The Weight of Silence

by Heather Gudenkauf

  I saw Griff through a smoky haze, sitting at the bar next to a bunch of his old high-school friends. His friends were laughing and talking, reminiscing, I’m sure, about the good old days, about the only thing that group had going for them. Griff was uncharacteristically quiet, slamming back shots, nodding and smiling once in a while at what someone said. I walked over to him, and he glanced up at me. He didn’t look surprised to see me. I felt the eyes of all the patrons of Behnke’s on me, watching what would happen next. My history with Toni was no secret in Willow Creek. I waited for Griff’s usual sarcastic greeting. “Deputy Sheriff,” he’d say in a pompous wise-ass voice that made it sound like he was addressing a king or head of state. But he just looked expectantly up at me and a hush fell over his cronies next to him.

  “Go outside for a minute, Griff?” I asked politely.

  “Gotta warrant, Deputy Sheriff?” Roger, his idiot sidekick, asked, laughing hysterically.

  “You can talk to me here, Louis,” Griff said mildly and then downed another shot. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No thanks, I’m on duty,” I replied, and for some reason his friends thought that was funny, too, and collapsed in laughter.

  I leaned in close to him. “It’s about Toni, Griff,” I said in a low voice, not wanting these jokers to hear.

  Griff stood up. I’m a good four inches taller than Griff, but he’s broad and built like a weight lifter. I had no doubt that he could beat the shit out of me, just like he did when I was nineteen and had come from college to try to get Toni to come back to me. I had gone to her house, where she still lived with her dad, who seemed to have aged decades since Toni’s mother died. I took one look at Toni’s face that night and knew something was irreparably broken between the two of us. We could never go back to the way it was. At the time, I didn’t want to stay in Willow Creek and Toni didn’t want to leave. My mom had remarried earlier that year and moved back to Chicago with my brother and sister. I loved college, loved Iowa City, and wanted Toni to come back with me. There wasn’t really anything left for her in Willow Creek, I thought. But she said no, with regret, I think. Said she was seeing Griff Clark and was doing just fine. That she couldn’t leave her father alone, he’d lost too much already. Then she crossed her arms over her chest like she always did when she made a decision and it was final. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye, but she dropped her chin at the last second and my lips landed on her nose.

  Griff waited until I had driven away. He waited until I had driven forty miles and stopped for gas. He waited until I was just about ready to get back in my car after paying the clerk and then he came out from the shadows and sucker punched me in the stomach and while I was bent over, he kicked me in the balls. “Stay away from Toni, asshole,” he hissed at me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “We’re getting married,” he slurred before one boulderlike first crunched into my face. Those three words hurt more than the punch. A few months later, I heard through a friend that Toni and Griff had gotten married. And it wasn’t all that many months later when I heard about Ben. It didn’t take a genius to do the math. I should have tried harder. I shouldn’t have let her go.

  “Let’s go,” Griff said, the yeasty smell of beer that emanated from him bringing me back to Behnke’s, and I followed him out of the bar. The cold brisk air of the parking lot was welcoming after the stale nicotine cloud we just left.

  “What’s up?” he asked innocently. “Is Toni okay?”

  “She’s at Mercy Hospital,” was all I said. Even as much as I hated the guy, I couldn’t tell him that his baby had died.

  “What happened? What’d she say?” Griff asked.

  “Not sure,” I replied. “She’s not saying much right now. Ben called for help.” I left out that Ben had called me at home, knowing that this could cause him grief later.

  Griff paused at his truck, keys in hand and turned to me. “Probably not a good idea for me to drive, huh?”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. We looked at each other for a moment. “Come on,” I said finally. “I’ll drive you over.”

  We climbed in and I started the cruiser. The only sound was the heater trying ineffectively to warm the car. After driving for a few moments, Griff cleared his throat.

  “What’d Calli say?” he asked, not looking at me.

  “What do you think she said?” I asked, knowing full well Calli hadn’t uttered a sound, not since I got there, anyway.

  He cleared his throat again. “Toni fell, but she was fine. She got right back up. She said she was okay. She settled herself on the couch. She was fine when I left.”

  “She’s not so fine now,” I said, pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. When I stopped the car I turned to Griff and said, “Griff, if I find out that you did anything to hurt Toni, I will come after you. I will come after you, arrest you, throw you in a jail cell, and some night, when no one is looking, I will beat the crap out of you.”

  Griff laughed as he opened the car door. “No, you won’t, Deputy.” There was that obnoxious tone. “Naw, you won’t. You’re a by-the-book kinda guy. But hey, thanks for the ride.” He slammed the door and left me, my breath frosty-white, curling around my head.

  And damned if he wasn’t right.

  BEN

  When I was seven I started playing in a summer soccer league. Mom thought it would be good for me to get out and get some exercise, make some new friends. I was big, but not exactly the athletic type. My feet always seemed too large and I’d end up tripping over them and making a fool of myself. After squashing about three of the kids on the other team, plus one of my own teammates, the coach put me in as goalie. That, I could do. I was about twice the size of anyone else, so it was more likely that I could stop a ball from flying into the net. I would snatch balls out of the air as they came whizzing toward me, blocking the soccer ball with my body. No one scored on me in four matches. I could see you and Mom hollering on the sidelines, cheering me on. You were two, I guess. Sometimes you’d try to run out onto the field to come and see me and then the referee would have to stop the game and Mom would come over and scoop you up saying, “Sorry, sorry,” to everyone.

  One time Dad was in town and he came to one of my games. It had rained earlier and the grass was all slippery. Dad came a little later, after the game had started and I was standing in the goalie box, wearing my blue soccer shirt with the number four on it and my black goalie gloves. They were so cool, I thought, those gloves. They looked all professional-like and had these bumpy knobs on them for a better grip to hold on to the ball. You and Mom were sitting on an old blanket, but Dad was pacing up and down the sidelines. I kept watching him, walking, walking, walking, like some caged-up lion. He’d be yelling, “Come on, boys! Get that ball, move it up the field.” When the ball came toward me, I’d have to force my eyes off him, trying to concentrate. My hands were out in front of me, my knees were bent and my legs were spread apart, trying to take up as much space as I could, just like the coach told me.

  “Come on, Ben,” he shouted. “You can do it, get that ball! Grab it, grab it!”

  I can still see the ball flying at me, the black and white spots on the ball spinning so fast they looked gray. The ball sped right past me; I didn’t even get one fancy-gloved finger on that ball. I expected to hear Dad shouting and yelling at me and Mom trying to shush him. But when I looked to the sidelines, to where he’d been pacing, he wasn’t there anymore. I searched and searched the crowd and finally spotted him, walking back to his truck.

  We won the game four to one. Mom took you and me out for ice cream to celebrate, but I wasn’t very hungry. Dad didn’t say anything about the game when we got home, which was worse in its own way.

  ANTONIA

  I meet Louis and the other officer at my front door. From my living-room window I had seen them drive down our lane. The man with Louis is compact, dressed nicely but casually. He wears expensive-looking shoes and carries a leather portfolio.

  I welcome them into my
home and we settle at the kitchen table. Louis looks miserable and the man introduces himself as Kent Fitzgerald, federal agent. I hold back a giggle. He says it as if he were a superhero or something.

  “Missing and Exploited Children Division,” he adds and I sober quickly. I must look puzzled because he explains, “We take missing children, any missing children, very seriously.”

  “We don’t know that they are missing, missing,” I say lamely. “I mean, of course, they’re missing, but what are you thinking? Do you know something?” I look to Louis. He isn’t looking at me.

  “We know as much as you do, Mrs. Clark,” Agent Fitzgerald says. “I’m here to assist Deputy Sheriff Louis and his team in bringing the girls home. What time did you last see Calli?”

  “Last night at about ten,” I begin. “We watched a movie together and had popcorn. Then I helped her get ready for bed.”

  “Who else was in the house last night?” he inquires.

  “My son, Ben. He’s twelve. He didn’t watch the entire movie, he went up to his room at about nine, I guess. And my husband, Griff, he came home at about midnight or so.”

  He nods. “Deputy Louis tells me your husband, Griff…Is that his real name?”

  “No, no, it’s a nickname. His real name is Griffith, but everyone just calls him Griff.”

  “Griff, Deputy Louis tells me, went on an early-morning fishing trip.”

  I bob my head in agreement and wait for his next question, but it doesn’t come, so I continue. “I’m not certain what time he left, but when I talked to Roger’s wife, she said he left to pick Griff up at around three-thirty this morning. And sometime early I heard a truck in the drive. I assumed it was Roger’s.”

  “Roger’s last name again?” Agent Fitzgerald asks.

  “Hogan. Roger Hogan,” I respond. My hands are beginning to sweat and my head aches.

  “Have you been able to contact your husband or Mr. Hogan as of yet?”

  “Laura Hogan tried Roger’s cell phone, but the call wouldn’t go through. Griff isn’t answering his phone, it goes right to voice mail. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald…” I say.

  “Agent,” he corrects me.

  “I’m sorry, Agent Fitzgerald, but why focus on Griff and Roger? I don’t understand.”

  “There is no focus at this point. We’re just getting the logistics.” He smiles briefly. His teeth are small and white, and he has an underbite that thrusts his chin forward. “We asked the Julien police to head over to the cabin where your husband is staying. The officer said that he found the cabin and Roger Hogan’s truck. The cabin’s boat dock was empty. It appears the men are out fishing on the river. The officer is going to wait for them to return.”

  I know it, but don’t say so. I know Griff has nothing to do with this.

  “What was Calli wearing last night?” Agent Fitzgerald asks me.

  “A pink short-sleeve nightgown that went down below her knees.”

  “Shoes?”

  “No, no shoes.”

  Agent Fitzgerald sits quietly for a moment, his small fingers holding a pen, scratching away in his portfolio.

  “Did Calli mention that she was planning to go anywhere today?” he asks, not looking up from his notebook.

  I look at Louis. “You didn’t tell him?” He shakes his head. He is being very quiet and it irritates me. I look at Agent Fitzgerald again. “Calli doesn’t speak,” I explain. A neutral expression remains on his face. “She hasn’t spoken since she was four.”

  “Was she ill?” he asks, looking me in the eye.

  “No,” I gaze levelly back at him. “I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” I say as I fold my arms over my chest and uncross my legs.

  “Calli witnessed her mother fall down the stairs and lose her baby. It was very traumatic for her,” Louis says softly.

  I glare at Louis. Now he’s talking.

  Agent Fitzgerald sits up, very attentive now. “How do you communicate with each other?”

  “She nods and shakes her head, she points and gestures. She knows some sign language,” I say.

  “What do her doctors say?”

  “That she’ll talk when she’s ready, not to force it.” I stand up and go to the kitchen window.

  “Is she seeing anyone?”

  “Like a shrink?” I ask, anger in my voice.

  “Excuse me, Agent Fitzgerald, may I speak with Mrs. Clark privately for a moment?” Louis speaks up, his voice tight. Mrs. Clark, I wonder to myself. He has never addressed me this way before.

  “Sure,” Agent Fitzgerald replies. He closes his portfolio, tucks his pen behind his ear and stands. Louis and I both watch as he goes out the front door. Louis regards me carefully.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “Toni, this is serious.”

  “Dammit, Louis, I know it is! It’s my daughter that is missing!” I shout. “So don’t you dare come into my home and tell me to be serious!” I am crying now, and I hate to cry in front of anyone, especially Louis.

  He comes over to me. “Toni, I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” He grasps my hands in his. “Look at me, Toni,” he instructs. I do. “We’re going to find Calli, I promise. You need to talk to Agent Fitzgerald. The more thoroughly and quickly you answer his questions, the more quickly we can go out and find her.”

  “I’ve made so many mistakes,” I whisper. “I cannot bear to lose another child. I could not bear it.”

  “You won’t, I promise,” Louis says firmly. “You go get Ben and I’ll get Fitzgerald. Let’s get this interview over with so we can go out there and find Calli.”

  He squeezes my hands one more time before dropping them and I climb the stairs to find Ben.

  PETRA

  I am lost. One minute they are there, and the next they are gone. I hear sounds and things in the bushes and a snake just wriggled over my shoe. I am lost and I don’t know what to do, so I just sit on an old log to rest.

  Calli would know. Everybody thinks I’m the tough, smart one. But I’m not, not really. I didn’t even know Calli when we were in kindergarten. I knew she was my neighbor and everything. But we never played together. I found out from Lena Hill that Calli didn’t talk. Not a word. Ever. I didn’t believe Lena, but she said that they were in the same class in kindergarten and that Calli never, ever said a word, even when the principal asked her a question. I asked Lena if Calli was in a special class for the kids who don’t learn so good. She said no, but that Calli got to go with Mr. Wilson, the new school counselor. I thought that was pretty neat. Mr. Wilson is cool.

  At lunch the second week of first grade, I budged Jake Moon so I could sit next to Calli. He didn’t mind so much. I wanted to see if she really didn’t talk. Lots of kids didn’t say much when we were in the classroom, but everyone talked during lunch. But she didn’t. She just sat there, eating her sandwich.

  “What kind of sandwich do you got?” I asked. She didn’t say anything but peeled back the top layer of bread on her sandwich to show me that she had peanut butter and something white and creamy.

  “I sure hope that’s not mayonnaise. Gross!” I said. Calli wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue to tell me she thought that was gross, too. She handed me half of her sandwich and I took a bite.

  “Peanut butter fluff!” I said. “Lucky. I never get good sandwiches like that. My mom puts everything on wheat bread.” Calli shook her head like she understood.

  We walked out to recess together. I saw my group of friends that I always played with. I said, “Come on,” to her, and she followed me to where the kids were jumping rope. We got in line.

  “I like ice cream, I like tea, I want Petra to jump with me!” Bree called. And I stood just outside the middle of the turning jump rope. I had to plan my jump in just right. Then I jumped and Bree and I were hopping, hopping, hopping, until she jumped out and it was just me jumping.

  “I like popcorn, I like the sea, I want Calli to jump with m
e!” And Calli hopped right in with me. Around and around and around the rope went, swishing against the cement. And we were smiling at each other; we both had the same two front teeth missing. Then I jumped out because that’s how the game goes. Calli just kept jumping and jumping, not calling out that she liked coffee or that she liked bees.

  Everyone started getting all mad, and yelling at her, “Come on, Calli, call someone!” and “Stop hogging the jump rope!” Then the rope turners just stopped and the rope fell in a heap on the ground. The recess bell rang and then everyone ran to line up.

  In line, Nathan stood behind me and started saying, “I don’t want to stand next to bushy hair! Someone trade places with me. Someone trade me places!”

  And no one would. Even Lena and Kelli, who are my friends, wouldn’t stand next to me. My heart felt all pinched right then. And then out of the blue, Calli came up and budged right in front of Nathan and next to me. Best of all, she stared him down. She looked him right in the eyes until he said, “Good, you two weirdos can stand next to each other.”

  The next day, I sat next to Calli at lunch again; she had bologna and peanut butter that day.

  “I’ll have to pass, thank you,” I said when she held out half to me. When we went out to recess I grabbed her hand and pulled her into line for jumping rope again. She didn’t look too happy about it and the other kids didn’t, either.

  When it was my turn I called out, “I like watermelon, I like to climb a tree, I like Calli to jump with me!” And we jumped and jumped until I hopped out. Then it was just Calli again and before anyone could get all nervous and mad at her, I yelled, “Calli likes bologna, Calli likes me! Calli wants to jump with Lena!” I know it didn’t exactly rhyme but it worked. Lena jumped in with Calli, they jumped awhile, and then Calli jumped out.