The Long Secret

by Louise Fitzhugh

  Beth Ellen felt grateful again to Mrs. Welsch. She got into bed and Harriet turned off the light.

  Harriet said, “Good night,” softly, then turned over with a big flop.

  Beth Ellen said, “Good night,” and lying back, she stared up at the ceiling. The room was lighted by the full moon. A dreadful emptiness overtook her. I am as empty as the ceiling, she thought, and her heart began to beat faster. I am going to cry or I am going to explode, I don’t know which. Sobs shook her.

  A sweaty little hand came over and held hers. I like Harriet, she thought through her tears; she never seems to have any feelings, but she does. She stopped crying. The sweaty little hand went away and there was a loud snore from Harriet.

  I am tired of being this way. I am tired of crying. I can’t cry anymore or something will happen to me. I am not going to cry anymore. I don’t care what happens; I am not going to cry anymore. These thoughts went through Beth Ellen’s head like machine gun bullets.

  I will be different in the morning, she thought with a feeling close to contentment, and rolled over on her side into sleep.

  he next morning they were eating breakfast, when Harriet said, “I’ll ride you home on my bike. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Beth Ellen, then thought, I don’t want to go home.

  “And then can we go to the beach?” asked Harriet.

  “Jessie Mae asked me to come see her,” said Beth Ellen.

  “Well!”

  “No, I mean, both of us.”

  “That’s different.”

  “She said she’d take us to see The Preacher. Do you want to?”

  “SURE!” Harriet leaned forward. “I think it’s Jessie Mae, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Who’s leaving the notes.”

  “Ummmm.” Beth Ellen had a mouthful of cereal.

  “Well, do you?”

  “I don’t know. She seems nice when you talk to her.”

  “Hey,” said Harriet. “What was it she told you you oughta stop doing?”

  “What?” said Beth Ellen sharply. “Were you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it was private.”

  Harriet looked thoughtful. “Well,” she said, “all she talks about is religion. You’d think she’d never heard of anything else.”

  “Why do you care so much who’s leaving the notes?”

  “Because,” said Harriet, exasperated, “I’m writing a story about someone leaving notes, and I’m making up it’s Jessie Mae.”

  “Janie said it could be anybody.”

  “What does Janie know? She wouldn’t recognize her own mother unless she saw her under a microscope.”

  “She knows a lot,” said Beth Ellen and was surprised at her own vehemence.

  Harriet looked at her. “Listen, Mouse …” she began.

  “Let’s go now,” said Beth Ellen quickly.

  “Listen here, Mouse—”

  “And don’t call me MOUSE!” Beth Ellen was standing by the door to the deck and she screamed the last word.

  Harriet looked totally shocked. Beth Ellen went out on the deck. Harriet shrugged, got up, and followed her out.

  They got Harriet’s bike, said good-bye to Mrs. Welsch, and pushed off down the road.

  Beth Ellen was riding in the basket. As she rode along she felt oddly protected. Whatever one thinks of Harriet, she thought to herself, one always feels safe with her. Even her rudeness was better than the icy chill of polite parents. She thought what she had thought the other day, that being with Harriet made her feel that she could be a child for once. She felt happy feeling like a child. Most of the time she felt like a troll.

  Harriet was humming a little tune, pumping away hard because of the extra weight.

  Beth Ellen began to think of the night before. When I am married, she thought, I will make pancakes every night for dinner and we will never, never go out. She went off into a fantasy of herself, beautiful, in her own house, also beautiful, and Zeeney and Wallace all dead and buried. She got a picture in her mind of her husband looking just like Wallace and demanding that they go out to dinner. She refused. He hit her. She cut off his head and hid him in the basement.

  “Look, there she is,” said Harriet.

  Beth Ellen shook away her dream and looked. There was Jessie Mae in the filling station again. They pulled in.

  “Thanks very much,” Jessie Mae was saying to the filling station man.

  “Hi,” said Harriet, running into the end of Jessie Mae’s bike.

  “Why, hi there,” said Jessie Mae warmly.

  “Hi,” said Beth Ellen.

  They all three stood there.

  “Mighty hot, ain’t it?” said Jessie Mae.

  “Can we go to The Preacher’s house?” asked Harriet bluntly.

  “Sure,” said Jessie Mae and looked around. “I was trying to find Norman but I guess it’s impossible. He’s disappeared.”

  “Probably out selling toilets,” said Harriet and laughed.

  Jessie Mae gave her head a little toss and turned to Beth Ellen. “Would you like to see my church?”

  “CHURCH?” shouted Harriet. “We’re not going to any church!”

  “If you want to,” said Beth Ellen politely.

  “I didn’t mean go into a church,” said Jessie Mae to Harriet. “I meant come to my church, my church we made.”

  “What?” Harriet looked frantic. “What is all this?”

  Jessie Mae climbed on her bike and started rolling. “Follow me and I’ll show you,” she called over her shoulder. Soon she was far down the road.

  “Let’s go,” said Beth Ellen to an open-mouthed Harriet. Beth Ellen felt suddenly good.

  “Okay,” said Harriet dubiously, and the bike started moving. “But,” she said slyly, “I thought you might want to go to the inn and see Bunny.”

  “Oh, Bunny,” said Beth Ellen with disgust. “Who cares about Bunny?”

  “Well! That’s a change,” Harriet panted as she attempted to follow Jessie Mae. “Now maybe we can spy on somebody interesting instead of hanging around there the rest of the summer. You mean you never want to go see him again?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Beth Ellen was amazed at herself. The words had flown right out of her mouth as though she had absolutely no control over them. Was she tired of Bunny? He was like Wallace and Zeeney. Still, it hurt to give him up as though he were a toy and she had outgrown him. Maybe he wasn’t so bad. Maybe Wallace and Zeeney weren’t so bad either. Maybe she should give them another chance. She determined to do that when she got home. Even though they were only paper dolls, it was hard to give them up too.

  “You don’t know what you want,” Harriet was muttering.

  Jessie Mae slowed down ahead of them. They were deep into the country now. When they stopped, they were on a small rise with woods on either side.

  “Right up yonder is The Preachers,” said Jessie Mae, pointing to a little dirt road leading up a hill. She smiled sweetly. “But right over here’s my church.”

  They looked after her pointing finger but saw only woods.

  “Where?” said Harriet.

  “Right over there,” said Jessie Mae, grinning and pointing at the woods.

  “There’s nothing over there,” said Harriet with exaggerated patience.

  It occurred to Beth Ellen that perhaps Jessie Mae was bats. She looked at the woods and saw nothing but woods. She looked at Harriet, and when she saw Harriet only looking indignant as usual, she felt better.

  “Come on and see,” said Jessie Mae and rode her bike right into the woods.

  Harriet followed, and looking down, Beth Ellen could see that there was the faintest suspicion of a path.

  They rode on until they came to a small clearing. The sun hit the bald patch of dirt in an almost perfect circle. It looked as though designed for the light, as the light spots in some cathedrals look designed.

  Oh, thought Beth Ellen, she only means it looks like a church.
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  Harriet leaned the bike against a tree. As Beth Ellen was clambering down, Harriet poked her and pointed to the clearing.

  Jessie Mae was kneeling in the middle of the round patch. Her face was turned up to heaven and her hands were praying.

  “Oh, dear,” said Harriet, for once in awe. “What do we do now?”

  Beth Ellen put her finger to her lips, signaling Harriet to be quiet. They waited for Jessie Mae to finish.

  Jessie Mae was muttering to herself with her eyes closed. She finished finally, and getting up, looked around for them and smiled.

  “Y’all come on in,” she said sweetly. “This here’s my church.” They came into the light rather timidly.

  “This the altar,” she said proudly and showed them a wooden structure which was nailed to a tree on the edge of the clearing. It had a box on top and a box on the bottom. The box on top made a stand like an altar, and the box on the bottom held a Bible and two candles. Jessie Mae took out the Bible and put it on the altar. Then she took out the candles and stuck them in little knot holes on each side of the Bible. Then she took out some matches and lit the candles.

  “Did you build it yourself?” asked Harriet.

  She can’t think of anything else to say, thought Beth Ellen.

  “Why, no,” said Jessie Mae. “Norman helped me. We haven’t got the robes worked out yet, but soon we gonna have those too.”

  “Robes?” Harriet’s eyes were bugging.

  “You know, vestments and things. We gonna have it all real fancy.”

  Beth Ellen found herself feeling a certain envy. I must have a profession, she thought hurriedly. I must decide. Everyone I know has something like this. Something to love. I need something to love.

  “Let’s go now,” said Jessie Mae, putting away the candles and the Bible, “unless y’all want to pray a little.”

  Harriet ran for her bike.

  “No, thank you,” said Beth Ellen, suddenly wanting to say: I just ate. She turned and walked to the bike. She got into the basket and Harriet pushed her to the road, then got on and began following Jessie Mae again.

  They rode up the little dirt road to The Preacher’s house. It sat on a hill surrounded by dogwoods and snowball bushes.

  “What a funny little house,” said Harriet.

  “It’s a real nice house,” said Jessie Mae with enthusiasm.

  Beth Ellen looked the house over. It didn’t look like any of the summer houses nor did it look like the farmers’ houses around there. It looked like the kind of house she had seen in books about the South. There was a breezeway separating the two parts and through this you could see the trees and hills beyond. The two halves sat looking at each other as though in conversation. It looks like a friendly house, thought Beth Ellen.

  “Get down,” said Harriet, who was huffing up the hill. Beth Ellen got down and Harriet pushed the bike. Jessie Mae was going ahead fast, eagerly. When they got to the top, she was already starting up the steps.

  “Well, well. Hi there, Jessie.” The Preacher had come out onto the porch “My, my. You brought along the little rich critters, I see. Hi, y’all!” He waved his cane at Harriet and Beth Ellen.

  “Hi, y’all,” said Harriet. Beth Ellen poked her in the ribs.

  “I can’t help it,” Harriet whispered irritably. “When someone talks like that, I can’t help doing it.”

  “Hello,” said Beth Ellen shyly.

  “They wanted to meet you,” said Jessie Mae.

  “Me?” He raised his eyebrows. “Now who in the world would want to meet me?”

  Not knowing what to say, everyone stared at him.

  “I tell y’all what,” he said, hitting the porch with his cane to emphasize his idea, “I’m gonna make a pitcher of lemonade.”

  “Oh, goody,” said Jessie Mae. “Can I help you?”

  The Preacher turned and started for the door. “Naw, it’s nothing. You sit down in the yard there with your friends. I won’t be a minute.” He disappeared inside.

  Jessie Mae led the way across the bumpy yard to some chairs placed around a big round wicker table. “Here’s where we sit all the time,” she said happily and sat down.

  “Can’t we see inside?” asked Harriet.

  Harriet’s like a puppy, thought Beth Ellen. If she can’t smell a new place all over, she isn’t happy.

  “No,” said Jessie Mae. “He didn’t ask us in, so we can’t go in. He asked us here.”

  “Have you ever been in?” asked Harriet.

  “Yes, one time, to get a drink of water ’cause it was so hot riding over.”

  “What’s it look like?” Harriet sat down unwillingly.

  “Just a house,” said Jessie Mae and shrugged.

  “I sure would like a look around,” said Harriet, craning toward the windows, “just to see if he’s got some notes in there he hasn’t used yet.”

  “What?” Jessie Mae looked astonished.

  “The notes,” Harriet squeaked, “like the ones you got in the garage! I don’t know why I have to be the only one who can even remember the notes! Nobody seems to have a curious bone in their—”

  “Oh, Harriet,” Beth Ellen interrupted, “who cares?”

  “I care,” said Harriet and stood up resolutely, “and I’m going in there and look around.”

  “Listen, girl, you really think The Preacher would bother himself leaving notes around?”

  “I’m going,” said Harriet stubbornly and started toward the porch.

  “Here we go.” The Preacher came out of the door carrying a tray. “This oughta cool everything off. I got some those cookies you like too, Jessie.” He came past Harriet and set the tray down on the table. Harriet turned around and sat down again docilely.

  The pitcher of lemonade was frosted on the outside. Harriet started eating cookies as though she’d been starved all her life. Beth Ellen ate three, then stopped politely and watched them disappear down Harriet’s throat like peanuts.

  “Well, you like those, don’t you, critter?” said The Preacher, laughing at Harriet. His teeth were long and yellow and his smile was warm. “Don’t they feed you in that big rich house?”

  Harriet almost choked. Jessie Mae began to laugh and Beth Ellen giggled.

  “What are you laughing about, Mouse?” said Harriet when she could talk. “Your house is bigger than mine.”

  The Preacher and Jessie Mae turned to look at Beth Ellen. Beth Ellen looked at her feet.

  “You a mouse, child?” asked The Preacher, chuckling. “Well, I wouldn’t worry. The mice shall inherit the earth, it’s said.”

  Jessie Mae fell to the ground laughing.

  “AHA!” said Harriet, standing up and holding one finger in the air. “You SEE, he quotes things and also he quotes ’em funny, just like the note leaver!”

  Beth Ellen looked at The Preacher. Jessie Mae stopped laughing and looked up from the ground. Harriet leaned across the table.

  “I’ve got you now,” she said ominously.

  The Preacher looked startled, then laughed. “You mean that fella leaving things all over Water Mill? Well, I got to admit, that’s where I got that little joke from. I saw that written on a little piece of paper. … I was there in Water Mill. I thought it’s so funny I brought it home and I got it here inside … you want to see it?” He stood up.

  “Sure, sure,” said Harriet rudely, “a likely story. That’s the easiest thing in the world to say, and then you just show us something you wrote. I know better. If you’ve got a note like that in your possession, you’re the one.”

  “That’s dumb, Harriet,” said Beth Ellen in a tone very brisk for her. “Anyone who’s been sent one has it in their possession.”

  The Preacher laughed at Harriet’s reddening face. “Ain’t such a mouse after all, are you?” he said to Beth Ellen. He sat down again. “I’m mighty interested myself in who’d do a thing like this. It must be a strange mind to think of taking the words of the Holy Bible and twisting them or just saying them with a m
ind to make people unhappy. As I understand, they are not pleasant notes.” He looked at Harriet. “Of course I’m not running up and down the countryside playing detective, but I sure would like to know. People are getting pretty agitated about the situation. I hear they’re of a mind, too, to catch the guilty party.”

  “Well,” said Harriet, “finally! I’m glad somebody’s interested. Why don’t we catch him?”

  “Well, like I said, I don’t fancy myself a detective, but I’ll give you what help I can.”

  “I’d like to see that note you have,” said Harriet importantly.

  “All righty!” He got up and went toward the porch, then turned back. “I was gonna give it to the police if they asked, but I reckon you’ll do just as well.” And with a crooked smile he went indoors.

  “What did he mean by that?” asked Harriet.

  “He means you’re pompous. How can you ever catch anybody?” said Beth Ellen. Jessie Mae laughed.

  “I don’t care what you say … hey! He didn’t say who got the note.” Harriet was so engrossed that she stared at the house, waiting for The Preacher to emerge.

  She doesn’t even care when she’s insulted, thought Beth Ellen.

  “I reckon he’ll tell you,” said Jessie Mae.

  “I like him,” said Harriet. “At least he cares there’s some maniac loose leaving notes. He seems like a nice old man.”

  “He is,” said Jessie Mae stoutly.

  “What makes you say the note leaver is a maniac?” asked Beth Ellen. “Janie said—”

  “Never MIND what Janie said,” Harriet shouted. “I think it’s a maniac!”

  “Here it is,” said The Preacher, coming across the lawn and handing the small paper to Harriet. She looked at it as though she had X-ray eyes.

  Jessie Mae looked over her shoulder. “Looks like all the others,” she said and sat down again.

  “It’s a mystery,” said The Preacher, “but there are a great many mysteries in this life.”

  “Where do you come from?” asked Harriet suddenly. Beth Ellen was astounded. Harriet has some nerve, she thought to herself; I’d never ask anyone anything.