Silent to the Bone (16 page)

“Next thing I know, Vivian is rushing downstairs, calling to me to wait. I do. She invites me into the living room, and the kid follows. Vivian says to him, ‘Don't you have homework or something, Branwell?' The kid looks embarrassed, and says, ‘Yes, I do.' Then he looks over at me and asks to be excused. It's his frickin' house, and he asks me if he can be excused. He leaves the room and heads off toward the kitchen. Yeah. I was there. That was the first time I seen the Branwell kid.”

“But something changed after Columbus Day?”

“Sorta. After that, Vivi told me to carry a pizza box whenever I came. Even if it was empty. I was supposed to pretend I was delivering but only if one or the other of the Doctor Zamborskas was at home, but if it was only Branwell, I didn't have to worry.”

“Why was that?”

“Dunno.” He shrugged and reached his arms over the back of the chair. “I just remember that Vivi said that if Branwell was there, we could pretend he wasn't.”

“Do you know why?”

Morris shrugged. “Dunno. Your guess or the kid here, his guess is as good as mine.”

I didn't like being “the kid here.” Then Margaret did the kindest thing. She turned the questioning over to “the kid.” She said, “Connor, is there something you want to ask Morris?”

“Was Nikki ever awake when you came to the house?”

“We always waited until it was time for her to take a nap. Sometimes, she would not be quite asleep when I come, and sometimes she would start to wake up before I left, but after that Columbus Day, Branwell always took care of her when he come home from school. He'd come home about four,
four-fifteen. He'd go straight upstairs to the nursery.”

I swallowed hard. “So that Wednesday was not the first time you were in Vivi's room when Branwell came home?”

“Right. I was usually on my way out when he come home, but after Vivian told me not to worry, I didn't. Sometimes, I'd be going out the back door as he was coming in the front. If he saw me, he never said so. Vivian, she told me he wouldn't say nothing. So I sometimes said ‘hi' or ‘bye,' but he never answered back. It was like Vivi said, like he wasn't there. A few times, Vivi and me would still be in the room, but he never come in. Never said a word. Just went up to the nursery, and if the baby was up, we would hear him saying sweet things to her as he changed her diaper.”

“Her
nappy,”
Margaret said sarcastically.

“Yeah, that's what Vivi calls 'em. The only thing different that Wednesday was that Branwell come home early, and Vivian, being a Brit, as she likes to tell me, didn't know about the school Thanksgiving holiday starting with early dismissal on Wednesday. She don't know anything about American holidays.”

“And proud of it,” Margaret said.

“I think you're right about that.”

“What do you think really happened?”

“I . . . I . . .” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, squinted his right eye as he exhaled. The smoke rose toward the ceiling, and he lifted his chin to follow it, then sat like that with his chin up until he suddenly lowered his head and studied his cigarette as he drubbed it out. “I . . . I dunno,” he said at last. Then, holding the saucer in one hand and the cigarette in the other, he pressed on the stub until it bent, then broke, and squiggles of tobacco poked out of the paper wrapper. “Well,” he said, “I gotta get back to JJ's. There's probably a stack of orders waiting for me to deliver.” Margaret checked the bill that was taped to the top of the box, took a ten-dollar bill out of her wallet, and handed it to Morris. He started to reach into his pocket for change, and she waved him off. He said thanks, and I thought he would leave, but he hung back. “How's that baby doin'?” he asked.

“She is in a vegetative state,” I answered.

“But she'll come out of it, won't she?”

“Dunno,” I said.

As Morris turned to go, Margaret said, “We'll be happy to keep you posted. How can we get in touch with you? Are you in the phone book?”

“No. I have roommates. The phone's under one of their names.”

“Can we call you at JJ's?” Margaret asked.

“Not unless you're ordering pizza.”

“I can't keep calling for pizzas.”

“Then send a fax.”

Margaret smiled. “I just may do that,” she said.

No sooner had Morris closed the door than Margaret said, “Let's eat.”

We each pulled a slice of pizza out of the box, and I said, “I think Morris is lying when he says that he doesn't know what happened that Wednesday.”

Margaret took a big bite of pizza and chewed and chewed before she said, “There's something he's not telling us, that's for sure. Do you think he is lying out of fear or courage? Do you think he's protecting Vivian?”

I said, “Dunno. I keep thinking about how Morris had been a regular visitor to Tower Hill Road and Branwell saw him quite a few times but never said anything about him. It was like he started his silence
then. I think Branwell's silence about Morris is linked to his silence now.”

“Probably,” Margaret said.

“There was a day—the day that The Ancestors visited Branwell—remember I said I thought that by not saying anything, Branwell could not say the wrong thing, and I knew it was important not to say the wrong thing to Big Beacham. Remember I said that that particular day, I thought that Branwell's silence was a weapon.”

Almost to herself, Margaret said, “A silent weapon.” Then she said, “Yes, Connor, I do believe that this silence—his muteness—is a weapon. And it may be a weapon of defense. Or it may be a weapon of aggression. But there was that other silence.” Then she asked me something like one of the questions Branwell would ask. A question like
if a tree falls in a forest.
This is what Margaret asked: “Have you ever heard the saying ‘The cruelest lies are often told in silence'?”

“Who said it?”

“A lot of people have said it, but Robert Louis Stevenson said it first.”

“Are you saying that Branwell's silence is a lie?”

“Was
a lie. I'm referring to the silence before that 911 call.
That
silence was a lie. Branwell knows that
he should have said something to Tina and Dr. Zamborska about Vivian's entertaining Morris when she was supposed to be watching the baby. From Columbus Day to the day he made that 911, Branwell told a cruel lie in silence.

“It's no wonder he had a sleepless night when he read Vivian's deposition. I'm sure there were in her deposition some of the same things that she had said to you and me at dinner. Plus all the lies she told in silence. I'm sure she did not mention Morris Ditmer at all. Branwell must have been up all night trying to think of ways to stop her from getting another job as an au pair. So when you mentioned that Morris said that she had started smoking again, it occurred to him that smoking in the house and lying about it would be the way for him to do it without having to mention certain other things. I guess that's when he thought of Yolanda. She could testify about Vivian's smoking.”

Margaret asked me if I could remember
exactly
what Morris had said about Vivian's worry about the agency and smoking. “And don't tell me
dunno.”

“Morris said she was worried about her career, and I asked what career, and he said, ‘Her career as an au pair.' ”

“And?”

“And he said that she said that the agency won't place her if they find out, and I asked, ‘Find out what?' and he said, ‘Someone might tell them that she started smoking again.' And then he looked directly at me—slyly—meaning that she was worried that I might tell the agency that she started smoking again. He said that she's back to smoking to soothe her nerves.”

“What's the name of the agency?”

“Dunno,” I answered.

Margaret asked, “Is that a disease you've caught?”

“Dunno.”

Usually when Margaret drove me home, she would stop the car, keep her foot on the brake until I got out, then wave good-bye as soon as she saw me enter the house. But that evening, she pulled into our driveway and cut the motor. She rested her arms on the steering wheel, thinking.

I asked, “Do you think that smoking in the bathroom with the nursery door open is serious enough to keep Vivian from getting another job?”

“I'm not so sure, Connor. We only have Yolanda's word that she caught her smoking. Once. And the fact is, the Zamborskas never complained.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“Is your father home?”

“Yes, so is yours.”

“I'd like to talk to him.”

I got out of the car, ran around to the driver's side, opened her door, and said, “Be my guest.”

It was funny, but this time when Margaret referred to him as father, she wanted to talk to him about being the registrar. She wanted to know the rules about au pairs. Without either of them mentioning names, Dad knew who Margaret was talking about. Dad is like that: He doesn't ask unnecessary questions.

Dad did know all the rules about visas and work permits and green cards, because when students and researchers come to the university from foreign countries, they need one or another of them. For example, Dad explained, if someone comes from England to do research at the university or to be a visiting professor, that researcher or professor has to prove that they are so outstanding that no one else can do what they do, and they are not taking a job away from anyone who is a U.S. citizen.

“Does an au pair need a green card?” Margaret asked.

Dad said they don't. Au pairs come into the country under a J-1 Exchange Visitors visa, which is good for
twelve months on the condition that the au pair meets all her responsibilities to the host family, does not accept paid employment outside of the family, and returns home at the end of her stay.

He also knew about the agency that had placed Vivian with the Zamborskas. It was the Summerhill Agency in London. Dad said he worked with them in placing au pairs and nannies with lots of university families. The Summerhill Agency screens all their clients. To be placed by them, a person must be courteous, considerate, and respectful to the host family, must obey all the U.S. laws about drugs and alcohol, and must be a nonsmoker or be willing to stop smoking.

Margaret wanted to know what happens when an au pair leaves her host family before her time is up. Dad said, “Summerhill will attempt to find her another placement.”

I asked, “Will the Summerhill Agency find her another place if they know that she didn't keep her promise to stop smoking?”

Dad answered my question very seriously. “That would probably depend upon what the first host family had to say. For example—and this is just an example—if the Zamborskas said that Vivian was
wonderful in every way except for her smoking, Summerhill would probably give her a reprimand and then extract another promise from her to stop.”

“What happens if the au pair does not go to another host family?”

“In that case,” Dad said, “Summerhill will inform the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service. Her visa will be canceled, and she will have to leave the country immediately or be deported.” He smiled at Margaret and asked if there was anything else she needed to know.

“Summerhill's address.”

“Coming right up,” Dad said as he checked his Rolodex. He wrote Summerhill's address, phone and fax numbers on a Post-it and handed it to Margaret.

She thanked him and told him that before she faxed the letter to Summerhill, she would like him to look it over. Dad said that it would be a privilege to help in any way he could. He looked at his watch, and I caught Margaret's eyebrows go skyward with a look of disapproval. (She accuses Dad of running his life with a stopwatch. “He is the only man in the world,” she has said, “whose excuse for never going to a McDonald's is because they don't take reservations.”) Imagine her surprise when the next words out of
Dad's mouth were, “No rush, Margaret Rose.” (She loves it when he calls her Margaret Rose.) “It's eight-thirty here. That means it's already early Saturday morning in London. Summerhill offices are closed until nine
A.M.
Monday, Greenwich Mean Time.”

Margaret said, “Well, Dad” (He loves it when she calls him Dad.), “I'll just have to get the wires humming early.” They didn't hug or kiss when they said good night, but the air between them was gentle.

Nikki had been out of a coma for two weeks now, but these vegetative days seemed harder than all the others. Waiting takes up a lot more energy than people give it credit for. Say you are sitting in a theater; knowing there is a lot of stuff going to happen behind the curtain, but the curtain is stuck and can't go up; I give waiting for the curtain to go up a
three.
Say you are late for a soccer game, and your mother has to stop for a red light, and the line of cars in front of her is so long, she has to wait for a second green before she can go; I give waiting for the second light a
five.
Say you are in math class waiting for the teacher to hand back the results of a test that you had not studied for; I give waiting for the test results a
ten.
Waiting for
something to begin is harder than waiting for something to end, so I give waiting for Nikki to track a
twelve.

In the movies, coming out of the vegetative state is very sudden and very glamorous. I don't know how many movies I have seen when the actor-patient suddenly blinks his or her eyes and then opens them and starts to talk. “Where am I?” or “What happened?” or “What day is this?” And there is always a kindly doctor plus the patient's loved ones there to say, “You've been in an accident.” And if patients have tubes in them, they're in their arms, where they don't interfere with things such as tender kisses or makeup.