Keep No Secrets

by Julie Compton

  When he smells it, the only word that comes to mind is Jenny.

  At the counter, she lifts the various bottles until she finds the one she wants.

  She taps a few pills into her palm, tosses them into her mouth, and then chases them with water. When she tilts her head, her hair dips lower down her back, and the slight ripple that follows conjures unwelcome memories of his hands

  gripping her head, his greedy fingers clawing through her hair. With those memories come others, even more

  unwelcome. He rubs his face as if trying to wipe them away, but when he drops his hand, he's met by Mark's piercing scrutiny.

  Jenny saves him.

  "Jack, can I talk to you a minute in private?"

  She moves into the small bathroom and he follows even as he sneaks a glance at the pill bottle. Only aspirin, he thinks.

  She motions him in, closes the door, and flips on the light switch. The exhaust fan grinds noisily.

  Mark's words comparing Jenny's room to a "hole" gain power as Jack takes in the stained tub, the moldy grout in the corners of the shower, and the mildew growing at the hem of the plastic curtain.

  Permanent rust stains line the toilet; the seat is cracked and marred by cigarette burns. The lone towel hanging from the bar is small and threadbare.

  She casually touches his arm. Even through his sweatshirt, he feels it.

  "Why did you bring him here?"

  He steps to the side slightly, into the towel bar, and her hand falls away.

  "The real reason," she adds.

  "I told you, I—"

  "You said you wanted his help. He's trying, but you're fighting it. It doesn't make sense. If you don't trust him, you shouldn't have brought him here. It's one more person who—"

  "You want to move to his house?"

  "You don't want me to? You said last time you were worried about my safety here."

  She's still too close to him, but he has nowhere to go. As if she senses his discomfort, she sits on the edge of the tub to put distance between them.

  "I really don't care what you do, Jenny.

  I keep asking myself why I'm risking this at all. I should be calling Gunner."

  She gives him a sad, Mona Lisa smile.

  "If you have to call Gunner, call Gunner.

  Do what you have to do."

  He looks away, behind her, at the Aveda bottles tucked into the corner of the tub ledge. Despite the grunginess of her surroundings, she still spends money on expensive shampoo and conditioner.

  He sees a pink razor, too, and the unwelcome thoughts return again. Her smooth legs, her brown skin. The feel of her strong calf muscle under his palm. He touched ever inch of her and spent the next four years trying to forget the experience. Convinced himself that he'd succeeded.

  They both know he has no intention of calling Gunner.

  He reaches for the door handle.

  "I won't accept his invite if that makes you feel better," she says quickly.

  Why would it make me feel better? he wants to ask. Why do you think I care one way or another? But it's not a discussion he wants to have, especially with Mark in the next room.

  "We need to get back," he says to Mark when he emerges.

  Mark begins to protest, "What—"

  "I need to get home for dinner."

  His brother shrugs as if to say I have no idea, but he's looking behind Jack, and the gesture tells Jack that Jenny is behind him. He flings open the door to outside, not bothering with goodbyes.

  In the car Mark gives him a long look before starting the engine.

  "You brought me here for a reason,"

  he says as he pulls onto Highway 94.

  Jesus, did the two of them plan these things in advance?

  "You don't think it's a good idea, to be the go-between?" Jack keeps his voice level and his eyes trained forward.

  "Sure. But you didn't have the idea when you first climbed into the car. You didn't even come up with the idea until she pressed us for why we'd come. And then, once it was on the table, you rejected it. You're not making sense."

  "I didn't reject the whole idea. Only the part about her moving in with you.

  Anyway, I knew you'd like to see her."

  "That's generous of you, big brother.

  Just what I wanted to be—what's it called

  —an accessory after the fact?" He waits, but when Jack doesn't take the bait, he continues. "What'd she say to you in the bathroom?"

  "She asked me why I had such an asshole for a brother."

  Mark laughs. "Yeah, I'll bet she did."

  He shifts, and the engine revs as the sports car picks up speed. Jack wishes he were behind the wheel. "I'll tell you why you brought me." I'm sure you will. "You recognize you need a buffer. You know you're playing with fire, and the fact that your own wife gave you the matches makes it even harder to resist."

  Staring at the lines in the road makes Jack cross-eyed, but he won't react. He refuses to react.

  "She's testing you, you know."

  Jack looks over. "Who, Mark? Tell me, who's testing me?"

  "Claire. But now that you ask, I'd say you're being tested by Jenny, too."

  "Fuck you." He turns back to the lines.

  A light snow falls. The flakes melt as they hit the glass.

  Instead of turning onto the ramp at the point where 94 hits Highway 40, Mark drives to the commuter parking lot on the west side of the interstate. On a Sunday, the lot is empty.

  "I'm about to be lectured," Jack says wearily.

  Mark stops the car, cuts the ignition.

  He turns to face Jack, his left hand draping the steering wheel. "No. It might feel like that, but really, I just want to be completely honest with you about

  something."

  "I thought you were always honest with me, little brother."

  Mark sighs. The sound softens Jack.

  Despite Mark's "accessory after the fact"

  comment, Jack knows his brother doesn't mind that he's been pulled into this mess.

  Rather, Mark is worried for Jack, for Claire, but there's no need. Jack won't make the same mistakes he made four years ago.

  "You know how I feel about Claire,"

  Mark begins. "She may not be a blood sister, but she's family. I'd put my life on the line for her just like I would for you."

  Jack nods. He watches the cars fly by on the interstate.

  "And I know you don't take lightly what you did to her. I know how hard you've tried to make everything right again, for her, for your sons. You don't talk about it, but I see it. And I admire you for that. I really do. But . . ." He takes a deep breath. Whatever he's about to say is difficult for him. "I also see that whatever existed between you and Jenny is still there."

  "You don't—"

  "Hey, Mr. Lawyer, let me finish, okay?

  Then you can argue with me." He waits until he's sure he has the floor again.

  "What I mean to say is . . . I know you're trying hard not to let that mistake define you. But you're so hung up on trying to be a good husband, a good father, to do what you think is the right thing . . . I don't know . . . just that maybe. . ." He lets out another, longer sigh, "maybe the right thing is to stop trying to force something that maybe shouldn't be forced anymore."

  "I love my wife, Mark."

  "I know you do. And I know she loves you. She wouldn't have stayed with you, otherwise. But haven't you ever asked yourself, after everything that's happened, whether it's enough? Haven't you ever wondered if both of you might be happier if—"

  "No, I haven't. Because I don't have your doubts. Okay? You wouldn't know, but every marriage has its ups and downs

  —" Mark grunts. "But we love each other. It's enough."

  "Fine. But I'll make one more point, and then I'll leave you alone." He acts as if he's doing Jack a favor, but Jack doesn't want to listen to this crap anymore. If the road leading to his house wasn't almost all interstate, he'd bolt from the car and jog home. It c
an't be more than ten miles.

  "There's something about you and Jenny.

  Something between you. It was there four years ago, and it's still there. I don't know what to call it. I don't know if it's love. I don't think it's simply lust, or desire. I believed once that's all it was, that you were thinking with your dick instead of your brain. But I don't think so anymore.

  She's a beauty, there's no denying that, any guy in his right mind would be attracted to her, but it's something else. A person can't be in the same room with the two of you and not notice it. It's invisible yet somehow the air is thick with it."

  Mark stops and Jack wonders if he's done.

  He's not about to ask. He's not even sure he could if he wanted to. It's an immense effort simply to keep his eyes focused on the snowflakes outside the window. "And don't kid yourself. Claire knows. She loves you too much to accept it, but she knows. As long as you continue to deny it, she will, too."

  When Jack speaks, his voice is hoarse.

  "You've spun quite a tale, haven't you?"

  "Call it whatever you want, but it's true. I love Claire like a sister. If I thought denying your feelings for Jenny was best for you two, I'd keep my mouth shut." He laughs a little. "You know, I almost envy you. If you had any balls, I would envy you. Some people never have that connection with another."

  The last comment compels Jack to look at his brother. Is Mark, the self-professed lifetime bachelor, talking about himself?

  "Just remember, Jack, both Charles and Diana were happier once they divorced.

  He stopped caring what everyone else thought and followed his heart to marry Camilla, and Diana blossomed into a new woman."

  "Yeah, and then died in a tunnel." Jack scoffs. "At the risk of sounding like I agree to your version of my life—which I don't—I have to ask: I wonder how Claire would feel about what you're saying, even as you profess to love her

  'like a sister.'"

  Mark chuckles. "Ever the lawyer. You can't even ask a simple question without reserving your rights, can you?"

  "Fuck you," Jack says again. "Just take me home."

  The two men remain silent on the ride back to Jack's house. Jack's thoughts bounce around in his head like a pinball, but just like that little silver ball, they all end up in the same hole. He tries to still his mind by closing his eyes, but this only makes it worse. He finally inserts the earplugs to his iPod and pretends to concentrate on the music.

  Only when Mark pulls into the

  driveway and Jack opens the door does Mark speak again.

  "Don't tell Claire I went with you to the motel, okay? I don't want her to feel I've let her down, too."

  His tone suggests that the conversation in the commuter lot never took place.

  Jack wonders if this is how things will be going forward. Mark has said his piece and now he'll never bring it up again. Jack hopes so.

  "Look . . ." Jack sighs. "I promised to tell her everything. I mean, I didn't jog all the way there. I can't tell her I went without telling her how I got there." His earlier anger at Claire has subsided. After Mark's lecture, he's more determined than ever not to break his vow.

  "Believe me, Jack, unless you went for the express purpose of solving The Case of the Mysterious Letters"—Mark makes quote marks in the air—"she won't want to know about it, anyway." To the contrary, Mark. Purposeless visits would probably interest her the most. "Just tell her we ran into each other as I drove in the neighborhood, and we decided to go for a beer."

  "And yet you didn't bother to come in and say hello?"

  He shrugs. "Time got away from me. I have to be somewhere."

  Jack wonders if he's being set up. Has Mark known all along about Jenny being back? Did Claire already tell him everything?"

  Christ, Claire was right. Jack is losing it.

  He mistrusts his son, a boy who's simply caught in the middle. Now he's

  questioning his brother's motives. No doubt paranoia has set in, but then, after Claire's admission earlier and Mark's speech, maybe it's warranted. Either way, Jack has no plans to cover for anyone again.

  "Sorry. I'm not withholding

  information from her. So don't ask me to."

  He climbs from the car and slams the door. Mark lowers the window and calls out: "So that means you'll be telling her about our conversation?" He grins, a

  "gotcha" grin.

  "What conversation? Oh, you mean your heartfelt monologue? Yeah, if I can figure out how to explain it to her without throwing up."

  Jack thinks he's finally rid of his brother. He uses the keypad to open the garage door, watching from the corner of his eye for Mark to leave. The Porsche idles, going nowhere. When the overhead door reaches the halfway mark and Jack's about to duck under it, Mark yells one last time.

  "Hey, by the way, after you flew out of the room, Jenny said she'd be happy to stay at my place. I think I'll head back over to the motel now and see if I can't talk her into checking out tonight. I can already picture her in my bed." He waits a beat; the dashboard lights illuminate his smirk. "My guest bed, of course."

  Jack imagines walking over to the car, opening the door and dragging Mark out by his hair. He wants to pummel his brother's pretty face until his nose comes out the other side of his head. He wants to decorate Mark's little blue sports car with so much blood that after he's blurry-eyed and stumbling for escape, he'll think he bought a red model.

  The door from the house to the garage opens and even though Jack gives Claire a small smile—a silent Don't worry about what happened earlier, I understand why you did what you did, we're okay—the words for Mark are already leaving his tongue before he really registers her presence.

  "Go for it. Maybe you'll even get laid. But remember, if she dumped you once, she had her reasons. Which means she'll dump you again." He moves for the door and with the base of his palm, smacks the button to close the garage.

  Claire looks at him, confused. He grips her head from behind and pulls her in for a kiss. At first she resists, unsure of his mood, but relents and tentatively returns the affection when he goes deeper.

  When he releases her, he sees the questions in her eyes: What's going on? And who were you talking to? By way of explanation, he motions in the direction of the driveway and says, "Mark. Girl trouble."

  She frowns, still not understanding.

  "I ran into him coming into the neighborhood," he says. "We went for a beer."

  Later, in bed, after Jack apologizes for his reaction to the Web Watcher, Claire promises to show him how to use the software. There's so much more they could talk about, should talk about, but she says nothing else and neither does he.

  With his eyes closed, he lies on his back, willing himself to sleep. Next to him, propped up against two pillows, she reads a novel.

  He rolls onto his side then, facing her.

  He watches her—the way she twirls her hair around her finger as she reads, the way her chest rises and falls, the way she reaches for the glass of water on her nightstand without taking her eyes from the book—and tries not to think about Mark's lecture. They made it through so much worse, didn't they? There's no reason they can't make it through this.

  Minutes pass. He hears a car door slam several houses down, voices. He has the urge to scoot against her, to rest his left arm across her belly, his head in the crook of her shoulder, like he used to. Her fingers would mindlessly play with his hair and caress his scalp, and his eyelids would grow heavy. If he could muster the courage to move the few inches closer, would she still do that tonight? Maybe that's all he needs, and then he could get the good night's rest he hasn't had in so long. He fixes his stare on her eyes, looking for some sign. It's been only two weeks since the night he discovered Michael and Celeste on the couch. It seems like months. The space between him and his wife has grown so wide that he hardly remembers how it was before that night, how the two of them had grown close again.

  Only then does he realize she's not reading, she hasn't tu
rned a page for some time. Her eyes are directed at the page, but she's not registering the words. With one finger he barely brushes her arm, just above the elbow, to break the trance. Her skin is cold.

  "Are you okay?" he asks.

  She blinks, gives the slightest nod. "I guess I'd better stop reading. It's going to be a long week." She carefully folds a corner of the page to mark her spot and sets the book aside. When she stretches to turn off the lamp, he reaches over and touches her back. She tenses but

  otherwise doesn’t react, doesn't respond.

  And then it's dark.

  All he wants is for her to let him press the full length of his body against hers, skin to skin. He needs something, anything, to reassure him that Mark is wrong.

  "Claire?" he whispers. "Did you . . .

  back then, with the Web Watcher . . . did you find out what you needed to know?"

  He hears her breathing. He thinks he almost hears her thinking.

  "I thought so. I thought I found out my husband had come back." She inhales deeply, as if buying time while she decides whether to say more. "Now I'm wondering if he really did."

  Even in the dark, she must sense his surprise. He props himself up on one elbow. "I'm right here." He brings his hand to her face and gently turns it toward him. "Hey," he says more insistently. "I'm right here." She sniffs, and he realizes she wasn't buying time.

  She was trying not to cry. Suddenly, unexpectedly, she's next to him,

  burrowing herself in close, and his hands are in her curls, gripping her head, his lips first on her forehead and, then, on her hungry mouth. Their legs twist together seamlessly, thoughtlessly, the beneficiaries of years of practice. Small, pleading sounds come from her throat and her need feeds his own appetite until he's on top of her, sliding one knee between her legs, and then another.

  "Dad!"

  Jack freezes at Michael's voice outside the bedroom door. Claire quickly pushes Jack away.

  An impatient knock. "Some girl from your office is on the phone."

  Monica, who had on-call duty for the weekend. Jack heaves a sigh. What now?