This Secret Thing

by Whalen, Marybeth Mayhew

  They turned into her neighborhood, and she scooched forward in the seat, her heart picking up speed the closer they got. What would her family say when she just showed up like this, so unexpectedly? They thought she was tucked away in college, happy, making friends, learning her way around the campus, joining clubs, doing exactly as she’d been meant to do. She hadn’t had the heart to tell them any different, keeping what had happened a secret from her family, being the girl they expected her to be instead of the girl she was. But last night she had broken, and then she had run.

  She’d charged the plane ticket on her emergency credit card at 4:00 a.m., booking a flight from Birmingham, Alabama, to Raleigh, North Carolina, that would land at 2:00 p.m. that day. Her roommate, a nice girl named Amanda, whom she’d been randomly paired with (what bad luck Amanda had—getting saddled with her), had helped her pack, then drove her the hour to the airport because she had a car. Casey could feel Amanda’s sense of relief swell as they turned into the airport entrance and said their goodbyes. The sky was just starting to lighten as a new day dawned.

  “I’ll see you back here once you’ve got yourself sorted out,” Amanda said, giving Casey her best, most affirming smile. Casey had agreed, but only because she was too exhausted to argue. Hungover, she’d bought herself a hot tea and a bagel at one of the airport restaurants, bided her time till she could board the plane, till she could go home. Unable to sleep in her dorm room, she’d slept like a baby on the plane, waking up to the announcement that they were beginning their descent and to return their seats to an upright position.

  Now, in front of her house, she swiped her credit card (the emergency one again, because this was an emergency; her parents would know that eventually), added a generous tip, and stepped out of the cab. The driver hopped out, grabbed her luggage from the trunk, and handed the two bags over. Her parents had rented a U-Haul and driven for hours to move her into college, but she was coming home with just two bags. She’d learned what she could live without in the time she’d been away.

  “Thank you,” she said to the driver, who grinned back at her and wished her a good day. He hopped back into his cab and pulled away from the curb. She heard music come on inside the cab as he drove off. Then the sound of the music faded completely, leaving her standing on the driveway listening for something—anything—that sounded familiar. It was a weekday, and the neighborhood was typically quiet.

  She stood in her driveway looking up the street in the direction they’d come from, then down the street, past her house. Her gaze stopped on the house across the street and seven doors down: her little sister’s best friend’s house. There were police cars parked in front of it, and men in uniform were buzzing around like flies who’d found a picnic. She left her luggage on the drive and walked toward the sight, her curiosity compelling her to investigate and providing an excuse to delay going inside her own house.

  As she neared Violet’s house, an officer posted by the mailbox stepped into the street, his arm up like a crossing guard. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you not to come any closer.” He was cute, in a cop sort of way. In her old life, she’d have flirted with him, pushed his buttons just because she could.

  He was young and new at this, she could tell. Probably a recent graduate from the police academy. He’d drawn the crap job, guarding access to the house, keeping nosy neighbors at bay. He probably wanted to be inside the house, gathering evidence, guessing at the truth of whatever had happened there, doing the job he’d dreamed of instead of the one he’d been given.

  She offered an explanation to try to sound concerned rather than plain old nosy. “I know the people who live here.” She paused to give him a chance to speak, but he said nothing in response. She tried again. “I mean the girl who lives here—she’s a friend of my younger sister.”

  He nodded dully, unfazed by her connection. But he didn’t shoo her away, either. She thought of Violet: sweet, soft-spoken, shy Violet, who wouldn’t hurt a fly. She hoped someone hadn’t hurt her.

  “Can I ask what happened?” She pointed at the house dumbly, as if he didn’t know what she was referring to. She lowered her voice, feeling the familiar and unwelcome sense of panic returning. “Was it a murder?”

  His official face lapsed into a momentary smile, and he shook his head. “I can’t say what happened, but if you read the news, you’ll find out.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully. “But it wasn’t a murder.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling relieved, yet wondering just what it could be in her boring, quiet neighborhood, where nothing ever happened.

  Another thought occurred to her. What if it had been a home invasion? There had been one—a robbery and assault—in a nearby neighborhood last year. It had sent her mother and all her mom friends running to a self-defense class. Casey swallowed, but her spit was suddenly made of glue. She thought of the news reports following the home invasion last year, the anchor intoning, “This is a violation.”

  “It wasn’t a break-in, was it?” She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. The cop’s face changed as she spoke.

  “No, no, trust me,” he said, his voice kind. “It’s nothing like that. You and your family are safe.”

  He gave her another smile, a real one complete with dimples, making him look younger and far less official. She guessed they were about the same age. He likely still lived at home. His mother probably posted the photos from his police academy graduation on her Facebook page, him smiling bravely in the face of his new, unknown future. Would he get shot in the line of duty? Shoot someone else? Would he know what to do when the time came?

  It was hard to know what to do when the time came.

  “OK,” she said. “I guess I’ll google it.” She gave him a little wave and turned to walk back toward her house and her luggage still on the driveway.

  “Have a nice day,” he called after her. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her go. She felt the familiar panic begin to rise. She would have to figure out a way to not feel this way around men, seeing as how they were everywhere.

  She turned back, forced herself to smile at him. This wasn’t school; he wasn’t Russell Aldridge. “You too,” she said. As she walked quickly back toward her house, she realized that, at least for those few moments as she’d talked to the cop, she’d been so swept up in whatever was going on at Violet’s that she’d forgotten about her own problems. It was, she decided, a start.

  Polly

  The buzzer went off on the oven, and her phone rang at the same time. Polly stood there frozen for a second, listening to both sounds echo off the kitchen walls in tandem, wondering which to attend to first. The timing really was remarkable. She wondered if this had ever happened to her in her entire life, and then she grabbed the phone. The casserole could burn, but she wasn’t going to miss a phone call. She frowned when she heard Etta’s voice on the other end. If she’d bothered to look to see who was calling first, she’d have let the call go. Etta Vandiver wasn’t worth burning a casserole for.

  “Polly?” She heard Etta’s confused voice. “You there?”

  “Yeah, hang on, Etta,” she said, the heat from the oven slapping her in the face as she reached in to retrieve the casserole dish. Some of the sauce from the ziti had bubbled over and was sizzling on the bottom of the oven. It would harden into cement later. She’d have to remember to scrape it off before she used the oven again. If she remembered. It wasn’t that she was getting forgetful. It was just that there was more to keep up with these days, so much on her mind.

  She plunked the casserole dish onto the stove burners and dropped her oven mitts on the counter, then backed into a kitchen chair, plopping down with one exhausted heaving motion. It wasn’t that she tired more easily, it was just that she was doing too much. She reached across the table for her cigarettes, lit one, and took a drag as Etta launched into the reason for her call. Polly’s dog, Barney, asleep under the table, lifted his head momentarily, sniffed the air in case of food, t
hen decided none was coming and lowered his head again.

  “I’m just calling to make sure.” Etta spoke in a rush. “Whether you’re bringing the ziti and bread or ziti and a salad?”

  “I only signed up for ziti,” Polly said. She wanted to say And you’re lucky I signed up for that, but instead she took another puff from her cigarette, then stubbed it out. She was trying to quit. Two puffs a day from one cigarette was all she was allowing herself. Just enough for the nicotine and her bloodstream to get reacquainted, however briefly. She usually waited till later in the day for her cigarette, but Etta’s voice had brought out the need.

  “Oh, Polly, we need bread and salad, too,” Etta whined. “Is there any way I could get you to bring one or the other? Or maybe both?” She tee-heed like a little girl.

  Polly sighed. She hated letting people down, and Etta Vandiver probably knew it. “I guess I could pick up some rolls on the way.”

  “Well, OK,” Etta said. She didn’t seem as mollified by Polly’s offer as Polly hoped she’d be. Now she was going to have to leave even earlier to get by the store, then to the animal rescue fundraiser to deposit her contributions (baked ziti and rolls) on time. “I best be going,” Etta said. “Lots of calls to make!”

  “OK, then, see you there,” Polly said, doing her best to sound pleasant.

  “Don’t forget that handsome husband of yours,” Etta said, then gave that annoying little-girl giggle again. “You’re so lucky, landing a catch like him.”

  Etta, who was older than Polly, was always making comments about Calvin like that. It made her sound like a lecherous older woman, like one of those cougars they talked about on the TV. Polly didn’t know if she herself qualified as a cougar. Though Calvin was quite a bit younger than she was, to be sure. But Polly didn’t know what the age difference had to be to qualify, and, frankly, at this point she didn’t care.

  “Speaking of husbands,” Polly said, “he’s pulling up now, so I better go greet him.”

  “Oh, give him a kiss for me,” Etta said. Polly hung up while she was still giggling.

  She put the phone down on the table and stared at the ziti, the steam curling up over the top of it, doing a little dance. She’d lied to Etta. Calvin wasn’t home. She had no idea when he would be home or where he was. She knew only that he was out somewhere, likely spending the money he’d stolen from her and pretending to be the catch everyone thought he was.

  “Oh, Barney,” she said to her sleeping dog. “What am I going to do?” But Barney didn’t hear her, or if he did, he didn’t bother rousing. She shrugged, then reached for another cigarette. It was as good a day as any to break the rules.

  Violet

  She woke up disoriented, uncertain where she was or what time it was. She thrashed around until she found her cell phone and looked at the time, anxious to orient herself to something measurable. It was light outside, so it was daytime. But what day? Her phone told her it was 4:37 p.m. and it was still Thursday. She’d slept for only about forty-five minutes. It felt like she’d been asleep for days.

  She looked around at the guest room with its plethora of throw pillows she’d tossed on the floor, its green-and-yellow color scheme, its dresser featuring a large arrangement of fake flowers that had never changed and were covered in dust. Slowly, everything came into focus and she remembered. Her mother was in jail. And she was at the Stricklands’, even though she and Nicole hadn’t been on the greatest of terms lately.

  She’d kept that detail from her mother, certain it would blow over and her mother didn’t need to know. Now Violet rolled over and punched the pillow, regretting that decision. If she’d told her mom, maybe she would’ve arranged for her to go somewhere else. Maybe, Violet thought, she should find out when her dad would return home from his trip. Though she didn’t exactly love his new wife, he was family. And the Stricklands weren’t.

  She got up and went to the door, intending to open it and find Nicole, or her mom, or someone who might know something she didn’t, new news that had happened as she slept. But voices on the other side stopped her in her tracks. Angry voices. She lowered her hand and stood frozen as she tried to figure out who was speaking and where they were standing on the other side of the closed door. After a few minutes of listening, she decided that it was Nicole and her mom, arguing about something. But she couldn’t understand why they kept mentioning Casey’s name, seeing as how Casey was away at college.

  Casey Strickland was a triple threat. As in she was gorgeous, popular, and smart. Nicole had long ago given up trying to measure up to her; Violet and Nicole had had many conversations about that. Though Violet didn’t envy Nicole’s struggles with her sister, she did envy her having a sister at all. Standing there alone in that room, she longed for someone to go through this with, someone to talk to, to be by her side when her mother could not be.

  Instead she just listened to Nicole and her mom arguing.

  “They can’t both be here. It’s too much. I’ve got my first term paper due in Shupe’s class, not to mention rehearsals starting,” Nicole grumbled. “I don’t need this right now.”

  “I know, honey,” Nicole’s mom said soothingly, “but how was I supposed to know that Casey would just appear on the doorstep twenty minutes after Violet arrived?”

  “You didn’t have to let Violet come here. You didn’t have to say yes and be so helpful like you always are. You know things have been . . . weird . . . with us lately. Just that was going to be awkward even if Casey wasn’t here, too. You could’ve asked me first,” Nicole whined.

  “I couldn’t very well say no. It’s a delicate situation.” Bess defended herself.

  “It’s not delicate, Mom. Her mom’s a whore. And she’s in jail because of it.”

  “Nicole!” Bess Strickland exclaimed, and then they were both silent, probably scared that the outburst had woken Violet. Too late, Violet thought. She was shaking, her heart beating hard in her chest as the word whore resounded in her head. She took a step backward, intending to sit on the bed and calm down. The floor creaked underneath her feet and she froze again, her heart hammering harder as she waited for Bess to throw open the guest room door or for them to continue the conversation. But the hall was silent, and she was left to decide how to go out there and act normal when life was anything but.

  Casey

  From her bedroom she could hear her mother and sister talking in what they probably considered hushed tones, the tension in their voices unmistakable as they discussed what to do about her and Violet Ramsey both unexpectedly dropping in on their little, orderly life. From down the hall and behind her closed door, she could hear only about every third word, but she could tell enough to know that her presence was neither well timed, nor welcome.

  It was amazing to her how her family had so seamlessly filled the gap she’d left behind when she’d gone to college. She recalled her mother’s tears the day they said goodbye, her sister’s earnest insistence that it just wouldn’t be the same without her. And yet, they’d figured out a way to go on. Now she was a ghost, there to haunt them. And though she knew she couldn’t stay at school, she was starting to second-guess her decision to come home.

  When the voices quieted and she was sure the coast was clear, she opened the door, uncertain what to do next. Nicole’s door was closed and music played on the other side. Something instrumental that sounded like the score to a movie. Her sister had gotten into theater toward the end of last school year, when she had decided to “try something new,” on a whim, as she said it, though Casey always suspected a boy was at the heart of it. Now Nicole talked nonstop about auditions and plays and acting schools. When the two sisters were on the phone together, they struggled to find something to talk about once they got past the latest news at home. Casey always had the sense they were both saying what the other expected, that in their own way, they were each playing a role.

  The door to the guest room opened, and she blinked at the girl who stepped into the hall. Violet had been asle
ep when Casey had arrived earlier that day, walked into the kitchen, and interrupted her mother, who was on the phone with her father, venting over the “pickle” she’d been put in, having to take in Violet Ramsey when she knew Nicole “didn’t like that one bit.” Her father, in his aloof, fatherly way, listened politely for a moment, then told her mother he had to get back to work and they could talk more when he got home. Casey could hear his deep, resonant voice coming through her mother’s phone as clearly as if he were on speaker.

  When Bess Strickland hung up and saw Casey standing there, she’d yelped in fright, clutching the phone to her chest, her eyes wide as she took in her daughter’s presence. She looked at her like she was trying to place her, like she was an intruder and not her own daughter. Casey shifted on her feet and said “Hi, Mom,” like it was a year ago and she’d just had early release and Bess had forgotten all about it, so caught up was she in her social activities and volunteer work. Yet it wasn’t a year ago. And Casey wasn’t that girl anymore. When Bess looked at her, it was like she knew that.

  Now, standing in the hall, Casey must have looked at Violet the way her mother had looked at her, because the younger girl mumbled an apology and quickly closed the door again. “Wait,” Casey said, but Violet didn’t hear.

  Casey glanced over at her sister’s door to see if she’d come out to investigate the noise in the hall, but it remained closed and Casey heard no movement on the other side. Satisfied that no one would see, she crossed the hall and quietly knocked on the door to the guest room, where Violet was hiding. Violet had to have heard what her mother and Nicole had been saying, and probably heard it crystal clear since she was just across the hall. She had to be lost and scared and lonely. And though they were dealing with two completely different things, Casey felt more drawn to Violet than to her own mother or sister. She, too, felt lost and scared and lonely.