Not a Sound

by Heather Gudenkauf

  “You’re not going to arrest him, are you?” I ask in alarm.

  I watch as Jake says something to Cole and Bennett. With a hand on each of Evan’s elbows they lead him to the squad car and unceremoniously insert him in the backseat. Whoever ends up having to clean the mud off the interior of their car has quite the job in front of them.

  “I don’t believe it,” I say as they drive away.

  “How well do you know this guy?” Jake asks, his brow furrowing with concern.

  “We just met the other day,” I explain. “I really don’t think...” Just then a silver flash darts through the open door and skids across the linoleum floor, leaving a streak of mud in his wake. Stitch has come back. Rookie stands and begins barking, teeth flashing, his tail tucked and his ears pressed flat against his head. I’m certain that Rookie is about to tear Stich’s throat out. I’m transfixed by the ferocity of the dog that just a moment ago was dozing languidly by the fire.

  Jake turns toward the frenzied dog and suddenly Rookie’s posture completely changes. His jaws close and he drops to the floor, his tail waving lazily back and forth. For his part, Stitch, whose wet, silver coat clings to his bony frame, is shaking uncontrollably. I kneel down at his side.

  “Where were you?” I murmur into his ear. “Bad dog, bad.” I scold him, but tenderly, tears pricking at my eyes.

  Jake turns his back to me and gives me a moment to compose myself. That’s one of the great things about Jake, he knows when to leave well enough alone. He knows how attached to Stitch I’ve become, how much I rely on him not only as a service dog but as a companion. After all, he can relate. After Sadie leaped from Five Mines Bridge, Rookie did the same for him.

  He hands me the damp towel he used to dry his own head and I begin to softly rub Stitch’s fur dry. Fine-spun scratches line his already scarred belly as if he had been running through thorny thickets. Had he been chasing Evan Okada through the woods? Or someone else? The thought that Evan really could have been lurking outside my house makes no sense to me.

  When Stitch’s fur is somewhat dry and his tremors cease, I stand. Another pair of officers arrives and we watch while they dust the sliding glass door for fingerprints. For some reason this makes everything seem too real to me, and tears burn my eyes. If Jake notices, he thankfully doesn’t say anything. He knows I hate to cry. Once when we were kids I fell off my bike while trying to keep up with Jake and my brother and ended up dislocating my elbow. As if put out, Jake and Andrew stopped to help me and though I was in excruciating pain I didn’t cry, but simply climbed back up on my bike and on wobbly legs, holding my injured arm close, pedaled home. Jake’s expression of admiration when he saw my cast and his exclamation of, That had to hurt like hell, Earhart. Why didn’t you tell us? made it all worthwhile.

  “I should get to the station and see what’s going on with your neighbor,” Jake says. “You sure know how to attract the crazies, don’t you?” I respond with a sour smile. His face grows serious and his blue eyes bore into mine. “You get some rest, okay, Earhart? I’ll call you tomorrow and give you an update.” He turns to go and Rookie gets to his feet. Stitch eyes him warily, keeping his distance. Jake pauses and turns back to me. “You want to come back to my place? Just for the night? I won’t even be there, but if you’d feel safer, you can crash in my guest room.” I’m pretty good at figuring out facial expressions but I can’t quite figure out what I see on Jake’s face. Hope? Maybe pity.

  I shake my head, caught off guard at how much I really want to say yes, but instead say, “No thanks. We’re good here. But, Jake, I really don’t think it was my neighbor.” I tell him about how I saw the light go on in Evan’s second-floor window after I found my door open. “I don’t even know if anyone was really out there. Stitch just freaked out and I got scared. I think maybe I made a lot of fuss over nothing.”

  “We’ll check it out. In the very least, he shouldn’t have tried to run from Bennett and Cole.” Jake signs. “I’m still going to have a patrol car park outside your house the rest of the night.”

  “That’s really not necessary,” I protest, but Jake gives me a look that says it isn’t up for discussion.

  Stitch and I watch Jake and Rookie leave, one happily, the other reluctantly. I slide the broomstick into its place on the metal track at the base of the door and close the curtains. I spend a few minutes rubbing Stitch’s still-damp coat and when I realize that it will take me all night to dry his fur this way I give up and go grab my hair dryer. I sit on the couch with Stitch on the floor between my legs as I blow-dry his coat. Stitch is in heaven. He closes his eyes and revels in the warm stream of air washing over him.

  The glare of headlights filters through the drapes, and I peek out to see a patrol car parked in front of the house. Confident that we’re safe for the night, Stitch and I climb the steps to the bedroom. This time, instead of settling himself at the foot of my bed like he usually does, Stitch noses his way beneath the covers and curls up into a tight ball right next to me. Gradually, he relaxes and I can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he drifts off to sleep.

  For me, sleep doesn’t come so easily. Why was Evan skulking around my house in the pouring rain? Was he just trying to be a good neighbor and checking up on me, or was he up to something? If it was all just a mix-up I will swallow my pride and tell him I’m sorry. Hell, maybe I’ll even bake him some lemon squares. Despite the heat from Stitch tucked up right next to me, I can’t get comfortable and I know that sleep will be a long time coming.

  6

  I awaken with a fragment of restless dreams still swirling around my head. A familiar anxiety has wrapped itself around my chest and I’m reluctant to leave the warmth of my bed, but Stitch is looking at me expectantly.

  The chaos of the day before must have worn the two of us out because neither Stitch nor I stir until nearly nine o’clock. I go to the window to see if the police officer that Jake posted outside my house is still here. He’s not. Either the police think that I was jumping at shadows or Evan Okada was the perpetrator. Though I only met Evan briefly, I have a hard time believing that he could be a killer, let alone my intruder.

  We are both moving extra slow this All Soul’s Day morning. My muscles are achy, I think, due to my tumble to the ground after finding Gwen in the river. I’m hesitant to let Stitch outside, afraid that he might take off into the woods again. So I do something I have rarely done and only in public places since Stitch first came into my life. I clip a leash to his collar. His silver eyes look up at me in reproach. “I’m sorry,” I tell him, but he seems deflated as I lead him out into the yard.

  When we come back inside my phone is flashing and I rush to answer it. “We had to let your neighbor go,” Jake says by way of greeting. “We didn’t have enough evidence to hold him. He swears up and down that he heard barking and yelling coming from your house and just came down the bluff to see what was going on.”

  “Do you believe him?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I believe him. There was no sign of an attempted break-in, no footprints. And Okada wasn’t exactly dressed for breaking and entering when Bennett and Cole nabbed him. He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a white sweatshirt. Not what I’d call cat burglar attire. Not that his sweatshirt is white anymore. When he didn’t respond to the order to stop right away, Cole and Bennett tackled him in the mud. Okada said once he saw that the police arrived, he figured things were under control and he was heading back up to his house. Said he couldn’t hear the order because of the noise from the heavy rain.”

  “That’s kind of what I figured,” I say. “So you don’t think I have anything to worry about with him right next door to me? What about his outdoor lights? Why did they go off when he was coming down the bluff?”

  “They’re motion sensitive lights. They go off after a few minutes and that’s what he says happened,” Jake explains. “It looks li
ke he’s exactly who he says he is. A former dot-com guy who wanted to start his own canoe rental business. I don’t think you have a thing to worry about, but just in case, I gave him a good talking-to. I think it is safe to say that he won’t dare look sideways at you anytime soon.”

  Great. Welcome to the neighborhood, I think. “So you don’t think anyone was out there? You think I overreacted?” I ask, heat rising to my cheeks.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” Jakes says. “It’s understandable that you’d be a little jumpy. Stitch probably just heard an animal outside and took off after it.”

  I groan. “Don’t worry about it, Earhart, it’s our job. Just make sure to keep your doors locked.” Jake and I say our goodbyes.

  The temperature is warmer than forecasted and for a moment I consider taking my board out on the river again, but then dismiss the idea. The journey would be too unnerving and I wonder if Five Mines will always conjure this same fear and uneasiness and cease to be the lifesaving respite it has come to be for me. I’m a trauma nurse. Was a trauma nurse. And I always prided myself in handling the most stressful, unpredictable of scenarios and now my dog chases a squirrel in the woods and I freak out.

  My tongue suddenly tingles for a drink. I miss the first frosty bite of liquid and the slow burn as the alcohol slides down my throat. Normally, I take Stitch out onto the river or into the woods when I get these cravings but I may have to come up with a different means of distraction for a while.

  I let Stitch outside and double-check the answering machine. I know the clinic is open six days a week and I’m hoping there will be a message from Dr. Huntley about rescheduling our interview. Nothing. The urge to retrieve the bottle from beneath the bathroom sink is overwhelming and I know what I have to do and it can’t wait until Monday.

  I scoop dog food into Stitch’s dish and fill the other one with fresh water before jumping into the shower. I manage to wash and rinse my hair before the hot water runs out. I blow-dry my hair and try to smooth it into submission. Stitch has finished eating and watches me curiously as I dig out my makeup case. For the first time in months, I rub foundation over my skin, swirl blush on my cheeks, line my eyelids with liner, sweep mascara across my lashes and dab on red lipstick. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look clownish and in frustration wash my face. I start over, this time adding only the mascara and lip gloss. Much better, I decide.

  Back upstairs I dress in my interview outfit—a gray skirt that hits me just above the knees, a white silk shell and a gray jacket that matches the skirt. I slide on panty hose, remembering how much I hate wearing them, and step into the only pair of high heels I own. On the floor of my closet is a colorful pair of running shoes that makes me think of the shoe that Stitch found in the woods yesterday. My stomach rumbles and I know I should eat something before I leave. Unaccustomed to walking in heels, I carefully walk down the steps and grab a granola bar from the kitchen, tossing it into my purse. At the door I bend down so I’m at eye level with Stitch, not an easy task in these shoes. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to stay here,” I tell him. Stitch doesn’t believe me. His tail wags happily and he crowds more closely to the door. I rarely go anywhere without Stitch, but this outing is the exception. I need Dr. Huntley to focus on me and me only. I need to convince him I’m ready to return to work. “No, Stitch,” I say more firmly. “Kotec.” Kennel.

  Stitch’s tail sags but he complies and slowly goes to his kennel that sits beneath one of the living room windows. “I’m sorry,” I say. He goes in the kennel headfirst, turns around and flops down on the quilt that lines the bottom, and then lays his head on his paws. I never shut and lock the kennel door. Once I leave, Stitch will emerge from the kennel and lie down in a sunbeam, rising occasionally to follow it as it slowly makes its way across the floor.

  I exit the back door, taking the time to lock it securely behind me. I feel exposed, being outside without Stitch. He is my ears and a second set of eyes for me. I’m afraid even though it’s unlikely that Gwen’s killer is nearby. I swivel my head from side to side, trying to take in the entirety of my surroundings. Each sway of a branch, each leaf skittering across the yard briefly snags my attention and by the time I climb into my Jeep and lock the door I’m sweating. As predicted, Stitch has already left his kennel and is watching me from a window. I give him a wave, start the car and pull onto the road that will eventually take me to Mathias.

  From my gravel road I turn right onto Highway 51, a pretty length of thoroughfare lined with sugar maples on one side, the last of their crimson leaves hanging on for dear life, and cornfields on the other. Soon the fields and trees turn to an industrial strip lined with gas stations, a furniture store and a smattering of fast-food restaurants. I travel through four sets of traffic lights before taking a left into a sparse residential neighborhood filled with once stately colonials that when I was growing up were populated by Mathias’s elite. Now most of the colonials have been sectioned off into apartments rented out by young families just starting out or by college students who attend Dewey, a small, private university. I pass an elementary school, take a right onto Clover Street and head up a steep hill that is hell to maneuver in the winter. At the very end of the dead-end street overlooking a breathtaking view of the city and the river is Five Mines Regional Cancer Center. Made of native limestone, it’s an unassuming one-story building that could be mistaken for an insurance office or a dentist’s office.

  This is it, I tell myself. My chance to finally return to the world of the living. I need this job. I need to prove to David and Nora that the woman and mother they once knew is back. I need to prove it to myself.

  With a deep breath I walk up the path, slippery from the night’s rain and push my way through the double glass doors to an entryway and through another set of doors that takes me into a large reception area currently empty of patients. The walls are painted a soothing taupe, and matted and framed black-and-white photos of the river hang on the walls. Whoever designed the room was going for living room chic and actually succeeded quite well. Comfortable-looking chairs are clustered around coffee tables stacked with magazines and vases filled with fresh flowers. Instead of harsh fluorescent overhead lights, table lamps glow softly atop side tables. At one end of the room is a station where patients can pour themselves a cup of coffee or water from a pitcher filled with ice cubes and sliced lemons.

  I approach the woman behind the main desk. She is sixtyish with a severely angled bob dyed an unnatural shade of black. She is slim and capable-looking. “Good morning,” she says as I read her brightly painted lips. “May I help you?”

  I try to push away the anxiety that always comes when I have to interact with new people, with people who don’t know me, who aren’t aware of my hearing loss. “I’m Amelia Winn,” I say, and the woman’s eyebrows rise in recognition. “I wasn’t able to make it to my appointment with Dr. Huntley yesterday but I’m hoping to be able to visit with him this morning. Is he in?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “I’m Barb, Dr. Huntley’s office manager. I’ll go see if he’s willing to meet with you.”

  Ouch. I can tell Barb runs a tight ship here and has a long memory. If I get the job I think it’s going to take a long time for Barb to forgive me for missing my first interview. She returns after a moment. “This way,” she says. I have to walk fast to keep up with her.

  I follow her down a long hallway.

  She pauses at a door that is slightly ajar and knocks. The person on the other side of the door must have told us to come in because Barb gives me a tight smile and pushes the door open wide for me.

  I’ve only met Joe Huntley in passing before but I know that he and David are friends, both on staff at Queen of Peace. David and Dr. Huntley went to medical school together. David specializing in gynecology and obstetrics and Dr. Huntley in oncology, so I figure that he is in his late forties or early fifties. He looks more like a rugby player
than a doctor. He’s about my height and solidly built. His nose is slightly off center as if it has been broken more than once and his gray, thinning hair is cropped short. He regards me curiously from behind a pair of half-moon reading glasses but when Barb introduces us he smiles kindly and immediately I’m put at ease.

  “Thank you for taking the time to visit with me, Dr. Huntley. I’m sorry I missed our interview yesterday,” I say, hoping that he won’t change his mind and send me on my way.

  I fix my eyes on his lips, intent on deciphering his every word. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to figure out about every other word. I’ll have to use his body language and context to figure out the rest. “Please call me Joseph. We’re glad to have you join us. David speaks highly of you.”

  This surprises me. It’s no secret that David and I have been separated for the better part of two years and I haven’t been the most stellar of wives but it’s good to know that he can still find a few nice things to say about me.

  “You’re deaf,” Dr. Huntley says without preamble. “Or should I say hearing impaired? What is the politically correct term one should use these days?”

  “Deaf or hard of hearing seem to be the going labels,” I say. Before I lost my ability to hear, I too thought that hearing impaired was the thing to say, but after emerging from my miasma of alcohol I decided to educate myself. After a little research I learned that you can be deaf with a lowercase d or Deaf with a capital D. To be deaf means that you physically cannot hear and to be Deaf means that culturally, you identify with the Deaf community. Since I’m the only deaf person I know, I consider myself deaf with a little d.

  “You missed our interview yesterday,” Dr. Huntley says, propping his reading glasses atop his head.

  I take a breath, eager to explain. “I had every intention of coming in for the interview, but I had to assist with a police matter. As a witness,” I add. “I couldn’t get away.”