Mr. Branwell continued. “We also engaged a tennis coach for the remainder of the month after we returned from the cruise. But the crucial time—the time that the baby would be born—we would be sailing around the Caribbean, and Branwell wouldn’t have to put up with all the commotion of the new baby. I understood that Tina’s mother was coming to help her those first couple of weeks.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Branwell continued, “those Orientals are very family oriented.” She stopped and laughed nervously. “Of course, Orientals are oriented, but you know what I mean.” She laughed nervously again.
Unlike Branwell, I didn’t have to be their perfect grandson, so I said, “No, I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Branwell.”
“I mean that filling their houses up with lots of relatives is part of their culture. They believe in living under very crowded conditions.” Here she looked to her husband for him to agree—which he did by shaking his head.
Then he said, “We just thought that it would be best for Branwell to be away—carefree and cruising the islands—while his house was full of new babies and foreigners. It would not be fair to have him put up with all that confusion. We figured we would keep him until the end of the month as we usually do, and by that time there would be some semblance of normalcy in that house.”
Mrs. Branwell smiled patiently. “Or as normal as you can call it with a new baby.”
Before he left for his month at The Lovely Condominium, Branwell had shown me a birth announcement that he had designed. It was a drawing of two loosely twisted strands of DNA. He had colored one pink and one blue. He labeled the pink one TINA and the blue one STEFAN. Then the strands got twisted tighter and tighter until it became a line and then an arrow. The arrow pointed to the name NICOLE. Under that, he had written:
DATE OF BIRTH_____________
WEIGHT____________________
LENGTH____________________
* * *
Branwell had expected his dad to have his design printed up and sent out to family and friends. But he never told them that. So Tina bought a package of ready-mades and sent those. Dr. Z did fill in the blanks on the one that Branwell had made, and he wrote on the bottom, “She’s beautiful, Bran, and she can’t wait to meet her brother.” He signed it, “Dad and Tina.” Tina enclosed a picture of Nikki on which she had written on the back, “Say hello to the incredible Nicole Zamborska, age two days.” Dr. Zamborska mailed the announcement and the photo, and they were waiting at The Lovely Condominium when he returned from the cruise of the Caribbean.
Mr. Branwell said, “Branwell couldn’t wait to open the envelope. His eyes filled with tears when he saw the announcement and the picture. He wanted to call home immediately, but we”—now it was his turn to look toward his wife to nod in agreement—“we suggested that he wait until he calmed down. After all, we didn’t want him crying on the phone and have his father think that we had mistreated him.”
I remembered Branwell telling me something, so I asked, “Didn’t he ask if he could skip the tennis lessons and go home early?”
Mr. Branwell replied, “Yes. Yes, he did. But we told him that the lessons were paid for in advance. Actually, they were. But the real reason we didn’t want to send him home early was because—as I explained—we didn’t know how he would fit in to that crowd with the new baby and that mother-in-law in the house. Cooking up all that rice and baby formula. We thought it best that he stay with us.”
Mrs. Branwell nodded. “It was the right decision.”
I asked, “Were you surprised to find out that Tina and Dr. Zamborska had hired someone to help take care of Nikki?”
Mr. Branwell said, “Yes, we were. But we knew that Tina would not be a stay-at-home mom. Those Orientals are very ambitious, you know. Especially the immigrants.”
That’s when I thanked them for the French fries and excused myself. I reached across the table to shake their hands and, as I shook Mrs. Branwell’s, I said, “Nice nails.”
She hurriedly withdrew her hand from mine, blushed, and said, “Thank you.”
6.
When I got home from my meeting with The Ancestors, I called Dr. Zamborska and told him that I would like to be there when Branwell met with them and the lawyer they had hired, whose name I found out was Neville Beacham.
Since Branwell was only allowed to have two visitors at a time, I would need special permission to be allowed to see him at the same time as one of The Ancestors and Beacham. I suggested to him that I should be allowed to go in as an interpreter just as the hearing impaired have an interpreter doing sign language. I didn’t want to reveal to him my means of communicating with Branwell (I don’t know why), but I knew that I would if I had to.
As it turned out I didn’t have to.
I think the fact that The Ancestors had not bothered to consult with Dr. Zamborska about hiring another attorney and the fact that they obviously didn’t want him there helped convince him that I should be a third—or fourth—person present. He agreed to call and request permission. And then I told him my other problem: I couldn’t be at the Behavioral Center until school was out, which would make it necessary for The Ancestors to change the time of their appointment. I think Dr. Z was enjoying putting up obstacles for them.
I don’t know how he did it—except that he is a lot more competent than he appears to be. Early the next morning before I left for school, he called to tell me that he had made it happen.
Dr. Z left it to me to call The Ancestors at their motel to tell them that their time to visit Branwell had been changed. Mrs. Branwell answered the phone, and I could tell she did not want to believe me or believe that I had the right to be telling her in the first place. I told her that she better believe me or she would get to the Behavioral Center and find out that she and Mr. Branwell and the attorney they had hired couldn’t get in. She said, “Perhaps you better explain this to Mr. Branwell.”
He was even less accustomed than his wife to having someone my age tell him to change his plans. He said that he would call the Center to get the facts. I mentioned that the offices at the Center were closed now, and I suggested that he call at nine when they would be open. He sputtered on his end of the phone, which I interpreted to mean that he did not approve, so I said, “See you at four,” and I hung up.
I had to do all that before I caught the bus for school, but this was Thursday, and Thursday has always been my lucky day.
* * *
When the guard at the desk did her usual search, she pulled my flash cards out and jerked her head toward The Ancestors and Beacham. I gave her a minimal shake of my head. She smiled knowingly and quietly dropped them into my backpack.
The Big City Lawyer turned out to be a man of average height with a Hollywood hairstyle and a capped-tooth smile the likes of which I had only seen on one person—a TV evangelist. He was from Detroit. I may be interpreting (what else did I have to go on?), but I did think Branwell looked relieved when he saw us enter alphabetically: Ancestors, Beacham, Connor.
Since I had been coming to the Behavioral Center, Branwell and I were developing a new kind of understanding. I know this will sound funny, but I’ve thought about it a lot, and I don’t mean it in any negative way. The relationship that Branwell and I were developing was something like that between a boy and his dog. This is the way I mean it: For one thing, we had developed a means of communication that was verbal on only one side. I could speak; he couldn’t. But it wasn’t just that. Branwell had become dependent on me for his contact with the outside world. And it wasn’t just that either. It was also that I had developed a dependence on him for needing me. He needed me, and I needed him to need me. That’s what I mean about a boy and his dog—nice, like that.
Even though Branwell did not speak a word during the whole meeting, he said a lot, and as things turned out, it was a good thing—a very good thing—that I was there.
It was almost comical to see Big Beacham try and try again to get Branwell to talk. When Branwell would no
t even make eye contact with him, he spoke louder and louder. Even Mr. Branwell realized how wrong this technique was, because he turned his back to me, cupped his mouth with his hand, and whispered something directly into the attorney’s ear. They looked at me. After all, I was there as Branwell’s interpreter, but I was not about to reveal my technique for communicating with him. I shrugged and held my hands out, palms up, in a gesture of helplessness. At that point, the attorney took a little cassette player out of his briefcase and played the 911 tape.
Operator: Epiphany 911. Hobson speaking.
SILENCE.
Operator: Epiphany 911. Hobson. May I help you?
SILENCE. [Voices are heard in the background.]
Operator: Anyone there?
A woman’s voice [screaming in the background]: Tell them. Tell them.
Operator: Ma’am, I can’t hear you. [then louder] Please come to the phone.
A woman’s voice [still in the background, but louder now]: Tell them. [then, screaming as the voice approaches] For God’s sake, Branwell. [the voice gets louder] TELL THEM.
SILENCE.
Operator: Please speak into the phone.
A woman’s voice [heard more clearly]: TELL THEM. NOW BRAN. TELL THEM NOW
SILENCE.
A woman’s voice with a British accent [heard clearly]: Here! Take her! For God’s sake, at least take her! [then speaking directly into the phone] It’s the baby. She won’t wake up.
Operator: Stay on the phone.
British Accent [frightened]: The baby won’t wake up.
Operator: Stay on the line. We’re transferring you to Fire and Rescue.
Male Voice: Epiphany Fire and Rescue. Davidson. What is the nature of your emergency?
British Accent: The baby won’t wake up.
Male Voice: What is your exact location?
British Accent: 198 Tower Hill Road. Help, please. It’s the baby.
Male Voice: Help is on the way, ma’am. What happened?
British Accent: He dropped her. She won’t wake up.
Male Voice: Is she having difficulty breathing?
British Accent [panicky now]: Yes. Her breathing is all strange.
Male Voice: How old is the baby, ma’am?
British Accent: Almost six months.
Male Voice: Is there a history of asthma or heart trouble?
British Accent: No, no. He dropped her, I tell you.
LOUD BANGING IS HEARD.
British Accent [into the phone]: They’re here. Thank God. They’re here. [then just before the connection is broken] For God’s sake, Branwell, MOVE. Open the door.
Funny thing: As the tape was playing, the grown-ups watched the tape. When given a choice, people will always watch something that moves—even if it’s only the tiny wheels of a cassette player. But I watched Branwell. He sat perfectly still, his hands folded on the table in front of him. When the tape got to the part where the operator says that she is transferring the call to Fire and Rescue, Branwell squinted his eyes and moved his clenched fist in front of his mouth.
The two men paid no attention to me at all. Which was good. It allowed me to be silent and to listen. I didn’t just listen, I fine-tuned my listener. And I watched. The energy I would normally use for thinking up what I was going to say went into listening hard and watching well, and I remembered everything.
I listened like Branwell, struck dumb.
Think of it this way. Think that you’re in a restaurant. You’re in a restaurant, and the server comes to the table to recite the specials of the day. Most of the time you only half-listen because (1) you want to hear it all before you make your choice and (2) after you have chosen, you know you can always ask, “What did you say comes with the osso buco?” But if you have to listen as Branwell would—as if you could not speak, could not ask—you would have to remember what comes with the osso buco and make your choice without asking.
That meeting with the irritating, aggravating, annoying Ancestors and Big Beacham made me glad that Branwell could not speak. Not speaking was the only weapon he had. Branwell knew all the choices on the menu, and for once, he wasn’t taking the risotto just because it came with the osso buco.
7.
I called Dr. Zamborska from Margaret’s and reported on the meeting. When I described their lack of success in getting Branwell to speak, there was a long silence on his end of the line. As much as Dr. Z wanted his son to speak, that long pause on his end of the line told me that he was glad that Branwell didn’t do it for The Ancestors. I was learning that silence can say a lot.
I still had not told even Dr. Zamborska that I had found a way to communicate with Bran, and I still was not sure why. Maybe I wanted a monopoly. Maybe—and believe this of me if you are kind—I didn’t think Branwell would want me to.
But I knew there was something on the tape that Branwell wanted me to investigate.
I knew where the spot was—the part where the operator said that she was transferring the call to Fire and Rescue and the part where Epiphany Fire and Rescue comes on. That’s when Branwell squinted his eyes and moved his clenched fist in front of his mouth. I knew where it was, but I was not sure what it was. I also did not know how I would get a copy of it to take to him so that we could go over it.
I told Margaret about the session with The Ancestors and the tape and asked her if we could get a copy. She said that it shouldn’t be too hard to get, because the tape was part of the public record. “Let’s call the Communications Center. They should release a copy if we need it for a possible defense.”
“Just what is Branwell being defended against?”
Margaret said, “Sit down, Connor.” I did. “He can be charged with aggravated assault . . . or . . . worse. Depending on what happens to Nikki.”
“Nikki? Nikki’s going to be all right, isn’t she? She’s already opened her eyes.”
“Connor,” Margaret said gently, “Nikki is not out of the woods. Technically, she’s out of the coma, and they are weaning her off the respirator, but she is now entering what they call Stage Three. It can last a few days or a week or a month or many, many months.”
“But eventually, she’ll be all right, won’t she?”
“I don’t know, Connor. No one does. Everything about the outcome is still iffy. It’s a cruel time.”
“So if something bad—really bad—I mean really bad, like the worst possible thing—happens to Nikki, what will happen to Bran?”
“Manslaughter. He’ll be charged with manslaughter if he did not hurt her deliberately. But if they can prove otherwise—that he hurt her on purpose—he’ll be charged with murder.”
I panicked. “They have no right to charge him. He didn’t hurt that baby,” I said.
“Did he tell you that?” Margaret asked.
“You know he didn’t. He’s not speaking. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to get him to speak. The tape,” I said. “We need to get a copy of that tape.”
Margaret sensed my panic. In a voice as calming as a lullaby, she said, “Let me make a few calls and see if we can get a copy.”
She went back to her office to make the calls, and I sat there trying to calm myself down. I needed to find out what had made Branwell stop talking if I was going to find a way to make him start. But if I was going to help him—really, really help him—I had to find out what had happened on the day of the 911 call.
I don’t know who Margaret talked to or what she said, but when she got off the phone, she told me that she would be picking up the tape the following afternoon.
“What do you think is wrong with Branwell?” I asked.
“I think he’s afraid.”
“Of what?”
Margaret smiled. “I don’t know, Connor. I really don’t. Do you want to talk about it?”
I nodded.
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa in the add-on living room. Margaret tucked her legs up under her and asked, “What do you know of Branwell’s reaction to Tina?”
Why was she starting there? That was like going to the doctor’s office for a pain in your stomach and he starts by taking your blood pressure in your arm. I told her that Branwell had never said much about Tina except to say that he had never seen his father so crazy about anyone. When I reminded him what my mother had said about his father’s coming into the nursery to give him his bottles while the other mothers were nursing their babies, he blushed. “Yeah,” he had said, “I can’t complain. Don’t get me wrong. I know my father loves me. But the way my father loves Tina is different. The way a man loves a woman is different from the way a father loves a son.”
Once, before they got married, I had asked him if he liked Tina, and he had said, “Yes. Yes, I do. I don’t love her the way my father does. I don’t know if I love her at all. But I do like her. Do you think that’s enough?”
No one had ever asked me that before, so I told him that my father always says that it’s as important for a parent to like his children as it is for him to love them. Then I added, “I’m not sure that love and like aren’t like cats and dogs: One can’t grow up to be the other, but they can be taught to live under the same roof.”
Branwell had clapped his hand on my shoulder. (When Branwell clapped a friendly hand on your shoulder, it was always something between a slap and a clamp. Sometimes his movements were so heavy, you wanted to poke him back.) “You always give me something to think about, pal.”
“You like that in me, eh?”
“Like, yeah, but don’t call it love.”
* * *
Margaret moved from taking blood pressure to taking temperature. She asked me about Branwell’s reaction to Nikki. I told her what I knew.
The baby was born on the Fourth of July. She was over three weeks old when The Ancestors finally released Branwell from The Lovely Condominium. Tina and Dr. Zamborska and Nikki were all there to meet his plane. Bran was still an unaccompanied minor, so he had to wait until his father showed proper ID before he could go over to where Tina was holding the baby. In Florida he had bought a mobile of natural seashells for above the baby’s crib, and he was so excited and suddenly so shy about at last seeing his baby sister that he awkwardly thrust the package at Tina and said, “Here.” What he had wanted was for her to take the package so that he could take the baby, but Tina stepped back and the package fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up and in a rush of words said, “I wanted to get something that doesn’t take any batteries, but there is some assembly required. But it’s all natural. Even the string. Well, maybe not the string. The string may be nylon, and nylon isn’t natural. The Ancestors sent something, too. It’s clothes. Packed in my suitcase. I’ll unpack it when we get to the house.”
Silent to the Bone Page 4