S is for Silence (Kinsey Millhone 19)

That’s what had driven her to the can of Chef Boyardee, not hunger so much as confusion and despair. Her mother called her for supper and she was finally able to sit down at the table. She ignored her parents’ little spat and focused on her plate. She’d been looking forward to the Welch Rabbit, which was every bit as good as she’d hoped. Soft, warm cheese oozing across the golden brown raft of Wonder Bread. She’d put oleo on the toast and the taste of melted margarine under the puddle of rich cheese was enough to make her weep. Her pain was receding and she was almost feeling safe when her father made an offhand remark about Liza. Kathy could hardly pay attention. She was starving. She hadn’t finished the can of ravioli and she knew if her parents noticed how eagerly she was plowing through her food, they’d snatch it away from her and leave her desolate. She’d suffered losses enough.

At first, the notion of Liza having lunch with Violet was absurd. Where’d he get that? She knew he said it to be mean, but he didn’t usually make things up. Then she caught his mistake. “Very funny. Ha ha. And where’s Daisy all this time? Did you forget about her?”

“She was sitting right there with a big bowl of buttered noodles she was slurping through her lips.”

That was the line that clinched it. Her father had never even been around Daisy. How could he know about her slurping her noodles unless he’d actually seen her do it? She’d protested, arguing the point, but only because she didn’t want him to see he’d gotten the best of her. Her mother’s feeble attempt to intervene only made it worse.

By the time her father left the house, Kathy was taking the steps two at a time, on her way to her room. She slammed the door and locked it. Weeping, she threw herself across her bed. This was the worst day of her life! She’d never felt so betrayed. Liza had lied about everything.

On her very own birthday, she’d chosen to be with Violet Sullivan. They’d spent the whole entire day in a fancy restaurant, eating shrimp. All Kathy had ever wanted was to be with her friend and now look what she’d done.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been crying when she heard a little tap at her door and her mother calling her name. She knew her eyes were swollen to the size of Ping-Pong balls and her nose was so snotty she wondered if she was coming down with a cold. “Go away!”

“Kathy, I brought you something. Do you mind if I come in?”

“Just leave me alone.”

“I have a little treat for you.”

“What.”

“Open the door and you’ll see.”

Reluctantly Kathy blew her nose on a hankie and wiped her eyes with the hem of her T-shirt. She got up and unlocked the door.

Her mother stood holding a glass of milk and a plate of brownies. “I made these for my canasta club, but I have plenty. They’re your favorite-double chocolate with walnuts and pecans.”

“I don’t feel like eating.”

“Not even one? You hardly ate your supper so you must be a little hungry. Can I come in? Just for a minute?”

“I guess.”

Kathy went back to her bed and sat down. Her mother put the glass of milk and the plate of brownies on the bed table. She could tell the brownies were still warm because she could smell the chocolate, as heady as perfume. She couldn’t remember when her mother last offered her something to eat. Usually it was the other way around. Yet here they were, Kathy with her heart broken, her mother sitting on the other twin bed, her expression filled with concern. “Are you feeling better?”

“No.” Without looking at the plate, Kathy reached out and took a brownie and held it in her hand.

Her mother said, “I can see how upset you are.”

“So.”

“I can understand why you’re mad at Liza for lying, but is there anything else?”

“Like what?” She broke off a corner and put it on her tongue. She could feel tears sting her eyes.

“I don’t know, Sweetie. That’s why I asked. I get the impression there’s more here than meets the eye. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Kathy couldn’t figure out what her mother was getting at. “Not really.”

“Kathykins, I don’t want us keeping secrets. That’s not what a mother and daughter do when they want to feel close.”

Her mother hadn’t called her “Kathykins” since she started her menstrual periods a year and a half ago. Her mother had already bought supplies-a box of sanitary napkins and this strappy elastic-belt thing you had to wear around your waist to hold the pad in place. Demonstrating how to stick the long, gauzy part of the pad in the fastener, she’d had the same worrisome look on her face, like maybe Kathy was suddenly vulnerable in ways she couldn’t bear to explain. Her mother went on in that same loving tone. “I know you’re withholding something. Can you tell me what it is?”