Secrets in the Shadows

  "Is that right, Mr. Know-it-all?"

  He was silent.

  I lowered myself to the grassy part of the clearing. He looked down at me and then did the same. We were silent again, both of us just staring out at the river.

  "Look," I began, "all of us are born with a family history. Mine just happened to make it very hard for me to live in that village much longer."

  I waited for him to ask why, but he just reached for a small stone and heaved it into the water. If I continued, I knew I would violate the agreement I had made with my aunt Zipporah. I would be telling the story, bringing it here with me. I'd be the snake smuggling sinful knowledge into paradise. Any place where my past was unknown was paradise to me, and I was about to ruin it.

  "It's a very small village, maybe a street or two of this place."

  "So everyone knows everyone's business," he concluded.

  "That and more."

  "So what's so terrible about that? Lots of people know about my family, know my father deserted us. It's not enough to send us packing. There are other things that might do that. Who cares what other people think anyway?"

  I hesitated. Why I would even want to share my innermost secrets with him, I did not know. As strange as people like Missy and Cassie might think it was, I would say it was because of his poetry. I felt he had revealed the deepest and most intimate part of himself to me by letting me read the poems. Something permitted him to trust me that much. We had joked about taking risks. It was surely exactly that both for him and for me, for neither of us had much experience with strangers we could somehow believe in and rely upon. It was like that game friends play when someone stands behind you and you permit yourself to fall back in the expectation he will catch you before you hit the ground. We were both in the process of falling back.

  I took a deep breath before continuing. In a real sense, I was coming out of the attic.

  "More than sixteen years ago, my mother killed her stepfather."

  He finally turned to me.

  "Killed?"

  "She claimed he was abusing her and her mother wasn't paying any attention. After she did it, she fled and hid in my grandparents' attic where she and my father, my aunt Zipporah's brother--"

  "Created the wonder of you?"

  "Something like that."

  "What happened to your mother? Is she in jail?"

  "No, she's in a clinic. She doesn't even remember she gave birth to me. At least, that's what I've been told."

  "So you've never seen her?"

  "Nor heard her voice, never." My voice cracked with emotion, and my chest ached with my effort to keep my tears under lock and key.

  He turned away, threw another stone and then lowered his head so that I almost didn't hear what he said. "Thank you."

  I had to ask him to repeat it to be sure I had heard him correctly.

  "I said thank you. Thanks for trusting me with all that. I know how hard it is to tell anyone those things "

  He leaned back on his hands. I liked what he had said. I liked the sympathy and sincerity in his voice.

  "There's more," I said and told him about Craig's family, the house, the prom and some details about the accident.

  "And therefore they blamed you and people in the town think the same thing," he concluded for me. "Yes. You know how they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I'm the apple back there."

  "Funny how people always find ways to blame someone else. Parents blame their children, too. At least I know my mother does. She doesn't come right out and say it, but somehow, my very existence is the cause of her troubles."

  "Why would she think that?"

  "I'm not exactly sure, but I know it." He threw another rock. "She loves me and yet she . . ."

  "Hates you?"

  "No. Fears me or for me," he said.

  "How could she be afraid of you?"

  "Maybe I look too much like my father."

  "You should know if you do or not."

  "My looks changed since I was a child. I haven't seen him for some time--years, in fact."

  "So? Don't you have any pictures of him?"

  "No. She tore up all of them. She even tore up their wedding photo."

  "Oh. I had never seen pictures of my mother until my aunt showed them to me. Your mother hates your father that much?"

  He thought for a moment and stood up, as if he realized he had gone too far in telling me what he had already told me. "We'd better go. Your uncle and aunt are liable to be home and wonder if I kidnaped you or something."

  "I doubt they got out that quickly," I said but stood up, too. "Thanks for bringing me here. It is beautiful. It was nice of you to think of it, to want to share it."

  The wind above nudged the clouds, which seemed just at that moment to come apart and let the glow of a new moon- slip through, its light reflecting off the surface of the river and softly illuminating his face and mine. He was staring at me with gentler eyes.

  "Yeah, well, you're not only the first girl I brought here. You're the first person."

  "I'm glad, Duncan."

  He reached for my hand and then let go of it and moved his hand up my arm to my shoulder. He did the same thing with his other hand and suddenly like two statues who had come to life, we leaned toward each other until our lips met and we could kiss.

  To me it felt like a seal of approval, a snap, a stamping to certify. He pulled back, but I didn't move, and after a moment, he kissed me again, this time embracing me, pressing himself gently but firmly to me. This kiss was passionate, hungry, and determined for both of us.

  He pulled hack.

  "We'd better go," he said, sounding a warning as if he might lose control. He took my hand and slowly led its away from his private spot on the river, neither of us speaking until we reached the scooter.

  "After your grandfather brings up your art materials, I'd be glad to help you set up your studio," he said, getting onto the scooter. Apparently, I didn't respond fast enough. "But I don't care if you don't need any help," he added, as if showing any interest in me was weakness.

  "I'd like that. You know it was once a famous sculptor's studio?"

  "Yeah, I heard all about it. Get on," he ordered, and I did. He started away slowly.

  "How far is your home from where I'm at?"

  "Far enough," he said, turned onto the macadam and sped up. We didn't speak again until we were at Aunt Zipporah's house.

  "Thanks again for showing me your special place," I told him when I dismounted.

  "It's anyone's special place really. It's a free country," he said.

  All the warmth and sincerity I had heard before was gone from his voice. I felt the tension and frustration boiling out of me.

  "What is your problem? Can't anyone be nice to you? And don't give me that junk about it means you'll be selling your soul."

  "What soul?" he replied, turned his scooter around and started away. I watched him disappear into the darkness again.

  He reminds me of a dog that's been kicked and kicked until it growls whenever someone wants to pet it, I thought.

  Just as I reached the door, however, I heard his scooter returning. I waited until he pulled into the driveway. He sat there, the scooter still going, looking like it was struggling for breath, the engine sputtering. "Forget something?" I asked, moving toward him. "Yeah."

  "What?"

  "I forgot to say good night," he said. "Sorry," he added.

  "Don't tell me you're going to try to be human." He laughed.

  "No, I won't go that far."

  He stared at me a moment and then he leaned over to kiss me, but he did so as if he was truly stealing a kiss. Then he iumed the scooter around and took off. I watched him disappear again.

  He is the reason for hot and cold water in any sink or tub or shower, I thought.

  14 Children of Sin

  . During the next few days, I didn't see Duncan. He didn't conk to the cafe or look for me at my aunt and uncle's home. He didn't even cal
l me. I was disappointed, but I didn't try to call him. Because I turned so sharply in anticipation every time the cafe's front door was opened, my aunt Zipporah knew I was anticipating and hoping to see him, however.

  "Things didn't go so well with you and Duncan?" she asked me with a wry smile.

  "To tell you the truth, I'm not sure," I said, and

  she laughed. Mrs. Mallen overheard.

  "Don't be surprised that boy's not coming

  around," Mrs. Mallen said. "He's very devoted to his

  mother. He's had to do a man's work around their

  property ever since he was ten. He's lost his whole

  youth."

  "I don't care if he comes or not," I said, a little

  embarrassed my disappointment was that obvious to

  everyone in the cafe.

  Aunt Zipporah smiled at me as if to say, "Sure,

  sure." Not another word was mentioned about him,

  however.

  On the weekend, my grandparents arrived. My

  grandfather had loaded up the trunk with as much of

  my art materials as he could fit into it. He began to

  take it all to the studio, while my grandmother came

  in to see the improvements in my bedroom. I had told

  her about them on the phone.

  "Well now, this looks almost livable," she commented. Aunt Zipporah and I smiled at each other. "I

  brought most of your newer things, Alice, but if we

  need to get you more, we should do it while I'm here

  this time."

  "I'm fine," I said.

  "Those shoes you have are really not the best

  for being on your feet all day at a restaurant," she

  continued, looking down at my feet. She stopped just

  short of adding, 'for someone like you, someone with

  your injury"

  "I'm not having any problems. I'm not working

  that much," 1 said.

  She looked at Aunt Zipporah for confirmation. "If she shows any signs of fatigue, Mom, I'll be

  on it. I promise." She raised her right hand.

  My grandmother grunted skeptically. "Look, Grandma," I said, holding up a sheet

  with titles printed on it.

  "What is that?"

  "Aunt Zipporah went to the school and got the

  summer reading for those entering the senior year. I

  have one of the books already," I said.

  She glanced at the list and handed it back to me

  before turning to my aunt.

  "How far is the school from here? How are you

  going to manage getting her there and being at your

  cafe? Breakfast is a big deal for you and Tyler, isn't

  it? Don't you have to be there, too? Or will she ride a

  school bus? Has that all been looked into, Zipporah?" "She doesn't have to ride a school bus. It's no

  problem. The school's not far from the cafe, and she

  has to be there early enough so it will work for me,

  Mom. She can even use my car lots of times, too." "She hasn't driven very much since she got her

  license," Grandma said, making it sound like a complaint.

  "So, she'll drive some here. Stop all this

  worrying." My grandmother nodded and looked at

  me.

  "Did your father call you?"

  I shook my head but looked to Aunt Zipporah.

  "He didn't call the restaurant," she said. "Jesse would

  know that's where we would be."

  "He told me he was going to call you to discuss

  this decision you've made about your senior year," she

  said, anger and disappointment in her voice. I was

  disappointed, too. I wanted my father to have more

  and more interest in me and my future.

  My grandfather stepped in behind us.

  "That's a pretty nice studio, Zipporah. I never

  really looked at it before today. Airy and bright, and

  its own little kitchenette and bathroom. I bet that

  sculptor spent days in there without coming out." "I hope that's not what Alice will do," my

  grandmother said sharply.

  "Well, she'll have the privacy she needs," he

  said, smiling. "Isn't it time to get to the cafe? I'm

  looking forward to lunch," he said, rubbing his palms

  together. "What's that special I like, Zipporah? It's still

  there, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Aunt Zipporah said, laughing. "It's

  Tyler's meat loaf, Dad."

  "Right. Well?"

  My grandmother shook her head and looked at

  me. I could see that she was half hoping I had

  changed my mind about everything, but the

  improvements in my bedroom and now my art

  supplies installed in what would be my studio drove

  home my determination.

  "I'll be fine here, Grandma," I told her. "Next

  year I would be going off to college anyway," I said. "Some birds throw their babies out of the nest,"

  my grandfather said, smiling.

  I quickly looked at Aunt Zipporah. She and I

  shared a secret. I knew that she and my mother had

  baptized the attic as Nest of Orphans, and ever since I

  learned that, I could never hear the word nest without

  thinking about it, thinking about the two of them

  treasuring their privacy, their imaginative world, their

  precious. secrets.

  "If you want to base your behavior on other animals and insects, Michael, female black widows kill

  their male mates, too," my grandmother threw back at

  him, and he roared with laughter.

  We went to the cafe in two cars because my

  grandparents were going to leave right after lunch.

  Aunt Zipporah thought I should ride with them to

  spend as much time with them as possible. It also

  gave my grandmother one more chance to ask me

  questions that might annoy or embarrass Aunt

  Zipporah if she heard them.

  "Are you sure Tyler is happy with this new arrangement, Alice?" she asked almost as soon as we started away. "That's not a very big house. You're probably stumbling over each other, and I'm sure they

  value their privacy."

  "He seems very happy about it," I said. "They

  have their privacy, Grandma. I'm downstairs, and now

  I'll have the studio and be in their way even less." "Besides, she'll make new friends and get into

  some new activities here," my grandfather said.

  "She'll have plenty to do outside of the house." New friends? I thought. I didn't have any old

  ones.

  "Zipporah and Tyler are very involved in that

  cafe of theirs. They're not going to be able to devote

  all that much time to you, Alice," my grandmother

  warned.

  "I don't need a babysitter, Grandma. I'm nearly

  seventeen."

  "She's right, Elaine. Stop bugging her." "Are you feeling all right?" she asked me,

  ignoring him as usual. "No pains? No headaches?" "I'm fine," I said. "If anything bothers me,

  you'll be the first to know."

  Dissatisfied with my answers but unable to

  shake me out of my determination to remain, she

  settled back and finally relaxed. We had a great lunch together. I couldn't help looking to the door every time someone entered, as usual half expecting, and hoping, to see Duncan come in, especially today, so he could see and meet my grandparents, but he didn't come. At one point, Missy paused to whisper in my

  ear.

  "Where's Mr. Weirdo these days? You give him

  his walking papers?"

  "I don't know," I said. "Lucky you," she replied,
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  smiling.

  Why did people take such pleasure in the

  unhappiness of others? I wondered. Was it simply

  because it wasn't their unhappiness, or were we all

  sadists deep down inside? Or could it be jealousy,

  too? From what I could gather, Missy didn't appear to

  have any boyfriend or even good friends.

  This time the good-bye for my grandmother

  seemed to be even more difficult than the previous

  parting back at the Doral House. There, she had clung

  to the belief that I would come to my senses shortly

  after arriving here. I would see that it didn't matter

  where I was, and I would tell her that I would return

  after the summer. Now, she was really saying goodbye, and she knew it.

  "We're taking a little summer vacation of our own, you know," my grandfather told Aunt Zipporah and me outside the cafe. "Next week we're heading up to Cape Cod for two weeks. We weren't sure about it

  until now, right, Elaine?" he asked pointedly. It was obvious that she had been holding back

  her full agreement until she had seen for herself that I

  was doing fine and I was safe.

  "Yes," she said. "But we'll be only a phone call

  away, of course," she added.

  "Just enjoy yourselves, Mom," Aunt Zipporah

  told her. "Everything is good here. Alice will be very

  occupied between the restaurant and her art." "Umm," my grandmother said. She looked at

  me. "Don't overdo it," she said.

  "Okay," I told her and then hugged and kissed

  her. My grandfather put his arm around my shoulders

  and slipped me five hundred dollars.

  "Just in case the tips get a little low," he said.

  "I'm proud of you, honey. You've got grit. You're

  going to be fine."

  He kissed me, then he and my grandmother got

  into their car and started away. We stood on the sidewalk and watched them make a turn and head home. "Free at last! Free at last!" Aunt Zipporah said,

  laughing. She embraced me and shook me.

  I smiled at her, but I kept my gaze on the corner

  around which they had disappeared. Despite my

  burning desire to find a new road and my independence, I missed them terribly. They were the shoulders to lean upon, the hands to reach for, the people in

  whom I found my safe haven. It wasn't easy cutting