Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  Clearly our grand scheme was going nowhere and I spun the disc inattentively as my interest waned–an immediate mixed expression registering on Eleanor’s face to alert that something had gone wrong. And I turned my head just in time to stare helpless as the Frisbee careened wildly out of control, striking the boy with a sharp karate chop to the back of his neck.

  I felt the muscles in my face freeze under my skin in disbelieving shock as his head jerked around in stunned surprise; his eyes making a rapid search for the assaulting object as his fingers rubbed the red welt striping his neck.

  He reached for the Frisbee lying blameless in the sand, and without appearing to aim at either of us in particular, he sent it whirling back evenly in our direction.

  “I’m really sorry,” I called out, my recently departed voice making a squeaky return.

  He merely nodded, turning away without offering a word in response.

  I glared at Eleanor, her expression of delirious mirth a clear indication of just how much she’d enjoyed the humiliating exchange. “Turd,” I hissed under my breath before turning away and skulking off toward the sanctuary of Aunt Smyrna’s house, leaving the hateful Frisbee lying in the sand where the boy’s toss had landed it–unfortunately not far enough away to assure the dreadful thing might eventually be whisked away into oblivion by the tide.

  “I don’t think he’s all that interested in girls,” Eleanor said when she’d caught up with me.

  “Probably not,” I snapped. “But how interested would you be in someone who beaned you with a Frisbee?”

  “Umm ... good point,” Eleanor giggled. “You should’ve seen your face.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure I would’ve loved it.”

  “That’s probably why he didn’t yell at you or anything, you looked pretty pathetic.”

  “Great. So do you think he’ll remember us now?” I nearly smiled, feeling myself surrendering to the ridiculous humor of the situation.

  “Definitely. In fact he’ll probably be sure to stay a couple of miles down the beach from now on.”

  “Good. I don’t like other people hanging around on our section of beach anyway.”

  “It’s not our beach, Stevie.”

  “Is too. It’s next to Aunt Smyrna’s house so it’s ours. Everybody else around here knows the rules. It’s been that way forever.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap. I happen to like seeing other people. And you know, now that I think about it, we should’ve handled that whole situation differently just now.”

  “He was nearly decapitated, El, I don’t think there’s a grand list of options for handling assault by plastic.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. I’m just saying we had a chance to break the ice and we wasted it.”

  “Oh? Breaking the neck doesn’t count as breaking the ice?”

  “Knock it off, you know what I mean.”

  “Well, I don’t care. It’s obvious he’s a loner and intends to stay one. So if you want to keep tormenting strangers you’re on your own. I have other stuff to do.”

  “Like what? Building sandcastles and helping Auntie piece jigsaw puzzles?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Perfectly boring. I honestly don’t know how you can stand to be in your own company sometimes.”

  “Apparently I’m just too dull to know any better.”

  “Amen.”

  With the horror of the Frisbee offense still vividly fresh, and just as it always seemed to be when the safe haven of anonymity is most preferred, we now saw the boy almost daily. It was an ideal situation for Eleanor who was more determined than ever to force him into noticing her, though my own personal efforts extended to dropping my chin and willing myself invisible anytime we happened to spy him striding past the house with his fishing pole and bucket. And although Eleanor waved enthusiastically, calling out a chirpy Hollywood quality “good morning”, his response remained unchanged in that he neither returned her greetings nor acknowledged her presence in any way.

  It wasn’t an unexpected surprise when she lost interest altogether a couple of weeks later, eagerly shifting her fascination to a new prospect recently arrived from Brooklyn with his family to occupy the house next door–a cute boy sporting an impeccably waxed flattop haircut, tight jeans, and snug t-shirt.

  Like an answered prayer dropped on her plate direct from heaven, not only was Reed Eleanor’s age, it turned out he was as intrigued with girls as she was with boys. She couldn’t have dreamed up a more convenient arrangement, and it wasn’t long after the two struck up an acquaintance that they dropped the friendly neighbor facade and leapt headfirst into a freshly spit and polished summer romance.

  As I’d known to expect from Eleanor’s past interludes, I myself was the foremost casualty of her newly blossomed love life. Unceremoniously relegated to the objectionable status of excess baggage, I was abandoned to my own devices while Eleanor and Reed disappeared to neck and pant in the privacy of the dunes. Mostly I passed the time swimming or hunting for seashells; meticulously gathering sea treasures even while knowing I had no real interest in keeping them.

  And the days limped forward slowly like a nagging injury, each one finding me wandering further and further along the shoreline, looking for something to occupy my abundance of time alone.

  The signs of an approaching storm were collecting on the horizon, the sea roaring like an unsettled mammoth as it churned and slammed against the sand. The sky–a grey sheet of unblemished canvas pulled taut, smooth and darkly ominous–stretched down into the water, erasing any distinctions that ordinarily separated the two.

  Lost in a muted web of melancholy, I’d inadvertently walked some distance from the house and it was here I saw the boy again, fishing from the rock jetty that pointed out into the churning water like a witch’s knobby finger. There were a handful of other fishermen dotted along the slick boulders, none of which acknowledged or appeared to note my presence as I moved among them, my hands jammed into the pockets of my jacket, head bent to rebuff the cold wind stinging my cheeks.

  I stepped carefully, watching my feet navigate the uneven flooring of rock until I spotted a satisfactory seat–a nicely flattened boulder conveniently close to where the boy had dropped his line into the water.

  For a long while I sat pretending to study the hypnotic lapping of the sea along the jetty, occasionally stealing a glance at the boy and his companions, ignoring as best I could the numbing chill stealing through the seat of my jeans.

  Although I’d long abandoned any previous interest I’d had in gaining the boy’s acquaintance, I considered over the possible benefits should I strike-up a conversation with him now, namely, that I might at least pique my sister’s attentions long enough to separate her from Reed–if only for a few heart-pounding moments.

  Yet it was the weave of intimacy clearly shared by the group fishing from the rocks which held me from pressing further with my self-absorbed intentions, holding silent in my role of spectator even as a queer drama suddenly began to unfold around me.

  The boy’s fishing pole bowed in a sharp downward jerk–the blade tip curving in a deep arc as he reeled hard against the taut line–a silent struggle waged only briefly before he yanked a wildly flip-flopping shiny white fish from the dark waters. And judging from the immediate reactions of his mates, I easily surmised it was a good catch.

  “Hey what the hell! Jake snagged my fish,” someone called out.

  So, his name was Jake.

  Jake smiled but said nothing as he expertly extracted the fish from the hook. One of the men approached, clapping the boy on the back and making a peculiar rapid motion with his hands, Jake responding with a string of similar gestures. The hand signals alternated between the man and boy three or four times before the light bulb blinked on inside my head and I registered the purpose behind the exchange. Jake was deaf. It was a revelation which embarrassed as much as intrigued me–all at once feeling like a criminal peering through a keyhole.

  A fat raindrop
plopped squarely against my forehead … another landing on my cheek. Despite the notable darkening of firmament overhead, the cluster of fishermen showed little obvious concern over the storm’s arrival.

  A deep rumble of thunder rolled a heavy threat behind the sky as I quickened my pace back across the uneven rocks, the thrill of my discovery flapping like wings inside my chest as I raced home along the sand.

  It rained for three days, the time passing like heavy grey sighs. We sat on the porch bundled in sweatshirts and draped with blankets on the long bleak afternoons, piecing Aunt Smyrna’s jigsaw puzzles and thumbing through the collection of movie magazines we’d read and re-read a dozen times already while a tumultuous sea rushed in and crashed onto the sand below.

  By now deeply entombed within a turgid state of restless boredom, my sister and I bickered and teased each other relentlessly. And while Aunt Smyrna’s efforts to persuade us that it would’ve been just as easy to get along as it was to wage war were valiant, neither Eleanor nor I seriously considered such a thing. It was far more entertaining to hold to old habits, comfortably accustomed as we were with our needling attacks and petty offenses against one another.

  We remained secure in the assurance it wasn’t in Aunt Smyrna’s nature to complain, but as the duration of our confinement lengthened into yet another day, I nevertheless sensed my constant sparring with Eleanor was beginning to gnaw through our aunt’s dwindling reserve of patience like a severing cord. So much so, when I finally got around to suggesting we drive into town for an afternoon browse session at the public library she all but galloped to snatch up her purse and car keys.

  Thankfully, with our respective tastes in reading material markedly diverse, I was assured in knowing that as soon as we entered the small town library our trio would instantly divide, each of us happily wandering off alone through our preferred sectors.

  Eleanor had no use for the card catalog, firm in her opinion a novel was only as good as its cover. Roughly translated, it meant any book featuring a portrait of a wildly handsome couple with untamed hair and torn clothing on its jacket more or less cinched its assurance as world-class literature, and she missed nary an opportunity each summer for cramming her mind to saturation with such classics.

  Aunt Smyrna sought out whatever was currently on the bestseller list regardless of whether it initially appealed to her or not, convinced that only once a book had been thoroughly chewed and satisfactorily digested by vast numbers of readers was it worthy of a spot on her night table.

  And since I wasn’t much interested in wasting my summer tangled up in reading, I myself preferred uncomplicated books about wildlife, rocks, or seashells, since youth oriented nature books devoted the majority of their pages to pictures and illustrations.

  This time however, I crept off in a direction other than my accustomed route, equipped with the number I’d scribbled from the card catalog; peeking over my shoulder now and again to be certain Eleanor was nowhere in sight.

  It took minimal effort to locate the desired volume, and clutching it tight against my chest like a hard-earned prize, I crept between the shelves in search of an unoccupied nook. And only once convinced I was safely sequestered from potential intrusions by nosey Eleanor or a well-meaning Aunt Smyrna, did I crack open the cover, rapidly perusing the illustrations featured in Speaking with the deaf: A guide to sign language.

  My initial plan had been to learn a few essential phrases before going home, but the book I now held in my hands made quick work of abolishing this altogether erroneous notion. Unfortunately I didn’t possess the photographic memory I’d assumed, and fluency in this unaccustomed language would require more than a few simple exercises in curving and bending my fingers. If I truly hoped to garner Jake’s interest by waving my hands around in a manner signifying conversation I’d need to invest more time and effort than a five-minute lesson in a dim corner would allow, and yet the prospect of delving any deeper into the whole complicated business of sign language now seeming excessively labor intensive.

  Disappointed, I closed the book. It was probably a stupid idea anyway. Even if I did learn any of this stuff, it was likely I’d be too embarrassed to put my newfound ability into practice. Just sitting here alone imitating the simple illustrations with bashful and incompliant fingers had the effect of making me feel like something of a stooge.

  But then, still ... maybe I was giving up too easily. I could always try learning one basic greeting. Something useful, yet uncomplicated. Hello. That would be it. No references to the weather, seashells, fishing, or Frisbees. Just hello. Simple and not much time invested. Then I’d see what kind of reaction I got for my trouble and proceed from there.

  It was two days later, the sky at last cleared and the sun returned, when Eleanor and I found ourselves out walking along the shoreline searching for something–anything–with the potential for engaging our interest.

  Reed had been grudgingly wretched away from Eleanor’s side, gone with his family to visit a relative living nearby, marking one of the rare occasions since discovery of each other that he and Eleanor had been separated. And simply because I’d long grown bored with being left alone to entertain myself, I genuinely welcomed my sister’s companionship now.

  “Look, El, there’s another jelly-fish.”

  It was the fourth one I’d seen washed up on the beach that morning and for no logical reason I could fathom or otherwise explain I found myself fascinated by the dead and dying lumps of coagulated sea life.

  “No thanks. I’ve seen enough dead fish already. They’re just gross.”

  “Yeah, but they’re still sort of neat.”

  “The word you’re looking for is disgusting–they’re disgusting. Uncle Cal said they’re the cockroaches of the sea."

  Eleanor dropped to sit in the sand like a deflated tube and I collapsed beside her. We stared out at the shimmers of light tossed along the surface of the water like shards of broken glass, neither of us making an effort to speak, mutually having lost interest in conversation.

  “Hey, look who’s coming,” I said, just then spotting Jake’s approaching figure.

  “Oh great, it’s Mr. Personality. Big deal.”

  I didn’t reply, turning my head to watch as he drew closer, my thoughts sprinting back and forth with the immediate uncertainty as to whether I possessed the necessary courage to present my meticulously rehearsed greeting. What if I did it wrong and he thought I was mocking him? What if I started, but then froze or forgot how to finish? Signed HELL, and not hello …

  No. I couldn’t do it. Not now. I wasn’t ready. Too much room for error. Maybe if Eleanor wasn’t sitting there, teeth bared like a junkyard dog ready to spring and bite the moment he passed.

  Resigned this wasn’t quite the opportunity I’d been waiting for and knowing the moment would simply have to pass unused, I lifted my eyes just as he reached us, catching the unexpected flash of white teeth as he proffered a fleeting smile. It was all the encouragement I needed, and without allowing myself time to pause and consider the presentation or its outcome, I watched my hand promptly signing the exactingly practiced salutation.

  An expression of surprise darted over his features and I felt a smile moving across my lips. Just as I’d expected, I’d caught him unawares. And while he promptly returned my gesture with his own hand as if we’d exchanged such pleasantries on dozens of occasions previous, I knew his mind had to be madly spinning with questions.

  For the briefest instant, his stride slackened as though he might pause beside us, but then for whatever reasons, he seemed to think better of it and instead continued past.

  “What the hell was that about?” Eleanor demanded in a hoarse whisper.

  “You don’t have to whisper, El. He’s deaf.”

  “No kidding, but how do you know that?”

  “You shouldn’t be so surprised. Life actually does continue around here while you’re off in the dunes with Reed giving each other tonsil inspections.”

  �
�Very cute. Why didn’t you say something before?” she pressed, the question no sooner emerged from her mouth before her expression turned all at once thoughtful, “Shoot ... this changes everything, Stevie.”

  “How so?” Tiny pinpricks of suspicion stung around the back of my neck like an angry necklace. “You said you weren’t interested.”

  “Are you kidding? This is positively intriguing. What a challenge. We could–”

  “No way,” I interrupted, my previous satisfaction meeting an immediate and grievous death. How could I be so ignorant not to anticipate the potential for Eleanor’s renewed interest? “I will absolutely kill you if you scare him off.”

  “Don’t be such a ninny. I’m just thinking this might be fun,” she said, then all at once frowning, fixing me with a distrustful stare. “And since when do you know sign language?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. I just saw you.”

  “I don’t. I only know that one thing. I saw it on some T.V show–Soupy Sales, maybe,” I insisted, reluctant to spill my sources until I’d had ample opportunity for judging her motives.

  “Oh ...” I could almost see the rusty wheels turning inside her head as she sat silently, her chin resting on her knee. Then, “Hey, how about the library?”

  “Maybe ... well no, I doubt it. Not about sign language. It’s a pretty small library.”

  “They must have something. We’ll have to get Aunt Smyrna to take us into town this afternoon.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  “What?”

  “Reed. Won’t he be jealous if you take off in hot pursuit of another guy?”

  “I’m not pursuing anyone,” she insisted, though not quite convincingly. “Besides, I think I should take a break from him. All he talks about lately is his cousin Jimmy’s Hotrod and it bores me to tears.” Eleanor lifted her chin, adjusted her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose in another of her pilfered movie star gestures. “Besides, it’s not emotionally healthy–seeing only one boy all summer.”