Secrecy Page 6

  He was standing over her; without looking she felt his presence.

  “You’re all right,” he repeated. “Remember, nothing happened.”

  “I have to go home,” she said, wiping her nose.

  “You can’t go, crying like that.”

  “I’m not crying anymore.” Then the thought struck her that perhaps he wasn’t going to let her out of the house, and she screamed again. “I have to go home.”

  “Fine. No problem. Just wash your face and comb your hair, and I’ll take you.”

  On the brief ride to her house, neither of them spoke until the car stopped and Ted said, “I think you’d better not come again.”

  His tone was flat, but she understood his meaning. He was afraid of her now; he was in terror. In any case she had no intention of going near that house again, ever.

  She walked in softly on tiptoe. At the end of the hall the door was open, revealing her father on the porch. She wanted only to hide in her room, but had barely set foot on the stairs before he heard her and called out.

  “Where in heaven’s name have you been? Come in here, I want to talk to you.”

  “I’m sick,” she mumbled, forestalling the question he would surely put when he saw her.

  He rose from his chair, confronting her in the full blaze of afternoon light, and demanded, “What is wrong with you?”

  “I feel like throwing up. I must have eaten something.”

  “ ‘Must have’! What do you mean? You know what you ate. Where were you? It’s after five. I’ve been home since half past two. I called all your friends where I thought you might have gone, and then I had to give up. Where were you, I asked?”

  “Ted and I took the dogs for a walk,” she said, looking down at her shoes.

  “Ted. I told you yesterday that I didn’t want you there. I don’t like him. I have an uneasy feeling about him, Charlotte, and maybe that sounds crazy to you, and maybe I’m all wrong, but dammit, I’m your father, and I have a right to sound crazy. And I have a right to know why you went there when I told you not to.”

  She had never seen her father so angry. Even during those overheard arguments with Elena, it had been she who had the hot temper, never he. And she waited in silence for him to finish.

  “What does he want with a kid like you? He’s not right for you, he’s not honest, it’s written on his face. I don’t like this, Charlotte, I told you I didn’t and I’m telling you again. If you have any more dates with him, you’ll be in real trouble with me. Real trouble. And it seems to me that we’ve got enough troubles under this roof already.”

  She trembled. A chill ran through her again; nausea filled her throat, and in a whisper she pleaded, “Dad, I have to go to the bathroom. I’m sick.”

  She lay flat on her back, flung out, her body sore and bruised, until the nausea passed. If only she had someone to talk to. It had to be a woman, and there was none. Emmabrown would only scold like a fury. Claudia, who would not scold, was obviously out of the question, and Elena was far away. Maybe, though, she would be coming home soon. If only she would come home soon!

  Two cold tears slid to her temples and lost themselves in the tangle of her hair. She felt terribly alone, lost in a strange place with no one to help her.

  Presently the door opened, and her father came in, looking anxious. “Are you feeling better? Get up, honey.” And when she nodded, “I know I yelled. But it wasn’t really yelling. It was just being emphatic. You had me terribly scared. I didn’t know what might have happened to you.”

  She got up and redid her hair in the familiar ponytail.

  “Now you look like yourself,” Dad said, coaxing her, wanting her to smile and assure him that everything was all right again.

  How could everything be all right? Over and over, all that week and beyond, she relived the terror and humiliation of that afternoon. She sat in class and she lay in bed, reliving the scene on the sofa in Claudia’s living room. She was outraged. And in a strange way she was angry, too, at Elena.…

  “Do you want to fly to Florida over Memorial weekend?” Dad asked one evening. He hesitated; the words came hard to him. “Your mother wants to talk to you about herself and me, about your feelings.”

  “She can come here.”

  “She thinks it would be good for the two of you to be alone.”

  But Mama should be here, at home, in this house. She should have been here before this thing happened; then probably it wouldn’t have happened.

  “I’m not going,” Charlotte said. “You can tell her.”

  There was a silence.

  There were many silences now. Dad at mealtimes, becoming aware of one, would turn from the distance into which he had absently been gazing to ask Charlotte what had happened in school that day. She knew that he was doing it for her sake. His mind was filled with his own worries: down by the river, the vacant building that was draining his pocketbook, and most of all the vacant chair at the opposite end of the table.

  What if he knew what had happened to her. He must never know.… Her hand shook, spilling half a glass of milk.

  SIX

  “We signed a lease today,” Cliff told Claudia one evening after dinner.

  “Well, that should be a relief,” she said.

  “I don’t know. I hoped so much that we could sell the place and get it off our hands. Bill worked hard over two deals that looked promising, but no use. This last one almost went through, but then their engineers told them we were too close to the river. One big flood, they said, and we’d slide right into it. Good Lord, the building’s been standing since 1910, and the river’s never flooded yet. It was probably just an excuse to back out because they weren’t able to come up with the money.”

  “Who are these tenants?” Claudia asked, seeing that he was to some extent troubled and needed to talk.

  “They’re a big company that does waste disposal—stuff left after demolitions, for instance. They say it’s a clean recycling process. I hope so.” Cliff frowned. “Bill has some idea in the back of his head that this firm isn’t exactly first class, but we’ve had no other offers in two years. We have no choice.”

  “Why, what does he think?”

  “Thinks maybe they’re a front for somebody, or might have some mob connections in the Midwest. I don’t know. But Bill tends to be suspicious. Our lawyers told us to go ahead, so I’m not going to worry. And the income’s mighty welcome. We’re not used to penny-pinching, either of us.”

  Claudia smiled at these brothers’ definition of penny-pinching. Still, after a lifetime of comfortable living and famously generous giving, it must be very painful to retrench.

  “What are you men going to do with all your time now?” she asked.

  “Bill’s going to stay with the Environmental Commission. They want to make him director, he says. That’ll mean a salary and I can keep teaching a couple of courses at the business college. We’ll manage. I’ll still be able to spend enough time on my book too. The history of textiles is really the history of civilization, you know.”

  “I have to get you a better desk lamp,” she said, “a three-way with a green shade.”

  She wondered how long it would take her to become used to all this comfortable domesticity. Perhaps she never would. It was just as well, though, not to take any good things for granted; in this uncertain world they were rather to be savored, every single day to be treasured, every hour like this one, the two of them in peace on the cool side porch with their after-dinner coffee in a beautiful pewter pot.

  “Where’s Ted gone? He rushed out of the house as if a bee had stung him.”

  “You’re not used to boys, darling. Don’t you remember that when you were his age you only wanted to get out with your friends?”

  “I think I spent more time at home than he does. But maybe I don’t remember exactly.”

  Claudia was disappointed. She had wanted to be assured that, yes, that’s how all boys—all young men—were. She had hoped, too, that Cliff
and Ted would form a bond; pictures of them going off together with fishing rods and a box lunch went floating through her imagination. But nothing of the sort had happened. It certainly wasn’t Cliff’s fault. In his quiet way he was the friendliest, the most approachable, of men.

  Abruptly, she thought of something else and, frowning a little, wondered aloud: “It’s strange that Charlotte hasn’t come here lately. It must be three weeks now. I’ve asked her, but she always has an excuse. And I thought we were getting along just fine.”

  “The poor kid’s all upset. Bill’s sick over it. It has nothing to do with you.”

  Claudia shook her head. “People make so much trouble for themselves. That Elena—”

  Someone was coming up the gravel walk. At the foot of the steps he stopped and, in a polite voice, introduced himself.

  “Hugh Bowman. I don’t like to intrude, but there’s a personal matter I need to talk about. It’s quite serious.”

  “Come in. Sit down,” Cliff said at once.

  “Thank you.” Mr. Bowman sat erectly, a rather formal, proper man whose words were therefore all the more astonishing. “It’s about your son, Ted.” And as Claudia started, “No, there’s been no accident, he’s not hurt. But he ought to be hurt. A good many other men in my position would take care of that.”

  Claudia gasped. “What is it? What has he done?”

  “He has behaved disgracefully to my daughter. Insultingly. It happened on the way back from the movies last night. I don’t care to go into details. She arrived home with her dress torn.” Bowman’s voice was quiet, but his face was flushed. “Fortunately, Joan’s all right. She had a handbag with metal trim. It cut his cheek.”

  This morning at breakfast Ted had told them, making a joke of it, that he had walked right into a screen door.

  Humiliated, as if she herself had been caught shoplifting or breaking china in a store, Claudia appealed with frightened eyes from one man to the other.

  “I don’t understand.… Ted never …” Her voice broke.

  Cliff got up immediately to stand beside her with his hand on her shoulder. “This is a terrible shock to my wife,” he began, when Bowman interrupted.

  “I understand. Believe me, I didn’t come here to start any trouble, to go to the school authorities or do anything. We, my wife and I, don’t want anything like that. This is awful for you. We only want to tell you so that you can take control of your son before something worse happens. That’s all.” He paused, not looking at Cliff and Claudia, but out into the trees. “I’m sure you’ll know what to do, Mr. Dawes. I’m just sorry about the whole thing.”

  “Ted’s my son,” Claudia said, “not Cliff’s.”

  “I know. The Daweses are well known in Kingsley.” Bowman stepped down from the porch, repeating, “I’m sorry to have upset you like this. But I’m sure you understand that I had to.”

  “Of course,” Cliff said. He had both hands on Claudia’s trembling shoulders. “I’ll send him to your house to apologize first thing in the morning, or even tonight.”

  “No, please don’t. I wouldn’t want Joan to go through that. The only thing you can do is teach him.…”

  “Oh, I assure you I’ll teach him,” Cliff said grimly.

  They watched Bowman go down the walk. They were both speechless. Then Cliff said, “He was remarkably decent about it. Not everyone would be that reasonable.”

  She felt so ashamed before her husband. They were hardly married a year, and Cliff’s face had turned red in front of a stranger because of her son. What in God’s name had come over Ted?

  “I don’t know what to say,” she murmured, beginning to cry. In ten minutes or less a world totters.

  “Don’t,” Cliff said with his arm around her. “We’ll get to the bottom of it. I’m not going to sleep without seeing Ted. I’m his father now and I’ll take care of things. Just try to relax.”

  It was not very long before Ted came up the walk. There must have been some revealing expression on their faces or in their stance, because he stopped in surprise.

  “What’s the matter? Has anything happened?”

  “Plenty, it seems,” Cliff said.

  Claudia had been about to speak first, but when Cliff began, it occurred to her that it was better that way; Cliff would act the father’s part and be the father that Ted had never had.

  “We had a visit from Mr. Bowman. You were out last night with his daughter, Joan.”

  “I know I was. What’s the beef?”

  “The beef? I believe you can imagine what it was.”

  “No,” said Ted. Nonchalant, with his sweater slung over one shoulder, he stood propped against a post. “No, I can’t.”

  “Joan Bowman hit you. She must have had a reason. That’s quite a cut you have on your face.”

  “She’s a little b—a nasty little cat. I didn’t do a thing to her.”

  Claudia, going weak in the knees, had to sit down. What she could see of Cliff’s face in the dusk was cold and stern. She had never seen him like that.

  “Don’t lie, Ted, the way you lied about the screen door. What happened?”

  “Nothing. I swear it. This is a big fuss about nothing. You’ve got to believe me.” He was pleading. “All right, here’s the truth. I tried a little kiss, that’s all. Okay, probably I shouldn’t have. But there’s nothing abnormal about that, is there, for Pete’s sake?” He was righteously indignant. “Another girl would have said either yes or no, and that would have been the end of it. This girl”—he shook his head—“this girl’s a creep. And that’s the whole truth.”

  Cliff considered for a moment. “I hope so,” he said then. “It had better be the truth, Ted. We don’t want any more complaints like this. It’s not fair to your mother, and it’s not good for your reputation. So keep your hands to yourself. That’s all I have to say.”

  Cliff turned about and went into the house. Claudia followed, carrying the coffee tray. Ted went straight upstairs. She had hoped that the two of them might shake hands, might end on a note of understanding. After all, the boy had probably intended nothing but some harmless fumbling; Ted would never be violent!

  Cliff sat down at the kitchen table and poured a cup of coffee. He looked as he had sounded, grim.

  “Don’t you believe him?” she asked, begging.

  “You’re all unnerved,” he said. Then he smiled at her. “I believe him. Come sit down.”

  No, she thought, smiling back, you’re saying this to comfort me. You don’t believe him.

  And her heart was heavy.

  SEVEN

  “I want to tell you something in strictest confidence,” Dad said seriously. “They had a bit of trouble with Ted recently. Some girl’s father went to the house to complain about him. He—did things, or tried to, and the girl cut his face.”

  Charlotte felt a rush of blood into her neck. “What happened to him?” she asked.

  “He was lucky. The people could have reported him, but they didn’t. Remember how I told you I had queer doubts about Ted? And secretly, Uncle Cliff did, too, although neither of us expected anything like this. I’ll tell you, the person I feel sorry for is Claudia, poor woman. Well, I don’t mean to frighten you. He’s no ax murderer, after all. Just don’t spend any time with him again. But I guess I don’t have to repeat that, do I?”

  “No,” Charlotte said. “No.”

  Her father had a quizzical expression, with his head tilted to one side, as if to examine her from another angle. “Wouldn’t you be better off,” he asked, “if you talked to me about your feelings? Of course I know that you’re troubled about your mother and me, and I don’t want to pressure you, but sometimes it helps to talk things out.”

  “I’m fine, I really am, Dad,” she said quickly.

  Of course, he did not know what was troubling her. She was not even sure herself. Panic struck at the thought of what it might be. More than a month had passed, and now the second month was approaching. She kept returning to the calendar o
n which she marked the monthly date, as Elena had instructed her the very first time. Elena had also explained that at her age, the count might fluctuate.… It was incredible that a girl, who only a few weeks ago would have been sure of her answer to any question about sex, could now be in a state of ignorant confusion.

  Mentally she went over that scene. Had he or hadn’t he? It was all different from the way they described it in books. And there was so much written about people who had to try for years; there was all that stuff about fertility clinics.… She knew nothing.

  Panic had struck on each of the few times that Claudia had telephoned. Shuddering, she had seen it all again, the table, the chocolate on the plate, and the wine. Claudia was probably using the telephone at the desk across from that green sofa.… And she had trembled while refusing, so calmly, so politely, the invitations: “I’m sorry, I can’t. I have to study for finals.”

  Ever since Dad had told of Ted’s trouble, though, Claudia had not called again. Was there, could there be, any connection?

  And shortly, too, after that conversation with Dad, she had begun to feel a sharp pain in her side. Was there, could there be, any connection?

  She thought of going to the school nurse, and almost instantly thought not. You had to know well whom you could trust. You never knew about people. Even your own mother could fool you.

  Yet she had to do something.

  In midafternoon on the last day of school, as she started to walk toward the school bus, Charlotte’s feet turned her around. Without conscious plan or will her feet took her up the street toward the public bus. It was only after she had sat and the bus had left Kingsley behind it that she knew what she was doing.

  Loudontown was the next stop. But it was too near. Next on the schedule was Arkville, nine miles farther on. There on one of the main streets she would find someone who could assure her that there was nothing to worry about. And she imagined the young woman, or perhaps an old man, no matter who, dismissing her lightly: For goodness’ sake, there’s nothing at all the matter with you! Perfectly normal. The pain? A little muscle ache. Nothing. Forget it.