Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “Well, my goodness, that’s wonderful, Stevie,” Mom said with a genuine dose of enthusiasm.

  “Wonderful? I can’t write an advice column. Callicoon doesn’t need an advice column. That’s why people go to Tootie’s diner.”

  “But I thought you said you suggested it to him during your interview.”

  “I suggested a lot of things. I didn’t expect him to actually go for any of them. Especially not an advice column.”

  “I think it sounds like fun. And besides, it means you’ll be working on the newspaper. It’s a good start. Why, half the people in this town would–”

  “Hold it, Mom, you can’t tell anyone about me being Aunt Phoebe. Not a word. Especially not to Ash.”

  “Well, of course not,” she said, clearly insulted by my thinly veiled insinuation that she was a blabbermouth. “Who would ever ask for advice if they knew you were Aunt Phoebe?”

  “Touché’.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I suppose,” I said, just then catching sight of Ash’s blond head through the kitchen window returning from the barn.

  “Not a word, Mom.” I squeezed her arm for emphasis.

  “We can tell him that you’ll be writing for the newspaper can’t we?”

  “Alright, but that’s it.

  The Callicoon Gazette didn’t receive a real letter addressed to Aunt Phoebe for over two weeks. Up until then it was Mr. Saxon’s suggestion that I fill the column’s otherwise blank space with letters I’d made up myself. “Just until our readers catch on,” he said.

  When an authentic letter did at last arrive in my cubbyhole at the newspaper office, some immediate and indefinable something rocketed through my limbs with the force of a cannon shot–near delirious joy barely contained. This was it, I’d broken ground. From this moment on, troubled readers would send me letters detailing their problems and heartaches and I in turn would befriend and encourage them in the guise of the ever wise and sensible Aunt Phoebe.

  My fingers trembled with nervous excitement as I turned the all-important letter over in my hand, ever so carefully slicing the envelope open and sliding out the thin sheet of paper contained inside.

  Dear Aunt Phoebe,

  How come there are no bald American Indians?

  An interested reader

  I felt my jaw quiver and drop in startled disbelief. Just what kind of a stupid joke was this? Not only was the inquiry ridiculous, but the letter failed to actually request advice. (Not to mention that I hadn’t a clue as to the answer of the question.) And if not for the fact it was the first and only correspondence I had yet and possibly ever might receive for print in Aunt Phoebe’s anemic column, I might’ve responded to the ridiculous missive by dropping it into the waste basket under my desk where it belonged. Instead, I did my best to answer it.

  Incredibly, more letters did arrive in the days following, bringing a diverse range of questions to my desk. Thus beginning what I soon discovered to be the rather grim business of offering advice in print.

  What suggestions do you have for preventing foot rot in feeder cattle? Do you answer questions about sex in the newspaper–can they be traced? If not, I have hundreds. Will I catch any diseases from letting my dog sleep on the bed? Isn’t there any other way to attract a cute boy’s attention without getting naked?

  It was with every scrap and particle of optimism I could muster that I spent my days at the newspaper plucking morsels resembling of wisdom from my brain, making every effort to come up with intelligent answers to ridiculous questions in the hope that one day the reading public would start to take Aunt Phoebe seriously.

  And while I recalled and most often still held to my mother’s childhood recommendation to Eleanor and me that we avoid the temptation to offer advice, even when it was asked for; since most often the thing people really wanted was agreement with decisions and conclusions they’d already reached on their own; only now protected under the persona of Aunt Phoebe, I took on a radically different attitude. Because if someone in Callicoon intended to take the time to compose a letter seeking my advice I was prepared to give it to them head-on and in abundance. I only prayed that the opportunity to showcase Aunt Phoebe’s good sense came by the bushel basket before Mr. Saxon grew disillusioned with waiting for my virgin column to catch on.

  What I really needed was a single, honest to God, gut wrenching, heart breaking, earth shattering, life-changing question–followed then by several dozen more.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “I’ve got to go and see Smyrna,” was the first thing my mother said when I walked through the door.

  I dropped my purse on the kitchen table with a dull thwack just as my eyes caught sight of the old black suitcase waiting in the hallway–the same one Eleanor and I had always packed for our summer vacations on Long Island.

  My eyes winged across the room to where my mother stood beside the sink, the grim set of her mouth and veiled expression lending a certain weight to her announcement that hadn’t come across in her words.

  “Where is she? Why isn’t she coming here?”

  “I got a call today, Stevie. She’s in the hospital. Apparently she’s had some sort of breakdown.

  “There’s nothing for you to worry about. I shouldn’t be gone long and Ash will move back to his room in town. It wouldn’t be right for him to stay out here alone with you–not with the way people like to spread gossip like manure. He’ll still come out every day to take care of things though.”

  She flew through her monologue without pause, explaining her plans for the next few days, the rehearsed sounding cadence of her speech an indication that she’d been shuffling back and forth through her apprehensions all day–most likely ever since receiving the call.

  “Shouldn’t I come with you? Where’s the hospital?”

  “No, there’s no point,” her reply rapid and certain as a fired shot. “I’m only going to New York and someone should be here to keep an eye on everything. Besides, you’ve just started your job and–oh, here’s Ash now,” she interrupted herself, hurriedly grabbing her coat from where it lay folded over a kitchen chair. “He offered to drive me to the train station.”

  “Right now?” In the space of five minutes she was rushing out the very door I’d only just come through.

  “It’s the last train tonight. I’ll see you in a few days,” she said, offering me a fleeting kiss on the cheek. “Be a good girl.”

  “Be a good girl?” I repeated to her back as she hastened across the yard to Ash’s waiting car; amused if nothing else, by my mother’s consistency.

  For several days now I’d dragged around the increasingly dismal certitude like a rotting body on a chain–the conviction that Aunt Phoebe was imminently doomed and destined for burial before long. In recent weeks Mr. Saxon had arrived at the decision to change my column from a daily feature to Sundays only. Apparently, like me, any previous optimism he might’ve had that the column was ready to take-off to the skies had taken a nosedive once the fleeting promise of incoming mail had dried up like an ill-conceived fad. All of which meant that with barely a handful of printable inquiries appearing in Aunt Phoebe’s mailbox, my only foreseeable recourse was a reluctant return to fabricating intriguing dilemmas and engaging matters of the heart in order to fill my allotted space.

  Except by now I’d all but exhausted my mental storehouse of tall tales and appropriate drama. And if the flux of incoming mail was any true indicator, then by all appearances Callicoon’s own were doing just fine taking care of their private business without the meddlesome aid of Aunt Phoebe.

  Whatever the reasoning, I felt the palpable threat of impending conclusion to Aunt Phoebe’s fledgling career snapping at my heels, warning that unless something changed I would soon be tacking THE END onto my final column. In the meantime, until the death knell actually sounded, I valiantly continued to drive into town each morning, retrieving any letters that might’ve arrived and returning to the farm where I then attempted to
piece together enough for the Sunday edition of the newspaper. Now, with my mother gone and the house free of everyday distractions, I had abundant time to attend to Aunt Phoebe and anything her handful of readers chose to throw my way.

  I never would’ve anticipated that in the end I would actually find the ominous quiet of the empty house more of a diversion than a beneficial aid to concentration. Standing at the window, absently gnawing the eraser on my pencil, I watched Ash passing back and forth between chores. Several times I’d seen his gaze drift up toward the house and I wondered guiltily if I should’ve offered him a sandwich or something for lunch as my mother would’ve done had she been home.

  But no, with Mom away it was best to avoid being alone with him. Not because I felt threatened by him in any way, but rather it was the sense of uncertainty that had come to settle between us. Defying explanation, it was simply there–whether talking, or laughing, or working together–there was an air of restlessness I didn’t know what to do with or even how to ignore. And no matter which angle I examined it from, my conclusions remained the same, assuring it was altogether best to leave him to do his own work while I stayed inside and struggled over my own.

  My eyes flew open with a start. The last thing I remembered, I’d been sitting with my feet propped up on the couch rewording my response to a question about whether it was proper to kiss a boy on the first date–a question which had obviously put me to sleep.

  The room was nearly dark and I surmised Ash had already gone for the day. Yesterday he’d called a brief good-bye through the back door to let me know he was leaving. But if he’d done the same today I undoubtedly hadn’t heard him on account of my unanticipated nap.

  I sat for a long while unwilling to stir, wishing I could shake loose from the atmosphere of cold gloom settled around me, wondering precisely what I was supposed to do with the remainder of the evening looming before me in an unwelcome invitation.

  I stood in the kitchen, the linoleum pressing like cold water stones against the soles of my stocking feet; feeling the beginning pangs of hunger, but knowing it unlikely I’d even summon the necessary energy to prepare supper for myself. Instead, reaching for the kettle on the stove, filling it with water to boil for tea.

  Had the rooster clock on the wall opposite always ticked as loudly as it did now? I couldn’t remember. Everything was so quiet. So terribly, depressingly, quiet.

  The kettle hissed, steam forcing its way through the narrow spout. I lifted it from the flame, grateful for even this minor distraction.

  Returned to the living room, I reached for my notepad. I’d squandered an entire day fidgeting over one silly question and the time had come to just answer it. It wasn’t as though the letter was especially deep or complicated, it was simply that with so few seekers of Aunt Phoebe’s sage advice, those letters which did arrive in turn took on momentous importance–every published reply essentially required to carry the weight of all those responses I hadn’t been called upon to give.

  The question had been uncomplicated enough: Is it proper to kiss a boy on the first date?” Okay then, all I really needed to do was force myself to think like Aunt Phoebe and not Stephanie Burke.

  Me: Only if the movie was good.

  Aunt Phoebe: No, absolutely not.

  Me: It’s like dessert–one little taste won’t spoil your whole diet.

  Aunt Phoebe: No, absolutely not.

  Me: If you need to ask you probably shouldn’t bother.

  Aunt Phoebe: No, absolutely not.

  And incredibly, as I trooped through this relatively mindless conversation in my head, the answer to the problem, my problem, was right there, stark naked and staring back like headlights slicing through the dark–Aunt Phoebe was an impossibly boring prude. I’d been so determined to be Aunt Phoebe I’d lost sight of the fact that she was me, and not the other way around. No one wanted advice from a humorless drudge. Besides which, wasn’t an advice column supposed to be as entertaining as it was helpful? Before I allowed Aunt Phoebe to dig the hole for her own grave, didn’t I owe it to her to try and avert a burial?

  My hand froze in mid-sentence–all at once aware of the distinct sound of knocking at the back door. I certainly wasn’t expecting company. We rarely did. People didn’t just drop by all the way out here, and definitely not on frigid winter evenings.

  I hesitated, listening, fingers clamping my pen like an improbable shield. There was another insistent rap and I pulled myself up, approaching the door with a sense of trepidation taking on weight with every step.

  “Ash?” I opened the door. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

  “Have you eaten supper?”

  “No … not yet.”

  “Good,” he said extending a cardboard carton.

  “Trixie’s burger city?” I read the name printed in bold script on the side of the box.

  “Yeah, tonight was the grand opening. It’s out on route 9. You were sleeping when I came in to ask if you wanted to drive over there with me.”

  “Oh … well, thanks,” I said, my hand still on the door; gripping the knob like a brace.

  “Is it all right if I come in for a few minutes? I promised your mother I’d check on the furnace once or twice while she’s gone. She thought it was sounding peculiar.”

  “I haven’t noticed anything different, but I remember she said something about it a couple days ago. I don’t know though, as far as I can tell it’s always sounded that way–kind’ve like a freight train coming through the walls.”

  He chuckled then disappeared down the steps descending to the basement, returning a few minutes later.

  “Everything looks alright but I should wait until it comes on so I can hear it for myself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did you try it?” he asked, gesturing toward the carton I’d abandoned on the counter. “They put some kind of special sauce on the burgers. It’s pretty good.”

  Whatever appetite I’d had earlier had picked-up and gone, but I nevertheless sat at the table and unfolded the paper wrapped burger, not wanting to appear ungrateful in the face of his thoughtfulness.

  “Umm, this is good,” I offered, taking another purposely-delicate bite, then, “Would you like a beer or something?”

  “Sure, thanks. I’ll help myself.” He opened the door of the Frigidaire. “I must’ve eaten at least a half dozen of those myself,” he said, popping off the bottle cap into his hand.

  “I didn’t figure you as the burger type,” I replied, having no idea what I was saying, merely forming words to keep the air lying between us comfortably occupied.

  “Isn’t everyone the burger type? Besides, Trixie’s a friend of mine. I felt obligated to overindulge otherwise she would’ve been disappointed.”

  “Hum, I can understand that. Eating normal portions is rather insulting. There’s nothing more flattering than gluttony,” I said, my brain simultaneously recording this newly exposed information that Ash had a woman friend.

  “Nicely put.”

  I nibbled daintily on a French fry while Ash stood alongside the kitchen counter, seemingly intent on studying the condensation frosting the brown glass of his beer bottle. Any other time I would’ve stuffed three or four of the potato sticks into my mouth at once, but given Ash’s presence and the occasional glance he threw in my direction I felt inclined to proffer at least some semblance of good manners.

  “You really do like it quiet, don’t you?” he said, interrupting a brief stretch of silence dragging past.

  “What?”

  “The house. It’s really quiet in here.”

  “I was working on some stuff for the newspaper and I needed to concentrate.”

  “Oh … so what’ve you been doing to keep busy while the hen’s away from the roost?”

  “Not much actually,” I shrugged, for no particular reason noting the shock of blond hair strayed across his forehead like an errant bough. “This is Callicoon, remember?”

  “I don’t know, wh
en I was your age there always seemed to be something going on somewhere.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let me think ... hum ... ” His face colored, lips creeping into a sheepish grin. “Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was getting divorced is all.”

  “Oh.”

  As if on cue, the furnace right then roared to life, offering a timely escape from the awkward turn in conversation.

  “There it goes now.” He set the bottle sharply on the counter. “I’ll just run down and check that.”

  Fingering the radio dial, I rapidly considered whether or not to turn it on. On one hand it appeared too calculated … but, on the other there was the comment he’d made about it being so quiet. Too quiet. Unnaturally, freakishly quiet, isn’t that what he’d meant?

  I pushed the debate back and forth inside my head as though deciding the fate of humankind–all at once pausing with the immediate recollection of what it was I’d been doing at the moment of Ash’s arrival. With a single all-encompassing sweep, my eyes calculated the evidence of Aunt Phoebe’s existence–the notebook lying open on the couch, several copies of my column that I’d snipped from previous editions of the newspaper and affixed together with a paperclip, the lone letter unfolded on the table. With the swift moving impetus of a tornado strength whirlwind, I raked the telltale assemblage together like scattered leaves–dropped to my knees beside the couch and shoved the entire pile underneath and out of sight.

  “Is everything alright?” Ash inquired from the doorway, his voice snapping me to my feet with a startled leap. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing … nothing’s wrong. I dropped something–an earring.”

  “Well here, turn on the light over there,” he said, moving towards the lamp on a nearby table.

  “No, never mind, it’s okay. I’ll find it tomorrow.”