Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  He shrugged. “I think the furnace is fine. I didn’t hear anything unusual while it was running, but your mother might want to call the serviceman out and have it cleaned when she gets back. It looks like it’s been awhile.”

  I nodded, hoping he didn’t intend to leave just yet.

  “So, if you don’t need anything, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Alright.” I swallowed in a bid to hide my disappointment.

  “Goodnight.” He walked toward the kitchen.

  “Goodnight, and thanks for supper.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied opening the door, then, “Hey, it’s snowing like the devil out here.”

  “Is it?” I ran to the door. “Oh, how pretty!” A profusion of tiny snowflakes swirled around the doorway.

  “Pretty right now, but very ugly tomorrow if it snows all night and I end up having to spend half the day shoveling the driveway.”

  “No worries. If that should happen I’ll milk Gertrude for you then.”

  “You’re an angel,” he laughed, stepping out into the whirl of white as I closed the door behind him.

  I glanced up at the ugly rooster clock. Just past eight o’clock. I’d already retired Aunt Phoebe for the night and felt no urge to call her back. I might just as well go up to bed. At least then I’d be more inclined to get up early and help Ash shovel snow.

  There was a rap at the door and I darted to open it.

  “Forget your car keys?”

  “No, I forgot to bring a car that runs.”

  “What?” I pulled the door wide enough for him to step inside.

  “It won’t start. It’s been a real problem lately with this cold weather. If I had a flashlight I could poke around under the hood … or maybe I can just try it again in a couple minutes …”

  “Sure. Come in and I’ll see if we have a flashlight around someplace.”

  “You don’t.”

  “I don’t?” I lifted an eyebrow.

  “I needed one last week and the only one your mother managed to find needed batteries.”

  “Oh. Well you can still come in and wait if you want.”

  “Only if you’re sure you don’t mind,” he said, reaching around and closing the door behind him.

  “You’ll just have to stay here tonight,” I said when he returned from his second unsuccessful attempt to start the car. “You can sleep in the den. Everything’s still set up in there.”

  “I’d better not. Your mother–”

  “This is my home too. I don’t see what the big deal is anyway. She worries too much about what other people think.”

  “Maybe it’s not other people she’s worried about,” he grinned wickedly.

  “You can’t be referring to yourself. She considers you above reproach.” I glanced away quickly; intent on ignoring the crackling sensation flashing along my spine like misfiring sparks from a runaway electric current.

  “I hope she’s right,” he said, taking off his coat.

  “What do you mean, you hope?”

  “I haven’t been tested yet.”

  Pretending I hadn’t heard, I returned to the living room and promptly switched on the radio before the quiet had a chance to work itself between us.

  “You know, Ash, I was just thinking. How do you expect to shovel snow tomorrow when you still have that thing on your arm?” I knew he had at least two more weeks before the cast was due to come off.

  “It’s healed by now,” he shrugged. “It’ll just be awkward.”

  “Oh, here, listen–it’s the weather report.”

  “ ... clear and cold with possible snow flurries after midnight.”

  “That’s the kind of job I should have,” I said once the conspicuously erroneous forecast had concluded. “Fabricating weather reports.”

  “Oh I don’t know, you have a pretty good job now. In fact, I’d think that giving advice must be a lot like predicting the weather.”

  I felt something sharp and flaming pummel straight through the floor of my stomach. “She told you?”

  “She? Told me what?”

  “My mother–about the column,” I said, thoroughly stunned. I never would’ve believed she would betray me. “I told her it was confidential.”

  “Stevie, your mother didn’t tell me anything.”

  “Okay, then how did you know?”

  “You mean how did I happen to figure out the connection between the incredible coincidence of your starting a job at the newspaper and the simultaneous appearance of Aunt Harriet’s–”

  “Aunt Phoebe.”

  “Aunt Phoebe’s column,” he corrected, adding, “There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m not ashamed.”

  “Then you’re angry.”

  “I am not. It’s just that if everyone knows I’m Aunt Phoebe it’s little wonder I’m not getting any letters.”

  “I’m sorry I said anything,” he sighed. “And everyone doesn’t know. I only guessed because I knew about you getting a job at the paper. It wasn’t that difficult, Stevie, one and one generally equals two.”

  “You’re telling the truth?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I sat on the couch deliberating over the believability of his explanation. “Well, have you read it then?”

  “From day one.”

  “Don’t tease.”

  “I’m not. And let’s face it, what else is there to read in that paper?”

  “How complimentary.”

  “Lighten up. I’m just pulling your leg.”

  “So, what do you think?” I finally managed to ask. Because as curious as I was to gather his opinion, I still had to force myself to voice the question.

  “Pretty good given the material you have to work with.” He paused. “Except maybe that thing about ...”

  “What?”

  “No, forget it. Your column’s very good.”

  “I want you to tell me, Ash. I’m a professional, I can handle criticism.”

  He paused, lifted a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching in denial of a grin. “All right then, if you really want to hear it–the thing about Indians not losing their hair was wrong.”

  “It most certainly was not. Indians don’t lose their hair,” I said, instantly bristling despite my recently vowed professional status.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Okay, fine, name me one bald-headed Indian.”

  “Lenny Miller.”

  “Lenny Miller?” I repeated, incredulous.

  “That’s right. We served together in Korea.”

  “Oh come on. You don’t expect me to believe that. And you could’ve made up a better name then Lenny Miller,” I laughed.

  “Tell that to his parents. He was a full-blooded Chickasaw Indian. His name was Lenny Miller and he was bald as a honeydew melon,” Ash insisted, grinning now.

  “Alright, I’ll let you have this one. It’s too ridiculous not to be true.”

  “I’m glad you’re convinced.”

  “Not convinced, but I’ll grant you a retraction anyway.”

  We fell into comfortable conversation, saying nothing in particular, my eyes hypnotically focused on the movements of his lips, noting their changing shape as he talked, smiled, or laughed.

  “Is something the matter?” he asked finally, breaking my trance.

  “No ... fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “You look tired. I’ll lock-up if you want to go up to bed.”

  “I guess I am a little tired,” I lied. “The cot’s still set up in the other room. I’ll just get you some extra blankets.”

  The light bulb in the hall closet had burned out months ago, and as I searched blindly for the blankets my mother stored there, I could hear Ash in the kitchen turning the deadbolt to lock the back door–then pulling the basement door shut. I pushed my weight against the profusion of coats and jackets, stretching to reach the trove of miscellaneous objects piled on the upper shelf, rifling amongst the imperceptible clutter
until my fingers eventually touched upon a folded square of thick scratchy wool.

  I tugged easily, loosening the collection banked above my head, sending a pair of gloves and a misshapen hat to the floor. The object of my intent, however, failed to budge.

  “Damn it,” I mumbled, yanking again with increased force–then jerking the stubborn blanket impatiently when it remained in place.

  It was an action I would very quickly regret–within seconds finding myself inescapably centered in the midst of an avalanche. I lurched backwards with a startled scream, but not in time to avoid being pummeled by ten years worth of encyclopedia sized Sears and Roebuck catalogs.

  “What the–” Ash instantly appeared; his eyes widening at the sight of me sprawled on the floor amid the tangle of wreckage.

  To my extreme mortification I started to cry.

  “You silly girl,” he said helping me to my feet. “You’re hurt.”

  I felt far more embarrassed than hurt, or at least I thought I did until I attempted to stand, a wave of dizziness rolling over me, spinning the insides of my head through a vortex of swirling black dots. I reached out, grasping Ash’s arm, barely aware of the droplets of sweat gathering at the edges of my hair.

  “Easy, Stevie, just take it easy. Here, sit down.” He helped me to the couch, the strong brace of his arm curved around my back. I blinked hard, forcibly suppressing the remainder of babyish tears back behind my eyes.

  “Stay right here. I’ll get some ice for that cut on your forehead.”

  I nodded slightly, unaware that I had a visible injury until he mentioned it. And it seemed he was back even before he’d left, carrying a handful of ice cubes wrapped in a dishtowel. He carefully pressed the frigid lump against my forehead, earning a startled wince.

  “It’ll feel better in a minute,” he assured, and I closed my eyes against the dull throb pulsing against the front of my skull like the tapping of a beakless woodpecker, waiting for the sensation of blessed numbness to set in.

  “Let me take a look,” he said, gently taking my chin in his fingers and turning my face towards the soft illumination of lamplight.

  As he examined the wound with his eyes my own gaze shifted a fraction, locating a focal point on his face, thinking from somewhere within a bleary detached fog that the little crook at the bridge of his nose was really quite intriguing ... and so close … close enough that had I stuck out my tongue the tip could’ve easily touched it.

  “It’s a nice size cut, but I don’t think you’ll need stitches,” he said, abruptly interrupting my drifting observations.

  “I used to think it was rather sinister, but a little bump like that can have a lot of character,” I mumbled, though I hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

  “Hum?” He tipped his head nearer, attempting to decipher my words.

  “The bump. It’s nice.”

  “Stevie,” he lifted my chin. “You’re not making sense. Look at me,” he insisted, staring into my eyes. “How are you feeling now? Any lightheadedness?”

  The throbbing at the front of my head had sunk to my temples, diminished to a dull ache. “No, it feels better. I’m all right.”

  He held up his hand in front of me. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  I stared at his three extended fingers for an expectant moment before answering. “Which hand? The one on the right or the one on the left?”

  His mouth fell open and I found myself laughing at his stultified expression.

  “Just kidding. Three.”

  “Very amusing,” he said, though his tone suggested he was not.

  “You’d better hold this on there a little longer.” He handed me the knotted cloth of melting ice. “It’s still bleeding a little. I’ll pick up that stuff from the closet.”

  “I can do it.”

  “No, you’d better stay still a minute or two longer. I’ll just pile it out of the way and you can do something with it tomorrow.”

  I accepted his offer easily, nodding my agreement since I didn’t quite feel up to tackling the mess now anyway.

  He returned promptly, once more checking the wound on my head.

  “I’m fine,” I said, deliberate in keeping my eyes averted; the sobering return of my senses having brought a surge of discomfort rushing in with his continued attentions.

  “At least you’re getting some color back in your face,” he said. “Didn’t anyone ever warn you that an over-loaded closet can be as lethal as a loaded gun?”

  “That mess is my mother’s doings. She shouldn’t be allowed to own a closet. She abuses the privilege.”

  “Aren’t we all like that?”

  “Maybe, but she should throw most of that junk away,” I said, trying to ignore away the fuzzy wad of cotton fog clouding my thinking process.

  “I think I’d just shove it back into the closet and forget about it.”

  “Until next time.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, until next time.”

  I listened to the sounds of Ash preparing for bed–brushing his teeth in the bathroom down the hall, the toilet flushing–holding my breath until I heard the heavy tread of his footsteps descending the stairs. A moment later recognizing the squeak of the cot shifting as it took his weight, and then quiet

  I forced my lids closed, shutting out the low glint of outside light, knowing that I needed to at least try and claim sleep. In a few more hours there would be snow piled up and waiting to be shoveled, because despite Ash’s confident assurance, I strongly doubted it was a chore he should be attempting before his cast had been properly removed.

  And yet still, my mind refused the order to fade to blank, a gently bobbing succession of pictures sliding across my mind in a gauzy replay of the evening. Ash pressing ice against my injured head. Holding my chin with his fingers–remarkably gentle despite the callused roughness of his hands. His eyes watching me thoughtfully from behind a steady gaze of obvious concern.

  And I assured myself that the confused and increasingly fanciful imaginings creeping along the edges of my thoughts like a band of determined thieves were merely the drunken ramblings sired by an overtired mind, and in the brightened sobriety of morning my unfounded yearnings would altogether disintegrate. Much like the snow as it warmed to melting slush in the sunlight.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  I saw my mother walking slowly toward me along the platform and I lifted a hand, giving a short wave in the air. She noticed me then and I quickened my stride, at once concerned by the frailty of her appearance; her pallor accentuated to the proportions of illness under the bleary artificial lights of the train station.

  “Stevie–what happened to your head?” was her initial greeting.

  “Oh, that … I was caught in the middle of a catalog avalanche.”

  “You what?” There was an air of tired confusion about her, as though some inside curtain had been drawn and now kept her from registering the otherwise simple content of my words.

  I reached for her bag. “I’ll tell you about it on the way home,” I said, though I was far more anxious for details of her trip, because if appearances were to be judged, something hadn’t gone well.

  “I expected Aunt Smyrna to be with you,” I said, backing the car from its parking space.

  “She’ll be there a few more days–maybe longer if her doctor decides it’s necessary.”

  “What’s going on? Is she all right?” I threw my mother a glance, then returned my eyes to the road. Her face was oddly vacant–a blank page neither transparent nor opaque, merely unreadable–the heaviness in her voice the sole betrayer of the depths of her concern. “What exactly is it that’s wrong?”

  “I think she’s finally divorcing Calvin. She wouldn’t say for sure, just that she realizes maybe it’s time.”

  She paused at length before continuing. “She had an emotional breakdown, Stevie. She’s in a psychiatric hospital.”

  “Did she say anything else about Uncle Cal–besides the divorce? Did he go see her in the
hospital?”

  She nodded, clearly without answers herself. “No, but I don’t think she’s telling me everything. He’s betrayed her trust a hundred times over but she pretends not to see it. Maybe that’s what happens when you allow someone to take your self-respect. After a while you just forget who you are.”

  Not for the first time, I wrestled with the question of whether the moment had come to tell my mother the truth. Clearly my alliance with Aunt Smyrna was coming to a close, if not already over. And now I was left on my own with a secret I’d never cared to own; dangerously balanced on the threshold of the past, but just as it had always been, wholly uncertain how to step forward without losing my footing and plummeting over the edge myself.

  With intuitive trepidation–that instinctive reaction to the receipt of late night and early morning calls–I answered the ringing telephone while Mom stirred the skillet of scrambled eggs cooking on the stove. And even before I spoke into the mouthpiece and heard the voice on the other end of the line, I felt an eerie trail of ghostly pinpricks tracking along the back of my neck in a distinct premonition of ruin.

  “It’s someone for you, Mom,” I said, my hand already shaking as I handed her the phone. “He says he’s a police officer from Long Island.”

  I stood silently watching as the color drained from her face, her lips pinched and white, mouthing an emotionless string of responses to whatever news she was receiving.

  “Yes. No … she never mentioned it–nothing like that. I don’t know when she left the hospital. She promised to call but I haven’t heard from her. Are you certain? I see. Fine, I’ll expect a call from you in the next few days then. Yes, I understand ... I will if I hear anything.”

  She hung up the phone, keeping her back turned toward me, her movements all at once jerky and crude like the manipulations of an amateur puppeteer. “Finish up these eggs, will you, Stevie. I’m going upstairs for a little while.”

  “Mom–”

  “Not now. Just give me a little time, alright.”

  I wouldn’t learn the details of the call until later that afternoon when my mother finally opened her bedroom door and came downstairs to find me where I’d been sitting on the porch since morning; attempting to read a book I’d started weeks earlier though my mind refused to settle.