Be True to Me

by Adele Griffin

  “I don’t get why Gil’d need to go sniffing around Jean. You don’t think Fritz puts out for him?” asked Rosamund.

  “Why choose the fries or the salad, if you can have both?” Sara sniffed.

  “Junior swears it’s been going on all summer. He said she came sneaking into the house one night all the way back in June, easy as you please, and Gil took her right up to his room. Also, Lindsay Hasty said once she saw the two of them scurrying into the von Cott house, and they didn’t come out. That house isn’t even being used this summer.”

  Now there was some giggling, followed by a sharp silence. One of them must have seen my shoes.

  Someone turned on a faucet, so I couldn’t hear more, which was probably a good thing. I wasn’t sure I could stand listening to them for another second. My mind was on fire.

  Was this true? Any of it? All of it?

  I wanted them to leave, so that I could leave, too—but then Sara’s patent-leather bow-topped Minnie Mouse feet clopped into the stall two over from mine.

  “Go on, Ros. I’ll catch up,” she said, which sounded like a command for bathroom privacy. I heard the door swing as Rosamund took off. I counted to twenty before I flushed and followed. Mrs. Tulliver’s ugly wedges had saved me. The girls thought I was just another indifferent mom.

  I went back up to the library, my body zinging with shock, my mind an eruption of chaos. Where was Julia? I had to tell her. If I had Julia with me, I could leave.

  Sara and Rosamund had joined up and were hanging around Fred Hasty and Chip and Tiger and Deirdre and a few of the others, over at the bar. What did they know? Most of it? Everything? Questions crammed my brain. I needed Julia, my lifeline. I needed her shoulder to cry on, or maybe to scream on. Had she stepped outside for a smoke with Oliver? Did she know about any of this? Who knew and who didn’t?

  Watching Gil chatting with Jean in that courtly Southern way, I’d never felt so bitterly, stupidly confused. I studied them for clues, as my memory scrambled through time like a rat through trash. When had it happened, where had it happened, did it even really happen, why had Gil wanted it to happen? And who else knew about it?

  Warm, loud bodies pressed into my space from all sides as I made a dazed circuit of the room. One of the mothers, Mrs. Corey, was having an “exhibit” here tonight. Her mournful, broken-glass pictures were hung crooked over the bookshelves. I saw Bertie by the science and nature section, under a broken-glass painting of his own father.

  Who knew more? Me or Bertie? I’d never thought of Bertie as plugged into gossip and rumors. He always held himself a little bit removed, a kid who already seemed like a dad. But there was only one way to find out. I moved directly. My body was shaking through to my center. Could anyone see that? I pressed my hands together to steady myself.

  “Hi, Bertie.”

  “Hey, Fritz. Having any fun yet?” Was he being sarcastic?

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s not fun to be here stag, right?”

  Bertie’s wide-set gray eyes narrowed. “This isn’t strictly a couples night.”

  “I guess not. Unless you’re already a couple.”

  “Are you talking about Gil and Jean?” Bertie gave a flick of his shoulder. “Believe me, that’s not real. You have my word.”

  “I guess she told you she was sitting with the Burkes because they asked her specially, as a favor.”

  “Is there another reason?”

  “Maybe that’s what I’m asking you?” Though it was becoming pretty obvious that blank-faced Bertie hadn’t heard the gossip.

  Bertie sighed. Like he had to explain something to a second grader, and didn’t much want to. “I don’t mean to sound rough, Fritz, but Carp and Weeze aren’t wild about you. Everyone knows that. Even you know it. And Gil’s a stand-up guy. Everybody, including Jean, wants him to do well tonight. There’s no reason for us not to be civilized.”

  I’d never noticed how much Bertie looked like a shark. Besides his wide-spaced pebble-gray eyes, he had that flat head, that dent of mouth. He was always so publicly mushy around Jean. Now he struck me as a more evasive, sharper person. But I couldn’t read that face. And if he didn’t know about Gil and Jean, I didn’t want to be the one to break it to him.

  “Right.” I turned to go.

  “Fritz.” He caught my hand as I began to move away.

  When I faced him again, Bertie’s expression had changed. “I won’t lie,” he confided softly. “I’ve heard . . . things. It’s impossible not to hear things, you know? But when you’re in a relationship for the long haul—and maybe you and Gil are, too—then sometimes the best thing to do is to look away.”

  The strangest part of that comment was how much Bertie believed in it. Look Away: Bertie Forsythe’s secret, sad life motto.

  “Okay,” I said. It seemed cruel to do anything but agree. Basically, what Bernie was saying was that he’d decided to play along. But I was finished standing here, in this steaming-hot library, trying not to flip out.

  Finally, I spied Julia with Oliver, out on the side balcony—between us was a crush of people. I was closer to the exit than to the two of them.

  And I really wanted to get to her before I started to cry.

  In my hurry, I bumped up against Mrs. Walt at the stairs, and I accidentally jostled her white wine, causing her to jump and squeal.

  “Oh my gosh, Mrs. Walt, I’m sorry!”

  “Get me some napkins!” Her mouth made a grimace of effort, as we both started patting at her front in a flurry, using the cocktail napkins I’d snatched off a tray.

  “Fritz?” Gil’s voice carried from all the way across the room. Then louder. “Fritz?”

  Crap. Why did I do it? Why did I look up? But I did, and I met Gil’s gaze so squarely that my eyes heated, and I knew the pain in my face was so raw and naked that he could see it.

  No. No way could I handle this. I felt too exposed, and I had no control over it.

  I dropped my handful of napkins and bolted.

  Outside, I gulped down the fresh bay breeze. Kettledrums were bubbling with fish chowder, and the air smelled delicious, a salty summer mix of brine and butter. Dinner guests were beginning to gather around the bay. A few strollers bayside were watching the sun go down. Picture perfect, as ever.

  I started to run.

  Not to Whisper. Not the Morgue. Not the beach, not the club. I hit the ridge hard, making no choices. Just straight, on and on, tears striping my cheeks, trying to outrun my thoughts, and by the time I’d stopped, I was at the center of town, sweating, out of breath, and totally confused about what to do next.

  The candy store was closed but not locked. I slipped inside the icy-sweet darkness. The cogs of my brain weren’t even working, tears brimmed and burned and spilled from my eyes, and I had no idea why I lit on making a milkshake—other than the fact that it was the simplest thing I could do.

  Vanilla and chocolate.

  Ice, milk, tears, syrup.

  I dug into the hard-packed tubs of ice cream, dropping each scoop in snowball globes into the blender, then tossing in clumsy handfuls of ice, a messy squeeze of syrup.

  I wiped my eyes, turned the blender to PULVERIZE.

  Three summers ago, Julia and I had been the ice-cream queens of the candy store, our very first paying job at Sunken Haven. It was a real score to work a “real” Sunken Haven job, and we were so proud. I could still see the ghostly print of that summer, the two of us in matching pink shirts and braces on our teeth, inventing mixed-up ice-cream flavors, giggling and lightheaded and always paying attention to whatever might happen in a single shift—a cute guy, a new couple, a herd of Minnows. Each innocent customer was a brand-new chance for us to laugh our heads off for reasons that escaped me now, except that it was all vaguely connected to our seventh-grade Awkwardness.

  All these memories of me and Julia—and there were tons of them—would they all be tarnished by this summer?

  Liar liar liar. The word pounded in my head, hard as my heartbeat.
Gil’s lie made every part of me shiver with shocked disbelief. My hands were still unreliable as I drained the shake from the metal cup.

  I’d finish this shake, and then I’d be out. First upstairs to pack up my suitcase. Next, I’d write Marcy Pency my notice and slide it under her office door. Marcy Pency was one of the few people here who could receive a private note and not broadcast it all over the island.

  I’d have to swing by Whisper for some stuff. That meant another note, asking Julia to pack and send me the rest of my things. I didn’t want to leave her, but she’d understand when I told her. She’d know exactly why I had to run through that gate and catch a ferry to Bay Shore. At least I’d had the smarts to save my tips all summer. I hadn’t saved tons, but there was enough.

  “Fritz!”

  I looked up—I hadn’t even heard the bell jangle. I’d been thinking so hard, and Gil had come in so quietly. I set down my empty cup and wiped my eyes, wiped my ice-cream mustache.

  “Fritz, what the hell?”

  “Is it true? About you getting together with Jean?”

  He didn’t say anything. In the terrifying void of his silence, I could feel the drop in my body temperature. So it was true. Oh my god, it was true.

  “How long?”

  “It was once, a one-time thing, a while ago.”

  “A ‘one-time thing!’ That sounds like sex. Was it?”

  His yes was in his eyes. He let me see that. “Fritz, everything that went on with Jean and me happened the first week I was here. Before, even.” He spoke tiredly. “You and I weren’t even really together.”

  “What are you talking about? Do you think I’m stupid? Practically nothing had happened between the two of you. And you and I have been together practically since the day you got here.”

  “All I meant was that stuff started up with Jean before I met you, and then I didn’t end it the right way, and I think it caused her a lot of pain.”

  “I don’t even know what to say. I feel like you think I should understand this. What kind of pain do you imagine I’m in now? Never mind as your girlfriend, but as a human being? As someone who thought you were my friend?” My voice was going wobbly, but I hung on and made myself keep talking. “What do you think I should feel about the two of you making your secret plans and creeping off, and me believing everything between us was so real, me thinking I was your only—”

  “It wasn’t like that.” Gil reached out to take my hand; I stepped back. “I couldn’t up and confess something like that. Give away what happened between Jean and me. It wasn’t just my secret. It was only half my secret.”

  “Always so protective of precious Jean. What about me? What about my feelings?”

  “How can you even say that? You’re everything to me. You’ve been what holds me up here, especially when I’m dealing with my aunt and uncle. You know me better than anyone.”

  “I don’t think I know you at all.”

  Gil reached for me; I stepped away again, but this time, he caught my wrist. “Fritz, listen, in a way I’m glad you know—”

  “Let me go!”

  “Not till you listen—”

  “I don’t need to listen to you! I don’t need to listen to how you’re glad, or relieved or whatever, that I know what you did! It’s the worst pain I ever felt, to know this!” I wrestled away in one hard wrench, then ducked past him, out the door.

  I started running. Heading nowhere, really, since the only straight path was to the harbor.

  Gil was right behind. I could hear his breath and the hard pounding of his feet right behind me, and it wasn’t a minute before he’d overtaken me. With one strong arm, he cinched my waist, yanking and twisting himself right up next to me. Forcing me to slow down, then walk in lockstep with him, even as I kept moving toward the harbor and the dock.

  He couldn’t completely stop me, and so we didn’t stop. Not until we had reached the end of the slip and we couldn’t go any farther.

  A rowboat was tied there. As soon as he let go of me, I stepped into it and unlocked the oars. It was an impulse. All I knew, forcefully and absolutely, was that I wanted to go.

  “You should get back to them,” I said. “Go back to your family, and to Jean, to Lobster Party. Go back where you belong.”

  But Gil stepped into the hull. “Cut it out, Fritz. What am I supposed to do, wave good-bye while you row away into the sunset?”

  “Get your foot out of this boat.”

  “Tell me where you’re going.”

  “It doesn’t matter! Leave me alone!”

  “I’m not gonna leave you.” As soon as I tried to push off, Gil got in, hunkering down, his weight solid and immobile. “You want to go somewhere? Fine! Where to, Fritz? You’re free to go anywhere. Problem is, I’m coming with you.”

  “Jump out. Go. I don’t want to be around you. The least you can do is give me some space to be by myself.”

  He didn’t answer me. We lapsed into silence.

  Gil’s face was tight, a mask. He wasn’t letting up on this.

  I stared past him. Rowed us out in sure strokes. Stared at the space just past him. My face was hot and puffy and tearstained. The gentle, sinking sun felt good on it. The farther away I got from Lobster Party, the more my muscles seemed to unlock naturally, as a deepening, welcome calm melted through my body.

  After a moment, I said, “Jump out here, why don’t you. Swim back, change your clothes at Snappy Boy, and you’ll be in time to catch dinner.”

  “You can’t get away from me that easy, Fritz.”

  “I already feel miles away from you.” My eyes instantly stung with more tears as I said it, but it was true. He could come along with me, but I had already left him.

  We were leaving the harbor. Heading out into the ocean, with no plan, and rowing to nowhere.

  JEAN

  I hadn’t prepared myself for the hurt.

  Where was he? I’d seen him go but hadn’t alerted anyone to it. He’d followed Fritz down the stairs. That was half an hour ago.

  The thirty minutes crawled their way to forty-five, and Gil still hadn’t returned. At seven o’ clock, everyone began to trickle over to dinner, down the stairs and through the doors into the cooled summer air. The Lamplighters had kicked off the evening; there was a general feeling of readiness. The night was beginning in earnest. But no Gil.

  “Where’s our boy?” Weeze asked, as I circled the Burke table in search of my name card.

  “I think he went off to have a cigarette,” I lied.

  Weeze was no fool. She knew something was amiss. Her eyes continued to scan the bay for him, and I knew it wasn’t lost on her that Fritz was gone, too. Still, she bequeathed a good ten more minutes of hostess natter with various guests, before she signaled to Carpie in a gesture of helpless bafflement.

  Gil had vanished.

  Carpie, thin lipped, indicated that we should take our seats.

  I settled in between Weeze and the empty chair on my left, all set with a bowl of cooling chowder and a tender, warm dinner roll. My chin was up, my shoulders back and spine arched, on alert for any sign of him.

  As seats filled, I felt as if I were sitting next to a ghost.

  Where was he?

  After a couple of minutes, Carpie stood and tapped his water glass. Thirteen tables went quiet. I could barely concentrate on Carpie’s words, as he boomed a lordly welcome. He made the first toast to his wife, Louise, for all her hard work; this was followed by a toast to the incomparable Mrs. Train, who had helmed so many parties past.

  Then I saw Carpie’s eyes land briefly, irritated, on the empty chair next to me. He’d carved out room for Gil in his opening round of toasts. It was almost palpable, the feeling of Carpie angrily tamping over this part of his speechmaking.

  Good lord, where was he?

  Carpie closed his talk with some remarks about rebuilding the church, giving a gentle nudge for generosity, and then an invitation to relax and enjoy the evening. There was a smattering of applause
and clinking glasses. Carpie sat down.

  The sky was tassel-threaded in fading reds. Dusk was closing in.

  My brain kept replaying the last moments before Gil had left. We’d all been standing together upstairs in the library. Gil and Dad were discussing the Karen Ann Quinlan case. Gil was impressing Dad the way he could impress anyone: with the cadence of his storytelling, his face so broadly animated, his feet planted solid as a politician’s, his hands open and gesturing. I watched him adoringly and I hoped that my feelings didn’t show up too plain on my face.

  Our whole evening, fat and buttery and blossoming, lay in front of us.

  And then he was gone.

  No excuses. He hadn’t informed anybody that he was leaving or when he’d be back.

  I took a shaky spoonful of soup. A few drops spilled onto the napkin on my lap. I set down my spoon. It was pointless to try to eat.

  Almost an hour. Had Gil meant to leave us this long? Or was it all an accident? Had the two of them been plotting for a while? Or had Fritz acted alone, and done it on purpose, creating a crisis so that she could sabotage my evening?

  Fritz’s place next to Julia stayed empty, too. After a while, I saw Julia’s sister, Dot, plop herself in Fritz’s chair. When Julia got up to go to the bar, I followed.

  “Have you seen Fritz and Gil?” I asked.

  Julia regarded me in her usual, inscrutable way. “When I saw that they were both gone,” she answered, “naturally I assumed they ditched Lobster Night together. Which, in my opinion, was the right thing to do.” One eyebrow rose. “Are you spying for the Burkes?”

  “Of course I’m not. And you don’t have to be rude about it.”

  “Why not?” she asked calmly. “You’ve been rude about a few things, don’t you think, Jean? Sneaking in from the sidelines, with all your big plans and schemes.”

  “I didn’t come over so that you could pick a fight with me.”

  “I guess you put me in a fighting mood.” Then she took her root beer from the bartender, thanked him, and left me.

  Taking a glass of ice water, I stood at the bar alone, sipping to soothe my stomach. It hadn’t occurred to me how angry Julia would be about Lobster Party—and, worse, I could see how she was justified. I’d risked so much for this night to work. It made me feel queasy to think how much. But ultimately, ordering my new dress and shoes with Mom, overnighted from Bonwit’s, or, earlier tonight, getting Mrs. Otis to do my hair from a magazine picture, my imagination had danced only with optimism. I hadn’t prepared myself for the hurt—mine, or anybody else’s.