The Weight of Silence

Praise for Heather Gudenkauf and The Weight of Silence

“The Weight of Silence is a tense and profoundly emotional story of a parent’s worst nightmare, told with compassion and honesty. Heather Gudenkauf skillfully weaves an explosive tale of suspense and ultimately, the healing power of love.”

—Susan Wiggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Deeply moving and exquisitely lyrical, this is a powerhouse of a debut novel. Heather Gudenkauf is one of those rare writers who can tell a tale with the skill of a poet while simultaneously cranking up the suspense until it’s unbearable.”

—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of The Keepsake

“In her debut novel, Heather Gudenkauf masterfully explores the intricate dynamics of families, and the power that silence and secrets hold on them. When you begin this book, be sure you have the time to finish it because, like me, you will have to read straight through to its bittersweet conclusion.”

—Ann Hood, author of the novel The Knitting Circle and the memoir Comfort: A Journey Through Grief

“The Weight of Silence is a thoroughly enjoyable read, and kept me involved throughout. I’d especially like to congratulate Gudenkauf on her police procedures, which are spot-on; and the Deputy Sheriff, who was, to me, very believable and true to his character. Absolutely recommended.”

—Don Harstad, bestselling author

The WEIGHT of Silence

Heather Gudenkauf

For my parents, Milton and Patricia Schmida

There is no one who comes here that does not know this is a true map of the world, with you there in the center, making home for us all.

—Brian Andreas

PROLOGUE

Antonia

Louis and I see you nearly at the same time. In the woods, through the bee trees whose heavy, sweet smell will forever remind me of this day, I see flashes of your pink summer nightgown that you wore to bed last night. My chest loosens and I am shaky with relief. I scarcely notice your scratched legs, muddy knees, or the chain in your hand. I reach out to gather you in my arms, to hold you so tight, to lay my cheek on your sweaty head. I will never wish for you to speak, never silently beg you to talk. You are here. But you step past me, not seeing me, you stop at Louis’s side, and I think, You don’t even see me, it’s Louis’s deputy sheriff’s uniform, good girl, that’s the smart thing to do. Louis lowers himself toward you, and I am fastened to the look on your face. I see your lips begin to arrange themselves and I know, I know. I see the word form, the syllables hardening and sliding from your mouth with no effort. Your voice, not unsure or hoarse from lack of use but clear and bold. One word, the first in three years. In an instant I have you in my arms and I am crying, tears dropping many emotions, mostly thankfulness and relief, but tears of sorrow mixed in. I see Petra’s father crumble. Your chosen word doesn’t make sense to me. But it doesn’t matter, I don’t care. You have finally spoken.

CALLI

Calli stirred in her bed. The heat of a steamy, Iowa August morning lay thick in her room, hanging sodden and heavy about her. She had kicked off the white chenille bedspread and sheets hours earlier, her pink cotton nightgown now bunched up around her waist. No breeze was blowing through her open, screened window. The moon hung low and its milky light lay supine on her floor, a dim, inadequate lantern. She awoke, vaguely aware of movement downstairs below her. Her father preparing to go fishing. Calli heard his solid, certain steps, so different from her mother’s quick, light tread, and Ben’s hesitant stride. She sat up among the puddle of bedclothes and stuffed animals, her bladder uncomfortably full, and squeezed her legs together, trying to will the urge to use the bathroom to retreat. Her home had only one bathroom, a pink-tiled room nearly half-filled with the scratched-up white claw-foot bathtub. Calli did not want to creep down the creaky steps, past the kitchen where her father was sure to be drinking his bitter-smelling coffee and putting his tackle box in order. The pressure on her bladder increased and Calli shifted her weight, trying to think of other things. She spotted her stack of supplies for the coming second-grade school year: brightly colored pencils, still long and flat-tipped; slim, crisp-edged folders; smooth rubber-scented pink erasers; a sixty-four-count box of crayons (the supply list called for a twenty-four count box, but Mom knew that this just would not do); and four spiral-bound notebooks, each a different color.

School had always been a mixture of pleasure and pain for Calli. She loved the smell of school, the dusty smell of old books and chalk. She loved the crunch of fall leaves beneath her new shoes as she walked to the bus stop, and she loved her teachers, every single one. But Calli knew that adults would gather in school conference rooms to discuss her: principal, psychologists, speech and language clinicians, special education and regular education teachers, behavior disorder teachers, school counselors, social workers. Why won’t Calli speak? Calli knew there were many phrases used to try to describe her—mentally challenged, autistic, on the spectrum, oppositional defiant, a selective mute. She was, in fact, quite bright. She could read and understand books several grade levels above her own.

In kindergarten, Miss Monroe, her energetic, first-year teacher whose straight brown hair and booming bass voice belied her pretty sorority girl looks, thought that Calli was just shy. Calli’s name didn’t come up to the Solution-Focus Education Team until December of Calli’s kindergarten year. And that didn’t occur until the school nurse, Mrs. White, after handing Calli a clean pair of socks, underwear and sweatpants for the second time in one week, discovered an unsettling pattern in Calli’s visits to the health office.

“Didn’t you tell anyone you needed to use the restroom, Calli?” Mrs. White asked in her low, kind voice.

No response, just Calli’s usual wide-eyed, flat expression gazing back at her.

“Go on into the restroom and change your clothes, Calli,” the nurse instructed. “Make sure to wash yourself the best that you can.” Flipping through her meticulous log documenting the date and time of each child’s visit to the health office, the ailment noted in her small, tight script—sore throats, bellyaches, scratches, bee stings. Calli’s name was notated nine times since August 29, the first day of school. Next to each entry the initials UA—for Urinary Accident. Mrs. White turned to Miss Monroe, who had escorted Calli to the office.

“Michelle, this is Calli’s ninth bathroom accident this school year.” Mrs. White paused, allowing Miss Monroe to respond. Silence. “Does she go when the other kids do?”

“I don’t know,” Miss Monroe replied, her voice tumbling under the bathroom door to where Calli was stepping out of her soiled clothing. “I’m not sure. She gets plenty of chances to go…and she can always ask.”

“Well, I’m going to call her mom and recommend that she take Calli to the doctor, see if all this isn’t just a bladder infection or something else,” Mrs. White responded in her cool, efficient manner that few questioned. “Meanwhile, let her use the restroom whenever she wants, send her in anyway, even if she doesn’t need to.”

“Okay, but she can always ask.” Miss Monroe turned and retreated.

Calli silently stepped from the office restroom garbed in a dry pair of pink sweatpants that pooled around her feet and sagged at her rear. In one hand she held a plastic grocery sack that contained her soaked Strawberry Shortcake underwear, jeans, socks and pink-and-white tennis shoes. The index finger of her other hand absently twirled her chestnut-colored hair.

Mrs. White bent down to Calli’s eye level. “Do you have gym shoes to put on, Calli?”

Calli looked down at her toes, now clad in dingy, office-issued athletic socks so worn she could see the peachy flesh of her big toe and the Vamp Red nail polish her mother had dabbed on each pearly toenail the night before.

“Calli,” Mrs. White repeated, “do you have gym shoes to put on?”

Calli regarded Mrs. White, pursed her thin lips together and nodded her head.

“Okay, Calli,” Mrs. White’s voice took on a tender tone. “Go put on your shoes and put the bag in your book bag. I’m going to call your mother. Now, you’re not in trouble. I see you’ve had several accidents this year. I just want your mom to be aware, okay?”

Mrs. White carefully searched Calli’s winter-kissed face. Calli’s attention was then drawn to the vision eye chart and its ever-shrinking letters on the wall of the institutional-white health office.

After the Solution-Focus Team of educators met and tested Calli and reviewed the data, there appeared to be nothing physically wrong with her. Options were discussed and debated, and after several weeks it was decided to teach her the American Sign Language sign for bathroom and other key words, have her meet weekly with the school counselor, and patiently wait for Calli to speak. They continued to wait.

Calli climbed out of bed, carefully picked up each of her new school supplies and laid out the items on her small pine desk as she planned to in her new desk in her classroom on the first day of second grade. Big things on the bottom, small things on top, pencils and pens stowed neatly away in her new green pencil case.

The need to urinate became an ache, and she considered relieving herself in her white plastic trash can beside her desk, but knew she would not be able to clean it without her mother or Ben noticing. If her mother found a pool of pee in her wastebasket, Calli knew she would fret endlessly as to what was going on inside her head. Never-ending yes-no questions would follow. Was someone in the bathroom and you couldn’t wait? Were you playing a game with Petra? Are you mad at me, Calli? She also considered climbing out her second-story window down the trellis, now tangled with white moonflowers as big as her hand. She discounted this idea, as well. She wasn’t sure how to remove the screen, and if her mother caught her midclimb she would be of a mind to nail Calli’s window shut and Calli loved having her window open at night. On rainy evenings Calli would press her nose to the screen, feel the bounce of raindrops against her cheeks, and smell the dusty sunburned grass as it swallowed the newly fallen rain. Calli did not want her mother to worry more than she did not want to have her father’s attention drawn to her as she made her way down the stairs to use the bathroom.

Calli slowly opened her bedroom door and peeked around the door. She stepped cautiously out of her room and into the short hallway where it was darker, the air staler and weightier. Directly across from Calli’s room was Ben’s room, a twin of her own, whose window faced the backyard and Willow Creek Woods. Ben’s door was shut, as was her parents’ bedroom door. Calli paused at the top of the steps, straining to hear her father’s movements. Silence. Maybe he had left for his fishing trip already. Calli was hopeful. Her father was leaving with his friend Roger to go fishing at the far eastern edge of the county, along the Mississippi River, some eighty miles away. Roger was picking him up that morning and they would be gone for three days. Calli felt a twinge of guilt in wishing her father away, but life was so much more peaceful with just the three of them.

Each morning that he was sitting in the kitchen brought a different man to them. Some days he was happy, and he would set her on his lap and rub his scratchy red whiskers on her cheek to make her smile. He would kiss Mom and hand her a cup of coffee and he would invite Ben to go into town with him. On these days her daddy would talk in endless streams, his voice light and full of something close to tenderness. Some days he would be at the scarred kitchen table with his forehead in his hands, empty beer cans tossed carelessly in the sink and on the brown-speckled laminate countertops. On these days Calli would tiptoe through the kitchen and quietly close the screen door behind her and then dash into the Willow Creek Woods to play along the creek bed or on the limbs of fallen trees. Periodically, Calli would return to the edge of their meadow to see if her father’s truck had gone. If it was missing, Calli would return home where the beer cans had been removed and the yeasty, sweaty smell of her father’s binge had been scrubbed away. If the truck remained, Calli would retreat to the woods until hunger or the day’s heat forced her home.

More silence. Encouraged that he was gone, Calli descended the stairs, carefully stepping over the fourth step that creaked. The bulb from above the kitchen stove cast a ghostly light that spilled onto the bottom of the stairs. She just needed to take two large steps past the kitchen entry and she would be at the bathroom. Calli, at the bottom step, her toes curled over the edge, squeezed the hardwood tightly, pulled her nightgown to above her knees to make possible a bigger step. One step, a furtive glance into the kitchen. No one there. Another step, past the kitchen, her hand on the cool metal doorknob of the bathroom, twisting.

“Calli!” a gruff whisper called out. Callie stilled. “Calli! Come out here!”

Calli’s hand dropped from the doorknob and she turned to follow the low sound of her father’s voice. The kitchen was empty, but the screen door was open, and she saw the outline of his wide shoulders in the dim early morning. He was sitting on the low concrete step outside, a fog of cigarette smoke and hot coffee intermingling and rising above his head.

“Come out here, Calli-girl. What’cha doing up so early?” he asked, not unkindly. Calli pushed open the screen door, careful not to run the door into his back; she squeezed through the opening and stood next to her father.

“Why ya up, Calli, bad dream?” Griff looked up at her from where he was sitting, a look of genuine concern on his face.

She shook her head no and made the sign for bathroom, the need for which had momentarily fled.

“What’s that? Can’t hear ya.” He laughed. “Speak a little louder. Oh, yeah, you don’t talk.” And at that moment his face shifted into a sneer. “You gotta use the sign language.” He abruptly stood and twisted his hands and arms in a grotesque mockery of Calli. “Can’t talk like a normal kid, got be all dumb like some kind of retard!” Griff’s voice was rising.

Calli’s eyes slid to the ground where a dozen or so crushed beer cans littered the ground and the need to pee returned full force. She glanced up to her mother’s bedroom window; the curtains still, no comforting face looked down on her.

“Can’t talk, huh? Bullshit! You talked before. You used to say, ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ ’specially when you wanted something. Now I got a stupid retard for a daughter. Probably you’re not even mine. You got that deputy sheriff’s eyes.” He bent down, his gray-green eyes peered into hers and she squeezed them tightly shut.

In the distance she heard tires on gravel, the sharp crunch and pop of someone approaching. Roger. Calli opened her eyes as Roger’s four-wheel-drive truck came down the lane and pulled up next to them.

“Hey, there. Mornin’, you two. How are you doing, Miss Calli?” Roger tipped his chin to Calli, not really looking at her, not expecting a response. “Ready to go fishing, Griff?”

Roger Hogan was Griff’s best friend from high school. He was short and wide, his great stomach spilling over his pants. A foreman at the local meat packing plant, he begged Griff every time he came home from the pipeline to stay home for good. He could get Griff in at the factory, too. “It’d be just like old times,” he’d add.

“Morning, Rog,” Griff remarked, his voice cheerful, his eyes mean slits. “I’m goin’ to have you drive on ahead without me, Roger. Calli had a bad dream. I’m just going to sit here with her awhile until she feels better, make sure she gets off to sleep again.”

“Aw, Griff,” whined Roger. “Can’t her mother do that? We’ve been planning this for months.”

“No, no. A girl needs her daddy, don’t she, Calli? A daddy she can rely on to help her through those tough times. Her daddy should be there for her, don’t you think, Rog? So Calli’s gonna spend some time with her good ol’ daddy, whether she wants to or not. But you want to, don’t you, Calli?”

Calli’s stomach wrenched tighter with each of her father’s utterances of the word daddy. She longed to run into the house and wake up her mother, but while Griff spewed hate from his mouth toward Calli when he’d been drinking, he’d never actually really hurt her. Ben, yes. Mom, yes. Not Calli.

“I’ll just throw my stuff in your truck, Rog, and meet up with you at the cabin this afternoon. There’ll be plenty of good fishing tonight, and I’ll pick up some more beer for us on the way.” Griff picked up his green duffel and tossed it into the back of the truck. More carefully he laid his fishing gear, poles and tackle into the bed of the truck. “I’ll see ya soon, Roger.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later then.You sure you can find the way?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. I’ll be there. You can get a head start on catching those fish. You’re gonna need it, ’cause I’m going to whip your butt!”

“We’ll just see about that!” Roger guffawed and squealed away.

Griff made his way back to where Calli was standing, her arms wrapped around herself despite the heat.

“Now how about a little bit of daddy time, Calli? The deputy sheriff don’t live too far from here, now, does he? Just through the woods there, huh?” Her father grabbed her by the arm and her bladder released, sending a steady stream of urine down her leg as he pulled her toward the woods.

PETRA

I can’t sleep, again. It’s too hot, my necklace is sticking to my neck. I’m sitting on the floor in front of the electric fan, and the cool air feels good against my face. Very quiet I am talking into the fan so I can hear the buzzy, low voice it blows back at me. “I am Petra, Princess of the World,” I say. I hear something outside my window and for a minute I am scared and want to go wake up Mom and Dad. I crawl across my carpet on my hands, the rug rubbing against my knees all rough. I peek out the window and in the dark I think I see someone looking up at me, big and scary. Then I see something smaller at his side. Oh, I’m not scared anymore. I know them. I think, “Wait, I’m coming, too!” For a second I think I shouldn’t go. But there is a grown-up out there, too. Mom and Dad can’t get mad at me if there’s a grown-up. I pull on my tennis shoes and sneak out of my room. I’ll just go say hi, and come right back in.

CALLI

Calli and her father had been walking for a while now, but Calli knew exactly where they were and where they were not within the sprawling woods. They were near Beggar’s Bluff Trail, where pink-tipped turtleheads grew in among the ferns and rushes and where Calli would often see sleek, beautiful horses carrying their owners gracefully through the forest. Calli wished that a cinnamon-colored mare or a black-splotched Appaloosa would crash from the trees, startling her father back to his senses. But it was Thursday and Calli rarely encountered another person on the trails near her home during the week. There was a slight chance that they would run into a park ranger, but the rangers had over thirty miles of trails to monitor and maintain. Calli knew she was on her own and resigned herself to being dragged through the forest with her father. They were nowhere near Deputy Sheriff Louis’s home. Calli could not decide whether this was a good thing or not. Bad because her father showed no indication of giving up his search and Calli’s bare feet were scratched from being pulled across rocky, uneven paths. Good because if they ever did get to Deputy Louis’s home her father would say unforgivable things and then Louis would, in his calm low voice, try to quiet him and then call Calli’s mother. His wife would be standing in the doorway behind him, her arms crossed, eyes darting furtively around to see who was watching the spectacle.

Her father did not look well. His face was white, the color of bloodroot, the delicate early spring flower that her mother showed to her on their walks in the woods, his coppery hair the color of the red sap from its broken roots. Periodically stumbling over an exposed root, he continued to clutch Calli’s arm, all the time muttering under his breath. Calli was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to bolt, to run back home to her mother.

They were approaching a clearing named Willow Wallow. Arranged in a perfect half-moon adjacent to the creek was an arc of seven weeping willows. It was said that the seven willows were brought to the area by a French settler, a friend of Napoleon Bonaparte, the willows a gift from the great general, the wispy trees being his favorite.

Calli’s mother was the kind of mother who would climb trees with her children and sit among the branches, telling them stories about her great-great-grandparents who immigrated to the United States from Czechoslovakia in the 1800s. She would pack the three of them a lunch of peanut butter fluff sandwiches and apples and they would walk down to Willow Creek. They would hop across the slick, moss-covered rocks that dotted the width of the creek. Antonia would lay an old blanket under the long, lacy branches of a willow tree and they would crawl into its shade, ropy tendrils surrounding them like a cloak. There the willows would become huts on a deserted island; Ben, back when he had time for them, was the brave sailor; Calli, his dependable first mate; Antonia, the pirate chasing them, calling out with a bad cockney accent. “Ya landlubbers, surrender an’ ya won’ haf to walk da plank!”

“Never!” Ben yelled back. “You’ll have to feed us to the sharks before we surrender to the likes of you, Barnacle Bart!”

“So be it! Prepare ta swim wid da fishes!” Antonia bellowed, flourishing a stick.

“Run, Calli!” Ben screeched and Calli would. Her long pale legs shadowed with bruises from climbing trees and skirting fences, Calli would run until Antonia would double over, hands on her knees.

“Truce, truce!” Antonia would beg. The three of them would retreat to their willow hut and rest, sipping soda as the sweat cooled on their necks. Antonia’s laugh bubbled up from low in her chest, unfettered and joyous. She would toss her head back and close eyes that were just beginning to show the creases of age and disappointment. When Antonia laughed, those around her did, too, except for Calli. Calli hadn’t laughed for a long time. She smiled her sweet, close-lipped grin, but an actual giggle, which once was emitted freely and sounded of chimes, never came, though she knew her mother waited expectantly.

Antonia was the kind of mother who let you eat sugar cereal for Sunday supper and pizza for breakfast. She was the kind of mom who, on rainy nights, would declare it Spa

Night and in a French accent welcome you to Toni’s House of Beauty. She would fill the old claw-foot bathtub full of warm, lilac-scented bubbles and then, after rubbing you dry with an oversize white towel, would paint your toenails Wicked Red, or mousse and gel your hair until it stood at attention in three-inch spikes.

Griff, on the other hand, was the kind of father who drank Bud Light for breakfast and dragged his seven-year-old daughter through the forest in a drunken search for his version of the truth. The sun beginning to rise, Griff sat the two of them down beneath one of the willow trees to rest.

MARTIN

I can feel Fielda’s face against my back, her arm wrapped around my ever-growing middle. It’s too hot to lie in this manner, but I don’t nudge her away from me. Even if I was in Dante’s Inferno, I could not push Fielda away from me. We have only been apart two instances since our marriage fourteen years ago and both times seemed too much for me to bear. The second time that Fielda and I were apart I do not speak about. The first separation was nine months after our wedding and I went to a conference on economics at the University of Chicago. I remember lying in the hotel on my lumpy bed with its stiff, scratchy comforter, wishing for Fielda. I felt weightless without her there, that without her arm thrown carelessly over me in sleep, I could just float away like milkweed on a random wind. After that lonely night I forewent the rest of my seminars and came home.

Fielda laughed at me for being homesick, but I know she was secretly pleased. She came to me late in my life, a young, brassy girl of eighteen. I was forty-two and wed to my job as a professor of economics at St. Gilianus College, a private college with an enrollment of twelve hundred students in Willow Creek. No, she was not a student; many have asked this question with a light, accusatory tone. I met Fielda Mourning when she was a waitress at her family’s café, Mourning Glory. On my way to the college each day I would stop in at the Mourning Glory for a cup of coffee and a muffin and to read my newspaper in a sun-drenched corner of the café. I remember Fielda, in those days, as being very solicitous and gracious to me, the coffee, piping hot, and the muffin sliced in half with sweet butter on the side. I must admit, I took this considerate service for granted, believing that Fielda treated all her patrons in this manner. It was not until one wintry morning, about a year after I started coming to the Mourning Glory, that Fielda stomped up to me, one hand on her ample hip, the other hand holding my cup of coffee.

“What,” Fielda shrilly aimed at me, “does a girl have to do in order to get your attention?” She banged the cup down in front of me, my glasses leaping on my nose in surprise, coffee sloshing all over the table.

Before I could splutter a response, she had retreated and then reappeared, this time with my muffin that she promptly tossed at me. It bounced off my chest, flaky crumbs of orange poppy seed clinging to my tie. Fielda ran from the café and her mother, a softer, more care-worn version of Fielda, sauntered up to me. Rolling her eyes heavenward, she sighed. “Go on out there and talk to her, Mr. Gregory. She’s been pining over you for months. Either put her out of her misery or ask her to marry you. I need to get some sleep at night.”

I did go out after Fielda and we were married a month later.

Lying there in our bed, the August morning already sweeping my skin with its prickly heat, I twist around, find Fielda’s slack cheek in the darkness and kiss it. I slide out of bed and out of the room. I stop at Petra’s door. It is slightly open and I can hear the whir of her fan. I gently push the door forward and step into her room, a place so full of little girl whimsy that it never fails to make me pause. The carefully arranged collections of pinecones, acorns, leaves, feathers and rocks all expertly excavated from our backyard at the edge of Willow Creek Woods. The baby dolls, stuffed dogs and bears all tucked lovingly under blankets fashioned from washcloths and arranged around her sleeping form. The little girl perfume, a combination of lavender-scented shampoo, green grass and perspiration that holds only the enzymes of the innocent, overwhelms me every time I cross this threshold. My eyes begin to adjust to the dark and I see that Petra is not in her bed. I am not alarmed; Petra often has bouts of insomnia and skulks downstairs to the living room to watch television.

I, too, go downstairs, but very quickly I know that Petra is not watching television. The house is quiet, no droning voices or canned laughter. I walk briskly through each room, switching on lights, the living room—no Petra. The dining room, the kitchen, the bathroom, my office—no Petra. Back through the kitchen down to the basement—no Petra. Rushing up the stairs to Fielda, I shake her awake.

“Petra’s not in her bed,” I gasp.

Fielda leaps from the bed and retraces the path I just followed, no Petra. I hurry out the back door and circle the house once, twice, three times. No Petra. Fielda and I meet back in the kitchen, and we look at one another helplessly. Fielda stifles a moan and dials the police.

We quickly pulled on clothes in order to make ourselves presentable to receive Deputy Sheriff Louis. Fielda continues to wander through each of the rooms, checking for Petra, looking through closets and under the stairs. “Maybe she went over to Calli’s house,” she says.

“At this time of the morning?” I ask. “What would possess her to do that? Maybe she was too hot and went outside to cool off and she lost track of time,” I add. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous. She is not in this house!” I say, louder than I should have. Fielda’s face crumples and I go to her. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, though her constant movement is making me nervous. “We’ll go make coffee for when he arrives.”

“Coffee? Coffee?” Fielda’s voice is shrill and she is looking at me incredulously. “Let’s just brew up some coffee so we can sit down and discuss how our daughter has disappeared. Disappeared right from her bedroom in the middle of the night! Would you like me to make him breakfast, too? Eggs over easy? Or maybe waffles. Martin, our child is missing. Missing!” Her tirade ends in whimpers and I pat her on the back. I am no consolation to her, I know.

There is a rap at the front door and we both look to see Deputy Sheriff Louis, tall and rangy, his blond hair falling into his serious blue eyes. We invite him into our home, this man almost half my age, closer to Fielda’s own, and sit him on our sofa.

“When did you see Petra last?” he asks us. I reach for Fielda’s hand and tell him all that we know.

ANTONIA

I am being lifted from my sleep by the low rumble of what I think at first is thunder and I smile, my eyes still closed. A rainstorm, cool, plump drops. I think that maybe I should wake Calli and Ben. They both would love to go stomp around in the rain, to rinse away this dry, hot summer, if just for a few moments. I reach my hand over to Griff’s side of the bed, empty and cooler than mine. It’s Thursday, the fishing trip. Griff went fishing with Roger, no thunder, a truck? I roll over to Griff’s side, absorb the brief coolness of the sheets and try to sleep, but continuous pounding, a solid banging on the front door, is sending vibrations through the floorboards. I swing my legs out of bed, irritated. It’s only six o’clock, for Christ’s sake. I pull on the shorts that I had dropped on the floor the night before and run my fingers through my bed-mussed hair. As I make my way through the hallway I see that Ben’s door is tightly shut, as it normally is. Ben’s room is his private fortress; I don’t even try to go in there anymore. The only people he invites in are his school friends and his sister, Calli. This is surprising to me. I grew up in a family of four brothers and they let me enter their domain only when I forced my way in.

My whole life has been circled by males; my brothers, my father, Louis and of course, Griff. Most of my friends in school were boys. My mother died when I was seventeen and even before that she hovered on the edge of our ring. I wish I had paid more attention to the way she did things. I have misty-edged memories of the way she sat, always in skirts, one leg crossed over the other, her brown hair pulled back in an elegant chignon. My mother could not get me into a dress, interested in makeup or sitting like a lady, but she insisted that I keep my hair long. I rebelled by putting my hair back in a ponytail and cramming a baseball hat on top of my head. I wish I had watched closely to the way she would carefully paint lipstick on her lips and spray just the right amount of perfume on her wrists. I remember her leaning in close to my father and whispering in his ear, making him smile, the way she could calm him with just a manicured hand on his arm. My own silent little girl is even more of a mystery to me, the way she likes her hair combed smooth after a bath, the joy she has in inspecting her nails after I have inexpertly painted them. Having a little girl has been like following an old treasure map with the important paths torn away. These days I sit and watch her carefully, studying her each movement and gesture. At least when she was speaking she could tell me what she wanted or needed; now I guess and falter and hope for the best. I go on as if there is nothing wrong with my Calli, as if she is a typical seven-year-old, that strangers do not discuss her in school offices, that neighbors don’t whisper behind their hands about the odd Clark girl.

The door to Calli’s room is open slightly, but the banging on the door is more insistent so I hurry down the steps, the warped wood creaking under my bare feet. I unlock the heavy oak front door to find Louis and Martin Gregory, Petra’s father, standing before me. The last time Louis was in my home was three years earlier, though I remember little of it, as I was lying nearly unconscious on my sofa after falling down the flight of stairs.

“Hi,” I say uncertainly, “what’s going on?”

“Toni,” begins Louis, “is Petra here?”

“No,” I reply and look at Martin. His face falls for a moment and then he raises his chin.

“May we speak with Calli? Petra seems to be…” Martin hesitates. “We can’t find Petra right now and thought that Calli could tell us where she might be.”

“Oh, my goodness, of course. Please come in.” I show them into our living room, now conscious of the scattering of beer cans on the coffee table. I quickly gather them and scurry to the kitchen to throw them away.

“I’ll just go and wake Calli up.” I take the stairs two at a time, my stomach sick for Martin and Fielda. I am calling, “Calli. Calli, get up, honey, I need to talk to you!” When I reach the hall, Ben opens his door. He is shirtless and I notice that his red hair needs trimming.

“Morning, Benny, they can’t find Petra.” I continue past him to Calli’s door and I push it open. Her bed is rumpled and her sock monkey lies on the floor, its smiling face turned toward me. I stop, puzzled, and then turn. “Ben, where’s Calli?”

He shrugs and retreats to his room. I quickly check the guestroom, my bedroom, Ben’s room. I rush down the stairs. “She’s gone, too!” I run past Louis and Martin, down our rickety basement steps, flipping on the light as I scurry downward, the cool dampness of our concrete basement sweeping over me. Only cobwebs and boxes. Our old, empty deep freeze. My heart skips a beat. You hear about this, children playing hide-and-seek in old refrigerators and freezers, not being able to get out once they are in. I told Griff time and again to get rid of the old thing. But he never did, I never did. Quickly I run over to the freezer and fling open the lid and a stale smell hits me. It’s empty. I try to regulate my breathing and I turn back to the steps. I see Martin and Louis waiting for me at the top. I sprint up the steps, past them and out the back door. I scan our wide backyard and run to the edge of the woods, peering into the shadowy trees. Winded, I make my way back to my home. Louis and Martin are waiting for me behind the screen door. “She’s not here.”

Louis’s face is stony, but Martin’s falls in disappointment.

“Well, they are most likely together and went off playing somewhere. Can you think of where they may have gone?” Louis inquires.

“The park? The school, maybe. But this early? What is it? Six o’clock?” I ask.

“Petra has been gone since at least four-thirty,” Martin says matter-of-factly. “Where would they go at such an early hour?”

“I don’t know, it doesn’t make sense,” I say. Louis asks me if he can have a look around, and I watch, following at his heels as he walks purposefully around my home, peeking in closets and under beds. She is not here.

“I’ve called in the information about Petra to all the officers. They’re already looking around town for her,” Louis explains. “It doesn’t appear that the girls were…” He pauses. “That the girls met any harm. I suggest you go look around for them in the places they usually go.” Martin looks uncertain about this plan, but nods his head and I do, too.

“Toni, Griff’s truck is outside. Is he here? Would he be able to tell us where the girls could be?”

Louis, in his kind way, is asking me if Griff is coherent this morning or if he is passed out in our bed from a night of drinking. “Griff’s not here. He went fishing with Roger this morning. He was going to leave at about three-thirty or so.”

“Could he have taken the girls fishing with him?” Martin asks hopefully.

“No,” I laugh. “The last thing Griff would do is take a couple of little girls on his big fishing trip. He’s not supposed to be back until Saturday. I’m positive the girls did not go fishing with him.”

“I don’t know, Toni. Maybe he did decide to take the girls with him. Maybe he left a note.”

“No, Louis. I’m sure he wouldn’t have done that.” I am beginning to become irritated with him.

“Okay, then,” Louis says. “We’ll talk again in one hour. If the girls aren’t found by then, we’ll make a different plan.”

I hear a rustle of movement and turn to see Ben sitting on the steps. At a quick glance he could be mistaken for Griff, with his broad shoulders and strawberry hair. Except for the eyes. Ben has soft, quiet eyes.

“Ben,” I say, “Calli and Petra went off somewhere and we need to find them. Where could they have gone?”

“The woods,” he says simply. “I’m going to go do my paper route. Then I’ll go look for them.”

“I’ll call to have some officers check out the woods near the backyard. One hour,” Louis says again. “We’ll talk in one hour.”

BEN

This morning I woke up real fast, my heart slamming against my chest. I was dreaming that stupid dream again. The one when you and me are climbing the old walnut tree in the woods. The one by Lone Tree Bridge. I’m boosting you up like I always do and you’re reaching up for a branch, your nail-bitten fingers white from holding on so tight. I’m crabbing at you to hurry up because I don’t have all day. You’re up and I’m watching from below. The climb is easier for you now; the branches are closer together, fat sturdy ones. You’re going higher and higher until I can only see your bony knees, then just your tennis shoes. I’m hollering up at you, “You’re too high, Calli, come back down! You’re gonna fall!” Then you’re gone. I can’t see you anymore. And I’m thinking, I am in so much trouble. Then I hear a voice calling down to me, “Climb on up, Ben! You gotta see this! Come on, Ben, come on!”

And I know it’s you yelling, even though I don’t know what you really sound like anymore. You keep yelling and yelling, and I can’t climb. I want to, but I can’t grab on to the lowest branch, it’s too high. I call back, “Wait for me! Wait for me! What do you see, Calli?” Then I woke up, all sweaty. But not the hot kind of sweaty, the cold kind that makes your head hurt and your stomach knot all up. I tried to go back to sleep, but I couldn’t.

Now you’ve gone off somewhere and somehow I feel guilty, like it’s my fault. You’re okay for a little sister, but a big responsibility. I always have to look after you. Do you remember when I was ten and you were five? Mom had us walk to the bus stop together. She said, “Look after Calli, Ben.” And I said okay, but I didn’t, not really, not at first.

I was starting fifth grade and I was much too cool to be babysitting a kindergartener. I held your hand to the end of our lane, just to the spot where Mom couldn’t see us from the kitchen window anymore. Then I shook my hand free from yours and ran as fast as I could to where the bus would pick us up. I made sure to look back and to check to see if you were still coming. I have to give you credit, your skinny kindergarten legs were running and your brand-new pink backpack was bouncing on your shoulders, but you couldn’t keep up. You tripped over that big old crack in the gutter in front of the Olson house, and you went crashing down.

I almost came back for you, I really did. But along came Raymond and I didn’t come back to you, I just didn’t. When you finally got to the bus stop, the bus was just pulling up and your knee was all bloody and the purple barrette that Mom put in your hair was dangling from one little piece of your hair. You budged right in front of all the kids in line for the bus to stand next to me and I pretended you weren’t even there. When we climbed on the bus, I sat down with Raymond. You just stood in the aisle, waiting for me to scootch over and make room for you, but I turned my back on you to talk to Raymond. The kids behind you started yelling, “hurry up” and “sit down,” so you finally slid into the seat across from me and Raymond. You were all nudged up to the window, your legs too short to reach the floor, a little river of blood running down your shin. You wouldn’t even look at me for the rest of the night. Even after supper, when I offered to tell you a story, you just shrugged your shoulders at me and left me sitting at the kitchen table all by myself.

I know I was pretty rotten to you that day, but on a guy’s first day of fifth grade first impressions are really important. I tried to make it up to you. In case you didn’t know, I was the one who put the Tootsie Rolls under your pillow that night. I’m sorry, not watching out for you those first few weeks of school. But you know all about that, being sorry and having no words to say something when you know you should but you just can’t.

CALLI

Griff sat with his back propped up against one of the aged willows, his head lolled forward, eyes closed, his powerful fingers still wrapped around Calli’s wrist. Calli squirmed uncomfortably on the hard, uneven ground beneath the willow. The stench of urine pricked at her nose and a wave of shame washed over her. She should run now, she thought. She was fast and knew every twist and turn of the woods; she could easily lose her father. She slowly tried to pull her arm from his clawlike clasp, but in his light sleep he grasped her even tighter. Calli’s shoulders slumped and she settled back against her side of the tree.

She liked to imagine what it would be like to stay out in the woods with no supplies, what her brother called “roughin’ it.” Ben knew everything about the Willow Creek Woods. He knew that the woods were over fourteen thousand acres big and extended into two counties. He told her that the forest was made up mostly of limestone and sandstone and was a part of the Paleozoic Plateau, which meant that glaciers had never moved through their part of Iowa. He also showed her where to find the red-shouldered hawk, an endangered bird that not even Ranger Phelps had seen before. She had only been out here a few hours and it was enough for her. Normally the woods were her favorite place to go, a quiet spot where she could think, wander and explore. She and Ben often pretended to set up camp here in Willow Wallow. Ben would lug a thermos of water and Calli would carry the snacks, bags of salty chips and thick ropes of licorice for them to munch on. Ben would arrange sticks and brushwood into a large circular pile and surround them with stones for their bonfire. They never actually lit a fire, but it was fun to pretend. They would stick marshmallows on the end of green twigs and “roast” them over their fire. Ben used to pull out his pocketknife and try to whittle utensils out of thin branches he would find on the ground. He had carved out two spoons and a fork before the blade had slipped and he sliced his hand, needing six stitches. Their mother had taken the knife away after that, saying he could have it back in a few years. Ben handed it over grudgingly. Lately, instead of carving out the silverware, she and Ben smuggled dishes and tableware from their own kitchen. Under the largest of the willows Ben had constructed a small little cupboard out of old boards and hammered it to the tree. They kept their household goods there. Once, trying to plan ahead, they had placed a box of crackers and a package of cookies on the shelf. When they returned a few days later, they found that something had been there before them, probably a raccoon, but Ben said, in a teasing voice, it also could have been a bear. Calli hadn’t really believed that, but it was fun to pretend that a mama bear was out there somewhere, feeding her cubs Chips Ahoy cookies and Wheat Thins.

She wondered if her mother had noticed that she was gone yet, wondered if she was worried about her, looking for her. Calli’s stomach rumbled and she hastily placed her free hand over it, willing it to silence. Maybe there was something to eat in the cupboard two trees over. Griff snorted, his eyes fluttered open and he settled his gaze on Calli’s face.

“You reek,” he said meanly, unaware of his own smell, a combination of liquor, perspiration and onions. “Come on, let’s get going. We’ve got a family reunion to attend. Which way do we go?”

Calli considered this. She could lie, lead him deeper into the forest, and then make a break for it when she had the chance, or she could show him the correct route and get it over with. The second choice prevailed. She was already hungry and tired, and she wanted to go home. She pointed a thin, grubby finger back the way they had come.

“Get up,” Griff commanded.

Calli scrambled to her feet, Griff let go of her arm and Calli tried to shake out the numbness that had snaked into her fingers. They walked in a strange sort of tandem, Griff directly behind her, his hand on her shoulder; Calli slumped slightly under the weight of his meaty hand. Calli led the two of them out of Willow Wallow about one hundred yards, to the beginning of a narrow winding trail called Broadleaf. Calli always knew if someone or something had been walking the trails before her. During the night spiders would knit their webs across the trails from limb to limb. When the morning sun was just right, Calli could see the delicate threads, a minute, fragile barrier to the inner workings of the forest. “Keep out,” it whispered. She would always skirt the woven curtain, trying not to disturb the netting. If the web dangled in wispy threads Calli knew that something had been there before her, and if closer inspection revealed the footprints of a human, she would retreat and wind her way back to another trail. Calli liked the idea that she could be the only person around for miles. That the white-speckled ground squirrel that sat on an old rotted tree branch, wringing his paws, would be seeing a human for the first time. That this sad-eyed creature before it didn’t quite belong, but didn’t disturb its world, either. Today she carefully stepped around a red maple, the breeze of her movements causing the web to sway precariously for a moment, and then settle.

A flash of movement to the right surprised them both. A large dog with golden-red fur sniffed its way past them, snuffling at their feet. Calli reached out to stroke its back, but it swiftly moved onward, a long red leash dragging behind it.

“Jesus!” Griff exclaimed, clutching his chest. “Bout scared me to death. Let’s go.”

Only one animal had ever frightened Calli in her past explorations of the woods. The soot-colored crow, with its slick, oily feathers, perched in crooked maples, its harassed caw overriding the hushed murmurs of the forest. Calli imagined a coven of crows peering down at her from leafy hiding spots with eyes as bright and cold as ball bearings, watching, considering. The birds would seem to follow her from a distance in noisy, low swoops. Calli looked above her. No crows, but she did spy a lone gray-feathered nuthatch walking down the trunk of a tree in search of insects.

“You sure we’re going the right way?” Griff stopped, inspecting his surroundings carefully. His words sounded clearer, less slurred.

Calli nodded. They walked for about ten more minutes, and then Calli led him off Broadleaf Trail, where brambles and sticky walnut husks were thick. Calli examined the ground in front of her for poison ivy, found none and continued forward and upward, wincing with each step. Suddenly the thicket of trees ended and they were on the outskirts of Louis’s backyard. The grass was wet with dew and overgrown; a littering of baseball bats, gloves and other toys surrounded a small swing set. A green van sat in the driveway next to the brown-sided ranch-style home. All was still except for the honeybees buzzing around a wilted cluster of Shasta daisies. The home seemed to be slumbering.

Griff looked uncertain as to what to do next. His hands shook slightly on Calli’s shoulder; she could feel the slight tattoo of movement through her nightgown.

“Told you I’d take you to see where your daddy was. Just think, you could be living here in this fine home.” Griff guffawed and rubbed his hand over his bloodshot eyes. “Do you think we should stop in and say good morning?” Much of his earlier bluster was fading away.

Calli shook her head miserably.

“Let’s go now, I got a headache.” He roughly yanked at Calli’s arm when the slam of a screen door stopped him.

A woman, barefoot, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, stepped out of the house with a cordless phone pressed against her ear. Her voice was high and shrill. “Sure, you go running out when she needs you, when her precious little girl goes missing!”

Griff went still, Calli stepped forward to hear more clearly, and Griff pulled her back. Calli recognized the woman as Louis’s wife, Christine. “I don’t care that there are two girls missing. It’s her daughter that is missing and that’s all that matters to you!” Christine bitterly spat. “When Antonia calls, you go running and you know it!” Again the woman fell silent, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Whatever, Louis. Do what you have to do, but don’t expect me to be happy about it!” The woman jerked the phone from her ear and violently pushed a button, ending the call. She cocked her arm as if to throw the phone into the bushes, but paused for a moment. “Dammit,” she snapped, then lowered her arm and brought the phone back down to her side. “Dammit!” she repeated before opening the screen door and entering her home again, letting the door bang behind her.

“Huh,” Griff snorted. He looked at Calli. “So, you’ve gone missing? I wonder who took ya.” He laughed, “Oooh, I’m a big, bad kidnapper. Christ. Let’s go. Your mother is going to hit the roof when we get home.”

Calli let herself be led back into the shade of the trees and immediately the air around her cooled. Her mother knew she was missing, but she must not have known that she was with her father. But who was the other little girl who was missing? Calli squeezed back tears, wanting to get to her mother, to shed her pee-covered nightgown, to wash and bandage her bleeding feet, to crawl into her bed and bury herself under the covers.

MARTIN

I have visited all the places that Petra loves: the library, the school, the bakery, Kerstin’s house, Ryan’s house, Wycliff Pool, and here, East Park. Now I walk among the swings, teeter-totter, jungle gym, slides and the monkey bars, deserted due to the early hour. I even climb up the black train engine that the railroad donated to the city as a piece of play equipment. It amazes me that anyone with any sort of authority could believe such a machine could be considered a safe place for children to play. It was once a working engine, but of course all the dangerous pieces had been removed, the glass replaced with plastic, sharp corners softened. But still it is huge, imposing. Just the thing to offer up to small children who have no fear and who feel that they could fly if given the opportunity. I have seen children climb the many ladders that lead to small nooks and crannies in the engine. The children would play an intricate game they dubbed Train Robbery, for which there were many rules, often unspoken and often developed on the spot as the game progressed. I have seen them leap from the highest point at the top of the train and land on the ground with a thump that to me sounds bone crushing. However, inevitably, the children sprang back up and brushed at the dirt that clung to their behinds, no worse for wear.

I, too, climb to the highest point at the top of the black engine and scan the park for any sign of Petra and Calli. For once I feel the exhilaration that the children must feel. The feeling of being at a pinnacle, where the only place to go now is down; it is a breathtaking sensation and I feel my legs wobble with uncertainty as I look around me. They are nowhere to be seen. I lower myself to a sitting position, my legs straddling the great engine. I look at my hands, dusty with the soot that is so ingrained on the train that it will never be completely washed away, and think of Petra.

The night that Petra was born I stayed in the hospital with Fielda. I did not leave her side. I settled myself in a comfortable chair next to her hospital bed. I was surprised at the luxuriousness of the birthing suite, the muted wallpaper, the lights that dimmed with the twist of a switch, the bathroom with a whirlpool bathtub. I was pleased that Fielda would give birth in such a nice place, tended to by a soothing nurse who would place a capable hand on Fielda’s sweating forehead and whisper encouragement to her.

I was born in Missouri, in my home on a hog farm, as were my seven younger brothers and sisters. I was well-accustomed to the sounds of a woman giving birth and when Fielda began emitting the same powerful, frightening sounds, I became light-headed and had to step out of the hospital room for a moment. When I was young, I would watch my pregnant mother perform her regular household duties with the same diligence to which I was accustomed. However, I remember seeing her grasp the kitchen counter as a contraction overtook her. When her proud, stern face began to crumple in pain, I became even more watchful. Eventually she would send me over to my aunt’s house to retrieve her sister and mother to help her with the birth. I would run the half mile swiftly, grateful for the reprieve from the anxious atmosphere that had invaded our well-ordered home.

In the summers I would go barefoot, the soles of my feet becoming hard and calloused. Impervious to the clumps of dirt and rocks, I could barely feel the ground beneath me. I preferred to wear shoes, but my mother only allowed me to wear them on Sundays and to school. I hated that people could see my exposed feet, the dirt that wedged itself under my toenails. I had the habit of standing on one leg with the other resting on top of it, my toes curled so that only the top of one dirty foot was visible. My grandmother would laugh at me and call me “stork.” My aunt thought this was quite amusing, especially when I came to get them to help my mother deliver her baby. She would discharge a big, bellowing laugh that was delightful to the ears, so much so that even I could not help but smile, even though the laugh was at my expense. We would climb into my grandmother’s rusty Ford and drive back to our farm. We would pass by the hog house and my father would wave at us and smile hugely. This was his signal that a new son or daughter would be born soon.

In name, I was a farm boy, but I could not be bothered by the minutiae of the farm. My interest was in books and in numbers. My father, a kind, simple man, would shake his head when I would show no interest in farrowing sows, but still I had my chores to do around the farm. Mucking out the pens and feeding buckets of slop to the hogs were a few of my duties. However, I refused to have any part of butcher time. The thought of killing any living creature made me ill, though I had no qualms about eating pork. On butcher day, I would conveniently disappear. I would retrieve my shoes from the back of my closet and tie them tightly, brushing away any scuffs, and I would walk into town three miles away. When I reached the outskirts, I would spit onto my fingers and bend down to wipe away the dust and grime from my shoes. I would double-check to make sure my library card, wrinkled and limp from frequent use, was still there as I stepped into the library. There I would spend hours reading books on coin collecting and history. The librarian knew me by name and would often set aside books she knew I would enjoy.

“Don’t worry about bringing these back in two weeks,” she’d say conspiratorially, handing me the books tucked carefully into the canvas bag I had brought with me. She knew it could be difficult for me to make the trip into town every few weeks, but more often than not I would find a way.

I would slink back to the farm, the butchering done for the day, and my father would be waiting on the front porch, rolling his cigarette between his fingers, drinking some iced tea that my mother had brewed. I would marvel at his size as I slowly approached my home, knowing that disappointment was awaiting me. My father was an enormous man, in height and girth, the buttons of his work shirts straining against the curve of his belly. People who did not know my father would shrink away from his vastness, but were quickly drawn into his gentle manner as they got to know him. I cannot recall a time when my father raised his voice to my mother or my brothers and sisters.

One terrible day, when I was twelve, I returned from the library after shirking my farm responsibilities and my father was leaning against the wooden fence at the edge of the hog house, awaiting my return. His normally placid face was set in anger and his arms were crossed across his wide chest. He watched my approach with an unwavering gaze and I had the urge to drop my books and run away. I did not. I continued my walk to the spot where he was standing and looked down at my church shoes, smeared with dust and dirt.

“Martin,” he said in a grave voice I did not recognize. “Martin, look at me.”

I raised my eyes and I looked up into his and felt the weight of his disappointment in me. I thought I could smell the blood from butchering on him. “Martin, we’re a family. And our family business happens to be hog farming. I know you are ashamed of that—”

I shook my head quickly. That was not what I thought, but I didn’t know how to make him understand. He continued.

“I know that the filth of what I do shames you, and that I don’t have your same schoolin’ shames you, too. But this is who I am, a hog farmer. And it’s who you are, too. At least for now. I can’t read your big fancy books and understand some of those big words you use, but what I do puts food on our table and those shoes on your feet. To do that, I need the help of my family. You’re the oldest, you got to help. You find the way that you can help, Martin, and you tell me what that is, but you got to do your share. You can’t be runnin’ off into town when there’s work to be done. Understand?”

I nodded, the heat of my own shame rising off my face.

“You think on it, Martin, tonight. You think on it and tell me in the mornin’ what your part is gonna be.” Then he walked away from me, his head hanging low, his hands stuffed into the back of his work pants.

I slept little that night, trying to find a way that I could be useful to my family. I did not want to mind my younger brothers and sisters, and I was not very handy with building or fixing things. What was I good at? I wondered that night. I was a good reader and I was good at mathematics. Those were my strengths. I pondered on these the entire night and when my father awoke the next morning I was waiting for him at our kitchen table.

“I think I know how I can help, Daddy,” I said shyly, and he rewarded me with his familiar lopsided grin.

“I knew you would, Martin,” he replied and sat down next to me.

I laid it all out for him, the financial records of the farm, noting in as kind a way as possible the sloppiness and inaccuracies that they contained. I could help, I told him, by keeping track of the money. I would find ways of saving and ways of making the farm more efficient. He was pleased with my plan, and I was appreciative of his faith in me. We never flourished as a family farm, but our quality of life improved. We were able to update our utilities and install a telephone; we could afford shoes for each of the children all year-round, though I was still the only one who chose to wear them in the summer. One winter day when I was sixteen, soon before my father’s birthday, I took the farm truck into town to the only department store, which sold everything from groceries to appliances. I spent two and a half hours looking at the two models of television sets they had available, weighing the pros and cons of each. I finally decided upon the twelve-inch version with rabbit ear antennae. I settled it carefully in the cab of the truck next to me wrapped in blankets to cushion any jostling that would occur on the winding dirt roads, and returned to the farm.

When my father came in that evening, after taking care of the hogs, we were gathered in the living room, all nine of us, blocking the view of my father’s birthday present.

“What’s going on here?” he asked, as it was rare that we were all congregated in one place that was not the supper table.

My mother began to sing “Happy Birthday” to my father and we all joined in. At the end of the song we parted to reveal the tiny television set that rested upon an old bookshelf.

“What’s this?” my father asked in disbelief. “What did you go and do?”

We were all grinning up at him and my little sister, Lottie, who was seven, squealed, “Turn it on, Daddy, turn it on!”

My father stepped forward and turned the knob to On and after a moment the black-and-white image of a variety show filled the screen. We all laughed in delight and crowded around the television to listen. My father fiddled with the volume button until we were satisfied with the noise level and we all watched in rapt attention. Later, my father pulled me aside and thanked me. He rested his hand on the back of my neck and looked into my eyes; we were nearly the same height now. “My boy,” he whispered. Those were just about the sweetest words I have ever heard—until, that is, Petra uttered “Da Da” for the first time.

Holding Petra for the first time after Fielda’s long labor was a miracle to me. I had worked for years, trying to shed my farm boy roots, to rid myself of any twang of an accent, to present myself as a cultured, intelligent man, not the son of an uneducated hog farmer. I was dumbfounded at the perfection that I held in my arms, the long, dark eyelashes, the wild mass of dark hair on top of her cone-shaped head, the soft fold of skin beneath her neck, the earnest sucking motion she made with her tiny lips. To me, all amazing.

On top of the engine, I place my face in my dirty hands. I cannot find her and I cannot bear the disgrace of returning home to Fielda without our daughter. I am shamed again. I have once again shirked my duties, this time as a father, and I imagine, again, the disappointment on my own father’s face.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

On my way over to the Gregory house, I contact our sheriff, Harold Motts. I need to update Harold as to what is going on. Let him know I have a bad feeling about this, that I don’t think this is merely a case of two girls wandering off to play.

“What evidence do you have?” Motts questions me.

I have to admit that I have none. Nothing physical, anyway. There are no signs of a break-in, no sign of a struggle in either of the girls’ rooms. Just a bad feeling. But Motts trusts me, we’ve known each other a long time.

“You thinking FPF, Louis?” he asks me.

FPF means Foul Play Feared in the police world. Just by uttering these three letters, a whole chain of events can unfurl. State police and the Division of Criminal Investigation will show up, the press and complications. I measure my words before I speak them.

“Something’s not right here. I’d feel a lot better if you called in one of the state guys, just to check things out. Besides, once we call them in they foot the bill, right? Our department can’t handle or afford a full-scale search and investigation on our own.”

“I’ll call DCI right now,” Motts says to my relief. “Do we need a crime scene unit?”

“Not yet. Hopefully not at all, but we just might. I’m heading back over to the houses. Better call the reservists,” I say. I am glad that Motts will have to be the one who wakes up our off-duty officers and the reservists, take them away from their families and their jobs. Willow Creek has a population of about eight thousand people, though it grows by about twelve hundred each fall due to the college. Our department is small; we have ten officers in all, three to a shift. Not near enough help when looking for two missing seven-year-olds. We’d need the reservists to help canvas the neighborhoods and question people.

“Louis,” Motts says, “do you think this is anything like the McIntire case?”

“It crossed my mind,” I admit. We had no leads in last year’s abduction and subsequent murder of ten-year-old Jenna McIntire. That little girl haunted my sleep every single night. As much as I want to push aside the idea that something similar may have happened to Petra and Calli, I can’t. It’s my job to think this way.

PETRA

I can’t keep up with them, they are too fast. I know he has seen me, because he turned his head toward me and smiled. Why don’t they wait for me? I am calling to them, but they don’t stop. I know they are somewhere ahead of me, but I am not sure where. I hear a voice in the distance. I am getting closer.

CALLI

The temperature of the day was steadily rising and the low vibration of cicadas filled their ears. Griff had become uncharacteristically hushed and Calli knew that he was thinking hard about something. Anxiety rose in Calli’s chest, and she tried to push it down. She focused her attention on trying to locate all the cicada casings she could find. The brittle shells clung to tree trunks and from limbs, and she had counted twelve already. Ben used to collect the shells in an old jewelry box that once belonged to their grandmother. He would spend hours scanning the gray, hairy bark of shagbark hickory trees for the hollow skins, pluck them carefully from the wood and drop them into the red velvet-lined box. He would call out to Calli to come watch as a fierce-looking, demon-eyed cicada began its escape from its skin. They would intently watch the slow journey, the gradual cracking of the casing, the wet-winged emerging of the white insect, its patient wait for the hardening of its new exoskeleton. Ben would place its discarded shell on her outstretched palm and the tiny legs, pinpricks of its former life, would tickle her hand.

“Even his wife knows something is going on,” Griff muttered.

Calli’s heart fluttered. Thirteen, fourteen…she counted.

“Even his wife knows he’s too interested in her. Toni runs to him when she’s in trouble,” Griff’s voice shook. “Does she come to me? Off she runs to Louis! And me playing daddy to you all these years!” Griff ’s fingers were now digging into her shoulder, his face purple with heat and dripping sweat. Minuscule gnats were orbiting his head. Several stuck to his slick face like bits of dust. “Do you know how it makes me look that everyone, everyone knows about your mother?” He unexpectedly pushed Calli roughly to the ground and a loud whoosh of air escaped her as her breath was slammed from her.

“So, that gets a little noise outta ya? Is that what it takes to get you talking?”

Calli scrambled backward, crablike, as Griff loomed over her. Her head reeled, silent tears streaked down her face. He was her daddy; she had his small ears, the same sprinkle of freckles across her nose. At Christmas, they would pull out the large, green leather picture album that chronicled Calli’s and Ben’s milestones. The photo of Calli at six months, sitting on her father’s lap, was nearly identical to the photo of Griff sitting on his mother’s lap years earlier, the same toothless smile, the same dimpled cheeks looking out at them from the pictures.

Calli opened her mouth, willing the word to come forth. “Daddy,” she wanted to cry. She wanted to stand and go to him, throw her arms as far around him as they could reach, and lean against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. Of course he was her daddy, the way they both stood with their hands on their hips and the way they both had to eat all their vegetables first, then the entire main dish, saving their milk for last. Her lips twisted to form the word again. “Daddy,” she wished with her entire being to say. But nothing, just a soft gush of air.

Griff stepped closer to her, rage etched in his face. “You listen here. You may be livin’ in my house, but I don’t gotta like it!” He kicked out at her, the toe of his shoe striking her in the shin. Calli rolled herself into a tight little ball like a woolly bear caterpillar, protecting her head. “When we get home I’m gonna tell your mom that you went out to play and got lost and I came out to find you. Understand?” He struck out at her again, but this time Calli rolled away before he connected. The force of the kick caused him to falter and trip off the trail and into a pile of broken, sharp-tipped branches.

“Dammit!” he cursed, his hands scratched and bloodied. Calli was on her feet before Griff, her legs taut, ready for flight. He reached for her and Calli turned on the ball of her foot, a clumsy pirouette. Griff’s ruddy hand grabbed at her arm, briefly catching hold of the smooth, tender skin on the back of her arm. Then she pulled away and was gone.

ANTONIA

I sit at the kitchen table, waiting. Louis told me not to go into Calli’s room, that they may need to go through Calli’s things to look for ideas of where she may have gone. I stared disbelievingly at him.

“What? Like a crime scene?” I asked him. Louis didn’t look at me as he answered that it probably wouldn’t come to that.

I’m not as worried about where she is as Martin is about Petra, and I wonder if I am a horrible mother. Calli has always been a wanderer. At grocery stores I would turn my head for a moment to inspect the label on a jar of peanut butter and she would be gone. I would dash through the aisles, searching. Calli would always be in the meat section, next to the lobster tank, one pudgy finger tapping the aquarium glass. She would turn to look at me, my shoulders limp with relief, a forlorn look on her face and ask, “Mom, does it hurt the crabs to have their hands tied like that?”

I’d rumple her soft, flyaway brown hair, and tell her, “No, it doesn’t hurt them.”

“Don’t they miss the ocean?” she’d persist. “We should buy them all and let them go into the river.”

“I think they’d die without ocean water,” I’d explain. Then she’d gently tap the glass again and let me lead her away.

Of course this was before, when I didn’t have to wonder if the next word would ever come. Before I woke up from dreams where Calli was speaking to me and I would be grasping at the sound of her voice, trying to remember its pitch, its cadence.

I have tried Griff’s cell phone dozens of times. Nothing. I consider calling Griff’s parents, who live downtown, but decide against it. Griff has never gotten along with his mom and dad. They drink more than he does and Griff hasn’t been in the same room with his father for over eight years. I think this is one of the things that drew me to Griff in the beginning. The fact that we were both very much alone. My mother had died, my father far away in his own grief from her death. And Louis, well, that had ended. Not with great production, but softly, sadly. Griff had only his critical, indifferent parents. His only sister had moved far away, trying to remove herself from the stress and drama of living with two alcoholic parents. When Griff and I found each other, it was such a relief. We could breathe easily, at least for a while. Then things changed, like they always do. Like now, when once again, I can’t find him when I need him.

I nervously fold and refold the dish towels from the kitchen drawer and I think I should give my brothers a call, tell them what’s happening. But the thought of putting the fact that Calli is lost or worse into words is too frightening. I look out the kitchen window and see Martin and Louis step out of Louis’s car, Martin’s shirt already soaked with the day’s heat. The girls are not with them. Ben will find them. They are of one mind, and he will find them.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Martin Gregory and I approach Toni’s front door. Martin has had no luck in locating his daughter or Toni’s, and I am hopeful that the girls will be sitting at the kitchen table eating Toni’s pancakes, or that they have shown up at the Gregorys’ where Fielda waits for them. I am still distracted by my quarrel on the phone with Christine and I try to dismiss her harsh words from my mind.

Toni’s door opens even before I can knock and she is there before me, still so beautiful, dressed in her typical summer outfit—a sleeveless T-shirt, denim shorts, and bare feet. She is brown from the sun, her many hours in her garden or from being outside with her children, I suppose.

“You didn’t find them,” Antonia states. It is not a question.

“No,” I say, shaking my head, and we both step over the threshold into her home. She leads us inside, not to the living room as before but to the kitchen, where a pitcher of iced tea sits on the counter, along with three ice-filled glasses.

“It’s too hot for coffee,” she explains and begins to pour the tea. “Please sit,” she invites, and we do.

“Have you any idea where else they could be?” Martin asks pleadingly.

“Ben’s still out looking in the woods. He knows where Calli would go,” Toni says. There is a curious lack of concern in her tone. Incredibly, she doesn’t appear to think anything is actually amiss.

“Does Calli explore the woods often, Toni?” I ask her, carefully choosing my words.

“It’s like a second home to her. Just like it was for us, Lou,” she says, our eyes locking and a lifetime of memories pass between us. “She never goes far and she always comes back. Safe and sound,” she adds, I think, for Martin’s benefit.

“We don’t allow Petra in the woods without an adult. It’s too dangerous. She wouldn’t know her way around,” Martin says, not quite accusing.

I’m still thinking of the way Toni has called me “Lou,” something she hasn’t done for years. She resumed calling me Louis the day she became engaged to Griff. It was as if the more formal use of my name acted like a buffer, as if I hadn’t already known the most intimate parts of her.

“Ben will be here soon, Martin,” Antonia says soothingly. “If the girls are out there—” she indicates the forest with her thin, strong arms “—Ben will bring them home. I cannot imagine where else they may have gone.”

“Maybe we should go out and look there, too,” suggests Martin. “A search party. I mean, how far could two little girls have gone? We could get a group together, we would cover more ground. If more people were looking, we would have a better chance of finding them.”

“Martin,” I say, “we have no evidence that that is where the girls went. I would hate to focus all of our resources in one area and possibly miss another avenue to investigate. The woods cover over fourteen thousand acres and most of it isn’t maintained. Hopefully, if they’re out there, they have stayed on the trails. We’ve got a deputy out there now.” I indicate the other police car that is now parked on the Clarks’ lane. “I do think, however, we need to let the public know we have two misplaced little girls.”

“Misplaced!” Martin bellows, his face darkening with anger. “I did not misplace my daughter. We put her to bed at eight-thirty last night and when I awoke this morning she was not in her bed. She was in her pajamas, for God’s sake. When are you going to acknowledge the fact that someone may have taken her from her bedroom? When are you—”

“Martin, Martin, I didn’t mean to suggest that you or Toni did anything wrong here,” I say, trying to calm him. “There is no reason to believe they were taken, no signs of forced entry. Her tennis shoes are gone, Martin. Do you think an intruder would stop to make Petra put on her shoes before they left? That doesn’t make sense.”

Martin sighs. “I’m sorry. I just cannot imagine where they could have gone. If they have not been…been abducted and they are not at their usual playing spots, the forest just seems to be the logical place for them to go, especially if Calli is so comfortable there.”

Antonia nods. “I bet Ben will be here shortly with the two of them, their tails between their legs at the worry they have caused.”

A thought occurs to me. “Toni, is there a pair of Calli’s shoes missing?”

“I don’t know.” Toni sits up a little straighter, her glass of tea perspiring in her hand. “I’ll go check.”

Toni rises and climbs the stairs to Calli’s room. Martin sips his tea, sets his glass down, then, unsure of what to do with his hands, picks up the glass again.

Martin and I sit in an uncomfortable silence for a moment and then he speaks.

“I have never understood how Petra and Calli became such good friends. They have nothing in common, really. The girl does not even talk. What in the world could two seven-year-olds do for fun if only one of them speaks?” He looks at me with exasperation. “Petra would say, ‘Could Calli and I have a sandwich? Just peanut butter for Calli, she doesn’t like jelly.’ I mean, how would she know that when Calli did not speak? I just do not understand it,” he says, shaking his head.

“Kindred spirits,” a soft voice comes from the stairwell. Toni steps into the kitchen carrying a pair of tattered tennis shoes in one hand and an equally worn pair of flip-flops in the other. “They are kindred spirits,” she repeats to our questioning looks. “They know what the other needs. Petra can read Calli like a book, what game she wants to play, if her feelings are hurt, anything. And Calli is the same. She knows that Petra is afraid of thunderstorms and will take her to her bedroom and play the music so loud that it covers the sound of the thunder. Or if Petra is feeling blue, Calli can get her giggling. Calli makes the best faces—she can get all of us laughing. They are best friends. I don’t know how to explain how it works, but it does for them. And I’m glad of it. Petra doesn’t care that Calli can’t talk and Calli doesn’t care that Petra is afraid of thunder and still sucks her thumb sometimes.” Toni pauses and holds up the shoes. “Her shoes are still here. We’re going shopping for school shoes next week. Her cowboy boots are still in the garage, I saw them earlier. Calli doesn’t have her shoes on. She wouldn’t go into the woods without her shoes.”

Toni’s chin begins to wobble and for the first time since her girl has gone missing, she looks scared. I put my hand on her arm, and she does not pull away.

BEN

I have been to all the places where we play. First Willow Wallow, where we would swing from the branches of the weeping willows, pretending to be monkeys. I looked underneath each of the seven willows, thinking that I would find you and Petra there, hiding. I went down to Lone Tree Bridge, one skinny fallen tree over Willow Creek. We would take turns walking across, to see who could cross the quickest. I always won. You weren’t there, either. I walked up and down Spring Peeper Pond Trail, sure that I’d find you two looking for tree frogs. But I was wrong on that count, too. I don’t want to come home without you.

I begin to think that maybe Dad did take you with him fishing. That would be just like him, to all of a sudden want to do the dad thing and spend time with you. He could ignore us for weeks, then look at us all interested-like and take us to do something real fun. One time he decided to take me fishing down at the creek. We went in the evening, just him and me. We didn’t have any night crawlers so we swiped some Velveeta cheese from the fridge and used that. We sat for hours on the shore, just where the creek is widest. We didn’t even talk much, just slapped at mosquitoes and pulled in bullheads and sunfish, laughing because they were so small. We had a bet on who could catch the smallest fish, five bucks, and I won. I caught a sunfish the size of a guppy. We ate peanuts, threw the shells into the water and drank soda. When the sun started to go down we could hear the crickets chirping and Dad said that we could figure out just how warm it was out by the number of chirps that a cricket made. I said, “No way!” and he said, “Yes way!” And he told me how. That was the best day. So I’m thinking he thought you and him should do some bonding and took you fishing with Roger, but didn’t think to tell anyone. But then again, I don’t think he would take two little girls fishing with him. Who knows, he’s tough to figure out sometimes.

You’ve always been a good sport, Calli, I’ll give you that. You’re no girly-girl. I remember the time when you were one and just starting to walk—all wobbly and unsure. I was six and Mom told us to go outside and play. You followed me around, trying to do everything I did. I picked up the bruised apples from the ground under our apple tree and threw them at the side of the garage and you’d do the same. I didn’t much like having a baby following me, but I loved how you’d say, “Beh, Beh!” for Ben. Whenever you’d see me, it was like you were all surprised that I was there, like you were all lucky because I stepped in the room, even if you’d seen me, like, ten minutes earlier.

Mom would laugh and say, “See, Ben, Calli loves her big brother, don’tcha, Calli?” And you would stamp your fat little feet and squeal, “brudder, brudder!” Then you’d come over and grab my leg and squeeze.

Later that same year, when I turned seven, I got the coolest pair of cowboy boots for my birthday. They were black and had red stitching. I wore those things everywhere, all the time. And if a baby could be jealous of boots, you sure were. You’d catch me wearing my boots and admiring myself in the mirror and you’d just go right after those boots and try to pull them off of my feet. It was actually kinda funny; Mom would sit on the bedroom floor and laugh her head off. I don’t know if you thought I loved those cowboy boots more than you, or if you just enjoyed seeing me all riled up, but that got to be your favorite pastime for a while. You always ended up getting at least one boot off of me, because you were so much littler than me and I couldn’t just kick you away from me. I’d get in a ton of trouble if I did that. Lots of times you’d just sneak up on me while I was watching TV and you’d latch on until that boot just slid right off my foot, then you’d run. Most of the time you’d just throw the boot down the steps or out in the yard, but one time you threw it in the toilet. Man, was I mad. I refused to wear them after that. Mom washed it out and set it out in the sun to dry, but still I wouldn’t wear those boots. But you sure did. They were yours after that, even though they were way too big for you. You’d wear them with every outfit you had, shorts, dresses, even your pajamas. More than once Mom had to pull them off your feet after you fell asleep in bed. You still wear them once in a while. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you weren’t out in the woods in them right now, stomping around.

When you stopped talking isn’t real clear to me, but I know you were four and I was nine. One day you’re wearing my boots, telling me the dumbest knock-knock jokes and giggling like mad, and I’d roll my eyes. Then one day nothing, no words. It just got so quiet around here. Like when you step outside after the first real big snowstorm of the year and everything’s all smothered in white and no one has shoveled yet and no cars are on the road. Everything is still, and it’s nice. For a while. Then it gets kind of creepy, a quiet so big you yell just to hear your own voice, and the buried outdoors gives nothing back.

CALLI

Calli ran down Broadleaf Trail until it intersected with River Bottom, where the trail traveled downward at a steep angle, winding its way down to the creek. Each dip or rise in the forest had its own smell, sweet with spiral flower, pungent with wild onion, fetid with rotting leaves. Each hollow and turn had its own climate, warm and moist, cool and arid. As Calli ran down toward the river and deeper into the woods, the temperature dropped, the trees grew closer together, the vegetation gathered in tight around her ankles.

Calli could hear Griff’s large body pounding the trail above her. Her chest burned with each breath, but still she ran, spindly tree trunks and craggy bluffs blurred in the corners of her eyes. Patches of sun briefly shone brilliantly on the ground before her. A stitch in her side caused her to slow and then stop. She listened carefully to the woods. The narrow creek gurgled, a cardinal called and insects droned. Calli searched for a place to hide. Off the trail, she spotted the remains of several fallen trees arranged in a crisscross pattern, behind which she could rest for perhaps a few moments, unseen. She climbed over the gnarled pile and dropped carefully to the side away from the trail. Once seated, Calli pulled stray twigs and branches around her to camouflage her pink nightgown. She tried to steady her breathing. She did not want Griff to hear her huffing and find her trapped within the middle of the branches with no quick escape.

Minutes passed with no Griff, only the comforting knock of a woodpecker somewhere above that rang out over the usual forest sounds. Calli shook in spite of the heat, and rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. The rage that radiated off Griff needled at Calli’s memories and she tried to close her eyes to them. That day.

On that day in December, it was cold. She was four, and Ben was off sledding with some of his friends. Her mother, belly heavy with pregnancy, was making hot cocoa, plopping white cushiony marshmallows into the steamy chocolate, then adding an ice cube to Calli’s mug to cool it. Calli was at the kitchen table, drawing paper in front of her and an arrangement of markers around her.

“What should we name the baby, Cal?” her mother asked as she set the hot chocolate before her. “Don’t burn your mouth now.”

Calli set aside her drawing, a picture of Christmas trees, reindeer and a roly-poly Santa. “Popsicle, I think,” she replied, pressing a spoon against a melting marshmallow.

“Popsicle?” her mother asked, laughing. “That’s an unusual name. What else?”

“Cupcake,” Calli giggled.

“Cupcake? Is that her middle name?”

Calli nodded, her smile filled with sticky white marshmallows. “Birthday Cake,” she added. “Popsicle Cupcake Birthday Cake, that’s her name.”

“I like it,” her mother said, grinning, “but every time I say her name, I think I’ll get hungry. How about Lily or Evelyn? Evelyn was my mother’s name.”

Calli made a face and tentatively took a sip of her cocoa. She felt the burn of the liquid traveling down her throat and she waved a hand in front of her mouth as if to fan away the warmth.

The back door opened, bringing with it a swirl of frozen air that made Calli squeal. “Daddy!” she cried out, “Daddy’s home!” She stood on her chair and reached her arms out, snagging onto his neck as he passed by her. The cold that hung on his parka seeped through her sweatshirt and he tried to set Calli down.

“Not now, Calli, I need to talk to your mom.” Calli did not release his neck as he clumsily approached her mother and he shifted her so that she rested on his hip.

The smell of beer bit at her nose. “Stinky.” She grimaced.

“I thought you were getting here hours ago,” Antonia said in a measured tone. “Did you just roll into town?”

“I’ve been gone three weeks, what’re a few hours more?” Griff’s words were innocent, but had a bite to them. “I stopped at O’Leary’s for a drink with Roger.”

Antonia scanned him up and down. “From the smell of things and the way you’re lurching around, you had more than a few. You’ve been gone for a month. I figured once you got back to town, you’d want to see your family.”

Calli heard the tension in their voices and squirmed to get out of Griff’s arms. He held her tightly.

“I do wanna see my family, but I wanna see my friends, too.” Griff opened the refrigerator and searched for a beer, but found none. He slammed the door, causing the glass bottles to rattle against each other.

“I don’t want to fight.” Antonia went to Griff and hugged him awkwardly, her belly an obstacle. Calli reached her arms out toward her mother, but Griff whisked her away and sat down at the kitchen table, Calli on his lap.

“I had an interesting chat at O’Leary’s,” Griff said conversationally. Antonia waited, poised for what she knew was to come. “Some guys were saying that Loras Louis has been hanging around here lately.”

Antonia turned to a cupboard and began pulling dinner plates down. “Oh, he shoveled the drive one day for me last week. He was over checking on Mrs. Norland. The mail carrier said she wasn’t getting her mail out of her mailbox. She was fine. Anyway, he saw me out shoveling and asked if he could help,” she explained, turning to see Griff’s reaction. “Ben was sick, throwing up. He couldn’t shovel, so I went out to do it. He stopped by, no big deal. He didn’t come in the house.”

Griff continued to stare at Antonia, his face implacable.

“What? You think I would…we would…I’m seven months pregnant!” Antonia laughed humorlessly. “Forget it, think what you want. I’m going to go lie down.” Antonia charged out of the kitchen. Calli could hear her weighted, clumsy steps on the stairs.

Griff shot from his chair, raising Calli up with him. The force caused her to bite down on her tongue and she cried out in pain, the tinny taste of blood filling her mouth.

“I’m talking to you!” he shouted after her. “Don’t you want to hear what everyone is saying?” He moved quickly to the bottom of the stairs. “Come back here!” Calli could see a purple vein pulse at his temple, could see the tendons of his neck strain against his skin. She began to cry loudly and struggled against Griff.

“Put her down!” Antonia called down to him. “You’re scaring her!”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Griff bellowed at Calli, climbing the steps two at a time, her neck jerking violently with each step.

“Put her down, Griff. You’re hurting her!” Antonia was crying now, her arms outstretched to Calli, reaching for her.

“Dirty whore! Taking up with him again. How does that make me look? I’m away slaving to make money for this family, and you’re sitting here, taking up with your old boyfriend.”

Spittle flew from his lips, mingling with Calli’s tears and she arched her back violently, trying to escape his grip.

Antonia screeched, “Oh my God, Griff! Stop it. Stop it, please!”

Griff had reached the top of the steps, stood next to Antonia and yanked her arm. “Slut.” Calli’s hysterical wails nearly drowned Griff’s ranting.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

“Shut up! Shut up!” Griff tossed Calli to the floor at the top of the stairs. Her head bounced sickeningly off the hardwood floor and she was silent for a moment, her desperate eyes on her mother, who was shoving Griff away from her to get to Calli. Griff held tightly to her mother’s arm and she snapped back like a rubber band. For an instant, before Toni tumbled backward down the steps, Griff nearly steadied her. Calli and Griff both watched in horror as Antonia’s back slammed into the steps and she fell to the ground below.

“Mommy!” Calli yelped as Griff skidded down the steps to Antonia. He knelt before her where she was crumpled. She was conscious, her face twisted in pain, her arms cradled around her belly, moaning silently.

“Can you sit up? Shut up, Calli!” he barked. Calli continued to sob as Griff settled Antonia into a sitting position.

“The baby, the baby,” she cried.

“It will be all right, it will be all right,” Griff said pleadingly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Calli, shut the hell up. Can you walk? Here, let’s get you to the couch.” Griff gently raised Antonia to her feet and led her to the sofa, where he laid her down and placed an afghan over her. “Just rest, just rest. It will be okay.”

Calli continued to scream in the background, her weeping getting closer as she made her way down the stairs and moved to her mother’s side. Antonia, eyes half-closed, put one arm toward Calli.

“Get away!” Griff hollered. “Jesus, stay out of the way, and shut up!” Griff’s hands were shaking as he snatched Calli up and took her into the kitchen. “Sit here and shut up!” Griff paced around the kitchen, pulled at his hair, and wiped his mouth with one trembling hand.

Griff bent down to Calli, her tearful screams dropping to grief-stricken hiccups, and whispered into her ear for one full minute. During those interminable sixty seconds Calli’s eyes blinked rapidly at Griff’s words. His breath hissed across the delicate crevices of her ear and mingled with her mother’s soft cries. Then he stood and rushed out the back door with a gust of wintry, bitter wind, taking away more than he arrived with.

That evening, after Ben came home, Calli and Ben sat vigil around their mother as she lay on the couch. Her desperate, mournful moans filled the room until Ben finally called Officer Louis and the ambulance arrived, just in time to deliver a perfect, silent, birdlike baby girl, whose skin was the same bluish color as her mother’s lips. The paramedics swiftly whisked the breathless infant away, but not before Calli gently patted her strawberry-colored hair.

Years later, Calli sat among the fallen tree limbs, alert and tense, remembering her father’s whispers that still hummed in her ear. She heard a rustle from somewhere behind her. It couldn’t be her father. Ranger Phelps? Hope rose in her chest. Did she dare to come out from her hiding place? She weighed her options. If she emerged, Ranger Phelps would surely help her get home, but what if they came across her father? He would hand her over to her father and she wouldn’t be able to tell the ranger what had happened. No. She needed to stay put. She knew her way home, she just needed to be patient and wait Griff out. He would give up soon, he’d want to get to fishing with Roger, he’d want a drink. The olive-green pants of Ranger Phelps’s uniform flashed past her and Calli resisted the urge to leap from the twiggy den she had created and grab hold of the man. Just as quickly as he’d appeared, he was gone, fading into the lacy ferns, his footfalls silent upon the spongy earth. Calli sat back, tucked her knees beneath her chin and covered her head with her arms. If Calli couldn’t see her father, she figured, he certainly wouldn’t be able to see her.

MARTIN

I stop by my home to find Fielda standing at the front door, her kinky black hair pulled back from her face, her glasses sitting crookedly on her nose. She looks at me expectantly, I shake my head no and her face falls.

“What do we do?” she asks pitifully.

“The deputy sheriff says to call anyone we can think of to keep an eye out for them. He says to find a picture of her to put on fliers. I am going to take the photos of the girls to the police station. They’re going to make the fliers for us, and then I’m going to find some people to help me pass them out.”

Fielda reaches for me and circles her arms around me. “What are we going to do?” she cries softly.

“We are going to find her, Fielda. We are going to find Petra and bring her home. I promise.” We stand there for a moment, letting the weight of my promise soak into both of our skins until finally Fielda steps away from me.

“You go get those fliers,” she tells me firmly. “I am going to call people. I’ll start with the A’s and work my way through the alphabet.” She kisses me goodbye and I squeeze her hand before I shut the door.

As I drive down the streets of my town, my eyes scan every inch of sidewalk, searching for Petra. I try to see in windows and crane my neck to look into backyards and several times I nearly veer off the road. When I pull in front of the police station my legs are shaking, and it’s with weak knees that I trudge through the door. I introduce myself to a man at a desk. When his eyes meet mine I search them to see if I can discern what he thinks of me. Does he suspect me? Does he feel sorry for me? I cannot tell.

“I’ll get those fliers for you right away, Mr. Gregory,” he says and leaves me.

Now in the sanctuary of my office at St. Gilianus, each excruciating moment of the day stabs at my mind. I cannot concentrate. Sitting in my office on campus with a pile of papers, my beautiful daughter’s face gazing out at me from them, I can almost feel Petra’s presence in the room. Petra loves to sit beneath my large walnut desk. There she plays with her dolls, which she carries in a large canvas bag with her name painted on the front of it. As I do paperwork, I can hear the intricate conversations that her dolls hold with one another, and I smile at the thought. Petra enjoys learning all about the mysterious history of the college. She walks with me through the buildings, sunlight shining through the jewel-colored stained-glass windows depicting the saints and martyrs of the Catholic Church. She often makes me pause in front of the window showing St. Gilianus, the namesake of the college. In brilliant hues of saffron, lapis, copper and jade, the artist tells the story of Gilianus’s life, an old man dressed in brown robes, holding a scroll, flanked by a large bear and a flock of blackbirds. I repeatedly tell her about St. Gilianus, also known as St. Gall or St. Callo, a man born in Ireland sometime in the sixth century. Legend had it that Gilianus, a hermit, ordered a bear in the woods where he lived to bring his reclusive clan wood for their fire, and the bear obeyed. I describe to her the tale of how King Sigebert of Austrasia, now northeastern France and western Germany, implored Gilianus to free his promised wife of demons. Gilianus obliged, and at his command freed the tortured woman of demons who left her in the form of a flock of blackbirds. Petra always shivers with delight at this story and rubs the musical note charm on her necklace nervously.

My colleagues make special stops to my office when they know Petra is visiting. They ask her about school and friends, and she draws pictures for them to hang in their offices. My students are equally enchanted with Petra; she remembers the names of everyone who happens to meet with me while she is present. One distressed junior made an impromptu visit to my office this past winter while Petra played happily under my desk. The young man, normally confident and charming, was near tears, worried about graduating on time. He could not concentrate on his studies, and needed to get another part-time job to help pay his tuition and rent.

“Lucky,” I said to the student, “you have too much on your plate right now. It is natural for you to feel stress.” I hastened to lure Petra from under the desk and introduce her to the young man before he became too emotional in front of her. “This is my daughter, Petra. She often comes to my office on weekends to help me. Petra, this is Lucky Thompson, one of my students.”

Petra looked critically at Lucky, taking in his shaggy hair, baggy jeans and sweatshirt. “Is Lucky your real name?” she asked boldly.

“No, my real name’s Lynton, but everyone just calls me Lucky,” he explained.

“Good move,” Petra said, nodding her head. “So are you lucky?”

“Most of the time, I guess.”

“Do you have a pet?” she quizzed him.

“I do, a dog,” he responded, amused.

“Because, you know, they say that having a pet helps relieve stress. What’s your dog’s name?”

“Sergeant. He’s a golden retriever.”

“Cool. Dad, doesn’t Grandma need help at the café? Maybe Lucky could work there,” Petra suggested. With a phone call to my mother-in-law, I confirmed that this was true and arranged for her to meet with Lucky.

“You’re a cool kid, Petra,” Lucky said, smiling, chucking her under the chin and rubbing the top of her head.

So in her effortless, magical way, Petra once again made everything all better, and the young man left with his spirits buoyed and a lead on a part-time job at Mourning Glory.

I stand now, my joints creaking with the effort. I am very much feeling my age today. I pick up the stack of fliers and a roll of Scotch tape, lock the door to my office, and begin the unfathomable task of tacking my child’s face to windows and telephone poles around town.

ANTONIA

My ear aches from all the phone calls I have been making, trying to find Calli and Petra. I’ve called everyone that I could think of, neighbors, classmates and teachers even. No one has seen them. I can hear, in the pause on the other side of the phone, a silent judgment. I’ve lost my child, the most precious gift, somehow I let her get away from me. I know what they’re thinking, that first I let my daughter’s voice be snatched away, now her whole being is gone. “What kind of mother is she?” is what they are not saying. Instead, they wish me luck and prayers and say that they will go out looking and tell everyone they know to look out for the girls also. They are very kind. I am thinking that I should have put up posters the day Calli lost her voice. MISSING, they would say, Calli Clark’s beautiful voice. Four years old, but sounds much older, has a very advanced vocabulary, last heard on December 19th, right after her mother fell down the stairs; please call with any information regarding its whereabouts, REWARD. Silly, I know, especially when I’ve done so little to try and actually help Calli find her voice again. Oh, I’ve done the basics. Took her to a doctor, to a family counselor even. But nothing has changed. Not one word has been spoken. I have worked so hard trying to forget the day I lost the baby, but little snippets come to me at the oddest times. I could be weeding in my garden and would remember how I named her Poppy; I couldn’t actually name her Popsicle Cupcake Birthday Cake, but Poppy seemed appropriate. She had the prettiest red hair; she looked like a little, wilted red-petaled flower when they brought her to me to say goodbye. They had tried so hard to save her, they said, but she never even took one breath in this world.

I could be standing at the kitchen sink washing out a pan when I would recall that day after Griff helped me to the couch, seeing him guide Calli to the kitchen and whispering something to her. I remember thinking, “Oh, he is trying to reassure her, to calm her with comforting words.” But after that she said nothing, ever. I never asked Griff what he had said to Calli, and even worse, I never asked Calli.

I step outside and the high temperature instantly assaults me. I see the heat rising from the road, making the air wavery and thick-looking, and the saw of the cicadas is nearly deafening. Ben is walking slowly out of the forest. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are stuffed in his front pockets, he is slick with sweat. To me he looks like a little boy again, always so sweet and unsure, wanting to be one of the guys but not certain of just how to do that. He has always been large for his age. His classmates look up at him, impressed with his bulk, but are always a little puzzled at his gentleness. “Sorry,” he’d always say if he knocked down an opponent during a basketball game, and he’d stop in his play to make sure he got up okay.

“Sorry, Mom,” Ben whispers as he brushes past me into the house.

I follow him in and find him leaning against the kitchen counter. I reach up into a cupboard and pull down a glass, fill it with ice and lemonade and hand it to him.

“Thank you for trying, Ben. I know you did your best. There isn’t anyone who knows the woods better than you do. If they were in there, I know you would have found them.”

He takes a long swallow of the lemonade and makes a pinched face at its sourness. “I’m going back out. I’m gonna call the guys and we’ll go out looking again. We need to go in deeper. She may have gone farther in, she likes to explore.”

“That’s a good idea. I’ll go, too. I’ll call Mrs. Norland to come over and wait, in case they come back. I’ll pack some water, you go call the boys.”

Ben has his hand on the phone when it rings; he pulls back as if shocked, lets it ring again, and then picks it up.

“Hello?” It is a question. “Just a moment, please.” He hands the receiver to me and whispers, “Louis.”

“Lou?” I say, and I find myself getting teary. “Any word?”

“No, nothing yet. I’ve contacted the state police and they’re sending a guy over. He’ll be here in an hour or so. He’ll be wanting to talk to you and Ben and Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, too.” He pauses for a moment. “We’ve tried to contact Griff and Roger Hogan, but can’t get a hold of them. Roger’s wife said his plan was to pick up Griff about four this morning and to drive over to Julien. I called over to the Julien police station. An officer is going to drive to the cabin and let them know what’s going on.”

I try to imagine Griff’s reaction to finding out that the girls are gone. Would he be worried, would he come back right away, or stay there and let me deal with this whole ordeal? How I had loved Griff, and still do, I guess, in my way. He was exciting and at one time, before the alcohol overtook my place in Griff’s heart, he needed me. “Should Ben and I come into the station?” I ask, returning my attention to the man I had grown up with, the man I should have married. But if I had done that, there would be no Ben, no Calli.

“How ’bout I call you, and we’ll drive on over to you. That way if Calli comes home, you’ll be there. Toni…I need to tell you, this guy from the state, he does this sort of thing for a living, looking into missing kids. He’s seen everything, and he doesn’t know you. He’ll ask some…some questions you won’t like.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, and instantly realization dawns on me. “You mean that he might think that we may have had something to do with this? Oh my God”. All of a sudden, I feel dirty and guilty.

“I’ll be there with you, Toni. These big shots tend to take over, but he’s good. He’ll help us find Calli and Petra.”

“All right, Lou, we’ll be here,” I say faintly. A silence as heavy as this summer’s heat hangs between us.

“Toni, I’ve reported Calli and Petra missing to the NCIC,” Louis says, as an afterthought, as if he wants me to think it’s really no big deal. But I know otherwise.

“What exactly is that?” I ask.

“It stands for the National Crime Information Center. They have a centralized Missing Person file. This way other law enforcement centers will be aware that we’re looking for the girls. And I’ve put a Be On the Lookout bulletin for the entire county. Everyone will be looking for Petra and Calli.”

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” I say, my mind spinning. “What about an AMBER Alert? Can you issue one of those?”

“AMBER Alerts are only issued when it is confirmed that a child has been abducted. We don’t know that for certain.” We are silent for a moment. “Toni, it will be okay, I promise,” Louis finally says with resolve.

I hang up the phone. Ben is watching me, waiting for me to tell him what to do. “Go on and take a shower, Ben. Someone from the state police is coming over—”

“What about looking more?” he interrupts with annoyance.

“Louis says we need to do this, so we will. Go on and take a shower.” I sit down once again to wait.

CALLI

Calli’s muscles went rigid at hearing a rustling in the brush, then a loud pop of a branch breaking. She was instantly watchful, her heart pounding a dull thud that she could feel in her temple. She sat frozen, waiting for the next sound, half expecting Griff to peek over the mound of tree limbs. A faint crunch of sticks, too light-footed to be Griff, and a whitetail deer stepped into her line of vision, the reddish-brown coat lightly speckled with the white spots of a fawn. It stood still as it sensed Calli’s presence. The deer’s ears were long and slender, reminding Calli of a jackrabbit, its eyes black and gleaming, the color of the mica minerals Ben kept on his dresser at home. The two regarded one another for a while, and then the curious fawn stepped closer to Calli, so near that if Calli dared she would be able to stroke its polished black nose. Holding her breath, Calli shifted her weight so that she was on her knees. The deer startled and took several steps backward and then stopped. Again they observed one another, both long-limbed and knobby-kneed, alone. Stepping tentatively toward Calli, the deer sniffed the air around her experimentally. Calli dared to pull herself out of the fallen boughs and the deer stutter-stepped back in hesitation. Yet again they stood placidly, each scrutinizing the other, until the fawn took two bold steps to Calli. Surprised, Calli stepped backward, bumping into a birch tree, its white, paperlike bark peeling in her hands as she tried to steady herself. Once recovered, Calli moved toward the deer, one grubby hand outstretched. And on it went. A soundless, tender waltz, under a dome of shimmering shades of green, a carpet of soil under them, lost for a moment, together, each in their own quiet room, saying nothing, but whispering to each other in their odd little dance.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

At my desk, cluttered with the horrible reminder of two missing girls, I wait for the agent from the state. I have just asked Meg, our dispatcher, to send one of our reservists, David Glass, a pharmacist, to be our point man at the homes. He will park our oldest, dented squad car at a point between the two homes. All the information gathered during the investigation will be relayed to David.

The picture of Calli that has been passed out to all police officers stares up at me. She looks so like her mother, the same chestnut hair and brown eyes, the same messy ponytail that Toni had when she was young.

Toni and I met when we were seven, in the winter of our first-grade year. My mother, my sister, brother and I had just moved to tiny Willow Creek from Chicago. My father had died unexpectedly the year before of a heart attack and through a friend, my mom got a job at the college. The quiet and vastness of land made me lonely for the sound of traffic and the familiar sound of neighbors laughing and arguing. I remember lying in my new bed, in my very own room, missing the sound of my little brother’s soft snores and not being able to sleep for the calm of the country. Our neighbors were acres away. The only sounds were that of a dog barking or the wind blowing. After so many sleepless nights, my mother finally bought me a small radio to place beside my bed to fill the silence that kept me awake.

I started my first day at Willow Creek Elementary School reluctantly and pretended to be sick; my mother sat on the edge of my bed and looked me in the eye. “Loras Michael Louis,” she began gravely, “I, of all people, know that it is not easy to leave what you know and begin something new. Your father is not around to help now. You are the oldest and everyone is looking to see what you do. If you lie in bed moping, so will they. If you get up cheerful and ready to tackle the world, so will they.”

“Mom, Katie is three months old, she ain’t tackling anybody,” I sassed.

“Well, you’re the oldest male figure she has to go by now. How you act is what she will grow up thinking what a man should be like. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, mister! Get up.”

“Sheesh, Mom, okay.”

I crawled out of bed, got dressed and prayed that someone in this godforsaken town would know how to play a good game of stick ball come spring.

On that first day of school my mother drove us. The sky was robin’s egg–blue and the ground was covered in snow so brilliantly white it hurt my eyes to look at it. It was very cold and we could see our breath even though my mother had the heat turned to high in the rusty blue Plymouth Arrow she drove. The school was a large, aged, red-bricked, two-story set on the edge of town. It was actually bigger than my old school in Chicago, which was a small private elementary school, but they looked much alike, and that was comforting to me. The next thing I noticed was that students of all ages were running to the back of the school, clutching red plastic sleds and wooden toboggans.

“Come on, Dave,” I said to my brother, who was entering kindergarten. “Let’s go!” I grabbed my book bag, said a quick goodbye to my mother and we tumbled out of the car.

“Hey!” she yelled. “Don’t you want me to walk you in?”

“No, thanks.” I threw my bag over my shoulder and we followed the snow-crusted footprints to the back of the school. It was a breathtaking sight to my seven-year-old eyes. Hidden behind the school was an enormous hill that ran the length of the school and then some. The hill was steep in some areas and more level in others and ended in an immense meadow perhaps two football fields long. Kids formed lines at the top of the hill to take their turn down the various sledding paths; there was a definite pecking order to the arrangement. The older kids, probably seventh and eighth graders, were organized near a portion of the hill that descended at a sharp angle and had a number of man-made mounds, carefully rounded and patted to send sleds airborne. The smaller children gathered around the shorter hills with less of an incline. I watched as children whooped with glee on their way down the slopes and viewed their determined journey back up the hill, dragging their sleds behind them.

One small figure caught my eye. The child—a boy, I figured, my age or younger—was decked out in black snow pants, an oversize black winter coat, and black rubber boots. Two mismatched mittens, one red, one green, were on his hands, and a black stocking cap was pulled low over his eyes. I watched as he confidently carried a silver dish-shaped sled to the edge of the big kids’ hill and got in line behind three other towering boys. The boys turned, laughed and unceremoniously shoved him out of the line. Not intimidated, he squeezed back into his spot and rooted himself soundly, ignoring the taunts flung at him. When it was his turn, he situated himself onto the disk and a boy behind him shoved the sled with the toe of his big hiking boot. The sledder went careening down the hill, spinning and bouncing off the icy bumps, going airborne for a moment only to strike another frozen ramp. I held my breath for this poor soul who was sure to be killed with all of us as witnesses.

“Holy crap,” Dave whispered beside me and I nodded in agreement.

It seemed like forever, him going down that hill, his head jerking around on his neck, but he held on, dangerously tipping only once. Finally, his sled hit the final speed bump so violently that his stocking cap went flying and a brown rope of hair soared behind him in a loose ponytail. He was a she, I realized with shock, and as she slid the final two hundred feet to a stop, I had fallen completely and utterly in love. I still have to smile at the memory and am still astounded at how quickly Toni had cornered off a spot in my heart. I am even more amazed that she still has claim to it.

I look up from my desk. I know who my visitor is; I stand and go to greet Agent Fitzgerald from the state police.

BEN

From the window of my bedroom, I see the deputy sheriff pull into the Gregorys’ driveway and I crane my neck to see who is with him, hoping it’s you, Calli. It isn’t. A small man, dressed in brown pants, white shirt and a red tie gets out. I watch as he looks the Gregory house up and down and then walks with Deputy Sheriff Louis to the front door. The policeman Mom was talking about, I figure. Calli, you sure are causing one mighty fuss, and how you do that without saying a word amazes me.

I was supposed to go spend the night at Raymond’s house tonight, but I guess that’s out, at least until we find you. You never did like it when I spent a night away from home. You’d sit on my bed as I’d pack my backpack, looking at me so sadlike, I’d have to keep saying over and over, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Cal, it’s no big deal.” But you’d still look so disappointed that I’d let you play with my chess set, the one Dad got me for Christmas that one year, and you’d feel a little better.

Mom was about as bad as you. Oh, she’d put on this brave face and say, “Of course you have to go to your overnight, Ben. We young ladies will be just fine here, won’t we, Calli? We have Daddy here now to keep us company.”

Truth is, I’d only go on overnights when Dad was home from traveling. I could never stand the thought of you and Mom home completely alone, and sometimes it was just better for me to be out of the way when Dad came home.

Do you remember the night of the “talking lessons”? Last fall, when you were in first grade, and Mom was out, went to some meeting with your teachers, I think, and we were left home with Dad. He thought it was ridiculous, all this to-do at school because of you not talking. He started out all excited, saying, “Calli, you wanna do something nice for your mom?”

Of course you nodded, all happy. Dad had you come over to him where he was sitting in his favorite green chair and sat you on his lap. You looked at him, just waiting for him to tell you what great surprise he had for Mom. Dad looked so glad that I came over and asked if I could help surprise her, too.

Dad smiled. “That’s nice, Ben, but this is something that only Calli can do for Mom.” Then he looked to you. “Calli, wouldn’t it be wonderful if you could tell Mom you love her? That would make her so happy, and me, too.”

All of a sudden, your face got all sad, because you knew Dad just asked you to do the impossible. Dad said, “Ah, come on, Calli, you can do it! Just make your mouth say Mom.”

You started shaking your head and squinching your eyes up tight. “Come on, Calli, say it. Mom.” He stretched his lips out wide while he said the word, like someone trying to get a baby to talk.

You kept your eyes shut and your lips squeezed together. “You can do it, Calli. Don’tcha want to make your mom happy? Mmm-ahhh-mmm.”

You were having none of it and tried to hop off Dad’s lap. “Oh, no, you don’t. Come on, Calli, say it. Say it!” he shouted. He held you on him with one arm and grabbed your face with the other, trying to force your mouth into a shape to say the word.

“Stop it,” I said, real soft. But he kept right on going, even though you were crying, but not making any noise. “Stop it!” I said louder and this got Dad’s attention.

“Go on outta here, Ben. Me and Calli are just having a talking lesson. Go on now,” he said.

“Stop it!” I yelled. “Leave her alone! She can’t say it, she can’t do it! If she could, she would’ve already! Leave her alone!” I know. I couldn’t believe it myself. You stopped crying and both you and Dad looked at me like Martians had landed or something.

“Stay out of it, Ben. Go on to your room,” he said in a quiet voice, but I knew he meant business.

“No. Leave her alone, she can’t do it!”

Dad stood up real quick and dumped you on your butt to the floor. And I yelled, “Run, Calli!” But you didn’t. You just sat there on the floor and looked up at us.

“Fabulous,” Dad said all huffy. “I got a retarded mute little girl and a smart-ass know-it-all boy. Fabulous. Maybe there’s another way to get her to talk. Stand up, Calli.”

You did, quick.

“Ben here thinks he has all the answers. Thinks that you can’t talk. Well, I know different, because I remember when you could talk. You yapped just fine. Maybe you just need a little incentive to get that mouth of yours going.” Then Dad swung out at me and hit me in the back of my head, about knocked my block off. You covered up your eyes again, but Dad pried your fingers down to make you watch. Then he belted me a few more times, in the stomach, on my back.

He kept looking at you, shouting, “If you talk, Calli, I’ll stop.” Then he’d punch me again. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Come on, Calli, won’t you even say something to help your big brother out?”

I knew you felt so terrible. Between the smacks I could see you trying to say the words, but you just couldn’t. I knew you would’ve if you could. Finally Dad got tired and said, “Hell! You both are hopeless.”

Then he sat back down in his green chair and watched TV until Mom got home. I never did tell her what happened and I wore long sleeves for the next month. I figured Dad was only home for a few more days and then he was going back to the pipeline again. You ran upstairs to your room and wouldn’t even look at me for the next ten days. But I knew you were sorry. I kept finding Tootsie Rolls under my pillow every day for the next two weeks.

MARTIN

Fielda is hanging on, but just barely. She is pale, her voice is shaky and high. Her fingers keep plucking at the loose threads on the arm of the couch. She is trying so hard to concentrate on the words that Agent Fitzgerald, sitting with Deputy Sheriff Louis on the couch opposite us, is saying, but is struggling to focus.

“I’m sorry?” she says contritely.

“What time did you see Petra last?” he repeats.

Agent Fitzgerald is not what I expected. I thought he would be much older. Instead, he looks to be forty. He is very short in stature, with a bulldog chin and small feminine hands. His appearance does not fill me with confidence, and I am rather irritated with Deputy Sheriff Louis, as he had said this Agent Fitzgerald was well regarded in law enforcement and a force to be reckoned with.

“Last night,” Fielda responds. “Eight-thirty, I’d say. No, nine. It was nine because she came downstairs once to ask me what a word meant in her book that she was reading.”

“What word?” Fitzgerald asks kindly.

“What word? Umm, it was inedible. She wanted to know what it meant and I told her,” Fielda explains.

I begin to shift uneasily next to her. “What does that have to do with Petra being gone? We have answered all these questions for Deputy Sheriff Louis. I do not understand why we need to answer them again. We should be out looking for the girls. Our time would be better spent,” I tell him politely but firmly.

“Mr. Gregory, I understand your concern,” Fitzgerald says. “It’s good for me to ask the questions also and hear your answers, too. You may think of something that you didn’t tell Deputy Sheriff Louis. Please be patient. We are all working very hard right now to find your daughter.”

“All I know right now is that my little girl is missing, as is her best friend. She is out there somewhere in her pajamas and all I am doing right now is sitting here!” My voice is getting dangerously loud. “Why aren’t we out there finding her?” Fielda grabs my arm and begins to cry, rocking back and forth.

“Shh, shh, Fielda,” I soothe her. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to her.

Fitzgerald leans forward. “If we focus on all the facts that we have, if we look at each little piece, no matter how inconsequential, then we are more likely to find out where Petra and Calli are. So I do understand how repetitive this is for you, but it is very important.”

I nod. “I apologize. Please continue.”

“Can you give me a list of people who have visited your home in the last month or so?” he asks.

Fielda sniffs and wipes her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Calli, of course, was over. Calli’s brother, Ben, he delivers the paper. My friend Martha—”

“Last names also, please,” Fitzgerald instructs.

“Martha Franklin. The two men from the furniture store, Bandleworths. I don’t know their names, though. They delivered the bookshelf.”

“We had a dinner party about two weeks ago, with some of my colleagues from the college. Walt and Jeanne Powers and Mary and Sam Garfield,” I add.

“We often have students from the college come and do odd jobs for us,” Fielda says. Fitzgerald looks expectantly at her. “Mariah Burton babysat for us on a number of occasions the last two years, Chad Wagner has done some lawn work this summer—he’s in one of Martin’s economics classes—and Lucky Thompson. Lucky stops by once in a while. I can’t think of anyone else, can you, Martin?”

“We have several hikers wander down this way, since we are right next to the woods. Many people from town come out this way to walk the trails, usually on weekends. Just about everyone we know has come near here at one time or another,” I explain.

“When we leave, I’d like for you to make a list of everyone that has had contact with Petra, as far back as a year. Some names may be repeats that we’ve already spoken about. That’s fine. We’ll run all the names through our system and see if anything unusual comes up.

“Has anyone paid any extra attention to Petra while they were here? Talked to her or looked at her in a way that made you uncomfortable?” Fitzgerald asks, his blue eyes staring unnervingly at us.

“Everyone loves Petra,” Fielda answers. “She just lights up a room, she can talk to just about anybody about anything.”

“I look forward to meeting her, too.” Fitzgerald smiles. “But think back, did anyone you know maybe go out of their way to give her a hug or speak to her in a way that made you pause, even just for a second?”

Fielda blinks at him several times and I can actually hear the connections clicking together in her mind. But she remains silent.

“I know these are uncomfortable questions for you, Mr. and Mrs. Gregory, but the sooner we look at all the possible scenarios, the sooner we get the girls home. We’re sending officers door-to-door and checking on any known sex offenders in the area.”

“You don’t think Petra and Calli went off on their own, do you? You think someone took them.” Fielda looks desperately at Fitzgerald, and when he remains silent, she turns to Deputy Sheriff Louis.

“There are some slight similarities to the disappearances of Petra and Calli to the little McIntire girl,” Louis says. “Nothing concrete, but…but like Agent Fitzgerald says, we need to look at everything, no matter how hard.”

“Oh my God. Oh my God!” Fielda slowly slides off the slippery chintz sofa to her knees and then curls into a tight ball. “Oh my God!” she wails.

I drop to the floor next to her and glare at Louis and Fitzgerald. “Get out,” I say enraged, surprising even myself. Then more calmly add, “Please leave us for a moment, and then we will talk more. Please go.” I watch the two men as they stand and unhurriedly walk out the front door into the scorching heat. As the front screen closes and latches with a soft click, I lie down next to Fielda, molding myself to her, pressing my chest to her back, tucking my knees into the soft groove behind hers, sliding my arms around her middle and hiding my face in her hair. She smells sweetly of perfume and talcum powder, which to me will forever on be the odor of deep, deep grief. Her cries do not soften, but become more fraught and my own body rises and falls with each of her shudders.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Fitzgerald and I step out into the Gregorys’ front yard, the sun nearly directly above us, hidden slightly behind an enormous maple tree—a perfect climbing tree, Toni would say.

“Jesus,” Fitzgerald says in an exasperated voice, and I steel myself for criticism of the way I just handled the last three minutes in the Gregory home.

“How can you stand this sound?” Fitzgerald says disgustedly.

“What sound?”

“Those bugs. It sounds like millions of insects chewing on something. It makes my skin crawl.” Fitzgerald pulls out a pack of cigarettes and taps one out, holding it between his slender fingers.

“They’re cicadas,” I explain. “It’s vibrations. The noise they make. It’s their skin pulled tight over their bodies.”

“It’s annoying. How can you stand it?”

“I suppose the same way that you get used to the noises in a big city. It’s just there—you don’t really notice it after a while.”

Fitzgerald nods and lights his cigarette. “Do you mind?” he asks after the fact.

“Naw, go ahead,” I reply and we both stand there, listening to the cicadas’ anxious song.

“You feel bad,” Fitzgerald observes.

“Yeah, I do,” I respond blandly.

“It needed to be said, the thing about the McIntire girl. They need to know it’s a possibility. Give them a few minutes to let it settle in their minds and they’ll be ready to go forward. There’s no way they will accept that their little girl could have been lured from her home, raped and murdered, but the possibility will be there, and they will be out here in a moment ready to fight like hell to find her, to prove that’s not what happened.”

“We need to bring in search dogs, organize a formal search,” I tell him, knowing this is already on his mind.

“I agree. We can get a trained hound and handler from Madison or even Des Moines down here by late this afternoon,” Fitzgerald responds, taking a deep pull on his cigarette.

“The families are not going to want to hear about a search dog. Sounds too much like we’ll be looking for bodies,” I say, not relishing the thought of being the one to relay the information to the Gregorys and Toni.

“What’s your gut feeling on this one, Louis?” Fitzgerald asks me, leaning against an old oak tree.

I shrug. “Not sure, but between you and me, I would look at Toni’s husband a little more closely. He’s a shady character, a drinker. Rumor has it he can be violent.”

“Violent in what way?”

“Like I said, just rumor. Toni doesn’t talk about it, there’s never been a domestic call. Several drunk and disorderlies on Griff, and one DUI. Just something to keep in mind as this all unfolds,” I say wearily.

“Good to know,” Fitzgerald says looking off toward Toni’s house.

“Days like this, I wished I smoked,” I say, eyeing his cigarette.

“Days like this, I wished I didn’t,” Fitzgerald replies, as Martin Gregory steps outside his home.

“I’m sorry,” Martin apologizes. “We are ready to go on, tell us what you need to know. Please…come in.”

CALLI

Calli had traveled deeper into the forest, beyond any spot she had been before. She was lost, the fawn had long since left to join its mother. Calli wandered around, trying to get her bearings. The trees here were thick and shielded the sun’s rays from her, though the air around remained steamy, heavy with moisture. The trail in front of her led upward, a winding, rocky path that disappeared into a stand of hemlocks. Another trail led downward, she thought to the creek. Her tongue felt oversize and dry; she was so thirsty. She considered going back the way she had come, but dismissed the idea, knowing that Griff was still there somewhere. The muscles in her legs were shaky and tired from running and a dull hunger had settled in her stomach. Calli scanned the forest around her; she saw the plump red-and-yellow berries that the cardinals flocked around, but knew she should not eat them. She tried to remember what her mother and Ben had told her about the berries of the forest, what she could eat and what was poisonous. She knew about mulberries, the fat purplish-red berries filled with sweet juice that hung heavily on branches. She could eat those, but she knew not to eat the reddish-brown berries of the toothache tree, because they would cause your mouth to go numb. She trudged upward, eyes inspecting every bush and vine.

Her eyes settled upon a thorny tangled thicket holding blackish berries hanging from a white stem. Black raspberries. Calli hungrily plucked them from the twig, their juice bursting out of their skin with her touch, staining her fingers. The sweetness filled her mouth and she continued picking, fanning mosquitoes away from her find. Her mother had taught her where to find the wild black raspberries and she and Ben would collect as many as they could in old ice cream buckets, trying not to eat too many. When their buckets were full, they would carry them home to their mother, who would carefully wash them and bake them into pies that she served with homemade ice cream. Calli loved homemade ice cream and everything that went into making the concoction. She would tromp down the basement stairs where they stored the old hand-crank ice cream maker. It awed her how just adding the eggs, vanilla, milk and rock salt would create something so delicious. She didn’t even mind the ache in her arm from turning the crank, and Ben would take over when she couldn’t turn it anymore. The first thing she would do, she decided, when she got home was to haul that old ice cream maker up the steps so they could make a batch.

When she finished eating all the raspberries she could reach, she wiped her blackened fingers on her nightgown and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, the imprint of her lips left behind like lipstick. Her hunger sated for the moment, Calli decided to continue her climb upward, to the highest point on the bluff. From there, perhaps she could see exactly where she was at and which direction would lead her home. But it was so hot and she was so sleepy. Just to lie down for a few moments, just to rest. She found a shady cluster of evergreens, well off the trail, cleared away the sharp branches that lay at its base, and, using her arms as a pillow, shut her eyes and slept.

BEN

We’ve been waiting for eons for Deputy Sheriff Louis and the other guy to get here. Mom made me put on a nice pair of shorts and a shirt with a collar for when they come over to talk to us. I’m starving, but feel weird making a sandwich or something when you’re out all by yourself with maybe nothing to eat. I grab a box of crackers and take ’em upstairs to eat in my room. When I walk by the door to your room, there’s this little stretch of crime scene tape stretched across the door frame. Stupid, I think, people rifling through your stuff in your room when we should all be out looking for you in the woods.

I see Mom sitting on the floor of her bedroom, pulling things out of your treasure box. It’s really an old hat box filled with junk. I got one, too. Mom calls it our treasure box because she wants us to put all the important stuff from our life in it. Then when we’re old and gray, as she says, we can dig through all the things that at one time were so valuable to us. Actually, I’m already on my second treasure box because my first one got all filled up. She doesn’t notice me standing there so I just watch all quiet. She’s surrounded by a bunch of your school papers and art projects and she’s touching each one, gentlelike, as if one wrong move will cause them all to turn to dust. She reaches into the box again and brings out something that I can’t quite figure what it is. Neither can she, because she just stares at it for a long time, turning it around in her fingers; it’s whitish-gray and about three inches long. Mom hears me behind her, turns and holds it out to me.

“What do you think it is?” she asks me as I take it.

I shrug and pick at some of the gray bits that look like fur sticking out of it. “I think it’s an owl pellet,” I say. “Look, you can see little bits of bone sticking out.”

Mom looks and takes it back from me. I love that about her. Most mothers would freak out at the sight of something like owl throw-up, but she doesn’t.

“Yeah, I think you’re right. Why would Calli have this in her treasure box?” she asks.

I shrug again. “I guess for the same reason that I have a box of periodical cicada shells in my room.” This causes her to laugh and I’m glad, she hasn’t laughed much lately. She carefully sets the pellet back in the box and pulls out a pile of something that looks like cotton.

“I know what this is!” Mom exclaims, smiling. “It’s dandelion fluff all bunched together!”

“Okay,” I say, “I can kinda understand the owl pellet, but I don’t get the dandelion fluff.”

“Don’t you remember?” she asks me. “‘When fairies dance upon the air, reach out gently and catch one, fair. Make a wish and hold it tight, then softly toss your pixie back to summer’s night.’”

“I wonder what she wished for,” I say.

“I wonder why she didn’t let them go,” Mom adds.

“Maybe she was saving the wishes up for something real big, then she was going to let them all go at once.”

It’s Mom’s turn to shrug and she lays the fluff back into your treasure box on top of all the other stuff, puts the lid back on and slides it under her bed.

“Come on, Ben,” she says. “Let me make you a sandwich. Louis will be here soon.”

I have an idea of what you might have wished for, because they’re the same wishes as mine. Number one—for you to talk again. Number two—get a dog. Number three—that Dad would just go on back to Alaska and not come back. God knows you’d never admit it and neither would I, but those would be your wishes. I know.

ANTONIA

As I make Ben and me a ham sandwich and slice an apple in half, I think of Calli’s treasure box. The dandelion fluff reminds me of Louis, of when we were kids.

The summer after Louis moved here, we’d go out to the meadow behind my house, the very house I live in now. Our field would be filled with happy yellow dandelions, and my mom would pay us a penny a weed to dig them out by the roots. No easy feat. We’d get old spoons to dig down as deep as we could, under the roots, and then toss them into an old plastic bucket. We could wrench out about one hundred in a day. My mother would give us a dollar, one shiny quarter for each of our grimy hands, and we’d hop on our bikes, ride downtown to the Mourning Glory Café and pool our earnings. I’d buy us a cherry Coke, not the kind that comes in a can like today, but the kind straight out of a soda fountain, with the cherry juice squirted in. Mrs. Mourning would always put in two straws and two cherries, one for Louis and one for me. Louis would buy us a basket of French fries, piping hot and salty. He would write my name out on top of the fries in ketchup from the squirt bottle and then script his own directly below it. The fries with my name on them were mine, the fries with his name, his to eat. Some days, we’d each buy a candy bar. I always picked Marathon bars, and he would choose a Baby Ruth. Petra’s mother, Fielda, was often at the café helping her mother. Friendly and sweet, Fielda would stand behind the counter watching us carefully, refilling our sodas. Looking back, I can see that Fielda wanted to be my friend, but I had Louis, and, well, he was all I needed, all I wanted. Years later, when we became neighbors and were eventually pregnant with our girls at the same time, Fielda tried again, invited me over for coffee, for walks, but once again, I was aloof, this time for completely different reasons. I was afraid she’d get an inkling of my sad marriage, catch my husband and me in a bad moment, see the bruises. Eventually she gave up and left me alone, just as she had eventually done when we were young.

Our dandelion weeding would last approximately ten days. By then we were bored with the job and had our fill of cherry Cokes and fries. We hadn’t even made a dent in removing all the dandelions. They were beginning to seed and white puffs were whirling in the air above us, undoing all that we’d accomplished.

“You know,” Louis told me, “these really are fairies.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, unconvinced.

“They are. My dad told me. He said that dandelion fluffs are magical fairies. If you grab one before it hits the ground, the fairy will be so grateful she will give you a wish once you set her free.”

I sat up, setting down my dirt-crusted spoon. This interested me. Louis never spoke of his father, ever. “I didn’t know they had flowers in Chicago.”

“Yeah, they have flowers and weeds and grass in Chicago,” he said indignantly. “Just not so much of it.

“My dad would say, ‘When fairies dance upon the air, reach out gently and catch one, fair. Make a wish and hold it tight, then softly toss your pixie back to summer’s night.’ My dad said his granny from Ireland told him that and that the wishes really come true. Every summer when we’d see dandelion fluff we tried to catch one, make a wish, and then blow it back into the air.”

“What’d you wish for?” I asked.

“Stuff.” Louis, all of a sudden bashful, dropped his spoon and ran toward the woods, grasping at fluff as he went.

“What kind of stuff?” I called as I chased him.

“For the Cubs to win the pennant, things like that.” He wasn’t looking at me.

“What about your dad? Do you ever wish for your dad?” I asked softly. His shoulders sagged and I thought he would take off running again.

“Naw, dead is dead. It doesn’t work for stuff like that. You gotta wish for money or to be a movie star or something.” He handed me a soft white wish. “What are you going to wish for?”

I thought for a moment, and then blew it gently from my hand, the cottony wisp floating away.

“What did you wish for?” he asked again.

“For the Cubs to win the pennant, of course,” I responded. He laughed and we ran off to play in the creek.

That wasn’t my wish though. I wished for him to have his dad back, just in case.

Eight years later, when we were sixteen, we were back at the creek. We had just made love for the first time and I was tearful. I couldn’t put into words what I was feeling. I knew I loved him, I knew that what we had done wasn’t a mistake, but still I wept. Louis was trying to make me smile, tickling me and pulling funny faces, but tears just kept rolling down my face no matter what he tried. Finally, in an act of desperation, I suppose, he ran from the creek. I sat there, devastated, pulling my clothes on, mucus dropping from my nose. I had lost Louis, my best friend. He came back moments later, though. He held his two hands in front of him clenched tightly.

“Pick a hand,” he said, and I chose his left. He opened his palm and inside were three frail white tufts of a dandelion. “Three wishes,” he said and then opened his other fist to reveal three more dandelion fairies, “for each of us.”

“You first,” I said through my tears, finally, a smile on my face.

“That the Cubs win the pennant.” He grinned and I laughed. “That I become a policeman.” Then his young man’s face became serious. “And that you will love me forever. Your turn,” he said quickly.

I thought for a moment. “To live in a yellow house.” I looked carefully at Louis’s face to see if he was laughing at me. He wasn’t. “To visit the ocean,” I continued. “And…” the tears resumed, great sloppy tears “…that you’ll love me forever.”

Three years later, Louis had gone away to college and I married Griff. Damn fairies, I thought to myself now. I don’t live in a yellow house, I’ve never been to the ocean, and Louis didn’t love me forever. And my Calli, my dear heart, is missing. All that I touch gets damaged or lost.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

Once again I am sitting at Toni’s kitchen table, a sweating glass of iced tea in front of me. This time Agent Fitzgerald is sitting next to me instead of Martin. I worry, when this is over, Martin will never speak to me again. And I fear that Toni won’t, either. I can tell Toni doesn’t know what to make of Fitzgerald, his precise, unemotional questions. She wonders if he is judging her and her mothering. I see her turning over each of his questions, searching for any hidden meaning, any tricks, I suppose because she is so used to Griff’s manipulative ways.

Finding Toni curled up on her couch, delivering a dead baby girl four years ago, I’d hoped that she would wise up and get rid of Griff for good. Granted, I don’t know exactly what happened that winter night, just that Ben had come home and found his mother covered in a blanket on the sofa with Calli sitting by, patting her shoulder. I couldn’t get Calli to talk to me. She just looked up at me with her big, brown eyes and sat there as the ambulance carried her mother away.

I asked Ben where his father was, and he couldn’t say for sure, but guessed that he was probably at Behnke’s, a bar downtown. I debated just phoning over there and talking to Griff, but decided a face-to-face conversation would be more effective. I asked a neighbor to come over and watch the kids and I went over to Behnke’s.

I saw Griff through a smoky haze, sitting at the bar next to a bunch of his old high-school friends. His friends were laughing and talking, reminiscing, I’m sure, about the good old days, about the only thing that group had going for them. Griff was uncharacteristically quiet, slamming back shots, nodding and smiling once in a while at what someone said. I walked over to him, and he glanced up at me. He didn’t look surprised to see me. I felt the eyes of all the patrons of Behnke’s on me, watching what would happen next. My history with Toni was no secret in Willow Creek. I waited for Griff’s usual sarcastic greeting. “Deputy Sheriff,” he’d say in a pompous wise-ass voice that made it sound like he was addressing a king or head of state. But he just looked expectantly up at me and a hush fell over his cronies next to him.

“Go outside for a minute, Griff?” I asked politely.

“Gotta warrant, Deputy Sheriff?” Roger, his idiot sidekick, asked, laughing hysterically.

“You can talk to me here, Louis,” Griff said mildly and then downed another shot. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“No thanks, I’m on duty,” I replied, and for some reason his friends thought that was funny, too, and collapsed in laughter.

I leaned in close to him. “It’s about Toni, Griff,” I said in a low voice, not wanting these jokers to hear.

Griff stood up. I’m a good four inches taller than Griff, but he’s broad and built like a weight lifter. I had no doubt that he could beat the shit out of me, just like he did when I was nineteen and had come from college to try to get Toni to come back to me. I had gone to her house, where she still lived with her dad, who seemed to have aged decades since Toni’s mother died. I took one look at Toni’s face that night and knew something was irreparably broken between the two of us. We could never go back to the way it was. At the time, I didn’t want to stay in Willow Creek and Toni didn’t want to leave. My mom had remarried earlier that year and moved back to Chicago with my brother and sister. I loved college, loved Iowa City, and wanted Toni to come back with me. There wasn’t really anything left for her in Willow Creek, I thought. But she said no, with regret, I think. Said she was seeing Griff Clark and was doing just fine. That she couldn’t leave her father alone, he’d lost too much already. Then she crossed her arms over her chest like she always did when she made a decision and it was final. I leaned in to kiss her goodbye, but she dropped her chin at the last second and my lips landed on her nose.

Griff waited until I had driven away. He waited until I had driven forty miles and stopped for gas. He waited until I was just about ready to get back in my car after paying the clerk and then he came out from the shadows and sucker punched me in the stomach and while I was bent over, he kicked me in the balls. “Stay away from Toni, asshole,” he hissed at me. I could smell the alcohol on his breath. “We’re getting married,” he slurred before one boulderlike first crunched into my face. Those three words hurt more than the punch. A few months later, I heard through a friend that Toni and Griff had gotten married. And it wasn’t all that many months later when I heard about Ben. It didn’t take a genius to do the math. I should have tried harder. I shouldn’t have let her go.

“Let’s go,” Griff said, the yeasty smell of beer that emanated from him bringing me back to Behnke’s, and I followed him out of the bar. The cold brisk air of the parking lot was welcoming after the stale nicotine cloud we just left.

“What’s up?” he asked innocently. “Is Toni okay?”

“She’s at Mercy Hospital,” was all I said. Even as much as I hated the guy, I couldn’t tell him that his baby had died.

“What happened? What’d she say?” Griff asked.

“Not sure,” I replied. “She’s not saying much right now. Ben called for help.” I left out that Ben had called me at home, knowing that this could cause him grief later.

Griff paused at his truck, keys in hand and turned to me. “Probably not a good idea for me to drive, huh?”

“Probably not,” I agreed. We looked at each other for a moment. “Come on,” I said finally. “I’ll drive you over.”

We climbed in and I started the cruiser. The only sound was the heater trying ineffectively to warm the car. After driving for a few moments, Griff cleared his throat.

“What’d Calli say?” he asked, not looking at me.

“What do you think she said?” I asked, knowing full well Calli hadn’t uttered a sound, not since I got there, anyway.

He cleared his throat again. “Toni fell, but she was fine. She got right back up. She said she was okay. She settled herself on the couch. She was fine when I left.”

“She’s not so fine now,” I said, pulling into the parking lot of the hospital. When I stopped the car I turned to Griff and said, “Griff, if I find out that you did anything to hurt Toni, I will come after you. I will come after you, arrest you, throw you in a jail cell, and some night, when no one is looking, I will beat the crap out of you.”

Griff laughed as he opened the car door. “No, you won’t, Deputy.” There was that obnoxious tone. “Naw, you won’t. You’re a by-the-book kinda guy. But hey, thanks for the ride.” He slammed the door and left me, my breath frosty-white, curling around my head.

And damned if he wasn’t right.

BEN

When I was seven I started playing in a summer soccer league. Mom thought it would be good for me to get out and get some exercise, make some new friends. I was big, but not exactly the athletic type. My feet always seemed too large and I’d end up tripping over them and making a fool of myself. After squashing about three of the kids on the other team, plus one of my own teammates, the coach put me in as goalie. That, I could do. I was about twice the size of anyone else, so it was more likely that I could stop a ball from flying into the net. I would snatch balls out of the air as they came whizzing toward me, blocking the soccer ball with my body. No one scored on me in four matches. I could see you and Mom hollering on the sidelines, cheering me on. You were two, I guess. Sometimes you’d try to run out onto the field to come and see me and then the referee would have to stop the game and Mom would come over and scoop you up saying, “Sorry, sorry,” to everyone.

One time Dad was in town and he came to one of my games. It had rained earlier and the grass was all slippery. Dad came a little later, after the game had started and I was standing in the goalie box, wearing my blue soccer shirt with the number four on it and my black goalie gloves. They were so cool, I thought, those gloves. They looked all professional-like and had these bumpy knobs on them for a better grip to hold on to the ball. You and Mom were sitting on an old blanket, but Dad was pacing up and down the sidelines. I kept watching him, walking, walking, walking, like some caged-up lion. He’d be yelling, “Come on, boys! Get that ball, move it up the field.” When the ball came toward me, I’d have to force my eyes off him, trying to concentrate. My hands were out in front of me, my knees were bent and my legs were spread apart, trying to take up as much space as I could, just like the coach told me.

“Come on, Ben,” he shouted. “You can do it, get that ball! Grab it, grab it!”

I can still see the ball flying at me, the black and white spots on the ball spinning so fast they looked gray. The ball sped right past me; I didn’t even get one fancy-gloved finger on that ball. I expected to hear Dad shouting and yelling at me and Mom trying to shush him. But when I looked to the sidelines, to where he’d been pacing, he wasn’t there anymore. I searched and searched the crowd and finally spotted him, walking back to his truck.

We won the game four to one. Mom took you and me out for ice cream to celebrate, but I wasn’t very hungry. Dad didn’t say anything about the game when we got home, which was worse in its own way.

ANTONIA

I meet Louis and the other officer at my front door. From my living-room window I had seen them drive down our lane. The man with Louis is compact, dressed nicely but casually. He wears expensive-looking shoes and carries a leather portfolio.

I welcome them into my home and we settle at the kitchen table. Louis looks miserable and the man introduces himself as Kent Fitzgerald, federal agent. I hold back a giggle. He says it as if he were a superhero or something.

“Missing and Exploited Children Division,” he adds and I sober quickly. I must look puzzled because he explains, “We take missing children, any missing children, very seriously.”

“We don’t know that they are missing, missing,” I say lamely. “I mean, of course, they’re missing, but what are you thinking? Do you know something?” I look to Louis. He isn’t looking at me.

“We know as much as you do, Mrs. Clark,” Agent Fitzgerald says. “I’m here to assist Deputy Sheriff Louis and his team in bringing the girls home. What time did you last see Calli?”

“Last night at about ten,” I begin. “We watched a movie together and had popcorn. Then I helped her get ready for bed.”

“Who else was in the house last night?” he inquires.

“My son, Ben. He’s twelve. He didn’t watch the entire movie, he went up to his room at about nine, I guess. And my husband, Griff, he came home at about midnight or so.”

He nods. “Deputy Louis tells me your husband, Griff…Is that his real name?”

“No, no, it’s a nickname. His real name is Griffith, but everyone just calls him Griff.”

“Griff, Deputy Louis tells me, went on an early-morning fishing trip.”

I bob my head in agreement and wait for his next question, but it doesn’t come, so I continue. “I’m not certain what time he left, but when I talked to Roger’s wife, she said he left to pick Griff up at around three-thirty this morning. And sometime early I heard a truck in the drive. I assumed it was Roger’s.”

“Roger’s last name again?” Agent Fitzgerald asks.

“Hogan. Roger Hogan,” I respond. My hands are beginning to sweat and my head aches.

“Have you been able to contact your husband or Mr. Hogan as of yet?”

“Laura Hogan tried Roger’s cell phone, but the call wouldn’t go through. Griff isn’t answering his phone, it goes right to voice mail. I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald…” I say.

“Agent,” he corrects me.

“I’m sorry, Agent Fitzgerald, but why focus on Griff and Roger? I don’t understand.”

“There is no focus at this point. We’re just getting the logistics.” He smiles briefly. His teeth are small and white, and he has an underbite that thrusts his chin forward. “We asked the Julien police to head over to the cabin where your husband is staying. The officer said that he found the cabin and Roger Hogan’s truck. The cabin’s boat dock was empty. It appears the men are out fishing on the river. The officer is going to wait for them to return.”

I know it, but don’t say so. I know Griff has nothing to do with this.

“What was Calli wearing last night?” Agent Fitzgerald asks me.

“A pink short-sleeve nightgown that went down below her knees.”

“Shoes?”

“No, no shoes.”

Agent Fitzgerald sits quietly for a moment, his small fingers holding a pen, scratching away in his portfolio.

“Did Calli mention that she was planning to go anywhere today?” he asks, not looking up from his notebook.

I look at Louis. “You didn’t tell him?” He shakes his head. He is being very quiet and it irritates me. I look at Agent Fitzgerald again. “Calli doesn’t speak,” I explain. A neutral expression remains on his face. “She hasn’t spoken since she was four.”

“Was she ill?” he asks, looking me in the eye.

“No,” I gaze levelly back at him. “I don’t understand what this has to do with anything,” I say as I fold my arms over my chest and uncross my legs.

“Calli witnessed her mother fall down the stairs and lose her baby. It was very traumatic for her,” Louis says softly.

I glare at Louis. Now he’s talking.

Agent Fitzgerald sits up, very attentive now. “How do you communicate with each other?”

“She nods and shakes her head, she points and gestures. She knows some sign language,” I say.

“What do her doctors say?”

“That she’ll talk when she’s ready, not to force it.” I stand up and go to the kitchen window.

“Is she seeing anyone?”

“Like a shrink?” I ask, anger in my voice.

“Excuse me, Agent Fitzgerald, may I speak with Mrs. Clark privately for a moment?” Louis speaks up, his voice tight. Mrs. Clark, I wonder to myself. He has never addressed me this way before.

“Sure,” Agent Fitzgerald replies. He closes his portfolio, tucks his pen behind his ear and stands. Louis and I both watch as he goes out the front door. Louis regards me carefully.

“What?” I finally ask.

“Toni, this is serious.”

“Dammit, Louis, I know it is! It’s my daughter that is missing!” I shout. “So don’t you dare come into my home and tell me to be serious!” I am crying now, and I hate to cry in front of anyone, especially Louis.

He comes over to me. “Toni, I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” He grasps my hands in his. “Look at me, Toni,” he instructs. I do. “We’re going to find Calli, I promise. You need to talk to Agent Fitzgerald. The more thoroughly and quickly you answer his questions, the more quickly we can go out and find her.”

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” I whisper. “I cannot bear to lose another child. I could not bear it.”

“You won’t, I promise,” Louis says firmly. “You go get Ben and I’ll get Fitzgerald. Let’s get this interview over with so we can go out there and find Calli.”

He squeezes my hands one more time before dropping them and I climb the stairs to find Ben.

PETRA

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.

DEPUTY SHERIFF LOUIS

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.

ANTONIA

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.

MARTIN

Before Fitzgerald and Louis leave they encourage us to go over to a relative’s or a friend’s house for the remainder of the investigation. They say it will be comforting to have family and friends nearby and that we shouldn’t compromise any evidence in the house by having people coming in and out.

“What if Petra comes home?” Fielda argues. “I need to be here for her!” They assure her that someone will be at the house at all times and someone will contact her with all updates.

I drive Fielda and myself over to Fielda’s mother’s home. Mrs. Mourning greets us tearfully and flutters nervously about Fielda. Fielda looks ill and we both persuade her to go lie down.

Her head is aching and I search through the bathroom medicine cabinet for some Tylenol PM’s to help her rest. I suspect she needs something more, but I would never give her something stronger. I bring the tablets and a glass of ice water to the bedroom where Fielda is curled up under the quilt her grandmother had made. She looks so frail there, and old. This surprises me. Fielda, when in motion, is solid and vibrant, a force of nature, young. I am not used to this, taking care of her; she always has looked after me. Odd, I know, because being a bachelor until I was forty-two ensured that I took care of myself quite efficiently until I met Fielda.

I enter the bedroom and close the door behind me. The room is hushed and cool. Fielda obediently lays the pills on her tongue and sips the water that I offer her. I pull the sheet up around the curve of her shoulders as she settles her head on the pillow. “Just for a minute,” she says about resting. She doesn’t want to, doesn’t know how she possibly could rest with our daughter out there somewhere, but I murmur softly into her ear to just close her eyes for a moment. Her curly hair fans out, dark on the crispness of the pillowcase. I long to crawl in next to her, to swallow a handful of pills and let sleep pour over me. I cannot, though; I need to be alert, prepared to aid in the search for Petra. Louis and Fitzgerald assured me that they would contact me when their interviews with Antonia and her son were complete.

When Fitzgerald and Louis had finished questioning Fielda and me, shaken my hand and climbed into the car, a feeling of dirtiness edging toward perverseness crept next to me. Agent Fitzgerald did not accuse me of anything, certainly. However, he did request that Fielda and I stop in at the police station and have our fingerprints taken. Exclusionary purposes, Fitzgerald reassured us. I am not an uninformed man—oblivious at times, I admit, to the world around me—but not unaware that family members are the initial suspects in any missing child situation, and that more often than not, they are the guilty ones. The verity that the police, my community, my colleagues would entertain the notion that I could harm two young children, my daughter, makes me angry. I know that Fielda and I had no part in this and the fact that crucial minutes are being squandered in that consideration makes me ill.

I recall feeling the same when Fielda left me, the second of two instances when we have been apart, a panicked, out-of-control sensation that started in my extremities and coursed through my veins toward my center, tossing me off balance. Since the day Fielda and I were married, Fielda spoke of children, a home full of curly-haired, dark-eyed babies who loved books as I did and who loved food as Fielda did. To be honest, I was so astonished to have this wondrous, beautiful woman next to me, the whole of being married seemed unreal to me, magical. I viewed children in the same manner. I could not imagine being a father.

Fielda would spend hours looking through parent magazines and children’s clothing catalogs, perusing and planning. I always nodded and made a noncommittal noise when she showed me a particular article about prenatal health care or organic baby food. Months passed, then a year, and no baby. Looking back, I should have seen the change in Fielda—the gradual slump of her shoulders, the slight pull of the corners of her mouth downward, the way she would stare at new mothers in grocery stores and at church—but I did not notice.

For two years, three, then four, Fielda continued to pore over parenting books. All she could talk about was babies. How to become pregnant with one, having one, raising one. I’m ashamed to say that I lost patience with her. I’m not a handy individual, but once in a while I’ve been known to try and tighten a pipe or replace a fuse. I went down to our basement where I keep my toolbox, nearly pristine from lack of use. I was going to attempt to change the showerhead in our bathroom. I don’t know why the box caught my eye, but it did. It was a large, plain, clear plastic container with a blue lid and it appeared to be filled with clothing. Maybe it was the bright pink fabrics that were such a contrast to the gray dark basement that made me take notice. I don’t know. But I pulled the box down from the shelf and opened it, almost fearfully, as if I was doing something wrong. Inside were dozens of tiny baby outfits in pinks and blues and yellows with the price tags still hanging from them. There were dresses for a girl and overalls for a boy, there were socks that would barely cover my thumb. There were bibs in bright colors that said Daddy’s Little Girl or Got Milk? It wasn’t the money, though the amount of clothing in that box must have cost a small fortune, that bothered me. It seemed to me so sad in some way. Pathetic, really. Looking back, I can see that it was simply hope. That for Fielda, purchasing the clothing meant that she was going to conceive and have a child. She had to, she already had the outfits. I didn’t look at it that way, though. I grabbed a fistful of the clothing, dropping impossibly small T-shirts and booties behind me as I stomped up the steps.

“Fielda!” I bellowed, startling her so that she dropped the pot of spaghetti she was carrying to the sink to drain. She hopped back to avoid the scalding water, and limp strings of pasta slid across the floor.

“Martin!” she snapped back impatiently. “What’s the matter?”

“This is the matter!” I said, holding out the baby clothing. “Are you crazy?” I asked. Words I immediately regretted because, by the look on her face, I think she may have wondered the exact same thing of herself. Still I ranted on. “Fielda, there is no baby. There may never be a baby. Maybe it’s time you faced it.”

“I’m going to have a baby, Martin,” she told me, her voice low and dangerous. “I can’t not have a baby. I’ve got to have a baby,” she went on, and I saw a light go from her eyes. A sense of dread wheedled through me but I pushed it away.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” I said cruelly. “I’m not going to sit by and watch you waste money on a baby that doesn’t exist.” I might as well have slapped her. The hurt on her face still takes my breath away and the fact that I caused it to be there still makes my face burn with shame.

She stalked out of the room, nearly slipping on the spaghetti as she left. She didn’t talk to me for nearly a week. And even after she did begin to talk to me, she didn’t allow me to touch her. She spent endless minutes in the bathroom and she would emerge with red, swollen eyes, but she never cried in front of me. One day I found the sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet. Good, I told myself. Maybe she would begin to sleep through the night again instead of the endless pacing, pacing. If I had thought about it, I would have known. I should have known. I should have thrown that bottle away the minute I saw it.

Then one day it was as if nothing had ever happened and she appeared to be the same old Fielda. I thought she had come to her senses, decided to let nature take its course. But I was wrong. Her mission to become a mother was as strong as ever, and I found out about the doctor’s appointment when the receptionist from the office called to confirm the appointment. “We have the test results in,” the receptionist explained. “He’d like for Fielda to come in to discuss them.”

I gave her the message, trying to conceal my wounded feelings at being left out of this part of Fielda’s life. Though I must say, I couldn’t really blame her. I had told her to stop, which is something Fielda never did, give up, I mean. She thanked me for the message, staring at me levelly as if daring me to call her on it. I didn’t.

Instead I canceled and rescheduled my classes that drizzly October afternoon to accompany her. In the office I tried to hold her hand, which she shook impatiently away. I tried reading aloud bits from outdated magazines but she ignored me. Instead, she paced around the waiting room, looking at walls tacked with Polaroid snapshots of weary mothers holding tiny babies in their arms, sometimes a shell-shocked husband or boyfriend standing nearby. When the nurse called her name, Fielda marched back to the examining room without a backward glance toward me. Moments later, however, the nurse returned to the waiting area and called my name.

“Mr. Gregory, would you please come on back? Dr. Berg would like for you to join us,” she said, smiling.

I followed her, heartened at her smile. Good news, I thought. Fielda will return to her former self, her shoulders would straighten and laughter would return to her eyes. When I entered the room Fielda sat, fully dressed, on the examining table, crossing and uncrossing her ankles nervously. The doctor was a dark-skinned man with a serious face. His hair was black and slicked back from his forehead, and he had caring eyes.

“Mr. Gregory, I am Dr. Berg, Mrs. Gregory’s gynecologist. Please, take a seat.” He indicated a plastic chair across the small room.

“No, thank you,” I replied and continued to stand next to Fielda.

“We asked you both to come in today to share with you the results of some initial tests that we have done in order to find out why Mrs. Gregory has not conceived.”

I nodded and reached for Fielda’s hand. This time she did not pull away.

“The good news is, we cannot find anything conclusively wrong that is preventing conception with Mrs. Gregory. There is, of course, further testing that we can do, but I would recommend that you try some other avenues.”

“For example…” I began.

“For example, I would suggest that you, Mr. Gregory, have a sperm sample taken. This could address any concerns with sperm viability.”

“Oh,” I laughed uneasily. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I believe that these things come in due time. Perhaps parenthood is not for us.”

I felt Fielda pull her hand from mine. It was not a violent pull, more like an easing away. It did not alarm me. Fielda’s next act, however, did. She slid off the examination table and breezed out of the room without a backward glance or an acknowledgment to the physician, which surprised me, as Fielda is normally unfailingly polite. I thanked the doctor for the both of us and quickly made my exit. When I stepped out into the wet parking lot I could see Fielda speeding away in our car.

I walked the nearly two miles home, ruining my dress shoes, the chill of autumn pouring into them as I sloshed through puddles. When I arrived at our house Fielda was not at home. I decided to give her some time to think, to be on her own, but the minutes stretched into hours and evening arrived. I finally called the Mourning Glory and asked Mrs. Mourning, albeit awkwardly, if she had seen Fielda. She had not.

“Did you all have your first fight?” Mrs. Mourning teased good-naturedly. “Bout time, you’ve only been married four years!”

I laughed feebly and asked her to tell Fielda to call me if she happened to hear from her.

It had stopped raining, but darkness was gathering, pressing in on the house so that I nearly choked on its emptiness. Finally, I abandoned the notion that Fielda needed some time to herself and climbed into our other car, “the regular folk” car Mrs. Mourning would say, a Chevette that was a shade of bronze that fortunately covered the rust stains eating away at its edges. I spent the next hour driving up and down side streets, looking for Fielda; I drove past the library, the fabric store, the candy shop, searching to no avail. I even paused briefly in front of the Mourning Glory and glanced into its gleaming storefront, lit warmly, but did not see Fielda or our Camry. I decided to drive into the Willow Creek Camping Grounds, a dismal, junky spot, I thought, to which people who had nothing better to do with their time would pull cumbersome campers in order to sit around a fire and drink beer all day and all night. I could not imagine that Fielda would be there, but I had run out of ideas. As I pulled into the paved entrance area lined with gigantic maples, their bright red plumage shadowed in the dusk, I saw the car almost immediately and pressed my foot to the pedal, sending my car lurching forward. I pulled in next to Fielda and could see at once that something was not right, that something very, very bad had happened here. Slowly—I do not know why I did not rush—I opened my car door, stepped out and firmly shut it again. I could hear my shoes slapping against the wet pavement as I approached the still car. No movement inside. I went first to the driver’s side of the car and pressed my forehead against the glass, framing my face with my hands to get a better look. My Fielda was seated, if I can call it that, in the driver’s seat, but sprawled in such a way that her head lay on the passenger’s side, her arms tucked up around her face as if she was sleeping. But she was not. I attempted to open the car door, but Fielda had locked it. I fumbled for what seemed an eternity with my key chain, found the correct key and tried to insert it into the lock. I had to stop myself to take a breath and steady my hands. Finally, I yanked the door open and pulled Fielda toward me. I could smell it first, the vomit, an acrid odor, and then I saw the mess on the car floor and car seat. Fielda had been lying in it. I do not know if I spoke, I do not recall that I did, but I remember thinking, Please don’t take her away from me! I held her close to me, I know, rocking her back and forth for a moment, until I pulled myself together. I pushed her away as gently as possible, but knowing the urgency that was upon me, not as gently as I would have liked.

I climbed into the Camry and breaking every traffic law, drove to Mercy Hospital, where the hospital personnel took Fielda away from me. I was not allowed to see her. They pumped her stomach. I handed the emergency room nurse the empty bottle of pills Fielda had ingested, and she informed me with a scathing look that it was a miracle that she had survived and would be recuperating on Four West, a place described by my students as “Four West, Nut Nest.” I knew I deserved these looks, I knew I had failed my wife, and I was punished. She was taken from me. For two weeks, even when they allowed her to have visitors, she refused to see me. I did not teach and I did not go to my office; I went to the hospital and sat in the waiting area, begging the nurses to let me see her for just one moment, no more. I sent flowers, candy, orange poppy seed muffins, but still she refused. At last, at the insistence of Mrs. Mourning, I am sure, Fielda sent for me.