Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  Nevertheless, whatever their reasoning, in the final weeks before school let out Eleanor and I diligently held ourselves as twin images of saintliness; both of us unanimous in the promise that no chance be taken which might jeopardize our leaving. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil–our indispensable commandments for the month of June.

  Mom always cried when we left with Daddy for the train station; Eleanor and I making certain to work up a sprinkling of dutiful tears in return. Not the easiest task, since as much as Mom worried about our making the trip alone, we couldn’t have been more excited or fearless ourselves.

  While Daddy insisted we stick together for the duration of the trip, Eleanor was of the opinion my presence was a crippling hindrance to her successful portrayal of whichever persona it was she’d chosen to affect for the length of our journey (An international spy on one occasion, orphaned heiress, famous actress, Queen Elizabeth’s royal cousin …), meaning she would immediately move to another seat comfortably removed from the one we’d shared at departure as soon as the train had safely left the station. Rather than being insulted over her desertion, I found her antics thoroughly amusing, having no sound inkling as to who she expected to deceive with her silly performances. Because from where I was sitting, she still looked like a dopey kid with far too many freckles.

  Until shockingly, the year she turned fourteen, Eleanor actually managed to garner the attentions of a pimply faced boy sporting a swept back ducktail and a rather ridiculous pink shirt. I wasted little time launching into my own best efforts to annoy her–snickering and rolling my eyes whenever I succeeded in catching the corner of her eye, wagging my tongue like a leering cartoon character, and patting my chest to simulate a throbbing heart–so by the time we’d reached Long Island station she was no longer speaking to me.

  Now, Eleanor stood, picking up her bottle of tanning oil and propping her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose. “Don’t use up the batteries.” She nudged my outstretched arm with her toe, peering at me over her cat eye lenses.

  “Get lost,” I said turning away my face and closing my eyes.

  Eleanor bent to retrieve her towel, deliberately shaking a shower of sand over my oil coated figure as she yanked it up and balled it under her arm.

  “Drop dead twice, jerk,” I shouted after her retreating figure, though it was a curse bringing little satisfaction whatsoever.

  While I undoubtedly loved my uncle as much as I ever had, I was nevertheless relieved now that he was only at the house on weekends. Unlike the summers previous when he’d commuted daily to his job in Manhattan, this year Uncle Cal had settled on a routine where he stayed the week at the apartment he and Aunt Smyrna kept in the city, not returning to the beach until late on Friday evenings.

  Tonight Uncle Cal drank too much wine with supper again, the certitude of his inebriation readily apparent as his conversation became increasingly animated and jovial, his gestures broadly exaggerated.

  He continued to fill his glass, his words growing a little too loud, his comments a little too sharp. A menacing undercurrent began to surface in his remarks to Aunt Smyrna as the meal dragged on, her countenance visibly stiffening with a ripening expression of embarrassment–or insult–though I had no certainty of which it might be. I’d never witnessed such bold animosity between them in past years and I found it both puzzling and increasingly unnerving now.

  Supper at last concluded, we retreated outside to lounge amongst the comfortable collection of old wicker chairs scattered about on the wide porch jutting out from the front of the house like a toothy grin.

  Aunt Smyrna handed us each a comfortably worn blanket to wrap ourselves against the damp chill rolling up from the crashing sea. The North Atlantic was frigid yet, and although Eleanor and I had darted in and out of the water when we’d gone down to the beach that morning–high-pitched squeals punctuating the dash from chilly ocean back to warm sand–we’d spent the majority of our time stretched out in the sun.

  Uncle Cal grumbled under his breath as he attempted to light his pipe. Despite the protective shield of his cupped hand, the far reaching breeze waving up from the ocean teasingly whisked away each weak flame birthed by a succession of angry match strikes, until finally a subtle orange glow appeared successful in the bowl of packed tobacco.

  “Why don’t you live here in the winter, too, Aunt Smyrna?” I asked, after a while.

  “The same reason nobody does. This place is positively arctic in the winter months.”

  “But isn’t it sort of beautiful too? The ocean’s never really ugly, is it?”

  “Well yes, I suppose it’s still pretty–but lonely. By the end of September all the summer people are gone and I’m ready to leave too. I’ve never been one for isolation.”

  “You’re such a ninny, Stevie,” Eleanor scoffed. “Who’d want to stay out here wrapped up like an Eskimo Pie when they can spend the entire winter in New York shopping and going to parties?”

  “How about you mind your own business, El.”

  “If you didn’t say such stu–”

  Uncle Cal reached out and rapped his pipe sharply against the porch railing, a signal we received as a distinct motion to cease our bickering, although it was just as likely he was merely emptying the spent remains of tobacco from the bowl.

  Eleanor curled a corner of her lip, glared at me, the lopsided smirk lending a menacing air to her expression. I narrowed my eyes in a silent rebuttal, sticking out my tongue before looking away.

  Our uncle stood, carelessly laying aside his pipe on a table strewn with magazines. He’d remained purposely detached from the rest of us all evening and I’d nearly forgotten his presence, easily assuming his mental seclusion was nothing more complicated then the effects of all he’d had to drink before, during, and after our meal.

  “I’m going for a walk,” he said, turning his back on Aunt Smyrna. “Don’t bother to leave the light on, it attracts moths.”

  She didn’t answer, the three of us watching in silence as he moved down the weathered flight of steps leading to the empty beach below.

  “El? Why do you think he doesn’t love her anymore?” I whispered hoarsely through the darkness, hours later, after we’d gone upstairs to bed.

  We’d shared the same spacious room for all the summers we’d spent here. Eleanor always insisting on sleeping in the twin bed located on the far side of the room where two large windows looked out over the ocean, relegating me to accept the matching bed positioned opposite on the disappointingly windowless side of the room.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Cal … he doesn’t love her anymore.”

  “What makes you think he doesn’t love her?”

  “He isn’t very nice to her. Not like he used to be.”

  “Well married people get like that sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “No, this is different,” I persisted. “Something’s changed.”

  She didn’t reply and I wondered if she’d gone to sleep.

  “El—”

  She rolled over, offering her back in a delayed response to my statement.

  “You need to stop looking for things that aren’t there, Stevie.”

  It seemed I’d only just fallen asleep when my lids vaulted open, alerted by the dull sound of footsteps treading across the porch, followed by the careless slam of the screen door, and I knew it would be Uncle Cal finally returned from his walk on the beach.

  I tipped my head toward the soft light glowing from the round-faced clock on Eleanor’s night table. Nearly midnight. In a few more hours he’d be leaving again to catch the train back to the city and the solace of untroubled tranquility would once more be returned to our daily routine. Excepting of course, Eleanor would still be here in the morning.

  Chapter Two

  June was gone, July sweeping in rapidly to replace warm languid days with a brutal stretch of bright hot scorchers melting one into another, distinguished only by the flurr
ied arrival of the summer people.

  The sun glared down mercilessly from its noontime position in a cloudless blue sky, and I paused to push the damp fringe of my bangs away from my now thoroughly cooked forehead. I’d been climbing among the dunes for hours with Eleanor in search of beach roses, leggy clusters of Queen Anne’s lace, and purple thistle, with the intent of creating an enormous bouquet for Aunt Smyrna.

  “It’s too hot,” I complained, not for the first time. “Let’s go back now and swim.”

  “Yeah, okay. I’m hot, too. We have plenty of flowers now anyway.”

  We started back along the beach heading toward Aunt Smyrna’s house, our arms overflowing with an abundance of floral treasure.

  “You know, El, I was just thinking ... what if she’s allergic to all this stuff?”

  “She isn’t. Don’t you remember how Uncle Cal used to bring her flowers all the time?”

  “Yeah, but I think these might be more like weeds.”

  “They’re not weeds. These are all native flowers. They–” she said, then, “Hey, who’s that? I’ve never seen him around here, have you?”

  I turned my head, following Eleanor’s bold stare–one eye squinted like a marksman aiming for a bull’s-eye as she zeroed in on the teenage boy striding toward us along the shoreline.

  “Yummy, he’s positively scrumptious, don’t you think?”

  I shrugged, not much interested in the opposite sex that particular year, which was just as well, since it was unlikely Eleanor’s hearty appetite could ever be adjusted to accommodate feeding both of us if I had been. It wasn’t a gross exaggeration to say pretty much anyone of the male species was of some fascination to her–so much so I felt a definite sense of embarrassment climbing across my face like a rash as my eyes followed her shamelessly obvious interest in the boy now striding in direct line of her radar, a fishing pole laid against his shoulder and a large bucket gripped in one hand.

  His eyes shifted briefly in our direction, then abruptly looked away, directing his gaze straight ahead and up the beach as though heading into an invisible corridor.

  Eleanor apparently didn’t sense the rebuff as I had, and when he was within speaking range she slowed her steps and smiled engagingly. “Good afternoon,” she said, having recently come to the conclusion ‘good afternoon’ was far more sophisticated in comparison to a generic ‘hey’ or ‘hi’ used by less cultured mortals. “How’s the fishing? Anything biting?”

  He continued past without so much as a blink of acknowledgement, the resulting expression of stunned surprise slapped across Eleanor’s features in a swath of florid pink nothing less than hilarious.

  “Can you believe that? What a creep. Like he’s Marlon Brando or something,” she hissed, staring over her shoulder at the soldierly line of his retreating back. “Jerk.”

  “Goodness gracious, El, but if that doesn’t beat all,” I giggled, roundly enjoying her irritation, full well knowing her intention had been to impress me as much as him. “Looks like you’d better go back and reread the chapter about enticing a man. You must’ve missed a couple essential paragraphs or something.

  “Yeah, well, charm and good manners are a waste on idiots like that.”

  I glanced up to see Aunt Smyrna emerge from the house above us and drag a wicker chaise into a path of sunlight striping the porch. And I darted ahead, eager to reach her with my armload of flowers before Eleanor did–the rude boy already forgotten.

  The next day found us up early sipping hot coffee on the porch with Aunt Smyrna, anxious for the morning chill to dissipate. The sea was calm and flat. The sky that particular shade of blue which only ever seems to manifest during the summer months. No clouds. The orange ball of the sun, the only stain in the sky’s otherwise spotless perfection.

  I helped myself to a second cup, feeling almost ridiculously satisfied at the opportunity to share in this adult morning ritual. Back home in Callicoon we weren’t allowed to drink coffee, but Aunt Smyrna readily allowed us such privileges here, stanch in her conviction vacations called for indulgences generally not afforded in the routine of our ordinary lives. It didn’t so much matter that I wasn’t even especially fond of the bitter brew–finding it necessary to dilute each cupful with cream and sugar until it reached an acceptable shade of pale–I enjoyed the ceremony of drinking it well enough to assure I would never consider passing it up.

  We sat together silently, blankets draped over our shoulders like wooly wings, watching a legion of seagulls shrieking overhead and kamikaze diving in a scavenger hunt for food on the beach below. Far off in the distance a solitary figure walked along the waters’ edge and I watched with distracted interest as the form drew closer, certain only once he’d come within range of the house that it was the same boy Eleanor and I had seen the day before.

  I threw a glance back over my shoulder, disappointed to discover Eleanor had gone inside, cheating me of the opportunity to rekindle her annoyance over the previous day’s fruitless encounter.

  By the time Eleanor returned, he was an ant sized mote in the distance and there seemed no point in mentioning it until later that same afternoon when we again crossed paths, this time the mystery boy materializing not far from where we lay stretched out on beach towels; Eleanor asleep or feigning it, while I absently attempted to write my name in the sand.

  My eyes drifted up toward the house, pausing to watch Aunt Smyrna up on the porch, piecing a jigsaw puzzle on a round wicker table she’d positioned adjacent her chair. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her, sensing the far reach of her boredom simply from watching her. She seemed so lost out here during the week with Uncle Calvin away in the city.

  It was as I shifted my gaze away from the house when I caught sight of him, sitting on a blanket not far from our own encampment, his stare trained out beyond us toward the sea. I laid my head on my arm–fair skin already stained pink from the first real sun of the summer–discretely studying him through the slits of my partially closed eyes.

  From my clandestine observations, I guessed he was probably not much older than Eleanor. Well … maybe. Maybe not. I’d never been especially adept at surmising a person’s age unless they were in diapers or grandparent grey. Regardless, he was fairly tall and nicely trim. And while his brown hair and hazel eyes might’ve initially been described as more or less ordinary, there was nevertheless something about him which stood out as markedly intriguing. Something I couldn’t quite pinpoint, but clearly felt.

  Eleanor poked my shoulder with the sharp point of her finger. “You’re getting burnt. You’d better put on some lotion.”

  “Ow! If I’m already burnt, what’s the sense?”

  “It makes plenty of sense, ninny. If you put something on now you might only get second degree burns instead of third.”

  “I don’t care,” I shrugged, then, dropping my tone to a whisper, “Did you happen to notice who’s over there?”

  Eleanor immediately jerked her head around, staring over her shoulder.

  “Very good, El. I admire your discretion.”

  “What’s the big deal? He’s not looking at us anyway, he’s reading a book.”

  “Probably something about charm and etiquette,” I said, earning a giggle from Eleanor.

  “In that case he should toss it in the ocean–or better yet, make a BALONEY sandwich out of it and EAT it.”

  I dropped my head, pressing my face into the crook of my bent elbow in an attempt to muffle the sound of my laughter.

  “Hey, let’s try and get his attention.”

  “What! What for?” I rolled my eyes. “I mean come on, El, he’s made it pretty obvious he’s not interested. He walked by the house this morning and never even–”

  “It’ll be a challenge,” she interrupted, grinning now, “Kind of like a science project where we get the monster to talk.”

  “I dunno.”

  “Just come on, Stevie. We haven’t met anyone new this year and I’m bored of having nobody but you and Aunt Smyrna to h
ang around with.”

  “Great, thanks a lot.”

  “Relax, I didn’t mean it like that. New people keep things from getting stale is all.”

  “Okay, so what should we do? Go over and lay on his blanket? Maybe you could offer to turn the pages of his book.”

  “Hilarious. Let’s just play Frisbee.”

  “How original.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s a perfect way for us to move closer without seeming obvious. We’ll just kind of toss it in his direction and see what happens.”

  Despite my lack of enthusiasm, I couldn’t help but smile at Eleanor’s swelling excitement over her plan to irritate the stranger into speaking to us. “Alright. Maybe he’s just shy and he’s waiting for us to make another move.”

  We began tossing the Frisbee back and forth leisurely, slowly but deliberately edging toward our intended target.

  The recognition I’d made a grave mistake in agreeing to Eleanor’s scheme so readily wasn’t long in coming. Understanding in short order that if anything was to gain the boy’s attentions, it would most certainly be my buffoonish choreography over the sand. (Unlike Eleanor, who would just as soon let the disk whirl past on its way toward oblivion before ever considering the risk of an unattractive lunge to retrieve it.)

  I was rapidly tiring from countless dives into the blistering sand attempting to snatch one after another of my sister’s reckless tosses, until finally, annoyed and bent on retaliation, I started returning the plastic disc in the same negligent manner she sent it.

  Our eyes darted frequently toward our prey, silently speculating as to whether he was right then preparing to leap to his feet and indulge us in our goal of conversation. Though if he was he was adept at hiding his intentions, considering he remained seated, glancing up briefly from his book once or twice as our proximity increased.