The Secret
Of
Lies
Barbara Forte Abate
~~~
2012 Barbara Forte Abate
Halcyon Moon Books
All Rights Reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this book are purely fictional and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
This book is available in print at most online retailers.
In Memory of Teri
~~~
Also by Barbara Forte Abate
Asleep Without Dreaming
Painted From Memories
~~~
Acknowledgements
First and foremost my love and abundant thanks to my sweetheart and unflagging co-pilot, James, you are a prince among men. Likewise to our four incredible and perfectly amazing children, Laurel, Caitlin, Chelsea, and Carlyle, (with an extra dose of appreciation to Cate, not only for sharing her creativity and producing the beautiful book trailer for The Secret of Lies, but for keeping the faith for the duration). Your love, support, and stamina on this slippery and temperamental journey, known as the writing life, has been an extraordinary gift.
I am forever thankful to my faithful early readers: My mother, Jenny Masters, sister Donna Till, Connie Rude, Diana Forte, Carolee Post, Lynda Remus, Nina Bojko, Brenda DeLaTorre, Rosalie Fegan, Linda Irwin; brave souls all, who not only read those not so lovely first drafts, but most incredibly, didn’t dive into bushes or hide in closets when they caught sight of me approaching with yet another revision fresh off the printer.
And always I extend my deepest love and affection to Janet J Lawler: best friend (Lucy to my Ethel, Tennessee Williams to my Ernest Hemmingway), writing soul mate, dream sharer, and kick-in-the-pants motivator since 7th grade–an amazing 35 years and counting. You are a treasure.
I owe an untold debt of appreciation and gratitude to Angela Rinaldi, an answer to a prayer, not only for plucking me from the pile, but for her inestimable guidance, wisdom, and diligence, all of which kept me hopeful and writing through draft after draft. Every author poised for flight should be so blessed.
To Ellen Policastri Lobb, for so generously tidying up the mess on my pages. Your editing skills are ones I wish I possessed myself, and I am hugely appreciative to you, for so graciously sharing yours.
Special thanks to Marybeth Leonhard, your enthusiastic support of The Secret of Lies has been truly extraordinary.
I remain sincerely grateful to Miss Barbara Costello, my sixth grade teacher at Alden Place Middle school in Millbrook, New York, whose encouragement made such an enormous impact on this fledgling author’s life. The first person to ever assure me that I had the talent to be a writer (as long as I made use of a dictionary) with such sincerity that I dared believe it.
My big and boisterous family: Fortes, Abates, Parsons, and multiple tributaries, your support is no small thing and my gratitude is equally large.
And always, always, my love and devotion to you, Abba, my inspiration in all things. All glory and honor are yours!
Prologue
Maybe it’s the raw brilliance of the pale white moon suspended in a hard black sky that somehow makes everything about this night feel harsher. Uglier. Failing to soften what now seems especially unconscionable.
But I pretend not to notice, cautiously opening the door of his old blue Buick and sliding into the drivers’ seat, ignoring the question that all at once arrives with the insistence of knuckles rapping on glass, as to what I will do if the car doesn’t start. As it is, every movement feels sharply critical, increasingly desperate, my insides tightly clenched around the fear that he will wake before I’m gone.
Over these past months I have become intimately versed to his sleep patterns and the varying depths of his slumber, yet even so, the acrid taste of unease clings like sour bile inside my mouth as I release the brake and the behemoth slowly drifts backward.
The movement proves inconsequential, the car stubbornly halting after rolling only a few feet. I slide two fingers into the breast pocket of my cotton blouse, feeling for the sharp edges of the single key I’ve slipped from his key ring; a hard knot of anxiety thickening like a log at the back of my throat as I say a brief silent prayer.
My heart clatters like a galloping horse inside my chest as the worn-out car chokes once … twice … then sputters to life. And the swell of my breathing–raspy and tight–throbs a passionate rhythm against my eardrums as I swing the vehicle around in the driveway; the sound of tires crunching over gravel striking against the jangled edges of my exposed nerves like gunshots.
I nose the car out toward the highway, drawn if by the taut threads of some imminent slow torture, daring only one final glance in the rearview mirror as the tires edge onto the pavement, watching just long enough to see the dark silhouette of the house swallowed up by night–only an instant before it is fully gone.
There is nothing stirring. Nothing reminiscent of actual life beyond the grunts emanating from the tired engine as the car passes slowly along the nodding streets. And despite my screaming urgency to be away from this place, I somehow manage to hold firm against the impulse to slam my foot down on the gas pedal, knowing it is essential that I not risk drawing attention to my leaving.
On Main Street, the only interruption to the ominous veil of darkness draped over the shadowy buildings is the harsh glare of artificial light spilling over the sidewalk outside Tootie’s all-night diner, and beyond that, the constant yellow blink of the traffic light suspended over the intersection like a fallen moon.
Beneath the smoky film of a descending mirage, the compacted residential streets have all but melted away into the darkness, and all at once a vast green sea of corn is rolling past in waves. The farmlands spread out to eclipse the landscape in every direction beyond the flat ribbon of concrete roadway; neatly quilted squares of fenced pasture held motionless in the shimmering wash of moonlight.
The openness of the interstate unfurls before me, unraveled like twine across what has always seemed an impenetrable barrier. The world lying beyond looks immense, the earth itself rising up to meet me.
It isn’t long in coming that my fleeting sense of elation begins to cower, readily surrendering to the superior press of guilt and shame. How can I really do this? He has done nothing to mark himself deserving of such a cruel betrayal. His one mortal fault has been to love me–clearly that is his sin. This solitary crime running parallel with my own fatal flaw, the one residing here inside me–poisonously tangled; deep enough that it can’t so easily be grasped and wrenched away.
And while I am aware that this cowardly act of desertion will mark me as wholly unforgivable, I just as clearly understand that there is no going back. Altogether certain that my determined choice to carve myself free from my life–slicing away both past and present–insures there can be no prodigal return.
I feel the tension gradually leaking away as the distance between Callicoon and my eventual destination shortens, my fingers at last relaxing their white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. I’ve left. Done the unthinkable and relinquished my life. Where I go doesn’t matter, my only concern that it be distant. Further than the past might ever seek to reclaim me.
I wonder where I am. A soft peachy glow is rising in the east and the subtle coming of morning’s light has altogether erased the sensation of reckless adventure which has successfully carried me through the night.
Fatigue pulls heavily at my eyelids. There are so many decis
ions to be made, yet my mind hangs suspended in a thick paste of confusion refusing to dissipate. And it is as if I have all at once forgotten how to breathe, frantic to squelch the panic rising like seawater into my throat. Where am I going? Do I know what I’m doing? Do I even have a plan?
The insistent warning blare of an automobile horn startles me back to full consciousness, slapping me sober to the recognition I’ve drifted into the wrong lane of traffic, an oncoming car swerving wildly to avoid collision.
Again the car’s engine has overheated and I find myself stranded alongside the highway, a flock of motorists blowing past (an occasional craned neck or fleeting glimpse in a rearview mirror the only indication of momentary interest), as I wait for the geyser of steam jetting from the radiator to subside. Not for the first time, I consider deserting the worthless hunk of tires and metal. Yet, despite my wildly floundering state, thankfully or not, reason prevails and I impatiently wait for the chance to move on.
Pulling over to fill the radiator at a gas station just up the road, I consider calling him from the payphone. I stand inside a dirty glass-walled booth at the edge of the parking lot, not bothering to pull the accordion door shut behind me. My eyes pass over the sequence of numbers necessary to place the call–watch my fingers dialing–then return the receiver to its cradle without depositing the required coins, knowing there is nothing I might say now which will explain any of this.
Another night is gone.
The afternoon has turned stormy, and after traveling for much of the day in a heedless driving rain, I pull into the near empty parking lot of a motel somewhere in Iowa.
The stale air closed within the room holds tightly to the pungent odor of mothballs and mustiness, but I hardly care. My only thought is for a shower and sleep. After three days on the road, I feel like a soiled garment balled up and forgotten at the bottom of a laundry hamper. And when I glance at myself in the bathroom mirror I am oddly frightened by the reflection of the stranger staring back: an expressionless, hollow-eyed entity watching from behind the glass.
The plain cotton sheets dressing the bed have absorbed the clammy dampness of the room. It is almost painfully cold and I curl into a tight ball beneath the thin blanket and wildly patterned bedspread, attempting to radiate the deadening chill from my limbs.
Outside the rain continues to pound against the roof and windows like an angry fist. From somewhere in the room comes the distinct sound of dripping water, but I don’t care to investigate. It is of little consequence to me whether this room, or even the entire earth, should wash away.
I squeeze my eyes tight against the dark, waiting, hoping, praying, for sleep. But my mind stubbornly refuses to be coaxed, the sheets tangling around me like determined arms as I pitch and roll uselessly.
Wide-eyed with restless exhaustion, I all at once remember the small plastic radio I’d earlier noticed on the scratched veneer table opposite the bed. I drop my bare feet to the cold linoleum floor and stumble forward in the darkness.
The channels crackle and hiss as I turn the dial and listen for intelligible sounds, my fingers hesitating over recognizable tones: disturbingly rousing polka, gospel music, a local news program ... until all at once, my body stiffens in mid-search. Wavering … fading … then clearing as I attempt to adjust the tuning, is a voice at once recognizable–Elvis Presley singing “Love Me Tender.”
A whirlwind of undetermined emotions stir and rise to the surface like a surging crowd, but the song is already finished and another voice immediately leaps out from the tiny speaker. “Hold tight and we’ll be right back after these announcements, bringing you another hit, this one from 1957, when we continue in just a moment with more of your favorite golden oldies.”
Golden oldie? Since when have the remembrances of my life become oldies? It was only twelve years ago when I’d been a gangly fourteen-year-old with a ponytail and a poodle skirt. Is it possible such an extraordinary chunk of time has found a way to slip away over the sill and out of reach? Could all of it have been so long ago? Become so far away?
Waves of emotion wash over me, deepening in intensity as they invade heart and mind with a precise edge of sharpened clarity. Those days have shaped my life; never quite forgotten days I’ve purposely packed away, trying hard to forget, even now, as they swell and swirl upwards in memories that break like the sea against the rocks.
The sea. Where it began and ended. The whole of my existence. All of it molded and shrewdly defined by the hand of the beautiful–insatiably hostile sea.
Chapter One
“You look like a slimy old reptile sunning itself,” I said, watching my sister Eleanor as she massaged tanning oil into her already slick limbs.
“Better than a pale white pile of seagull shit.”
“Ha ha, so hilarious,” I shot her a purposeful glare before rolled onto my stomach to fidget with the dial on the transistor radio we were forced to share.
“Hey, I was listening to something,” Eleanor turned her head, eyes aiming warning daggers from where she lay stretched-out on her beach towel.
“Big deal. Your turn’s up now.”
“Baloney. It hasn’t been an hour yet.”
“Yeah–more like two.”
“You’re so full of crap, Stevie.”
I ignored her, twisting the dial to WRR–not just my favorite station, but the only one I ever listened to. (The RR stood for rock and roll and played more Elvis Presley records than any other station.) I closed my eyes, wiggling my toes in the sand bordering the bottom edge of my painstakingly smoothed out beach towel, altogether content to be there beside the rolling sea; the sun licking hot radiant trails over my skin, Elvis gyrating behind my lids in a scene nearly painful in its perfection.
“I don’t see what’s so great about that guy. He always has a look like he’s smelling something rotten.”
“You’re such a dope Eleanor. Elvis is a sensual person. That’s the way sensual people look.”
“Oh that’s just perfect–words from an expert. I think it’s more like gas pains.”
I bit back my retort, rolling over to bake my front side as if I hadn’t heard. It was the same transparent ruse whenever Eleanor grew bored with sunbathing, baiting me into some stupid argument for the sole purpose of entertaining herself with my indignation. Despite my awareness of her tactics, there were still plenty of occasions when I leapt right in anyway, as eager and willing as she was to spar insults. It all depended on my mood, since I could just as easily ignore her, in which case she’d eventually give-up and pack herself back up to the house where she’d spend the rest of the afternoon in our bedroom with the door closed, devouring the dog-eared copies of Confidential magazine she kept under her mattress.
And while many of Eleanor’s habits remained accustomed and familiar, there were other recent changes to contend with as well. Most obvious was the marked alteration in her attitude once we’d arrived at the beach; namely, her ambitious perch on a pedestal even loftier than the one she customarily occupied whenever we were away from home. What’s more, she now preferred to be by herself much of the time and was annoyingly distracted when she wasn’t, as if the company of anyone other than herself was not only inconvenient, but incredibly boring. And I wondered if maybe her newborn attitude had something to do with her having grown breasts. They’d been a long time in coming and now that they’d emerged it appeared there was a lot for her to meditate over.
We’d been spending our summers with Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Calvin ever since Eleanor was twelve and I ten. Which meant that as soon as school let out in June we were anxious and ready to leave behind the family farm in Callicoon, Pennsylvania, traveling by train all the way to Long Island where our aunt and uncle spent the season in their great old summer house, a wondrous relic from another era, settled high on the rocks extending up from the sandy shoreline–a fading sea palace staring out defiantly over the North Atlantic.
As often as we’d mulled over it privately, Eleanor and I had never qui
te figured out how it was our consistently cautious parents surrendered to releasing us from Callicoon every summer (afraid that asking them directly could inevitably result in their questioning and rethinking the trip onto the side of permanent denial). Increasingly in recent years, we’d allowed ourselves to shamelessly eavesdrop on their quiet conversations, eager for some insight into their motivations. Yet we’d detected no obvious links between our vacations away from home and those private anxieties passed between them; concern for the Callicoon boys who’d gone off to fight the war in Korea; dismay over the ugly scenes of desegregation splintering races in the South and shockingly reeled into our living room via the nightly news once our father finally conceded to buy a television set–images of black school children harangued by white parents seeming all but impossible in a civilized world. And now, their increasing unease as a Senator by the name of McCarthy unleashed a formidable attack against the “dangerous threat” of Communists living and working amongst us–devious persons expert in their portrayal of ordinary citizens, whether it be someone’s jovial mailman, favorite movie star, or a neighbor’s eighty-year old grandmother. (And while neither of us were especially clear as to the actual nature of Communists or the particular threats such persons wielded, Eleanor and I nevertheless agreed Callicoon was ripe with suspicious characters, and had thus spent considerable hours composing lists of names to send on to Senator McCarthy for interrogation.)
Not until some years later would I find myself pausing to consider the possibility our mother and father’s purpose in allowing us to leave home every summer might’ve been intended as something other than simple merciful release from the tedium of everyday life on our farm. That maybe the trip had been permitted as a concession of another sort, allowing my sister and me to savor the last visages of youthful innocence before we’d grown too old to ignore the messy world churning out beyond Callicoon.
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