Weight of Silence (18 page)

Ben has not returned yet, so on top of everything else, I need to worry about him, as well. The comments from the Gregorys didn’t help matters, either. I know Ben, he wouldn’t hurt the girls, and I know Griff, he just plain doesn’t find kids interesting enough to spend very much time getting mad at them. Besides, the number of beer cans strewn around the house this morning was much less than normal, well short of his mean drinking. If he’d gotten to the mean drinking stage I would have been much more concerned.

Louis has not returned my call. I know he is busy with other aspects of this case, as well as his other duties, but I am surprised that he isn’t here. Louis has always been there for me, except when he left for college. Even I know that me asking him to stay was asking too much. Louis was there when a fifth-grade bully was terrorizing me when we were nine, he was there when I had a panic attack about present
ing a speech for my tenth-grade literature class, and he was there when my mother died.

Even though my mother and I were so different, had so little in common, Louis knew that the loss of her was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me. He knew that those hours that my father and I spent nursing her while she lay in bed, rotting from breast cancer had left a deep-seated imprint on me. Louis would drive me to the public library in order to check out whatever book my mother had requested I read to her, while a morphine pump deadened some of the pain.

My mother was a great reader. I was not. I liked books; I just didn’t have time for them. Between school, working at the convenience store and spending time with Louis, I never made the effort to read. My mother was always placing books on my bedside table, hoping that I would pick one up and have a wonderful discussion about it with her. I never did, not until she got sick. Then, out of guilt more than anything, I began to read to her. One day, near the end, my mother asked me to find her old copy of
My Ántonia
by Willa Cather. I had seen this book before; my mother had set it on my bedside table many times. I had never taken the time to read it, even though my name was chosen because this was my mother’s favorite book. I could not imagine what I could possibly have in common with the Antonia ofWilla Cather’s world, so long ago. But at my mother’s request I began to read. I tumbled, reluctantly, into the turn-of-the-century Nebraska, and loved what I found. Louis would often sit with me while I read aloud to my mother. I was so self-conscious at first, not used to the sound of my own voice in my ears, but he seemed to enjoy it and my mother often had a weak smile on her face as I read.

One afternoon, about three weeks before my mother died, she patted the mattress on the hospital bed that we had brought in when we knew that she was going to die. I lowered the metal bar that prevented my mother from falling out of bed and gingerly sat next to her.

“Come closer, Antonia,” she said to me. My mother never called me Toni, it was always Antonia. I moved in closer to her, careful of the tubes that ran into her arm. It was so hard looking at her like that. My beautiful, beautiful mother who always smelled of Chanel before. Now a different smell, sour and old, hung around her. Her hair, once a golden-blond, now was dun-colored and lay lank on her shoulders, her face pale and pinched with pain.

“Antonia, my Antonia,” she whispered. I secretly loved it when she called me that. “I just wanted to tell you a few things, before…before—” She swallowed with great effort. “Before I die,” she finished.

“Mom, don’t say that,” I squeaked and before I knew it the tears were falling. How I hated to cry.

“Antonia, I am going to die, and very soon. I just didn’t get enough time with you,” she sighed. “The boys, they’ll be all right, but you, you I worry about.”

“I’m okay, Mom,” I sniffled, trying not to let her see me cry.

She took my hands in hers and I played with her wedding ring like I did when we were sitting in church when I was little so many years before. The ring spun loosely on her ring finger, she had lost so much weight. Her hands looked as if they belonged to a much older woman, the blue-tinged veins thick and protruding.

“Louis is a nice young man,” she said.

“Yeah, he is,” I agreed.

“Antonia, I won’t be at your wedding…” she started.

“Mom, please don’t say that,” I begged. My nose ran thickly and I had to pull a hand from hers to wipe it. “Please don’t talk like that.”

“I won’t be at your wedding, so I want to tell you a few things about being a wife and a mother.” She waited patiently until my sobs became quiet, wet hitches of breath. “People say that being a mother is the most important job you will ever have. And it is very important. But it is even more important, I believe, to be a wife, a good wife.”

I must have looked at her skeptically, because she started to chuckle at me, but the laughter caused her too much pain.

“I don’t mean you have be a floor mat. That’s not what I mean at all. I mean, who you choose to walk with through life will be the most important decision that you will ever, ever make. You will have your children and you will love them because they are yours and because they will be wonderful. Just like you.” She wrinkled her nose at me and grinned. “But who you marry is a
choice.
The man you choose should make you happy, encourage you in following your dreams, big ones and little ones.”

“Did Dad do that for you?” I asked. Night was settling in and the shadows made my mother look much softer, much younger, and less like she was dying.

“He did. I had such simple dreams, though. I just wanted to be a wife and mother. That’s all, really. You must remember that, Antonia. In the end, I have had everything that I have ever wanted. My dear, sweet husband and my dear, sweet children. I just wish I had more time with you.” She began crying quietly.

“It’s okay, Mom, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe her. “I’ll remember what you said, I promise.” She nodded and tried to smile, but her pain caused her lips to curl downward. I picked up the book that lay next to her bed.

“How about a little Carson McCullers?” I asked.

“Yes, that would be just fine,” she answered.

I began reading and my mother fell asleep within minutes. For the first time that I could remember, I bent down and kissed her while she slept. Her lips felt thin and papery, but warm. Underneath the odor of disease and the sheer exertion of trying to live, I caught her true scent. And I closed my eyes and willed myself to remember. But I went and forgot, didn’t I? I forgot everything she had told me.

I was sitting in World History class one afternoon, when the principal came to my classroom door. The teacher stopped writing on the chalkboard and he went over to where the principal stood; they whispered with their heads close together for a moment and then both looked in my direction. I remember my chest tightening in fear and thinking to myself,
I haven’t had enough time with you yet, Mom, I haven’t had enough time with you, either.
I slowly rose from my chair, leaving my books and things behind. I remember Louis following along behind me, gripping my elbow, walking me to his car and driving me home. He stayed with me long into that first terrible night without my mother. We didn’t talk—we didn’t have to—and now I think we had much the same friendship that Calli and Petra have.

After my mother died I continued to read. Before I went to bed each night I would read a few pages of a book aloud to myself. It took me forever to finish a novel, but it didn’t
seem right to me to read silently to myself anymore. Odd, I know. Griff made fun of me when I read children’s books that I would find at garage sales to Ben when he was in my womb. I learned not to do that when he was around, but I loved cradling my huge stomach with one arm while holding a book in the other, reading to my tiny fetus. I firmly believed Ben could hear me in there, rocking back and forth, maybe a tiny little thumb in his mouth. It was much more acceptable reading aloud like that after my children were born. Even now, I read each night to Calli and even Ben, once in a great while, will let me read part of the book he is reading. When Griff is out of town, I will crawl into my bed and read myself a bedtime story until I fall asleep, book in hand.

Louis asked me a few times, after my mother died, if I would read to him, but I was too self-conscious and wouldn’t. He gave up after I told him impatiently not to ask me again. Louis was always there for me, until, of course, I wouldn’t let him be. Even when my father passed away. Griff and I had been married for three years; Louis sent me a sympathy card. I could tell it was from him without even looking at the return address. I had memorized his small, neat printing back when we were in first grade. I never showed the card to Griff, Louis had signed the card
Always, Louis
and I did not have the energy to try to explain that to Griff.

Sometimes I dream of Louis. Of he and I together as we once were, when we were sixteen. In my dreams we are always in Willow Creek Woods walking hand in hand. I can feel the texture of his palm against mine, the brush of his fingers. Even now, when I think back to these dreams, if I sit completely still I can feel his touch. In my dreams, when Louis
kisses me, the rush of air that we exchange into each other’s mouth remains on my tongue hours after I’ve wakened. In the back of my mind, even as I am dreaming, I am saying to myself,
You’re married, Antonia, what about your husband? What about Griff?
And in my dream I would force myself to pull away from Louis, to sweep away the feel of his touch. I would awaken then, sometimes with Griff next to me, but more often than not with Griff a thousand miles away in Alaska, my skin hot and my brain addled.

Still I could go for days, even weeks, without thinking of Louis. But then I would see his police car parked downtown or I’d see his pretty wife in the grocery store with their little boy situated in the grocery cart, kicking his fat little legs and I’d think,
That could be me, that could be my life
. Then I’d get disgusted with myself and shut down that corner of my mind for a while. Griff wasn’t always so bad. He didn’t start drinking really hard-core until after Ben was born. And he didn’t hit me for the first time until Ben was three. I don’t even remember what it was that I had done to make him so mad, but he hit me so hard that I didn’t leave the house without sunglasses for a month. He didn’t hit me again for at least a year, but he did get smarter about it. He never hit me in a place where someone would see the marks. But even so, he could be so wonderful. So funny and sweet. And the stories he would tell about his adventures on the pipeline always made me laugh so hard. Even Lou could never make me laugh like that. If only he could stop drinking, things could be so different. No, I know Griff loves me and he’s my husband. He was my choice, just like they say, for better or worse.

I need to go and look for Ben now, with or without Louis.
I am used to Griff not being around for me. That was one thing that I could count on, Griff not being reliable. I decide I am not coming out of the forest until I have Ben for sure. I’m not confident that Calli is in the woods, but it makes sense that she would be. I will bring her home, too. Mrs. Norland tries to talk me out of leaving, but in the end places several bottles of water into my backpack and gives me a hug. As I loop the backpack through my arms and settle it onto my back I see Martin Gregory trekking his way toward Mrs. Norland’s house.

“Now what?” I wonder and I open the door to meet him halfway.

I walk Mary Ellen McIntire to the exit, open the door for her and once again the heat of the day nearly takes my breath away. I tell her that I will let her know if she can be of any assistance to the Clark and Gregory families and watch her make her way to her car. She looks defeated, broken, and I wonder if this day will ever end. I see Tucci waving me over to him and I close the door on the oppressive heat outside. “Who was the guy that was brought in a minute ago?” I ask him.

“The tall guy with white hair?” Tucci asks, but continues without waiting for my answer. “That was Charles Wilson, the counselor over at the elementary school. And guess where they picked him up at?” This time Tucci waits for my response.

“Where?” I ask, but think I already know the answer and I feel my stomach clench.

“Willow Creek Woods,” Tucci says, smacking his hand on his desk. “Says he was out walking his dog. But guess what? No dog. Park ranger noticed him roaming around Tanglefoot Trail
and called us. Bender and Washburn went out and picked him up.”

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“Nada. Nothing. He’s lawyered up. The minute the little girls were mentioned, he clammed up,” Tucci says triumphantly. Already he thinks that Wilson is the one who took the girls. Maybe so, but what about Griff?

“Do you think he would talk to me?” I ask Tucci.

“No way. He said he wanted his lawyer, right away. He’s sitting in the conference room waiting for her. We got nothing on him. His lawyer will have him out of here in the next hour.” My phone rings and I sit back in my chair to answer it.

“Louis, it’s Martin. Antonia and I were wondering if you could come over to Mrs. Norland’s home.”

I sit up straight in my chair. “Did something happen?” I ask.

“Nothing you don’t already know about. They found those footprints in Antonia’s backyard, but we want to talk to you about searching for the girls.”

“Martin, a few officers made a sweep of the woods near your home and found nothing. A larger scale search is being planned with dogs and a helicopter,” I say. I consider telling him about Charles Wilson being brought in, but decide against it. I know too little, and I don’t want to get his hopes up for nothing.

“I know. I understand you are doing what you can, but time is passing too quickly. Please come over to Mrs. Norland’s house. We need your help. Please,” Martin pleads.

“I’ll be right over, Martin. Don’t go and do anything until I get there, okay?”

“We’ll be waiting. Please hurry.”

I hang up the phone, not a little bothered that Toni hadn’t been the one to call me. I wonder what it meant. Is she losing faith in me, doubting my abilities as an officer? I hope not. There are few leads. Maybe the school counselor is the guy. Doesn’t feel right, though. Tanglefoot Trail, where he was picked up, is nowhere near the girls’ homes. We still can’t seem to locate Lucky Thompson, the college kid who works at the Mourning Glory. He hadn’t shown up for his afternoon shift at the café. So many questions. My hand rests on the phone’s receiver, and I am debating whether to call my wife. I should have checked in with her by now. I leave the police station without calling her. As I pull away, I switch my radio to F2 so that only Meg, our dispatcher, can hear me.

“Meg, this is for your information only,” I tell her.

“Go ahead,” she responds.

“I’m checking out the woods along Bobcat Trail for our missing girls. I’ll be back in contact shortly.”

“Ten-four.”