Silent to the Bone (9 page)

Vivian said, “I kept thinking that Branwell, too, would find it a chore and just stop, but he didn't. Even when I was there, he insisted on changing her nappies himself.”

At last I knew why Branwell rushed home from school every day.

“I tell you, he was always changing her. Whether she needed it or not.” She took a long pull on her cigarette. I held my breath as I watched the ash grow until it seemed ready to drop. But as she took it from her mouth, she held it straight until it was over the saucer. With the tiniest flick of her finger, she made the ash drop. Then with a delicate movement of her wrist, she stubbed it out. “Actually,” she said, “I think that's when he did it.”

“Did what?” Margaret asked.

Vivian answered in a hoarse whisper as if the words
hurt her throat. “Dropped her. That's when he must have dropped her.”

Margaret asked, “He didn't take her out of the crib to change her nappy, did he?” It seemed to me that Margaret was saying
nappy
a lot.

“Sometimes he did, actually. And on that day, the poor little thing was teething, and she had caught a bit of a cold to boot. She had already had two rather messy nappies that morning, so I guess Branwell took her into the bathroom to sponge her off, and that's when he dropped her. Surely you know how awkward he is.”

Margaret said, “So, actually, you never saw him drop her.” It seemed to me that Margaret was saying
actually
a lot.

“I didn't even know he was home. I was in my room on the other side of the Jack-and-Jill.”

“And when he dropped her, the baby didn't cry?”

“Of course not. She had gone unconscious.”

“Was Nikki out of the crib when Branwell called to you?”

“Yes. He was shaking her, trying to get her to wake up.”

“How do you know he dropped her in the bathroom?”

“They found traces of Nikki's blood on the bathroom floor, actually. How else would it have got there?”

“And you didn't notice the blood when you ran through the Jack-and-Jill after he called you.”

“Of course not. The adrenaline was pumping, and I wanted to get to the nursery.”

“What did he say when he called?”

“He called, ‘Vivi, come here. Nikki's breathing funny.' I came running. Brannie was shaking her to wake her up.”

“Was that the last he spoke? When he called to you that the baby was breathing funny?”

“Not quite. I came into the room and was shocked to see him shaking her. You should never, never shake a baby. It's quite dangerous, actually. Their little brains go sloshing around in their skulls and get nicked and battered. I screamed,
‘Stop!'
and I grabbed the baby from him.”

“Then what happened?”

“The poor little thing threw up. When I had her in my arms, she felt feverish. I was worried that she would choke on her vomit, so I cleared the vomit from her mouth with my fingers, and I sent Branwell into the bathroom to get a washcloth. ‘Get a washcloth,' I
yelled. I did a good bit of yelling, actually. He came back with a damp washcloth. That is probably when he tried to wipe the blood off the bathroom floor. I cleaned her up a bit, but as I held her . . . her breathing was . . . so . . . so hard.” Vivian began to tear up. “This was not an ordinary little ear or nose thing. I screamed at him, ‘What have you done?' And he just stared at me. He looked toward the Jack-and-Jill and said, ‘I . . . I . . . I.' But Branwell just kept staring and making his mouth go and the only sound that came out was, ‘I . . . I . . . I.' I yelled at him to call 911, and I started to do CPR. Branwell dialed. But when the operator came on, he wouldn't tell her what was wrong. I had to stop the CPR to take the phone from him.”

Vivian folded her arms across her blue sweater and hugged her upper arms. She shuddered. “It sends shivers down my spine every time I think of what poor little Nikki is going through.”

“Yes,” Margaret said, “it is chilling.”

Vivian said, “I want to thank you, Margaret. This rehearsal has been most helpful.”

Margaret said, “I'm sure you will do very well.”

“Yes, our little talk has helped me remember the details.” Vivian took another cigarette from her purse, held it to her lips, and looked at me and nodded. I
popped out of my seat, picked up the matches from the coffee table, and was able to strike one on the first try.

She held my wrist in the same place.

She thanked me again and then said, “Some people say ‘God is in the details.' Others say it's the Devil.”

Margaret replied, “Maybe it depends on who's reporting the details.” She checked her watch and announced that supper was ready.

She took the chicken casserole from the oven, placed it on the table, and reached into the drawer for a serving spoon and told us to help ourselves.

At dinner we talked about Vivian's plans. She said that as soon as she finished giving her deposition she would be returning to England. “In a way, I am living on standby. If Nikki dies, I'll have to return to the States for the trial.”

“Well, let's hope that won't happen.”

“Of course, we all pray that won't happen. The Zamborskas were pleasant enough, and I enjoyed being here, but this whole assignment has certainly mucked up my plans.” Brits must say
mucked up
instead of
messed up.

“What plans are those?” Margaret asked.

“All of them, actually. I am truly anxious to get on with my life.”

Margaret said, “I think I've heard everyone from the Masssachusetts Nanny to the Long Island Lolita say that. What exactly does ‘getting on with your life' mean?”

“In my case, it means going to university.”

“And study what?”

“The law. I hope to become a barrister.”

“That would be nice. I think you will look darling in a peruke.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I understand they're quite expensive.”

“Let me make this promise, Vivian. If you become a barrister, I shall buy you your peruke.”

I didn't know what a
peruke
was, and I didn't want to ask. If it was spelled anything like it sounded, I could look it up or ask Branwell. (That was about the gazillionth time I had to remind myself that he had gone silent. But maybe peruke would be the icebreaker that would get him to talk.)

Vivian had another cigarette with her coffee. I volunteered to light it for her. She held my wrist again. Same wrist. Same place. And then before I pulled my wrist away, she smiled shyly and lip-synced, “Thank you, Connor.”

Thursday has always been my lucky day.

Margaret dropped Vivian back at the hotel before she drove me home.

I asked her, “Why did you tell Vivian that you had changed your silverware drawers around? It's been in the same place ever since you've lived here.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

Margaret shrugged. “I felt like it.”

“Is that all you're going to say?”

“For the time being.”

“What is a peruke?” I asked.

“One of those white wigs that British barristers plop on top of their heads when they are trying a case.”

“Is that named after Mr. Peruke who invented it?”

“I don't think so.”

“Why did you promise Vivian that you would buy her one?”

“I stand about as much chance of having to keep that promise as you have of waking up tomorrow speaking Farsi.”

“Why don't you like her?”

“I don't have to. You like her enough for both of us.”

“Why did you invite her over for dinner if you don't like her.”

“I felt like it.”

“Well, I think she's nice.”

“I noticed.”

The first time I saw Branwell at the Behavioral Center, I had said to myself that even before I knew all the details, I believed in him. And I still did. But after having had supper with Vivian, and having learned more of the details, I had some new thoughts about Branwell, and I wondered if the Branwell I thought I knew was the Branwell I knew.

My mind was as mixed-up as that sentence.

I also had some new thoughts about Vivian. And about Branwell with Vivian.

And when I awakened the next morning my thoughts were not about Branwell and Vivian but about Vivian and me. Vivian with me. She had invaded my dreams that night, and those dreams were different from any of the other dreams I had ever dreamed up until I lit that first cigarette and felt Vivian's hand holding my wrist. And she held my wrist in the same place each time and thanked me.

Margaret came to school and brought me a copy of the 911 tape.

I called her Wonder Woman not because she had managed to get the tape in less time than it would take an ordinary human being but because she had managed to enter the cleverly guarded halls of Knightsbridge Middle School without a diplomatic passport or bulletproof vest. “Do you have any other miracles to share with me?”

“This,” she said, reaching into her shoulder bag and bringing forth a tape player. “A miracle of miniaturization and efficiency.”

I always liked to start my visits with Branwell by telling him the good news—when there was good
news—so I asked her how Nikki was, and she told me that they were still weaning her off the respirator.

When I entered the Behavioral Center, the guard at the reception desk who kept the sign-in book and who inspected my backpack held up the packet of flash cards and asked if I was making any progress with them. I told her that it was too soon to tell. She examined the tape and player and asked, “Trying something new?”

“Anything to help.”

When everything was back inside my backpack, she handed it over across her desk. “Good luck,” she said, smiling.

I didn't exactly know what still weaning someone off a respirator meant. I guessed that that news was in the category of medium-good. Not as good as having Nikki breathing on her own or
tracking,
which would mean that she was interacting with her environment and was what everyone was waiting for. Not as bad as not being weaned. I should have asked Margaret for more details, but I wasn't that interested. I had other things on my mind.

So once Branwell was brought out and seated across
the table from me, I got the Nikki-news over with as quickly as possible. I wanted to get to the real stuff. Stuff that had been on my mind since last night.

I wanted to talk to him about Vivian. I wanted to talk to him about her so badly that I was glad the conversation would be one way. To be perfectly honest—I've really tried to be—I wanted Bran to know that I had spent practically a whole night with this person that he had been keeping from me.

I didn't tell him about the rehearsal for the deposition. I didn't even mention the deposition. I wasn't even thinking about the details she had rehearsed with Margaret. I was thinking about the blue jumper and the hair grip. And that's what I told him about.
Jumpers
and
hair grips.
He had to understand that I, too, knew her language.

I don't know how much of my fascination with her crept into what I was saying, but I guess a lot of it did. I didn't care. He had to understand that he, Branwell, was not the only one that she paid attention to.

Bran had always been a good listener, but now he sat slouched in his chair and stared at his hands in his lap. When I mentioned that Vivian had let me light her cigarettes, he finally looked up at me and shook his head slowly, slightly, sadly. As if I was to be pitied.

I was not to be pitied. I had lit her cigarettes. And she had held my wrist and said thank you each time, and one time she had not even bothered saying it out loud but had just lip-synced.

Maybe it was the look he gave me, or maybe it was because I had been thinking about it a lot—a whole lot—or maybe if I try to be as perfectly-perfectly honest with myself as I have tried to be about everything else, I would have to admit that I took the “conversation” to the next level because it was the one that had invaded my dreams.

“How about walking in on her in the bathtub?” I said.

Branwell stopped looking sad the minute I mentioned bathtub. Instead he blushed. (Branwell blushes easily.)

Then I said, “How about walking in on her in the bathtub the second time?” Branwell lowered his head so fast and so far, I thought it would separate from his neck. And he was blushing so much, I thought I could feel the heat of it across the table.

I should have stopped then and there, but I couldn't. I had to go on, and I said, “And the third time?” But now Branwell jerked his head up as hard as he had jerked it down. “Way to go, man,” I said, trying to
tease. And maybe if my mouth had not been so dry, that would have come out the way it should have. But it didn't. Branwell's jaw dropped, and he glared at me. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came. He sucked in his breath and tried again, and then he bolted up, overturning his chair, turned his back to me, and started to walk out.

“Bran!” I called. “Bran. Our time isn't up. Don't leave. Please,” I said. “Please don't leave.” He stood still, his back to me. “I brought a copy of the tape with me,” I said. He turned his head and looked at me out of the corner of his eye. He looked like a frightened puppy. And I was frightened, too. What had I triggered? “The 911 tape,” I said. He turned about three quarters of the way around, and I hurriedly took it from my backpack and put it on the table. “Here it is.”

The guard came over and set his chair upright.

“Let's listen to the tape, Bran.” He was facing me now, and so was the guard. “Please sit down. Let's listen to it together.”

Bran sat down, and, nervous as I was, I managed to start the tape. As soon as the first words came on, he cocked his head and held his hand behind his ear to gather in the sound. Then when the tape got to the part where the operator said that she was transferring
the call to Fire and Rescue—the same part where he had reacted when Big Beacham had played it—he leaned his head down on the desk, the way we had been taught Native Americans kept their ears to the ground to hear a buffalo herd.