Secrets in the Shadows (21 page)

"I don't have anywhere I'd like to go."
"Well, if you change your mind, let me know. My car isn't used all day and most of the night because
I'm chained to the cafe. With a few lessons, it could be your way of tooling around as well." He leaned toward me and whispered, "Zipporah hates driving it, so she'll be more reluctant to give up her car."
"Thanks for the offer," I said, smiling. "Maybe I will let you give me some lessons."
"That's the spirit. You're too young not to be eager to try new things." He sipped his coffee. "Zipporah was telling me about your painting. It sounds interesting."
"I don't know. I'm just tinkering with something."
"That's how most artists do it, I bet. Well, I'd better get going. Zipporah's still asleep," he whispered. "Something was bothering her last night. She tossed and turned so much, I thought she'd bounce me out of the bed."
"Oh?"
"Pm sure it's nothing serious," he quickly added. "She's had nights like that before. Don't worry about it," he told me, but I couldn't help wondering if she had seen or heard more than she had let on last night and she was worrying about me.
I didn't want to wake her, but I didn't go into the studio for a while, hoping she would come down. Finally, I went out and started to set up to continue my painting. I tried to get back into it, but there was just too much distracting me. I did very little before I heard Aunt Zipporah call from the doorway.
"Morning," I said.
"Morning. I don't want to bother you, but I'm heading out. I overslept. You going to be all right?"
"I'm fine," I said. "You sure I shouldn't go with you to the cafe?"
"Tyler is adamant that you have time for your art. We're so much busier on the weekends. Don't worry about it. Call me if you need anything, okay?"
"I will. Thanks," 1 shouted after her.
I went to the doorway and listened to her back out of the garage and then drive off. When I turned around again, Duncan was standing in the studio bathroom doorway. He looked like he had just woken up himself. His hair was disheveled, and his eyes were still sleepy. In fact, he looked dazed.
"How did you get in there?" I asked
immediately. "How long have you been in there?"
He stared at me, then scrubbed his cheeks vigorously.
"I fell asleep on the floor," he replied.
"When?"
"Last night sometime."
"Why?"
He didn't say anything. He walked over to my painting and looked at it.
"Duncan? What are you doing? Why did you peep through our bathroom window last night?" I demanded, and he turned.
"Huh? I didn't do that," he said. "Don't say that." "I saw you looking in at me."
He shook his
^-
head. "No. I didn't do that."
"You're scaring me, Duncan. I know it was you. I heard your scooter, too. I saw you waiting in the shadows when my aunt and I came home."
"That's not true. None of that is true." He pointed to my painting. "You're in this picture, you know. You're the doe and you don't even realize why," he said angrily and charged toward the doorway.
"Duncan!"
He turned. "I gotta go. I'm sorry I scared you, but I didn't want to go home last night. My mother is still very mad at me for eating dinner here the other night and not telling her where I was, and now she'll be even angrier that I returned and spent the night away from home."
"You're admitting you were here then. You're saying you were here?"
"I was in here. That's all. I told you. I had a bad argument with her and ran out of the house. I didn't have any other place to go. I fell asleep on the bathroom floor. That's he said and left.
I walked slowly to the doorway and watched him trekking across the field of high grass. He was marching with his head down, as if he had to get away as quickly as he could.
He's probably just ashamed of himself,
I thought,
but to be out all night just to avoid his mother . . . I
couldn't help but feel sorry for him.
Suddenly, before he reached the road, he stopped and stood there for a moment. Then he turned around, looked toward me and slowly made his way back. I folded my arms under my breasts and walked out to meet him.
"What are you doing, Duncan?"
He kept his head down.
"I'm sorry," he said in an entirely different sounding tone of voice. "I want to be . . . to be with you, but I'm afraid of what will happen."
"What will happen?"
He looked up, his eyes glassy, but said nothing.
"I thought we decided that wouldn't be the case with us," I said. "I thought we decided we would fight it, fight the whole idea that we inherited sin."
"No, I was wrong. Something terrible is probably going to happen to either us or people we love or love us." He looked away.
"How can you tell that?"
He shook his head but avoided looking at me.
"Your mother is telling you that, right? She is the one saying all these things. I called your house last night after I was sure you were here."
He turned back quickly. "You spoke to her?" "Sorta. I wouldn't call it speaking to her. I asked for you and she said something terrible to me."
"What?"
"She called me Satan."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"What's wrong with her? What's her problem? She doesn't know anything about me. How could she say such a terrible thing to me?"
He didn't answer my question. Instead, he looked at me intently and said, "I've never wanted to be with any girl as much as I want to be with you, Alice. I've looked at other girls and thought about them, but I've never been this close with any and I've never been thinking day and night about any like I do about you."
I smiled. "That's all good, Duncan. There's nothing terrible about that. Don't let her make you think there is."
His face softened, his eyes more relaxed.
"You're probably hungry," I said. "C'mon. I'll make you some breakfast."
"No, I don't think . . ."
"It's nothing. I'll put up some coffee. You want scrambled eggs? I make great scrambled eggs. Even you won't be able to improve on them," I added.
He started to smile, then looked back at the field as if someone was waiting for him.
"You've been out all night, Duncan. What difference will another hour or so make?"
My logic got to him. He nodded and followed me back into the house. He sat in the kitchen while I poured him a glass of orange juice.
"What kind of eggs would you like?"
"I'll just have some coffee. Maybe some toast," he said.
I began to prepare the coffee. I could feel his eyes intently on me, on my every move. I could also feel a trembling inside myself. When I looked at him, he just stared back. He had barely touched his juice.
"Look, Duncan, I'm no one to be giving anyone advice about how he or she should live his or her life, but you can't let your mother do this to you. You're like someone walking around with invisible chains around his wrists and his legs."
"I know," he said. He looked away for a moment, and then he turned back, wearing a more confident--almost an angry confident--expression. "I'm sorry I lied before," he said. "I did look through your bathroom window. First, when I looked in, I saw your aunt."
"Oh, Duncan."
"So I ran away and then I returned and came to your front door to apologize and I saw you going into the bathroom. I went to the window of the bathroom intending to tap on it and get your attention, but--"
"But what?"
"I didn't want to stop looking at you. I wanted to see you undress and get into the bathtub. I wanted to watch you with your eyes closed, soaking there."
I was having the strangest reaction to his confession. A part of me wanted to be angry, enraged, scream at him and tell him to get out and stay away from me forever, but another part of me was titillated, excited and fascinated with his completely uninhibited disclosure. He was as naked with his feelings as I had been in the tub. Even now, I could see the erotic pleasure lingering on his face, in his eyes, in the memory of me.
"But . . . you didn't have to look at me through a window, Duncan. You were with me in my bedroom."
"It was the forbidden part of it, seeing you without you knowing I was seeing you. It was more exciting to me," he confessed. "And then, I knew it was wrong and I fled."
"But you didn't go home."
"No!" he said, his eyes wide. "I couldn't go home. The moment she set her eyes on me, she would have known what I had done. She would see how all the lust was festering inside me."
"Oh, Duncan, you make her sound as if--"
"She would have," he insisted. "So I went around to your studio and fell asleep on the floor in the bathroom. I heard you come into the studio and I was ashamed and didn't want you to know I was there. For a while I was unable to move, struggling to think of some explanation, and then your aunt came to say good-bye and I thought I had to get away.
"But I didn't want to get away," he quickly added. He started to get up. "Now," he said, "I'm sure you
want me to leave and you want me to stay away from you. I don't blame you."
"No," I said firmly. "I don't. I wouldn't have invited you to stay if I felt that way."
He paused and looked at me, searching my face for signs of sincerity.
"I'm not mad at you, Duncan. I understand why you're so confused and troubled, why you question every feeling you have and everything you do." I smiled, remembering something. "We're birds of a feather."
His eyes lit with a brightness I had not seen. His smile deepened until he looked like he was smiling with every ounce of his being.
"I'm glad you said that, Alice. I don't know what love is exactly. I'm far from an expert when it comes to that," he said, "but I can't imagine feeling any stronger for any girl than I do for you."
"I don't know what it is either, Duncan, but I'm glad you feel that way about me."
He held his smile a moment longer, and then it started to wither. He looked like he was hearing someone talking and he was listening. For a moment I wondered if that was true. I listened hard myself, but I heard nothing.
"What's wrong?" I asked, seeing his eyes lower and his body soften.
"She won't like it, any of it."
"Why not? It's not normal for her to feel this way and to do this to you. You've got to get her to stop tormenting you. You've got to be firm, make a firm stand. Do you hear me, Duncan? Do you?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I know exactly what I have to do. I've got to cross over."
"Cross over, do whatever you have to do to make her understand that you are your own person and you have a right to your own happiness."
"Exactly," he said. "I want to do it. I want to go too far to turn back, too far for her to turn me back."
"Good. Maybe then she'll stop tormenting you and blaming you for sins you haven't committed."
"Then you'll help me, want me, be with me?"
"Yes," I said. "We'll help each other. I've told you that before, Duncan."
He started to smile, stopped, and then wore the same expression he'd had when he'd looked at me through the bathroom window.
"What?" I asked when he didn't speak.
"This time I'm prepared," he said and reached into his pocket to show me.
For a moment I was stunned at what he had in the palm of his hand.
"No worries now," he said. "We won't make the same mistake our parents made. No accidents, no unwanted babies."
I looked up at him, truly speechless.
His smile returned. "Don't you see, Alice? It's how we'll both cross over," he said. "And when I do, I'll be too far for her to reach me. And," he added, "so will you. What?" he asked when I didn't respond.
"That's not the right reason to do this, Duncan. I didn't know that was what you meant by crossing over. I want to love you and be with you, but I want it to happen because we feel it and not as a trick to defeat your mother," I said.
He stared at me for a moment silently, his eyes turning glassy and tearful as his smile evaporated.
"Yeah, right," he said, shoving his protection back into his pocket.
"Please understand, Duncan. It makes it feel . ."
"Wrong?" he asked, his new smile wry, crooked.
"Not wrong, mechanical, almost like a procedure rather than lovemaking," I said. "You don't want that either, right?" I asked him softly.
He nodded slowly and then looked away.
"I'm glad you're here," I said. "I want to see more of you. I want to see you every day, in fact," I added, but he didn't turn back to me.
Right now, he looked like he was in a sulk, I thought. He was like a little boy being denied something he had whined for.
"I gotta go," he said.
"But what about your breakfast?"
"I'll eat something later. I gotta get back. It'll only make things worse."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"You're not mad at me, are you?"
Finally, he turned back to me.
"No," lie said. He forced a softer smile. "No, I'm not mad at you. I'm mad at myself. I'm an idiot."
"No, you're not. You're one of the brightest, most accomplished boys I've met."
"I thought you haven't met many," he retorted instantly.
I smiled. "I haven't. Not the way you're suggesting, but I'm not a lump of coal, Duncan. I listen, see, understand who's around me. You're special," I told him.
He seemed to relax. "Okay," he said. "But I gotta go."
I walked him to the front door.
"Where's your scooter?"
"Just down the road. Not far," he said. We stepped out together.
"You're absolutely sure you don't want anything to eat?"
"I'm fine. I'll try to see you later," he said.
"Good."
He hesitated, and then he kissed me. We held each other for a moment, but suddenly he pulled back and turned sharply, as if he had indeed heard something I looked in the direction he was looking.
There, parked across the road from my uncle and aunt's home, was a woman in an older blue sedan. She was looking at us. I saw she wore a shawl. I could barely make out her features because she was parked in the shade of a sprawling oak tree. I did see her cross herself and then start the car and drive away.
He didn't have to tell me who it was.

.
He started down the driveway.
I called to him.
He lifted his hand but didn't look back. I stood

there and watched him turn at the bottom of the driveway, glance in the direction his mother had gone, and then turn and walk ,down the road to where he had parked his scooter.

"Call me later!" I shouted after him. "Duncan, did you hear me? Call!"
He didn't respond. I watched him walk until he disappeared around a bend in the road, never lifting his head, never looking back.
It was difficult for me to concentrate on anything the remainder of the day. I continually returned to the house to see if Duncan would call. I even moved one of the telephones as close to a window as I could and kept an ear out for the sound of it ringing.
I could only imagine what he was going through at home now. Was I once again the source of someone else's troubles, someone I cared about, got too close to? I couldn't help but wonder if all this did was prove I was the pariah I had always believed I was.
Memories of how the mothers of other girls and even boys my age would tighten their grip on the hands of their children whenever I was nearby returned to me. I could see the fear in their faces. It was almost medieval to see such abject terror, such a belief in evil looming in one as small and helpless as I was. Why shouldn't I have grown up thinking I could contaminate other children if adults believed it so intently? Why shouldn't that feeling linger under my heart? Repeatedly, I replayed the sight of Duncan's mother crossing herself, as if to protect herself from whatever darkness I could send her way and perhaps had already sent into her son.
When I stepped back and looked at the doe I was now fleshing out on my canvas, I did see myself. Duncan had been right. This was not a helpless, frightened doe. It was an angry little creature stepping out of the shadowy forest to challenge the world outside. There was actually a sneer on its lips and fire in its eyes. Its body was tight, poised, more the body of a small leopard than the body of an innocent little deer.
Disgusted, I shoved the painting off the easel. It bounced on the cement floor, a corner of it smashing as it fell over. I kicked it once, driving a hole into the center of it. I threw down my paintbrushes and left the studio. For a while I just hobbled about over the grounds, mumbling to myself. I was sure if anyone saw me, he or she would think I was some lunatic gone wild. I was waving my arms about as 1 limped along, but that was mainly to keep the gnats and mosquitos away from my neck and face.
I shouldn't have turned him away, I
thought. I should have taken his hand and led him into my bedroom. That would fix her, fix all of them, every vicious, mean and insensitive parent who crossed herself or shifted her eyes quickly away whenever she confronted me near her child. I should have done exactly what Duncan wanted. I should have crossed over, gone too far and put on the clothes, the face, the very soul of the person they all accused me of being. Maybe then I would finally be comfortable in this world. Maybe I am the doe I painted. Maybe I shouldn't cast it aside anymore.
I stopped in front of the house. I was simply glaring at the road now, fuming, my eyes blazing at the place under the oak tree where his mother had parked and waited, confirming in her own mind that he had spent the night with me, sinning and selling his soul for lust and pleasure with this daughter of evil.
"You're just jealous!" I screamed at the shadow under the oak, tree. "You're jealous because you're too twisted inside to love anyone or enjoy being with anyone now. You'll never admit you enjoyed making Duncan. You lie to yourself. I hate you and all who are like you. You have no right to look at me with eyes of accusation. Look at yourself. Hate yourself!"
Tears were streaming down my face. I held my clenched fists against my hips and found I was gasping for breath. Just then, the phone rang. I could hear it in the open window. I turned and hobbled my way back to the house as quickly as I could manage, hoping whoever it was would not hang up before I got to the receiver.
He didn't.
It was Duncan, but he sounded so strange.
"I told you," he said, speaking as if he was in a tunnel far away. "I told you she would know."
"Know what? We didn't do anything, Duncan."
He laughed. "She thinks we did. She knows what was in my heart, so it's the same thing. I can't tell you how many times in the past she has quoted from the Bible, telling me, 'For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father but is of the world.' "
"Duncan, she has no right to be doing this to you. Listen to me."
"No, no, that's good. Don't you see? At least in her mind I've crossed over. She thinks she can't control me anymore. She thinks it's too late and I'm forever lost. Maybe now she'll leave me be."
"Did she say that?"
"She didn't have to. I know it. She's upstairs, locked in her room surely asking for forgiveness, blaming herself, berating herself. Thank you," he said. "Thank you, thank you."
"For what, Duncan? We didn't do anything," I emphasized. "I didn't do anything. I don't understand this."
"Yes, we did," he said. "Yes. I'll see you later. I feel like someone who just got out of prison. I'm going off to write a poem about it. Thank you."
"Duncan."
He laughed and hung up.
I tried calling him back immediately. The phone rang and rang, but he didn't answer. It frightened me terribly. I retreated to my bedroom to lie down and think. Emotionally exhausted, I fell asleep and didn't awaken until the phone rang again. I hurried to answer.
"Hey," Aunt Zipporah said. "What are you doing?"
"I was just resting," I said, unable to hide the disappointment in my voice.
"Tired yourself out again?"
I hesitated, just barely holding back the flood of words and tears she would surely think was a mental breakdown. How would I even begin to explain it, explain Duncan peeping through the bathroom window at her as well as at me, sleeping in the studio all night and then being pursued by his mother, whom he now thought he had somehow defeated?
"Yes," was all I could manage.
"You want me to pick you up? There's a lull here. Mrs. Mallen and I are just sitting around."
I leaped at the offer. I didn't want to be alone. "Okay, I'll be right along," she said in her happy, little voice, a voice I so wished was my own.
I went to the bathroom and fixed my hair and put on some makeup. Then I changed into one of my more attractive and brighter outfits and went out to wait for her. Of course, I wondered if Duncan would be calling again, perhaps making more sense this time, but I imagined when I didn't answer this late in the day he would figure out that I had gone to the cafe and would either call me there or come there.
As soon as I saw Aunt Zipporah drive in, I hurried out to get into her car.
"So how's your painting going?"
"It's not good," I said. "It's not coming out the way I want. I'll start again, maybe a new one, maybe an entirely new subject."
"Oh. Sorry," she said.
I was sure she thought my darker look and subdued manner were a result of my disappointment with my work. She immediately went into one story after another about the customers, Missy and Cassie, throwing every possible amusing incident out to distract me and cheer me up. By the time we pulled up in front of the cafe, she had managed to get me to laugh as well as smile. I felt guilty, however, for not telling her about Duncan and all that had happened.
Maybe I will later
I told myself and went into the cafe to enjoy being with her and Uncle Tyler. At least for a few hours I could put all the weirdness behind me, I thought. I certainly didn't want to dump any of it into their laps. They would surely regret permitting me to come live with them, and I couldn't blame them.
Aunt Zipporah did finally ask me about Duncan. She wondered why he wasn't coming around.
I hesitated a moment, and then thought she was the one who had put the idea and the need for occasional little white lies into my mind. This seemed like the right time for one.
"He called once. I happened to be in the house and heard the phone. He was very busy with chores."
She nodded, holding a half smile.
She knows I'm lying,
I thought.
I'm not good at it. Grandpa use to tell me I was so used to telling the truth, telling exactly what I really thought, that a lie or even a half-truth would pop out like a pimple on my face. He was fond of saying I was my
grandmother's granddaughter
"Lawyers are skilled at turning a phrase, concealing a fact, twisting reality to fit the brief, but nurses have a need to tell it like it is," he'd tell me.
"That's not true for Rachel," I told him. He laughed.
"Rachel is a different sort of lawyer. She should have been a surgeon instead. If you need your appendix taken out, she won't procrastinate or pretend otherwise. She'll take it out."