Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “We’re only here for a couple months. How many boys are you expecting to see?”

  She ignored me, standing to brush the sand from her shorts. “Are you coming?” she tossed back over her shoulder as she strode away.

  “Yeah.”

  Well, at least I hadn’t told her that I knew his name. I still had something of value to covet for myself.

  “I wonder what his name is?” Eleanor said, as if she’d right then reached into my mind and plucked out the very first thing she came across in my thoughts.

  “I dunno. Probably something like Norman or Stanley–or Gomer. He looks like a Gomer.”

  “Jeez, Stevie, you’re such a cut-up.”

  Chapter Three

  That was how it all started–our summer friendship with Jake.

  Aunt Smyrna, pronouncing our project rather cute, drove us into town every Monday morning so we could alternate checking out the sole book possessed by the library relating to the linguistics of sign language. Neither of us caught on all that quickly, but we diligently continued rehearsing as if preparing for a Broadway production, until finally the day arrived when we deemed ourselves sufficiently confident with at least the basics to orchestrate an encounter with the unsuspecting object of our obsession.

  It didn’t take as long as we’d feared–once we’d arranged several chance meetings–before our efforts at communication became easier, nearly genuine, rather than stilted scenes extracted from a script. We would just happen to be out on the jetty studying the sea like native biologists when Jake arrived to fish; swam and sunbathed only a few feet away from where he ordinarily sat on the beach reading; ever watchful to finish off a model day of arranged coincidences by darting down to the beach and bumping into him the moment we spied him from Aunt Smyrna’s porch, walking along the shoreline after supper.

  As we’d somehow known to expect, he’d been decidedly cautious toward receiving our overeager attentions and fumbling hand signs–his deep hazel eyes watching (suspicious, wary, amused, curious?), but giving nothing away.

  Nevertheless, our persistence proved not entirely in vain, and as the end of our vacation drew near we felt both satisfied and encouraged that our undertaking had been something of a success.

  Best of all, we’d collected a sprinkling of facts to go with the figure; not the least of which was the gratifying discovery that he was spending the summer with his grandfather, a landscape artist who lived just four houses down from Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Calvin’s place, and like Eleanor and me, he too intended to return the following year.

  We missed Jake terribly when the time came to return to Callicoon, Eleanor and I swearing an ironclad pinkie promise (the Bible necessary for a more durable vow being unavailable) on the train trip home, assuring we would practice signing throughout the school year; thus keeping our fledgling communication skills primed and wholly improved for our anticipated reunion the following summer.

  Nevertheless, despite admirable intentions, it wasn’t yet Thanksgiving when Eleanor lost interest; her attentions shifting to focus on the more immediate concerns of cheerleading tryouts and afterschool visits to the drugstore counter where she poured over the latest issues of Teen and Hep Cats with her girlfriends, taking turns filling out quizzes titled, “What’s Your Boy Appeal?” and “Are You Ready For Love?”

  Struggling to comprehend my sister’s poorly executed (and what I began to suspect as largely invented) attempts at sign language had taken away a good deal of my own enthusiasm for the original undertaking, and by the time June rolled around again we’d all but given up on the whole idea.

  When Jake arrived at the beach in July our reunion felt clumsy at best; an opaque wall erected between us without anyone ever having witnessed the actual construction. Not merely the temporary obstacle of characteristic awkwardness that came from meeting someone after a long absence, it was a far more substantial hurdle spanned between us, the result of our differing means of communication and the inability to sit and banter teasingly or discuss ordinary things because of it; those basic exchanges other people passed back and forth with the uncomplicated ease of breathing.

  The wall came tumbling down one afternoon while Jake was showing us for the umpteenth time the correct way to cast a fishing line. It was a day thick with heat and from where we sat perched atop the rocks the sea below lay flat and calm.

  “I hate this. It’s too hot to do anything,” Eleanor complained, untangling her line from the clump of honeysuckle she’d somehow managed to ensnare with her hook.

  I shrugged, not much interested in extending effort at conversation. If not for our fixation on spending every available moment with Jake, I was more than certain I would’ve right then been lounging within the promised relief of Aunt Smyrna’s shaded porch, sipping bushel barrels of iced tea. As it was, I’d willingly relinquished the pursuit of sedentary leisure and cool comfort in exchange for the opportunity to pass yet another heat bristled afternoon in Jake’s company. Because whether we were out on the jetty fishing, crabbing from the wharf, or gathering sea treasures at low tide, the deeds themselves were far outweighed by the Holy Grail of his friendship.

  That he might’ve been lonely or lacking in companionship more suitable to his contemplative nature because of his inability to hear was not something I allowed myself to mull over or question with any depth. What mattered over all else was that he was my friend–this intriguing sixteen year old boy so unlike anyone back home in Callicoon, who for whatever reasons, regarded me as a contemporary worthy of consideration–graciously turning a blind eye to the annoying components and traits everyone else apparently saw in my thirteen year old self.

  Eleanor straightened from her crouched position, finally having accomplished the task of de-tangling her line from the bush. She breathed an exaggerated sigh, lifted her chin, and flexed her arm the way Jake had shown us as she swung the rod out in front of her. And yet when she released the line her primary success was a perfectly executed reprisal of her previous mistake–once again ensnaring the unfortunate honeysuckle in a tangled confusion of hook and line.

  A flush of embarrassment stained her cheeks pink once she realized her repeat blunder and I quickly turned my head to gage Jake’s immediate reaction, surprised to catch the glint of amusement tickling across his face in place of the annoyance I’d expected. His mouth hesitated on the edge of a smile as he lifted his hand and moved his fingers rapidly.

  “What’s going on?” Eleanor frowned when I all at once surmised the meaning of his gesture and fell into a rash of mad giggles.

  Jake glanced at me, a wide grin parting his lips as I rolled my eyes and laughed that much harder.

  “I’m pretty sure he called you a JACKASS.”

  She looked moronically stultified, but only for a moment, her mouth all at once breaking open to reveal a wicked grin of mischievous proportions; an expression I well knew the meaning of.

  “Jerk,” Eleanor laughed, scooping up a handful of sand and flinging it at him.

  Jake leapt to his feet as the fistful of granules exploded against the front of his T-shirt, Eleanor at once sprinting across the sand in a bid to elude him. But with long-reaching athletic strides, he easily caught her, tossing her effortlessly onto the sand.

  I ran toward them as Eleanor grabbed Jake around the ankles, tripping him to his knees beside her. She rebounded to her feet like a gangly foal, dashing for the waters’ edge with me fast on her heels, both of us wildly shrieking like disaster victims in life-or-death flight.

  I felt it before I had the chance to see it–the strong arm that gathered me around the waist like a side-stage hook and sent me tumbling into the foamy surf, my head breaking the surface to see Eleanor bobbing in the waves nearby, her arms comically flailing against the water as she sputtered a mouthful of salty sea.

  “You’re a rat–a dirty rat,” Eleanor called out to Jake who stood watching from the line where sand and water met, his responding grin assuring there was no need for signing words h
e’d easily deciphered.

  Briefly nodding our mutual intent, Eleanor and I launched into an aggressive combined offensive; hooting, tumbling, and roaring as we wrestled playfully, attacked, then darted out of reach before striking with renewed vigor–edified, amended, and alternated tactics–until finally, dripping fat drops of sand and water, we collapsed wearily at the water’s edge. The foamy surf lapping at our soles as the maniac burst of hilarity eased away.

  And for a long while we lay there like marooned sea life–a trio of young slender bodies breaded with sand–the late afternoon sun absorbing the last lingering traces of laughter and bathing us in the golden warmth of contentment.

  That day changed all the others that were to follow. Ours was no longer a careful, polite friendship. Somehow, that single Jackass had bred a comfortable informality the previous summer had failed to capture.

  Eleanor and I invented our own hand signs to baffle Jake and once he’d realized our prank he retorted with inventions of his own; the end result being a hodgepodge of confused communication understood only by the three of us; expressions having no place in polite conversation, but which we used with increasing frequency.

  With the inevitable arrival of August I found myself inconsolable and altogether miserable about the prospect of having to leave behind our summer idyll and return home to Callicoon, caring little of what anyone thought as I moped and sniveled through our last days at the beach.

  The following summer Jake didn’t arrive until the beginning of August. Convinced by then he wasn’t coming at all, I wandered through the days like a restless apparition, wholly aware I was foolishly squandering my all too brief vacation beneath the dull heft of mourning, but unable to shake myself loose from the widening void of his absence.

  Eleanor had wasted little time embarking on another of her summer romances, holding firm to her conviction that being in possession of a boyfriend more or less made all things right with the world; the unthinkable alternative of passing the vacation sans male companionship meaning she would have nothing new or notable with which to embellish conversations passed back and forth amongst the other girls draped over the counter at the malt shop once we returned home to Callicoon.

  Aunt Smyrna sensed how disappointed I was Jake hadn’t come and she made an admirable effort to keep me occupied. But neither her attentions nor varied suggestions afforded much in the way of separating me from my gloom. I’d turned fourteen that year, a significant milestone most notable by the teeming arrival of confusion and incertitude sweeping in with it–a woeful state subsequently affecting just about everything having to do with anything.

  While I’d been perfectly contented over the past fourteen years as a fuss-free, frill-less tomboy, all at once and without my consent, an unexpected surge of femininity had stolen its way beneath my skin. And although I hadn’t reached the heights of vanity Eleanor herself aspired to, there was no denying I’d developed a certain interest in clothing and appearance I hadn’t possessed before. I passed long periods of time studying photographs of my favorite actress Natalie Wood in Photoplay, wondering whether her new French Pixie cut would suit my own otherwise uninteresting brown hair or flatter my relatively tidy features; even as I mentally outfitted myself in one of Eleanor’s pretty beaded sweaters and her darling new slacks that tapered at the ankle.

  I took to setting off alone late in the morning after breakfast, passing long brooding hours walking along the water’s edge, discovering unexpected comfort in my solitude. My eyes regularly scanned the men fishing along the jetty for a glimpse of Jake, but he was never there. And I found myself ever more uncertain as the weeks passed with no sign of him–the days increasingly weighted by a thickening sense of dread–having no conceivable plan as to what I might do to console myself if in the end he didn’t come at all.

  But then at last, one morning as we sat on the porch sipping steaming cups of coffee, he all at once materialized on the beach below like a wished for apparition rubbed from a genie’s lamp, striding across the sand armed with the familiar appendage of his fishing pole. I leapt to my feet, waving frantically as I called out to him, attempting to engage his attentions with my flailing arms, my futile shouts merely an excited reaction to his arrival after so long and agonizing a wait.

  I was surprised, though even more disappointed, when he didn’t so much as glance up to the house to see if we were there, instead, continuing past resolute; his eyes staring at whatever unseen things lay fixed in his path.

  “I’ll be back later. I want to catch up with Jake,” I said, slamming my coffee mug onto the table and winging down the steps, certain the soles of my sneakers never once touched the ground.

  “It’s your turn to wash-up the breakfast dishes,” Eleanor called after me, her charge merely serving to hasten my flight.

  “Jake–Jake!” I shouted after him. It was a habit I had–that everyone had–of calling out to him regardless of the constant mindfulness of his impairment; my subconscious perpetually determined that eventually a fraction of sound would reach his ears and his existence in a silent world would be forever changed.

  But today wasn’t to be the occasion of such a miracle and he continued along the sand, hearing nothing.

  My breath snagged roughly in my throat as I sprinted to reach him. And as his long strides rapidly lengthened the distance between us, I hastily bent to scoop up a seashell I spied lying in my path, winging the flat disc and landing it sharply between his shoulder blades. He abruptly halted, swinging head and shoulders to stare in my direction. The expression on his face was oddly vacant, devoid of the congenial smile I’d anticipated. Instead, his eyes were blank–looking at me even as his gaze passed through me like light through cellophane.

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” my fingers spoke, my hands quaking ever so slightly.

  He merely shrugged in response. The hollow depths of his stare causing me to feel at once unfamiliar.

  “When did you come?”

  “Monday.”

  Today was Friday. Where had he been? Why hadn’t he come around to see us? To see me?

  That he was anxious to continue on his way was painfully obvious, yet some dutiful sense of propriety nevertheless kept him there waiting for me to release him from the tortured exchange.

  “Going fishing?” I asked, at once feeling foolish. As if there were some other activity which required the fishing pole laid across his shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come?”

  “Not today.”

  “Oh.”

  He’d never said no before.

  “I … okay ... I’ll see you.” I dropped my gaze before he chanced to see the sting of his rejection flaming out behind my eyes in a threat of babyish tears–glancing back to watch him as he walked away.

  The passing days droned lifeless and flat. I waited for Jake to reappear and once or twice I did catch sight of him. I watched his faraway figure where I sat hunched on the porch, studying his familiar stride on the beach below, noting dejectedly that he never once aimed a glance up in the direction of our house as he walked past. Instead, his eyes held to the narrow confines of an invisible tunnel laid out directly in front of him, deliberately turning his gaze toward the endless expanse of churning green sea when he reached the close proximity of my anxious stare.

  A storm broke, and for a full week a cold steady rain pounded down over the seascape. The ocean turned an angry shade of charcoal, crashing and breaking with unrestrained passion against the rocks like a cruel entity resolved to causing injury.

  There was little of the intelligible beyond the windows where I stood and watched the days pass, everything shrouded in the great fat waves of fog rolling in off the water.

  Eleanor and Aunt Smyrna read books and pieced puzzles, successfully riding out the hours while we waited for the storm to clear away, leaving me on my own to pace through the house like a restless animal too long caged. A captive not only of my boredom, but of my stubborn unwillingness to
surrender it.

  “Stevie? Are you awake?” Eleanor whispered one night after we’d gone to bed.

  “Um hum,” I murmured, tightly curled beneath the blankets, reluctantly holding to the hypnotic rhythm of rain pelting against the window in a sobering dirge.

  “I know it feels pretty lousy right now, but you’ll make other friends … there’ll be other boys.

  I didn’t care about other boys. Would never care about other boys. “I guess so. I just wish I knew what happened … why he changed.” Though she hadn’t said anything until now, I’d assumed Eleanor felt his absence as thoroughly, though maybe not as hopelessly, as I did.

  “Sometimes there’s just no way of telling what’s going on in someone’s head. And boys are the worst. Most of the time their brains are way out in leftfield–in a hole–under a rock.”

  “Do you think maybe he’s outgrown us, El?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he has a girlfriend.”

  “Maybe,” I said, falling back into the silence. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Not because I didn’t recognize the accustomed frailty of summer friendships, but because I’d so fully expected ours would be different. Had trusted that every summer here would be another part of the beginning, never an ending.

  When I opened my eyes the next morning, it was to see long ribbons of sunlight reaching stealthily between the slats of the tipped wooden blinds.

  Finally, the rain had moved on.

  In three more weeks Eleanor and I would be returning to Callicoon. Already the rich blues and greens of summer were beginning to fade, and the seasonal families, many having dispersed prematurely in impatience or frustration with the storm, left behind long stretches of empty beach–the sand curiously swept clean by the hard bristles of wind and rain.