Virtual Silence Read online

  I had groceries to get, so I pulled out of the lot and went directly across the highway to the supermarket and parked in the lot there. And just as I’m getting out, I see this guy parking again, a few cars away from me. He’s not looking at me or anything, but still it seems funny that he pulled up in front of Motor Vehicles, got out, and then got back in again—because he must have pulled out right behind me. So then why did he park in front of Motor Vehicles in the first place? Right?

  So I go into the supermarket, and I take my sweet time, because now I’m thinking, What if he followed me? Not that I really believed it, because why should he have followed me? I mean, why me? But I take my time nonetheless, you know, just in case. And when I come out with my cart, I’m keeping an eye out, just in case. I can’t even say what kind of a car he was driving—something oldish, you know, long, like they used to make back then. And I don’t see any men sitting in any cars near where I parked, so I stop worrying. I put my groceries in my trunk, push the cart back, and then go into the pharmacy, because I called in a prescription earlier. I get them, the pills, and go back out—and I’m thinking, well, there’s no one around. If he did follow me for some perverse reason, he didn’t have the patience to wait very long. And I’m just unlocking my door when I realize that my receipt is lying there on the passenger seat, the one they gave me at Motor Vehicles when I handed in my plates, face up, with my name and address on it.

  The bell rang and I nearly jumped out of my seat. For a moment I couldn’t move. Then I collected my wits and folded up Sharon’s paper and stuck it into my shoulder bag. The next step was to wrap up my orange, stick it and the uneaten sandwich and the Pez dispenser back into my lunch bag, toss the works into the trash can, and move on to study hall. But I only sat there, motionless, watching the late-lunchers file in.

  A group of freshman girls came in and assembled at one of the tables near the windows. They were all giggles and short skirts, cheerleader types, so pleased to have made it to the high school. They spoke loud, talking more for the benefit of the jocks at the table behind them than to one another, their eyes flashing in their curly-haired heads.

  I began to pick at my orange again. The preppies came in, and then the dorks. The headbangers appeared with their long hair hanging in their faces and sat at what had been Bev’s table—though of course no one called it that anymore. They too were loud, and because most of their vocabulary came from Beavis and Butt-head, obnoxious as well. The bad boys marched in, the troublemakers that every school has, in their combat boots. I must have been sitting at their table because they stopped cold when they saw me there. Then they put their heads together and made a decision, flocking to the table in front of mine. Three of the group were seniors, and one of them was, in spite of his roguishness, in all my honors classes. The word was that Tom Heely sold drugs.

  He had just opened his mouth wide enough to receive most of his hamburger when he saw me staring at him. He paused for a moment, his eyes twinkling with amusement. Putting his burger down and keeping his eyes on me, he said something to Frankie Stewart, the junior who was his side kick. Frankie looked around, glanced at me disinterestedly, and went back to his lunch. Tom said something else, about me being the one who had stopped talking, I imagined, and a few of the boys who had their backs to me turned to take a look.

  Tom wore two earrings in his left ear and a huge crucifix around his neck. He had shaved his head at the beginning of the school year, and now his dark hair was just beginning to grow back in. His nose was too big for his face, and there was a jagged scar just above his Adam’s apple. He had cut off the sleeves of the black Slayer T-shirt that he wore, and his serpent tattoo was in full evidence. Back in the days before my mother’s chief concern had been herself, she had served on the PTA with Tom’s mother. A lovely woman, she had said, completely devoted to her five children.

  We continued to stare at each other, he smiling and me without expression, I guessed; I was thinking too hard about Sharon’s communication, if you could call it that, and about what Goliath had said about men being predators, about it not having to be that way. Frankie, who was the only one of the group who had a brown bag instead of a tray, finished his sandwich and pulled an apple out of his bag. He showed it to Tom, who in turn reached in his pocket and fished out a pocket knife. He thumbed the blade, grinned in my direction, and handed it to Frankie. Frankie peeled his apple and wiped the blade on his jacket sleeve before handing it back.

  I lifted a hand and curled a finger. Tom sat there for a moment, squinting. Then, with the rest of them watching, he got up, came around to my table, and sat down across from me. My fingers were trembling and it took a minute to uncap my pen. Can I borrow your knife? I wrote on my juice-stained napkin. It tore all around the orange as I turned it.

  His teeth flashed. He turned back to look at his friends, but they had already lost interest and were now engrossed in a whispered conversation. “They’ve got knives up there,” he said, and he indicated the front of the cafeteria where the kitchen workers were just cleaning up. I wrote Plastic butter knives on what was left of my napkin.

  Still grinning at me, he slipped his hand in his pocket and got out his knife. My hands were still quaking, and it became clear right away that I wouldn’t get the thing opened. Tom put his palm out. I handed the knife back to him and he opened it for me. I was about to reach for it when he tossed it up in the air and caught it by the blade. Then he handed it back to me handle first. While I was cutting the orange into sections he said, “You want to go out some time? I’ve never been out with a girl who didn’t talk before. It might be interesting.”

  “No,” I said. It was the first word I had spoken in weeks.

  7

  I had to have money; that was first. But if it was tough looking for a job before, it would be even tougher now that I had taken a vow of virtual silence. I typed up some form letters and passed them around to some of my teachers offering to grade papers, type up handouts, or help them with any outside research they might be involved in. They all responded in kind; they didn’t need any help with paper grading or handouts, and none was involved with any outside research.

  We had off that Friday for a teachers’ convention, and I got Mom to say that I could drive her to work and then keep the Yugo for the day. I waited until noon to drive to my father’s, my reasoning being that a Thursday night guest would be long gone by then and a Friday night guest not yet arrived. I burst in as usual, as was my birthright, and slammed my note down on the counter where he was putting a sandwich together. I need money, it read. A lot of it. I don’t expect you to just give it to me, especially now that you’re dating. But I thought maybe I could do some research for you, help you with your book.

  He either missed the sarcasm or pretended to, but he said that he thought he might be able to use my help. The research, he said, was pretty much done; he knew what he needed to know. But he would love to have me read some chapters, advise him of any weaknesses I came across—as soon as he had a little more done. He could pay me something to do that.

  While he was talking, I glanced at his computer and saw that he had been playing solitaire. He noticed and sighed. Then he asked me to sit down, for a soda this time, and a sandwich if I hadn’t eaten yet. Can’t, I wrote. Too busy. Let me know when you’re ready for my services.

  “Wait,” he cried as I opened the door, but it was my turn to pretend, and I kept going.

  I pulled over in front of the supermarket in town and debated whether to go on looking for work or to drive down to New Jersey, to Herman Gardener’s house. In the end, I simply could not imagine myself driving through that much traffic. That would come later, when I had acquired my symbol that was more than a symbol, when I felt safe again.

  I forced myself to get out of the car and walked up to the flower shop. I handed the woman there one of the notes that I had prepared. It was succinct. It said only that I was looking for employment, that as I didn’t talk, I couldn’t consider anything
which necessitated verbal skills, but that my other skills more than made up for my deficiency. Stapled to the back of it was proof, a copy of my grades from last year.

  The woman’s lips quivered. I could see that she didn’t know what to make of me. She looked behind her, where a younger woman was arranging bouquets at a table, with her back to us. “We really don’t need anyone right now,” she said at last. “But come Christmas …”

  Give me a call then, I wrote, and I left.

  I walked up the street, bypassing offices and the stores where I knew communication was all-important. I stopped in at the cleaner’s, but the woman there only shook her head. In the glass of each shop I passed, I searched, not for my reflection, but for the reflection of anyone standing behind me, across the street maybe, standing and staring. I smiled at the women and children I passed, because I was both, and I knew where they were coming from. But I dodged the men, even the suits who were coming back from lunch, in fact especially the suits. I was reading the newspaper carefully these days, trying to discern the one peculiarity all assailants had in common. My research confirmed that what was peculiar was that they had none, that seventy-five percent of them appeared to be normal right up until they weren’t anymore.

  I went into the diner, a smaller, quainter version of the one that Bev had died in, and forced my legs to carry me across the floor. The man at the counter read my note and then took it to someone in the back, in the kitchen, where I hoped they’d let me work. While I waited, I looked over the patrons, watching for sudden movements among them. “Sorry,” the man said when he returned.

  I ran past the local bar, and faster yet when I saw emerging from it a man with one hand in his pocket. I ducked into the health food store, but when I saw how small it was inside, I ducked out again. I was about to go into the bakery when I remembered with a shock that Thomas Rockwell had worked in one. Defeated, I hurried back down the other side of street, pulling my jacket hood over my head when I had to pass the used-car lot. I was just about to climb into the Yugo and hightail it for the relative safety of home when I saw Ida Newet coming out of the pharmacy with a large brown paper bag. I propelled my hand into the air and waved maniacally until she noticed me.

  “Look what I got for my kids,” she declared as she approached.

  When she was close enough, I peered down into the bag, but I was too distraught to discern more than an array of bright colors. She noticed my face then. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

  I took out a copy of my note and let her read it. Then I shook my head to indicate that my efforts had been unsuccessful. “Oh, poor Ginny,” she said. “You could have any one of a dozen jobs if you would just start talking again. Why, I bet I could get Charles to hire you if you’d only agree to use the phone.”

  I shook my head again. I had gone that route. Being a non-talker agreed with me. I was a listener now. I was listening for danger. It was out there, I could practically smell it. Bev had been sitting across from me. If she had been more aware, had caught the horror reflected in Terri’s expression or the significance of Sharon’s sudden stupor, she might have ducked while I was still watching Herman Gardener’s head bob. Sometimes, late at night, I believed she had known, but hadn’t cared, that she had sat erect and willing to accept the fate that might otherwise have been mine. Sometimes, I believed that it was her way of punishing me for telling my story first, that she had decided to take hers with her to the place where such matters are no longer a concern, to leave me voiceless in her place, to let me see how it feels when the thing inside you must go undeclared.

  Ida placed a finger over her parted lips and looked aside. “If only …” she began. Then, “The budget, the damn budget.” Then her finger fell decisively. “My car’s over there, next to that black pickup. Do you see it?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know the church on Cherry Hill? Of course you do. It’s on the way back to your house. Follow me there. I think I might be able to do something for you.”

  It occurred to me that she might have had a moment of insight, that she knew what was in my mind and was determined to take me up before the altar where we would pray together for the salvation of my soul. But before I could dig my pad out of my pocket and register a complaint, she had turned away and was hurrying through the aisles of parked cars toward her Four-Runner. Then I remembered that I had never heard her talk about religion, and that in all their conversations about “him,” neither my mother nor Ida had ever suggested prayer as a possible solution.

  We pulled into the lot, which was empty except for two other cars, and she waved me to park alongside her. I parked, but stayed in the car with the motor running. I removed my pen from behind my ear and took a bank receipt from the dash to write on. When I saw her coming towards me, I rolled the window down and held up a finger to indicate that she was to wait a moment. I’m not Catholic, I wrote.

  She laughed and yanked my door open. “I work here,” she said. “This is where the day-care center is.”

  I looked at the long narrow wing built onto the right side of the church. Oh, I almost said.

  We entered a dimly lit hall, with several closed doors along either side of it. Ida opened one. “Go on in and sit down,” she said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  I sat down at the small conference table and looked around. I heard the muffled voices of children, at some distance, below me in the basement, I thought. The floor I was on was completely silent. I wondered about the other cars in the lot, whether someone might be behind one of the other doors. I was just getting edgy when I heard Ida coming down the hall, talking to someone. “I don’t know yet,” she was saying. “Let’s take it one day at a time. Trust me on this. I’ll come up with a plan.”

  “What?” asked another female voice. “To cut back further on materials? Snacks? What’s your plan exactly?”

  “Look,” Ida said. Their footsteps had stopped just outside the door. “We’ll find a way to drum up some new business. And if we can’t, I’ll take it from my own—”

  “You’re crazy,” the other interrupted, but then Ida threw the door open. “This is Flo Newberry,” she said quickly.

  Flo Newberry was a tall, thin woman, older than Ida, with short gray hair pushed back behind her ears. She closed her mouth when she saw me and made an attempt to smile. When she extended her hand, I stood up to shake it. “Flo’s my partner,” Ida said. “Flo, this is Ginny Jarrell. She’s one of the girls who was with the Sturbridge girl when—”

  “Oh,” Flo interrupted. She put her fingertips to her thin lips and her features clustered with concern. It occurred to me that she looked something like Herman Gardener’s unfortunate wife.

  “I’m so sorry,” Flo said.

  Ida, who was apparently resigned to getting the formalities over with, sighed. “Ginny’s isn’t talking,” she said.

  “Really?” asked Flo, and she took a step back.

  “No, I don’t just mean now. I mean she hasn’t talked for some weeks. It’s her response to the … uh … accident.”

  Flo nodded, tried in vain to smile, then turned to Ida. “I don’t see how—”

  “I’m not sure either. But I’d like to give it a shot. What do you say? Will you do this for me?”

  Flo turned her head aside to consider. Ida and I stared where she was staring, at the shelves that lined the far wall. They were full of canned goods, everything from tomato paste to Dinty Moore stews. On the floor more cans had been packed into paper bags, and on each bag a surname had been printed in black magic marker. “Okay,” Flo conceded at last. She stuck her thin hand out at me and I shook it once again. “Welcome aboard,” she said without any trace of enthusiasm.

  8

  Ida Newet never explained to the children, and none of them ever asked—at least not when I was around. She took me aside each afternoon when I came in after school and showed me the projects that I would be helping them with. Then she left it to me to figure
out how to convey the information.

  The children sat at three long tables, two for the three-and four-year-olds who were there all day, and one for the older kids who came in when I did. The older ones quieted down right away when I stood at the head of their table with my arms stuffed full of sandwich bags and lengths of colored yarn and scissors and glue. In fact, some regarded me suspiciously, I thought, as if my silence enabled me to hear their most secret thoughts. I would pass around the sample that Ida had provided me with, a paper-bag raccoon stuffed with newspaper or a white dove with its wings glued on at angles, and when it came back to me, I would demonstrate the first few steps myself. Then I would pass out the materials and let them try on their own. Miss Ginny, they called me when they got into trouble. Then I would go to stand behind the bungler, and while his eyes shifted uneasily between my hands and the faces of the others, I would point out the mistake and show him how to rectify it.

  The younger children were more difficult to work with. Having been there all day, they were hardly aware of their surroundings by the time I arrived, let alone of me. Some kept their heads on the table while I demonstrated, others whined and fretted, and one or two stuck their fingers in their noses, trying to enliven their companions by holding the results of their dig in their faces. Nor were their projects as sophisticated as those of the older kids. For the most part they were one-dimensional, fish or flowers to color and then to cut out. The kids who could stay in the lines tended to choose black or brown crayons. The ones who were inclined toward more festive colors were often satisfied simply to scratch lightning bolts across their papers. As none of them could be persuaded to take their time with the cutting—though I could hardly blame them when their scissors were so blunt—fins, leaves, and all other projections were discarded along with the scrap.