Secrecy (4 page)

Why did he know her weight? It seemed too intimate a thing for him to know. Still, perhaps that’s silly of me, Charlotte argued. Most likely I’m picking on him because I wish he wasn’t here.

“Look at the rain,” Elena said. “Let’s go to the mall.”

“What do you want to do there?” Judd demanded.

“Shop. What else is there to do on a rainy day?”

“I can think of things.”

“Oh, sure,” Elena said. “Let’s go.” And summoning the waiter, she paid the check.

That was strange, too, Charlotte thought. Wasn’t he supposed to have invited us?

“Do I have to go to the mall?” she asked. “You could take me back so I can finish my book.”

“You have a long plane ride home. You can finish it then. Besides, you’ve never seen a mall like this one.”

That turned out to be true. This mall glittered like a Christmas tree. In shops filled with shoes, perfumes, tennis rackets, Italian silks and chocolates, and Irish linens, they looked and bought. Judd bought ties and a tennis-racket cover. Elena bought a scarf, a dark-brown lipstick, and a crystal elephant. It seemed to Charlotte, who was growing tired, that they were buying just for the sake of buying. And she tried to imagine Dad in this place.

“You could use a summer dress or two,” Elena remarked. “Look there. The blue one would be lovely on you.”

“Mama.” The word was a protest. “Mama. When would I wear a dress like that in Kingsley? Nobody gives parties like that in the summer.”

“Nobody does much there anytime, if you ask me. Okay, enough. Let’s go back.”

The return ride was quiet. Judd had the radio on, but nobody sang. A different mood had blown in on
the wind. He stopped at the door, they got out and thanked him, and he drove away.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow on the beach.”

“He’s such fun,” Elena said as they went inside. “Tell the truth, don’t you agree?”

Why should I disagree? Charlotte asked herself. It’s easier not to.

“Yes, he’s fun,” she said.

She woke early while Elena was still sleeping. She dressed and went outside. Apparently everyone in the community was still sleeping. She sat down in the garden area near a small pond surrounded by some vivid flowers whose name she did not know. There were goldfish in the pond, gliding and gleaming through light and shadow. The morning was still, without wind or motion. Only the goldfish moved.

On such a morning a person ought to feel happy. It was all so beautiful. What, then, was wrong with her? She felt—she felt superfluous. It was as if she did not belong here, even with her mother who loved her and had been disappointed when she refused the silly blue dress. She tried to analyze herself. At school from time to time they had visitors, psychologists, who came to explain to the girls about sex and popularity problems and family relationships. You went away from these talks wondering about other people and about yourself. What did it mean to be happy? Nobody could possibly be happy all the time. You had to have some times when you felt miserable. But how often? How often was too often? Would she feel
very different if her parents didn’t fight so much? After a whole week’s vacation she was sitting here moping. That’s what Emmabrown would call it.
Stop moping
, she would say,
and help me peel these apples
. But the way she said it, you wouldn’t mind.

Now through an open window came the sound of voices. On the far side of the lawn a fat man went jogging down the path. The world was awake. She stood up to go inside and begin the day. It was queer that she should be looking forward to tomorrow and the end of her vacation.

“Mama,” she called, looking in at the open bedroom door.

Then, hearing the rush of water in the bathtub, she went back through the living room to start breakfast—and came to a full stop. Judd’s sweater and gold chains were lying on the sofa. Puzzled, she stood there staring at them.

But he was wearing them when he drove away last evening! And she recalled exactly how, going too fast, the car had swung around the circle. She recalled exactly the striped sweater and the blaring music.

He had come back here, then, very late. Charlotte herself had stayed up very late watching television.

“Aren’t you going to bed soon?” Elena had kept asking.

She wanted to get me out of the way, Charlotte thought now, so he could return. He had stayed the night. And, in his hurry to get out before Charlotte should discover him, had forgotten the things tossed on the sofa. It was all quite clear.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she sat down. She was still sitting there when Elena appeared in the doorway. Half-dressed, she had a pink dressing gown slung over her arm.

“Hey,” she called, “you’re the early bird this morning—”

Like arrows the two pairs of eyes shot to the little heap on the sofa, shot back to meet, and separated. Lightly, Elena dropped herself onto the sofa; lightly, she dropped the dressing gown on the little incriminating heap as if she had not even noticed it there.

“So, another lovely day for the beach. What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Charlotte said.

“It can’t be too late. Oh, well, no rush. Shall we have eggs this morning?”

“I don’t care. Whatever you want.”

This is absurd, Charlotte thought. Playacting! She knows I know, but she hasn’t figured out yet how to handle it. She must be stunned. She needs time to work out a strategy. It can’t be the nicest feeling to have your daughter find you out.

Oh, Elena, why? she cried to herself in fierce and silent anger. And then perversely, along with the anger came pity, the pity one has for an animal caught in a trap.

“I’ll get my clothes on,” Elena said, “and then we’ll eat. It’s been a long time since dinner.”

She got up and, carelessly sweeping Judd’s things under a trail of pink silk, disappeared into the bedroom. So, without words, it had apparently been agreed that each of them would pretend that nothing
had been seen and nothing had happened. Everything must be normal.

Crazy, crazy … And yet, would it be better to battle it out, mother with daughter? What would be the result? Tears, transparent lies, and shame. Terrible questions and terrible answers, such as:
Does this mean that you are never coming home? And if not, what is to happen to me?
Why have you done this to us?

I need to get through this day, Charlotte thought. But he had just better not come back here. About that she was resolute. He had better not.

And he did not. And the day passed, somehow.

They stood together at the airport waiting for Charlotte to board. Elena felt naked, as in some horrid dream in which you discover that you have gone out with nothing on but your bathrobe and it’s too late to go home for some clothes.

That so much pain should come from such trivia. A lightweight, insignificant fool like Judd. And I have broken her ignorant little heart. She looks dreadful, with dull eyes and dark blue rings beneath them, not pretty at all today, not the way a young girl should appear so that boys will turn and look at her with that quick curiosity they have.

What shall I say to her? Shall I explain that I’m really not the kind of woman who cheats on her husband in the afternoon, comes home with a cheerful face, eats dinner with him, and tolerates his bed? That’s not me. I’m really not that kind of woman.
What kind am I, then? And is this something that can be discussed with a girl of fourteen?

Charlotte had not asked her when she was coming home, or more significantly, whether she was. For the last few weeks when she talked to Bill, he had not asked her either. He was probably, as she was, waiting for their situation to resolve itself. And that made sense. Things always did get either better or worse. They seldom stayed the same. The thought of going back was deadening in a way. And yet the possibility of not going back was chilling in another way.

So now they stood together unspeaking, observing the crowds, the people greeting and parting. There was always so much emotion in airports.

All at once it was time for Charlotte to board. And all at once, impelled by some wave of despairing, painful love, they threw their arms around each other.

“Good-bye, Mama.”

“Good-bye, darling. Take care of yourself.”

In the passing of a moment Charlotte’s ponytail and backpack moved out of sight.

“S
he looks peaked,” Emmabrown observed when, after dinner, Charlotte went upstairs to unpack her suitcase. “Seems to me she didn’t have such a good time down there.”

“She’s probably just tired from the trip,” Bill said, not quite believing it.

Emmabrown saw everything and was usually right. Besides, he had not been happy with the nuggets of information that, on the long ride from the airport, had dropped out of Charlotte’s conversation. Or had he himself dug them out? Or had they simply revealed themselves in the ordinary course of conversation?

“… the day we drove down Alligator Alley. I was hoping there would be alligators, but there weren’t any, and Mama fell asleep.”

“Fell asleep? Who was driving?”

“Judd. He’s one of her friends. I told you.”

“Oh, yes. I remember you mentioned the name.”

Elena, too, had done her part to confuse him. During those telephone discussions about his coming to Florida or her coming home, she had, in one of her chatty moods, run through a string of names, “delightful people, so natural, so casual.” It was all casual, even her airy, light account of it was casual.

But was he perhaps foul-minded to think otherwise of Elena? She had never given him reason to have any serious suspicions. On the other hand, she might well be acting the fool.

She was a passionate woman, little changed after all their years together. Still, a nasty squabble had a way of pouring cold water on desire, and they had for a long time been having far too many of them.

If indeed there is anyone, he thought now, examining himself and with some astonishment concluding, I will not feel the rage and pain that I would have felt only a few years ago. I will not be torn with grief. I will have only a deep, deep regret.

The rustle of Charlotte’s book was the only sound in the room. And looking toward the whispered sound, he realized that, like himself, she was not reading but had put the book away and was gazing out of the window into the looming night. Emmabrown had been right: the girl was “peaked.” Something had most definitely gone wrong.

“What do you all talk about?” he inquired, knowing that the question was too vague to make sense, that it stemmed, too, from an inability to come to the point. Yet how could a man even approach such a point when speaking to his daughter about her mother?

“Just things,” Charlotte said. “I don’t know. Sports, mostly. Tennis and golf.”

“Oh,” he said. “And swimming, too, I suppose? I hope you got in a lot of swimming.”

“Yes, every morning.”

For a moment her glance fell fully upon Bill, and in that moment he saw again how very young she was, younger than most girls of her age. And at the same time he saw how old she was. There was a tired appeal from that glance; it seemed to be saying:
We both know that something is finally going to happen
.

“Go to bed,” he said gently. “You’ve had a long day, and you must be exhausted.”

“I’m going to Florida for a couple of days,” Bill told his brother.

“Can’t you wait until we negotiate this deal to the end? Frankly, I don’t feel up to doing it alone.”

Bill thought fondly that Cliff was quite correct; he wasn’t up to it. Bill himself was the tougher negotiator. But Bill also saw that these negotiations were getting nowhere fast, and he said so again now.

“Property taxes will kill us if we don’t do something with the place,” Cliff complained.

“We’ll have to lease it if we can’t sell it. Take whatever we can get until maybe something better comes along. Maybe. Anyway, I need to see Elena.”

Cliff, in spite of being the garrulous brother, refrained from asking what he must have been wanting to ask:
What, if anything, is going on between you?

They were close brothers, yet they kept their private spaces, for they were of a family and a tradition
in a region of the country that is known for the avoidance of too many intimacies. So it was with clear recognition of his own need to confide, perhaps even to receive encouragement, that Bill began.

“I’m worried about Charlotte. Her mother’s been away too long, and she needs her mother. She’s been spending too much time alone in her room. She’s too quiet.”

Charlotte was suffering, there could be no doubt of it. He wanted to ask her why, had indeed started to do so several times, but she had resisted, and seeing her distress, he had not pressed her. And now, to his dismay, Bill’s eyes filled.

Considerately, Cliff looked away into the bustle of the coffee shop and waited until Bill spoke again.

“These times we’re in, with all the stuff on TV and the world as it is … It’s a frightening responsibility to rear a young girl.”

Those grave, wide eyes of hers! The tenderness in her!

“They don’t make many like her,” said Emmabrown, “especially these days.”

“Yes,” he repeated now, having controlled the troublesome tears, “it’s hard to rear a girl.”

“Ah, well,” Cliff said cheerfully, “you mustn’t take it so hard. Curb your worrying. I’ve learned a lot from Claudia.”

He hesitated. Bill had the impression that he was trying to make up his mind whether he should say something more or not. Then, leaning across the table, he lowered his voice almost to a whisper.

“That boy of hers is no one hundred percent pleasure,
you know. I could lose plenty of sleep over him if I let myself. The fact is, Bill, and I’m ashamed to say it about my wife’s fatherless son, but I don’t like him. I had every intention of being a companion, a father, to him, but it’s not working out all that well. He never looks me in the eye. Oh, he’s perfectly polite and all that—Claudia’s brought him up that way—but I have a strange feeling that he’s taking stock of me, assessing my strength, my intelligence, or what? My financial worth, perhaps? As the kids say, it’s weird.”