Weight of Silence (25 page)

I feel better now that I’ve taken a bath in the little bathroom in your hospital room. I had to be real careful not to get the tape that was wrapped around my ribs wet, not too easy. Dr. Higby gave me some green scrubs to put on. I’m also feeling a little light-headed from the medicine that the nurse gave me for the pain in my nose and ribs. Mom just left to go back to the house to get some stuff. I asked her if she could bring back my Green Bay Packers pillow, not that I needed it to sleep, but when a face hurts as much as mine does, a guy needs something extra soft to lay his head on. Mom borrowed the car of some lady named Rose and asked her if she would keep an eye on us while she was gone and Rose promised she would. She’s gone down to the cafeteria to get some food to smuggle in for me. I requested chips and a Mountain Dew, but Rose said I wouldn’t want anything too salty or too sweet with the cuts I had all around my lips. I had to agree with that, I guess.

I lie in the hospital bed that is next to you and click through
the channels on the TV that is attached to the wall above us. I keep the volume down low so as not to wake you, but from the looks of things you won’t be waking up for a while. The way you screamed earlier when I had walked in still clanks around in my head. I wonder if how I looked scared you, I looked pretty monstrous, if I do say so myself. Mom told me that you had said my name when you found them at the bottom of Bobcat Trail, and at first I felt pretty good about that. Then I got to thinking, Calli, why did you go and say my name? Why didn’t you say Dad’s name? He’s the one who caused this big old mess in the first place. I’m hoping you don’t think I had something to do with it all; it was pretty confusing up there. I look over to where you’re sleeping. What were you thinking, Calli? I want to ask. Why did you say my name?

Calli, when you were born, I was so sad and happy at the same time. I was five and the chore of sharing you with Mom turned my stomach sour. When I first saw your tiny little toes, no bigger than jelly beans, I knew that my mom wasn’t just mine anymore. You had a cry that could wake the dead. And how you wailed! She would carry you around for hours on her shoulder, patting your back and whispering in your shell-shaped ear, “Hush now, Calli, hush now.” But you wouldn’t. She would stumble around, half-sleeping, her eyes all shadowed, her hair sticking up and wild. Even after all your fussing, covered with spit-up, foul and stinky smelling, she’d still be all patient with you. She’d say, “Ben, we have a feisty one here. She’s going to keep us on our toes. Big brother, you need to look out for our little whirlwind.”

And I have, time and again.

Dad was the only one who could quiet you down. When
he’d come home from the pipeline I’d hear the squeak of the back door and the thunk of his green duffel hitting the floor, and I’d think, now Calli will shut up. He’d snatch you right out of Mom’s arms and say all sweet like, “Stop that squallin’, Calli-girl.” And you would. Just like that. Your red, squinched-up face would go all smooth, and you’d look at Dad big-eyed, like you were thinking, “Who is this man?” Then you’d rub your little peanut nose into his chest, grab his big, sausage finger with your tiny hand and fall into this deep sleep.

It was as if the house just wasn’t big enough for two centers of attention, and when Dad came home you knew it was time to sit back and watch awhile. I think that Mom felt sort of bad that you’d stop your howling for him and not her. I mean, she was the one who would change your shitty diapers, and feed you that nasty green gunk from a baby food jar. And she’s the one who about went crazy from worry when you were two months old and had a fever of one hundred and five degrees. It was Christmastime and forty below outside, and the walls shook with the force of the wind. But Mom still filled the tub with freezing cold water and stripped the two of you bare naked and climbed into that popsicle water. You both had goose bumps the size of footballs and blue lips, but she just sat there holding you, the two of you shivering so hard little waves sloshed over the side of the bathtub. She sat there rocking you in that tub until the fever was gone and you started screaming like normal, your crying pinging off the bathroom walls.

I couldn’t sleep, what with your fussing echoing through the house, so I made Mom chocolate milk and found her favorite socks, the rainbow striped ones with little slots for
each toe to slide into, for her to put on. I climbed over the bars of your crib and pulled out your yellow blanket and that goofy sock monkey Mom made you. I tucked them in Mom’s big bed, because I knew she’d lie with you there that night. She sat for what seemed hours, watching you breathe, every once in a while putting her finger beneath your nose just to feel that small rush of warm air coming out. I wonder if she ever does that with me. Creep into my room, even though I’m twelve now, and check to see if I’m still breathing, watch the rise and fall of my chest. I’d like to think that she does.

So I think that Mom’s feelings were hurt that Dad was the only one to calm you. I know that you didn’t mean for her to feel that way. I know that having Dad home filled up each corner of the house, kind of like someone sitting on your chest. It’s real hard to make sounds when each breath just goes into breathing. Funny how Dad was the only one who could quiet you and in the end was the only one who finally got you to speak.

I hurry down the hallway and to the elevator. Rose Callahan is so kind to let me borrow her car. I’m not sure of how I am going to thank her, but I will certainly find a way when this is all over. I jangle her keys in my hand as I wait for the elevator door to open. Ben and I still haven’t had the conversation that is needed. I haven’t asked him who had beaten him so badly. Once again my lack of proper mothering skills is shining through. Wouldn’t most mothers exclaim, “Who did this to you?” I’m not ready to ask that question yet. I’m not prepared to hear that Ben’s own father has been responsible for this and so much worse. My stomach churns at the prospect of all the devastation Griff doled out this day. But maybe not, though, no one had come right out and said Griff did all this, he could be off in some bar somewhere for all I know. I just want to go home and get my children some clean clothes and items of comfort. The elevator door opens and I step in, push the button for the
main floor and lean back against the wall. I close my eyes and try not to think. The doors open again and I step out. Then I have the urge to retreat into them, given the scene unfolding before me.

There seems to be half a dozen police officers. I see Agent Fitzgerald talking with two people I’ve never seen before. A few reporters occupy a corner of the main entrance waiting area and Louis looks to be in a heated discussion with Logan Roper, Griff’s old high-school friend. Then I see the doors to the main entrance open and in stomps Christine Louis. Louis’s wife. Great, I think. She doesn’t look so happy. I look around for an exit to take unseen, but it’s too late. Christine spots me, gives me a searing look and goes over to her husband.

“Christine?” Louis says looking off behind her. “Where’s Tanner?”

“He’s out in the car, Loras,” she says shortly. She is the only person I know who ever calls Louis by his first name. “He’s sleeping.”

“You left him out in the car alone?” Louis says in disbelief. “Christine, there’s a kidnapper out there somewhere. You just can’t leave a child unattended in a car.”

“You—” she pokes a finger at him “—gave up any say in what I do with my son the minute you decided that
her
children were more important than Tanner.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Louis says, taking Christine by the arm and pulling her out of earshot.

I take that opportunity to exit quickly through the hospital doors, searching for the red Civic that is Rose’s car. As I unlock the car door and start to climb in, Agent Fitzgerald and the two strangers he was speaking with surround me.

“Mrs. Clark,” says Agent Fitzgerald, “I’m pleased to hear that your children have been found and are safe and sound.”

“Yes, me, too,” I say brusquely. I want to get out of there before Christine tries to pull me into her argument with Louis.

Agent Fitzgerald introduces me to the two as his colleagues, Agents Temperly and Simon. I smile at them in greeting and settle myself behind the wheel.

“We need to talk to your children, Mrs. Clark,” Agent Simon says to me.

“I know you do. Should we set up a time for sometime tomorrow?”

“You don’t understand,” says Agent Temperly. “We need to speak with Calli now.”

“No,
you
don’t understand. Calli’s had a horrible day, she’s sleeping right now. No one is asking her any questions tonight,” I declare firmly.

“We don’t need your permission to speak with a witness, Mrs. Clark,” Fitzgerald informs me.

I wonder whatever made me trust this man. “No, but you do need the doctor’s permission to speak with her. And if he says my children aren’t ready, then you will not speak to them!” I climb out of the car again and march right back into the hospital to let Dr. Higby know that under no circumstances is anyone to talk to my children until I get back.

I pull Christine to a more private corner of the hospital waiting room. Here we go again. Christine threw her little public fits about twice a year, then she would calm down and say she was sorry and we would carry on as usual until the next time.

“What is going on?” I ask her through clenched teeth. “I’m working here.”

“That’s half the problem,” she cries. “You’re working all the time. We never see you!”

“It’s my job!” I say, louder than I intend. I can feel many eyes on us. I glimpse Toni hurrying out of the hospital and wonder where she is going. Did she know that Griff was somewhere out there?

“And she’s the other half of the problem,” Christine’s voice breaks as she tosses her chin toward Toni. “You hung up on me, Loras! You were with
her.
Whenever she needs something, you go running. Right now, even, you’re looking at her, when I’m trying to tell you that we are leaving.”

That pulls my gaze back to Christine. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? Is Tanner really out in the car?”

“Yes, he’s sleeping. I locked the doors. He’s fine,” Christine growls.

“What if he woke up and climbed out? Jesus, Christine, use your head. Let’s go out there.”

“Yes, let’s go out there, Loras. You can say goodbye to him then. I’m taking Tanner back to Minnesota.”

“What? Like, for a vacation?”

“No, not
like for a vacation
,” she mimics me. “For good. We’re moving in with my parents until I get settled and can find a house.”

“You can’t just take Tanner and leave!” I explode. “You can’t keep me from my son.”

“I have no intention of keeping you from your son. You do that well enough on your own. We’ll work out those things later. Come say goodbye if you want.”

“Why are you doing this now, Christine?” I ask helplessly.

“I’m
finally
doing this, Loras. I am sick and tired of walking in her shadow.”

“You don’t have to leave, though. We can work it out. We always do,” I say unconvincingly.

“Do you know what it has been like for me?” Christine asks me. “Living in this town? With your history with her? You won’t get away from it and I can’t get away from it. I’m done, Loras. I am done.”

She walks away from me and into the hospital parking lot toward our station wagon. I follow, knowing I need to give my son a kiss goodbye.

As I creep from my car, which I have parked well down the road, I can see a police officer sitting in a squad car. He’s a reservist, a man from my own church. The interior light from the car casts shadows on his face; he is sipping from a coffee cup, reading. I steal past him unnoticed and move to the back of the Clark home to wait.

I settle behind a small copse of what my father would have called junk trees, thin, craggy things with trunks no bigger than my wrist. The night is still warm, but a soft breeze tinged with a bit of northern air has cooled things considerably. In fact, I am quite comfortable. Under any other circumstances I would be apt to doze off, but the weight of the gun in my lap is a hard enough reminder of why I am here. In the daylight hours I would be easily seen, but in the dark of night I have become an extension of the Clarks’ backyard, at least that is my hope. I have a good view of Antonia’s and Griff’s vehicles, both parked in the driveway near the back door.

From my vantage point I also see into the Clarks’ kitchen. The house is black. If the reservist discovers me, I can just say that I thought I saw a prowler and I came to investigate. A weak excuse, I know. I am also waiting for my good sense to return, but as of yet, it has not. I am a logical man. I know that it makes no sense for me to be stalking my child’s kidnapper and abuser by hiding outside his home with a gun. I am waiting for my good judgment to return to me, that I will suddenly realize that this is not how college-educated, reasonable men behave. But for the moment it does not matter that I am the head of the economics department at St. Gilianus, nor does it matter that for the past fifty-seven years I have been firmly ensconced in the conviction that capital punishment is inherently wrong. Anger rests in my belly like a buzzing colony of bees, scraping at my skin from the inside out.

So I wait, and I do not have to be patient for long. From where I sit I see a figure emerge from the woods, broad but moving in a stilted, uncoordinated manner. Should I go forward, confront the skulking being? Should I slink away, back to my mother-in-law’s, place Fielda’s father’s gun back into its velvet-lined box and hide it behind dusty old treasures? I pause too long for any of those scenarios to be an option, because just as I am going to make the choice, a choice that would surely change my life forever, a car appears and pulls in right behind the other two vehicles and out steps Antonia Clark. The shadow that came from the woods suddenly stops, then quickly retreats. Antonia steps from the car and moves to the front of the house, I hear soft murmurs of a conversation and then silence. I sit for what seems an eternity, listen
ing to my own heart pounding, watching, my eyes darting from the woods to the house, back and forth, waiting.

I startle as the light above the back door comes on. The door opens and I see Antonia step out into the backyard, a bag on her shoulder, in her hands a green pillow and a stuffed animal. I watch as she squints into the darkness and then walks to the area where hours earlier the state crime unit was so intent. I expect Toni to turn and leave, but she doesn’t. She begins to walk toward the woods. In that moment, another choice is offered to me, one that unequivocally will change several lives forever. What will I choose? To warn Antonia or to sit in silence?