Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “Oh, the car ... well, he thinks he might be able to get it running,” she said, wiping crumbs from the counter where she’d been buttering toast.

  “Really? What for?” The cold taste of dread swelled up from the pit of my stomach, my mouth filling with the rotten taste of swamp water. She was going to give him Daddy’s car. He’d probably had his eye on it from the first day he’d come here.

  She turned to face me, smiling sheepishly. “It was going to be a surprise, but–well, I thought you might want to drive it.”

  “Me? Drive Daddy’s car?” Definitely not what I’d expected. “But, I can’t drive.”

  “Ash said he’d teach you.”

  “Ash? Ash wants to teach me to drive? No, I can’t. I don’t–”

  “Stevie, one of us should be able to drive a car. It’s just not right to always depend on friends and neighbors for rides to Church and the store all the time. What if there’s some sort of emergency and–”

  “I’m not saying I don’t want to learn, but can’t someone besides Ash teach me?”

  “Such as?” she asked, crossing her arms, her lips twitching along the edges of a smile as she defied me to draft another volunteer. “I don’t pretend to understand your prejudices against Ash–God knows I don’t–but for heaven’s sakes, girl, how long can it possibly take to learn how to drive? Your father taught Eleanor in a day.”

  “Geez, Mom, are you kidding? Eleanor’s idea of driving was to run over anything that popped up in front of her. The way I remember it, we lost quite a few chickens and half a dozen flower beds in a span of seconds.”

  “Now who’s exaggerating?” she laughed.

  I turned serious. “I just don’t think I could tolerate sitting alone with him in a car.”

  “Stephanie, you’re being ridiculous. Let him show you the basics and then you can practice by yourself in the driveway.”

  “I’ll only practice after he goes home in the afternoon.”

  She shook her head in barely concealed exasperation. “Fine. Whenever you want. Just learn to drive the car.”

  “It might sound complicated at first, but you’ll see it really isn’t. You’ll just might need to concentrate a little harder at first until you get the hang of it. It’ll become second nature before you know it,” Ash explained from the passenger side of the front seat.

  “Alright,” I nodded, not quite certain which was making me more nervous–the large powerful automobile under my control, or the too close proximity of the man sitting beside me.

  “Listen to the engine–try and feel it.”

  I nodded again though I wasn’t quite certain how one went about feeling an engine.

  “Just relax. Now turn the key and start the car.”

  I did as he said, turning the key and holding it there; staring at the hard white knobs of my knuckles gripping the steering wheel like a mouthful of teeth.

  His hand shot out in immediate response to the hideous sound of forced friction whining hard from under the hood. “Let go–take your hand off the key–you’re grinding it.”

  I felt my face flush hot with an immediate sweep of embarrassment as I bit down hard on the corner of my lip.

  “Okay, you have three pedals on the floor–brake, gas, clutch,” he said, patiently continuing with his explanation of the driving process as if altogether unaware of my flaming state of humiliation.

  I nodded.

  “Do you remember what I said about the shift here on the column?”

  Another nod.

  “All right. Good. Try and stay focused. Nice and easy.”

  Reclaiming my composure and intent on demonstrating to Ash Waterman that I did possess at least some semblance of skill, I pressed down gingerly on the gas pedal, sending the car lurching forward–the unexpected vigor of the vehicle’s response sending my reflexes into a brake stomping panic.

  “Easy, easy,” he said, maintaining his placid smile despite an obvious tensing along his jaw.

  “Gas. Lightly. Don’t slam your foot on the pedal.”

  “I didn’t slam my foot on it. I’m just not used to it,” I bristled, careful then to slide my foot from brake to gas pedal with concentrated ease.

  “Good, very good.”

  He suggested I head down the long driveway until I’d reached the highway, where he then instructed me to turn the car around and return to the house. Other than a severe case of over-steering and a few irksome episodes when Ash felt compelled to grab the wheel (claiming I’d been headed for imminent collusion with a clump of bushes or aimed for the ditch paralleling the driveway), the lesson didn’t go nearly as far in the direction of bad as I’d anticipated.

  Newly confident and intent on proving my capabilities, I concentrated on the synchronization of clutch and shift like a surgeon performing lifesaving surgery, holding the wheel steady despite an occasional lapse into confusion as to the identity and location of the trio of pedals under my feet.

  “They just don’t seem to be in the right place.”

  Ash chuckled at my exasperation. “After you’ve been driving for awhile you won’t even have to think about where they are, you’ll just know.”

  “I’m not sure if I believe that or not. Right now such a concept seems impossible.”

  “Just keep listening to the engine. It’ll tell you everything you need to know. Do you feel it getting ready to shift? Okay, now–shift now.”

  For no explanation I might later fathom, this otherwise simple instruction sent all logic careening headlong into a towering wall of confusion–my foot stomping down on what I thought to be the clutch, but which clearly was not–the car lurching forward with a sickening whine before stalling dead. Wholly unprepared for the abrupt stop, Ash propelled forward, his head hitting against the windshield with a loud smack.

  “Damn it. What are you doing? You were supposed to step on the clutch. You have to pay attention, Stevie.”

  “I certainly didn’t do it on purpose,” I said, instantly bristling at his tone. And though he hadn’t exactly yelled at me–was likely just reacting to the unpleasant sensation of having his head slapped against the glass like a swatted fly–my eyes burned with angry tears. “I told you I never drove a car before. You don’t have to be so nasty.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. But you were doing fine before. It just seems like you’re not paying attention now.”

  “Yes I am. I just got confused.”

  “Okay, forget it. Just go ahead and start the car.”

  I turned the key, this time being certain to release it the moment the engine roared to life.

  He pointed ahead to where the driveway forked. “Go to the right this time.”

  The car rolled forward slowly, nearly coasting, the engine’s low growl lending the only indication that the vehicle was even running.

  “You have to go a little faster so you can practice shifting.”

  Had he read my mind? It’d only just occurred to me that if I kept the car moving slow enough there’d be no requirement to shift at all.

  “You’re over-steering, Stevie–don’t seesaw the wheel back and forth like that.”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “Alright, shift, now–shift.”

  I stared down at my feet, determined to locate the correct pedal this time and not make the same mistake twice.

  “Watch the road.” He grabbed the wheel.

  “I am! Stop doing that.”

  “We almost went in the ditch.”

  I slammed my foot hard on the brake.

  “What did you do that for?”

  “I can’t drive if you’re going to yell at me like that,” I glared, inwardly cringing when his head grazed the windshield, a mere fraction of an inch preventing him from smacking into the glass a second time.

  He stared at me clearly dumbfounded. “I’m not yelling. I’m just telling you what you’re doing wrong. That’s how you lear–”

  “You’re yelling.” I glared at him. “And, you know, I have n
o idea what made me think you weren’t such a jerk anymore, but I was dead wrong. You’re still a jerk. A know-it-all fat head jerk.”

  I yanked hard on the door handle, leaping out before he’d had the chance to register my insult. The car rolled forward slowly, no longer held motionless by a foot on the brake.

  “What’re you doing?” he called out, quickly sliding into the driver’s seat and braking the automobile.

  “I’ll never get in a car with you again,” I shot back over my shoulder, holding to my flagging dignity as I strode along the driveway toward the house like Grand Marshall in an invisible parade.

  “You know what your problem is, Stephanie Burke?” he poked his head out the window as the car crept up alongside me.

  Keeping my eyes trained straight ahead, I quickened my pace accordingly, wishing I possessed the power to blink him away, and if not that, then at least transport myself a million miles away from him now and forever.

  “You have a chip on your shoulder the size of Oklahoma.”

  His words halted my steps as though each was a spike driven through my feet. I swung around to face him. He didn’t so much appear angry as he did amused, his expression serving to raise the temperature of my irritation several degrees higher.

  “My problem, Mister Waterman, is you–you and the pain you are in my ass,” I hissed, and it was only with the monumental effort that I held myself back from punching him square in his crooked nose.

  Incredibly, he laughed in response. And I spun on my heel, sharp enough to raise the dust, refusing to look back until I’d reached the house, the sound of his amusement still echoing in my ears as I slammed the screen door hard enough to snap him in half had he only been standing there.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  With a firm resolve rooted in the foundations of some as yet undefined purpose I cared not think about or analyze right then, I diligently practiced driving every afternoon after Ash went home for the day. Until finally, after endless days and weeks of swerving, shifting, stalling, and swearing, I learned to drive.

  I’d expected–secretly hoped maybe–that my mother would share the news of my success with Ash when I passed my driving test without mishap, but if she had, he said nothing. Although why would he care either way. When had I ever given him reason to care?

  It was late in September, on an afternoon still warm with summer, that I was unceremoniously given the opportunity to make amends with Ash and demonstrate my newly acquired driving skills–duel occasions gracelessly colliding without warning or consent.

  I’d been taking down the wash–sheets and towels dried fresh and stiff after long hours waving in the sun–when I caught sight of my mother running toward me from across the field. She appeared as a mere speck in the distance, her bright yellow skirt floating up behind her in a canopy of flight. For several moments I stood watching in frowning puzzlement, until all at once–like a sobering pinch delivered to my brain–I recognized the urgency in her charge. And I’d instantly dropped the sheet I’d been folding into the laundry basket and dashed out to meet her.

  As she grew closer, I could clearly see the ashen shade of fear cloaking her face. “Hurry, come quick,” she called out. “It’s Ash–he’s hurt.”

  “Ash? What happened?”

  “The tractor,” she gasped between breaths. “The tractor flipped.”

  I felt the color drain from my face in one fluid sweep. “Is he dead?”

  “No–he–I told him to stay still until I could get help.” She placed a palm to her chest as if she might steady her breathing with the press of her fingertips.

  “His arm’s broken–I saw the bone.”

  “I’ll go back to the house and call Malcolm,” I said, struggling to think coherently past the swirling tide of immediate panic rising in my throat and washing into my mouth.

  “No, there isn’t time. Get the car–drive it out to the field and we’ll try and lift him in.”

  “But I–”

  “Hurry, Stevie. Get the car. You can drive him to the hospital. It’ll save time.”

  And as I sprinted off toward the house I heard her call out after me, “Bring towels–sheets–anything you can find that’s clean.”

  I shot the car across the yard like a marble launched from a slingshot, through the tall grass and onto the dirt road leading out to the cornfield. She said she’d seen his bone–or was it bones? Had she seen bones? Dust rose steadily, burning my eyes and coating my teeth and tongue with grit. There was no sign of Ash or the tractor, but I spotted my mother easily, her bright yellow skirt flagging my searching gaze even before I caught sight of her frantically waving arms a short distance up the sloping hill.

  The deep furrowed tractor ruts hindered me from going further and I slammed the car to a halt, leaping out with an armful of the same freshly laundered sheets I’d been unpinning from the clothesline when first interrupted by my mother’s frenetic summons.

  I saw Ash then–not comatose and strewn across the field in unmendable pieces as I’d feared–but instead, sitting on the ground with his back leaning up against the overturned tractor. He attempted a weak smile; his expression nowhere near effective in cloaking the pain running in heavy lines across his face.

  “Give me those.” I wordlessly handed my mother the linens, unable to shift my eyes away from the blood soaked arm of his shirt and the jagged edge of bone jutting out through his skin at a torturously unnatural angle.

  He grimaced, grasping a sharp intake of breath as Mom tore long strips from the fabric and deftly wrapped the wound, his face draining to an unnatural shade of gray under his suntan as she struggled to help him to his feet a few moments later.

  “Help me, Stevie. We need to get him to the car.”

  “I can ...” he mumbled.

  “No, let us help you. Just be gentle, Stevie. Put your arm across his back and lift up as best as you can without touching the wrapping. You’ll send him clear out of his skin if you so much as breathe on it.”

  I did as she instructed, feeling the sticky warmth of his blood against my arm and shoulder, trying to ignore its presence even as it seeped into the fabric of my blouse.

  His eyes closed then fluttered open as if startled from a dream as we struggled to pull him to his feet. And it was only after several awkward, but determined attempts, that we were finally able to half drag–half push him into the front seat of the waiting car, his eyes springing open once more as Mom and I lifted his legs with their heavy mud encrusted boots, folding them inside just enough to close the door.

  “Drop me off at the house. I’ll try and reach Dr Pinkle so he can meet you at the hospital.”

  From the backseat she placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be nervous, Stevie, just hurry. He’s lost a lot of blood and it’s likely he’s going into shock.”

  I shook my head, submerged too deep within my own state of panic to speak. Reaching the house Mom sprung out even before the car had fully stopped, slamming the door behind her with a force that easily betrayed her own fears. And I knew that for all her self-possessed composure she was just as terrified for Ash as I myself was.

  His eyes opened as the car jostled roughly over the rutted driveway and I swerved to avoid a pothole large enough to swallow an ocean liner.

  “You still haven’t learned not to swerve. How’d you ever get a license?” he said, trying for a grin that only just made it to the edges of his mouth.

  “Don’t you start with me, buster,” I replied, immensely grateful right then to hear the sound of his voice.

  “I wouldn’t dare. I don’t want to have to walk ...” his voice drifted away as his eyes closed again.

  Once we’d reached the smooth pavement of the highway I threw him a brief glance before trouncing my foot on the accelerator. His head hung askew against the back of the seat, a shock of blond hair falling over one eye. Damn it. I’d shifted a moment too soon. Gravely injured and barely conscious, even then he was capable of making me jumpy.

/>   I shot him another glance. Half of his face–one cheek and along the side of his nose–had been scraped raw, a paste of dirt and blood ingrained across his skin. A long gaping wound trailed the length of his neck facing me, slicing from his earlobe all the way down to the crest of his shoulder. I turned away, focusing my attention on the road to keep from retching; persistently unable to stomach the sight of blood, especially in conjunction with horrendous wounds.

  “It seems you’ve become a ... a good driver,” he said slowly, though his eyes remained closed.

  “I guess I remembered most of what you told me.”

  “I figured you would.”

  “Ash?”

  There was no response. My eyes flew toward him in alarm, calming only once I detected the steady rise and fall of his chest. Thank you, Jesus, he was still breathing.

  “I’m sorry I called you a pain in the ass. I didn’t really mean it–it’s just that you made me so mad.” Admittedly, I’d selected that particular opportunity to voice my apology on the assumption he was wavering in and out on the cusp of unconscious and so wholly unaware of my words, thus allowing myself a practice run.

  “Uh oh … there’s that word again.”

  I threw him a startled sideways glance.

  “I only hope that’s not the voice of pity because I’ve been in worse shape than this.”

  “No, it’s not. I wanted to say something before, but I ... well I guess extending apologies has never been one of my strong points.”

  “That’s a relief then. If it was pity I’d’ve known for sure I was pretty bad off.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’re a mess.”

  “Oh.”

  Hearing him respond coherently to my statements gave my spirits a necessary shift in a direction other than panic. “What did you mean when you said you’ve been in worse shape before?”

  “Umm ... I …” There was a long pause before he continued, as though struggling to relocate some particular thought he’d mislaid in a faraway room.

  “During the war. Ambushed. Broke my nose … ribs ...” His eyes closed, his voice clicking off in mid-sentence. Again I felt a rise of panic, my eyes darting from the road to his chest, calming only after I’d once more detected the telltale rhythm of his breathing.