Silent to the Bone (17 page)

So much for Hollywood.

Most days I gave waiting for Branwell to speak a
four-plus.
Some days, a
five.
At least I had a way of communicating that got responses. It was not like I was bowling and was not allowed to see how many pins I knocked down. My investigation was showing results.

I told Branwell that Margaret was preparing a letter to fax to the Summerhill Agency. I also told him that my father had confirmed that any au pair that was placed by them must be a nonsmoker or be willing to stop smoking. Then I made the mistake of telling him
that my father had also said that if the Zamborskas said that she was wonderful in every way except for smoking, Summerhill will find Vivian another family. She would just have to make another promise to stop.

As soon as he heard me say that the Summerhill Agency might still find Vivian another family, I got quite a reaction. He didn't turn over his chair, but he started motioning with his hands so frantically that I got a windchill. He wanted me to deal the cards.

It's probably a good thing that he was anxious, because I wasn't. This was the last weekend before The Week From Hell. I didn't want another assignment—which is what I had intended to tell him when I arrived. I intended to tell him to ease up, but considering his fury, I was not about to resist one little bit.

But I didn't have to like it.

I dutifully pulled the cards out of my backpack. They were getting a little dog-eared now. I laid them out so that the names showed. Branwell made a flipping motion with his hands. I sighed heavily so that it would be clear to him how tired I was of doing this (at this particular time). I guess he got the hint, but instead of letting me off the hook, he started turning the cards over himself. I felt a little bad about that but not too bad.

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.

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.