Circle of Silence

by Carol M. Tanzman

  “Oh, you know.” I wave a hand vaguely. “A ‘late at night can’t sleep’ thought.”

  “Mine always suck. I’m positive that whatever I think of at midnight is fantastic, but in the morning, the idea doesn’t hold water.”

  “Hopefully, this will!”

  In the main hall, I hesitate. “Maybe we should get another note from Mrs. Kresky so Gribaldini will talk to us.”

  “Nah. I got this.” Raul strides confidently into the attendance office. “Hey, Mrs. G. You have a minute?”

  She looks up. “Raul! Nice to see you.”

  Nice to see you?

  I look at Raul, astonished, but he’s leaning against the counter, explaining what we want.

  He finishes up with, “It’s a ‘well-wishing for the injured’ kind of thing.”

  Mrs. Gribaldini doesn’t break a sweat. Four names are inside the Rolodex in her head. “Two freshman—Alexis Abbot and Pablo Ruiz. One junior, Taneisha Woods, and the senior football player who got hurt in the game against Kennedy High—”

  “Tristan Hannity,” Raul says. “We’re in Lit together. Thanks. If you think of anyone else, would you leave a note in the Campus News box for me?”

  She actually smiles. “Will do. It’s a nice idea. Bad accidents are tough. Now, don’t forget to say hello to your mom, Raul.”

  “Back atcha for Tommy. He graduate from City yet?”

  “Next year.” Gribaldini quivers proudly. “Tommy’s doing real good.”

  “I bet.” Raul gives her a warm salute. “We’ve got to get back. Thanks for the info.”

  In the hallway, I breathe a sigh of relief. “Not so hard.”

  “She and my mom went to Irving together. Her oldest kid, Tommy, used to babysit me before my grandmother moved in.”

  “Bet Mrs. G. doesn’t give you a hard time when you’re late.”

  He laughs. “I don’t get the Voice, if that’s what you mean. How do you want to work the piece? We could talk to Tristan first—”

  “I think we should start with the freshmen. Move up from there.”

  “Sure. We still have to find out who’s in what hospital—or if they’ve been released to their homes.”

  “Let’s split that part up. How about I take the two girls and you work on the guys? Did you keep the copy of the directory they gave out in September?”

  “I can get an extra from the office,” Raul says.

  “Cool. Let’s see what info we can find out tonight and sign out a camera after school tomorrow. If we’re lucky, a couple of the kids might be in the same hospital.”

  “Lucky for us,” Raul says. “Not sure that’s what they’d say.”

  Embarrassed, I duck my head. Sometimes my reporter instincts make me sound awfully cold.

  * * *

  The instant I get home, I check the Starbucks note. It does say, “She ended up in the hospital.” I glance at the girls’ names in my notebook. My first real lead! One of them has to be MP’s choice to join the group.

  Kids in the WiHi directory are listed by class year. You can choose not to have your information added, though, so there’s no guarantee I’ll find what I need. I do a quick check; to my relief, both names are there.

  Downstairs, Bethany gobbles cookies before Mom gets home. That may be the reason she’s never hungry at dinnertime—though it’s none of my business.

  “Do you know a girl named Alexis Abbot?”

  She washes the cookie down with milk. “Why?”

  “Can’t you just answer a simple question for once? She’s in your grade.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. We’re doing a Campus News segment about kids who’ve been in accidents.” Bethany doesn’t say anything, so I add, “It’s a human interest story.”

  “What does that even mean? Mrs. O’Leary says all humans are interesting.”

  “Do you know Alexis or not, Bethany? She’s been absent a couple of days.”

  My sister brushes crumbs from her mouth. “I’m not Mrs. Gribaldini. I don’t keep attendance records.”

  “Why do I bother?” I snap.

  Upstairs, I dial the listed phone number. After a few rings, a sweet voice answers. “Hello.”

  “Alexis? This is Valerie Gaines. I work for Campus News. We’re doing a human—um, a story about WiHi students who’ve been in accidents.”

  “Why?”

  “Sort of like a fancy video get-well card.”

  “Oh.” There’s a pause. “That’s nice, I guess.”

  “Yeah. Can you tell me exactly what kind of accident you were in?”

  “Okay. It was right after all that rain. The streets were still wet.” Alexis hesitates, as if afraid to relive the event. “I was riding with my dad and some guy skidded through a red light. He smashed into my side of the car. It’s lucky I was wearing my seat belt or I’d have hit the windshield.”

  “That’s terrible!” Sympathy for her mixes with disappointment that she’s obviously not the person I’m looking for. “You okay now?”

  “I have a broken clavicle and punctured lung, but it could have been worse.”

  “What about your dad?”

  “He’s fine. But the guy who T-boned us had a heart attack.”

  “What a nightmare. Is it all right if we come by after school tomorrow to interview you?”

  “I’m pretty banged up.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll be doing people a favor. You know, reminding everyone to wear seat belts.”

  “I guess. Sure.”

  “Great. Is this your cell? Are you in the hospital?”

  “No. They finally let me out. I’ll give you my address.”

  “If it’s the same as the one in the directory, I’ve got it. See you tomorrow.”

  I put a line through Alexis’s name. Unless I’m completely off base, there’s only one person it could be. Eagerly, I flip the directory pages to the Ws and find Taneisha’s number. It goes to voice mail.

  “Hi, Taneisha. This is Val Gaines. Could you please return the call? It’s sort of important.”

  When she doesn’t call back by dinner, I try again. She doesn’t pick up this time, either. I decide not to leave a second message and risk scaring her off.

  Luckily, it’s Bethany’s turn to scrub pots. Taking the steps two at a time, I consider an investigative plan of action. First assumption: the initiation happened close to WiHi. That means the ambulance would drive to a nearby hospital. There are only two possibilities: Brooklyn Hospital and Long Island College Hospital.

  Long Island’s the obvious first choice. It’s on Hicks Street, a few blocks south of the Heights. I call the main number and ask for Taneisha’s room.

  “Hold on, please.” After a moment, the operator declares, “We have no Woods.”

  “Has she been released? I’m a school friend and I’d like to know if she’s all right.”

  “Hold on.” A moment later, she comes back on the line. “Sorry, dear. No Taneisha Woods admitted in the last week. Try Brooklyn Hospital.”

  “Thank you.”

  I find the number. The operator gives me the same “Hold on, please” comment. Then she says, “Room 503. Do you want me to transfer you?”

  My breath quickens. “That’s all right. I’d rather visit.”

  “Visiting hours end at eight, so you’d better hurry if you want to see her tonight.”

  It’s 7:15. From the He
ights, it will take two trains to get there. There’s no way I’ll make it. “What time do they begin tomorrow?”

  “Eleven to eight every day.”

  “Thank you.”

  I hang up, quite pleased with my investigative skills.

  * * *

  “I hate hospitals,” Raul says.

  “Me, too!” For no reason whatsoever, we’re whispering. It seems appropriate as we cross a reception area filled with puke-colored chairs. None of the people hanging around the lobby look even the tiniest bit happy. Raul and I take our place at the counter in front of a sign that states Visitor Sign-In Here.

  “Can I help you?” a pleasant lady asks.

  “Yes, we’re visiting Taneisha Woods. Room—”

  “Five oh three.” She looks up from the computer. “Over fourteen?” Raul and I nod, too nervous to be insulted that she can’t tell we’re almost eighteen. “Sign in and I’ll give you a badge. Red line to the elevator.”

  I stick the visitor tag on my jacket. The red line starts parallel to the yellow and green lines but then veers into its own corridor. It leads to a wide elevator. When the doors whoosh open, we hesitate. A male nurse stands beside a rolling bed. An old person lies on it, covered by a white blanket. He’s hooked to a tube attached to a standing pole and liquid-filled bag.

  “Plenty of room,” the nurse says cheerfully.

  Without a word, Raul and I step inside. At the third floor, the nurse says, “Getting out,” and competently pushes the bed/person/tube affair into the hall. Raul lets out a relieved breath. On five, the doors open once again. A sign on the wall has arrows.

  “503 is to the left,” I announce.

  Raul looks more and more uncomfortable. “She knows we’re coming, right?”

  “Not exactly. Taneisha didn’t return my call, so I got the room number from the hospital operator last night.”

  “Oh. I didn’t catch that. Maybe you should go in first. Make sure that, um…”

  I understand. Nobody wants him barging into the room if Taneisha is not ready for visitors. “I’ll get you when we’re ready.”

  He puts the camera case down gratefully, leans against the wall to the left of room 503. “I’ll be right here.”

  Softly, I knock on the open door. “Taneisha? Can I come in?”

  A woman’s voice answers, “Of course. Neish, you didn’t tell me a friend was coming to visit.”

  Each of the two beds that take up most of the room has a curtain that can be pulled to create privacy. An older lady in the first one is asleep. On the far end, by the window, a woman, probably Mrs. Woods, sits on yet another puke-colored chair. Taneisha’s hospital blanket is rumpled. Her short, straightened hair is uncombed, and she’s got on one of those blue-and-white cotton hospital gowns.

  The instant Taneisha sees me, she puts down the Masters of the Universe comic she’s reading. A series of thin scars on her left arm, like tiny railroad tracks, peek out from under the loose, short sleeve of the nightgown. She’s a cutter, I realize, although I’m not sure if that relates.

  Taneisha notices my glance, and immediately pulls the blanket up to her neck.

  I give her my camera-ready grin. “Hi, Taneisha. I’m Valerie Gaines from Campus News.”

  “I know who you are,” she mumbles. “What do you want?”

  “Neisha!” her mom scolds. “That’s not polite—”

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Woods.” Taneisha’s mom is as rumpled as the blanket. Clothes wrinkled, face creased with exhaustion, she looks as if she’s been sleeping in the chair for days. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her I was coming. But I’m here now, so if you want to take a break or go to the cafeteria or something, I’ll be glad to keep her company.”

  Before her daughter can protest, Mrs. Woods nods gratefully. “That would be wonderful. Just a few minutes. Be right back.” She mouths Thanks before hurrying out of the room.

  Taneisha glares. “Really. What do you want?”

  “To ask a few questions. Campus News is doing a piece on accidents and we’d like to include you.”

  Taneisha shakes her head. “I don’t want to be in it.”

  “It’s like a video get-well card. Isn’t that cool?”

  “No. Can you go now?”

  I lean over. “Taneisha, I know you got hurt because of MP—”

  She rears into the hospital pillow as if I slapped her. “Why would you say that?”

  “I can’t tell you how I know, but—”

  “You don’t know anything. I was doing something stupid right after it rained and I slipped and fell. That’s all. That’s it—”

  “I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to. I just need to know the truth.”

  “Get out!” she screams. “Now!”

  The lady in the other bed stirs. “Something wrong, honey? Push the button.”

  Taneisha’s blanket falls to the side. Her left leg is in a cast from foot to thigh. A steel rod goes from one side of her leg to the other, right under her knee. It looks extremely painful.

  “Everything’s fine,” I reassure the old woman. “I’ll leave now, Taneisha. But if you change your mind and want to talk—” I scribble my cell number on a page from my notebook. “Think about it. Please.”

  Before she yells again, I hurry out. Raul’s exactly where he said he’d be. “What happened? I heard shouting.”

  “She doesn’t want to be interviewed. But I told her mom I’d stay—oh, good. Here she is.”

  Mrs. Woods hurries down the hallway, Styrofoam cup in hand. “Everything okay?”

  “Taneisha got kind of upset. I’m sorry—”

  Mrs. Woods shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it. She’s been cranky ever since the accident. It’s what they call a tib-fib. Two broken bones.”

  “Ouch. I’d be cranky, too,” Raul says.

  Mrs. Woods looks at us curiously. “Thanks for visiting….”

  Before she asks how we know her daughter, I grab Raul’s arm. “Hope she gets better soon.”

  * * *

  Taneisha’s the only one of the four accident victims still in the hospital. Raul and I stop at Tristan’s brick row house to shoot his interview. I don’t hear a word he says, even though I’m the one working the camera and have the headphones on. I’m still thinking about Taneisha. I couldn’t tell if she’s terrified by MP—or protecting them.

  “Thanks, Tristan. We got enough.” Raul asks, “Val?”

  “What? Oh, sorry. Yeah, it’s good.”

  Outside, the sun has set. Raul nudges me. “Up for a burger? I need food before interviewing Alexis.”

  “We don’t have to do them all today.”

  He gestures to the camera. “We’ve got the equipment. Didn’t you tell me Alexis lives on Joralemon? We have to pass the Burger ’n Bun to get there.”

  “Now that you mention it, I am hungry.”

  Raul breaks into a grin. “Thought so. You seemed a little spacey at Tristan’s.”

  Burger ’n Bun is one of the few restaurants in the Heights that hasn’t been renovated, refreshed or turned into an overpriced hipster joint. A narrow place, there’s barely room for a well-used grill and fryer combo behind the yellowing marble counter. A set of round, patched-leather stools face the grill. Three wobbly tables line the back wall, but no one sits there if there’s a choice. The counter’s the place to be. We take the end stools, leaving a couple of empty seats between us and an elderly man drinking coffee.

  “Hey, D
ave,” Raul says.

  Dave’s run the place forever. The large-bellied cook flips burgers, scrambles eggs and fries potatoes to near-perfect crispness.

  “Afternoon, folks. What’ll it be?”

  There aren’t menus at Burger ’n Bun. Just a faded list on the wall that no one bothers with. There are never specials of the day, no new items. Nothing ever changes, which might be the most comforting thing about the place.

  Politely, Raul lets me go first. I wave him on while I decide.

  “Cheeseburger and fries,” he orders. “With a root beer.”

  “I’ll have a grilled cheese with fries. Rye bread and tomato, please. Lemonade if you have it.”

  Dave grunts and gets to work. He’s not a talky guy, but he’s a magician with a spatula. For a few minutes, we watch the show. Fries, burger, bun. Bread for my order is slathered with butter and plopped onto the grill.

  Raul swivels his stool to face me. “You going to Winter Formal?”

  “Uh-uh. A Team’s got that story. They’re doing ticket sales next week, and then they’ll cover the dance in January. It’s on the board.”

  Raul clears his throat. “I don’t mean for Campus News. I meant, you know, to go. To dance and shit.”

  Before I can answer, Dave slaps chipped white plates onto the counter and brings drinks with paper-covered straws stuck to the outside of the glasses. “Need anything else?”

  Raul shakes his head. “Thanks. That’s it.”

  I get busy unfolding a napkin and then reach for the ketchup. Next thing I know, a wrapper hits my cheek. Raul’s resorted to the ten-year-old “blow the straw paper at your neighbor” trick to get my attention.

  Turning toward him, I notice the expectant look on his face. I pass him the plastic bottle. “You could have asked.”

  “I sort of did. Will you go to Winter Formal with me?”

  My fork clatters to the floor. “I’ll get it.”

  I jump off the stool before Raul can move. Never mind the embarrassment of groping about on the floor. It gives me a moment to think.

  Wow! Marci’s right, after all. He does like me that way. It’s not hard to figure out what she’d tell me to do: just say yes.