Weight of Silence (10 page)

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 me!” 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.

I wish Calli were here. She’d help me find the way, or at least we could be lost together.

I’m so thirsty.

Ben comes slowly down the steps. I’m struck at how much he looks like his father, and I am jealous. My boy, Tanner, looks just like his mother’s side of the family, dark and small with gray-blue eyes. Ben looks nervous, but then he always seems jittery to me, quick to startle, but nice, polite.

“Ben,” I say, “this is Agent Fitzgerald. He’s here to help find Calli and Petra.” Fitzgerald holds out his hand for Ben to shake. We all settle at the kitchen table, Toni right next to Ben. Fitzgerald and I sit across from them. Fitzgerald looks to Toni.

“Mrs. Clark, we like to interview family members separately. It sometimes allows them to speak more freely.”

“Oh, well, I think I’d rather stay here with Ben,” Toni says firmly.

“Toni, I’ll be right here. Don’t worry,” I reassure her and she reluctantly rises from her chair and leaves the room.

“Ben,” begins Fitzgerald, “how old are you?”

“Twelve,” he answers softly. Fitzgerald continues to ask Ben easy questions, keeping everything light, I know, to make Ben feel more at ease.

“Tell me about your sister, Ben,” Fitzgerald instructs.

“She’s good,” Ben says. “She never gets into my stuff, she does what I tell her to—”

“What do you tell her to do?” Fitzgerald interrupts.

“Things. Help take out the garbage, help put away the dishes, stuff like that,” Ben answers, shrugging his shoulders.

“Did you two ever argue?”

“No, it’s hard to argue with someone who doesn’t talk back.”

Fitzgerald chuckles at this. “She ever say no to you, Ben?”

“Not really. She likes to help out.”

“You two pretty close?”

“I guess. We hang out a lot together.”

“You’re what, twelve? Isn’t it unusual for boys your age to hang out with their seven-year-old little sisters?”

Ben lifts his shoulders and then drops them. “Calli doesn’t have a lot of friends so I play with her.”

“What about Petra Martin? She’s Calli’s friend, right?”

“Yeah, but she isn’t around all the time,” Ben explains.

Fitzgerald seems satisfied with his answers.

Quickly though, Fitzgerald changes his approach with Ben.

“Ben, I’ve heard some very nice things about you,” Fitzgerald says smoothly. “Your teachers, neighbors all think you are a nice boy.”

I think I know where this is going. Fitzgerald had asked me about it earlier, when looking through files. I told him it had nothing to do with this and to leave it alone.

“But,” Fitzgerald continues, “the parents of Jason Meechum
have had some concerns about you, Ben, and their son. Can you tell me about that?”

“Jason Meechum is a jerk. And a liar,” Ben says stiffly.

“Tell me about it, Ben?”

“I don’t hafta tell you anything,” Ben says petulantly.

“No, you don’t,” Fitzgerald says mildly, “but you should. You want to help Calli, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but sitting around here answering these stupid questions isn’t gonna help her.” Ben is standing now, shouting. “The only way we’re going to find her is if we go looking for her. She’s somewhere in the woods!”

“How do you know that, Ben?” Fitzgerald questions softly.

“Because, that’s where she goes. When she wants to get away or be alone, that’s where she chooses to go!” Ben shouts.

Fitzgerald says, his voice just a low whisper, “What if she didn’t have a choice?”

And Ben runs.

I hear the loud voices in the kitchen and hear the name Jason Meechum spoken. “What in God’s name was that all about?” I ask angrily as I come into the room. “What did you say to him? Do you actually believe that Ben has something to do with any of this? He’s trying to help, for God’s sake!”

I am furious. This stranger ran my son out of his own home and Louis just sat by and watched. He is looking down at his fingers now, something he has done since he was seven and knew he was in trouble. Agent Fitzgerald doesn’t look upset in the least. But of course, he wouldn’t. He just swoops into a place, creates havoc, and then picks up and leaves. I tell him so.

“I’ll go after him,” Louis offers, but I shake my head.

“He’ll be fine. I know exactly where he is going. I’ll go after him, and I’ll go look for Calli while I’m at it. Nobody else appears to be doing anything but insulting the family who is missing somebody,” I mutter.

“That’s not a good idea, Mrs. Clark,” Agent Fitzgerald informs me. “It’s not in the best interest of the investigation.”

“What about Ben?” I ask. “Who is serving his best interest? What’s all this nonsense about Jason Meechum? This has nothing to do with Calli, and I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up.” My voice is shrill and I hate the fact that I was losing control of it.

More softly, I continue. “Deputy Sheriff, I am surprised that you found it necessary to share that information with Agent Fitzgerald.” To Fitzgerald I say curtly, folding my arms in front of me, “Tell me now what it is that you think I should be doing. Then you tell me what it is you are going to do in order to find my daughter.”

Agent Fitzgerald stands and mirrors my own stance. I wonder if that was something that they taught him in agent school to put me more at ease.

“I’m sorry about upsetting your son. However, as I have said many times, we must look at all angles. Have you considered that someone may be upset with someone in your family and be taking it out on Calli? I’m not saying this is so, but we must look at all possibilities. As for Deputy Sheriff Louis, he had no idea I was going to broach the subject of Ben and Jason. Please don’t blame him.” Fitzgerald looks properly chagrined.

I shake my head in disgust. “What is this? Good cop, bad cop? I’ll stay here. You go do what you have to do to find Calli, but if you do not find her by six o’clock this evening, I’m calling everyone I know, forming my own search party and going into those woods. I know she’s in there, and I am going in after her.”

“I will not support a search after dark,” he replies. “But I understand your need to participate in searching for her. We are, at this moment, organizing a search. The key word is
organizing
. We don’t just want anybody out there stomping through the woods looking for the girls. We may bring in dogs to aid in the search and do not want the area to be compromised more than is needed. We have officers out looking now. If we need more, we will get the manpower. Everyone is doing all that they possibly can to find your daughter, Mrs. Clark.

“I will also need to speak with your son again. Getting upset and running away will not help Calli.”

“Ben would do anything for Calli,” I say through clenched teeth.

“I believe that is true, Mrs. Clark. We’ll speak soon.” Fitzgerald turns to leave.

“Wait,” I call after him. “What are you going to do now?”

“We are going to follow up some leads, interview neighbors and other individuals and we are going to search for Calli and Petra.”

“What leads? What individuals? Do you know something?” I ask desperately.

“Nothing concrete that I can share with you at this time, Mrs. Clark. Oh, and please be aware that the media will most likely be contacting you shortly. This can be a very good thing. I suggest that you say no more than that your daughter is missing. Get the girls’ pictures out there. The more people who see their faces, the more likely that they will be spotted. A crime lab team will also be here shortly to gather evidence from the home. Please stay out of Calli’s bedroom. We want to have as much evidence intact as possible. I suggest that you
stay at a family or friend’s home for the duration of this. Please let the officer know where you will be staying. We’ll talk soon, Mrs. Clark. Goodbye.”

They are gone before I can argue about not wanting to leave my house. Ben’s gone, Calli’s gone, and I am in my home all alone, except for the police officer, and I hate that feeling. I walk outside, trying to decide on whom I can impose by showing up on their doorstep. Who wants to be dragged into the middle of this mess? Maybe Mrs. Norland, our elderly neighbor. She is as close to a friend that I have anymore, even though most of our interactions are simple waves from across our yards. My eyes take in my garden, which needs weeding, and I decide to wait a bit for any news before calling Mrs. Norland. I’m not going to let a stranger run me out of my own home. I go to the shed to gather up my gardening gloves, trowel and bucket. I haven’t watered in days, but know not to do so now. The blazing sun would evaporate the droplets immediately and the plants would not be able to drink.

In the darkened shed, a knotty, peeling structure that is beginning to lean, I grab my gardening tools and notice among the cobwebs four old gallons of paint, a soft, creamy yellow. Years ago, my brothers had moved away and my father joined them soon after. The house was too lonely, he said, without my mother. After Griff and I were married, he handed me the keys to the white, peeling two-story, and wished us much happiness there. I was eighteen.

I still had wanted to live in a yellow house. I had spent hours in the hardware store, staring at paint chips, trying to decide on the perfect shade for our home. I lugged the gallons of paint home the week after the wedding; Griff smiled and said
he would get right on it. He never did. I was eighteen then. Now I’m thirty-one and still no yellow house.

I step back out into the blinding sun and scrutinize my flower beds. Where to start? They are all neglected; it has been too hot to venture out into the heat these past weeks. My vegetable garden is brimming over with overripe tomatoes and zucchini. My flower beds are filled with creeping charlie, deer-bitten blossoms and wilted stems. My eye settles on a patch of dirt just beyond my vegetable garden. I had sowed it with grass seed earlier in the summer, but it didn’t take. Instead, it appears that the plot has expanded to a stretch of soil about five feet long and three feet wide. I step over an overgrown stalk of rhubarb and examine the patch. Two perfectly shaped child’s footprints are imprinted in the dust. The toes are entirely defined. Larger prints of a man’s boots are facing the smaller marks, almost toe to toe. Then a few steps farther just the boot prints, somewhat swept over by drag marks. My stomach fills with dread. The footprints could be old, I reason, but I know better. I bend down, lightly touch the dust and rub it between my fingers. I stand quickly and run back to the house to tell an officer and to call Louis.