Secrets in the Shadows

  Don't you see?"

  "I'm not getting it, Duncan," I said. "How are

  you a child of sin, and how are we the same?" He looked up at me.

  "Just like your parents, my father and mother

  weren't married when they made me. They didn't get

  married until later. No one knows."

  "And so that makes us children of sin?" He nodded.

  "Who told you this? Did your mother tell you

  this? Well?"

  "She's just trying to help me," he said

  defensively. "She's devoted her whole life to me. She

  works for God so God will have mercy on me." "And you believe this? You believe because to

  some people having a child out of wedlock makes

  them sinners, the children are full of sin, too?" "It's in Scripture. 'Those of you who are left

  will waste away in the lands of their enemies because

  of their sins; also, because of their father's sins they

  will waste away.' Leviticus 26:39."

  "Is that something your mother made you

  memorize?"

  "We read the Bible every night," he said.

  "Besides, you believe it yourself."

  "I do not!"

  "Yes, you do. That's when I knew you and I

  were so alike. When you told me how the people in

  your hometown saw you as evil, I knew you saw

  yourself the same way. You inherited it just like I did.

  You so much as told me that, didn't you? You

  shouldn't sit there with such a look of surprise on your

  face at why I think we're the same.

  "And don't tell me you haven't thought about it.

  A lot," he added. "Don't tell me you look in the mirror

  and don't see what I see when I look in the mirror.

  Remember, you told me you had similar feelings and

  thoughts, similar to what you saw in my poems, and

  you said you expressed them through your art. "You didn't say it, but you as much as told me

  that the tragedy you went through, the death of that

  boy, was in your mind as somehow your fault, that

  you will and would bring only trouble and pain to

  anyone who cares about you or gets involved with

  you. Well?" he asked sharply. "Well?" he nearly

  shouted.

  I shuddered. He hadn't forgotten a word, not a

  syllable, and I couldn't deny it.

  "Yes," I cried. "I have those thoughts." He nodded, smiling.

  "But the difference between us is I don't need to

  be reminded of them, especially by my family. Or by

  a parent!" I said.

  "Like having a father who pretends he's not

  your father?" he asked smugly.

  The tears that were coming from my eyes felt

  so hot that I thought they would scald my cheeks as

  they jerked down toward my chin.

  "That's mean, Duncan."

  He nodded. "I'm sorry. It is mean to say it, but

  it underscores how alike you and I really are." I flicked the tears off my cheeks and sucked in

  my breath. "So why did you just come back if that's

  what you think? Why did you even come here today?

  Why be around another sinner or someone who could

  cause you to be a sinner?"

  He took a while to respond. First he looked out

  the window again. Then he looked at his hands and

  the floor before he looked at me.

  "Because like you, even though I say it, 1 don't

  want to believe all that and besides ... I can't help

  wanting to be with you. Most of the time, as you

  know from my poem, I feel like I'm in a cage, but

  when I'm with you, I feel free, even if it's a reckless

  feeling, a reckless freedom, it's still it feels good." "Then it can't be bad, Duncan, and you can't let

  your mother or anyone else make you think it is. And.

  don't whip yourself with Scripture either.-

  "I know," he said softly. "1 know." He looked

  up at me again, and this time, I thought there were

  tears in his eyes, too. "Will you help me overcome

  this idea?"

  "Yes," I said. "We'll help each other." He smiled softly. I held out my hand, and he

  slowly reached for it. For a moment that was all we

  did, hold onto each other's hand. Then his grip grew

  stronger, and he rose to come to me. He knelt before

  me and lowered his head to my lap. I stroked his hair,

  and we were like that for a while, neither of us

  speaking.

  He's right about us, I thought. We are similar:

  According to what he was telling me, he was afraid he

  would turn out to be his father, and I was running

  away from my grandparents and Sandburg because in

  my heart I was afraid I would turn out to be my

  mother. These thoughts drove us into the same dark

  corner, only at the moment he seemed more helpless,

  deeper driven. I was at least trying to escape from

  myself.

  "Oh, Duncan," I moaned.

  When he lifted his head this time and looked

  into my eyes, I couldn't help but lean toward him and

  draw his lips to mine. In a way we were both throwing

  each other a lifeline, pulling each other out of the

  darkness.

  We kissed a soft, but long, kiss. I could feel

  him trembling, and it wasn't because I had excited him. He was trembling with fear. It both annoyed and

  angered me, and I was sure he saw that in my eyes. "You're not going to go to hell because of how

  you feel about me, Duncan. I don't care what your

  mother or anyone has told you or how you have been

  made to interpret what you read in the Bible." He looked a little ashamed that he was so easily

  read. I touched his cheek and smiled.

  "Who knows? Maybe you'll find a little heaven

  with me," I said, and he smiled.

  "You are good," he said with confidence. "I

  know you're good for me." "We're good for each

  other."

  "Yes, yes. You're right."

  He kissed me again and I kept my hands around

  his shoulders, pulling him toward me until he was on

  the bed with me.

  "Don't be afraid," I whispered to drive back his

  hesitation. "Not of me, not of yourself."

  He looked down at me, and then, like a little

  boy opening a Christmas Day package, he began to

  undo my towel.

  15 Two of a Kind

  . At first it seemed that all he would do is gaze upon me, feast with his eyes and then wrap me up again and run out. I anticipated it. I held my breath. Was it wrong for me to study his face while he looked at me? I was fascinated with how he reacted to me, to the power I seem to have over him. I could almost see the struggle inside him to look but not touch.

  "I've never been like this with any other girl," he said in a hoarse whisper.

  "You could have fooled me," I told him and then quicky smiled.

  He lowered himself to kiss me again, to kiss my breasts and then gently lowered the side of his head to my body, just under my breasts.

  "I can hear your heart pounding," he said.

  "I can, too."

  He kissed my stomach and I held my breath, waiting to see where he would bring his lips next, but he closed his eyes and turned over instead to lie beside me and look up at the ceiling. A part of me was disappointed, and a part of me was filled with curiosity. How could he pause, be so controlled?

  "We can't go too far," he said. "What if we did exactly what our parents
have done? I'm not . . prepared to go any further," he said, sounding a little embarrassed.

  I turned to him and reached out to turn his face to mine.

  "You're right," 1 said. "You don't have to be ashamed of it either. It's not unmanly or stupid. I don't think any less of you. We're not going to inherit any sin," I added firmly, and he smiled.

  He leaned over to kiss me, and we held each other.

  "But that doesn't mean we can't want each other, need each other and love each other," I added.

  He smiled and kissed me again before lying back to think. His gaze moved over the room slowly, as if he wanted to commit every inch of it and every second of us now to his-memory forever.

  "I've never been in any girl's room before," he told me. "I've read that whomever you do the first things in your life with you never forget."

  "I couldn't forget you no matter what."

  "Does this mean you're going to help me paint it now?"

  He laughed. "Okay, okay. I'm a dork."

  "No, you're not, Duncan. And don't think I'm so much more advanced than you are when it comes to all this. I had one boyfriend for a split second."

  "Split second?"

  "That's how it seemed to me."

  I brushed back his hair.

  "Now I have two."

  He laughed. "You're the first girl who constantly surprises me."

  "Do you like that?"

  "Yes, very much."

  "Are you reconsidering having dinner with me?" "She'll be mad at me, but that's okay," he said with a new determination.

  "Good. I'm getting hungry. Go see what you can find in the kitchen while I finish getting dressed."

  He kissed me again, and then he got up and walked out.

  Was I mad to keep trying with him, to still want to be around him after what he had just revealed? I wondered as I dressed and fixed my hair. Was it arrogant of me to think I could help him when I had trouble finding ways to help myself? Really, how far could two emotional and psychological cripples go with each other? Which voice within me should I listen to more, the one that was telling me to run from him or the one that was telling me he and I needed each other?

  "I can make the salad," he said when I entered the kitchen. He had a large bowl and ingredients" spread over a counter. "There's some packages of pasta in the pantry, and in the refrigerator I saw what looks like some of the pasta sauce you have at the cafe and sell in jars. I've seen people gobbling it up at the cafe and raving about it."

  I went to put that together while he worked on the salad. He was very good, very meticulous at cutting up vegetables and tomatoes and slicing onions. He even prepared a salad dressing out of oil and vinegar and some spices he had found. He caught me looking at him in amazement.

  "What?" he asked, smiling.

  "How do you know how much of each ingredient to use?"

  "It takes years of experience." He paused and thought. "I suppose they'd call me a mama's boy because I work with her in the kitchen so often."

  "My uncle's a great chef and no one's going to call him a mama's boy," I told him That brought a smile to his face.

  "Let's have the salad while the pasta cooks," he suggested, and we sat and began to eat. Aunt Zipporah had some of the cafe's special garlic rolls in the freezer. I had put them in the oven, so we had them as well.

  "This is really looking like a feast," Duncan said.

  As it turned out, he knew how long to cook the pasta better than I did, explaining that most people overcook it.lie prepared that as well and mixed in the sauce.

  "I should tell my uncle about you. Maybe you could work at the cafe part-time. You really are good at all this. You're the one who's full of surprises, Duncan, not me."

  "I wouldn't have time even for a part-time job. I do a lot more than fix broken faucets at our home," he said. "My mother is very occupied with her mailorder work for the church and the like, so I often do all the house cleaning, make the beds, and I do most of our shopping, too, while she's at a church meeting or something. She won't let me take the car at any other time," he added. "She's very unhappy that I fixed up my scooter. She wouldn't give me the money for the insurance and registration. I had to scrounge that up myself."

  "How did you get the scooter in the first place?"

  "It was something my father had gotten from some job he was on and left in one of the coops."

  "Exactly how long has your father been gone?" I asked him.

  "Close to ten years."

  "Did he just leave one day and not tell anyone?"

  "That's what my mother says. I never saw a note, if that's what you mean."

  "And he never called or sent a letter, nothing?"

  He thought for a moment, ate some more and nodded.

  "There were times when I was about eight or nine that I thought he did call to speak with her, but she never came out and said so and asking about him only drove her into a horrible rant. Sometimes, she became so enraged, I was terrified. Almost

  immediately after he left us, she changed her name back to her maiden name, Simon."

  "How come your name wasn't changed, too?"

  "It was, but I wouldn't accept It's the one defiant thing I've done. Up until now, that is," he added, smiling at me to clearly indicate I was the second defiant thing. "Thankfully, she's stopped harping on it, but she doesn't hesitate to correct anyone who calls her Edna Winning, and if someone refers to me as Duncan Winning, she'll correct him or her as well. It was a problem at school for a while, but it's not anymore. She doesn't have much to do with my schooling anyway. She never went to a parentteacher conference, and my grades have been good enough to keep me from being of much concern."

  "You've never been in trouble at school, given them a reason to call her?"

  "You can't even begin to imagine what that would have done. I've always been conscious of her expectation that I would get into trouble, and I'm probably known as a goody-goody boy or something because of it. I'm the only one who calls his teachers sir and ma'am, if I don't call them Mr., Mrs., Miss. One of my teachers, Donna Balm, insists on being called Miz Balm. She won't let me call her ma'am either. She says, 'Ma'am is short for madam, and I'm no madam,"' he told me, obviously imitating her. I laughed.

  He ate some more and then said, "You'll see when you go to our school."

  "See what?"

  "How the other students don't trust me, especially the other guys, because I won't smoke in the bathroom, do pot with them or take some of those pills they circulate sometimes. They think I'm some sort of spy for the administration or something. If you hang out with me, they'll treat you like a leper, too."

  "I'm used to it," I said.

  "Yeah, but you came here to get away from all that, didn't you? You think because no one knows you here, they'll accept you and you'll make friends. I can only make that harder for you."

  "Let me decide whom I want and don't want for friends, Duncan."

  "I'm just warning you."

  Maybe he was, and maybe he was right. I shook the thought from my mind. After all, hadn't Craig faced the same problems and stood by me? Somehow, we had to find the strength to prevent other people from dictating our lives to us. He and I had the same challenges in a sense. We were truly alike. Ironically, it's more often than not that people who are unlike each other end up together but don't find that out until it's too late, I thought. His parents certainly fit that definition.

  "Where did your father and mother meet?" I asked.

  "She was going to a nearby all-girls prep school and he was a custodian, a handyman there. From the little she will tell me about that, about him, I understood that he was what she calls persuasive. That's the nicest word she'll use. Sometimes," he said, lowering his voice as if there were people nearby who could overhear us, "I believe she thinks he was the devil himself, seducing her. Anyway, after they did get married, they bought our property, and for a while it was a very successful egg farm. She said he began to drink heavily and that was when
things got bad, so bad, she says, that he no longer cared about her or me."

  He put his fork down and looked very pensive. "What?"

  "Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but there were times, not lately, but times when I had the feeling he was nearby, watching me. I used to dream about him coming by while I was walking to town or school. He would stop to offer me a lift and I would know it was my father immediately. It got so I studied every driver in every car that passed by me. Sometimes, I'd sit by my window and look out in anticipation of seeing him standing off to the side somewhere watching our house, anticipating me stepping out. I'd even go out and walk around aimlessly just in the hope that was true.

  "My mother knew it. I could tell, and it made her furious. It got so I was afraid to even think about him in her presence, afraid she might see it in my face. She has a way of looking right through people and seeing their most inner thoughts and feelings."

  "Oh, Duncan, I don't think she has such a power."

  "No, it's true. Whenever we go to the church or she meets some of the people, she mutters about this one or that one, telling me things I have no idea how she could know."

  "Maybe she's just assuming things, guessing."

  "Believe me. She can do it," he insisted. "She's very strong in her own way. Other women would probably have folded up and gone running to their parents or family, begging to be taken in or something. She just seems to get stronger, harder with every hardship. She's always telling me that God tests us continually. I'm sure I'm being tested now."

  "Because you're with me?"

  "Yes, but I won't run from you again," he promised. "At least, I hope I won't."

  "You better not. At least until you help me clean up here," I added, and he laughed.

  "When she sees you, really gets to know you, she'll realize you're a good person, Alice."

  "I hope so. I hope I am," I said.

  "What about your parents? Your father?"

  "He has another family and lives in California. I saw them recently, and he was the closest to me he's ever been. When he left, I had the feeling he would spend more time with me or care more about me, but that hasn't happened yet. His wife is very protective of their children, twin boys, and they've kept my existence, my relationship with him, a secret from the twins and from their friends."

  "And you've really never seen your mother?"

  "No. Someday, maybe," I said. "I often do what you said you do, imagine her around."