Secrets Can Be Deadly (3 page)

5
Monday, January 13, 1975 (Sam)

T
oday is my sixteenth birthday. There will be no presents. No cake and ice cream. Grandfather and Grandmother don’t celebrate birthdays or holidays—except Christmas. I get one present on Christmas, and it’s always a flannel shirt.

The
weatherman’s snowstorm arrived on schedule. The news last night announced school closings for the whole county. The snow was falling in big flakes, covering everything in white, fluffy mounds. I was going to be stuck in the house all day with Grandmother and Grandfather. My original plan was to get my driver’s license on my sixteenth birthday. Like most things the past seven years, things never worked out the way I wanted.

The only thing going my way today
is that I had several unread library books. Medical journals fascinated me ever since my fourth grade science teacher got me interested in chemistry. I loved reading mystery novels, too. They took me to faraway places. I tested myself to see if I could figure out the murderer. I’d be able to spend all day in my room, away from my grandparents, and read.

Reading filled a void
, helped me forget. My dad and brother died shortly after my ninth birthday. I’ll never forget the black puddles—or the day my mother abandoned me. My heart fluttered every time I saw a red Plymouth Fury—I thought she’d come back. But it was never her. Then years of physical and verbal abuse by my Grandfather.

Grandmother didn’t care
. Or she was too afraid how Grandfather acted. How he’d yell at me, slap me, take me to the barn. Two more years of suffering. Then I’d be an adult and could make my own decisions. I could get out of this place. Any normal child enjoys childhood and doesn’t want it to end. All I wanted was the next two years to flash forward when I blinked.

Grandmother would be calling me for breakfast soon.
Till it was time, I sat on my bed, pillow propped against the wall. I reached in my backpack and pulled out three tattered journals. I turned to the first page of the first journal, curious to read how much I’d blocked from memory.

On t
he third page,
You’re going to die
was written five times. I read how Grandfather took me to the barn and whipped the back of my legs because I’d left my shoes in the living room. Left a book on the table. Forgot to rinse a glass.

Flipping
a few more pages, a drawing of a gun.
I wish I had one of these to kill him.
Grandfather bought a new whip and tried it out on me. He said I deserved it.
I don’t remember that day, which is a good thing. I don’t want to remember all the times I disobeyed his rules, whipped for it.

D
rawings were scattered through my journal—knives, hangings, chainsaws, axes, guns. The entry next to each picture indicated that I’d been taken to the barn and beaten. The beatings had stopped on my fourteenth birthday. I read the journal entry two weeks later.
I’ve never met Red face to face. He comes to the farm but always stays outside with Grandfather. I think I need to thank him for stopping the beatings.

“Sam,
come down for breakfast,” Grandmother hollered from the bottom of the stairs.

Every morning at seven-fifteen,
the same five words. I learned at a young age to obey what Grandmother told me or Grandfather would take me to the barn. Grandfather had the five-minute rule. If I didn’t do what I was told within five minutes, there would be consequences. I didn’t want to have breakfast with my grandparents today because they wouldn’t mention my birthday. There would be no presents. I made the mistake of mentioning my birthday when I turned ten. I got a whipping.

I sat in the corner chair at the kitchen table. Another of Grandfather’s rules
: I wasn’t to leave the table until both he and Grandmother were finished eating. The one and only time I disobeyed that rule, the trip to the barn had been especially violent. I had to make up a story—a tractor accident—when the kids at school saw the scar on my neck. I could never tell anyone about the beatings. Grandfather taught me that sometimes it was best for one’s health to lie.

Grandfather didn’t like to talk when we were eating. He
grumbled at the small black and white television. I was never sure if he was grumbling because what was on the news or what he was eating. Grandmother was quite, ate slowly. Her arthritis had worsened. She had a hard time lifting her fork.

While eating my oatmeal, I dreamed what it would be like to have my family back. Mom, Dad, my brother and I eating bacon, waffles, eggs. My memories
of my family have faded. There are no pictures to remind me of their faces.

An hour passed
. Grandmother and Grandfather were still sitting at the table. Usually Grandfather only stayed fifteen minutes, thirty tops. I’d eaten all the oatmeal and stale toast I could stomach and needed to go to the bathroom.

“May I be excused
, Grandfather?” I whispered. “I need to use the bathroom.”

Grandfather turned
. “Fix your grandmother some tea first.” He stood, pushed his chair under the table.

I poured water in the teakettle and turned on the gas stove.
Reaching in the cupboard, I grabbed a teacup, saucer, tea bag. Grandfather pulled a small glass jar from his overalls pocket and scooped a spoonful of something white, powdery into the teacup.

“It smells horrible,” I said.

“It’s for your grandmother’s arthritis. Add a teaspoon of honey and it’ll be fine.”

The teakettle whistled
. I poured the water, mixing the ingredients together. The spoon was almost to my mouth when Grandfather jerked my arm. “Don’t ever take a taste of grandmother’s tea! If it wasn’t snowing so hard I’d take you to the barn for a lesson.”

I lowered my head and meekly replied, “I understand.”

“Now, take this to tea to your grandmother. She’s waiting.”

School was over for the week. The weekend meant chores. I was in the bus line when I heard a car horn. I turned and saw Grandfather driving Grandmother’s Rambler.

“Get in. Quick!” Grandfather yelled.

Grandfather had never picked me up from school. I wondered what awful chore he had planned for me today. We drove three blocks before I got up the nerve to speak.

“Why did you pick me up?”

“We need to go to the funeral home,” he said abruptly.

Grandfather was wearing his everyday overalls. Not the sort of clothes you wear to a funeral—and why would he want me along?

Another five blocks. I cleared my throat. “Why?”

“Grandmother
didn’t wake up from her nap this afternoon. Arrangements need to be made.”

I was stunned. Grandmother hadn’t been feeling well the last three weeks, but I never thought she’d die.

“It’s just you and me now, Sam.”

6
Friday, January 18, 1980 (Mason)

M
ason was glad the work week was over. He was tired of being George’s constant companion.

Chief Franklin stopped at Mason’s desk on the way out. “Nice job training George this week.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

“Next week George will have his own tasks. You think he’s ready?”

“Yeah. He’ll be fine.”

“Good to hear. Why don’t you go home? It’s getting late. My wife’s called me twice wondering when I was coming home.”

“Just wrapping up. Spending the evening with my dad.”

“Say hello to Walter for me. Have a good weekend.”

“You too, Chief.”

Mason
was ready to get back to a normal work routine.

Mason showered and put on a Cubs sweatshirt and jeans. He decided to call his father to make sure he hadn’t forgotten dinner plans. His father picked up on the third ring.

“Hi, Dad.
Ready for dinner? I can pick you up in ten.”

“Make it twenty
,” Walter said. “I just finished painting the second coat in the bedroom. Took longer than I thought. Need to clean up real quick.”

“Twenty
it is. See you then.” Mason turned on the TV just in time to catch the weather.

Walter
Pierce had started another home project. Since his retirement from manager of Community Bank last year, he was updating each room in the house.

The phone rang. Before
Mason could say hello, the voice on the other end said, “Have you thought about my note?”

“Who is this?”
Mason snapped.

“You’ll find out soon enough
.”

The town had one Chinese restaurant. China Buffet sat near the center of town next to the movie theater. Most of the customers were leaving to see
Kramer vs. Kramer
when Mason and Walter arrived. They were almost finished eating the sweet and sour chicken and moo goo gai pan when Mason decided to talk about the note.

“We don’t have any secrets
, do we, Dad?”

Mason
’s heart beat faster. He watched his father carefully for his reaction. He’d turned from son to detective.

“Of course not. Why would you bring
that up?”

“A note was left on my car this week.
family secrets are hard to hide
. Any idea what that could mean?”

Walter
looked down, moving rice with his chopsticks. Mason noticed his father was chewing his food slower. Saying nothing. Avoiding eye contact.

“Dad, is there something y
ou want to tell me?”

“No
.” Walter pointed to the moo goo gai pan. “You gonna finish that?”

“It’s all yours
.” Mason had lost his appetite. He wouldn’t tell him about the phone calls. Not now. He didn’t believe his father.

The waitress brought the check and two fortune cookies.
Mason picked the cookie closest to him. “Let’s see what’s in my future.”

Mason
cracked it open, read his fortune.

the truth will be discovered
.

7
Thursday, January 13, 1977 (Sam)

T
oday I could legally leave Grandfather’s house and he couldn’t do a thing. My eighteenth birthday. This place felt more like a prison than a home. It might have been, had my mother not abandoned me. Definitely not after Grandmother died. Only one family member left, and I hated him.

Graduation was five months away. All I needed was my high school diploma
. My dreams would come true. I’d move away, start a new life. I’d invite friends over, eat whatever I wanted.

Grandfather
controlled my life. He went to town every day and knew everything that went on. In a small town, you can’t sneeze without everyone knowing. I skipped school one day last year and Grandfather took me to the barn after I lied to him. I was excused from gym class two weeks while my back healed. Grandfather told the high school principal I’d tripped on a cord and a hot iron had scalded my back.

The
bright sun reflecting off the snow made it hard to look out the window. I made breakfast and dinner every day, lunch on the weekends. I didn’t like cooking, but Grandfather told me it was my duty. Today I was going to fix biscuits and gravy. My mouth watered as I bounded down the stairs. I reached the last step and noticed the table was already set. On my placemat—a bowl of cereal filled with milk and a half-filled glass of water.

Grandfather pointed to the table
. “Sit and eat. I’m driving you to school today.” Grandfather stood against the kitchen counter, drinking his coffee.

I sat
and looked in the bowl. Mushy corn flakes. I took the first bite and gagged. I started coughing, reached for the water. The milk was rancid. Grandfather must have made this for me last night and left it out overnight. I knew it was his way of teaching me a lesson. There were two choices—don’t eat the cereal and get a beating, or eat the cereal and get sick. I chose a day in the nurse’s lounge rather than give Grandfather the satisfaction of a beating. Each bite of the soggy corn flakes tasted worse than the one before. My water was gone. Five spoonfulls remained. I took a deep breath and polished it off.

“We need to leave in a few minutes.” Grandfather grabbed the car keys and walked out the back door.

My stomach started to churn. I washed the glass, bowl and spoon, put them away, then put on my coat, grabbed my backpack, and headed out the door.

Grandfather pulled the pickup next to the house and honked the horn. “Come on
, Sam. Don’t want you to be late for school.”

I
’d barely closed the truck door when Grandfather started driving down the driveway.

Grandfather cleared his throat. “Now that you
’re eighteen and an adult, your role is changing.”

My role is
changing
? I wondered what Grandfather had up his sleeve.

“I got you a part-time job at the drugstore. You’ll start Monday. You can drive Grandmother’s Rambler. I’ll be watching the mileage
, so no driving with any kids. You’ll work 3:30 to 5:30 Monday through Friday and 8:30 to 4:00 on Saturdays. Your supervisor will be Red. He’ll give me reports every week. Once you
graduate, Red will give you a full-time job. Understand?”

“Yes
, Grandfather.” I looked out the windshield. Two goats stood by a wire fence, chewing tall grass. As we passed, the goats raised their heads. Neah, neah, neah.
Were they laughing at me?

“You’ll still have your regular chores.
Dinner every night at six-thirty. That’ll give you plenty of time to get home from work and fix a meal.”

“Yes
, Grandfather.”

T
hat’s all I could manage to say. My life had just dramatically changed, once again, and I couldn’t do anything. Now I had a job I didn’t want. I looked out the passenger window. We drove by several houses, wondered if any happy people lived there.

I thought for a minute
, then realized Grandfather actually did me a huge favor. I’d been reading medical journals the last few years, and had notes on prescription drugs I thought one day would be useful. I’d somehow steal these drugs. A drugstore was the perfect place to work.

Grandfather pulled up to the school. “Oh, and by the way
, you’ll give me half of each paycheck. Time to repay me for all I’ve done for you over the years.”

“Yes
, Grandfather.” I got out of the pickup and watched him drive away. Standing made my stomach ache. I ran behind a group of bushes and vomited.

Mrs. Harris, my fourth period English teacher, came over. “Are you okay?”

“Breakfast didn’t agree with me, I guess.”

“Come on, I’m taking you to the school nurse.”

Happy eighteenth birthday
.