Silent to the Bone (20 page)

“I couldn't utter a sound. I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I knew I was struck dumb as payback for all the times I should have said something and had not. I should have told Tina about all the times I came home from school and found that Vivian had let Nikki's diapers get so wet, the weight made them fall off when you picked her up. I had never said anything about the times I had come home to find Nikki crying while she and Morris stayed in her room, smoking. There were all those times I should have spoken and didn't. I was being punished. And I deserved to be.”

So that was how
didn't
speak became
couldn't
speak.

“Bran,” I said, “this is the way I look at it. You were struck dumb for a very good reason. Your silence saved Nikki's life.”

He smiled. “You're a good friend, Connor. The best friend anyone could ever have, but I'd like to know how you figure that.”

“Easy. Logical. As soon as Vivian realized that you
had been struck dumb, she was able to describe to the paramedics and the trauma doctors exactly what she had done—blaming it all on you. She told the medics that
you
—not her—had been rough with Nikki when
you
—not her—went to change Nikki's diaper and
you
—not her—had caused Nikki to hit her head against the tub.
You
had shaken the baby. She knew that she had been taught that shaking can be more dangerous than the fall, and she never would have admitted doing it, but by being able to blame it all on you, she could tell the doctors about it.

“Don't you see? Your silence let her make a confession in your name. She described exactly what happened as if she had witnessed it.”

Bran smiled. “Because, of course, she did.”

“You didn't hurt Nikki. Vivian did. Something has to be done so that she won't hurt any other babies.”

“Probably not even her own . . .”

“If you want that, Bran, you have to file a complaint.”

“But I thought you told me that she's in custody. You said that she was picked up after Morris left for work yesterday.”

“She was, but if you want her to never be around a baby again, you have to let them know what happened that day of the 911 call.”

“No,” he said. “I can't. They'll want to know why I
couldn't
speak. And then they'll want to know why I
didn't
speak. And I can't talk about that to anyone else yet.”

And that's when I lost it with Bran.

“If you are not willing to tell what happened the day of that 911 call just because you are so ashamed of what happened on Columbus Day, you are stupid and stubborn and you deserve to let Vivian win again.”

All he said was, “I can't go home until Nikki does.”

And I stormed out of there.

I was in a dilemma. Branwell had not given me permission to tell anyone that he could speak, but it was getting more and more difficult not to. Especially Margaret. When he told me that he would never tell what had happened the day of the 911 call because then everyone would find out what had led up to it, I knew that my silence on the subject would be as bad as his. I had to tell.

So I told Margaret.

She was far more sympathetic to him than I was. “The only way someone as smart and as sensitive as Branwell thinks that he can get the love he so desperately needs is to be good. He feels he has to be good every which way. The way his father wants him to be.
The way The Ancestors want him to be. He could not accept the way he felt about Vivian, and she knew it, and she used it. He needs to learn to accept some intense feelings he has. Like jealousy. And love.”

“So what are we going to do?” I asked impatiently.

“We're going to tell Gretchen Silver what Branwell found in the nursery the day he made that 911 call.”

Gretchen Silver went to see Branwell the next day. It was his twenty-fifth day at the Behavioral Center.

She insisted that if he wanted to insure that Vivian would never be in a position to hurt another baby, he had to tell her what happened the day of the 911 call. Branwell, who excels at obedience, told.

Gretchen Silver asked the Zamborskas if they wanted to start legal proceedings against Vivian. To spare Branwell from having to testify, Dr. Z decided that he would not pursue the matter in court if the Summerhill Agency, as Vivian Shawcurt's bargaining representative, made certain that she never got a job in child care again. Ever.

Even then, Branwell insisted that he could not go home until Nikki did. Gretchen Silver knew he was as stubborn as he was vulnerable, so she began exploring alternatives.

Finally, after another full day of negotiation, everyone
agreed that Branwell would not have to go home. He would go to Margaret's. While there, he would get counseling from Margaret's mother, who said that Branwell had to unload a lot of baggage before moving back to 198 Tower Hill Road anyway. But she would only agree to help Branwell if Dr. Zamborska and Tina got counseling, too.

On December 22 at 1:56
A.M.
Greenwich Mean Time, the direct rays of the sun arced over the Tropic of Capricorn, reaching as far south of the equator as they ever go, marking the shortest day of the year and the official start of winter. It was December 21 in Epiphany, and it was evening before Gretchen Silver finally leveled the mountain of paperwork and parted the sea of emotions that allowed Branwell Zamborska to leave the Clarion County Juvenile Behavioral Center.

Before slipping into Margaret's waiting car, Branwell stopped and for the first time in twenty-seven days took in a deep breath of fresh, cold air. Then, with his face as pale as a planet, he looked up at the night sky. “What time is it?” he asked.

“It's eight fifty-six.”

“What time is that in London?”

“It's already tomorrow there,” Margaret replied.

Branwell smiled. “It's been a long day.”

On the last day of the year, when Branwell had been living on Schuyler Place for ten days, Margaret was making preparations for a small New Year's Eve celebration. She had invited her mother, my mother, The Registrar, and me. I went over there in the middle of the afternoon to help. (I told her that I would set the table since I knew where the silverware was, unless to usher in the new year she had changed her drawers around.)

In the early evening, long before the party was to start, a new minivan pulled into Schuyler Place and parked in front of Margaret's house. Dr. Zamborska got out of the car, walked up the steps and across the front porch, and rang the bell. “Margaret,” he said,
“I've come for Branwell.”

Margaret called Branwell. He came in from the living room. “Hi, Dad,” he said. The four of us filled the narrow hallway between the two front rooms.

Then the front door opened slowly, and Tina walked in. She was carrying Nikki.

Margaret quickly closed the door behind her, and there we all were, standing in the hallway between the two front rooms. No one said anything, and even though I thought I had gotten quite used to silence, this one had a peculiar ache.

Tina pulled back the blanket that had been shielding Nikki's face from the cold, and Nikki looked up and smiled at Branwell, and the silence suddenly seemed musical. And then a sound riffed into that silence. It was Branwell. He was crying. His sobs were soft, cushioned by the long way they had come, the long time they had taken to arrive. He looked at me, then Nikki, then me again, as his tears brightened his face.

And the next thing I knew, I was crying, too. And then we all were. We were all crying except Nikki. She was turning her head this way and that, focusing those black eyes here and there, tracking the sound of sobs and the sight of tears.

At last Tina handed the baby to Branwell. He cradled
his little sister in his arms and kissed her until her face was wet with his tears.

Margaret brought out the Kleenex. We all blew our noses and wiped our eyes. Except Branwell. Tina and Dr. Z watched as he tenderly wiped his tears from Nikki's face before he wiped them from his own. And Nikki smiled.

Then Dr. Z said softly to Margaret, “I hope you understand. It's time for us to go home.” He looked at Bran holding Nikki and added, “Together.”

Tina shook Margaret's hand and said, “It's time.”

Dr. Zamborska said, “Get your coat, Bran.”

I ran upstairs and got Branwell's jacket. He handed Nikki back to Tina while he put it on. Then, as if it were a given, she handed Nikki back to him.

SIAS: Branwell Zamborska carried his baby sister across the porch, down the stairs, into the minivan and began the first day of the rest of his life.

One
and;
one cliché: four stars.

Read on for a special preview of THE MYSTERIOUS EDGE OF THE HEROIC WORLD, another page-turning, thought-provoking novel by E.L. Konigsburg.

I
N THE LATE AFTERNOON ON
the second friday in September, Amedeo Kaplan stepped down from the school bus into a cloud of winged insects. He waved his hand in front of his face only to find that the flies silently landed on the back of his hand and stayed there. They didn't budge, and they didn't bite. They were as lazy as the afternoon. Amedeo looked closely. They were not lazy. They were preoccupied. They were coupling, mating on the wing, and when they landed, they stayed connected, end to end. They were shameless. He waved his hands and shook his arms, but nothing could interrupt them.

He stopped, unhooked his backpack, and laid it on the sidewalk. Fascinated by their silence and persistence, he knelt down to watch them. Close examination revealed an elongated body covered with black wings; end to end, they were no longer than half an inch. The heads were red, the size of a pin. There was a longer one and a
shorter one, and from what he remembered of nature studies, their size determined their sex—or vice versa.

The flies covered his arms like body hair. He started scraping them off and was startled to hear a voice behind him say, “Lovebugs.”

He turned around and recognized William Wilcox.

William (!) Wilcox (!).

For the first time in his life Amedeo was dealing with being the new kid in school, the new kid in town, and finding out that neither made him special. Quite the opposite. Being new was generic at Lancaster Middle School. The school itself didn't start until sixth grade, so every single one of his fellow sixth graders was a new kid in school, and being new was also common because St. Malo was home to a lot of navy families, so for some of the kids at Lancaster Middle School, this was the third time they were the new kid in town. The navy seemed to move families to any town that had water nearby—a river, a lake, a pond, or even high humidity—so coming from a famous port city like New York added nothing to his interest quotient.

Amedeo was beginning to think that he had been conscripted into AA. Aloners Anonymous. No one at Lancaster Middle School knew or cared that he was new, that he was from New York, that he was Amedeo Kaplan.

But now William (!) Wilcox (!) had noticed him.

William Wilcox was anything but anonymous. He was not so much alone as aloof. In a school as variegated as an argyle sock, William Wilcox was not part of the pattern. Blond though he was, he was a dark thread on the edge. He was all edges. He had a self-assurance that inspired awe or fear or both.

Everyone seemed to know who William Wilcox was and that he had a story.