Silent to the Bone (15 page)

“. . . then remember that Branwell had had a much larger dose of Vivian's charms than you ever did, so try to put yourself into 198 Tower Hill Road on October twelfth . . .”

I said nothing.

“. . . after Yolanda leaves . . .”

I simmered.

“. . . and Vivian suddenly remembers that she hasn't had her morning bath.”

I decided not to speak to Margaret for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of my life.

Margaret finished eating in silence (thank goodness).
Then Tammi brought the check. Margaret looked over the bill, took a credit card from her wallet, and slipped it into the leather folder. She folded her hands on the table and stared at me until I looked back at her. “So!” she said. “Considering how you've clammed up since I mentioned Vivian, I think we can agree that shame leads to withdrawal and anger.”

Despite myself, I answered. “What am I, Margaret, your test case against Vivian Shawcurt?”

“More like a textbook case.”

“Of what?”

“Of adolescent infatuation.”

“I am not an adolescent.”

“Yes, you are. Somewhere between youth and grown-up is adolescence. You've done a lot of growing up in the weeks since Branwell was struck dumb. And you're growing in the right direction.”

Tammi returned with the charge slip. Margaret added the tip and signed, took the yellow copy, put it in her purse, closed her purse, and asked, “What are you going to do next?”

“Go home. It's a school night. Are you going to drive me?”

“Sure. Let's go.”

We were in the car, and Margaret had already pulled
out of the parking lot of the One-Potato before I said, “You may be very clever about embarrassing me, Margaret—”

“But only you can shame yourself.”

“That may be true, Margaret. I may be ashamed of what I've been thinking about Vivian, and I can pretty much imagine what happened at Branwell's house on Columbus Day, but that is not why he can't talk.”

“I think you're right.”

“Not talking about something you're ashamed of is not the same thing as being struck dumb. Something else had to have happened. Branwell's silence is something more than not talking. Between Columbus Day and that 911 call, something else happened.”

“Let's think about how we can find out. We can't count on The Ancestors—they've left town—or Dr. Zamborska or Tina—they don't know how. That, more or less, leaves Morris Ditmer. Or Branwell. We can wait for Branwell to tell us. But I don't think he will be ready to tell us until he's ready to talk.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“I think that depends on Nikki.”

As I was getting out of the car, Margaret asked me whether I would be allowed to join her for dinner for a second night in a row.

My mother is basically a very understanding person. There are times when I think that Margaret would find it easier to dislike her if she were not. Margaret will never admit it, and I will never expect her to, but she knows that my mother understands how she felt all those years ago when my mother and my dad got married.

“I'll be there,” I said.

“Come early. We'll order in. Pizza from JJ's.”

If you were to ask me how I performed in school the day after my round-robin bus rides, I would have to say that there was not much difference between my vegetative state and Nikki's. My eyes were open, but I was not having much interaction with my environment. Christmas was less than two weeks away. And that was good news and bad news. Good news because it meant a break from school. Bad news because we were approaching The Week From Hell. I think every teacher at Knightsbridge signs a pledge to schedule an important test the week before the Christmas recess so that families that plan a winter vacation won't take off early.

When I stood at the reception desk to have my backpack examined, the woman said, “I think you're the best kind of friend.”

“Really?” I said. I do like compliments, but I modestly added, “I'm just doing what any friend would do.”

“I don't see anyone else coming here every day like you.” After I signed in, she pulled the registration book back. “Maybe I shouldn't be telling you this, but the upstairs night guard, when he comes off duty this morning, he tells me that your friend did not have a good night. Didn't sleep at all. Just sat up and stared at the wall like he was in a coma or something. It's a good thing you come. The day guard thinks your visits cheer him up.”

“Did anyone come after me last night?”

“Last evening, after you left, Dr. Zamborska came in with that lawyer, that nice Ms. Gretchen Silver. She comes here often. Has a lot of kids' cases, but she hadn't been in here to see Branwell for at least a week.”

“Neither one of them knows how to communicate with him. What do you think upset him?”

“Something he read.” She tapped the packet of flash cards. “You know that your friend can read. Ms. Silver,
she give your friend some papers, and he read them.”

“What kind of papers?”

“From experience I would say the papers were full of what people were saying about Branwell's case. Sort of like evidence. Called depositions.”

“Do you know whose depositions?”

“They wouldn't tell me that. They didn't even tell me they was depositions. It was just a guess on my part. What they call an
educated
guess.”

“Uh-oh,” I said. “I better get up there.” Branwell must have read Vivian's deposition.

“What you gonna do?”

“I think I'll tell him about school,” I said. “The fact that he's missing it should cheer him up.”

“That sounds like a good idea. A good idea from a good friend.” I didn't have time to make a modest response. I had to get upstairs.

If the receptionist had not told me that Branwell had not slept last night, I could have guessed. He didn't look too much better than he had the first time I visited him.

“I spoke to Yolanda yesterday,” I said. Branwell was still studying his hands. “I don't think Yolanda cared too much for Vivian. That's probably putting it mildly.”

He looked up then. But there was a scary blankness in his look. Not quite the zombie-thing, but near enough. He had sunk back deeper into his silence than when I had left him yesterday. “Well, anyway, Yolanda mentioned that Vivian had a bad habit of leaving the door to the bathroom open when she was taking a bath.”

Why did I bring that up when I had pledged to myself that I wouldn't? Because when a two-way conversation is one-way, a person will say foolish things just to move air.

I quickly moved on. “Yolanda said that she saw Vivian smoking a cigarette, and Yolanda said she knew that Tina didn't allow any smoking anywhere in the house, especially around the baby.” Branwell started watching me, looking at me so hard, you would think he was trying to get inside my head, and, I guess, in a way, he was. “But Yolanda suspects that Vivian smoked in her room anyway. Something about finding cigarette butts in Coca-Cola cans.”

Branwell started making frantic motions with his hands as if he were dealing cards. I reached into my backpack and took out the flash cards out, thinking, Oh, no! Not another assignment. But like the good friend the guard said I was, I started laying the cards
out—alphabet side up. The guard slipped a notepad on the table without my saying anything to him.

This time Branwell didn't wait for me to point to the letters one at a time. This time, he pointed with his finger. I said them as I wrote them down. “A-G-E-N-C-Y. Agency?” I asked out loud. He blinked twice. “What agency?”

He pointed, and I spelled A-U-P-A-I-R. “The au pair agency?” He blinked twice very rapidly. “You want me to go to the au pair agency?” Blinked twice again. “And tell them what?” He rapidly pointed to the letters that spelled S-M-O-K-E-S. “You want me to go to the au pair agency and tell them that Vivian smokes?” Two blinks. “Why?”

The cards again. S-T-O-P-H-E-R-G-E-T-J-O-B.

I had to work on that a minute until I said, “Stop her getting a job?” He blinked. “You mean, stop her from getting another job?” He blinked again. “Do you know the name of the agency?”

He shook his head no.

“Well,” I said, gathering up my cards, “I have some research to do.”

It was five o'clock when I got to Schuyler Place. I saw the light on in the front office and knew that Margaret
would be finishing up, so I went around back. I dropped my book bag and jacket on the sofa and went into the kitchen to grab a snack. Margaret had laid in a good supply of cheese and fruit and containers of rice pudding. I found a bag of potato chips in the cupboard and helped myself to those and to a Coke.

As soon as Margaret came in, she said, “Let's order our pizza.”

“You don't usually eat this early. What's your hurry?”

“You look hungry,” she said, eyeing the bag of chips.

“You have another reason.”

“I do. If I wait until JJ's gets really busy, we'll have to take whatever delivery person is available for Schuyler Place, and I want Morris.” She called JJ's, and I heard her ask for him. Pause. “I would appreciate it if you can arrange it.” Pause. “Yes, Morris Ditmer.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “I owe him some change and a tip.” She hung up and asked, “Did you see Branwell today?”

The bad news was that he seemed to have sunk deeper into his silence. The good news was for the first time, he had pointed to the letters himself. I told her that the conversation—if you want to call it that—went much faster when he did the pointing instead of me.

Margaret began raiding the refrigerator for salad ingredients, and I started to set the table. As I opened
the silverware drawer, I remembered how Margaret had lied to Vivian about changing the silverware.

Margaret had lied and had known that I wouldn't contradict her. How had she known? I guess she knew that I wouldn't embarrass her in front of another person. I would never do that. And, I guess, she also knew that I would know that if she was lying, she had a reason for it.

“Margaret,” I said, “when you lied to Vivian about changing the silverware drawer, you said you did it because you felt like it. Then when you said that you knew that Morris was lying about never having seen Branwell, you told me that people lie for only one reason—fear. When you lied to JJ's just now telling them that you owed Morris money, were you lying for fear or because you felt like it?”

“Closer to I felt like it. I think I would call what I did when Vivian was here and what I did just now artful lies. Lies to get at the truth.”

“I can think of a time when a person lies out of a sense of courage instead of fear. Like when a soldier is caught behind enemy lines and lies when he says he doesn't know anything. That takes courage.”

“You're right. Lying to protect someone does take courage.”

“Do you think Morris was lying to protect someone?”

“Maybe that information will be delivered with the pizza.”

The doorbell rang, and sure enough there was Morris Ditmer, large square box in hand. “Oh, hi,” he said, making no effort to pretend that he didn't recognize Margaret or me.

“Do you have a minute?” Margaret asked.

He walked into the kitchen, turned one of the chairs around, and sat down backwards. Leaning his hands on the back of the chair and his chin on his hands, he said, “Sure.”

Margaret said, “Connor and I were wondering if you could give us some information.”

“Like what?”

“Like that Wednesday when they made the 911 call, that wasn't the first time you were in the house, was it?”

“That'd be a good guess.” Morris reached into his jacket pocket and took out his pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” Margaret opened the cupboard and handed him a saucer. He placed it on the table in back of him. “Thanks,” he said. He studied his pack of cigarettes for a minute. It was new. He toyed with the
little red strip that opens the pack before slipping it back into his pocket.

Margaret stood facing the cupboard for a minute. Then she asked, “Do you mind telling me when you first start seeing Vivian?”

“I don't mind at all,” he said. He reached for his cigarettes again. He took one this time, tapped it on the back of his hand before lighting it. With the cigarette dangling from his lips, his right eye squinting, he blew out the match and delicately placed it in the saucer before taking a deep drag and blowing the smoke toward the kitchen ceiling. Then he got up, turned his chair around, sat down again, put the saucer in his lap, took another drag on his cigarette, and studied Margaret, enjoying the attention. “That couple she works for called and told her that they were going to be late. They asked her to please take care of supper. She called and ordered a pizza.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

“Not exactly.”

“Was it Columbus Day?”

“No. Before that.” He smiled to himself. “By Columbus Day, our afternoon meetings were something of a habit. I usually came after she put the baby down for a nap. You see, I don't start work until four-thirty.”

“Were you there on Columbus Day?”

“I was. Columbus Day was another American holiday that Vivian didn't know squat about. She's a Brit, you know, and won't let you forget it. So comes Columbus Day, and there I am on my cycle, pulling around to the back, parking there by the back patio, like always, opening the kitchen door like always, and imagine my surprise when this tall, redheaded kid comes into the kitchen from the room off to the side there. I'm wondering if maybe I have entered the wrong house. ‘Is Vivian here?' I ask. He was very polite. ‘Yes,' he says. ‘She's not available at the moment. Would you care to come in and wait?' I say, ‘No, thank you,' and he says,
‘Whom
may I say is calling?' Whom may I say is calling. ‘Just tell her that Morris stopped by,' I say, and I start out the door.”