Secret of Lies

by Barbara Forte Abate

  It was the first night since returning from the hospital that I’d had to attempt attaining sleep without the aid of a pill. Aside from the comforting fact Ash was sleeping downstairs for the fourth consecutive night, I’d worked purposely hard that day raking and weeding Mom’s flower garden, expecting to fall into an exhausted sleep as soon as I’d tumbled into bed. Instead, I found my physically depleted self battling against wakefulness–the hollow sound of the clock echoing the restless stirrings of my unsettled thoughts like something about to detonate.

  How would I have ever managed to stay afloat over these past days if not for Ash’s quiet and steady presence? He’d stayed here without complaint, offering a foothold as I struggled to cling to the sheer rock face of this unscalable mountain treacherously risen up before me.

  And even more important than his actual coming here was that he’d stayed–selflessly remained–leading me to hope that at some point he’d succeeded in forgiving me that awful moment when I’d denied him. So foolishly allowed the murderous weight of my own silence to crumble the budding promise of love spanned out between us.

  The floor was icy cold beneath my bare feet as I crept from my bedroom into the hallway, my resolve faltering for only a moment before moving to descend the stairs. And if the old wooden risers creaked beneath my careful steps I didn’t hear it over the pounding of my heart or the prayer reciting in my head.

  Downstairs, I again hesitated, hovering within the threshold opening into the living room where Ash slept, my earlier determination momentarily wavering as I stood protectively cloaked by the cover of darkness.

  Did I truly know what it was I designed to tell him? Could I actually offer the truthful surrendering of my thoughts, now, after so long and damaging a silence?

  It was some unnamed force that propelled me forward, resolutely carrying me to where he lay stretched out on the couch. And I reached out a quaking hand to touch his sleeping form.

  “Wha–what’s wrong?” His eyes flew open as I shook his shoulder haltingly, even then uncertain of my purpose in being there. He sat up instantly, the thin cotton blanket covering him falling away from his bare chest.

  “Nothing’s wrong. It’s only me.” I felt myself smile inside as I watched him, his momentary state of disorientation lending an expression of sweet vulnerability to his sleep-sated visage. “I just need to tell you something,” I said, forcing my voice past the lump lodged in my throat like a fist.

  “You don’t have to–I know,” he said, reasonably awake now, pushing a thick wave of hair back from his forehead. “The ceiling’s leaking in your bedroom, right?”

  “No, it’s nothing like that.”

  He swung his legs over the edge of the couch, a voiceless invitation that I sit.

  “It’s about that afternoon when we were working in Mom’s garden–that day when we somehow … lost each other.”

  “You don’t need to–”

  “Please be quiet and let me finish,” I said, hesitating, then lifting my eyes, “I do love you. I couldn’t say it because … I don’t know ... because I’ve never said it to anyone before … and maybe I … I’m just afraid to feel so much.”

  He barely moved in response to my declaration.

  “And … well, I guess that’s all.” I stood quickly, unequivocally horrified over his non-reaction to my admission and exceedingly grateful for the darkness.

  “Stephanie,” he said, reaching out to catch my fluttering hand like a moth in midflight before I’d had the chance to flee. “Come here,” his voice coaxed softly and I drifted back toward him on hollow legs. “When you tell someone you love them it’s especially nice if you stay around long enough to allow the recipient to absorb it.”

  “You … you look tired,” I stammered, immediately disgusted that from the vast storeroom of clever remarks and witty phrases I carried in my head, these were the only words rising to the surface.

  “I’m sure I’ve never been more awake in my life.” I saw the glint of white teeth as he smiled. “Come here, Stevie,” he said again, drawing me against him easily. “You can’t just blurt out something like that and then run away.”

  A rapidly widening swath of heat radiated through the fabric of my old cotton nightgown where his bare arm encircled me–the warring sensations of security and fear pressing within me like opposing goals.

  “You’ve never told a man you love him?”

  “No.”

  “Not the boy at the beach?”

  “No.”

  He reached out his hand to touch my cheek, pushing my hair back from my face.

  There was a certain absence of clarity about his features in the filmy dark, but the details of his face were familiar enough that I could see him clearly beyond the shadows shading the hollows of his expression, the forever glint of something honest and true within his eyes as he leaned forward; his kiss drawing every ounce of uncertainly crowded within my heart and banishing it to nonexistence.

  “It was worth the wait. Now tell me again,” he insisted sweetly, easing me back against the couch cushions.

  His face hovered only inches from mine, breath melting warm against my cheek, his familiar scent rolling over me in fat waves. “Tell me, Stevie.”

  “I love you … I love you, Ash.”

  And he wrapped his arms around me, my face tucking against his neck as he pulled me against his chest. “You know what happens now, don’t you?”

  Yes, I knew what happened now. Right or wrong, damning or not, I knew precisely what came next. Or at least I thought I did, until he spoke the unexpected words.

  “Now I ask you to marry me.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I was close to being insanely happy in those early months of our marriage; our days together blissfully simple and relatively uncomplicated–fairytale sweet and impossibly perfect. (Aside from the minor irritation of having to remind Ash almost daily to hang up his jacket and put his boots somewhere other than strewn wherever he happened to be standing when he took them off as though his body had melted in its tracks.)

  There was nothing of greater importance or satisfaction than our life together. Nothing that erased the daily trials so completely as when I fell asleep each night folded against the firm security of Ash’s body. And for a while I allowed myself to believe I would be forever-after happy with Ash, despite the fact that I was still on the farm–the place I’d wanted to leave from the moment I was old enough to understand where I was. Somehow, even the biting edge of that longtime disturbing truth had been prodigiously softened–a stubborn wound bandaged over well enough that it no longer appeared to have any option other than to heal.

  But then another letter came–There is too much pain in the truth.

  And for the first time I found myself considering the possibility that this strange correspondence wasn’t merely some nonsensical joke or ignorant prank, but rather someone’s attempt to reveal something I had yet to see. Something of potential consequence. And yet, why the mystery? Wouldn’t it be just as easy and a good deal less irksome if they simply came out and said whatever it was they were alluding to? Why the meandering clues that offered little sense at all? It was enough of an annoyance that I found myself questioning whether the anonymity afforded letters sent to advice columns was such a necessary or favorable practice after all, considering it provided a far too convenient cloaking device for a varied assortment of mischief.

  “It’s almost as if this person actually knows me,” I said, watching Ash’s valiant attempts to fork the unidentifiable lump of charcoaled meat on his plate.

  “I think your identity as the brain behind Aunt Phoebe’s pen probably stopped being a secret a long time ago, Stevie.”

  “That’s not what I mean. It’s just that these letters–ridiculous as they seem–are starting to feel distinctly personal–like maybe they’re not as random as they appear at first and I’m missing something staring me right in the face–something I should’ve seen by now.”

  As
h sectioned a blackened square with his knife, gingerly popping it into his mouth, chewing for a full two minutes before attempting to swallow it down with a mouthful of beer. “This isn’t bad. What’s it called?”

  “Burnt shoe leather.” I pushed my plate away. “You don’t have to be nice, Ash. I know it’s awful. I forgot to check it while I was folding the laundry. These stupid letters have my mind everywhere but where it should be.”

  “Um … and you’re certain they’re all written by the same person?”

  “It’s the same handwriting and they all have a Callicoon postmark. I feel like I need to do something with them, I just haven’t figured out what.”

  “Well, if you want my opinion, I think you should just throw them away and not let it upset you.”

  I nodded, even while knowing it was far too late for that. They already had.

  Ash was right. What I really should do was follow his suggestion and dump the entire mess into the forgettable black hole of oblivion. It’s what I should have done, but didn’t–some persistent sense of something I failed to recognize, compelling me to add the next vexingly pointless note to those already crowding the back corner of my drawer like a molehill growing into a mountain: It would’ve hurt her too much to know.

  Confidential: What is it you’re hiding in your letters? Time to get to the point if you expect a reply, I typed at the bottom of Aunt Phoebe’s Sunday column, not really expecting a response from my invisible correspondent, but determined that I was finished with the nonsensical riddle regardless.

  Why haven’t you put them together, was the unexpected reply that arrived on my desk several days later.

  What? I wanted to scream in frustration. Put what together? I pulled the desk drawer open, reaching for the assemblage of letters I’d filed away over the past months, unfolding each and laying them out in a mismatched patchwork. There were six that had arrived before the message ultimately came advising me to put them together and I began arranging them before me on the desk

  But accidental murder is no sin

  I saw them

  the ending couldn’t be changed

  wrapped in their wickedness

  that night

  do you see

  If the author’s intent had been to spell out something comprehendible, the notes evidently hadn’t been mailed in order. Apparently whoever had composed them was fond of puzzles, while I most definitely was not. I sorted the papers back and forth, side to side, reversing the order, rearranging, shuffling the papers like a magician performing a complicated card trick–then icy fingers twining around my heart like rapidly creeping vines as I all at once deciphered the identity of the author spelled out in the lines laid before me: I saw them that night wrapped in their wickedness don’t you see the ending couldn’t be changed but accidental murder is no sin.

  As I’d hoped the post office was nearly empty at that time of day and I stood in the lobby pretending interest over a change of address form; waiting impatiently for the sole patron to conclude his chronicle of the previous, current, and next day’s weather, pocket his newly purchased book of stamps, and pass through the outside door before approaching the clerk myself.

  “I was hoping you might be able to help me with a question about some letters I’ve received,” I said, my tone purposely even, hoping she didn’t notice my quaking hand as I handed her the envelope. “Aside from what it says on the postmark, is there a way to find out anything else about where this was mailed from–something a little more precise?”

  The woman took the envelope, briefly casting her eyes toward my face in a suggestion that she well recognized the absurdity of my inquiry, but would nevertheless hold to job decorum and pretend otherwise. Her gaze skimmed the envelope, then all at once grinning, “Hey, is that right–you’re AUNT PHOEBE?”

  I extended the effort of a weak smile but said nothing.

  “I’m afraid the only information is what’s right here on the postmark–the town it was mailed from and the date it was stamped,” she said, glancing up from the envelope, the grin returning to her mouth. “Aren’t these letters supposed to be confidential anyway?”

  “Well, yes of course, but this is something else. It’s important that I find this person–they’ve been missing for a long time.”

  “Missing in Callicoon?”

  “Yes, well, no, actually I’m not sure. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s just very complicated,” I said, reaching for the envelope.

  She took a step backward, still holding the letter. “If you hold on a minute I can ask Ernie if he has any ideas. I think he’s still out back unless he snuck out for a cigarette,” she winked. “His wife’s been after him to quit. Doctor’s orders.”

  As far as I knew, Ernie had been the postmaster in Callicoon since before I was old enough to drop a letter into the mailbox, and he offered a warm smile as he came up to the counter, the stink of cigarette smoke following closely behind.

  “Afternoon, Stevie. Judy says you have some kind of urgent situation?”

  Did she have to say urgent? I felt an immediate flush of embarrassment staining my cheekbones like a swipe from a loaded paintbrush. “Well, no, maybe not urgent–but it’s important. I’ve gotten several letters over the past few months–all from the same person–and it’s imperative I find out anything I can about where they might’ve been mailed from.”

  His eyes glanced over the envelope in much the same way Judy’s had, shaking his head as he started to hand it back, then hesitating as a certain recollection took hold. “Hum … well I couldn’t say for sure if this is the same letter or not, but I did get several others for you–for Aunt Phoebe I mean–each of them addressed in ‘care of the Callicoon postmaster’ requesting they be postmarked here and dropped in the mail.”

  I stared at him, incredulous. “What? And you did it? Isn’t that illegal?”

  He laughed. “Strange, but not illegal. People send mail to postmasters in particular cities all the time requesting they postmark their letters. Valentine’s Day they mail it to Kissimmee, Christmas it goes to the North Pole. Apparently people think it’s charming for the recipient, though I seriously have to wonder if anyone does more than glance at an envelope to make sure their name’s on it before they tear it open. I doubt much attention ever gets paid to a postmark.”

  “Is there any chance you might remember where the letters did come from?” I asked, dread over his potential answer sending a network of needle sharp fissures running across the weakening facade of my deliberately composed demeanor like cracking ice.

  “Well, I’ll be honest–there were enough of them coming through over the past few months to stir my curiosity. New York, I’m pretty sure, but I don’t recollect the particular towns. They weren’t always the same as I recall it.”

  “Will you let me know if you get another one?”

  “Sure,” he grinned. “Seems Aunt Phoebe has a secret admirer.”

  Not so secret. Not anymore.

  There would be only one more letter after that. Not merely a sentence or cryptic handful of words, but an actual letter, as if she too had concluded that the game was finished.

  Unlike the others that had come concealed behind the guise of a dishonest postmark, this final letter was directly addressed to me at the farm, postmarked from a town in New Jersey I’d never heard of. I opened it with the slow caution afforded a dangerous glimpse inside Pandora’s box, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table when my legs turned rubbery and no longer capable of supporting my weight. There was no salutation or signature to begin or conclude the message contained on the single sheet, though neither was necessary; the body of the missive reading like an awkward stumble into someone’s private conversation.

  He left and there was no forgiving that. If he hadn’t run away I would’ve pardoned him his sins just as I did all the other times. I believe his knowing that is what made him so bold.

  They thought I was a fool, but I knew what was happening. I too saw them th
at night. Waited for you to go back to the house before I confronted them myself. It was not my intention that my words should kill her. My only purpose was that they hurt her. I never touched her. Never. She was hysterical–caught in such a way by you and then me. She thought she was old enough, wise enough, but she was really only a girl who knew nothing about being a woman.

  Calvin never said a word when I shouted at her, when I told her she would never step foot in my house again. Just like he didn’t go after her when she ran off in the dark. He left her on her own that night. That was the sort of man he was. Never prepared to clean up after his messes or fix the things he’d broken. It was the storm, not Calvin that killed her body. He was the one who killed her soul. I let you hold onto the lies for all this time because like everything else in life they are easier to understand than the truth.

  I searched for him but he was nowhere. I knew to be patient, that it was only a matter of time before he came back to that house. Because he’d lost everything. He had nowhere else to go.

  He was sleeping, maybe drunk when I burned the house. Too much time had passed since that horrible summer and there was really no other way to at last bring an end to that night. To finalize the debt he’d incurred so many years ago.

  He was my sickness. My drug of choice. The price I had to pay for being the prettiest the smartest the most adored. The cliché of it makes it no less true. Or sad. I have always gotten by with remembering how I was once “the girl,” and for a long time that was enough. I can still remember how amazing it felt in the days when he loved me. It’s why I could understand how she couldn’t resist him, but also why I couldn’t forgive her when she didn’t