Secret Lives

by Diane Chamberlain

  “Just above the waist,” he said, all straight-faced now. My breasts started that weird aching that I knew would only go away if they were touched.

  “She's getting impatient,” he said. “But I don't know how to touch her…below the waist. I mean, I'm not even sure what's there.”

  I couldn't believe Kyle was saying all this without even blushing.

  “I mean, the only girl I ever saw was you and you were only about five years old.”

  Kyle and I used to inspect each other down by Ferry Creek where we could take off our clothes and let the water run over our bodies.

  “Well,” I said. “Let me show you now.” I started to unfasten the straps of my overalls, but Kyle was not drunk enough for that! He leaped from the mattress as though someone goosed him.

  “Kate!” he said. “Don't you dare!”

  “All right.” I shrugged. “I'll draw you a picture instead.”

  So I drew it the best I could. I drew pictures of the inside, too, the uterus and tubes and all and explained to him everything I'd learned about menstruation. I wasn't about to just teach him what felt good to a girl without making sure he had some respect for her body. He sat with his head on my shoulder, watching me draw. Then I pointed out the place he could touch to make her crazy with longing for him.

  He grinned and told me Sara Jane was already crazy with longing for him.

  “No, this is different,” I said. “If you touch this place, just kind of rubbing, but real easy—well, you'll be amazed what will happen.” I set down my pencil, thinking what a favor I was doing Sara Jane.

  “How do you know all this?” he asked.

  “I do it to myself,” I said.

  “Really? I thought only guys did that.”

  That was a surprise to me, because it never occurred to me that guys could do this too. But I suppose that makes sense.

  We talked a little longer, but Kyle was slowing down. I managed to half walk and half carry him to the settee before he passed out. I told him he'd be right sick this morning (and he was). Then I lay down on my mattress, all of my body burning from our conversation, and spent the rest of the night with my own loving hands.

  October 22, 1943

  Sara Jane and Kyle are closer than ever. I watch them at school, sitting on the bench, not noticing anything but each other. They touch by drawing their hands slowly across each other's skin, like some gluey substance connects them.

  The other children are more respectful of me these days and I'm sure it's because I'm Kyle's sister and Kyle is looked up to more than anyone in our school. I want to know if my anatomy lesson helped him, but I know it would embarrass him if I asked. I'll have to wait til the next time he's had some to drink.

  Yesterday Miss Crisp had a long talk with me. My stories have improved, she said, and my writing is “wise and touching.”

  “But your characters are more alive than you are, Kate,” she said. “You always have your nose buried in a book, and while I certainly don't want to discourage you from reading, there are other things in life.”

  “I'm happiest when I'm reading or writing,” I said.

  She looked at me like she didn't believe me and I am not too convinced any more myself, but that is the type of happiness I'll have to settle for. There are parts to life I'll never have: a best girlfriend, a boyfriend. I'll never have children. I myself will be my only lover. I'll never see other parts of the world. The only place I can breathe easy is in my house or my cave.

  Susanna took me shopping for clothes yesterday and I felt nauseous the whole time, so bad that when I'd twist or bend to try things on I would start to retch. The streets in town looked wavy and made me dizzy. I was afraid to be with Susanna alone because I couldn't think of anything to say to her. She is nice and I feel bad about this. I always thought the reason I had trouble talking to people was because they were idiots, like at school. Now I know it is something about me, not them, that is the problem.

  Lou wanted to stop at the bakery in Coolbrook on the way home from the doctor's office. “Some rolls for supper,” she said.

  “We have that wheat bread,” said Eden. There was still at least half a loaf from last night's dinner.

  “Oh, yes. Then muffins for breakfast.” Lou seemed determined to go to the bakery. She raced down the sidewalk in her chair while Eden struggled to keep up with her.

  An enormous round-faced woman dressed in white stood behind the counter in the bakery. “Hi there, Lou!” she said. Her mouth was a tiny red rosebud in a sea of white chins. Her curly white hair was cut far too short for the enormity of her face. “What would you like today?”

  “Half a dozen muffins,” Lou said. “Three blueberry, three bran.”

  The woman started to reach into the case for the muffins but froze when her gaze fell on Eden. She stood up straight. “Lord, you have got to be Kate's girl. Eden Riley, right?”

  Eden smiled. “Yes.”

  The woman laughed. “Kate's girl, all grown up. Lord, if you aren't the spitting image. And just as pretty in person as in the movies.”

  Lou looked up at Eden, cocking her head so she could wink without the woman seeing. “Eden, this is Sara Jane Miller, an old friend of your mother's.”

  “And your Uncle Kyle's,” Sara Jane said.

  Eden's eyes widened and Lou squeezed her hand to help her stay in control. “It's nice to meet you.” Eden reached across the counter and Sara Jane gave her hand a pulpy shake.

  They made small talk while Sara Jane put the muffins in a paper bag. Then Eden held the door open for her aunt, who barely made it outside before she started laughing. “Every time Kyle sees her he says, 'If only I hadn't met you, Lou, all that could have been mine.' “

  Eden stopped walking and looked down at Lou. “You know exactly where I am in the journal, don't you?”

  Lou nodded. “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  “I don't know.” Eden started walking again, slowly. “It feels strange, as though I'm being observed every step of the way as I learn about my mother.”

  “And what are you learning about her in this notebook?”

  “That her isolation was not as much a matter of choice as I'd thought. That she was phobic of people, of leaving Lynch Hollow.”

  “You're right. Kate was afraid of the world to such a degree that it paralyzed her. Her fears crippled her far more than this old leg cripples me.”

  Eden set her hand lightly on her aunt's shoulder. She felt the bones through the thin blouse. “You get around so well, Lou. It relieves me to see that.”

  Lou patted her hand. “Yes, sweetie, I'm fine.”

  The atmosphere in the car on the ride back to Lynch Hollow was no longer strained. Eden felt freed by something—Lou's little plot to introduce her to Sara Jane Miller perhaps, or maybe it was just that Lou's leg had ceased to become an unmentionable between them for the first time. Whatever the cause, Eden felt safe enough to ask Lou's opinion of Ben.

  “Ah, Ben.” Lou smiled and nodded as though she'd been wondering when Eden would get around to asking that question. “Ben was always a favorite of mine, of all Kyle's students. He traveled with us in South America, you know. I guess the more important question is, What do you think of him?”

  “I don't know. Kyle tells me he'd like to see me with someone outside of Hollywood, then he throws me into a pit five feet by ten feet with a good-looking guy and tells me, `But I don't want to see you with this someone.'"

  Lou laughed. “Well, he's right. Ben needs to get his own life in order before he can do justice to sharing it with someone else. But that doesn't make him any less a dear.” She turned onto the road toward Lynch Hollow, lifting her foot briefly from the gas pedal to negotiate the first curve. “My favorite story about Ben was the time we had dinner in a little seafood restaurant, somewhere in Ecuador, I think it was. It was just the three of us—Ben, Kyle, and myself—and we had a table right next to the tank where they kept the live lobsters. Well, all the lobsters looked bored and
resigned to their fate. But there was this one that was constantly on the move, trying to engage the others in, I don't know what you'd call it, playing or fighting or whatever. He wouldn't give up and we watched him through our entire meal. When it was time to leave, Ben bought him. He thought he was special—a survivor—and shouldn't end up like all the others, as somebody's supper. Then we had to drive about thirty miles out of our way so he could set him free in the Pacific.”

  Eden stared at her aunt. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

  Lou smiled. “If that's what you think, dear, then I doubt Ben's the right man for you.”

  –12–

  He drove his truck into the Valley as the sun crested the hills, warming the cornfields with its pink morning light. He parked on the shoulder of the narrow road, got out, and began running toward Coolbrook. He had not run in a long time. It used to be a passion. In Annapolis he'd leave the house early in the morning before Sharon and Bliss were up and run along the river, not even counting the miles. It had been thinking time, and back in those days all his thoughts were good.

  He'd run a little during his first few weeks in prison, when he still thought he could find a way to survive the experience without losing his spirit. He would stay in shape, he had told himself. Read the classics, study Spanish and French. But the numbness settled in so quickly he wondered if the food was drugged. He'd never watched much TV before, but soon he knew the story lines from the soaps and his dreams were full of game-show drivel. Any extra energy he could dredge from his depression was devoted to keeping his fellow prisoners from learning what he was in for, and for protecting himself when they did. His was not a respected crime.

  It was a good sign that he felt like running now. He was coming back to life, like a drowning man surprised to find himself on the surface of the water. It had not taken much to put him there. Just a few simple conversations with a woman who treated him like a person rather than a criminal.

  He wouldn't see her for two days. She was working at the archives in Winchester, and tomorrow she would meet with the Children's Fund volunteers in Richmond. She'd told him she visited local Children's Fund headquarters every chance she could, and she'd invited him to go with her, but he'd declined. He could just imagine her introducing him to a bunch of people who work with children. Surely one of them would recognize his name, and that would be the end of that. She'd told him she'd nearly lost her job as spokesperson for the Children's Fund after her role in Heart of Winter. “They said I was tampering with my wholesome image,” she'd said. Being seen with him wouldn't do her wholesome image much good either.

  He arrived in front of the Coolbrook post office and took a minute to stretch and catch his breath before going inside to check his mailbox. There was a large envelope from Sam. Once back on the street he caught his reflection in the mirrored glass of the post office. Christ. He ran his hands through his hair. He looked like an aging hippie.

  He stopped at the barbershop, where a small, gray-haired man took great delight in cutting his hair shorter than he requested, and then walked across the street to Miller's Bakery. He bought a doughnut and coffee, which he carried for another block until he reached the park outside the Coolbrook Museum. He sat on a bench, took a swallow of coffee, and opened the envelope.

  There were three copies of journal articles and a short note from Sam. He peered into the envelope to see if he might have overlooked a picture of Bliss. Sam sent them sometimes, even though he had to do it behind Jen's back: she thought it would only make things harder for him. How much harder could they get?

  He glanced at the title of the first article: “Discrediting the Child Witness.” He shook his head and slipped it back into the envelope. He'd told Sam to forget that tack, but Sam seemed determined to leave no stone unturned. The second article was on the same general theme. But the third was a study done by two social workers—”In the Child's Best Interest: The Healing Power of Visitation.”

  “Yes,” Ben said out loud. He took a bite from his doughnut and read the article through, then turned to Sam's note. He wasn't having much luck with the lawyer, Sam wrote. An appeal seemed out of the question at this point. The best they could hope for was supervised visitation and they might get a chance at that in January. Only thing was, they'd have to get approval for it from Judge Stevens. Ben groaned. Stevens had hardly been able to keep the grin off his face when he pulled the future out from under Ben's feet in the courtroom. Ben shouldn't worry, Sam wrote. The evidence that visitation would be the best thing for Bliss was everywhere. He just had to compile it and find a few expert witnesses and they'd be all set.

  And by the way, Sam added in a P.S., Sharon and Jeff told him that someone was calling the house and hanging up. They suspected Ben, and they were thinking of getting an unlisted number. So if by some chance it's you calling them, bro, slow it down a bit.

  Well, okay, he'd have to give up that little ploy. It hadn't worked anyhow because Sharon always answered. He'd called about once a week, hoping that Bliss would answer. He wouldn't talk to her—he wasn't crazy. He just wanted to listen to her voice. He'd asked Sam and Jen if they could tape a conversation with her and send it to him. He hated that her voice was lost in his memory, that he couldn't recall her tone or the way she strung her words together. She probably sounded different now, anyway. He wanted to hear. “I don't think that's a very good idea, Ben,” Jen had said. “You don't need any more reminders of her.”

  Sam and Jen called him once a week, on Sunday nights. Sam would get on one extension, Jen on the other, and they'd tell him how their adoption plans for a baby were proceeding, how well-adjusted Bliss seemed the last time they saw her. They'd ask him questions about his work. He hadn't told them yet this job would be up in December. He didn't want to worry them. He didn't want to think about it himself.

  Sam called him sometimes during the week. At those times Ben knew his brother was playing shrink. “How are you sleeping?” Sam would ask. “How's the appetite?” Once, a long time ago, Sam asked if he felt like killing himself. Ben had managed to laugh that question off in such a way that Sam apologized for even thinking such a thing. It would only worry Sam if he knew the truth. Or, God forbid, he'd try to stick him in a hospital. The last thing he needed. When he thought about doing it, when those pills started calling to him from the bathroom, it was often the thought of Sam that stopped him.

  This morning that bottle of pills was ten miles from his body and a thousand from his mind. He stood up and leaned against a tree to stretch his calves. They'd tightened up from sitting. He'd probably have to walk most of the way back to his truck. And he shouldn't have eaten that doughnut. But he started a light jog, and as the diminutive shops of Coolbrook fell behind him and the cornfields took their place, he broke into a run.

  –13–

  November 8, 1943

  There is a new boy in our class named Matt Riley. He is Kyle's age, seventeen. He and his mother just moved here from Richmond to be closer to his grandmother who is ailing and he is the talk of the class as it's been forever since we had a new face. Kyle particularly likes him. They spent all Saturday fishing together while I wrote.

  November 16, 1943

  Something shocking happened today.

  I usually sit in the great room of my cavern where I have my mattress, the settee, an old rocker and a couple of straight-back chairs. This great room is about the size of a small church but the space is broken up by the different rock formations and the stalactites and stalagmites. The ceiling is low near the entrance, but as you walk farther into the room, towards the reflecting pool at its rear, the ceiling is very high and decorated with stalactites.

  Off this room is a tunnel. In all the time I've had my cave, I've never gone into it more than a few feet. Today I was writing a story about a girl who explores a cave. She crawls through a tunnel to discover a spectacular cavern that's been turned into a shrine of some sort.

  So I thought, why am I writing about this w
hen I've never even bothered to see where my own tunnel leads? So I took my lantern and stepped into the tunnel. It was spooky! I am not afraid of such things yet the closeness of the walls and ceilings was difficult to bear. At first it was high enough for me to walk upright, but then I had to hunch over. The floor rose steeply and at times I nearly lost my footing. The lantern only lit a few feet in front of me and I felt like I was walking into a black emptiness.

  Finally I reached the end. Instead of finding myself in the grand shrine of my story, I was in a huge cave with a low ceiling that had long stalactites dropping from it like spikes and long thin stalagmites growing from the ground to meet them. They met at the level of my waist, forming stone columns, so that to walk through this room I had to twist and turn and I felt like I was in the middle of a giant taffy pull. The lantern knocked into the rocks as I walked and I was trying to keep a sense of direction so I would be able to get out.

  Then I saw there was a break in the maze, a small, open area with no tites or mites. Lying on the cave floor was—at first I thought I was wrong and I held my lantern very close—a human skeleton! I screamed so loud my ears hurt from the echo. I backed into the maze again and in a panic tried to find the tunnel. It took me minutes and by that time I was partly crying and partly laughing and the skin on my legs and arms was scraped from the rocks. I got through the tunnel as fast as I could and ran outside the cave and didn't stop running until I reached the far end of Ferry Creek where Kyle and Matt were fishing. I grabbed Kyle's arm. “You've got to come with me!” I said.

  “What are you doing with that lantern?” he asked.