Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  He glanced at me briefly before returning his attentions to my mother, an expression of borderline recollection making a fleeting trip across his face.

  Ash Waterman. An unusual name. I knew I hadn’t heard it before. I surely would’ve remembered if I had.

  “Well I hadn’t exactly–”

  “I’ve had a lot of experience at farming. I grew up on a wheat farm in Iowa.”

  I studied him shamelessly as he spoke, feeling secure behind the protective screen offered by my mother standing between us.

  “To be honest, Malcolm’s the one pushing me to hire someone. I just haven’t decided if it’s necessary. This is a small farm and my husband always took care of everything himself.”

  A spark of memory flashed across my mind like a beacon of warning light. Wasn’t this the same guy who’d antagonized me over the soda machine the summer I’d worked at the drugstore? Of course! Yes. It was him all right. Definitely. An immediate flux of heat spread over my face like cooked jam copiously smeared on toast. No doubt he’d remember me too–if not already, then soon.

  While admittedly I hadn’t had any genuine reason for disliking him at first meeting, I surely had sufficient justification now. Apparently he considered my recently widowed mother easy prey for his transparent attempts at deception, because as I recalled it, he’d been pumping gas and fixing cars at Joe’s garage back then, and yet here he was trying to pass himself off as an experienced farmer.

  “Haven’t I seen you working at the gas station in town?” I piped up, smug in my confidence that the feigned innocence of my question would be roundly effective in throwing both him and his phony claims off balance and away from us.

  He looked surprised, but only momentarily. “Yes, that’s right. I’ve been there a few years now. Do you know Joe?”

  “No … not really,” I mumbled, averting my eyes as I dug the heel of my boot into the dirt, not so certain how to proceed now that I hadn’t been presented with the denial I’d expected.

  “Can you fix tractors?” Mom asked, her interest instantly piqued.

  “Mom, he works on cars not–”

  “Well yes, ma’am. I’ve probably fixed more tractors in my life than I have cars.”

  “Would you mind having a look at the one in the barn?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Mom, I–”

  “Stevie, you go on in and get washed up for supper,” she interrupted, her instructions only just then reminding me of my disheveled appearance–a realization which for some unknown reason left me feeling no less embarrassed than I was annoyed.

  They started toward the barn.

  “I don’t know what could be wrong with it, but we haven’t been able to get it started. My husband used it early this spring to plow the fields and I’m certain it was running just fine then.”

  “Did you check the gas? You’d be surprised how often we all tend to overlook the obvious.”

  I heard my mother laugh as their voices drifted out of my hearing and I skulked into the kitchen, slamming the screen door behind me with an intentional slap. Gas? What a jerk. No wonder he was looking to be a farmer, he clearly wasn’t much of a mechanic.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Mom. Fixing a tractor doesn’t exactly qualify him to plant a field.”

  “Yes, Stephanie, I know what I’m doing. And I didn’t hire him just because he got the tractor running–all he had to do was put gas in it. I hired him because he seems to be a nice enough man and he happens to know Malcolm. And in case you somehow haven’t noticed, we need the help–plain and simple.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten. I like food and clothing and living with a roof over my head just as much as the next person. I’m just wondering if we can afford him,” I pressed, increasingly agitated because she didn’t seem to get my point or otherwise care that I neither liked Ash Waterman nor trusted him.

  “If we don’t get the crop planted we’ll be lucky to afford a can of beans for supper,” she said, moving to the kitchen door as his car pulled up outside. “Wash up the dishes, will you, dear?” she added, heading out the door to meet him.

  For the next two weeks, Ash Waterman arrived promptly at six every morning–rumbling up the driveway in his big blue Buick–working until five o’clock every afternoon. And even once he’d finished with the planting he continued to appear with the sunrise, leading me to wonder impatiently when my mother would make the announcement that he was no longer needed.

  “Set another place, would you Stevie, I invited Ash to stay for supper,” she said late one afternoon as I arranged our customary twin place settings at the kitchen table.

  “For supper? Why?”

  Why did she continue to insist on being so fraternal with him? I’d already been forced to ridiculous lengths trying to avoid him every day. Just that morning I’d gone to the barn to milk Gertrude only to find Ash there finishing the task himself.

  “What are you doing?” I’d glared at him.

  “Milking a cow,” he’d answered mildly without turning his head, urging a stream of milk from Gertrude’s swollen udder into the pail.

  “I can see that.”

  “I was here a little early so I–”

  “You shouldn’t be doing what you weren’t asked to,” I said, hearing, but choosing to ignore the unreasonable implication in my words. And I’d spun around, stomping back out through the open door, purposely denying him an opportunity to respond.

  I certainly had no intention of sharing a meal with him now. My mother could just forget about my attendance at our table if he was going to be sitting at it. I absolutely refused to have his presence forced on me.

  “I’m going to Esther’s house for supper,” I announced coldly.

  “We’re having company. You can go there another night.”

  “A sweaty field hand isn’t company.”

  “Stephanie!” She turned from the pot she’d been attending on the stove to stare me to silence. “What’s the matter with you? I’ve never known you to be so mean spirited.”

  “What’s the matter with me? Why did you have to invite him to eat here? You know I don’t like him.”

  “You’ve certainly made that very evident. But why? Why don’t you like him?”

  There was no misinterpreting that particular tone in her voice. After a lifetime of having it turned on me I recognized it instantly. She’d clearly had enough of my poisonous remarks in regard to Ash Waterman and now expected a straight to the point explanation for it.

  “It so happens I met him before–about two years ago.”

  “You did? Well, why haven’t you said anything then?”

  “I didn’t think it was that important and I certainly didn’t expect you’d be hiring him to work here until the end of time.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you–”

  “He was very rude to me. I was working at the store and he came in and started harassing me over a refund.”

  Her eyebrows flew upwards in stunned surprise. “Ash? He–Ash harassed you?”

  “Well, yes ... yes, he did.”

  For an immediate instant I was forced to question my choice of words. In light of her borderline reaction of shock and horror, I had to wonder if maybe I’d leaned a bit too far in the direction of exaggeration. But still–

  “What did he do?” She faced me squarely, reaching out to grasp my wrist, concern etching its way across her brow like a permanent engraving.

  “He uh–well he stormed in demanding a refund from the soda machine. He came right up to me at the counter and insisted I refund his money,” I said, hoping that by some miracle my rendition of the incident didn’t sound as ridiculous to her ears as it did to my own.

  “And did you?” Her fingers tightened on my wrist.

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you give him a refund? Did you give him back his money?”

  “Of course not. It wasn’t part of my job to just go a
round handing out money.”

  “Oh ... and that’s when he harassed you?”

  “That was the harassment, Mom. He was demanding money. That’s harassment.”

  “That’s harassment?” She appeared confused as she repeated the words. “I thought harassment meant he touched you or–”

  “Oh cripes, Mom. No, that wasn’t what I meant.”

  She released her grip on my wrist, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well shouldn’t you’ve given him a refund? Anytime I ever lost money in one of the machines I–”

  “That’s not the point,” I said, feeling myself growing more flustered by the minute.

  “Honey,” she said gently. “What is it you’re saying? Maybe you should explain it to me again. I don’t understand what you–”

  “Never mind–just never mind. I don’t like him and I don’t owe anyone an explanation. I’m twenty years old and well past the age of having to sit down at a table to eat a meal with someone I dislike.” I brushed past her as I stormed from the room, unwilling to allow myself even one more moment for looking foolish.

  I turned twenty-one that year, a significant event in another life, but a less than remarkable milestone given current circumstances; an occasion that would’ve just as likely come and gone devoid of fanfare had Esther not called to insist I let her treat me to lunch in town at Tootie’s diner. Her invitation surely coming as a relief to my mother since it conveniently released her from the obligation of having to devise some form of celebratory merriment on my behalf.

  As I sat on the porch steps waiting for Esther–the sun baking the top of my head like a browning loaf and turning the edges of my vision liquid–I watched Ash scraping the chipped and fading paint from the chicken coop in the side yard.

  It was yet one more job he’d somehow succeeded in convincing my mother needed to be done, although when I’d questioned her, Mom had insisted that refurbishment of the insignificant structure had been her own suggestion. But I knew better. She was a woman who’d lived her entire life under the protection of males. From her father’s house she’d married and gone to her husband’s home. It was as transparent as the air passing before my eyes that she allowed Ash to invent work for himself simply because it allowed for his continued presence, an opportunity to keep him coming yet one more day–her sole purpose being to prolong the security she felt at having a capable man around taking care of things.

  He pulled off his sweat dampened T-shirt and carelessly dropped it over the top of his toolbox. I eyed him discreetly, finding his near nakedness unexpectedly irritating–but even then, my gaze holding, watching the beads of gathering perspiration glisten across his shoulders and chest; unwillingly mesmerized by the fluid roll of muscles moving under his skin as he continued dragging the scraper back and forth in a grating assault against the flaking paint.

  All at once he looked up–meeting my bold stare with one of his own. And while I’d quickly cut my eyes away, making a pretense of smoothing the skirt of my sundress over my knees, I wasn’t quick enough to miss seeing the hateful grin immediately spread across his mouth.

  It was with an avalanche of relief and gratitude that I heard the sound of Esther’s pink coupe convertible rolling up the drive right then, cautiously creeping to avoid stirring up the inevitable clouds of dust settled like fine powder over the hard-packed drive.

  “Hey, who’s that?” she called out much too loud in order to be heard over the Beatles song blaring from the car radio.

  “Nobody.” I slid into the seat beside her.

  “Oh? Hum … Mr. Nobody looks interesting,” she said, shifting the car into reverse.

  “Well, he’s not. He’s as personable as a tree limb.”

  “Too bad. From where I’m sitting he looks like a rather promising package.”

  “Well then maybe you should consider changing your seat.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Thinking back over it later, it was impossible to imagine what my mother might’ve been thinking when she waved me off to college that fall, knowing as she must have then, that we could no longer afford the extravagance of higher education. Had she simply deceived herself into believing we were starring in some happily-ever-after fantasy movie and everything would be miraculously sorted out before the credits rolled?

  I’d barely settled into the welcome routine of my second semester at school when I found myself packing my belongings for the return home, feeling as if the floor had opened beneath me, every essential support crumbled to dust, nothing remaining on which to support my weight. My entire future had vanished–vaporized like a stolen dream. Snatched away in an unforgiving instant.

  Once more, I found myself regurgitated back to the farm. There was little comfort in returning to the place where I’d lived my entire life–the house, the land, and every other aspect of my existence snapping shut like a sprung trap–a strangling, suffocating snare holding me to everything I so vehemently longed to pass over and leave behind.

  “Why did you even let me go back in September if you knew we couldn’t afford it?”

  “I didn’t know for sure, Stevie. I suppose I was just hoping it would all work out. But we just don’t have the money now. Maybe in a year or–”

  “You can’t jerk me back and forth every time we have a dollar to spare,” I said, ashamed, even as I lashed the words at her, but unable to swallow the bitter taste of dissolution.

  “And if we’re so broke–then how is it you can afford to pay Mister Waterman to paint chicken coops and mend fences that don’t need mending? What makes that so much more important?”

  “I can’t run a farm alone. We have to eat don’t we? If Ash hadn’t–”

  “I’m not arguing that point,” I interrupted. “But why is he here every day? Why isn’t it enough to just let him plant the corn and then send him back to fixing cars? He’s only hanging around here to take your money. Just how much of my tuition did you hand over to him this week? Or last week–or every week since spring? For cripes sake, Mom, how could you give him–”

  “I haven’t paid him anything since the fall,” she stated flatly. “When I told him I couldn’t afford his help any longer we worked out an agreement.”

  “An agreement?” The words felt caustic in my mouth.

  “Yes, an agreement. Rather than a regular salary he’s agreed to accept a share of the yearly profits.”

  “A share of the profits? Can’t you see what he’s doing? He’s swindling you drier than dirt.”

  “I’ve heard enough, Stephanie,” she said, her tone at once taking on weight. “You’re upset and I understand that. You have reason to be. But I’ve had it up to here,” she flagged a hand to the middle of her forehead, “with your senseless prejudices against a decent man. And furthermore, I will not tolerate a child of mine reproaching me like I’m some kind of imbecile incapable of managing my own property. Because whether you want to accept it or not, the truth is if it hadn’t been for Ash Waterman we would’ve lost this farm.”

  In the following weeks I searched myself for answers that didn’t exist, unable to uncover even a single loophole in the selfish designs of fate. And with a sense of numb resignation I at last ceased to struggle against the unstoppable slide into surrender as the months piled up around me; tipping my chin to the mournful verity that my life wasn’t destined to be anything at all as I’d envisioned–as I’d hoped, as I’d dreamed. There would be no intriguing menu of exotic experiences composed in blessedly distant and colorful places, only this, an indentured prisoner of this miserable little farm.

  The afternoon felt thick and sticky with heat, the hours dragging past as though crawling through syrup. Half-propped, half-splayed across the porch swing like a swatted insect, I rocked myself slowly with an outstretched leg, the minimal effort rewarding me with a weak stir of air–just enough relief to keep from combusting into flames or melting into an oily pool of flesh, blood, and bones.

  My breathing moved in and out on a shallow tide, and
even as my senses lay quietly dull and aching, I could clearly smell the fresh acrid scent of marigolds spilling from the flower boxes lined along the porch rail–the familiar perfume of the jaunty blooms sweeping through my mind on a wave of remembrance.

  Pages of my life flipped in random chapters beneath the heaviness pressing over my eyelids like piled stones ... me and Eleanor picking Mom’s flowers–defrocking them of their petals under the porch; gathering armfuls of immature corn, stripping the husks and savoring the raw sweetness where we hid nestled like thieves within the sheltering stalks in the field; bickering over what flavor ice cream we wanted Mom to make until the skirmish reached the proportions of war and she’d threatened not to make any at all; whispering late at night in our matching twin beds; searching for beach roses and purple thistle along the shore; Jake…clinging to his shoulders, the scent of his skin, dancing, touching. Eleanor and Cal. Her broken body, lifeless and bloated in the shallow water ...

  A car engine rumbled to life in the driveway, jarring me upright. Ash. Good. He was finished for the day.

  I knew I should’ve gotten up then and gone in to help Mom prepare supper, but instead I continued the gentle rocking motion of the swing guided by the idle direction of my extended leg. It was too hot to cook. All I really felt like having was a tuna fish sandwich washed down with a tall glass of ice water. Though maybe I didn’t even want that. I didn’t really know what I wanted. Not that it mattered. Everything always turned out the same anyway–yesterday, today, tomorrow–whether a tuna sandwich or an entire portion of a person’s life, it was all the same.

  “What’s Ash doing messing around with Daddy’s car?” I confronted Mom one morning, slamming in through the kitchen door after I’d finished milking Gertrude, having noticed that my father’s prized DeSoto, which had been parked and covered with a heavy canvas cloth in the side yard since his death, had been pulled into the barn, the hood open for surgery; sparkplugs, hoses, and various organs laid out on a nearby work table.