Secrets in the Shadows

by V. C. Andrews

  "I didn't mean to scare you off," I said dryly. "You're not scaring me off. I just don't want to

  watch you reading my poems," he added with a note

  of belligerence.

  I almost threw the notebook hack at him. "If I'm sitting there, you'll feel obligated to say

  nice things," he added with a little less anger in his

  voice. "I would not. I would say what I believe." "Fine. I'll hear it tomorrow then," he said and

  turned the scooter around.

  He didn't even say good night. He shot off into the night, the tiny rear light of the scooter looking like a red eye that closed and was gone, leaving me

  fuming on the driveway.

  He had to be the most infuriating, impolite,

  arrogant and annoying boy on the face of the planet, I

  thought, not to mention confusing. Why was it

  important to him to take me home and then ignore

  me?

  Aunt Zipporah was right. I didn't need someone

  with just as many, if not more, emotional and psychological problems, I told myself. I'm dangling on my

  own high wire.

  And yet it was just that danger and the danger

  that hovered about him that filled me with

  disappointment and frustration at his leaving me

  standing in the dark driveway.

  I gazed at his notebook. No matter how he had

  behaved, I was filled with curiosity and interest in

  what he had written.

  I'm no better than that perennial moth hovering

  about the candle flame, toying with setting myself on

  fire and going up in smoke, I told myself and went

  into the house to read his poetry.

  13 My Deepest Darkest Secret

  . I took the notebook to my room and lay back on my bed. It was like opening a treasure chest and not knowing what you would find. His name, address and telephone number were on the inside of the front cover. Duncan's handwriting wasn't easy to decipher, but after a while, I understood how he made his letters and I was easily able to read what he had written.

  Under his name, address and phone number, he wrote, In the event that this book is found, please call or return. A substantial reward will be given. If you don't call or return, a substantial curse will fall on you and your family.

  I laughed to myself, turned the page and began to read.

  Duncan hadn't been kidding when he had first told me that this notebook was his journal. It wasn't a day- to-day recording of his life as such, but it was about all his observations and things that happened to and around him. There were times when I had thought I would keep a journal, too, but not like this. He really was a poet. He didn't write verse. Nothing rhymed, but it was still very thoughtful poetry full of surprising ideas and thoughts and imagery. At times he sounded like someone who couldn't hate himself more, and then at times, he sounded like someone who thought he was above everyone else; everyone else was inferior. He compared most people around him to worker ants or drones, mindlessly doing their chores every day and never questioning why. He was especially critical of his fellow students, who, he said, had mirrors for faces.

  I liked a lot of his ideas, but some things were disturbing, especially his views of his own parents. He never referred to them as my mother and my father, but it was obvious whom he meant.

  On the first page, in fact, he wrote:

  Like a bird she spreads her wings over me. She wants to protect me from evil,

  But she doesn't realize she is keeping me in the dark,

  And she is smothering me with too much love. Can I die happy that way?

  Some of what he wrote nearly brought me to tears, but there were a few poems that brought smiles and laughter, too, like the one I assumed was about his English teacher.

  Up and down the aisle she parades,

  Unfolding her vowels and consonants So sharply she cuts her own tongue.

  If she could, she'd march us out before a firing squad.

  For misplacing a modifier or using the wrong tense. I imagine the walls in her house are covered with her husband's punishments. A thousand times he wrote:

  I will not use ain't again.

  And then about himself he wrote:

  Too many nights I see stars backing into the darkness

  And disappearing

  The birds keep their distance, too.

  Even the rain drops avoid falling on me.

  I live in my own shadow

  And whenever I turn to see where I have been,

  I discover I have not moved.

  I'm caught in the web I spun around myself,

  Trapped in my own name.

  Was it possible to read someone's thoughts and feel as if you've known him all your life? Some of the things he wrote I had felt and thought, but not as strongly and as vividly. What I had whispered to myself, he was shouting at the world.

  I was still reading when my uncle and aunt returned from the cafe. Aunt Zipporah stopped in to see me. "I half expected to find Duncan here," she said. "He is."

  "What? Where?"

  "Here," I said and held up the notebook.

  "Is that the notebook he's always writing in at the cafe? His poetry?"

  "Yes." "Well, where is he?"

  "He dropped me off and went home, I guess." "I'm surprised he gave you that."

  "We had a deal. I'd let him take me here if he let me read his poetry."

  "That was it? All he wanted was to take you home?" she asked suspiciously:

  I nodded and then shrugged, and she laughed. "So how is his poetry?"

  "Interesting."

  She raised her eyebrows. "uh-huh."

  "No, I'm not trying to avoid saying whether it's good or bad. It really is interesting."

  "Okay. Do you want me to read any?"

  "No," I said quickly. "I don't think it would be right without his permission."

  She smiled:

  "You're right, Alice. See you in the morning when your uncle wakes you and me up again," she said and went upstairs, laughing to herself.

  I finished his notebook before I went to sleep. At the end it left me feeling sad and depressed. I didn't think it possible to discover anyone who was sadder about his life, his family and his future than I was, but Duncan Winning took first prize when it came to that. A part of me wanted me to hand the notebook back to him and run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. In the state of mind I was in, someone as dark and depressing as he was could just push me over the edge. I should be surrounding myself with happy, contented people, young people my age who were more like Zipporah and Tyler. After all, this was supposed to be that time of our lives when we thought ourselves capable of doing anything and living forever, not dwelling on death, failure and

  disappointment.

  But then I thought that giving up on him was surely the same as giving up on myself. Maybe the blind could lead the blind. Maybe we were allies fighting similar demons. Maybe I should be kinder, more understanding, and, in doing that, I would get him to treat me in a similar way.

  I quickly learned that wasn't the way to win his confidence and friendship.

  He showed up at the restaurant right after the lunch rush the next day and took his seat at what was rapidly becoming known as Duncan's table to Cassie and Missy. I went to the back of the restaurant, where I had hidden his notebook, and brought it to him.

  "Some of this is truly wonderful," I said, handing it to him.

  He took it without saying anything.

  "A lot of it is sad," I continued. "There's funny stuff, but most of it is sad. I can understand why, but--"

  "But there's a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow? Sunnier days are just ahead? There's always a silver lining? Which one are you going to give me?" he asked with a wry smile. "I've stored all the lines the way a squirrel stores acorns."

  "I wasn't going to give you any line," I said. "I was just going to
say that even though it's sad, it's good." "Right, it's good."

  "It is! Have you ever shown any of it to your teachers?"

  He looked at me as if I was saying the dumbest thing. "What for?"

  "I just think some of it should be published." "It is. Right here," he said, holding up the notebook.

  "But that's not publishing it. Publishing it is getting other people to read it."

  "And get their dumb opinions? No thanks." "Not everyone is dumb, Duncan."

  "When it comes to me, they are," he said.

  He put the notebook down and turned the pages slowly, inspecting every one.

  "You don't have to worry. I didn't write in it or tear out any pages."

  He continued to check. "A cup of coffee," he said without looking up at me. "Black."

  I glared at him, then turned and went to the counter. Aunt Zipporah looked up from the counter in the kitchen. She watched me pour the cup of coffee.

  "Something wrong?"

  "No," I said, obviously too quickly. "Not with me," I added.

  I brought the cup of coffee to him and slapped it down so hard on the table that some spilled into the saucer. He looked up.

  "You're not the only one who feels these things," I said, "and expresses them in some artistic form or another."

  "Oh really?"

  "That's right, really. I'm not a poet, but I happen to paint, and that's where my feelings and deeper thoughts go. My grandparents are coming up this weekend and my grandfather is bringing my art supplies. I'm setting up the studio behind my aunt and uncle's house, the one the sculptor created."

  His face softened with interest.

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really, Duncan, really. Maybe if you opened a window, some fresh air would go into your head," I told him and walked away to fume on the other side of the restaurant.

  "How come you're spending so much time with him?" Missy asked me.

  "I'm doing penance."

  "What?"

  "Penance. Don't you know what that means? I'm punishing myself to make up for my sins."

  "Huh?"

  The confusion twisted her face, making her lips look like thin pieces of rubber. I had to smile, which calmed me.

  "Despite the way he talks to other people, he's an interesting boy, Missy. He's written some great poetry."

  "You read it?"

  "How else would I know it's good, Missy?" She looked at him and then at me.

  "But why bother with someone like him? Why spend the time'?"

  "I inherited a ton of it. I have lots to spend," I told her, and she gave me that quizzical look again.

  "You sound nuttier than he is."

  "So there you are. You've answered your own question. We're two peas in a pod. You want to come in, too?"

  "No thanks. I'll stay in the sane world," she said.

  "It's your loss," I called to her as she started away. She turned and smirked back at me before tending to a new table of customers.

  Another half dozen customers sauntered in, and I took their orders and stayed busy for a while. I never noticed that Duncan had left, but when I did, I didn't have much time to think about it, because we started to prepare for the dinner crowd. It was Missy's night off, so she was gone after the lunch rush, and Cassie was off as well. Aunt Zipporah and 1 took on the full waitress responsibilities with Mrs. Mallen standing by to jump in if need be.

  According to Tyler, we had a lively crowd for midweek. He was very happy about it. He had done a minimum of print advertising, so the cafe was building its following through the best way possible-- word of mouth. When it came to food and where to go to eat, most people were heavily influenced by the opinions of others, even people they didn't really know.

  "A satisfied customer is worth a ton of advertising," Tyler chanted periodically to his employees. "Keep that smile and give them good service. Make them feel special. The food will do the rest," he promised, and from what I could see during the few days I had returned, he was right. It felt good to be part of something successful.

  I was pretty tired by the time the dinner crowd thinned out and we were dealing only with some stragglers. Everyone pitched in to help with the cleanup. Finally, close to nine-thirty, I had a chance to stand back and catch my breath. I didn't want to mention it, but my bad hip was aching. If my aunt and uncle weren't so busy, they surely would have seen how much more pronounced my limp had become.

  However, from the look on Aunt Zipporah's face as she approached me sitting at the counter, I thought maybe she had noticed and was waiting until now to say something I was preparing myself for her telling me I couldn't work this hard again.

  "You didn't tell me he would be here again tonight, Alice?"

  "What? Who?"

  She nodded toward the front of the cafe. Sitting on his scooter and looking as nonchalant as he had the night before was Duncan Winning.

  "I didn't know myself," I said.

  "You sure you didn't agree to a few more trips on that thing in order to read his poems?" she asked, smiling.

  "Yes," I said. "I'm sure. Believe me, I'm more surprised than you are, Zipporah."

  "Well, you'd better see what that's about then," she added and returned to the kitchen.

  I slid off the stool and walked out.

  "What are you doing out here?" I asked him.

  "Just hanging out to see if you needed another ride."

  "You didn't tell me you would be back."

  "I didn't know I would myself," he said. "It wasn't so bad last night, was it? I'm not reckless or anything."

  "I didn't say you were,"

  "So?"

  I looked back into the cafe. Although they were working at the cleanup, my uncle and aunt were watching us.

  "I have to ask them if it's all right."

  "If it was all right last night, why wouldn't it be tonight?"

  "I'm not saying it won't be," I replied as sharply as he spoke to me. "I just said I have to ask. They are responsible for me now."

  He shrugged and looked away.

  Was I crazy? I should simply tell him to make like the wind and blow, but I didn't. I went inside and spoke to my aunt and uncle.

  "And what are you getting for the ride this time?" Aunt Zipporah teased.

  "A week's supply of single-syllable words," I told her, and she laughed.

  "Be--"

  "Careful. I know, I. know," l said, taking off my apron. "See you later."

  "Thanks, Alice. You did great work tonight," Uncle Tyler told me.

  "I made more than seventy-five dollars," I bragged.

  Duncan waited confidently on his scooter, never doubting I'd be out to ride with him. His shifting from arrogance to self-pity was driving me crazy.

  "Do you have to be brought straight home?" he asked when I stepped out.

  "Not straight home, but soon. Why?"

  "I'd like to show you one of my favorite places around here. It's sort of on the way anyway."

  "Okay," I said and got on behind him. He kickstarted the engine and we took off.

  Just as before, we didn't speak to each other much until he made a turn off the road I knew and followed another, more narrow road that eventually turned into pure gravel. After a dozen or so more yards, he stopped the scooter.

  "Let's walk the rest of the way. It's safer than negotiating the gravel. It's just off to the left here," he said.

  He shut off the engine and stabilized the scooter. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a small flashlight to show me how to move through some brush until we came out to a little clearing on the river. It was running so softly and silently that it was almost still.

  "What river is this?"

  "The Walkill. It meets up with the Rondout Creek and flows into the Hudson River at Kingston," he explained. "There are a number of spots like this around here, but this one is my private place. I actually came in here and cleared it and keep it cleared. I bring a blanket on summer nights and sprawl out. sometimes with something
to drink. My mother doesn't know about that," he added quickly. "Years ago, I found where my father stashed his bottles in the basement of our house. The good thing about the whiskey is it's better when it's aged."

  "Why do you need to drink anything? It's enough to look at this scenery," I said.

  "Maybe. If you're not alone," he added. "A few times I caught some couples at it just down the bank a little ways," he said.

  "At it?"

  "Making love," he said with an underlying tone of disapproval, even disgust.

  "How did you know that was what they were doing?"

  "I saw them!"

  "So you spied on them, invaded their privacy?" "Not really. They invaded my privacy and silence with their laughter and moans. I threw some rocks into the water to spook them. Sometimes it worked and they left; sometimes they were so involved, I could have set off a bomb and they couldn't care less."

  "I'd care," I said, "especially if I knew someone was watching."

  "I wasn't exactly watching. I don't need to be watching," he said sharply. "When I saw what was going on, I turned away, in fact."

  "Good," I said.

  He looked at me, and for a while we stood there in silence, listening to the faint ripple of the water as it flowed over some rocks.

  "What I like about the river is . . . ," he began. "I know," I said quickly.

  "Oh yeah? What?"

  "The river's power comes from its movement. It never repeats. itself. Like they say, you can't step into the same river twice. That's the way I wish our lives would be."

  "You memorized that?"

  "I told you. I liked a lot of your work. I wasn't just trying to be nice or anything."

  I could feel his surprise even though I couldn't see his face that well.

  "Why do you envy the river? Don't you think there's anything good to be said for staying in the same place for long periods of time, if not your whole life?" I asked him.

  "A moving target's harder to hit," he replied. "You don't have to always be a target, Duncan."

  "In this world?" He laughed. "If it's not one thing, it's another, believe me. Look at you. You moved, didn't you? You didn't want to stay in the same place."

  "That's different."

  "Why? Why did you want to move? Why is it different?"

  "It's complicated," I said.

  "People always give you that answer whenever they don't want to answer something. It's an easy way out."