Heather Gudenkauf - The Weight of Silence

“I thought it was because of what she saw, when I lost the baby, I thought it was my fault. But it was you. You whispered something to her. What did you say? What did you say?” Toni’s words muddle together and the ferocity of them make Griff step back. Again I take aim.

“Shut up, Toni! You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Griff is trying to keep his voice low. I can see his body shake with rage. Or DT. He begins to weep himself. He leans forward so that his forehead rests on Toni’s and then presses the barrel of the gun to his temple.

“Drop your weapon!” Fitzgerald booms. He is slowly edging farther away from me. If Griff chose to shoot, he would only be able to hit one of us.

Again I take aim, but he is too close to Toni and I can’t risk the shot. In an instant, Griff moves slightly away from Toni, holding his gun toward her face, my chance. I reposition the grip on my weapon and I hear a shout and then the discharge, a loud pop that does not come from my gun. I am too late. I see both Griff and Toni collapse to the ground, both not moving.

Within seconds Fitzgerald is standing over Griff and Toni. I can’t go any closer, I feel ill and disgraced.

“Come help me, hurry up!” Fitzgerald calls to me as he tries to roll Griff off Toni. I see her arms push at Griff, trying to force him off her. She crawls out from beneath him, covering her face with her hands.

I stand above her, not equipped to comfort her, not there, not then. I call for backup and an ambulance, even though it is plain that Griff is dead. Fitzgerald is the one to kneel down beside her and whisper reassuring words to her. I don’t believe that she even knows I am here. She clutches onto Fitzgerald and will not let him go. Even as he leads her down the trail, she leans heavily on him while I stay behind to wait for the coroner and the forensic team.

Hours later I receive word that the gun that Griff was holding was not loaded. I console myself by telling myself that I was not the one to shoot him. Given the chance, though, I would have. Gladly.

CALLI

Her brother’s words wash over her, the story he is telling her. She tries to ignore the many eyes staring at her expectantly. She thinks back to that moment on top of the bluff, to when she saw him and then saw Petra.

She was bent down to pick up the necklace, Petra’s necklace. She sensed his presence before she saw him, could feel the weight of his gaze upon her. Fear, cold and black, sidled into her chest. Still bent over, she slowly raised her eyes and saw his mucky, thick-soled hiking boots that led into mud-splattered olive trousers; and this was where Calli’s gaze stilled. He was standing above her on a broad flat rock the color of sand. She saw, hanging limply, a hand, small and pale, lightly grazing the drab of his pants, level with his knee. Calli straightened, the necklace gripped in her fist, to see her friend bundled in his arms. Petra’s eyes were closed as if sleeping, an angry two-inch gash resting above her left eyebrow. A collage of purple-smudged bruises traveled along her cheek to her lips that were cracked and bloodied, down to her neck which lolled helplessly as he readjusted her in his arms. Her blue pajamas were filthy, caked with a deep-brown substance; her grungy, once-white tennis shoes were untied, the dirty laces hanging flaccid around her ankles.

“Help me,” he pleaded. “She’s hurt. I can’t get her down the bluff on my own.” He stared levelly into Calli’s eyes, his wounded voice not matching the resolve she saw in his hard eyes. She knew him.

He was perched on the highest point on the bluff, where the trees cast long, sullen shadows, and every few moments a breeze swept across his sunburned forehead, lifting his hair briefly. A deep valley, a basin of lush greens and honey-yellows, lay in a blanket far behind him. Calli’s eyes darted to Petra’s fingers, which twitched briefly.

“She’s too heavy. I have to put her down.” He carefully moved to set Petra down, resting his hand behind her head as he laid her on the altarlike rock. Once again he stood, shaking his arms free from the residual weight of Petra.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he remarked. “I could never do this on my own.” He looked at Calli, trying to read her expression. “If we hurry, we can get her down the bluff and to the hospital. She’s hurt badly. She fell,” he added as an afterthought.

The bluff on which he stood ended abruptly behind him and sloped into a steep, rough wall lined with slick green moss, and ended in a narrow, dry ravine.

“Please,” he begged, “I think she’s going to die if we don’t get her out of here.” His chin quivered and tears seemed to gather in the corners of his eyes.

Diffidently, she moved forward. Her gaze, though, never wandering from his face. He reached down a hand to help pull her to the top of the crumbling limestone; powdery bits breaking away as she tried to find a foothold for her toes. His hand, smooth and cool, enveloped hers and she felt herself being lifted, the disconcerting feeling of being suspended in air fluttered in her stomach. His grip tightened and a moment of dread swept through her. A mistake, she thought, I should have run. She helplessly tried to free her hand in a futile tug of war.

She heard it before he did. The unmistakable beating of wings, slow and deliberate, followed by a drawn-out caw, almost like laughter. She felt the rush of air on her neck as it swooped over her. It was huge, the biggest bird Calli had ever seen, so black that it almost looked bluish, its wings spread so wide it looked nearly the same size as she was. The man faltered as the great black bird skimmed his shoulder, casting a dark shadow over the look of fear and revulsion that danced across his face as he released Calli’s hand. She fell backward and struck the ground, finding herself dazed, looking up into a muted blue sky brushed in shades of pink found on the underbelly of clumps of Spring Beauty that bloomed in early spring. When she sat up and carefully looked around, she didn’t see him.

She scurried up the rock where Petra was and peered over the side to the rift below. Then Calli crawled over to Petra and she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at Calli.

“Mommy,” Petra moaned.

Calli placed a dirty hand on Petra’s forehead, nodded to her and patted her arm. She turned in every direction, looking for him. He was gone, but she had seen him before, she knew him, he had a funny name and a dog. He was out there, maybe watching her. She scuttled backward into the brush and hid.

Calli blinked her eyes and returned to the present.

“Lucky,” Calli said simply to her brother, speaking for her friend who had always spoken for her. “It was Lucky.”

BEN

Well, Calli, you did it. You finished the story and I know that wasn’t any easy thing for you to do. I am surprised that it wasn’t Dad, but that student of Mr. Gregory who ended up taking Petra into the woods and doing all those bad things to her. I wonder if Dad will ever forgive me for blaming him, but he looked so guilty and he did drag you out into the woods. I don’t know how I am going to face him. I mean, I walloped him pretty good for a twelve-year-old. Mom isn’t back yet with our stuff and I am just plain tired. But there is no sleeping for us tonight, what with the police coming in and asking you to tell the story over and over again. You do it, though. You retell that story over and over and they keep asking you over and over again if this Lucky guy did anything to you, but you say no, it was Petra, he hurt Petra.

Finally, Rose comes in and tells the police officers to beat it, that we both need a good night’s sleep. We aren’t sleeping, though, are we? We’ve decided to wait up for Mom, but she hasn’t come to us, not yet anyway. You are so excited to show her that you can talk again, you just ramble on and on, I think just to hear your own voice, to listen to what it sounds like after so many years. It surprises me, too, the way you sound. Older of course, but I don’t know, you sound smarter. No, that isn’t it. Wiser, I guess. You sound wise. And I guess you are. I ask you if you think that Dad will ever forgive me for me thinking what I did about him and for hitting him. You say, “No,” so softly I almost can’t hear you, but I do. “No,” you say, “but don’t be sorry. He wasn’t himself up there.” You stop talking for a second and then change your mind. “He was himself up there, but still don’t be sorry, you saved us.”