Silent to the Bone

  I took out the notepad that the guard had given me, and dug around in the bottom of my backpack until I came up with a pencil that didn’t have a broken tip. I dutifully started pointing to the letters, but Bran brushed my pencil aside and pointed to the letters himself. This did nothing to help me feel appreciated.

  I kept my voice level as I called out the first of the letters he pointed to, but I wouldn’t write it down until he blinked. He waited for me to write it down, and I waited for him to blink. He wouldn’t blink, and I wouldn’t write. He waited, and I waited. He blinked. He pointed to the next letter, and we played the same wait-and-wait game. Finally, he blinked again. With neither of us saying a word, we were having an argument.

  T-E-L-L-S-U-M-M-E-R-H-

  “Tell Summerhill?” He blinked. “Tell them what?”

  V-I-V-I-

  “Vivian?” He blinked. “Vivian what?”

  N-O-T-K-E-E-P-P-R-O-M-I-S-

  “All right,” I said, “I’ll have Margaret put in the letter that Vivian will not keep her promise not to smoke.”

  I started gathering up the cards (again), and (again) he wouldn’t let me. He pulled them out of my hand and laid them back out on the table. He began pointing, pointing, pointing, so rapidly that before I could wait for him to blink as I called it out, he pointed to another so that it was not necessary to wait for him to blink after each of the letters.

  P-H-O-N-E-S-U-M-M-E-

  “You want me to phone Summerhill?”

  Much to my annoyance, he shook his head no, and began pointing to letters again. I wondered if that woman who wrote a whole book with the guy who could only blink his left eye ever had a week of exams coming up.

  M-A-R-G-A-

  “You want me to have Margaret call?” He blinked twice.

  C-A-L-L-N-O-W-U-R-G-E-N-T.

  “Call now?” He blinked, then pointed to where I had written URGENT. “Listen, Branwell, the Summerhill Agency is not open now, so there is no point in having Margaret call. She’ll send them a fax so that they get it first thing Monday morning. It’s better to have these things in writing, anyway. Margaret says that you never know who you’re going to get on the phone, and most of the time, you get voice mail.”

  Branwell was really agitated. He pointed again to URGENT.

  I looked at the clock on the wall. “Listen, Branwell, I told you the Summerhill office is closed today and tomorrow. They certainly won’t be getting Vivian another job between now and then. I’ll have Margaret make sure they get her letter at nine A.M., Monday morning.”

  He shook his head sadly and pointed again to URGENT.

  I felt a strong need to tell him that I had urgent needs of my own. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I’m not proud of the fact that I felt the need to be more appreciated. And I’m not proud of the fact that I felt the need to tell him that I was facing The Week From Hell and that we had a lot of after-school rehearsals for our Holiday Concert. I guess in my heart I knew that Branwell appreciated me, but I got the feeling that he thought he was doing me a favor by letting me in the game.

  SIAS: Waiting for Branwell to speak is a twelve point five.

  20.

  Margaret faxed the letter to Dad early on Sunday. As soon as he read it, he picked up the phone and called her. Much to my surprise, he didn’t have to look up her number.

  I heard him say, “You’ve done an excellent job, Margaret Rose.” He held the letter in front of him and looked it over as he listened. Then I heard him say, “Yes, very professional.” Then, “Yes,” and another, “Yes,” and then, “No trouble at all,” and, “Keep me posted.”

  After Dad hung up, I asked if Margaret would be sending the letter now since she had gotten his approval. He said that she planned on sending it out first thing on Monday morning.

  “Our first thing or London’s first thing?” I asked. And then I mentioned that I had promised Branwell that Margaret would fax the letter to London so that Summerhill would have it when they opened their offices on Monday morning.

  Dad reminded me that London is five hours ahead of Epiphany, New York because London and all of England is on Greenwich Mean Time. “That means that if Margaret wanted to fax them at nine o’clock in the morning GMT, she would have to do it at 4:00 A.M. Eastern Standard Time, and I do not think it would be prudent to ask someone to stay up or get up at four o’clock in the morning just to fax a letter to London.”

  Prudent is a Republican word that Dad’s second-favorite living president used a lot. It means to be careful about one’s conduct. Considering that Margaret is a lifelong Democrat, and that Dad is the other, and further considering that Dad and Margaret Rose seemed to be getting along pretty well lately, I did not think it would be prudent tell her what he said because prudent would only remind her of their differences.

  Finally, Dad gave me the copy of the letter Margaret had faxed to him.

  I read the following:

  Ms. Louisa Hutchins, Director

  Summerhill Infant and Child Care Agency

  1407 Dalton Lane

  London WC 1X8LR

  ENGLAND

  Dear Ms. Hutchins:

  It has come to my attention that Ms. Vivian Shawcurt, whom your agency placed as an au pair in the household of Drs. Stefan and Tina Zamborska, has left that household. The infant Nicole Zamborska, who was in her care, is hospitalized as a result of a nonaccidental head injury. An investigation into the cause of that injury is pending.

  As the bargaining representative for Ms. Vivian Shawcurt, Summerhill Infant and Child Care Agency is hereby requested to provide documentation showing either that she has found alternate placement or that she has returned to England. If such verification cannot be produced, then we must conclude that Ms. Shawcurt has not fulfilled the responsibilities of her assignment and is in violation of the terms of the J-l Exchange Visitors visa under which she entered the United States. Such notice will be sent to the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret Rose Kane

  I was shocked.

  I did not think it was excellent.

  I did not think it was “very professional.”

  It was terrible.

  It would not be prudent to send it.

  This “excellent” so-called “very professional” letter said nothing at all about Vivian’s smoking. After all the investigating I did with Yolanda and after I had lit not just one but several of Vivian’s cigarettes, which made me an eyewitness to her broken promise to quit smoking.

  I went into the kitchen to make a phone call. I wanted to speak where Dad could not hear me because I had something to say to Margaret Rose that he did not need to hear. I wanted to tell his daughter that I did not like her letter at all. I did not think it was excellent. I did not think it was very professional. And I did not think that it would be prudent to send it at 4:00 A.M. Eastern Standard Time or 9:00 A.M. Greenwich Mean Time or any time. Ever.

  I also wanted to tell Margaret Rose that it was not fair to agree with The Registrar about something that involved me without consulting me. Being left out is never nice. Branwell knows that, and Margaret certainly does.

  When Margaret answered the phone, I cupped my hand over the mouthpiece and said, “Meet me over The Ditch.” And I hung up.

  I put on my jacket and left the house without telling anyone where I was going. I took the letter with me.

  I walked slowly. I didn’t care if Margaret got there first and had to wait. The campus was Sunday-empty, almost silent. As I made my way to the bridge, I wondered how she expected me to show that letter to Branwell.

  After all the trouble I had gone to getting Yolanda to tell me about how Vivian had smoked in the house, upstairs where the baby slept, against the expressed wishes of the baby’s mother, her letter should at least have mentioned that there were people who had seen that she had broken a serious promise to Summerhill. Morris Ditmer himself said that Vivian was worried that someone might tell them
that she started smoking again. He had looked right at me when he had said it.

  Well, I wasn’t silent to the bone like Branwell. I was ready to give a deposition about her smoking.

  I was on the bridge over the gorge and, out of habit, I began looking for lovers. I didn’t see any. I remembered the last time I had stopped on the bridge. I leaned my elbows on the bridge railing and wondered when I would ever have someone to take a walk with. Vivian was out of the question now. I still had the butterfly hair grip in my sock drawer at home. (My mother refuses to pair my socks or turn them right side out, so she just dumps them in the drawer. I sometimes have mismatched socks, but the drawer is my best hiding place for small things like barrettes.)

  I hoped the store would let me take the barrette back, because it seemed I wouldn’t be able to give it to her. For one thing, I didn’t know where she was. Who did? I didn’t. Margaret didn’t. Dad didn’t. It would be a good guess that the Zamborskas didn’t know, either. Summerhill would be the most logical place to find her. And if the Summerhill Agency doesn’t know where she is . . . if Summerhill doesn’t know, then Vivian is in trouble. In trouble with her J-1 Visa. Big time.

  And then I read the letter again.

  Of course.

  My seeing Vivian smoke was not proof that she had not quit during the time she had been with the Zamborskas.

  The cigarette butts that Yolanda found in the Coke cans could have been put in while Vivian was outside the house, or they could have been put there by someone else. That evidence was only circumstantial, and the rest was Yolanda’s word against Vivian’s.

  Now that my head was static free, I heard my conversation with Morris Ditmer loud and clear.

  “Vivi, she’s real worried.”

  “Is she worried that Branwell will be able to speak and tell the agency that Nikki was breathing funny when he found her?”

  “Nah. Vivi’s not worried about anything Branwell might say.”

  “So what is she worried about?”

  “Her career.”

  “What career?”

  “As an au pair. She says that the agency won’t place her if they find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “Someone might tell them that she’s started in smoking again. She don’t look it, but she’s real high-strung, and with all that’s happened, she’s back to smoking to soothe her nerves.”

  The clues were in the verbs. All the verbs about Vivi were in the present tense.

  Morris knew where Vivian was.

  Dad was right. Margaret had written an excellent letter. Very professional. She had really written the letter for Morris Ditmer. He knew where Vivian Shawcurt was, and where she was, was with him.

  * * *

  I saw Margaret down at the far end of the bridge. I started walking toward her as she walked toward me. By the time we met in the middle, I was wearing a smile as wide as the gorge, and I said, “Did you fax it to him?”

  “This morning.”

  “Have you heard from him?”

  “JJ’s doesn’t open until eleven.”

  “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  “He’s going to try to stay out of trouble.”

  “That was a good letter.”

  “Thank you. Did you always think so?”

  “No.” We started walking toward Old Town. I decided to continue across campus to get to the Behavioral Center. “Did you tell Dad that you suspected that Vivian is with Morris?”

  “Not until after he read the letter.”

  “Is that when he said ‘very professional’?”

  “As a matter-of-fact, it was.”

  “Are you even going to fax a copy to Summerhill?”

  “Of course I am. I wouldn’t lie to you or Branwell.”

  “At least not about that.”

  * * *

  I followed Branwell’s eyes as he skimmed the letter very quickly, then returned to the top and read it slowly, line by line. I told him that Margaret would be faxing it to London first thing Monday morning.

  Bran laid the letter on the table, turned, so that I could read it right-side-up. He pointed to the part of the letter about her finding alternate placement or returning to England. I read the whole line out loud. “So?” I said. “No one knows where she is. She seems to have disappeared after giving her deposition.”

  Branwell got extremely nervous. He put his finger on the words alternate placement and rubbed it back and forth until the ink was smudged, the whole time shaking his head no. He was on the verge of tears. He rubbed his eyes in an effort to keep the tears from falling, and some of the ink from his finger rubbed off. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll find her.” I felt bad that I had to leave the real purpose of the letter unspoken.

  Branwell got up and left the room with ten minutes left on our visiting clock.

  DAY TWENTY

  21.

  Monday was the beginning of The Week From Hell. Maybe it was the accumulation of schoolwork that had piled up, maybe these vegetative days of Nikki’s were wearing on me more than I thought, maybe it was just the way Branwell had walked out on me yesterday that made me think that he didn’t appreciate me, but on that Monday, I really didn’t want to give him a chance to give me another assignment. I had enough to do already. So after school, I didn’t go directly to the Behavioral Center. I went to Margaret’s. I was exhausted. My blood sugar was low. I needed a snack.

  I had surveyed the treats cupboard and was hanging out in front of the open refrigerator when Margaret came bursting through the door that leads from her offices. “Nikki smiled!” She was shouting.

  I slammed the refrigerator door shut and ran to her as she ran to me, and we hugged each other and did a little foot-stomping dance, laughing, as we circled the kitchen table.

  “How did it happen?”

  “Tina and the nurse were talking, and Nikki suddenly opened her eyes but closed them right away again. So Tina went over to crib, and said, ‘Nikki? Nikki. Mama’s here,’ and Nikki opened her eyes and smiled at Tina.”

  “Did this just happen?”

  “Don’t know. I just found out.”

  “I can’t wait to tell Branwell,” I said, running to get my jacket.

  “It’ll be nice for him to hear it from you.”

  “I can’t wait to see what he does when I tell him it’s over—”

  “Not so fast.”

  “It’s all going to be all right now, isn’t it?”

  “Not all all right. She’s off zero, but she’s just arrived at the starting line.”

  “How long?”

  “There’s no telling how far she has to go or how fast she will be able to.” Margaret saw the look of disappointment on my face. She put an arm across my shoulder and pulled me to her and said, “But it’s a start.”

  “What has to happen next?”

  “She has to track.”

  “Aren’t we there yet?”

  “She has to show conscious behavior.”

  “She smiled. They don’t think it was gas, do they? What conscious behavior can an infant have?”

  “She can follow an object with her eyes. She can squeeze someone’s finger. She can gurgle when delighted.” Margaret hesitated, then added, “You’ll be sure to tell him that it’s not over yet. Be sure that he knows that that the fat lady still hasn’t sung.”

  “Vivian’s not fat,” I said, smiling. “Shall I tell him you sent the fax to Summerhill?”

  “Yeah, tell him. And, Connor?”

  “What?”

  “Come back after you’ve seen him. I’d love to know his reaction. I’ll drive you home.”

  * * *

  When Branwell was brought into the visitors’ room, the first words out of my mouth were, “Nikki smiled.”

  Branwell smiled in return.

  I am not like the kids I see at the supermarket who are eating their free cookie with one hand and grabbing Oreos off the shelf with the other. I don’t usually want one thing
more than I have, but this time, if I am to be perfectly honest (and I’ve tried to be throughout), I really did want one thing more. Maybe because my blood sugar was low and it was The Week From Hell, I wanted a shout, a sound—any sound. Even a whimper would do.

  I told him what Margaret had said about tracking. He listened quietly. Maybe he needed the Oreos.

  I told him that Margaret had sent the fax, and that from now on, it was wait-and-see time. About Vivian. And about Nikki.

  He remained motionless, so I got up to leave. If he could leave when he had had enough, so could I.

  SIAS: I was relieved, hungry, and in desperate need of something sweet.

  * * *

  As soon as I got to Margaret’s, I started my search for snacks exactly where I had left off—hanging on to the handle of the refrigerator door. I heard a motor running, then cut off. I ran to the back door and saw Morris Ditmer get off his cycle, remove his helmet, and come to the back door. He knocked. I answered.

  He pulled a letter out of his pocket. I recognized the letterhead. It was Margaret’s.

  “I’ve got to talk to your sister,” he said bluntly.

  I told him that she closed up shop at five and would be here soon. I invited him to come in and wait. He sat in the chair that I had been sitting in the night that Vivian came for supper. He sat at attention with his helmet under his arm. I asked him if he wanted something to eat or drink, and he said no, so I returned to the kitchen to get some help for my blood sugar, and the whole time he sat there in the living room like a United States Marine if Marines ever wore multiple earrings and pierced their body parts.

  When Margaret came in, he stood and handed her the letter. “Did you write this?” he asked.

  “I did.”

  “How illegal is Vivian?” he asked.