willow Creek from Chicago. My father had died unexpectedly the year before of a heart attack and through a friend, my mom got a job at the college. The quiet and vastness of land made me lonely for the sound of traffic
and the familiar sound of neighbors laughing and arguing. I remember lying in my new bed, in my very own room, missing the sound of my little brother’s soft snores and not being able to sleep for the calm of the country. Our neighbors were acres away. The only sounds were that of a dog barking or the wind blowing. After so many sleepless nights, my mother finally bought me a small radio to place beside my bed to fill the silence that kept me awake.

I started my first day at Willow Creek Elementary School reluctantly and pretended to be sick; my mother sat on the edge of my bed and looked me in the eye. “Loras Michael Louis,” she began gravely, “I, of all people, know that it is not easy to leave what you know and begin something new. Your father is not around to help now. You are the oldest and everyone is looking to see what you do. If you lie in bed moping, so will they. If you get up cheerful and ready to tackle the world, so will they.”

“Mom, Katie is three months old, she ain’t tackling anybody,” I sassed.

“Well, you’re the oldest male figure she has to go by now. How you act is what she will grow up thinking what a man should be like. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister! Get up.”

“Sheesh, Mom, okay.”

I crawled out of bed, got dressed and prayed that someone in this godforsaken town would know how to play a good game of stick ball come spring.

On that first day of school my mother drove us. The sky was robin’s egg–blue and the ground was covered in snow so brilliantly white it hurt my eyes to look at it. It was very cold
and we could see our breath even though my mother had the heat turned to high in the rusty blue Plymouth Arrow she drove. The school was a large, aged, red-bricked, two-story set on the edge of town. It was actually bigger than my old school in Chicago, which was a small private elementary school, but they looked much alike, and that was comforting to me. The next thing I noticed was that students of all ages were running to the back of the school, clutching red plastic sleds and wooden toboggans.

“Come on, Dave,” I said to my brother, who was entering kindergarten. “Let’s go!” I grabbed my book bag, said a quick goodbye to my mother and we tumbled out of the car.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Don’t you want me to walk you in?”

“No, thanks.” I threw my bag over my shoulder and we followed the snow-crusted footprints to the back of the school. It was a breathtaking sight to my seven-year-old eyes. Hidden behind the school was an enormous hill that ran the length of the school and then some. The hill was steep in some areas and more level in others and ended in an immense meadow perhaps two football fields long. Kids formed lines at the top of the hill to take their turn down the various sledding paths; there was a definite pecking order to the arrangement. The older kids, probably seventh and eighth graders, were organized near a portion of the hill that descended at a sharp angle and had a number of man-made mounds, carefully rounded and patted to send sleds airborne. The smaller children gathered around the shorter hills with less of an incline. I watched as children whooped with glee on their way down the slopes and viewed their determined journey back up the hill, dragging their sleds behind them.

One small figure caught my eye. The child—a boy, I figured, my age or younger—was decked out in black snow pants, an oversize black winter coat, and black rubber boots. Two mismatched mittens, one red, one green, were on his hands, and a black stocking cap was pulled low over his eyes. I watched as he confidently carried a silver dish-shaped sled to the edge of the big kids’ hill and got in line behind three other towering boys. The boys turned, laughed and unceremoniously shoved him out of the line. Not intimidated, he squeezed back into his spot and rooted himself soundly, ignoring the taunts flung at him. When it was his turn, he situated himself onto the disk and a boy behind him shoved the sled with the toe of his big hiking boot. The sledder went careening down the hill, spinning and bouncing off the icy bumps, going airborne for a moment only to strike another frozen ramp. I held my breath for this poor soul who was sure to be killed with all of us as witnesses.

“Holy crap,” Dave whispered beside me and I nodded in agreement.

It seemed like forever, him going down that hill, his head jerking around on his neck, but he held on, dangerously tipping only once. Finally, his sled hit the final speed bump so violently that his stocking cap went flying and a brown rope of hair soared behind him in a loose ponytail. He was a
she,
I realized with shock, and as she slid the final two hundred feet to a stop, I had fallen completely and utterly in love. I still have to smile at the memory and am still astounded at how quickly Toni had cornered off a spot in my heart. I am even more amazed that she still has claim to it.

I look up from my desk. I know who my visitor is; I stand and go to greet Agent Fitzgerald from the state police.

From the window of my bedroom, I see the deputy sheriff pull into the Gregorys’ driveway and I crane my neck to see who is with him, hoping it’s you, Calli. It isn’t. A small man, dressed in brown pants, white shirt and a red tie gets out. I watch as he looks the Gregory house up and down and then walks with Deputy Sheriff Louis to the front door. The policeman Mom was talking about, I figure. Calli, you sure are causing one mighty fuss, and how you do that without saying a word amazes me.

I was supposed to go spend the night at Raymond’s house tonight, but I guess that’s out, at least until we find you. You never did like it when I spent a night away from home. You’d sit on my bed as I’d pack my backpack, looking at me so sadlike, I’d have to keep saying over and over, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Cal, it’s no big deal.” But you’d still look so disappointed that I’d let you play with my chess set, the one Dad got me for Christmas that one year, and you’d feel a little better.

Mom was about as bad as you. Oh, she’d put on this brave
face and say, “Of course you have to go to your overnight, Ben. We young ladies will be just fine here, won’t we, Calli? We have Daddy here now to keep us company.”

Truth is, I’d only go on overnights when Dad was home from traveling. I could never stand the thought of you and Mom home completely alone, and sometimes it was just better for me to be out of the way when Dad came home.

Do you remember the night of the “talking lessons”? Last fall, when you were in first grade, and Mom was out, went to some meeting with your teachers, I think, and we were left home with Dad. He thought it was ridiculous, all this to-do at school because of you not talking. He started out all excited, saying, “Calli, you wanna do something nice for your mom?”

Of course you nodded, all happy. Dad had you come over to him where he was sitting in his favorite green chair and sat you on his lap. You looked at him, just waiting for him to tell you what great surprise he had for Mom. Dad looked so glad that I came over and asked if I could help surprise her, too.

Dad smiled. “That’s nice, Ben, but this is something that only Calli can do for Mom.” Then he looked to you. “Calli, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could tell Mom you love her? That would make her so happy, and me, too.”

All of a sudden, your face got all sad, because you knew Dad just asked you to do the impossible. Dad said, “Ah, come on, Calli, you can do it! Just make your mouth say
Mom
.”

You started shaking your head and squinching your eyes up tight. “Come on, Calli, say it.
Mom
.” He stretched his lips out wide while he said the word, like someone trying to get a baby to talk.

You kept your eyes shut and your lips squeezed together.
“You can do it, Calli. Don’tcha want to make your mom happy? Mmm-ahhh-mmm.”

You were having none of it and tried to hop off Dad’s lap. “Oh, no, you don’t. Come on, Calli, say it. Say it!” he shouted. He held you on him with one arm and grabbed your face with the other, trying to force your mouth into a shape to say the word.

“Stop it,” I said, real soft. But he kept right on going, even though you were crying, but not making any noise. “Stop it!” I said louder and this got Dad’s attention.

“Go on outta here, Ben. Me and Calli are just having a talking lesson. Go on now,” he said.

“Stop it!” I yelled. “Leave her alone! She can’t say it, she can’t do it! If she could, she would’ve already! Leave her alone!” I know. I couldn’t believe it myself. You stopped crying and both you and Dad looked at me like Martians had landed or something.

“Stay out of it, Ben. Go on to your room,” he said in a quiet voice, but I knew he meant business.

“No. Leave her alone, she can’t do it!”

Dad stood up real quick and dumped you on your butt to the floor. And I yelled, “Run, Calli!” But you didn’t. You just sat there on the floor and looked up at us.

“Fabulous,” Dad said all huffy. “I got a retarded mute little girl and a smart-ass know-it-all boy. Fabulous. Maybe there’s another way to get her to talk. Stand up, Calli.”

You did, quick.

“Ben here thinks he has all the answers. Thinks that you can’t talk. Well, I know different, because I remember when you could talk. You yapped just fine. Maybe you just need a
little incentive to get that mouth of yours going.” Then Dad swung out at me and hit me in the back of my head, about knocked my block off. You covered up your eyes again, but Dad pried your fingers down to make you watch. Then he belted me a few more times, in the stomach, on my back.

He kept looking at you, shouting, “If you talk, Calli, I’ll stop.” Then he’d punch me again. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Come on, Calli, won’t you even say something to help your big brother out?”

I knew you felt so terrible. Between the smacks I could see you trying to say the words, but you just couldn’t. I knew you would’ve if you could. Finally Dad got tired and said, “Hell! You both are hopeless.”

Then he sat back down in his green chair and watched TV until Mom got home. I never did tell her what happened and I wore long sleeves for the next month. I figured Dad was only home for a few more days and then he was going back to the pipeline again. You ran upstairs to your room and wouldn’t even look at me for the next ten days. But I knew you were sorry. I kept finding Tootsie Rolls under my pillow every day for the next two weeks.

Fielda is hanging on, but just barely. She is pale, her voice is shaky and high. Her fingers keep plucking at the loose threads on the arm of the couch. She is trying so hard to concentrate on the words that Agent Fitzgerald, sitting with Deputy Sheriff Louis on the couch opposite us, is saying, but is struggling to focus.

“I’m sorry?” she says contritely.

“What time did you see Petra last?” he repeats.

Agent Fitzgerald is not what I expected. I thought he would be much older. Instead, he looks to be forty. He is very short in stature, with a bulldog chin and small feminine hands. His appearance does not fill me with confidence, and I am rather irritated with Deputy Sheriff Louis, as he had said this Agent Fitzgerald was well regarded in law enforcement and a force to be reckoned with.

“Last night,” Fielda responds. “Eight-thirty, I’d say. No, nine. It was nine because she came downstairs once to ask me what a word meant in her book that she was reading.”

“What word?” Fitzgerald asks kindly.

“What word? Umm, it was
inedible.
She wanted to know what it meant and I told her,” Fielda explains.

I begin to shift uneasily next to her. “What does that have to do with Petra being gone? We have answered all these questions for Deputy Sheriff Louis. I do not understand why we need to answer them again. We should be out looking for the girls. Our time would be better spent,” I tell him politely but firmly.

“Mr. Gregory, I understand your concern,” Fitzgerald says. “It’s good for me to ask the questions also and hear your answers, too. You may think of something that you didn’t tell Deputy Sheriff Louis. Please be patient. We are all working very hard right now to find your daughter.”

“All I know right now is that my little girl is missing, as is her best friend. She is out there somewhere in her pajamas and all I am doing right now is sitting here!” My voice is getting dangerously loud. “Why aren’t we out there finding her?” Fielda grabs my arm and begins to cry, rocking back and forth.

“Shh, shh, Fielda,” I soothe her. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her.

Fitzgerald leans forward. “If we focus on all the facts that we have, if we look at each little piece, no matter how inconsequential, then we are more likely to find out where Petra and Calli are. So I do understand how repetitive this is for you, but it is very important.”

I nod. “I apologize. Please continue.”

“Can you give me a list of people who have visited your home in the last month or so?” he asks.

Fielda sniffs and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Calli, of course, was over. Calli’s brother, Ben, he delivers the paper. My friend Martha—”

“Last names also, please,” Fitzgerald instructs.

“Martha Franklin. The two men from the furniture store, Bandleworths. I don’t know their names, though. They delivered the bookshelf.”

“We had a dinner party about two weeks ago, with some of my colleagues from the college. Walt and Jeanne Powers and Mary and Sam Garfield,” I add.

“We often have students from the college come and do odd jobs for us,” Fielda says. Fitzgerald looks expectantly at her. “Mariah Burton babysat for us on a number of occasions the last two years, Chad Wagner has done some lawn work this summer—he’s in one of Martin’s economics classes—and Lucky Thompson. Lucky stops by once in a while. I can’t think of anyone else, can you, Martin?”

“We have several hikers wander down this way, since we are right next to the woods. Many people from town come out this way to walk the trails, usually on weekends. Just about everyone we know has come near here at one time or another,” I explain.

“When we leave, I’d like for you to make a list of everyone that has had contact with Petra, as far back as a year. Some names may be repeats that we’ve already spoken about. That’s fine. We’ll run all the names through our system and see if anything unusual comes up.

“Has anyone paid any extra attention to Petra while they were here? Talked to her or looked at her in a way that made you uncomfortable?” Fitzgerald asks, his blue eyes staring unnervingly at us.

“Everyone loves Petra,” Fielda answers. “She just lights up a room, she can talk to just about anybody about anything.”

“I look forward to meeting her, too.” Fitzgerald smiles.
“But think back, did anyone you know maybe go out of their way to give her a hug or speak to her in a way that made you pause, even just for a second?”

Fielda blinks at him several times and I can actually hear the connections clicking together in her mind. But she remains silent.

“I know these are uncomfortable questions for you, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, but the sooner we look at all the possible scenarios, the sooner we get the girls home. We’re sending officers door-to-door and checking on any known sex offenders in the area.”

“You don’t think Petra and Calli went off on their own, do you? You think someone took them.” Fielda looks desperately at Fitzgerald, and when he remains silent, she turns to Deputy Sheriff Louis.

“There are some slight similarities to the disappearances of Petra and Calli to the little McIntire girl,” Louis says. “Nothing concrete, but…but like Agent Fitzgerald says, we need to look at everything, no matter how hard.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God!” Fielda slowly slides off the slippery chintz sofa to her knees and then curls into a tight ball. “Oh my God!” she wails.

I drop to the floor next to her and glare at Louis and Fitzgerald. “Get out,” I say enraged, surprising even myself. Then more calmly add, “Please leave us for a moment, and then we will talk more. Please go.” I watch the two men as they stand and unhurriedly walk out the front door into the scorching heat. As the front screen closes and latches with a soft click, I lie down next to Fielda, molding myself to her, pressing my chest to her back, tucking my knees into the soft groove
behind hers, sliding my arms around her middle and hiding my face in her hair. She smells sweetly of perfume and talcum powder, which to me will forever on be the odor of deep, deep grief. Her cries do not soften, but become more fraught and my own body rises and falls with each of her shudders.