Whittaker 03 The Secrets We Keep

by Donna White Glaser

I snorted. “I doubt I’ll have to. He already knows way too much about me, and I have no idea how. I get that Trinnie must have told him I was her sponsor, but how did he know that Kris and I are sisters?”

  “Whoa. Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope. And he didn’t have a problem rubbing my face in it, either. Have you ever heard anything about him in AA?”

  “You mean heard about him from around AA or actually in AA?”

  “Both, I guess. But I meant in. With the way he was downing that whiskey, he’s definitely a candidate, or will be soon. And get this, while he was talking I got the feeling maybe he didn’t just look the other way with Trinnie and the accident. I think he thinks I was accusing him of being the driver.”

  “Holy crap. Are you serious?”

  I nodded. “I can’t imagine how I could prove it. Especially with Trinnie…”

  “No, but if he thinks you can, that’s just as bad.”

  Beth pulled the car to the curb in front of my building. I said a weary good-night and made my way up to my apartment. After washing my face and donning a thread-bare T-shirt, I grabbed the phone and crawled into bed.

  The first call was to Eli as promised. I let him know I was home safe and sound, but too tired—too heartsick—to linger for pillow talk.

  The next went directly into voicemail. My sister was either screening her calls, or more likely, passed out. I didn’t leave a message. After flicking out the light and curling up with Siggy, I realized there was a third possibility for her not answering.

  Wouldn’t be the first time a Whittaker girl spent the night in jail.

  THIRTY EIGHT

  Sleep was a fickle bitch. Every time I turned my brain off, my heart kicked in. Every time I stopped my thoughts from racing and began a deep breathing sequence, sadness over Kris would bombard me. Or anger. Also, fear. Lots of fear.

  My last time check was 3:48 a.m. I fell asleep sometime thereafter. Unfortunately, when my body gave out, my brain reclaimed the helm. Memory-dreams plagued me until I finally jerked awake just after 6:30. Going back to sleep was not an option, and I knew it. Besides, if sleep meant re-living my childhood, it wasn’t worth it anyway.

  For me, healing wasn’t about erasing memories, but about making the present more powerful than the past. I still had work to do on that.

  I’d spent years trying to nullify my own pain, trying to forget or pretend or wish away the crazy nights of my youth when Daddy razed through his wife and kids like a thresher through a hayfield. I’d spent hundreds of dollars in therapy co-pays to resurrect the sense of self that my mother had dissolved with the acid drip of denial—the mid-summer mornings when she picked out long-sleeved shirts to cover bruises, telling us he didn’t mean it, he’d just been sick.

  Kris and I held on to each other through it all. My brother, Brad, younger than Kris by almost eight years was spared the worst by virtue of being the long awaited male child. He still got a raw deal. Daddy died two Sundays after Brad turned three, so he essentially grew up without a father either to love or hate.

  Part of our sister-glue came from the taboo freedom of honesty with the only other person in the world who genuinely understood. We pledged to never use the word sick in place of drunk; to never say just upset when an enraged man threw his wife against the wall; to never, ever touch alcohol. We made the vow sacred by stabbing our thumbs with the needle Mama used to take splinters out and mashing the bloody digits together.

  I don’t remember who broke the promise first. Daddy died when I was thirteen, and with his passing went a lot of the intensity of my hatred toward him. Or maybe the need to be numb grew after the target of my bitterness vanished. I started drinking towards the end of junior year when I realized I only had one more year left before having to face life on my own. I think Kris started soon after.

  We had stopped clinging to each other by then. With the death of our father, I was flooded with guilt. Guilt at my anger, guilt at my relief, and all mixed in with a very real mourning for the man who had never raised a hand to us until those few dark months before he died.

  Because we shared that history and those feelings, we couldn’t stand to see it reflected in each other’s eyes. Seeing her pain hurt worse than feeling mine, so I stopped looking. We drew apart.

  In a strange way, drinking drew us back together. We shared a secret again. We were occasional drinking buddies. Then, I got sober and abandoned Kris all over again.

  So much for honesty.

  I lay in bed, wrestling with the decision to call her again… or not. The sense of dread at becoming embroiled in her life was almost overwhelming. Yet I wanted to make sure she had gotten home safely. I loved my sister.

  I did.

  Siggy perched on the edge of the bed, regarding me with emerald eyes and an implacable expression. The dark mustache rimming his mouth turned him into a reincarnation of his namesake, Sigmund Freud. Or Hitler, depending on his mood.

  “Stop staring at me.”

  He didn’t even blink.

  “You don’t understand. She’s mean and she hates me, and she’ll be hungover. And she’s mean.”

  This time Siggy closed his eyes, though not in a blink, really. More like… in disgust.

  I sighed. “You’re supposed to comfort me, you useless feline.”

  The eyes, again, accompanied by a tail twitch: No mercy.

  Capitulating, I hauled myself out of bed and searched out my cell phone. With any luck, she wouldn’t have had time to post bail. It rang a half-dozen times, and just as I relaxed, my sister picked up.

  ”’lo?” She sounded like she’d swallowed a bunch of frogs.

  “Uh, Kris?”

  “Violet? What time is it?”

  “Oh. Yeah. It is a little bit early. Sorry about that. I just… uh…”

  “Just what? Geez, Violet, I’m trying to sleep here.”

  A voice, male, grumbled in the background, then Kris must have covered the phone because everything muffled. She didn’t hang up though, and I sensed she was still listening.

  “Kris? Look, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For the other night. For, uh, the misunderstanding.”

  She came back on. “Okay, you said it. Now can I go back to sleep?”

  “It was good to see you. You were right; it has been too long.” Not exactly what she’d said, but I took creative license.

  A sigh rattled the phone. “Why were you even there? You’ve obviously got a jumbo-size stick up your butt, and I don’t need your stupid lectures. Just ‘cause you can’t handle your booze doesn’t mean nobody else can. And Ma agrees with me, by the way. Everybody does. Every time you come around we have to put up with your sanctimonious bullshit. I’m sick of it.”

  I dry-swallowed my reply, glaring across the room at Siggy. This is your fault. He yawned.

  “I’m just trying to help a friend who got herself in a mess.” And dead, my mind supplied. Just like you will be if you keep doing what you’re doing. I took a deep breath, but rising anger at her stupidity and needless risk-taking made for a particularly inept segue. “By the way, there’s something else that worries me—”

  “Now what?”

  The dam broke. “Just how well do you know Tyler, anyway? He’s a creep, Kris. A married creep. Did he tell you he was going to leave his wife? Did you fall for that one, too? Because—”

  “Are you kidding me with this shit? Who the f—”

  “Kris,” I blurted, “I love you. Don’t you know that? You’re my sister, my flesh and blood. I’m not trying to judge you or get in your business. I just… You deserve better, Punky. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  The childhood nickname—the hold-each-other-tight-while-our-parents-screamed-at-each-other name—had slipped out of my mouth, shocking us both into silence. The therapist in me knew I should wait quietly, let her sit with the words. Let her sit with the love.

  Instead, the idiot-sister in me grabbed at the hope, the fact that she wasn’t railing against me, and pushe
d on. “He’s no good for you, Kris. You know he isn’t.” Bringing up the way he’d hit on me probably wouldn’t be helpful; I scrambled to come up with proof. “Look what he’s doing to Caleb Gibson.”

  “Caleb?” Her voice twisted, the shift catching her by surprise.

  “I’m sure you’ve seen him. He’s in there talking to Tyler all the time. And he’s way under age. He’s just a kid, Kris. And I think he may be in a lot deeper than just—”

  “You’re such a hypocrite. How old were you when you started drinking? Huh? Holy crap, when did you turn into such a nosy bitch? Even that stupid, fancy job you’ve got; you’re always mucking around in other people’s business. I bet you love hearing all their dirty little secrets. Does it make you feel important?”

  “Kris, listen to me. He’s only sixteen. How can you stand by and watch what Tyler’s doing to him? Come on. You’re better than this.”

  “No, you listen. You need to mind your own business and stay out of mine. I mean it, Letty. Stay the hell out.”

  “Punky—”

  The phone crashing down when she hung up broke my heart and nearly shattered my eardrum.

  For the next three hours, I trudged from room to room, avoiding anything that might have made me feel better. There’s no telling how long I might have wallowed in my funk, but I was interrupted and hauled out into the sunshine.

  According to Eli, depression was not to be tolerated—or at least, not encouraged—on our nation’s birthday. I didn’t have the energy to argue. If he’d called first, I might have put him off with some kind of excuse, but he showed up on my doorstep wearing faded jeans that snugged his butt nice and tight, and a smile that warmed his face. Also, a shirt, but I didn’t want to divide my attention. Depression lowers the ability to concentrate.

  Besides, even I was sick of me.

  THIRTY NINE

  We headed north out of the city, back-tracking the route I’d taken two nights ago. Eli seemed content to let me be. I stared out the window at the passing scenery and eventually the beauty of the day began to work on me.

  “So, where are we going?” I finally asked.

  “To the parade, of course,” he grinned.

  “Of course. I should’ve known.

  “Don’t you like parades?”

  “I don’t know.” I was starting to feel grumpy again. “I’ve never been to one.”

  “Are you kidding me? What about when you were a kid?”

  I turned back to the window. Eli waited a bit, and then went on.

  “Okay, skip that. So, we do the parade—which you’re gonna love, I promise—and then grab something to eat. Maybe hang out at the street fair, then cap the whole day off with the fireworks. Sound good?”

  It was my turn to smile, but just a little bit.

  Chetek, a picture-perfect small town about thirty miles north of Chippewa Falls, took their parades seriously. Eli and I grabbed a spot under a shade tree, and settled in on a red-and-black striped blanket he’d brought. I loved the high school marching band, but the volunteer firemen and their shiny trucks from every small town and village in the surrounding areas were impressive, too. The Tootsie Rolls and hard candies that the decorated floats threw to a scrambling horde of kids—and a few adults—were a nice touch, too. Chamber of Commerce members rode around on miniature, decorated go-carts, hosing unsuspecting bystanders with Super Soakers. I tried to hide behind Eli, but he grabbed me and used me as a body shield. The blast of icy, cold water hit me dead center. Luckily, my tank top was dark enough to avoid a free show of a less patriotic kind.

  After the last float rattled past, we ambled down the main drag along with the crowd eating corn-on-the-cob and watermelon slices. Holding sticky hands, we strolled from booth to booth, up and down the sidewalks, looking at crafts, baked goods, business merchandise, and a booth making lemonade fresh enough to leave a cave-your-face-in pucker for hours.

  A rag-tag carnival had set up at the far end of town. We slowly followed the cotton candy, hot dust, and diesel fuel perfume that led the way. Sweaty, laughing kids and tired parents pushing strollers streamed past on either side. A careening red-headed toddler blundered between us, tangling everyone with the balloon string tied to her chubby wrist. Her father laughingly apologized as he scooped her up and piled her onto his shoulders.

  The prices for the rides were outrageous. We had to spend four tickets for a measly ride on the Ferris wheel. Each. That didn’t stop us from riding the tinny, faded merry-go-round, the Zipper, or the Tilt-A-Whirl. Fierce concentration and ardent prayer alone kept me from hurling my funnel cake after the latter.

  As evening approached, we headed back to the car, tossing towels on the sun-backed seats. After stopping at a gas station and filling a cooler with ice and pop, Eli drove several towns farther north before pulling onto a dirt strip running along a faded red barn. A man perched on a chair next to the road. Eli stopped the car beside him. The guy ambled over, bending at the waist to peer through the window. A grin brightened the face under his Packer hat as he recognized Eli.

  “Snake,” he said.

  “Hey, Parker,” Eli answered. “You full up yet?”

  “Nope. Always got room for the Valentinos. Manny coming?”

  “I think so. What’s the charge?” Eli reached for his wallet.

  “Shut up. Put that away.” He leaned in, looking past Eli at me. We exchanged smiles. “Who ya got there, man? Something I should be telling my mom about?”

  “Maybe so, Parker.” Eli’s grin joined ours. “This is Letty.”

  “Maybe so, eh?” Parker seemed surprised, and I found myself blushing. “Well, it’s a pleasure, Letty. I’ll be sure and give Mom the good news, man.”

  “I’m sure you will. Thanks for the back stage pass.” Eli pulled forward slowly, tires crunching gravel like popcorn. We looped around a couple of out-buildings including a fallen down chicken coop and entered a grassy field already dotted with a dozen cars.

  Eli pulled the blanket, some bug spray, and the cooler from the trunk. I took the blanket and spray, and we started hiking through the tall grass. As we passed a Buick, I giggled as a sweaty, over-weight man engaged in a vicious battle with a lawn chair tangled in an umbrella. Odds were on the umbrella.

  A flurry of activity at the far end of the meadow caught my attention. A group of men bustled back and forth between long rows of wooden racks filled with black tubes; a fire truck and ambulance were prudently stationed nearby. Beyond them, separated by a railroad track, lay a series of baseball diamonds. The latter was filled with hundreds of cars and people.

  “They set the fireworks off from here.” Eli pointed to the staging area. “Parker‘s farm backs up to the town park. These fireworks are supposed to be the best in three counties. Every year, the town board debates repairing the water tower or spending more money on fireworks.”

  “Fireworks win?”

  “Every time.”

  He spread the blanket out and after bathing in bug spray, we settled in. The other families had spread out at such distances, it felt like we were alone. Dusk fell; the stars gained strength in the deepening night. I curled up next to Eli, my head resting on his outstretched arm.

  The fireworks started off slowly as the volunteers worked out a system, but soon picked up speed. Sounds of wonder and the laughter of children drifted out of the dark. We were so close to the staging area we could feel vibrations in the ground from the explosions overhead. Turning my head to say something to Eli ended quickly in a kiss.

  Kissing can be an event.

  Except for my head resting on his arm and our mouths, nothing touched. It was as if an invisible force-field hummed between us, and not touching became the challenge. As our lips played, my body pulsed with sensation.

  My skin craved to touch and be touched. I was at war with longing; at once desperate for more and simultaneously loving the delicious, drawn out denial. I held out for as long as I could. The moment came when I knew I was going to break.


  A small blur dove between us, squealing gleefully. “Uncle Eli!”

  We yanked apart, arms and legs flailing like someone had thrown a bucketful of spiders on us. Manny and the woman I’d seen with Eli at the restaurant appeared at the edge of the blanket, snorting with laughter. I sat up bringing my knees to my face while Eli sprawled face down, arms covering his head as a small munchkin rode his back like a horse. His moaning, caused by her imaginary spurs or for a less innocent reason, gave me the giggles.

  Manny, still laughing, spread their blanket next to ours. “Ellie. That’s enough. Get off your uncle.”

  Ellie whined but rolled off, landing topsy-turvy at my feet. Looking at me from upside down, she grinned. “Were you kissing Uncle Eli?”

  “I sure was.” I grinned back.

  “Grrrooooss!”

  “Ellie!” Her mother, whose name I finally recalled was Bridget, now felt obliged to offer a token reprimand. She was laughing too hard to be successful, but I appreciated the attempt. Leaning over, I extended my hand and introduced myself. Eventually, we all settled down to watch the show.

  Reaching into the cooler, I grabbed a Diet Pepsi. “Want a pop, Eli?”

  “No, just some ice.”

  Seeing my puzzled look, he leaned over to whisper. “For my pants.”

  Ever the gentleman, Eli walked me up the stairs to my door. When we reached the top landing, he took my key, inserting it into the lock. I cursed Freud for where my imagination took me.

  “Are you blushing?” Smiling, he pulled me close, resting his hands around my waist.

  “You can’t come in,” I said.

  “Too dangerous?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Don’t you trust me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Smart lady.” His smile deepened, and he brushed his lips against mine sending a shudder through my whole body. “But maybe I should come in and check the place out. Carefully.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Except for spontaneous combusting loins. I didn’t say that.

  Sighing, Eli arched back a bit and ran his eyes—slowly—down the length of my body.