This Secret Thing

by Whalen, Marybeth Mayhew

  “Female. She had to leave.” Polly pointed toward the front door, insinuating that Bess had gone out the front as he had come in the back. “She had to take her daughter to soccer.” She hoped she looked believable. Thankfully Bess and Casey had walked the food down, and Polly had moved Norah’s car into the garage weeks ago, so there was no car in the drive to disprove her statement.

  He gestured at the glasses of wine. “She shouldn’t drink and drive,” he said. As if he were the bastion of sound judgment and good decisions.

  “It wasn’t much. She forgot, actually. She just ran out of here real quick as soon as she remembered.” She was still talking loudly, hoping the others in the house heard and figured out that someone was here. Someone dangerous.

  But Calvin didn’t seem to be listening. Instead he moved out of the kitchen and farther into the house, his eyes darting around as he took it all in. The fact that Bess hadn’t returned encouraged her. Polly hoped she’d heard. She hoped the girls had heard. She hoped she could get rid of Calvin quickly, appease him, distract him, whatever it took. She squeezed her eyes shut as if when she opened them he would be gone; this would all be a terrible hallucination. She’d never been much of a drinker, and this would prove why she should stay away from the stuff. The worst thing about it was that she and Bess had been having such a nice time. She’d actually been having—as strange as it was on the heels of that hard encounter with Norah—fun.

  She watched the back of her husband’s head and wished she had a gun in her own hand. She’d shoot him dead right that moment. For the first time since he’d walked in, she wondered if she would survive this, if he would decide to let her live. She felt her pulse rate pick up, felt the fear rise in her throat like bile.

  “I’ll give you the money,” she said. “If that’s what you really want. I’ll give it to you right now. You can just take it and go.”

  He turned around. “You make it sound so nice, sweetheart. So civil.” He smiled coldly at her. “But if it was that easy, you’d have already done that. You wouldn’t have taken our money and run off and left me with no explanation. You would’ve answered when I called you.” His voice grew louder. “You wouldn’t have lied to me all these years that you didn’t have a child when you most certainly did. A granddaughter, too.” He narrowed his eyes, held the gun up, and roared, “You’d have respected me like a good wife!”

  “I’m sorry, Calvin.” Her voice sounded small and weak. She cowered, afraid of the wild energy rolling off his body and the darkness he seemed to have ushered into the room with him. She wished she had the strength to stand up to him, to not be paralyzed by the threat of his anger paired with that gun. But she knew this: she had to live. Because if she died, Violet would have no one. She couldn’t let that happen. She’d rather placate him and lose some dignity than have her granddaughter find her lying dead in her den. The child had experienced enough.

  “I’ll give you the money. I’ll give you all of it. I made a mistake,” she said evenly and calmly. “I reacted badly to the news about my daughter. I wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve been consumed with things here. I haven’t handled it well.” She could hear herself begging, and she hated it. But she had to do what she must do. Pride, in this case, really would go before a fall. A fall she wouldn’t stand back up from.

  He yelled at her again. “You think you can just buy me off? You think that you can hand me money and make up for the disrespect you’ve showed me? You and your whore daughter?”

  At that moment, she heard the footsteps on the stairs, four feet running. She dropped her head in defeat. If Violet and Casey showed their faces, things would only get worse. But she couldn’t stop them. Once they saw the gun, they would realize the danger. Once they saw the gun, it would be too late. She thought again of Bess, hoped that wherever she was, she was calling the police. But then she remembered, Bess had left her phone on the island, right beside her wineglass. And Norah didn’t have a house phone that Bess could go to.

  At the sound of the girls’ arrival, Calvin turned toward the stairwell with a smirk, the gun pointed. “Hello,” he said. “Which one of you is Violet Ramsey?”

  Casey stepped forward without missing a beat. “Me,” she said. “I am.” Violet looked at Polly with questioning eyes. Polly gave her a barely perceptible shake of the head. Just go with it, she willed her granddaughter while silently thanking Casey for doing such a brave—albeit crazy—thing.

  She saw Calvin look from one girl to the next. She saw his gaze linger on Violet, and she wondered if, when he saw her, he thought of the framed photo Polly had kept on her dresser. It was of her, her mother, grandmother, and beloved aunt. “Peas in a pod” was written along the bottom of the photo in her grandmother’s chicken-scratch handwriting. That was why she’d kept it. Because of that caption. Because it reminded Polly of where she had come from, of who she was. Which wasn’t this. It wasn’t any of this. She was deeply ashamed of herself for where she had ended up, deeply ashamed of how far she had not come. She had a broken picker. That was clear. So why did she keep on picking?

  She hoped that Calvin didn’t see Polly’s younger face on Violet, hoped he wasn’t that bright. Thankfully he didn’t. He just waved the gun at the two of them. “Then who’s this?” he asked Casey.

  Casey started to answer, but Violet broke in. “I’m Casey. I’m a neighbor. I was here to help Violet study.”

  “Well, isn’t that just peachy?” Calvin singsonged. He stood there for a moment, keeping his eyes on Casey, who he thought was Violet. “You’re a pretty thing,” he said to Casey, who bristled as he said it. He looked over at Polly. “You always said you were a late bloomer, but this one’s not a bit late. I’d say she’s right on schedule.” He laughed, his laughter ringing through the silent house.

  In the kitchen, Barney roused, aware that perhaps things weren’t OK. He trotted over to Polly and sat down beside her, nervously watching Calvin.

  “You in the same business as your mama?” He turned back to Casey.

  Casey stood completely still, but Polly could see she was working hard to keep from trembling. Don’t worry, Polly thought, I will throw myself on that gun before I let him touch you.

  “Not gonna tell me, huh?” he asked. He looked again at Polly. “This a family business?”

  Polly also said nothing. Barney made a low warning growl. She patted his head, uselessly trying to comfort him. Barney wasn’t a spring chicken. He would be no match for Calvin’s gun if he tried to fight his former master.

  “Huh?” He pointed the gun at Polly. “Answer me when I ask you a question, you bitch!”

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, I think you’re lying. I remember when I asked you how you came into all your money. I remember you saying you made a good investment a long time ago and it paid off. And I figured it was something one of your former husbands did for you, something I shouldn’t go nosing around in. Not looking a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak.” He laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. Calvin always did think he was funny when he wasn’t. “But now it makes sense. The money came from her, didn’t it? You’re the one they’re looking for. You’re the silent partner. The one who was washing the money for the hos. Wasn’t ya?”

  Violet—the real Violet—blurted out, “Wait, you’re Lois?”

  Polly shushed her so that Calvin wouldn’t figure out who the real Violet was. If he figured out that Casey had lied, that would make things worse. She looked at her granddaughter and wondered how much she knew about Norah’s operation—whether Violet had figured things out for herself or whether Norah had told her. She wondered again what they had talked about when they were alone in the jail.

  “Casey,” she said to Violet. “I told you you’ve been reading too much about the case. I told you not to worry about it. Be a kid. Don’t worry about grown-up stuff.” She turned to Calvin. “In fact, I think you should let the kids go. This has nothing to do with them. Especially Casey, here. She’s a neighbor. Sh
e should go on home.” She raised her eyebrows at Violet, daring her to say any more. If he lets you go, she thought, run like hell to that kid across the street and get some help.

  But Calvin shook his head. He tucked the gun into his waistband. “I don’t think her going home right now is the best thing. I think we need to get things settled here first. And I ain’t gonna hurt ’em,” he said. “Unless they do something stupid. And they don’t look like stupid girls to me.” He looked from Violet to Casey, watching as they confirmed that they weren’t stupid.

  Satisfied, he strolled into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, searching, Polly knew, for a beer. Norah didn’t keep beer in her fridge, though. So he was shit out of luck. She heard him close the fridge and wondered for a frantic second if she could herd the girls out the front door. She could see the door from where she was standing, but would they make it before he could round the corner and start shooting? Would he start shooting? Or was the gun just a prop intended for intimidation? Polly didn’t want to risk finding out. So she kept still.

  He came back with one of the glasses of wine topped off from the bottle sitting on the island, where it was tucked into one of those fancy things that kept white wine cold. Bess had explained the gadget to Polly. At the thought of Bess, she glanced around, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Perhaps she was just hiding, hoping they would be rescued. But by whom? No one could possibly know that Polly’s ex-husband had invaded their house. She’d told no one here that she was even married. She hoped that kid across the street happened over, sensed something was wrong when no one came to the door but the car was there. She hoped for something. From someone. Hell, she’d welcome that detective at the moment.

  Calvin sipped the wine as he made his way across the room to stand in front of Casey, who he thought was Violet. He held the glass up to Polly, the wine sloshing slightly as he did so. “Fancy,” he said. And in that one word was recrimination, accusation, and a reminder that she didn’t belong here, in this world of finer things. That no matter what kind of life Norah had made for herself, Polly wasn’t good enough for it.

  She didn’t need Calvin to tell her that; she had always known where she belonged, and she’d tried to stay within the boundaries. Even when she had the money to leave—after Norah had tracked her down and proposed a business deal, an arrangement that, as Norah had said then, would ensure Polly never needed a man again. On some level she understood that Norah had been trying to help her, to free her from dependence on a string of terrible men. And yet she’d stayed with Calvin. Right inside those self-imposed boundaries.

  She watched in helpless revulsion as Calvin leaned closer to Casey, reached out, and fingered a lock of her hair as he took another sip. He was downing the wine fast, like he usually drank beer. Desperate, she hoped that the alcohol would make him clumsy, foolish, vulnerable. Calvin was always a sloppy drunk. Just keep drinking, dumb-ass, she thought. Go get a refill. And get away from that child.

  But Calvin stayed where he was, leering at Casey, occasionally glancing at Polly just to watch her squirm. He was toying with them, enjoying it. Who knew how long this would go on and where it would lead. And then Polly saw movement in the hall, just off the den, behind Calvin. Bess moved with the sinewy stealth of a panther, silently creeping closer to the action. Polly had no idea how long Bess had been inching her way down the hall. Probably since the first time Calvin had gone near her daughter. She looked over and saw in both girls’ frozen faces that they’d spotted Bess, too, that they knew what was about to happen.

  And then it did.

  Bess

  She’d spent months in that self-defense class preparing for a moment like this, training, drilling, practicing. She’d learned all the moves and countermoves. She’d developed her strength and her reflexes. She’d been a star pupil, getting praise from her instructor. Just like everything in life, she’d strived to be the best. But now, faced with the real possibility of fighting a man holding a gun, she feared she’d forgotten it all. She feared she would fail. And she would die. But she couldn’t stay hidden any longer, reviewing her strategy in her mind, avoiding putting it into action because she was afraid to move. She’d been afraid to move all her life.

  But when she heard the man talking to Casey, who’d so bravely said she was Violet, Bess sprang into action, her body moving even before her mind registered what was happening. Forget waiting for a rescuer; she was going to be one.

  She didn’t know what had happened to Casey at school. All she knew was that something had happened, and she hadn’t been there for it. But she could be there now; she could show Casey: I will fight for you no matter what. I will fight for you when you can’t fight for yourself. She hadn’t done a good job of that since Casey had come home. She hadn’t done a good job of that ever. She’d stayed hidden her whole life, doing what was expected of her instead of what she wanted. Norah, she thought, Norah had always challenged her to be bolder, to live bravely. But Bess had continued to stay hidden. Not anymore.

  As she approached the man, she reviewed her advantage: he couldn’t see her, so she had the element of surprise on her side. And her disadvantage: he had a weapon, and she did not. He was also bigger than her. “Your disadvantages are not your determiners,” she heard her instructor say in her head. She tried to believe that as she prepared to attack.

  She would use a combination of a takedown and a sealed choke hold—something they’d spent a whole day drilling in class. She’d done this successfully before, and with an instructor larger than her. As she moved down the hall, she recalled that day, running through the motions like a highlight reel. She knew what she had to do: jump on his back and lodge her feet behind his knees, pulling back with her arms at the same time. This would cause them both to end up on the ground, with him flat on his back, his head on her lap. Then she needed to instantly get her right arm around his neck, her left hand behind his head, wrap the fingers of her right hand around her left elbow to create a choke hold, and squeeze. With no more than ten seconds of applied pressure, she could render him unconscious.

  All I need is ten seconds, she thought. The girls and Polly can run out the front door as soon as I have him down. And once I’ve choked him out, I can run, too. Ten seconds is all that stands between this menace and safety. She stood right behind him. It was time.

  As she jumped on his back, she yelled “Run!” and all three of them did just that. If nothing else, she thought as the two of them hit the ground, the others will be safe. The surprise attack worked: she heard his gun clatter to the floor, the wineglass hit the ground and shatter. She felt liquid splashing her leg. “Bitch!” she heard him yell, but it sounded far away, the sound dulled by the roaring wind blowing in her head. She no longer felt like a woman; she felt like an animal: a lion or a bear, something fierce and ferocious. She got him into a choke hold, using every muscle in her upper body to create the seal. She had him.

  His punch caught her off guard. He aimed for her elbow, his knuckles connecting to her funny bone. Her arm lurched forward, breaking the seal she’d just created. He tugged on her forearm, loosening his head from her grasp, and scrambled away toward the gun. Her instincts took over, and instead of choosing flight, she chose fight. They both lunged for the gun, hands flailing and grabbing. She felt pain in her arm, but in a distant way. It seemed more like a dream of pain.

  And then he prevailed. He grabbed the gun and their eyes met, both wild, both angry. He saw her realize she’d been beaten; he saw her run toward the front door, left open by the three who had gotten out. At least they are safe, she thought as she ran toward the open door. She heard shots ringing out behind her, saw one hit that huge pumpkin on Norah’s porch as she neared it, watched it explode. He’d missed. Perhaps the wine had made him a bad shot. Just make it to the porch, she thought. He won’t shoot you in the front yard, in plain sight. By now the girls will have called the police. They’ll be on their way.

  She reached the threshold when she felt
a force knock her forward. She was falling. As she fell, she saw Jason running toward her, something shiny clutched in his hand. She smiled at him, grateful that his was the last face she’d see instead of the man trying to kill her. Then Jason’s face faded, and she saw colors swirling before her eyes, all the colors of the rainbow. The colors ran together like alcohol ink, shimmering and undulating. It’s so beautiful, she thought. And then she thought nothing at all.

  Nico

  He pulled into his driveway so sharply that the tires squealed, announcing his arrival. So much for the element of surprise working to his advantage. He didn’t care. This was his house. He still paid the mortgage. And if he didn’t want two walking hormones in his house, he had a right to show up and say so. As he climbed out of the car, he doubted that his daughter or his wife would agree. But he was ready for the confrontation. He’d been nice—and quiet—too long.

  He marched to the door, his phone buzzing in his pocket, letting him know someone had pulled into his driveway. What was it the kids said? It was very meta. If he said that to Karen in ordinary circumstances, she’d laugh at his attempt to keep up with the culture. He missed Karen’s laugh. He missed Karen.

  He stopped short, the pain of loss—both of Matteo and of his family—hitting him in the chest. He looked around at the familiar surroundings, seeing them as a visitor might. Because that’s what he was now: a visitor. There was the tree they had planted the week they brought Ian home from the hospital. There was the fence post that needed to be replaced. There was the firepit he’d made with his own two hands. In the fall they roasted marshmallows and made s’mores there, eating until their stomachs hurt. But he wasn’t there to make s’mores.

  He looked back at his car, debated going back to work, leaving his family to it. Let Karen deal with whatever Lauren was doing when Karen got home from whatever she was doing. He wasn’t supposed to know anything. Karen would be furious if she knew that he did. He wouldn’t be the only one spoiling for a fight. He saw that, in his haste to get out, he’d left his car door open, like an invitation to just climb back inside.