Two Truths and a Lie

by Meg Mitchell Moore

  During those hours and days and weeks in the motel they wrapped their minds around the fact that they were taking nothing from their old lives with them, not the photo album from Bobby and Sherri’s wedding, not the phenomenal drawing of a dinosaur that Katie did in second grade that Sherri had framed and hung in the kitchen near her calendar. Not the calendar either. They simply walked away from everything.

  And when all was said and done they landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts, this pretty little town on the sea, with pretty little girls with their colorful surfboards and pretty mothers who had sharp serpent tongues.

  41.

  Alexa

  Direct Message from @jt76 to @silkstockings via Instagram: If you’re looking for a place to stay when you come to L.A. I know a great Realtor. This will all make sense once you know the whole story! I promise!

  @silkstockings to @jt76: (no reply)

  Cam texted Alexa two days after Canobie Lake.

  Can you go out with me tonight? I’ll buy dinner.

  She was at work, off at four. Definitely, she texted back. Where? (She needed the context to figure out the right outfit.)

  She wondered if Cam might take her to Brine. Their menu was supposed to be fantastic this summer, and over the past two years Alexa had acquired a taste for oysters, something she’d never liked as a kid. She figured if she was going to live in L.A. in the not-too-distant future, if she was going to have the kind of life where people have, like, caviar and champagne for a midmorning snack, she’d better start getting used to the finer things. Next on her list were fois gras and dishes involving truffle oil. If they were going to Brine she was definitely going to have the bacon-and-egg fried oysters. And wear her new Halston dress.

  Sylvan Street, came the reply.

  Sylvan Street? Alexa deflated. For real? Sylvan Street was the chain restaurant out by the movie theater in Salisbury. It was the restaurant Morgan used to pick to go to on her birthday because she liked the Potachoes, which were potato skins that had been recklessly bred with nachos, but even Morgan had tired of the Potachoes and had started choosing Oregano Pizzeria downtown instead.

  Ok, she texted back. Whatever, she thought. She waited for him to tell her he would pick her up, but the next text caused her to deflate even more.

  6:30. See you there.

  When she arrived at Sylvan Street, the parking lot was already full to bursting and the lobby was crowded with large families and cranky kids waiting for their tables. Cam had put his name in but he informed Alexa that it was going to be a forty-five-minute wait, which she could have predicted. There was always a wait at Sylvan in the evenings, especially if there was a big movie playing next door. But the seats at the bar were first come first served, so they took a quick walk around, where a lot of people were glued to the Sox-Yankees game. It was the third of the series, and it would mean a sweep for the Sox if they won this one. There was a collective sense of anticipation among those watching the TVs.

  Then, in a stroke of luck, a couple vacated two seats on the far end, and Alexa beelined toward them, just edging out two guys in their late twenties. She didn’t make eye contact, because she knew that when you are taking something from somebody you just have to go for it. No hesitation.

  Alexa wondered if they might try to get served, and she perused the cocktail menu just in case. There was a summer lemonade with vodka that looked good. But Cam ordered a Coke so she ordered a seltzer, figuring that he was probably being smart. In general, the bigger the chain the more stringent the ID policies. The seltzer arrived in a cup big enough to do the backstroke in, and as she removed the paper hat from the straw she said a silent apology to Morgan, who had joined the Straw No More campaign this summer.

  The Sylvan menu was bigger than the book of Job. Alexa skipped straight to the salads and chose the chicken spinach, dressing on the side. Cam was really taking his time, frowning at the menu, reading through the wraps and combos and pasta and seafood dishes like his first language wasn’t English. Finally he said, “I think I’m going to have the scallop pie. And maybe Mama Louanne’s Brickle Pie for dessert.”

  “Big pie night,” said Alexa. Scallop pie sounded like something her grandmother would order, but she didn’t get the sense that Cam was in a joking mood so she refrained from adding that. She said only, “I’ve never understood brickle. I mean, what is it?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see,” said Cam. He looked at the TV closest to them. It was the top of the seventh, and the Yankees had pulled ahead by one. The guys that Alexa beat out for seats found some after all and they seemed to be taking the score personally.

  “I did some reading,” Cam said once they’d ordered. His expression was grave. “Online.” He leaned closer to Alexa so she leaned into him a little bit too. “About the Witness Protection Program.”

  “Oh!” said Alexa. “Oh. Now I understand why we’re eating here instead of somewhere in town—this is an undercover operation.”

  Cam ignored that. “How much do you know about it?” he asked.

  “Enough,” said Alexa.

  “This is serious stuff, Alexa. Serious, serious stuff. Like, we could be talking Tony Soprano sort of stuff.” He took her hand and an electric charge shot through her. But there was something unromantic about the way he was holding it more like he was protecting her, or maybe even looking for protection himself. “Whatever this girl and her mother saw, whatever they knew, and the people they knew it about . . . it had to have been a really big deal. For them to be put into this program, moved here like this. There must be people out there looking for them, or the government wouldn’t have bothered to hide them.” The bad men, thought Alexa. “If you tell anybody else, Alexa, it could be a really big problem. Or if you’ve already told anybody else.”

  “I haven’t told anyone,” said Alexa. “I am positive nobody else knows.”

  “I just don’t like the way it feels,” said Cam. “I don’t want to put a little girl and her mother in danger by knowing something I’m not supposed to know. I wish I could un-know it.” He looked positively downtrodden, so downtrodden that he barely brightened when the scallop pie arrived.

  “I’m sorry,” said Alexa. “I’m sorry, but you can’t un-know something that you know. I can’t un-know it either.”

  “Yes, but you—” Cam let his voice trail off, but Alexa knew what he was going to say before he said it. “You could have kept it to yourself. You didn’t have to tell me.”

  He was absolutely right. She didn’t have to tell Cam, but she had anyway. She did it for no other reason than that she wanted his attention, and somebody else’s secret was the most valuable thing she could find to trade for that. She should apologize. She should acknowledge accountability. But Alexa had never been good at admitting when she was wrong. So instead, she said the only thing she could think of to say, which was, “That scallop pie is gigantic. Do you think you’re still going to want the brickle?”

  “Listen,” said Cam. “I’m going to do my very best to forget that I know this thing. I can’t un-know it, you’re right, but I can do my best to wipe it out of my mind. I have no other choice, and I don’t think you have another choice either, Alexa. I mean that with the utmost seriousness.” He frowned at his pie.

  All at once a collective sense of anticipation rose around the bar. Alexa glanced at the television. The Sox were up, bases loaded. Mookie Betts stepped up to the plate and a chant of Moo-kie, Moo-kie broke out.

  “Alexa? You’re with me? There could be people out there, you know. Looking for people who know things. There could be really dangerous people out there.”

  Before Alexa could answer Cam, Mookie did his thing, hammering the hell out of the ball, and it went high and deep, over the Green Monster. That ball was a goner. The bartenders started high-fiving the patrons, and the patrons high-fived each other. One of the twentysomethings Alexa had beaten to the seat was off his stool and heading over. He hugged her. She hugged him back: there were no hard feeli
ngs, because of Mookie. The guy high-fived Cam.

  But underneath the thrum of happiness, Alexa could feel her heart skipping along like a frightened animal.

  It turned out that the brickle pie involved ice cream covered by Heath bar and marshmallow, all of which sat on top of a cookie crust and were covered by some sort of “brickle sauce.” It was sort of horrifying and sort of delicious, but after one bite Alexa couldn’t eat any more. Cam’s words felt like they were taking up all the room in her body.

  There could be people out there. Looking for people who know things.

  “I want this to be the only time we talk about this,” said Cam when they parted at her Jeep. He looked extra cute when he was serious but his eyes weren’t on her at all; he was staring straight ahead, at the traffic on Route 110.

  “But—” said Alexa.

  “No,” said Cam. “No but. That’s it, this was the only time. I’m sorry, but it has to be that way.”

  “Okay,” Alexa said. She believed that Cam meant this, but she also believed that he had not yet been introduced to the full powers of Alexa Thornhill; if she needed to talk about it, if she had something to say, surely he would change his policy and listen.

  “Good night, Alexa,” he said formally, even dipping his head a little bit.

  She thought about saying nothing at all (because who did he think he was? making her feel bad about wanting help? making her feel terrible for sharing information?) but her good manners prevailed and she said, “Thank you for the lovely dinner,” and she climbed into her Jeep and closed the door, hard.

  Alexa Thornhill, will you please rate for us the evening you had with Cameron Hartwell? Did dinner at the Sylvan Street Grill meet or exceed your expectations? On a scale of one to ten, how likely are you to seek this kind of experience again?

  Fuck off, she thought.

  42.

  Rebecca

  Rebecca stood in the doorway to the living room, looking at Katie and Morgan, who were fast asleep on the couch, the television playing in the background. Neither had had the foresight or perhaps the desire to lie all the way down so they were slumped toward each other, heads lolling forward, looking more like victims of a double homicide than like co-viewers of a Netflix movie. In fact just now they looked almost like sisters, even though in daylight they bore very little resemblance to each other: Morgan small and straight-haired, elfin, except lacking perhaps in the grace that descriptor implied, and Katie sturdier, curlier, with more heft. When Alexa had come home she’d gone straight upstairs. The old Alexa might have come in and sat down and watched a little bit of whatever Morgan was watching.

  Rebecca switched off the TV, and now she could hear a soft knocking at the front door. She looked at her watch—it was nine thirty; this would be Sherri, coming to pick up Katie on her way home from work.

  “They’re both asleep,” she said, opening the door. “Come in.” She opened the door wider, and Sherri stepped into the foyer. Ponytail, khakis, blue polo shirt with the derma-you insignia over the pocket.

  “Sorry,” Sherri whispered. “I actually thought I might get out a little early tonight, but they kept me all the way through.” She reached up and tightened her ponytail by pulling the two halves of it in opposite directions. It was a funny gesture—more that of a high school track athlete than of a suburban mother.

  “Why don’t we let them sleep a little while?” Rebecca said. She led Sherri to the living room and pointed at the couch. “You wouldn’t know it by how they’re sitting, but I think they’re actually comfortable. I’d hate to disturb them. You could stay for a drink? I’ve got some really nice tequila just begging to be mixed with seltzer and a little bit of lime juice. We’ll sit outside, by the pool.” Sherri hesitated and Rebecca said, “Come on! Please? You’d be doing me a favor; I’ll drink far too much if I open this tequila when I’m on my own.”

  “Okay,” said Sherri finally. She set her lips together and nodded her head sharply, as though giving herself permission. “Okay, I will. That sounds really nice. Thank you.”

  Glasses, ice, limes, seltzer, bottle: together they carried everything out to the pool and set it up on the small table that sat between two lounge chairs, and Rebecca mixed the drinks. A brief evening shower had driven out the day’s humidity, leaving the air crisp and almost cool. The moon was a pale, distant wafer, and there were a few stars scattered about. From the far edge of the lawn Rebecca could hear the gurgling of the small stone fountain Peter had installed for her for Mother’s Day three years before. He’d been so proud of that fountain—she’d always said she wanted a water feature for the yard. He had wanted to get a little gnome to stand beside the fountain “for good luck,” but she’d thought the gnome was creepy and had put her foot down. Now she wished she hadn’t been such a grump about it. If someone had only told her, “He’ll be dead in less than two years!” of course she would have let him get the gnome.

  “This tequila is really good,” said Sherri.

  “Have more,” said Rebecca. She’d almost finished her drink already. The danger with good tequila was that it went down clean and easy.

  “I have to drive Katie home,” said Sherri. “I really shouldn’t.” She tugged again at her ponytail.

  “Just take it out,” suggested Rebecca. “Don’t you get a headache, wearing a ponytail all day?”

  Sherri shrugged. “No. Sort of. Yeah, I guess.” She reached up and pulled the elastic out. Her hair fell around her shoulders. It was wavy, like Katie’s, and thick, with no sign of a telltale ponytail bump.

  “Your hair is so pretty,” said Rebecca. “How come you always wear it pulled back?”

  Sherri grimaced. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess it’s just easier, nothing to mess with.” Because of the way the outdoor lights fell, her face was half in shadow and Rebecca couldn’t read her expression. “My husband really liked my hair, and after—after everything that happened, I just sort of wanted to forget. I wanted to be a different person. I almost cut if off! But I settled for a different look. Does that make sense?”

  Interesting, Rebecca thought. “That definitely makes sense,” she said. “That definitely makes sense.” Emboldened by the tequila, she felt like reaching over and wrapping Sherri in a bear hug and telling her that everything was going to be okay. She settled for mixing her another drink. “Did he cheat on you?”

  There was a pause, during which Rebecca wondered if she’d gone too far.

  “Something like that,” Sherri said finally. “It’s complicated.”

  “It’s always complicated,” said Rebecca. “Marriage. Right? What’s that thing Dostoyevsky said, about happy families? ‘Happy families are all alike. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.’ The same thing goes for marriages, don’t you think?”

  “I think so,” said Sherri. “I guess.” Rebecca pushed Sherri’s drink closer to her, in case she hadn’t seen the refill. “I really shouldn’t have another,” said Sherri. “I have to drive Katie home.”

  “Let her sleep here,” said Rebecca. “And honestly you can too. We’ve got a guest room that nobody ever uses—it’s all made up.” She belched softly and added, “Whoops.” Then: “The guest room has really nice linens. It’s perennially made up with nice linens.” She hesitated. “Wait, does that mean it’s always made up? Or it’s made up once a year?”

  Sherri appeared to consider this question seriously. She took a sip of her drink. “I think once a year would be annually made up,” she said finally. “But I don’t know for sure.” After a moment she said, “In our old house we had a really nice guest room. We hardly ever had guests, but I loved that room.”

  Rebecca listened for a moment to the gurgling of the fountain, and something about the moment made her think of earlier friendships, high school and college friendships, when you exchanged confidences with ease, and intimacy was measured by depth rather than longevity.

  “If you tell me the bad stuff about your marriage, I’ll tell you the bad stuff about mine,�
�� she said. It must be past ten now, and High Street was quiet. This was an early town, even in summer; by ten o’clock the traffic was sparse, and most of the restaurants in town were finishing up for the night.

  “But your marriage wasn’t unhappy,” said Sherri. “From everything you’ve said.”

  “Not my marriage to St. Peter,” said Rebecca. “That marriage was happy.”

  Sherri’s laugh was a genuine, unexpected sound, like the trill of a bird in the dark. She seemed like someone else entirely when she laughed. “Are you serious, did you really call him St. Peter?”

  “Not out loud,” conceded Rebecca. “But in my head—sometimes, yes. He really was the definition of a good person. Kind and funny and thoughtful and sweet. Never in a bad mood. Everybody loved him. I mean it: everybody. Dogs and little kids at the grocery store and old people and people who worked for him and people he worked for.”

  “Oh come on now,” said Sherri. “Never in a bad mood?”

  “Never.”

  “Everybody is in a bad mood sometimes. It’s human nature.”

  “Not Peter.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Rebecca sighed. “Okay, maybe very occasionally, if he got overwhelmed at work, or if he didn’t get enough sleep. If he was jet-lagged.” She smiled. “He really liked his sleep. Once he had the flu, and he was in a bad mood for about two weeks. But that was unusual, and in his defense it was a really bad year for the flu. But honestly, that was rare. The minor irritations in life, the crap that gets me cranky? It didn’t even faze him.”

  “I’m jealous,” said Sherri. “There are days when I feel like everything gets me cranky.”