Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “I can’t imagine what she’ll do now. I don’t think she and Cal are all that happy anymore,” my mother added, shaking her head in consolation. “And she was so crazy about that man once upon a time.”

  Nearly two summers had passed since I’d last seen Jake, yet it felt more like a distance stretched across a lifetime. It made writing him the letter all that much more formidable–an attempt requiring several drafts before I was finally satisfied with the content of the single page–two paragraphs of carefully composed sentences, heartfelt and direct. I mailed the missive the same afternoon I’d written it–before my courage flagged and I surrendered to shame and embarrassment by tucking it away in the confidential vault secreted between mattress and box-spring–sending it to the only address I knew of to reach him; his grandfather’s house on Long Island.

  For the next several weeks I trailed through the days like an apparition, thoughts fluctuating somewhere between hope and apprehension, my mind wandering but never settling. Every afternoon, as soon as I heard the far off sound of the postman’s truck pulling away from the mailbox, I flew down the hard-packed dirt driveway, fervently praying I’d find an envelope from Jake tucked there amongst the seed catalogues and sweepstakes entries.

  Somehow I managed to keep faith alive over the next two months, although each passing day with no reply proved effective in shifting my wavering faith one step further from optimism. But even then, I never fully allowed my expectations to surrender; not until the afternoon when I found myself staring at the same carefully written letter I’d originally sent. The envelope badly creased but unopened–the words “resident deceased” hastily scribbled across its face. His grandfather was dead. The single link I’d had to finding him was gone. I’d waited too long.

  And in time, my dreams of him simply stopped coming.

  It was on a day late in autumn–the sole passenger remaining on the ancient yellow school bus–when I was all at once struck by the sadly sobering truth that I’d forgotten a good many details about Eleanor: The particular way she’d said certain things, the exact shade of her hair, the precise pitch of her voice ... And it was with a surge of angry grief that I comprehended the truly traitorous nature of memory, furious at the way my own had discarded those simple remembrances I’d promised myself to forever treasure.

  The ride home from school was a long one, the bus bumping and rattling along the rutted country roads. The passing woods had seen their peak of brilliant color weeks earlier, curling leaves now riding to the ground on even the gentlest stirrings of air, overlaying the landscape in a rusty gold and yellow carpet. Without noticing its withdrawal, my indignation had likewise faded and gone, leaving me to wonder how incredible it all was–the way the fruits of the earth died every fall only to return in the richness of rebirth each spring. So beautiful, so hopeful, so unbearably sad was the cycle of life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The space my life had forever occupied was becoming an increasingly foreign land–a place I neither recognized nor especially understood. Even my own intimate self had lost something of the familiar, and more and more there were times when I found myself studying my face in the bathroom mirror only to find I didn’t see anything there I might’ve once known. Forever asking my uncertain reflection, so how exactly does life continue after loss?

  It was hard, nearly impossible really, to contemplate that in a few short months I would be graduating from high school and then leaving for college at the end of summer. Everyday felt to be rushing past, even while the hours dragged–rocketing forward at breakneck speed, limping as though injured–at times leaving me so overwhelmed and distracted it felt as if my mind were only moments away from snapping off its axis and spinning out into orbit.

  Increasingly rare were those times when my restless aching settled into something of peace, removed even momentarily from the silent menace of the world closed tight around me–not only here in this place where I’d lived my entire life, but all that which existed just over the hills and beyond the limits of Callicoon. Times like now, when in the dead sleep of early morning there seemed nothing of more importance or urgency than going out to the barn and getting the cow milked.

  It had only been a few short months earlier, when for several consecutive nights, I’d sat at the kitchen table with Daddy filling out college application forms, silently hurtling back and forth between the opposing poles of excitement and remorse as we filled in the blanks. Excitement over the prospect of leaving the farm–remorse that I wanted so badly to be gone. Uncertain how to proceed into my future when my life remained in a holding pattern, waiting for the answers that would finally bring something of closure to the past.

  “Stephanie, sit down,” my mother commanded with her own particular blend of patient exasperation. “What’s gotten into you? This is 1962. What do you think this world has to offer a woman without an education?”

  “Come on, Mom, I’m not exactly illiterate. I can even count to a hundred if I ever need to. I’m just saying I don’t see what’s the big deal about college.”

  She turned and laid the potato she’d been peeling on the table, directing her full attention on me–eyes piercing mine like headlights in the dark. “It offers you opportunities. It offers you a future.”

  “Hardly anyone I know is even going away to school. Does that mean the entire class of ‘62 is sentenced to digging ditches in Callicoon?”

  “This doesn’t sound like you, Stevie. This is something I’d’ve expected from Eleanor–God rest her soul–but not you.” She studied me for a distinctly unnerving moment, apparently analyzing my expression in search of loose or wandering thoughts, then, “I want you to tell me the truth ... has something upset you? Is someone pressuring you? A boy?”

  “A boy?” I repeated, incredulous. “There are no boys in Callicoon. At least none that are normal or even relative to the species.”

  We both laughed, momentarily easing the serious intent of our exchange.

  “So what is it then?”

  “I don’t know ... I guess I’ve been thinking that maybe we can’t really afford–”

  “Stephanie, money for your education isn’t something for you to worry about. There are some things you can’t wait around for, because then you run the risk of never having them. Sometimes you just have to take a jump into the deep end.”

  She reached across the table and patted my hand. “You let Daddy and me worry about the financial end of it. That’s one of the things that comes along with this parenting business.”

  I simply nodded, knowing well enough when an argument had been effectively silenced and laid to rest.

  For two months that summer I worked at Pecca’s drugstore, riding into town each morning with our neighbor Malcolm Selby in his shiny blue Edsel, and then catching a ride with him on the return trip home later in the afternoon.

  Malcolm had been the manager at the sole grocery store in Callicoon for over thirty-five years, a profession time hadn’t lessened his enthusiasm of, considering a goodly portion of our conversations centered around the availability of fresh produce, the rising price of beef, and the shelf life of certain dairy products. For the most part I dutifully considered it my obligation to listen to his monotonous ramblings with a firmly planted smile, since aside from his generous offer of daily transportation, Malcolm was singularly responsible for advocating my current job at his friend John Pecca’s store. For this courtesy alone, which allowed me the coveted opportunity to squirrel away expense money for school, he could talk into forever about lettuce and cantaloupe melons if it pleased him. I’d listen most obligingly, being certain to punctuate my complimentary fascination with an occasional interested nod.

  Hearing the familiar jingle of the bell anchored within a curved bracket above the door, I glanced up from where I stood mopping the remains of a spilled soda from the counter with a damp cloth.

  “Hey, Stevie. Is anybody else in here?” My best friend Esther leaned across the counter, her voice droppin
g to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Nope. Just you.”

  Though the offending spill was no longer in evidence, my hand continued its circular movement with the rag, grudgingly awaiting her inevitable plea for a free ice cream.

  “You’re not gonna believe what I’ve got.” The wide arch of a conspiratorial grin spread across her face as she reached into her handbag and pulled out a thick paperback book, quickly passing it to me with the respect accorded transference of top-secret contraband.

  “Peyton Place,” I read out loud.

  “Shh,” she hissed, sweeping her eyes in a quick surveillance of the adjacent aisle. “You want to read it?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re gonna love it. I’m not kidding when I say it’s impossible to put down. Just don’t let your mother find it. And if she does–don’t tell her it’s mine. Mom would kill me, especially since it’s hers. She had it hidden in the linen closet behind the winter flannels.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll be careful,” I assured, staring down at the book clutched in my hands. An honest to God controversial book. I couldn’t wait to crack the cover and dive in.

  For once Esther hadn’t exaggerated. I couldn’t stop reading, nearly every chapter rewarding my diligence with a rocketing explosion of sex and scandal–activities and events that nice high school girls weren’t expected to think about, let alone consume with insatiable appetite.

  Afraid as I was of my mother finding the book during the day while in the midst of a housecleaning frenzy, I carried the secret missive with me to work, concealing it in a ridiculous looking purse I hadn’t used since junior high.

  But having the book so readily accessible was a temptation too great to ignore, and I found myself retrieving it from its hiding place beneath the counter whenever the opportunity presented itself–reading snatches of sentences and paragraphs whenever the store was vacant of customers.

  Now, deep into the book’s unparalleled drama and passion, I regarded all patrons venturing into the store as unappreciated impedances to my literary pursuits and I serviced each impatiently, wanting nothing more than to have them gone as surely and swiftly as possible.

  The morning had been especially busy, but I’d finally succeeded in hastening away the last lingering customer, stuffing Mrs. Beasley’s 5-Day deodorant pads and tube of Ipana toothpaste into a paper bag and resolutely dodging her repeated attempts to engage me in conversation by offering nothing beyond an occasional and distantly spaced monosyllable.

  I’d only just settled on the stool behind the counter, immediately reaching for the waiting book, when the silvery tinkle of the bell suspended over the door warned of yet another intrusion.

  Lifting an agitated brow, I glanced up quickly, making a rapid scan of visible aisles, but finding no one in sight. I commenced to reading, assuming it was likely just the ancient Mr. Robinson in for his afternoon ritual of purposeless meandering between the aisles of merchandise–at first quietly marveling over products which hadn’t been invented eighty years earlier when he was a boy, then raising his voice to complain over the ridiculous prices attached to said progress.

  But now, of far greater significance than the rantings of the old man, was what had to be the steamiest, most shockingly descriptive passage ever laid on paper. My eyes flew across the page consuming words–entire sentences–without pausing to fully digest them, the heat of their meanings flaming across my face in a scorching swath.

  “Excuse me? Miss …” a voice politely interrupted.

  I slapped the book shut, bounding instantly to my feet. My eyes swung upward, face newly flushed with the heat of a different sort as I pointed my stare on the stranger in front of me–a man dressed in grease splotched denim jeans and an equally spotty cotton shirt advertising “Joe’s garage.”

  “Uh, sorry to interrupt you–”

  “Yes?” I snapped, making no effort to contain the irrational sweep of temper brought on by my own immediate and all-consuming flood of embarrassment.

  My brusque response to his polite interruption sent a flicker of surprise flitting across his face, but even so his tone remained courteous. “Your coke machine outside ate all my change without giving me anything in return.”

  “Uh huh, well the vendor’s responsible.”

  “I see,” he smiled pleasantly; an expression which, whether unreasonable or not on my part, served to provoke me further.

  “I figured if you could give me a refund I’d just get a soda from the fountain instead of messing around with the machine.”

  “Well, sorry, but I can’t do that. Mr. Pecca has to authorize all refunds,” I said, though it wasn’t entirely, or even halfway, near the truth.

  Even as I voiced my refusal, I recognized how ridiculously disagreeable I was being. Mr. Pecca would have thought nothing of returning the man’s money. I simply needed to have him sign a receipt acknowledging he’d received a refund. Easy. Painless. Nevertheless, I held to my convictions–arrived at from his first utterance–which was that the man’s humiliating interruption had been too injurious a jolt to make him anything other than deserving of my indignation.

  ...“I’ve never had a problem getting a refund before.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. You’ll have to come back when someone else is here then, because I personally don’t make a habit of handing out money to people just because they demand it.”

  I’d never dared to be so rude to a customer, fully aware as I glared at him that Mr. Pecca would be furious if this man should later return to lodge a complaint.

  “Oh, come on.” A note of irritation had crept into his voice, pleasing me, since I now felt it somehow justified my hostility toward him. “It’s ninety five degrees in the shade out there and I lost all my money in your machine.”

  “It isn’t my machine. And besides, if you knew the thing was broken why’d you keep putting money in it?”

  “This is ridiculous,” he said, running a noticeably grimy hand through his hair. “I can’t believe–”

  “Sorry, but it’s store policy.”

  He stared at me–openly incredulous–and I lowered my gaze a fraction to focus on the barely discernible twitch of a muscle just below his cheekbone. “Fine,” he said, his tone tightly controlled as he turned abruptly on his heel.

  “Would you like a glass of water? It’s free,” I called after him.

  “No, thanks,” he replied without looking back. The bell over the door tinkling innocently in distinct contrast to the sharp snap of the door closing after him.

  “I would’ve finished yesterday if it wasn’t for that guy coming in here demanding money,” I said, setting a courtesy dish of ice cream on the counter in front of Esther.

  “He sounds like a real jerk. You said he’s a mechanic at Joe’s garage?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess he is. He was wearing one of those shirts, you know, with the name on it.”

  “Umm hum.” Esther looked thoughtful as she spooned a dollop of whipped cream into her mouth. “Was he tall? Blondish hair? Has sort of a crooked nose? Like it’s been broken or something.”

  “Yeah, that’s him!” I said, surprised by the accuracy of her description. “Do you know him?”

  “No, not actually. But I see him sometimes when I walk past the garage.”

  “Oh ... well he’s a nosy creep. He stood right there,” I pointed for emphasis, “watching me read.”

  “Probably a pervert. Still, what’re you gonna tell Mr. Pecca if this guy comes in complaining that you refused to give him a refund?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll just say I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to or something.”

  “But everyone knows–”

  “Forget it. I’ll think of something. You can have your book back tomorrow, okay?”

  “Sure. So, what do you think so far? It’s really good isn’t it?”

  “Are you kidding, it’s amazing they can even publish stuff like that. No wonder our mothers don’t want us reading it. It’s incr
edible!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was less than a month before I was due to leave for school when I came home from work one afternoon to find a strange car parked in the driveway. As I pulled open the screen door and stepped into the kitchen, I was met by the hushed tones of conversation wafting through from the living room on a lingering trail of unfamiliar perfume. I laid my sweater over the back of a kitchen chair, standing quietly for a moment as I strained to detect some telltale hint of the visitor’s identity.

  “She’ll be home any minute,” I heard my mother say.

  “It’s just impossible to imagine she’s eighteen already. You know what that makes us, don’t you, Libby?” said a voice I somehow knew, but didn’t. “Ancient. Two doddering old girls.” That followed by the deep throaty laugh I instantly recognized as belonging to Aunt Smyrna.

  I took a half-step forward, inadvertently bumping the leg of a kitchen chair with the toe of my shoe.

  “Speak for yourself, Smyrna,” then, “Oh, shh … I think she just came in. Stevie? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  “Come in here a minute. We have company.”

  I felt something skitter across the floor of my stomach as I passed though the hall and into the living room where they sat.

  “Aunt Smyrna–what a surprise.”

  And it really was. I’d had no idea she was coming for a visit.

  “My goodness, but you’re so grown up, Stephanie. It’s like looking at a whole other person. Why you must be nearly six feet tall.”

  “Not quite,” I laughed self-consciously. “You look wonderful,” I lied politely.

  She appeared to be a whole other person, too. Shockingly so. There was little about my aunt that bore resemblance to the perpetually slim and attractive woman I’d last seen three years earlier. Her figure had considerably thickened, bringing to mind a sausage minus its casing; and the bloated contours of her face, framed by lank lifeless hair, couldn’t possibly belong to my mother’s pretty younger sister–instead, the hopeless components of some grotesque impostor’s facade.