Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  I glanced upward as I walked along the shore, watching the gulls as they wheeled and glided like a company of winged ballerinas in the pink tinged sky overhead, breathing deeply of air that smelled of salt and honeysuckle. I strode further and further along the beach, having no particular destination in mind, only knowing after spending the past several days being poked by Eleanor like a rat under glass, I most definitely needed to see something other than the four walls inside Aunt Smyrna’s house.

  Reaching the jetty, I paused, lifting my hand in a visor against the bright light bobbing along the water like a fleet of silvery minnows. While the rocks here were customarily dotted with men and poles, today there was only one, and my pulse instantly launched to a gallop with the recognition that the lone fisherman was Jake himself. I approached slowly, uncertain, as if passing barefoot over splintered glass, allowing him necessary time to sense my presence. Even then, he failed to tip his head in my direction until I’d nearly reached his side; his gaze lingering for barely a moment before deliberately returning his stare to the quivering circle where his line disappeared below the water’s flat surface.

  “Hi,” my fingers moved stiffly, hesitant, as if I’d only just learned this single word.

  “Hi.” He lifted his hand, returning the salutation even as he kept his eyes turned from me, his glaring indifference a stark suggestion he would’ve preferred I leave him alone to reclaim his solitude.

  “So, just how many fish are in the sea anyway?” I said with artificial neon brightness. Not bothering to sign the words since he declined to throw even a fleeting glance in my direction; my pitiful attempt at humor accompanied by a haphazardly painted on smile, all too aware of how miserably I was failing.

  My face burned with the fire of shame–or humiliation, or both. I shouldn’t have come here. Why didn’t I have the sense to just admit what I’d known from the day I’d chased after him down the beach? He wanted to be alone. Something–everything–had changed and my attentions were no longer welcome.

  I rose to my feet, struggling to control the oncoming waves of emotion quaking beneath my skin as I waved my hand. “Good luck.”

  In less than a minute I would be over the rocks and blessedly gone from his sight. Never again would I pursue him–never would I allow my eyes to search anxiously for a glimpse of his long-legged stride closing the distance along the sand. If it was solitude he desired he could have it–in abundance.

  Yet before I could break away I felt his fingers on my arm, halting me in my steps like an instantly formed pillar of salt. We stood there for an awkward moment, both careful to keep our eyes safely removed. I swallowed hard against the uncertainty knotted in a heavy lump at the back of my throat.

  “I will always be deaf.”

  I lifted my eyes, to stare at him in confusion. Well, yes. Didn’t I already know that?

  “My doctor thought ... I hoped ...”

  I struggled to decipher the meaning of unfamiliar words formed by his fingers.

  “I had an operation. That’s why I’m late. It didn’t work. I’ll always be like this. I’ll never hear what the world sounds like. It’s hard ” His hands dropped to his sides.

  He looked away and I stared at the silent lines of his face for a long moment, all at once feeling as if I’d taken a step inside his skin and was now staring back at myself from within the bounds of a startling revelation. It was something I hadn’t quite fathomed before, but which I should have. Simply knowing and accepting that Jake was deaf had kept me from thinking further or deeper about what that truly meant. I’d looked at my own easy acceptance of his deafness as key, failing to consider what it was like for him to live within the vastness of a world he couldn’t hear.

  Of course he would’ve been hoping all along for some reversal of his disability–some medical breakthrough that would miraculously liberate him from his existence within the realms of silent isolation. And hadn’t I been praying all along for that very same thing?

  I studied his profile as he stared out over the water. The determined set of his jaw and the glint of resolve in his eyes a wordless assurance that despite this immediate disappointment he hadn’t surrendered, merely conceded to a temporary truce.

  I’d intended only to touch his arm or fleetingly grasp his hand in a gesture to convey my empathy. Yet, somehow, I found myself carefully enfolded in his arms, my nose pressed into his chest. And I closed my eyes for a brief moment before he released me, blissfully submerged in the scent and feel of him.

  A current of warmth coursed through my limbs like water sluicing through a crumbling dam. Meeting his eyes I saw the beginnings of a quiet smile emerging there. And I understood quite simply, he’d returned to me.

  Chapter Four

  I often wondered afterward if things might have been different that final year if Eleanor and I had somehow known it would be our last summer on Long Island. Might the fissures have been mended had we only endeavored to patch them the moment we saw the beginnings of fracture?

  At seventeen, it seemed Eleanor had little else cavorting through her mind other than what had always been there–namely clothes, makeup, and boys. She spent more time preening than would’ve seemed humanly possible; profusely aided in her aspirations of beauty by an endless assortment of cosmetic containers, nail polish bottles, hair sprays, and various tonics and lotions which she kept scattered across the bathroom vanity in a purposeful rendition of the make-up counter at Woolworth’s.

  It wasn’t long after we’d arrived at the beach when Eleanor met a boy from Staten Island named Sammy. Like a dream pulled directly from the vault inside her head, the person of Sammy contained every necessary ingredient Eleanor would’ve listed had she been composing a recipe for the assembly of the perfect boy: tall, slender, blond–perpetually packaged in tight black jeans and a white T-shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled-up to form an ultra cool pocket for stashing a pack of cigarettes while at the same time showing-off his biceps. And although I wasted little time launching into teasing her that Sammy must’ve had the mentality of a cornflake to fall for Eleanor Jean Burke, the artificial woman, she nonetheless took it in stride, barely reacting to my jibes as she would have in years past. And I knew , somehow, my sister and I had at last become closer akin to friends than merely acquaintances by birth.

  While it pained me to lie to Aunt Smyrna, I nevertheless conceded to surrender my conscience in deference of Eleanor’s pitiful appeals, spinning out a variety of explanations to cover for her absences whenever she disappeared with Sammy for the afternoon or stole down to the beach after supper for a twilight rendezvous. My allegiance to their indiscretions earned me the occasional loan of a coveted skirt or sweater from Eleanor’s closet and the somewhat flattering designation from Sammy of being a “neat kid.”

  Jake made his appearance one afternoon while I was alone sunning myself on the beach, thoroughly immersed in a haze of Elvis music swelling out from the portable radio positioned near my head. A breathtaking image of Elvis–slender and sensual, hips swiveling like poured liquid–was only just beginning to form in my mind with near edible clarity, when I all at once felt a fine sprinkling of sand sifting against my bare back.

  I flipped over in a single swift movement, fully expecting to find Eleanor returned from her lunchtime tryst with Sammy, intent on swatting whichever of her body parts were within reach of my hand. But rather than Eleanor’s smirking face, I found myself staring into warm eyes crinkled at the corners by a mischievous grin.

  “Jake!” I squealed, a current of pure elation shooting the length of my outstretched limbs. “When did you get here?”

  “This morning,” he answered dropping down beside me, politely inquiring as to Eleanor’s whereabouts, then asking what we’d been up to in his absence.

  It was a marked contrast to his arrival the previous year–a fact I hadn’t overlooked, and for which I was abundantly grateful.

  “Want to come fishing?” his fingers moved, the smile remaining on his lips
as he watched me for my response.

  I felt a warm flush melting over my face like spilled joy. Had he noticed how much I’d changed since last summer? Fifteen now, I’d acquired a full two inches of height from a winter long growth spurt and my figure was lending subtle witness to other more obvious signs of transformation, marking this as the first summer I’d actually had something to put into the top of my bathing suit.

  “Yes–yes, of course.”

  “Okay. Meet me in the morning.”

  I nodded, grinning joyously at his back as I watched him walk away, my eyes staying with him even once his long-legged stride became a speck of dust in the distance.

  We sat on the porch watching the fading rays of sunlight gliding across the angry black water. The tumultuous tossing of the sea–the first indication of an approaching storm.

  Uncle Cal brooded in a wicker rocker, smoking quickly, restlessly. He was often like that now, never quite with us, whether physically present or not–his thoughts conspicuously drifted off to places that included none of us.

  I settled myself with Aunt Smyrna at the table laid out with the Scrabble board, intent on continuing the fierce spelling tournament we’d begun days earlier. Surprisingly, despite her disinterest in most things academic, Eleanor was a dead-on spelling queen and had even beaten Aunt Smyrna the past several games. Yet when Aunt Smyrna called her to join us, Eleanor unexpectedly declined, claiming she wanted to finish the story in the magazine she was reading, though like Uncle Cal, she too appeared oddly distracted; not quite succeeding in holding her attentions directed toward the pages opened in front of her.

  While the portrait we presented–comfortably grouped amongst the porch furnishings, playing games, and quietly reading–might have appeared unequivocally sanguine to a casual observer, in truth, a pointed sense of unease had come to live with us that summer and was seldom absent from even our most ordinary gatherings.

  Uncle Cal rose from his chair and laid his smoldering pipe in the ashtray on the table. “I’m going down for a walk.”

  Aunt Smyrna declined even an upward glance, a brief nod, her sole acknowledgment of having received his announcement.

  “Can I come with you?” Eleanor sprung to her feet, and I turned my head to stare at her in stunned surprise.

  My sister and I had been in definite agreement over the fact we now found ourselves thoroughly ill at ease in the company of our uncle. The war brewing between him and Aunt Smyrna had become increasingly conspicuous over the past two summers, and was now pushing through to the front lines. We would have to be stricken round-the-clock unconscious not to recognize the gathering strain dragging hard on their marriage; our whispered discussions late at night pointing Eleanor and me to the mutual conclusion that the progression of their animosity was more a doing of his than it was of hers. After all, he was the one gone all week, only to return on weekends carrying a chip on his shoulder the size of Wyoming, ready to upset our now comfortable routine.

  It was altogether customary, even expected, for us to hear them arguing in their bedroom on Sunday evenings once supper was finished and he was preparing to leave again for the city. And though the door would be closed to assure their privacy, there was no mistaking the cold cheerless voices smacking the air with anger–bitter accusations of infidelities and mistrust. A litany of offenses as complicated as they were impossible to conceive of or otherwise comprehend, at least in relation to Aunt Smyrna and Uncle Cal who had always seemed so devoted–the ideal of romantic love.

  “Alright,” he answered disinterestedly, then, “Unless of course your aunt has an objection.”

  “Just keep an eye on the weather, Eleanor. It looks like it might start pouring any second,” was all Aunt Smyrna said.

  “Okay,” Eleanor called back over her shoulder, her ponytail swaying at the back of her head as she bobbed down the steps after him.

  The downpour had been pelting the beach for nearly two hours already and still they hadn’t returned. Aunt Smyrna sat tightly wrapped in her anger; kneading her fingers, folding her arms and gripping her forearms, crossing and re-crossing her legs as she stared out into the stormy blackness.

  “There’s a couple places in the dunes where they could’ve gone to wait out the storm. Eleanor knows how to get there,” I offered in an attempt at easing her anxiety.

  “Your uncle knew a storm was coming. He should’ve had the sense not to wander so far. This is just his way of spiting me.”

  A deadening chill had crept up from the ocean with stealthy fingers, and although we’d cocooned ourselves in heavy blankets sometime earlier, the shivery rawness persistently nipped along the edges of my worn canvas sneakers, numbing my feet like iced fillets. I alternated curling and uncurling my toes in an effort at jumpstarting my circulation and reclaiming something of warmth, silently willing Aunt Smyrna to give up her dogged position of sentinel and go inside. Had I not felt guilty about leaving her alone to stew in her agitation, I would’ve readily surrendered my watch and gone in hours ago.

  I’m certain we heard it at the same time–the sound of laughter filtering toward us through the cold steady rain. We stood in unison, staring into the silvery blackness of the downpour as the now familiar voices drew closer, “It’s raining, it’s pouring, the old gray man is snoring ...” that followed by another eruption of hilarity as if nothing had ever been funnier than that silly song. “He bumped his head when he went to bed–”

  Eleanor darted out from the deep folds of night draped within the shimmery curtains of rain, closely followed by Uncle Cal–the two bounding up the porch steps like ungainly puppies, thoroughly soaked and leaking from their rainwater bath.

  Eleanor stood before us holding her sneakers in one hand, twisting the thick dripping rope of her hair with the other. The light and dainty floral print blouse she wore with her bright pink short shorts clung to the curves of her wet skin in nearly transparent patches and I turned my head to see Aunt Smyrna staring in slack jawed disbelief.

  “That was so much fun. It’s just beautiful out there, isn’t it, Uncle Cal?”

  At the mention of my uncle’s name all eyes instantly swung to where he stood clinging to the shadows–hovering within the darkest, furthest corner of the porch as if he might somehow avoid detection by the soft illumination cast out from the bulb above Eleanor’s head.

  “That it is. Intoxicating really,” he said, running a hand through the flattened wetness of his sand colored hair and leaving behind a path of whimsical cowlicks.

  I stared intently, the light of that particular night uncloaking the visage of my uncle in a way I’d never had cause or occasion to discern of before. Noting with a sobering pinch of startled surprise how smooth and boyish his features looked as a wide grin spread across his face and he threw a wink at Eleanor–his gaze lingering on her just a moment too long.

  “We never had a chance, it came down in buckets,” he said, at last turning to address Aunt Smyrna.

  “If you’d come back as soon as it started–”

  “Once you’re wet, you’re wet,” he said, the hilarity in his voice fast dissolving as their exchange rapidly darkened.

  “And what do you intend to say to my sister when I have to call and tell her Eleanor has pneumonia? Where have you abandoned your common sense this time, Calvin?”

  “How the hell do you come up with a diagnosis of pneumonia from taking a walk in a summer shower? You think I don’t know what this is about, Smyrna? You think I don’t know how much you can’t stand to see me enjoying myself?”

  Eleanor and I stood silently, inescapably caught in the clench of their angry words. It was the first time they’d ever directly fought in our presence and neither of us were quite sure what to do–whether to stay as we were, or make the move to melt noiselessly into the safely of the empty house.

  “Ha, that’s a laugh. When have I ever been able to stop you from enjoying yourself? Well you go right ahead and have all the fun and merriment you can wallow in without drow
ning, but you’d damn well better leave these girls out of it.” And I caught the high shine of angry tears gathered in her eyes as she spun around and headed into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind her and putting an end to the night.

  Chapter Five

  We’d been sitting on the jetty all afternoon and I’d only gotten one bite. One halfhearted bite that easily slipped away before I could successfully reel it in. Jake on the other hand had caught several fish, his good fortune especially baffling considering we were using the same bait and fishing barely an arm’s length from each other.

  My lack of success might have vexed me considerably had I not passed the largest part of the morning with my attentions silently focused on Jake; studying him unobtrusively as he removed each wildly flip-flopping catch from his hook.

  From the limited viewpoint offered by the corner of my eye, I followed the movements of his arms–muscular and brown in dramatic contrast to my own paler limbs, now blushed an angry pink by the powerful glare of afternoon sun. And when he cast his line back out into the water I stared appreciatively at his hands gripping the pole, admiring the long skillful fingers so adept at removing those fish unfortunate enough to swallow his hook.

  It was possible we sat there for hours with the daylight brilliantly sliding into deep afternoon, though maybe far less. It didn’t much matter, such trivial happenings as the passage of time felt of little importance. My thoughts were exclusively turned toward imaginings of how those same slender hands baiting a hook or extracting a catch would’ve felt had they been trailing along my bare arms … tracing the back of my neck … wondering over the texture of his skin against my fingertips had I possessed the courage to reach out and touch him.

  Everything between us was changing, our easy friendship switching direction and heading into something else. I felt it. I was certain. Heard it screaming like a rocket hurling through space, though somehow I was the only one who seemed to be listening.