The Last Secret (33 page)

“What do you mean?”

“I've lived my whole life trying to keep one step ahead of what I really am.”

“And what's that?”

She stares at him. “A cold, selfish bitch and a liar.”

“That's not what I see.”

She shakes her head, laughs a little. “Yeah. I'm pretty good at it.” Even saying it, knows he sees what he needs to see. She can't blame him, a practical cleric, safe in his church. She should leave.

“You think you're the only one, Nora? We're all hiding something. Every one of us. It's human nature. But if we're at all decent, we're trying to make the best of who we are. Some ways, that's the hardest struggle of all.”

“But I'm losing the battle.”

“No. You're just fighting the wrong fight. All you're seeing inside is sin, when it's your own goodness you should be looking for. Acknowledging. Celebrating.”

“You don't understand,” she sighs.

“Yes, I do. Because I've seen it. The way you were with Alice. That meant so much to her. You have no idea. The giving of yourself, you gave her confidence. That someone like you would … would take the time.”
Someone like you.
His fervid praise angers her.

“Want to know the truth?” Instead of lowering her gaze, she lifts her head, stares, watching, baiting him. She can't believe what's coming out of her mouth. She's not sure who she's trying to hurt more, herself or him. “I couldn't stand the smell of her. I can't even eat here, have you ever noticed that? I can't stand the meetings, I can barely sit through them. Everyone's talking, and all I'm hearing is phoniness, self-promotion, all their networking, one more rung up the ladder, and I'm thinking to myself, what the hell am I doing here? And then I think, because I'm just like them. I am. That's why.”

“No,” he says softly, then sits for a few moments in stillness. “Do you know how many times a day I ask myself that exact same question? And how inadequate I feel? Not just to the need, the task, but to my own expectations. But that's okay! Because that's living an examined life, Nora. An authentic life. Being alive in spirit. Being completely and honestly real. Questioning everything you do. But what can happen, though, is you end up turning that same harsh spotlight on everyone around you. And that's not right. It's not fair.” Whether real or feigned, his anguish drains her as he compares his own shameful failure of spirit. His disgust with the women's self-pitying paralysis, his irritation with their poorly behaved children, his own prideful impatience when he senses self-important board members wondering what character deficit hounded him into the priesthood instead of into their more valid world of commerce and success. And, of course, the food: he doesn't like it either.

“Not so much,” he adds, smiling.

She appreciates the attempt, but his confession, his well-intentioned descent to her level, only adds to the guilt. There's nothing he can do
or say to help. Nothing she hasn't already considered. He's still talking. She wants to go but can't leave him thinking he hasn't helped. She thanks him and says she feels much better now.

“But what are you going to do?” he asks when she stands up.

“Keep at it,” said with a flash of Nora Trimble Hammond's brightest smile. “Keep slogging away.”

“I mean that fellow. Eddie Hawkins.”

“Oh, nothing. One of these days, I'm sure he'll be gone.”

“You said you're afraid of him. What if he is crazy?”

“Strange. That's a better word. Weird. I guess that's really what it is.”

“You're sure?” He frowns. “I got a lotta people I can call.” With his attempt at menace, he seems only more virtuous. Innocent.

His hand hurts
as he rings the doorbell again. Third time here today. Yesterday, in her mailbox he left a pair of red leather gloves and a note:
Stay warm. Stay close. Love, Eddie.
He walks back out to the street and checks. Still there. He scoops up mud and smears the painted stick bird. Bitch. After all he's done. Groceries, errands, presents, and she can't even pick up the phone, come to the door, or bother bringing his gift inside.

“Robin!” He keeps banging the brass knocker. He leans over the railing and looks in the window. There's a light on, probably from the kitchen. His shoes sink into the squishy lawn as he walks around the back of the house, and now his feet are wet. Two days of rising temperatures have warmed the frozen ground to mush. He peers through the curtained door glass. Stove light on. Cupboard doors open. Soup bowls, box of Ritz crackers, and naked Barbie dolls on the table. Overflowing laundry basket on a chair. Usual countertop clutter, dishes, candles, art supplies, an open photo album, next to the sink, a floppy aloe plant and a bag of soil.

His hand throbs with every knock. Again, he calls her name. Can't go back to the motel. Last night, they changed his lock while he was out looking for Robin. There'd been a complaint, or so they said,
Charlie and the snaggle-toothed beast. His TV was on too loud so when he didn't come to the door, they had no choice but to let themselves in. Anyway, he and Charlie had words. Then the beast had to go and put in her two cents. Next thing he knew they were in a shoving match, when Charlie pulled out a gun and ordered him to clear out his things and leave before he called the cops.

“Robin!” He pounds on the door. Tries the knob and it turns. Now that he's inside, he hears the vacuum cleaner. He follows the sound to the family room, watches from the doorway. She's wearing a red running bra and baggy black gym shorts. Barefoot. Long strands of hair obscure her face in her struggle to maneuver the vacuum under an end table. Sofa and chair cushions are piled in the corner. A can of furniture polish and rags are on the mantel. The television has been pulled out from the wall. His heart swells. He forgives her. She didn't hear the phone or him at the door, how could she? Reaching down, he yanks out the plug, and she turns with a shriek.

“Robin.”

“What're you doing?” she demands, arm across her chest.

“The back door.” He tells her it was partway open. “These last couple days, every time I come no one answers. I was worried, that's all.”

“Well, you shouldn't have been. We're fine. Thank you, but now I have to finish this.” She reels in the long black cord. “If you don't mind.”

He grins. “No. Course not, go ahead.” He sits on the sofa, and then feels foolish, angry that he's been set up. With no cushions, it's like sitting on a kid's chair, low and covered with crumbs and Lego blocks. And stuck under his leg, a leather card holder. He peers down at it. The gold monogram, RAG. Robert Gendron. A for Asshole. “I can wait.”

“That's not what I meant,” she says.

“Mom!” Clay calls from upstairs.

“You have to go, Eddie. Please.”

He stares up in a rage of humiliation. The position she's putting him in, making him beg like this. Her fat white cat jumps with a thud onto the sofa back, sits purring behind his head.

“It's just that I've got so much to do.” Her voice drops, and he's pleased. Good. She knows he's mad. “Everything's happening at once,” she says.

“Mom! Mom, I need you! Come here, quick!” Clay calls, and she drops the cord and runs up the stairs.

He looks through the holder, removes three credit cards and Gendron's license. As he slips them into his pocket, the cat suddenly hisses. Startled, he swings back with a hard swipe, knocking the cat, meowing, onto the floor. Hurts to get up. His neck aches. The place he stayed last night had a lousy mattress, but warm, at least, and farther out of town. Just in case Charlie did call the cops. For good measure he'd tossed a few lit matchbooks into the motel Dumpster. He plugs in the cord now and starts to vacuum. The Oriental runner is covered with cat hair. He changes the attachment and is dragging the nozzle over one section of carpet at a time, when the vacuum shuts off.

“Don't do that. Please.” She's wearing a shirt now.

“See.” He points to the cleaned section. “Took me two seconds. Let me finish. You can do something else.”

Again, she says no. She's very busy, and he really has to go. Clay is in a lot of pain upstairs with a broken ankle and her mother will be dropping Lyra off soon, so she needs to get as much done now as she can.

“So let me help.” Kills his neck, but he starts pushing the television back against the wall. “All the more reason.”

No. Leave it where it is, she tells him. It doesn't work, so she's getting a new one. All right then, he says, he'll bring it out to the trash. Obviously, Clay can't, and it's too heavy for her to carry.

“No! It's fine where it is. For now.” Agitated, she's making no sense at all.

“You're upset with me. Why?” He's trying to be patient, but it's hard. She's hiding something, he can tell. “Why?” he demands, but too harshly. Her head snaps back, her eyes widen. He can't help smiling. Good, exactly what she needs. Shake her up a little, give him the upper hand instead of walking on eggshells all the time. “What the
hell've I done to deserve this? I've been a good friend. A damn good friend, and you know I have, right? Right?” he asks, his face so close he inhales the stale coffee from her shallow breath.

When she nods, he clenches her wrist, not to hurt her, but to keep from hurting her.

“So why're we fighting like this?” His voice breaks. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“People lie. You know that. You know they do.”

Again, she nods, tries to back away. “You're bleeding.” She lifts her hand. On her wrist, a bracelet of blood, his. He laughs. Her face is a mask. Part of her allure, her plan, but he's on to her, and now, she knows he is.

“We're the same, aren't we?”

“The bandage. I can fix that.”

Even her kindness is sensual, born of desire, caring so she'll be cared for, wanting as much as she gives. He watches from the kitchen table while she washes her hands, scrubbing hard at her wrist, which only amuses him. His eyes are heavy, waiting. He imagines pressing against her round, perfect ass, though his yearning is less for sex than relief from this pressure in his skull, throbbing behind his eyeballs, needing her cries of pain, agony, fear, begging him to stop, to let her go.

She cuts a strip of adhesive tape. “There.” She presses it over the loose gauze, then darts to the back door, opens it. He has to leave, she says from outside, but he doesn't budge. So, it was just a ruse, a way to get herself, then him, out of the house. Her mother will be here soon, any minute, she says. And then he understands. All right. Okay. That's why. The old bitch, always on Robin's case for something, dusty table-tops, clutter on the stairs, piles of laundry, unpaid bills, dirty litter boxes, broken window blinds. Him.

“Thank you,” he says, grazing past her shoulder when every bone in his body aches to hold her.

It is
with studious deliberation that he moves from set to set. Takes his time. Squints, backs off, peering from different angles. Price tags don't matter, he assures the Best Buy salesman, it's quality he's after, the best picture, simple as that. Then he wants a plasma, he's told. This one here, the forty-inch SONY Yeah, plasma, because that's what this surge in his veins is, a transfusion, pure, new blood rousing him as he counts out the bills. Still plenty left. Always been careful with money. Never was that important, not like it is for the rest of the world. His frugality used to amuse Helen, the old bitch. Cheapo, she called him. But it was always about getting by with the basics, the little he needed. The less he wanted, the more she bought for him. Now, it's the same with Robin. Only in reverse. Pleasing her is all that matters.

With every bump and turn the box teeters. The television takes up the whole backseat. He drives slowly, easing down on the brake. It wasn't just to save on the delivery charge but seeing her open it. The thought of her pleasure fills him with excitement. Knowing how the simplest things delight her, he imagines her squeal when she sees it.

“Damn.” Yellow Volkswagen in the driveway. Her mother's. “Bitch.” He keeps driving. Struggles to stay calm: no rush, he's got all the time in the world. A half hour later, she's finally gone. He pulls in, close to the house. He eases the cumbersome box from the car, shuffles onto the porch, leans an elbow into the bell.

“Surprise!” he says with the opening door.

Clay balances on one crutch. His left foot is in a cast. “My mother's not here.” Before he can close the door, Eddie manages to wedge a corner of the box into the opening. When's she coming back? The boy plays dumb, doesn't know where she went or if she's with his grandmother. Did she take Lyra? The boy says he's not sure, then decides she must've, yeah, she did.

Even better then. This way Clay can help and it'll be a complete surprise, Eddie says. He's already pushing the box through the tiled entryway into the family room.

“A new television,” Eddie says as he rips sealing tape from the flap.

“Plasma!” Clay says, hobbling around to read the side of the box.

“Yeah. A forty-inch. Top of the line.”

“Sweet.” Clay watches.

“Got a knife?” he grunts, stymied by the tightly packed Styrofoam. Irritated, panic rising.

“No. Not on me.” Clay's sarcasm angers him.