S Is for Silence

valley dusting powder someone had given her last year.
    The poem she was working on was half-finished. This was only the fourth poem she’d written, but she knew it was her best. Maybe not perfect yet, but her English teacher said every good writer did constant revisions, and Kathy’d found that to be the case. She’d been working tirelessly on this poem for the better part of the morning. She took out the lined sheet and read it to herself. She was thinking of calling it “To W…” without giving any other hint of whom the poem was written for. She knew many poets, such as William Shakespeare, wrote sonnets and titled them that way.
    To W…
    When I gaze in your beautiful brown eyes
    I feel my throbbing heart increase in size
    With all the love I hold inside for you
    I promise, my darling, I will always be true.
    I loved you deeply right from the start
    And now no one can ever sunder us apart.
    If I could only hold you tightly in my arms…
    She hesitated. That word “arms” was a stumper. “Charms” would rhyme, but she couldn’t figure out how to work it in. She tapped her pencil against her lips and then crossed it out. She’d come up with something better. Her thoughts returned to Winston. As a seventh grader, she’d taken a class in dating etiquette, anticipating the opportunities that would crop up for her in eighth grade. She’d learned what topics were suitable for conversation with a boy and what to say at the door at the end of a date. In her mind, the boy’s face was amorphous, his features shifting to resemble whatever movie star she was currently smitten with. She imagined him kind and gentle, appreciative of her many fine qualities. She’d had no idea then how soon Winston would appear in her life, the epitome of all her dreams. She did think he’d exhibited a certain interest in her, at least until Violet showed up.
    Violet and Winston were approaching the showroom floor, where the best car on the lot—a two-door Chevrolet Bel Air coupe—was displayed under bright lights to emphasize its sleek lines. Violet had spotted the vehicle from halfway across the lot, and Winston was laying on his spiel as though his life depended on it. Like Violet might actually buy it. Very funny! Ha ha! She’d heard Violet and Foley were so poor they could barely afford the rent.
    Winston held open the plateglass door, allowing Violet to pass through. Kathy caught sight of a big blue bruise on her chin. Violet was all the time walking around like that, making no effort whatever to cover the marks. No dark glasses. No makeup. No wide-brimmed hat, which might have helped. She went about her errands—supermarket, post office, walking Daisy to school—with one or both eyes black, cheek swollen, her lips puffy and plump from one of Foley’s blows. She made no excuses and she never explained, which left Foley looking like a fool. How could he defend himself when she never accused him of anything? Everyone in town knew he hit her, but no one intervened. That was considered their personal business, though Kathy’s mother often said it was a total disgrace. Kathy’s mother thought Violet was trash and she said Liza was asking for trouble if she hung out with her. Just the night before, sitting at the top of the stairs while her parents were in the living room, she heard her mother talking about Violet and Jake Ottweiler, who’d been seen slow-dancing at the Blue Moon. Violet was oversexed, a regular nymphomaniac (whatever that was), and her mother was disgusted that Jake would have anything to do with her. She was getting all worked up, her voice rising (which made it easier for Kathy to hear) when her father blew his stack. “Christ, Livia! Is that all you have to do, sit around and pass along ugly gossip? What the hell is wrong with you?!”
    They’d argued, and her mother had hushed him because she was worried Kathy might overhear them. Personally, she’d agreed with her mother. Violet was a tramp. Kathy picked up a batch of papers and crossed to the filing cabinet by the door so she could hear what Violet and Winston said. The two were focused on the car and didn’t seem to notice her hovering nearby. Winston was saying, “Make no mistake, this is not your basic sedan. This is Chevrolet’s five-passenger coupe. A 235 engine, Powerglide, dual carbs, and exhaust. Full hub caps, even has a beehive oil filter, if you can imagine such a thing.”
    Violet clearly didn’t know a filter from a fish