Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  “It’s gone–that awful house is gone. There’s nothing left. It burned to the ground yesterday morning. They don’t have all the particulars yet so they can’t say what caused the fire–just that they’re not ruling out arson. The detective that’s been assigned to the investigation will call again once they have something more,” she paused, kneading her hands together in her lap. “I suppose what they really meant to say is that they’ll call us once they find her.”

  For the next several days we moved through our customary routines, silently holding to our separate, but identical prayers, hoping for the phone to ring, terrified that it would.

  Nearly two weeks had passed before the second call came. Long enough to fool ourselves into thinking that quite possibly there’d been some mistake. Some other house gone–someone else’s loved one tragically missing.

  “The remains were very badly burned. In many cases we can go by dental records as a means of identification, but in this instance … I’m sorry, but the body was too extensively damaged. You have to understand there’s a good chance we may never be able to identify who it was,” the detective explained carefully–kindly matter of fact.

  “We don’t know it’s her,” my mother said reaching for my hand, misinterpreting the tears coursing over my cheeks in parallel rivers. “It could be anyone, Stevie. A vagrant maybe. We don’t know for sure.”

  “No, Mom, that’s not–there’s something I have to tell you,” I choked past the words stacked like boulders in my throat, pausing only to reach for necessary breath, knowing that the time for disclosing secrets had fully arrived. “There’s something else–there’s something else I have to tell you.”

  I felt more than saw the depths of emotion unfolding within the margins of her stunned reaction as I unveiled the truth of that summer, visible pain and disbelief sinking between us like an irretrievable anchor. I told her about the affair between Cal and Eleanor–how I didn’t truly believe Eleanor understood the scope of what was happening, but had simply fallen in love with the idea of Cal’s devotion. And while I couldn’t bring myself to describe the details of the terrible night when I’d found them, I told her as much as I could, watching her face turn to stone when I explained how Eleanor had run away into the darkness, alone, no one moving to follow her.

  “Are you saying he hurt … killed her?” she said, her voice coming like a language I’d never heard, indecipherable as it was distant, defying any single category of emotion because it was all there knotted together.

  “No–I don’t know, Mom. He swore he never would’ve hurt her and I just … I wanted to believe he was telling the truth. There’s so many questions no one’s ever had the chance to ask, but he’s been missing. He’s been gone since it happened.”

  Her shoulders never stopped quaking as she clasped her hands together into a single fist, pressing it against her breastbone like a dagger.

  “Aunt Smyrna said she’d find him … she promised she’d find him. She promised me and I believed her. I trusted her to know what to do.”

  I watched my mother’s face as it crumbled.

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I’m just so sorry,” I sobbed. Repeating the words over and over until they sounded like nothing at all.

  As much as I’d hoped, expected, and naively believed, there was no relief to be found in telling the truth, only the additional pain of watching my mother move from a place of shock and disbelief to that of renewed mourning. There were too many uncertainties left gaping. Too much left unanswered to allow anything resembling of finality or closure.

  With the stagnant press of melancholy bearing down over the farm like an incurable ailment, I welcomed the opportunity to push off the weight of gloom for a few hours each day by driving into the newspaper office, increasingly thankful for my job and the chance it afforded for even temporary escape.

  Watching helplessly as my mother moved through the days in her quiet grief, anguished over my earned portion of blame and the inability to take it back, I was never more grateful for Ash’s presence. Unbeknownst to him, it was Ash himself who kept me from tumbling lost and alone into the isolated world my mother was now intent on creating for herself. A giddy sense of relief flooded over me on those afternoons when I arrived home from work and spotted his blue Buick still there, parked in the dappled shade of the enormous oak tree dominating the yard.

  I found myself extending regular invitations for him to stay and share supper with us, something I’d never done before. And although I’d prepared a suitably canned explanation should I ever be required to justify myself, Mom never appeared to take any particular notice of my unprecedented courtesy toward Ash, saying little whenever I came into the house announcing that he would once again be staying to eat with us; simply dropping another pork chop or hamburger into the skillet while I set another place at the table.

  “It looks like Aunt Phoebe has really taken off,” Ash said, spooning a mountainous peak of mashed potatoes onto his plate.

  My mother lifted her chin, shooting a perplexed glance in my direction, obviously recalling the elaborate production I’d made of swearing her to seventy-five counts of secrecy in regard to my identity at the newspaper.

  “I know, isn’t it amazing? Apparently Callicoon prefers their Aunt Phoebe snappy rather than sappy.”

  “See, what did I tell you?” Ash nodded.

  “You didn’t tell me anything,” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  I waited, hoping that Mom would take the opportunity to wander into our conversation, yet she failed to show interest beyond sectioning the meatloaf on her plate.

  “Well, Mr Waterman, it’s not as if I need the extra mail, but if you should find yourself wrestling with some dilemma or another don’t hesitate to drop me a line. Rest assured I never divulge real names in print.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate the offer,” Ash said, a smile crouching at the corners of his mouth. “One can never tell when they’ll be tempted by the neighbor’s wife–or worse–bitten by a gopher.”

  “I don’t know much about rodents, but I can definitely help you with the neighbor’s wife situation.”

  “It isn’t particularly gracious of you two to sit here ridiculing the fact some people have no place to turn for help other than a made-up woman in the newspaper,” Mom said, startling us both with her unexpected reprimand.

  Silence fell like a stone–immediate and heavy.

  Ash was first to speak, “I’m sorry, Libby. You’re right.”

  I dug my fork into the mound of potatoes piled on my plate, purposely ignoring his cue to offer my own apology.

  We finished the meal in silence.

  Ash stayed to help me wash-up the supper dishes while Mom went outside to water the tidy rectangle of earth she’d newly tilled and seeded in the backyard for designation as her flower garden.

  “Just give her some time and she’ll be her old self again,” Ash said.

  We could see her through the window dragging a garden hose across the grass.

  “I don’t know, this is complicated,” I said without elaboration. He knew nothing about recent events other than that my mother’s sister had fallen out of touch. “I understand how she feels, but she’s strangling me in this morbid house. Maybe I should consider sending a letter to Aunt Phoebe myself.”

  “Hum, that explains a lot,” he said thoughtfully, buffing a newly washed plate with the kitchen towel and setting it on the stack of clean dishes.

  “Explains what?”

  “Your gracious and numerous supper invites.”

  “That has nothing to do with it,” I insisted, hoping the heat I felt flooding my face wasn’t in the same flaming evidence as it felt to be beneath my skin.

  “Oh, I see. Then it must mean you actually like me.”

  “No it doesn’t–I don’t,” I said, attempting to untangle my words. “Well, of course I do–but not like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Stop it,” I said, thoroughly flustered
now. “You’re being awful.”

  “Sorry, but you set yourself up so perfectly.”

  “Yes I know. It’s a particular talent of mine.”

  “Oh come on,” he sighed. “Don’t go getting all glum and gloomy on me.”

  “I’m not glum and gloomy. You just don’t know when to leave things alone.”

  He opened the cupboard, carefully placing the stack of clean dishes inside, giving no indication of having heard my complaint.

  But then, “You’re right I don’t,” he smirked, coiling the dishtowel into a thick rope and snapping it against my blue-jean clad leg with a sharp smack.

  “What’re you–stop that,” I cried out in startled surprise, swinging around to face him.

  His wicked grin only grew wider, ignoring my command as he snapped at me again with his cloth weapon.

  “Cut it out. You’re not funny.”

  With unspeakable defiance, the rope again slashed the air, landing on my arm when I made an attempt to grab it from him.

  “Stop it,” I demanded, my anger swelling with each immature assault.

  “Did I ever mention that I was the playground bully?”

  “You didn’t have to.” My retort earning another smack from the towel. “Damn you.” I made another unsuccessful grab at the cloth as it whipped the air. “Stop it.”

  Slap.

  “STOP.”

  Slap.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Slap.

  “I hate you.”

  Slap. He stood watching me, conspicuously waiting for an opportunity to lash out again with the hateful towel even as my eyes hurled lethal daggers at his grinning face. My mind sped through the various acts of retaliation cataloged in my head and from the gleam in his eye I easily surmised that he suspected my frantic scheming. Apparently he thought this was some sort of game.

  It was as he raised his arm to strike at me again that I half-turned and pulled a brimming glass of soapy dishwater from the sink, holding it up in a threatening toast.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” He took a step toward me.

  “Don’t tempt me, Mister Waterman.”

  “Okay, fine–truce. I’ll put the towel down and you put the glass down.”

  I nodded in agreement, but when he dropped the towel on the table I immediately tossed the contents of the glass into his face, thoroughly soaking the front of his shirt; the reward of his stunned surprise so altogether pure that I started to laugh, the taste of satisfaction delicious on my tongue.

  “You little witch.” He took a step toward me.

  “Don’t you dare take one more step. I have a sink full of ammo at my fingertips–don’t make me use it.”

  “Okay, come on. You got me. You win,” he said, holding up a hand in surrender.

  And yet his proposed surrender was too placidly forgiving for a person who’d just been drenched with soapy dishwater. I watched him carefully, knowing better than to let myself be fooled.

  Without allowing him the opportunity to decipher my intent, I once more scooped the glass into the sink and immediately doused him again, shrieking with laughter over the hilarious picture he made soaked and bewildered like a monsoon victim in the middle of the kitchen.

  My victory was short-lived as he rapidly closed the distance between us–effectively claiming any potential opening I might’ve previously had to flit away. He held my wrists easily behind my back with one of his large hands, plunging the glass into the water with the other, holding his newly attained weapon in front of me with a gloating threat.

  “Say you’re heartily sorry and there’s a possibility you’ll be spared.”

  “No–you deserved it,” I replied, pointing my chin, watching the rivulets of water running from his hair, down his face and neck.

  “Last chance.”

  I twisted furiously, succeeding in yanking one of my hands from his grasp. But as I struggled to pull the other free he emptied the water down my back, saturating my shirt and leaking down into my pants.

  “Let go of me.”

  “No. You can’t be trusted.”

  I could feel the grin on his face without having to look for it and I stretched my arm futilely to grab the glass, fully intending to shower him again. But once more he seemed to read my intentions, holding me securely around the waist with an immovable arm, his superior strength rendering me helpless as he proceeded to pour a second glassful over my head with slow deliberateness.

  When he released me I understood it was with the assumption I was resigned to surrender, ceded to abandon future schemes of retaliation. It was a foolish presumption on his part. The first move I made upon liberation was to assault him with renewed vigor, flinging handfuls of water before he realized his mistake and hastened toward me.

  “Devil,” he said, dragging me away from the water supply.

  “Animal,” I hissed, kicking at his shins until he released me. But when I darted for the backdoor he grabbed me around the waist, swinging me back toward the middle of the room with a conquering chuckle.

  “Just when will you be ready to admit you’re no match for me?” he laughed, and I could feel the wetness of his clothes pressing against my back.

  “Never–you don’t fight fair either.”

  “Ha, that’s a laugh coming from you.”

  For a moment I ceased to struggle, my breathing rising and falling rapidly in my chest. With one final effort to break away, I stomped my foot down solidly on top of his, startling him just enough to pry myself free. But rather then sprinting out of reach as I’d intended, my foot slid across a wide swath of water, landing me flat on my back.

  Within seconds Ash was overtop me staring down into my face.

  “Are you alright?”

  “I ... I think something’s broken.”

  “Can you move your arms?” He dropped to his knees beside me.

  I lifted each arm in turn, dropping them back to my sides once I’d proved their mobility.

  “Try and move your head from side to side.”

  I did as he said, turning my head carefully from left to right.

  “Okay, that’s good. Try your legs now.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Just try.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Try, Stevie.”

  “Like this?” I swung my leg sharply, kicking him in the thigh, giggling over the immediate arrival of bemused surprise racing across his features.

  “That was a rotten trick, missy.”

  He swung his body overtop me in one fluid movement, straddling my flattened form like a wrestler and pinning my arms to my sides.

  “Now either you say uncle and mean it, or you’re not moving.”

  “No.’

  “You’d better,” he said, seemingly satisfied with his mistaken assurance that I was beaten.

  “Well, I won’t. Mom will be coming inside any minute and then you’ll have hell to pay.”

  “You think so?”

  “Wait and see.”

  “Alright, fine, I will.”

  “NO! You can’t,” I protested hotly.

  “But you said–”

  “Let go of me. It’s not funny anymore.”

  I twisted my head to one side, defiantly attempting to hide from the invading nearness of his boldly mocking stare.

  “Say it, Stephanie. Say uncle,” the warm liquid drawl commanded quietly.

  My answer was to struggle beneath his weight, determined to thrash myself free, but unable to manage more than an ineffective wiggle. The pumping jungle beat of my heart thumped inside my ears and I lay perfectly still–a boneless cadaver, every molecule of strength momentarily expended. His face was too close, drifting forward like a slow dream, and I clenched my eyes shut against the impossible nearness of him; the smell of dishwater and soap on warm skin, his breathing cottony against my cheek. A damp wave of his hair tickled against my forehead and my lids blinked open beneath the stark blue intensity of eyes passing over me like wind through rain–
the vivid color blurring, then altogether lost, as he leaned close enough to kiss me.

  Later I would rebuke myself for allowing it to happen, ashamed that I’d forgotten myself so easily, surrendered all reason, offered no resistance. And yet somehow in those moments I’d become helplessly unmoored from my ever-present rational; all too readily abandoning my cautious and reasonable self for someone who liked the taste of his lips and the urgency of his kiss–who wanted to feel the gentle touch of his fingers against my cheek and hair, stroking my neck. And I could no longer feel the cold wetness of the linoleum floor under my back, was aware only of the warmth of his mouth against mine, the heat of it flooding over my insides like a rolling tide of fire, carrying my senses away to places I’d never believed to exist.

  And then all at once he released me, abruptly pulling away as I tumbled back to earth. His face was visibly flustered and I turned my head, avoiding his eyes as I shakily pulled to my feet, unwilling to see a reflection there of my own shameful reaction to his touch.

  “Stephanie, I–”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I didn’t intend to–”

  “Please–just please don’t say anything else.” I turned my back to him as I straightened my blouse. “Just go, alright.”

  “Stevie ...”

  “Just go. I’ll clean this up.”

  For an awkward forever he stood beside the sink saying nothing. I could feel his eyes on the line of my back as I combed the damp hair from my face with my fingers, tucked a single strand behind one ear. The air pressed over us like a damp palm–heavy and moist, difficult to breathe; the ghost of his lips still there on my mouth even as I strove to wish him away. Afraid to hear his voice, afraid of what he might say. But there was only the terrible throbbing silence … so loud I nearly didn’t hear the quiet slap of the screen door closing behind him, assuring that he’d gone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  In the blur of befuddled days that followed, it was all but impossible to concentrate on Aunt Phoebe, the letters piled on my desk and stuffed in my cubbyhole, my mother’s quiet sorrow, or anything else that wasn’t Ash Waterman. As it was, my thought processes were clogged solid with Ash; Ash’s voice, Ash’s smile, the smell of Ash, the feel of Ash, the softness of Ash’s thick blond hair, the unexpected gentleness of Ash’s toil roughened hands.