Silent to the Bone

by E. L. Konigsburg

  “That same Monday she slipped a Coke can into the recycle bin, I looked in it. It didn’t have cigarette butt. Good thing, too. If it had, I would have told Mrs. Zamborska.”

  “You don’t like her very much, do you?”

  “Connor, I take a lot of pride in my work. I only work for people I like and who like me. This one—this child—thought that I worked for her. She tried to tell me about the way they do things in English households. From what she described, I can tell you I’ve seen the same movies she has.”

  “Did you ever see her mistreat Nikki?”

  “No. Can’t say that I did.”

  Yolanda let out a sigh, and I knew our conversation was over. It was the end of her day, and she needed the rest of the bus ride to let some quiet settle in. She didn’t want or need any more conversation.

  We were almost to Yolanda’s stop when it occurred to me that the bus driver would demand another fare for my ride back to Tower Hill Road. I sure didn’t want to ask Yolanda again, so I decided to get off in Old Town and walk to Margaret’s. She would drive me home or give me money for the bus fare.

  Yolanda’s stop was one before Margaret’s. I thanked her and told her I’d be by the Farkases’ tomorrow afternoon to repay her.

  “I’ll be at your house on Friday. Why don’t you just have your mother include it with my check?”

  I liked it that she didn’t protest and say, “That’s all right,” or “Forget about it,” or, “Don’t worry about it.” That was Yolanda’s way. Calm. Smooth. One thing at a time.

  16.

  Margaret’s business hours were over, so I went around to the back of the house. The lights were on in the living room, and I saw her sitting in a chair. The TV wasn’t on. She was just sitting there, holding a glass of wine. I knocked.

  “I was expecting you,” she said. “Would have been disappointed if you hadn’t shown up.”

  “How come?”

  “Your mother called. She said that you had called her to say that you would be late. Then she happened to look outside when Yolanda boarded the bus, and what should she see but you sitting there, ready to ride the bus downtown. She assumed you were coming to see me, but she was curious about why you didn’t get off at home.”

  “I had to talk to Yolanda. Branwell wanted me to.”

  “I’d like to hear all about it. What do you think will happen if you call your mother and tell her that you and I are going out for dinner?”

  “I think it’ll be fine after I explain about the bus.” As I picked up the phone, I said, “This might be a long conversation.”

  “I’ll listen as you speak. It’ll save a replay.”

  * * *

  We went to the One-Potato for supper. We had to wait to be seated. They give you a number and a little remote to hold, and when your number comes up, the remote vibrates to let you know your table is ready. Margaret and I had a booth, which I liked a lot because I wasn’t too eager for anyone to overhear what we had to say. Our server came over and introduced herself (she was Tammi, just as it said on her badge) and asked how were we doing this evening and what could she get us to drink. Margaret put our dinner orders in with our drink orders because she wanted Tammi to interrupt as little as possible.

  I told Margaret that I didn’t use the BATHROOM card, after all, and that Branwell had spelled out Yolanda, and for the first time I felt that his silence had changed. That—as strange as it may sound—Branwell was less accepting of it.

  Since Branwell’s silence, I’ve thought a lot about listening, and I’ve decided it is an art. Just as our English teacher told us you can put too many adverbs and adjectives into a sentence—it’s called overwriting—you can put too many meanings into a statement. I call it over-listening. My mother sometimes does that.

  For that reason, I’d never told my mother as much as I’d told Margaret about my involvement in this situation with Branwell. Although my mother—having a master’s degree in psychology and working on her doctorate—is a trained listener, she sometimes over-listens, especially when it comes to me. For the sake of my self-image, my mother takes everything—everything—I say very seriously.

  This is an example of how over-listening works. Suppose I told my mother that today when I saw Branwell, I had the feeling that his silence had changed, that it was more active, she would ask, “Why do you think that?” Now, the point is that I’m not sure I thought it. I felt it. So I wouldn’t really have an answer, but I would feel an obligation to explain, and I would probably describe the whole scene to her, and then to make her understand the difference between today and the other days, I would have to describe the other days, and she would have questions for each step along the way, and I would have been talking for ten minutes and still never really have found a reason for something that was only a feeling.

  I never said any of this to Margaret because she is only too ready to find fault with my mother, but she knows that sometimes there are feelings without reasons. Hadn’t she told me that she had lied to Vivian because she felt like it?

  This is what she said when I told her that Branwell’s silence had changed. She said, “I think we’re circling the bull’s-eye.” And when I told her that the word shame had sprung—full-blown—from my head, and I had decided not to use the BATHROOM card after all, she asked, “What would you say is the difference between embarrass and shame?”

  I thought a long time before I answered. “Embarrass is something that makes you feel silly or awkward or out-of-place in the presence of someone else. Shame is something that happens to you on the inside and you don’t want anyone else present. Embarrass makes you blush, but shame makes you angry.”

  “So when you teased Branwell about walking in on Vivian Shawcurt the first time, he blushed. He blushed even more when you mentioned the second time.”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t take much to make Branwell blush.”

  “But when you mentioned the third time, he went into a rage.”

  “That’s probably why the word shame came popping into my head.”

  “I’d say you have good instincts.”

  “What do you think happened in that bathroom?”

  “Probably the same thing you do. Think about Vivian and how you felt lighting her cigarettes for her. . . .”

  I suddenly wanted this conversation to be over. If I had had bus fare, I would have walked out of the One-Potato right then and there.

  “. . . then remember that Branwell had had a much larger dose of Vivian’s charms than you ever did, so try to put yourself into 198 Tower Hill Road on October twelfth . . .”

  I said nothing.

  “. . . after Yolanda leaves . . .”

  I simmered.

  “. . . and Vivian suddenly remembers that she hasn’t had her morning bath.”

  I decided not to speak to Margaret for the rest of the night, maybe for the rest of my life.

  Margaret finished eating in silence (thank goodness). Then Tammi brought the check. Margaret looked over the bill, took a credit card from her wallet, and slipped it into the leather folder. She folded her hands on the table and stared at me until I looked back at her. “So!” she said. “Considering how you’ve clammed up since I mentioned Vivian, I think we can agree that shame leads to withdrawal and anger.”

  Despite myself, I answered. “What am I, Margaret, your test case against Vivian Shawcurt?”

  “More like a textbook case.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of adolescent infatuation.”

  “I am not an adolescent.”

  “Yes, you are. Somewhere between youth and grown-up is adolescence. You’ve done a lot of growing up in the weeks since Branwell was struck dumb. And you’re growing in the right direction.”

  Tammi returned with the charge slip. Margaret added the tip and signed, took the yellow copy, put it in her purse, closed her purse, and asked, “What are you going to do next?”

  “Go home. It’s a school night. Are you going to drive me?”


  “Sure. Let’s go.”

  We were in the car, and Margaret had already pulled out of the parking lot of the One-Potato before I said, “You may be very clever about embarrassing me, Margaret—”

  “But only you can shame yourself.”

  “That may be true, Margaret. I may be ashamed of what I’ve been thinking about Vivian, and I can pretty much imagine what happened at Branwell’s house on Columbus Day, but that is not why he can’t talk.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Not talking about something you’re ashamed of is not the same thing as being struck dumb. Something else had to have happened. Branwell’s silence is something more than not talking. Between Columbus Day and that 911 call, something else happened.”

  “Let’s think about how we can find out. We can’t count on The Ancestors—they’ve left town—or Dr. Zamborska or Tina—they don’t know how. That, more or less, leaves Morris Ditmer. Or Branwell. We can wait for Branwell to tell us. But I don’t think he will be ready to tell us until he’s ready to talk.”

  “When do you think that will be?”

  “I think that depends on Nikki.”

  As I was getting out of the car, Margaret asked me whether I would be allowed to join her for dinner for a second night in a row.

  My mother is basically a very understanding person. There are times when I think that Margaret would find it easier to dislike her if she were not. Margaret will never admit it, and I will never expect her to, but she knows that my mother understands how she felt all those years ago when my mother and my dad got married.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Come early. We’ll order in. Pizza from JJ’s.”

  17.

  If you were to ask me how I performed in school the day after my round-robin bus rides, I would have to say that there was not much difference between my vegetative state and Nikki’s. My eyes were open, but I was not having much interaction with my environment. Christmas was less than two weeks away. And that was good news and bad news. Good news because it meant a break from school. Bad news because we were approaching The Week From Hell. I think every teacher at Knightsbridge signs a pledge to schedule an important test the week before the Christmas recess so that families that plan a winter vacation won’t take off early.

  * * *

  When I stood at the reception desk to have my backpack examined, the woman said, “I think you’re the best kind of friend.”

  “Really?” I said. I do like compliments, but I modestly added, “I’m just doing what any friend would do.”

  “I don’t see anyone else coming here every day like you.” After I signed in, she pulled the registration book back. “Maybe I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the upstairs night guard, when he comes off duty this morning, he tells me that your friend did not have a good night. Didn’t sleep at all. Just sat up and stared at the wall like he was in a coma or something. It’s a good thing you come. The day guard thinks your visits cheer him up.”

  “Did anyone come after me last night?”

  “Last evening, after you left, Dr. Zamborska came in with that lawyer, that nice Ms. Gretchen Silver. She comes here often. Has a lot of kids’ cases, but she hadn’t been in here to see Branwell for at least a week.”

  “Neither one of them knows how to communicate with him. What do you think upset him?”

  “Something he read.” She tapped the packet of flash cards. “You know that your friend can read. Ms. Silver, she give your friend some papers, and he read them.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “From experience I would say the papers were full of what people were saying about Branwell’s case. Sort of like evidence. Called depositions.”

  “Do you know whose depositions?”

  “They wouldn’t tell me that. They didn’t even tell me they was depositions. It was just a guess on my part. What they call an educated guess.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said. “I better get up there.” Branwell must have read Vivian’s deposition.

  “What you gonna do?”

  “I think I’ll tell him about school,” I said. “The fact that he’s missing it should cheer him up.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. A good idea from a good friend.” I didn’t have time to make a modest response. I had to get upstairs.

  * * *

  If the receptionist had not told me that Branwell had not slept last night, I could have guessed. He didn’t look too much better than he had the first time I visited him.

  “I spoke to Yolanda yesterday,” I said. Branwell was still studying his hands. “I don’t think Yolanda cared too much for Vivian. That’s probably putting it mildly.”

  He looked up then. But there was a scary blankness in his look. Not quite the zombie-thing, but near enough. He had sunk back deeper into his silence than when I had left him yesterday. “Well, anyway, Yolanda mentioned that Vivian had a bad habit of leaving the door to the bathroom open when she was taking a bath.”

  Why did I bring that up when I had pledged to myself that I wouldn’t? Because when a two-way conversation is one-way, a person will say foolish things just to move air.

  I quickly moved on. “Yolanda said that she saw Vivian smoking a cigarette, and Yolanda said she knew that Tina didn’t allow any smoking anywhere in the house, especially around the baby.” Branwell started watching me, looking at me so hard, you would think he was trying to get inside my head, and, I guess, in a way, he was. “But Yolanda suspects that Vivian smoked in her room anyway. Something about finding cigarette butts in Coca-Cola cans.”

  Branwell started making frantic motions with his hands as if he were dealing cards. I reached into my backpack and took out the flash cards out, thinking, Oh, no! Not another assignment. But like the good friend the guard said I was, I started laying the cards out—alphabet side up. The guard slipped a notepad on the table without my saying anything to him.

  This time Branwell didn’t wait for me to point to the letters one at a time. This time, he pointed with his finger. I said them as I wrote them down. “A-G-E-N-C-Y. Agency?” I asked out loud. He blinked twice. “What agency?”

  He pointed, and I spelled A-U-P-A-I-R. “The au pair agency?” He blinked twice very rapidly. “You want me to go to the au pair agency?” Blinked twice again. “And tell them what?” He rapidly pointed to the letters that spelled S-M-O-K-E-S. “You want me to go to the au pair agency and tell them that Vivian smokes?” Two blinks. “Why?”

  The cards again. S-T-O-P-H-E-R-G-E-T-J-O-B.

  I had to work on that a minute until I said, “Stop her getting a job?” He blinked. “You mean, stop her from getting another job?” He blinked again. “Do you know the name of the agency?”

  He shook his head no.

  “Well,” I said, gathering up my cards, “I have some research to do.”

  * * *

  It was five o’clock when I got to Schuyler Place. I saw the light on in the front office and knew that Margaret would be finishing up, so I went around back. I dropped my book bag and jacket on the sofa and went into the kitchen to grab a snack. Margaret had laid in a good supply of cheese and fruit and containers of rice pudding. I found a bag of potato chips in the cupboard and helped myself to those and to a Coke.

  As soon as Margaret came in, she said, “Let’s order our pizza.”

  “You don’t usually eat this early. What’s your hurry?”

  “You look hungry,” she said, eyeing the bag of chips.

  “You have another reason.”

  “I do. If I wait until JJ’s gets really busy, we’ll have to take whatever delivery person is available for Schuyler Place, and I want Morris.” She called JJ’s, and I heard her ask for him. Pause. “I would appreciate it if you can arrange it.” Pause. “Yes, Morris Ditmer.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “I owe him some change and a tip.” She hung up and asked, “Did you see Branwell today?”

  The bad news was that he seemed to have sunk deeper into his sile
nce. The good news was for the first time, he had pointed to the letters himself. I told her that the conversation—if you want to call it that—went much faster when he did the pointing instead of me.

  Margaret began raiding the refrigerator for salad ingredients, and I started to set the table. As I opened the silverware drawer, I remembered how Margaret had lied to Vivian about changing the silverware.

  Margaret had lied and had known that I wouldn’t contradict her. How had she known? I guess she knew that I wouldn’t embarrass her in front of another person. I would never do that. And, I guess, she also knew that I would know that if she was lying, she had a reason for it.

  “Margaret,” I said, “when you lied to Vivian about changing the silverware drawer, you said you did it because you felt like it. Then when you said that you knew that Morris was lying about never having seen Branwell, you told me that people lie for only one reason—fear. When you lied to JJ’s just now telling them that you owed Morris money, were you lying for fear or because you felt like it?”

  “Closer to I felt like it. I think I would call what I did when Vivian was here and what I did just now artful lies. Lies to get at the truth.”

  “I can think of a time when a person lies out of a sense of courage instead of fear. Like when a soldier is caught behind enemy lines and lies when he says he doesn’t know anything. That takes courage.”

  “You’re right. Lying to protect someone does take courage.”

  “Do you think Morris was lying to protect someone?”

  “Maybe that information will be delivered with the pizza.”

  * * *

  The doorbell rang, and sure enough there was Morris Ditmer, large square box in hand. “Oh, hi,” he said, making no effort to pretend that he didn’t recognize Margaret or me.