Silent to the Bone (12 page)

The first letter was M. I started back at A and pointed very pointedly at the vowels because I knew a vowel would follow. It was O. Then came R. And Branwell blinked four times. He meant for me to double the R, but I didn't take the hint, so I started
back at A and pointed to them, one at a time, until we again got to R. The letter I followed the double R, and by then, I guessed that S would end it all, and it did. I had MORRIS on the little Snickers wrapper. I showed it to Branwell, and he blinked twice. Morris was no one I knew.

I started the process again so that I could find out what the second name was. I got to J, and Branwell blinked four times. I wrote JJ on the paper. I wanted a vowel between those two J's, but Branwell blinked twice, telling me that JJ was right. I started at the top of the alphabet again, and he stopped me at the letter S. So I had MORRIS JJS, and I was not happy. I even said, “Morris. J. J. S.,” out loud, and Branwell nodded that I was right. He even managed a weak smile at my confusion.

I started folding up the little square of Snickers paper to put it back in my pocket, and Branwell reached across the table and put his fingertips on the back of my hand. It was the first that he had touched me since he had been sent to the Center, and it was so unexpected that I involuntarily pulled my hand back. Then, worried that I had hurt his feelings, I reached over the table to pat his hand, and he pulled his hand back and dropped both of his hands into his lap. His
nostrils were flared, and he looked frightened. I said, “Cool it, Bran.” And then realization hit me. He didn't want me to put the Snickers square away. He wanted me to go through the alphabet again. It was like playing a crazy game of charades—except that I had to play both sides—the acting out and the guessing. “New word?” I asked.

Branwell nodded yes.

I started again marking off the letters one at a time. He stopped me at P, then I, then he blinked four times at Z, and I knew that the final letter would be A. But, what the heck, A was at the top of my list, so I pointed to it and let him blink.

MORRIS JJS PIZZA. Of course. I said, “Morris works at JJ's Pizza? Is that it?” I asked, tapping the tape with one hand and the Snickers square with the other.

He blinked twice.

“I'll do my best,” I said.

I folded the little square of paper again and put it in my pocket. This time Branwell made no effort to stop me. I stacked my deck of cards, put a rubber band around them, dropped them in my backpack, and said, “Way to go, man,” and wished I hadn't. But if Branwell made a connection between my saying it now and my saying it about the Jack-and-Jill, he didn't
show it. He didn't turn over any chairs. He smiled.

I left the Behavioral Center feeling that Branwell's smile had been a signpost on the road to
re
covery. Nikki was on it, and so was Branwell. And I was on the road to discovery. And that had a nice ring to it. Or it would have, if I had said it out loud.

I went directly to Margaret's. Her office hours were over, so I walked around back and knocked on her door. Margaret came running out of the kitchen, swung open the door and said, “Well?”

“It's Morris who works at JJ's Pizza.”

“It's a grand night for pizza,” she said. “You better call your mother and The Registrar and tell them you won't be home for supper.”

“Just what I was thinking,” I replied.

JJ's has been in business forever. It's down by the railroad tracks. The restaurant itself is in the old station house. It's not part of a chain, it's not in a good section of town, and it makes the best pizza anyone has ever put in his mouth. When I was little, JJ's never delivered. Now they do, but a lot of their business still comes from people who go there to hang out and buy a slice or a pie.

The sit-down part of JJ's was not very busy. There was only one server, but there were two women working behind the counter where people fill orders for takeout. Margaret and I took a booth and waited. When the server came over, she put two napkins on the table and asked, “What can I get you to drink?” Margaret told her two Cokes, one Diet, and before she could turn away—they're always in a hurry after they take your drink orders—Margaret asked if Morris was around.

“Which Morris?” she asked.

“What's my choice?”

“There's Morris in the kitchen—we call him Moe—and there's Morris who delivers.”

Margaret took a guess. “Morris who delivers.”

“He's out on a delivery.” She swept her hand around the almost-empty room. “Don't let this fool you. We are busy, but it's all takeout. I've taken more calls than the cell phone tower on Greene Street. We always get busy with deliveries the week before final exams. Everyone gains weight during exam week.”

“When will Morris be back?”

“Can't tell. But you'll know when he is. He has to come up here to pick up new orders.” She flipped
through a pile of forms. “He's got these to do.”

Margaret said, “Maybe we'll be lucky, and he'll show up while we're here.”

“Eat slow,” I said.

Margaret replied, “Good idea.”

I was an inch away from the back crust on my second slice and was pulling air through the straw of my Coke when a guy wearing a black leather jacket with metal studs on the collar and the pockets came in. He also had a stud in his nose and two rings—small metal ones pinching his right eyebrow. Both ears had diamond studs, but the left one also had a silver skull that hung almost to his shoulder. His right wrist was tattooed with a circlet of what looked like fish scales (but they could have been dragon scales). His head was shaved except for a tuft that ran the distance from his forehead to his neck. It was all one length, but two colors. The roots were black, and the top third was bright yellow.

Margaret went over to the counter. “Are you Morris?” she asked.

He looked up from the pile of orders only long enough to answer, “Since I been born,” before going back to flipping through the orders, rocking as if he were listening to some secret music in his head.
“Hey, Darlene,” he called, “how many of these are filled?” he asked, holding up the pile of papers.

“All except the one to Hobart Hall. Pepperoni and mushrooms. Large.”

“Hobart Hall? Large goes without saying.”

Darlene replied, “I think that lady wants to ask you something.”

Morris looked up. “Yeah? Whatcha wanna know?”

By this time, I, too, was standing by the counter. I asked, “Do you know Branwell Zamborska?”

“Branwell Zamborska? What is that? Some kinda flavoring?”

“Branwell. Zamborska. He's my friend. Do you know him?”

“Does he have an order in for pizza?”

“No, no,” I said. “He's my friend. He's over at the Behavioral Center.”

“We don't deliver there. Not allowed.”

“That's not what I'm asking,” I said.

“What, then?”

“My friend, Branwell. He's in trouble. He can't speak.”

“Listen,” Morris said, “I can tell you, this Branwell wouldn't be over at the Behavioral Center if he weren't in trouble. Ain't that the truth, Darlene?”

“He knows you,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“I thought you said he couldn't speak. Did I hear that from you, or didn't I? Didn't you just tell me that he couldn't speak? So, tell me, how could he tell you that he knows me?”

“We have a way. We have a way of communicating.”

“What's that?”

“A way.”

“Well, whatever is your way, kid, it's inaccurate. I don't know no Branwell Zamborska.” He glanced down at the stack of orders. “I gotta get outta here.” He looked over at the counter at Margaret and then at me. He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, then closed it and looked aside. “Sorry, kid,” he said. And then he left.

Margaret and I went back to our booth, but the only thing I could swallow was the lump in my throat. Margaret noticed and asked if I was finished. I could hardly speak, so I nodded yes, and she said, “Let's get out of here.”

We were no sooner in the car than she said, “He's lying.”

That cheered me up.

“How do you know?”

“The name, Branwell Zamborska, rolled off his tongue a little too easily. He was familiar with it. He's heard it before.”

“Why do you think he lied?”

“People lie for only one reason, Connor. Fear.”

“You lied to Vivian because you felt like it. That's what you told me.”

“Can't you ever forget anything I tell you?”

“I'd be lying if I told you I could.”

She laughed. “Well I think Morris JJ's Pizza is lying out of fear. Fear of knowing too much. He's protecting someone. And someone may be himself. Or he could be protecting something.”

“What something could he be protecting?”

“Well, I'm pretty sure the something he's protecting is not secret information about our space program. He hardly looks like a rocket scientist.”

“But he's not dumb.” I thought about the way he had looked at me and said, “Sorry, kid.” There was something soft in his voice. “I don't think he's as tough as he is trying to look either.”

“I agree with that, little brother. We have to find out his last name. Maybe he's a student at the university. Maybe The Registrar can help us find out.”

“I doubt if he's a student. I don't think students spend their nights delivering pizzas the week before exams. Why don't we just go back and ask Darlene?”

Margaret laughed. “Maybe that was a little too obvious. I'll check it out tomorrow. It's pretty clear that Morris JJ's Pizza knows something, and I think we ought to investigate before we confront Branwell with it. Maybe you should skip your visit to Branwell tomorrow.”

“He'll want to know what I found out about Morris JJ's Pizza.”

“There won't be much to tell him.”

“I know. But he may be able to give me another hint.”

“A good lawyer never asks a witness a question she doesn't know the answer to.”

“But, Margaret, I'm not trying to be a good lawyer. I'm trying to be a good friend.”

The phone rang as I was almost out the door to catch the school bus. Dad had already left for the office, so Mom answered. There is a certain tone in her voice—polite but strained—that tells me that Margaret is on the other end. So to spare my mother's having to make conversation and to keep myself from missing the bus, I took the receiver from her without being called.

“Hi. What's up?”

“I got a call late last night from Morris JJ's Pizza.”

“How did he find you?”

“The sales slip. I charged the pizza. I'm in the phone book.”

“Did he say he remembered Branwell?”

“I think he was about to, but he hung up.”

“Did he say anything?”

“He said, ‘Is this Margaret Rose Kane,' and I said it was. Then he said, ‘This is Morris from JJ's,' and I said, ‘Oh, hello.' ”

“Why did you waste time saying that? You already said hello once.”

“How was I supposed to know he was about to hang up?”

“What else did he say?”

“He asked if that kid—meaning you—who was with me was my brother. I admitted you were. He asked if you go to Knightsbridge Middle, and I said you did. He asked when was school out, and I told him. Then he said, ‘I was thinking about . . . ,' and I heard another voice, and that's when he hung up.”

“Was it a male voice?”

“Not sure. It was muffled like he had his hand shielding the mouthpiece.”

“Did it sound like his mother?”

“How should I know? I don't even know if he has a mother.”

“Everyone has a mother, Margaret. Between us, we have two.”

“It's far too early in the morning for you to be giving me biology lessons, Connor. I'm calling to tell you that I had my machine on when he called, so I'll save
the tape. If you want to come over to my place after you see Branwell, we can listen to it together.”

“Déjà vu all over again.”

She hung up.

School was a bummer. I could not stop thinking about Morris JJ's Pizza, about the 911 tape, and Vivi, Vivi, Vivian.

On the 911 tape, Vivian says,
He dropped her. He
could be Morris JJ's Pizza who
dropped her.

The late afternoon sky looked like someone had rolled aluminum foil from horizon to horizon. My mood matched. As I approached the Behavioral Center, I saw a figure leaning against the corner of the building near the entrance. At first I thought that it was someone Margaret had sent to tell me that something had come up at work and that we would have to listen to her phone tape some other time. Then when I was within a block of the building, I saw that it was Morris JJ's Pizza. He was slouched against the edge of the building, holding a lighted cigarette. I stood still as I watched him take a long drag, drop it, and rub it out with his black boot. “Hey, kid,” he said.

I answered, “Hey.”

He pushed off from the building and started walking toward me. “On your way to see someone?”

“Yeah, my friend.”

“That Branwell kid?”

“Yeah.”

“How's he doing?”

“It's hard to say. He still can't talk.”

Morris JJ's Pizza was walking beside me now. He jerked his head toward the other side of the street. There was a city bus stop there. It had a bench and one of those plastic dome shelters. We crossed the street and sat down. “What's going to happen to your friend?” he asked.

“I don't know. Depends on what happens to Nikki. If she pulls out of this, he may just be tried for reckless endangerment. If she doesn't, well, then I guess he'll be accused of manslaughter.”