A River of Silence

by Susan Clayton-Goldner

  When he got no response, he tried the door. It opened into darkness. Radhauser groped for the switch and the room flooded with light. He quickly scanned the scene.

  An overturned coffee table. The shattered globe of an oil lamp littered the blue, ceramic floor tiles with small pieces of glass that caught the ceiling light and sparkled. Water from a spilled vase had formed a puddle on the floor. Tarot cards and daffodils were strewn about. A trail of blood drops led out of the room. What the hell is going on here? Instinctively, Radhauser moved his fingers to unsnap his leather holster. He placed his hand on his Glock.

  Wedged into a corner at the back of the living room, a large cardboard box, the kind a refrigerator might be delivered in, had been made into a playhouse. Someone had cut out windows and a door and painted shutters on either side of them. Above the door opening, painted in the same Wedgewood blue as the shutters, were the words, Cockroach’s House. The air around him hummed. What kind of parent calls his kid a cockroach?

  Radhauser followed the blood drops to a doorway leading to what he assumed was the kitchen.

  A man, his back to Radhauser, was attempting to give CPR to a child lying on the kitchen table. He used only his left hand. The other seemed to rest on the child’s cheek, the index finger inside his mouth.

  Is he trying to clear an airway? The child, barely more than a baby, was as blue as his footed sleeper. His mouth dripped blood.

  Radhauser removed his right hand from his Glock. “You’re pushing too hard.”

  The man, seemingly focused on what he was doing, neither responded nor turned around.

  “Police,” Radhauser said again.

  Still no response.

  Radhauser touched the man’s shoulder.

  He spun around, his dark eyes fixed on Radhauser. “Did you bring an ambulance?” His voice sounded like he had mud in his mouth.

  Or maybe the 9-1-1 operator was right. Maybe this man was drunk. Radhauser’s gaze darted around the kitchen. No empty beer or liquor bottles on the counters. He had a keen nose and could usually smell alcohol from five feet away.

  The man was a little shorter than Radhauser, maybe six feet two inches, and looked as if he knew his way around a Nautilus machine. His black hair curled over the collar of his blue denim shirt. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and stood with most of his weight on his left leg as if his right leg was injured. With that quick glance into his bottomless brown eyes, Radhauser saw a flash of something unexpected. Hidden deep beneath the compassion, fear, and obvious intelligence was an unreachable sadness.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man had returned his attention to the toddler and didn’t respond. “Oh my God,” he cried. “Why is blood coming out of his mouth?”

  Radhauser flipped him around. “Let me take over,” he said, then unsnapped the toddler’s pajama top and used three fingers to gently press down in the center of his chest, just below his nipples. As he worked, Radhauser tried to remember the manual—how to do CPR with an infant or small child. Little by little it came back to him.

  A series of thirty compressions at the rate of 100-120 a minute. He needed to lift the toddler’s chin, place his mouth over his mouth and nose and blow. It wasn’t easy with a man’s finger inside the child’s mouth. Two gentle breaths, each one second in duration.

  “The blood is yours,” Radhauser finally said. The toddler had clamped down on the man’s finger with so much force his teeth exposed the bone.

  When he found his rhythm, the right speed and depth for his compressions, Radhauser retrieved his badge with his free hand, opened the leather case to show the man, and introduced himself. “Do you have a name?”

  “Everyone calls me Bryce.” He stared at Radhauser’s mouth as he spoke. “The baby. Skyler. He…he…had a seizure. When I tried to stop him from swallowing his tongue, he latched onto my finger.”

  The man’s speech was garbled, but Radhauser was able to understand him. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Bryce?”

  “No, no sir,” he said. “I don’t touch alcohol. My mother was an alcoholic. I’m hearing impaired from a...” He paused as if trying to choose the right words. “A childhood illness. But I’m pretty good at reading lips. I also sign. My speech defect might make it sound like I’m drunk.”

  Radhauser counted the seconds between the compressions as he pushed on the toddler’s small chest. There was an egg-sized knot on Skyler’s forehead that had turned shades of blue, yellow and purple. There were no other visible injuries. Where the hell is that ambulance? He glanced at his watch. Though it seemed like an hour since he arrived at the scene, only a few minutes had passed. As if on command, the sound of a siren wailed in the near distance.

  “How old is Skyler, Mr. Bryce?”

  “Nineteen months.”

  As Radhauser continued his compressions, Radhauser spotted the gadget to amplify sound on the wall above the kitchen phone. Bryce spoke more clearly than most deaf people Radhauser encountered, probably because he wasn’t born deaf. “How old were you when you lost your hearing?”

  “Six,” he said.

  Two paramedics in dark blue trousers and shirts with circular emblems on their sleeves burst through the open door and rushed into the kitchen.

  Bryce tried to move out of their way, but his trapped finger kept him connected to Skyler.

  The younger paramedic gripped the toddler’s jaw with one hand and his cheekbones with the other, releasing Bryce’s bloody finger. He introduced himself. “I’m Robert and this is my partner, Frank. Sorry for the delay. Bad accident blocked traffic on Main.”

  While Frank focused his attention on getting Skyler hooked up to an IV and oxygen, Robert cleaned and wrapped Bryce’s finger.

  Not needed anymore, Radhauser stepped back into the living room. Knowing how fast a routine accident could turn into a crime scene, he went outside and removed his briefcase and camera from his car. Radhauser wasn’t the kind of detective who trusted things to memory. He snapped pictures of the overturned coffee table from every angle, the broken globe of the oil lamp, the scattering of daffodils and tarot cards, the blood spots on the floor and finally the cardboard playhouse, making sure to get a clear shot of the words painted above the door.

  After slipping his small notebook from his inside blazer pocket, he jotted down some notes about the scene, Bryce, and what he discovered when he arrived. They’d be useful in filling out his report.

  When he finished, he returned to the kitchen.

  “Have a physician take a look at that wound,” Robert said to Bryce. “You may need a prescription for antibiotics. Maybe even a stitch or two.”

  Bryce stood, his arms folded tightly across his chest, hands tucked into his armpits, while the paramedics loaded Skyler, now hooked up to an oxygen mask and IV line, onto the stretcher. It was then Radhauser noticed the thick, red rubber band around the toddler’s left wrist. Probably a medical alert bracelet of some sort.

  The paramedics pushed the gurney through the living room and down the front steps. Bryce limped after them.

  Radhauser followed.

  The swirling red light flashed across Skyler’s tiny body as he was loaded into the ambulance.

  Radhauser pushed Bryce closer. “Go ahead. You can accompany him to the hospital.” There was no way he would stand around and watch paramedics load Lizzie into an ambulance. He would be inside that rig with her, kneeling on the floor beside her stretcher, holding her hand. Seizing Bryce by the shoulders, he turned him so they were facing. Bryce’s eyes were red and filled with so much pain that Radhauser looked away. “Ride with your son. The hospital may require your consent to treat him.”

  “Skyler’s not my son. He belongs to my girlfriend, Dana Sterling. I take care of him while she’s at work.”

  “Do you have medical power of attorney?”

  “No,” Bryce said, a new flash of fear in his eyes. “Nothing like that.”

  Radhauser gripped Bryce’s arm. “You need to get in touch
with her. Tell her to call Ashland Hospital immediately, then head directly over there.”

  * * *

  Dread seeped from his pores as Bryce picked up the receiver to dial Dana at work. All the what ifs darted through his mind. What if he made Scott go to bed and kept Skyler in the living room with him? What if he set the alarm clock every fifteen minutes to check on the toddler? What if he nestled Skyler on the sofa pillow next to him?

  If only he could begin this day over and withdraw the furious words he hurled at Dana and Scott. No matter how angry he was, he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He loved Skyler as much as a man could love a child. As much as he’d once loved his own daughter.

  The heel of his hand had gone numb from clenching the phone. His right index finger continued to sting and throb. He dialed and waited for the hostess to answer.

  “I need to speak with Dana.” His voice was even thicker than usual. “It’s an emergency.” He clamped his eyes shut, willed her to be there, and to his relief she answered.

  “What is it, Bryce?” A slight irritation lifted her voice. “Why are you calling me here? You know how I—”

  “I...I had to,” he stammered. “It’s Skyler. He stopped breathing. I called 9-1-1. They took him to Ashland Hospital, I—”

  “Oh my God,” she said, her voice thin with fear.

  “I’ll be there to pick you up in five minutes.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Reggie is here. He can drive me to the hospital. You stay there with Scott. I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

  Before Bryce could respond, Dana hung up.

  Chapter Five

  Radhauser stood on the asphalt driveway until every trace of the emergency disappeared except for the wail of the siren as the ambulance raced toward Ashland Hospital.

  Concerned neighbors in nightgowns, T-shirts, hair rollers and hastily thrown-on chenille robes and denim jeans, gathered outside the house. Once the show was over, they chatted among themselves for a few moments, then one-by-one straggled back home.

  When Bryce reappeared after calling Dana, an older black woman, wearing a pink flowered housedress and a pair of white bunny slippers with dirty ears hobbled over to him. She hugged him around the waist. She was short and heavyset, and her head of tight gray curls didn’t reach his shoulder. When she let him go, Bryce introduced her to Radhauser as his neighbor, Miss Tilly.

  She stared at the bloody gauze on his finger. “What happened?”

  Bryce told her what happened with Skyler, how he’d clamped his teeth into Bryce’s finger during a seizure.

  “Why ain’t you on your way to the hospital?”

  “Dana doesn’t want me there.”

  Tilly planted her hands on her hips. “Who cares what she wants.” Tilly’s voice raised about an octave. A voice someone from across the street could easily hear. “Who made that sorry-ass excuse for a mother the boss of you?”

  “Reggie is driving her to the hospital.”

  Tilly met his gaze. “That Reggie Sterling’s got no business acting like he cares. We all know he don’t love that boy the way you do.”

  In her eyes, Radhauser saw her love for Bryce. And a lot left unsaid on the subject of Skyler’s mom and Reggie. He jotted a note in his book to talk with Dana, Reggie and Miss Tilly.

  “If you decide to go to the hospital, bring Scotty over. I’ll go make up his bed on the sofa, just in case you need it.”

  As gently as if she were his mother, Bryce put one hand on each side of Tilly’s face, framing it. “The boys and I’d be up that proverbial creek without a paddle if it weren’t for you, Miss Tilly.” He escorted her back to her house, holding her elbow as she climbed the porch steps. The bunny ears on her slippers slapped the concrete as she walked.

  When he returned, Bryce didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He put them in his pockets, then he pulled them out and swiped them over his pant legs. The blood was already seeping through the gauze on his finger. He stared straight ahead, silent and still, until he started shivering and his teeth made clattering noises. The veins in his neck stuck out like cables.

  Fearful he might go into shock, Radhauser led him back inside to a quiet that seemed to have swallowed the small house. This was a man carrying a load far heavier than he could manage, but somehow, he hoisted it up and staggered forward.

  Bryce collapsed onto the sofa.

  Radhauser sat on the rocking chair facing him. “Who’s Scotty?”

  “Skyler’s older brother. He’s asleep in the bedroom. I should probably check on him. I’m surprised the sirens and all the commotion in the house didn’t wake him.”

  Kids. It was as if sleep shut off their hearing. His Lizzie could slumber through a thunderstorm. “I’m sorry to have to do this now, but l need to ask you a few more questions.” He nodded toward the overturned table. “It’ll only take a minute and then you can go to the hospital.”

  “Dana made it very clear she doesn’t want me there.”

  “Hospitals are public places. You should go if you need or want to.”

  Bryce looked at the floor.

  Radhauser waited for him to look up again. “Is Reggie Sterling Skyler’s biological father?”

  Bryce took a few deep breaths, as if trying to collect himself enough to explain. “Reggie is Dana’s ex-husband, but he doesn’t deserve to be a father.”

  Radhauser didn’t know what to say. “Unfortunately, no one has to pass a test,” he finally commented. “Do he and Dana have an amiable relationship?”

  Bryce winced at the word relationship. “I guess you could call it that.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I’m sorry,” Bryce said. “Would you repeat what you asked? I wasn’t concentrating.”

  Radhauser did.

  Bryce raised his eyebrows. “He’s not much of a father, but Dana gave him the Sterling name. I’ve never seen the actual birth certificate.” His muddled words gleamed, so double-edged they could cut whatever they touched.

  “Is there some doubt about Skyler’s paternity?”

  Bryce took a slow, even, breath. “Reggie thinks so.” His gaze washed over Radhauser as if seeing him for the first time.

  “What does Dana say about it?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you look like that actor who used to play the Marlboro man?” Bryce’s gaze dropped to the hand-tooled boots Radhauser had custom made in Nogales, then returned to his mouth.

  “Not all detectives wear wrinkled raincoats like Columbo. But you didn’t answer my question. Is there some doubt about Skyler’s paternity?”

  “Dana claims it doesn’t matter.” Bryce shrugged. “And I guess it doesn’t to her. But it seems to be a big deal for Reggie.”

  Radhauser was silent for a moment, thinking about how he would feel if he suspected Lucas was fathered by another man. He liked to think it wouldn’t matter. Once the boy arrived and was part of his life, he became his son regardless of his genes. But that was probably naïve thinking and it didn’t take into account what that kind of suspicion would have done to his relationship with Laura.

  What was the matter with him tonight? Despite the upcoming clemency hearing, this wasn’t the time to linger in the past. He had a case to investigate. In order to regain his perspective, Radhauser stood and walked across the room, then turned back to Bryce.

  “Tell me what happened here.”

  Bryce told him about the faulty latch on the screen door and the way a push from Scott had sent Skyler tumbling down the concrete stairs.

  That would explain the knot on the toddler’s forehead, but not the overturned table.

  “Why is the table overturned?”

  Bryce’s gaze stayed fastened on the coffee table while he explained what happened when he rushed into the room to unlock the door for the paramedics. Even after Bryce stopped talking, his thoughts kept coming. Radhauser saw them in his eyes and knew exactly what was happening.

  He often looked ba
ck on the night when everything changed for him—thought of each precariously stacked moment, one on top of the other. In especially lonely times, he tried to see if he could remove any one moment, change one thing he said or did. And if the outcome could have been different. It was a sick game he played with himself. A game Bryce now played.

  He was careful to face Bryce and speak clearly. “How old is Skyler, Mr. Bryce?”

  “He’ll be two in March.”

  “And you and his mother live together?”

  There was a splinter of hesitation in Bryce’s eyes before he nodded.

  “For how long?”

  “A little over a year now.”

  “Where does she work?”

  Bryce told him.

  Radhauser nodded toward the cardboard playhouse. “What’s with that?” he asked. “And who is cockroach?”

  Bryce stared at him silently, his dark eyes now dull, features flat, as if someone had beaten him down. He seemed caught somewhere between disbelief and actuality. An orange cat brushed against his ankle. Without a word, Bryce picked him up and carried him into the kitchen as if he were sleepwalking.

  Radhauser remembered the way his mind wouldn’t work after Luke and Laura’s accident—that flatness before reality and grief entered. When he was forced to believe the worst.

  Before he could ask the question again, a child scurried across the hallway and stood at the entrance to the living room, his thumb in his mouth. The boy looked about Lizzie’s age, maybe four or five years old. His strawberry blond hair stuck out on the right side where he slept. He had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, like Dennis the Menace. The boy had the brightest blue eyes Radhauser ever saw. He wore a pair of black and red Spiderman pajamas.

  “You must be Scott,” Radhauser said.

  Bryce returned to the living room. “It’s time to sleep, Scotty. You need to go back to bed.”