Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “Almost four in the afternoon,” Aunt Smyrna said.

  “Four o’clock?” I repeated, swinging wobbly legs over the edge of the bed and making a move to stand.

  “Wait–just wait a minute.” Aunt Smyrna rushed to my side. “Are you sure you’re feeling strong enough to get up?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess so,” I answered, confused by her naked concern and abundant attentions. Had I been sick? How long had I actually been sleeping?

  “Jake stopped by to see if you were all right,” Eleanor said quietly, shifting her weight from foot to foot as if jockeying over hot coals.

  Jake. The fog in my mind was slowly beginning to dissipate. The tiny hole in my memory growing larger and larger, widening to allow the events of some previous day to come rushing back into focus; a terrible vision forming to remind me that I’d nearly drowned. The remembrance wrapping like a cold hand around my heart. Someone had seen me–saved me–dragged me out of the water and onto the rocks.

  “You look really weird. You’d better not try and get up yet,” Eleanor said, then, “Honestly, Stevie, what were you doing swimming all the way out there? Nobody goes to that place. It’s a lucky thing Jake happened to be around.”

  “How long was I sleeping?”

  “Since yesterday.” Aunt Smyrna moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “Good Lord, you scared us to death, Stevie. Now tell me what happened. I want you to explain everything from the beginning.”

  For just a moment I considered telling a lie, but only because the truth made me sound like such a fool. Nevertheless, shifting my eyes to a safe spot just off center from Aunt Smyrna’s intent stare, I blurted out the entire humiliating story–feeling particularly idiotic when required to admit I’d only gone to that secluded section of beach to avoid being seen in my bathing suit. When I reached the part about getting cramps Aunt Smyrna wagged her head knowingly as if this was the very clue she’d been waiting for.

  “How many times have I–”

  “I know, Aunt Smyrna, but how was I supposed to know all that stuff about not going in the water after eating wasn’t a bunch of baloney. It’s not like I had cramps when I decided to go swimming.”

  “What a dopey–”

  “Eleanor! If you two hadn’t deserted her to go on your little ocean joyride yesterday this never would’ve happened.”

  “We didn’t think she wanted to come.”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. I’m not the idiot you two apparently think I am,” Aunt Smyrna snapped, glaring at Eleanor in such a way I dropped my eyes to keep from seeing it.

  I hadn’t the slightest notion how I might go about thanking Jake for saving my life. A handshake or a chocolate cake seemed too paltry. A gold watch or cash reward, too impersonal. And besides, when it came to putting a price on a person’s life–was mine comparable to a Timex or a Rolex?

  It was Aunt Smyrna’s rather simple suggestion that a sincerely extended thank-you would be the most appropriate gesture. “He strikes me as someone who wouldn’t want a lot of fuss,” she said, then turning her eyes on me accusingly, as though she’d just now remembered something of importance. “It’s a disgrace I never even met the boy until he came flying up to the house with you dangled over his shoulder.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, Aunt Smyrna.”

  Her expression softened.

  “Well, now that it’s over I suppose it’s alright to admit how crazy the whole thing was. I mean of course I’ve heard you girls talking about him being deaf enough times, but that little detail completely slipped my mind in all the excitement. When he brought you up on the porch I didn’t know what to think. I just started screaming hysterical questions at him.”

  “When did you finally understand what was going on?”

  “It wasn’t all that difficult really. You more or less looked the way I’d expect a near drowning victim to look. It’s just the details that were missing.”

  I shook my head, picturing the scene as she’d described, immediately anxious to be rid of it. “Jeez, I feel like such a dope.”

  “I just hope you’ve learned a big lesson from this whole terrible experience.”

  “Like I should vent my anger on Eleanor directly instead of attacking her favorite foods?”

  “That’s not what I mean, Stephanie.”

  “I know. But for Pete’s sake, Aunt Smyrna, what kind of jerk would I be if I didn’t–”

  “Let’s just hope you aren’t the only one who learned something,” she interrupted, the glint of something sharp flashing behind her eyes–hard enough to shatter stone.

  Jake came for supper two days later, clearly ill at ease with his new high profile ranking of lifesaver–no less uncomfortable than I felt in my respective role of near drowning victim.

  Aunt Smyrna had insisted an elaborate meal was the very least she could offer Jake for the courtesy of saving my life. And although it was an admirable intention, I couldn’t avoid thinking that no matter how eternally grateful I felt (and I did feel eternally grateful), I would’ve been especially appreciative if everyone would’ve just forgotten the entire humiliating episode, a sentiment I was certain Jake shared.

  Our meal together was awkward at best. In light of my aunt and uncle’s thorough lack of previous experience with sign language, Eleanor and I were required to carry on the accustomed ritual of exchanging small talk with our reluctant guest.

  Several times I’d glanced across the table only to catch Eleanor glaring at me, but I hadn’t immediately recognized the purpose behind her expression–a pointed reference I would too late decipher–hinting to the fact I’d neglected to set down my fork before signing something to Jake. As it was, by the time I’d comprehended the meaning behind her repeated scowls I’d already passed a large portion of the meal conducting conversation with my cutlery.

  The meal at last concluded, we flowed out onto the porch. Aunt Smyrna served cake and coffee as she shouted her way through another round of conversation, holding to the apparent belief that her increased volume might otherwise compensate for her lack of sign language skills. Uncle Cal on the other hand offered nothing at all, seemingly intent on the relatively uncomplicated process of smoking his pipe and fidgeting with the crease in his pant leg; glancing up only briefly when Eleanor finished her second cup of coffee and disappeared inside the house to frequent the bathroom.

  Deep in the throes of offering a litany of silent prayer–pleading for a Martian invasion or massive tidal wave that would sweep in and put to death the last of this dreadful evening we’d presented to Jake–I was altogether startled when something actually did happen.

  A thundering explosion all at once cracked open against the warm night air from somewhere up the beach. Another splintering boom immediately followed, instantly drawing Aunt Smyrna and me to the porch railing, craning our necks in the direction of the disturbance.

  “Oh, look there,” I cried, as a spectacular spray of color fragmented a dozen twining arms across the velvety dark. “Someone’s shooting off fireworks.”

  “I’ll bet it’s the Winston’s. I’m surprised they have anything left after the send off they had in July,” Aunt Smyrna said as another explosion of color chased across the night sky.

  “Come on, let’s go down on the beach where we can see them better.”

  “You should go inside and get Eleanor first,” Uncle Cal said, the first words he’d spoken since we’d come out onto the porch.

  “She’ll be out in a minute. Besides, once she gets in the commode an atomic explosion couldn’t–”

  “Stevie,” he interrupted, “I don’t think–”

  I ignored him as I seized Jake’s arm, certain that he too recognized this as our chance to escape the continuance of what had become a discomfortingly long evening.

  The moon that night was enormous–a brilliant fat circle dappling an enchanting silvery path across black water. We sat on the sand watching the last of the fireworks fragment overhead. Further along the beach several clust
ers of people had gathered; their voices reaching us indistinctly, carried there on the wispy curls of a breeze stirring along the shoreline.

  I glanced back, certain I recognized Uncle Cal approaching–the slender figure rushing up behind him assuredly belonging to Eleanor and not Aunt Smyrna. Yet when I turned again an instant later, they were gone, leaving me greatly relieved.

  A flood of warmth swept along my skin, melting into my pores like liquid bliss–the steady rhythm of the ocean lapping against the empty beach, the only sound in a world suddenly grown still. I wrapped my arms around my bent knees, feeling thoroughly intoxicated with the euphoria of perfect contentment.

  Jake tapped me on the shoulder. “Are you cold?”

  I nodded my head to indicate that, no, I wasn’t.

  “You should go back.”

  “Are you going home?” I asked, already knowing his answer. It was no wild guess he’d probably had enough of my family’s graceless attempts at gratitude.

  “Yes.”

  “Jake ...” I hesitated, not altogether sure what I wanted to say. “How did you know–how could you tell–” I dropped my hand, uncertain how to sign the necessary words.

  His smile was kind as he answered my unfinished question. “It was obvious.” Then, as if sensing my discomfort, he thoughtfully turned his eyes away for several moments, allowing me to recover my composure.

  “I thought you were sleeping.”

  “No. I was awake,” he answered before pulling himself to his feet, indicating it was time to go back.

  I stood, pausing to brush the sand from my shorts. I hadn’t really thanked him yet. Had been too humiliated to make an attempt of fitting words to my enormous sense of gratitude. As it was, every phrase sprouting into my mind like worthless weeds appeared feeble or trite.

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You already did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “You just did.”

  It was impossible to read his expression in the darkness, his face an obscure shadow beneath his cap of wavy hair.

  “It doesn’t seem enough,” I insisted, as we moved slowly back toward the house.

  “It’s enough. Forget about it.”

  Nearing the steps that laddered the steep slope up to the porch, we paused.

  “How about if I clean all the fish you catch for the rest of the summer,” I offered, neglecting to consider that I had something less than a notion of how one went about cleaning fish. He stood watching me, an expression of amusement crossing over his features, smile widening as I repeated the menu of services hastily popping into my mind.

  “I’ll wash your car.” Did he own a car? Did he even drive? “I can bake you something–”

  “Shut up please. You’re making me wish I was sleeping,” the grin on his face effectively softening the statement. “Just forget it, okay.”

  I looked up into his face, holding to the glimmer of gentle light reflected back at me, wanting to tell him how much I valued our friendship. That if anyone had to save my life I was glad it’d been him. Just as I would never stop feeling grateful for the way he always treated me like a worthwhile companion and not some bothersome kid.

  And I knew he must’ve seen those very words contained somewhere within my expression because the most unexpected thing happened right then–Jake leaned forward and kissed me. Not a kid sister or friendship kiss, but a real–not to be mistaken for anything other than what it rightfully was kiss. And while he’d promptly released me, the flare of instantaneous combustion that’d rocketed through my veins as he held me in his arms would linger far longer. The only clear recollection emblazoned across my mind for later retrieval being that it had actually happened.

  “We’re even. Now forget it,” his hands told me as his mouth smiled close in the darkness. And then he turned, striding down the beach toward his grandfather’s house.

  But he was wrong. We weren’t even, and I would never forget.

  Chapter Nine

  Eleanor hadn’t slept in our room.

  I’d been far too involved with the care and feeding of my own full-blown obsession with Jake to notice or care about whatever it was my sister was squandering her time on. And up until now I hadn’t considered anything deeper than a fleeting curiosity over who she might’ve been seeing or what it was she might’ve been doing.

  It wasn’t until she’d stayed out all night that my interest had finally been piqued, and although I didn’t so much mind producing the occasional white lie in response to Aunt Smyrna’s questions as I once had, I fully expected Eleanor to reward my loyalties with fair recompense in return–namely the details of her illicit deeds.

  “I guess she went down to the beach already.”

  “Stephanie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I asked you what time she came to bed last night.”

  “Oh, well ... eleven. I think it was eleven.”

  I was unaccustomed to such intensity in Aunt Smyrna’s questioning, thus fully unprepared for the near suffocating press of her scarcely contained suspicions; requiring a conscious effort to keep my voice from stumbling over the words like an outright liar.

  “Yeah. It must’ve been around eleven. She snored half the night too, the jerk,” I said, throwing in the last for what I thought was a nice touch of convincing realism.

  “I see … well, all right. I just must’ve missed hearing her come in,” she said, though I could see a host of newborn questions birthed to life like hatching guppies behind her frown.

  I immediately grasped the opportunity to change the subject. “Can we still go to the drive-in tomorrow night?”

  I’d be several miles past furious if Eleanor had ruined our chance for a night at the movies. Just as it had been when we’d set our sights on The Promenade, we’d launched into an all-out assault of shameless groveling and whining until Aunt Smyrna reluctantly conceded to take us to the drive-in theatre; her initial hesitation apparently stemming from the conviction that impressionable young girls who watched Japanese horror movies were at risk of developing hellish lifelong nightmares.

  Oddly enough, it was Uncle Cal who swung the victory in our favor, the great debate ending when he voiced his intention to go with us whether she came or not. And for all her obvious annoyance, Aunt Smyrna hadn’t leapt into an argument with him. Not that time.

  “Yes. I imagine so,” she said now, her response coming in a drawn-out sigh markedly lacking even a fleeting spark of enthusiasm.

  As much as it pained me, I knew better than to push Eleanor for the essential details right away, sensing something different about her–almost startlingly changed. Some altered essence, the presence of which I assiduously felt but otherwise didn’t recognize. She’d returned to the house late that morning, managing to slip inside without encountering Aunt Smyrna and disappearing into our bedroom with barely a word.

  Uncle Cal was still in the city, due to return late that afternoon. The night before we’d shamelessly eavesdropped on his terse exchange with Aunt Smyrna, informing her something had come up at the office requiring his immediate attention and that he’d need to catch the train to New York right after supper.

  “This is the last week of your vacation. Why can’t you ask someone else to handle it?” she’d complained.

  “And whom do you suggest, Smyrna? Should I call the White House and see if Ike’s available?” he’d replied coldly. “Don’t try and tell me you’re going to miss me.”

  I thoroughly hated the way their words slashed at each other with mounting deadly intent. And I vehemently wished–no matter how elusive the reality of doing so–to seize the power that would make them stop. To sever the thickening strands of bitterness stretched taut between them.

  “Aunt Smyrna asked me what time you came in last night,” I whispered, though our aunt was out on the porch, well out of hearing range of our upstairs bedroom.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Around eleven.”


  “Did she believe you?” Eleanor asked quietly, curled motionless on her bed, her eyes shifting to avoid contact with mine.

  “I think so.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So where were you?” I prodded.

  She had to tell me something no matter how meager a tidbit. She honestly couldn’t expect me to just ignore the startling fact that she’d stayed out an entire night. Especially when I was risking my own spotless reputation by continuing my allegiance in lying for her.

  “I can’t tell you, Stevie.”

  “What do you mean you can’t tell me? You have to. You owe me,” I insisted, hearing, but nevertheless brushing over the disquieting way her voice snagged as it crawled past the rigid line of her teeth.

  “No ... I can’t. Not now.”

  I bit down hard on my annoyance, pausing for a moment to record the details of what I’d paid no attention to earlier: the grains of sand clinging to the wet edges of her denim shorts, the tangled knots in her normally sleek hair, the smears of mascara bruising the skin beneath her half shut eyes.

  “El–”

  “I can’t … I don’t even know … I don’t know what I’m supposed …” her voice falling over the edge, tears gathering, pooling in the corners of her eyes, clinging to her eyelashes for barely a moment before spilling over. “Leave me alone, okay ... just leave me alone.”

  I left, closing the door behind me, knowing with all certainty that something significant had tumbled out of reach, leaving a portion of our lives forever altered.

  The drive-in buzzed like a hive of swarming teenagers, cars packed with ponytails and crew-cuts slowly cruising to locate friends who’d already arrived before deciding on a spot to settle.

  Aunt Smyrna slowly edged Uncle Cal’s brand new Studebaker between the narrow rows of hard-tamped earth lining the aisles of pole-mounted speakers.

  “That looks like a good spot up there by that green car,” I pointed.

  “Umm hum, I think so. We’d better take it. This place is filling up fast.”