Secrets

By LuWanda M. Cheney

Secrets is written for adults. It is blunt, irreverent, and shocking.

Every town has its secrets. Rock Point, a small town on the East coast, is no different. Sometimes, whispered, unsettling secrets seep out to be carried on the wind, the unseen poison spreading like a disease. It's Summer 1951. Eleven-

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bronze Goose Books
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986698632

Book preview

Chapter 1

My daddy called me Webster because sometimes I would open the dictionary and read all the words on that page, and the next and the next. Mama would sigh and roll her eyes. "It’s proper to call a young lady by her rightful name," she always said. Mama called me Evangeline. In my opinion, it was much too highfalutin a name for me. Plain—that’s what I was. Nothing fancy about me. Big brown eyes set too far apart. Teeth too big. One long brown braid with a pouf at the end hung down my back like an old cow tail. A tomboy, with rusty elbows and skinned up knees to prove it, I could spit a watermelon seed thirty feet two inches and climb a tree faster than you could say lickety-split. I wore overalls, chewed tobacco, and was pretty good with my fists. Like I said, there was absolutely nothing fancy about me.

Back then, the only thing I had ever done to garner any attention was when I challenged Spike McFarland at the county fair. Stay in the ring three minutes, the poster said. Win five hundred bucks.

Daddy had taught me to box a little, said I needed to be able to protect myself, so I hung around watching Spike knock down his challengers, sizing him up. Spike was pretty good size, and he had those arm muscles that bulge out, like they’re getting ready to burst, and he had a good reach. But, by my calculation, he was slow. I figured I was faster by a long shot; figured I could stay out of his way, maybe tire him out, so I challenged him. The men gathered round the ring burst out laughing, and the man running the event says, Nah, you’re a girl. That gets me mad as a rattler that’s gone and got his tail tied in a knot. You afraid of a girl? I asked Spike McFarland. And he says, I ain’t scared of nobody. Then he winks at the man, thinking I don’t see it, and says, Let’s see how long she can last. So, I climb up and they put the gloves on me, thinking they’ll put on a little show for the folks. Spike dances around with his arms down at his sides, like I got no game, gets this mean look on his face, comes in and yells, Boo! at me. I see my chance and come up with an uppercut to the chin. Spike’s so surprised when my left fist connects that he doesn’t see the right one coming. It lands square on the nose. I hear it crack, and I hear him fall. Out cold.

That lucky punch was the most interesting thing I had ever done, that is, until I acquired a terrible habit—a habit that would change everything.

It all started the summer of ‘51 when I was eleven. Summer had come early to Rock Point. Like a sultry mistress eager for her lover, she pressed herself against the earth, breathing heavily, her steamy breath scorching everything she touched. Although it was barely June, it was already hot and dry—the sun so relentless so that even when there was a breeze, the air was stifling. It hadn’t rained in weeks.

Bored and miserable in the heat, I stayed in my room reading romance novels. Long about suppertime, I moseyed downstairs to see what Mama was making for supper. I hoped she was making meatballs and boiling water for spaghetti. Instead, she was chopping up green stuff, slicing cold chicken and fixing to make some of that vinegary dressing Daddy liked so much.

I sighed. Mama was making salad. Again. I plopped down at the kitchen table, waiting for Daddy to come home. Seeing as how Mama’s Bible was lying there on the table, I picked it up and ran my fingers over the gold letters on the cover. That’s when a picture of a good-looking, leather-jacketed boy on a motorcycle fell out. Who’s that? I asked.

From out Mama’s mouth came a sound like a lobster makes when it’s thrown into a pot of boiling water. She sat down across the table from me, sucked in a bunch of air—a whole mouthful—swallowed hard and wrinkled her forehead like she always did whenever she thought she had something to worry about. I’ve got something to tell you, she said. Um…uh…um… And then the words came somersaulting out, bumping into themselves, I was sixteen when I met him...he was from out of town...just passing through and I um...um...I...let him… Mama hid her head in her hands, mumbling so that the only words I could make out were in a family way.

Huh?

Pregnant. Mama put down her hands, looked at me with sorrowful eyes, and started over. Stammering. Stuttering. Mincing words. But after a while I came to know that Mama had been only sixteen when the motorcycle-riding boy in the picture knocked her up. When Grandma found out the terrible secret, Mama was shipped out west to live with Aunt Ethel so people wouldn’t talk. Aunt Ethel told everybody Mama was married to a soldier gone off to war. The southerners were told Mama had eloped with a longtime friend of the family. Mama stayed with Aunt Ethel until I was a year old. Then on December 7, 1941, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Roosevelt declared war, and folks back home were told my father had been killed. Mama went home, dressed in black, toting me on her hip.

I was two years old when Delbert Franklin Wright met and fell in love with Mama. He promised to raise me as his own, and he did, too, with the same benevolent indifference he most likely would have had for any child he himself had planted.

When Mama finished telling her secret, she sat there, perched on the edge of her chair, like a scared little bird. When you were three, we moved to Rock Point, she said, and we’ve been here ever since, transplanted from the South. She blew her nose and handed me a tissue like she thought I was going to cry. Cry? I remember thinking, This is the only exciting thing Mama has ever done.

That night when Daddy got home, Mama hurried him off to the bedroom. I could hear her sobbing and talking in a high-pitched voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. I figured she was telling Daddy I had discovered I was a bastard.

Half an hour later, Daddy came out of the bedroom, his eyes red and watery. He adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses he didn’t need but wore anyway because he thought they made him look smarter. Webster, he said, I’ve always thought of you as my own child. You are a Wright, you know. I adopted you. He cleared his throat. You’re the daughter of a respectable, successful businessman. There’s no need for you to feel like anything has changed.

He went on like that until I could hardly stand it. I was sitting on that hard kitchen chair, and I couldn’t help fidgeting and twitching, looking first at the floor, then at the ceiling, while he went on and on in the most tiresome tirade I’d ever come up against. You’re the daughter of a respectable, successful businessman, he said again, and don’t you forget it.

I nodded, jumped up, and kissed him on the cheek. Shush, I said. I don’t care.

Then I went to my room, closed the door, fetched a little leather pouch from under my mattress, took out a plug, and chewed. I had been chewing tobacco since I was ten, when ole man Clemens gave me my first plug, expecting I’d spit it out. I didn’t. I sloshed it around in my mouth, spitting out the brown juices every few seconds like I’d seen the menfolk do. That earned me ole man Clemens’ respect, and every now and then he’d slip me a plug.

I could hear Mama coming up the stairs. Scared she would catch me chewing, I stuffed the plug under the mattress, pulled the covers up over my head and feigned sleep when she peeked in to see how I liked knowing I was a bastard.

Now that I knew Mama’s secret, I tried to picture her with her skirt hiked up, and the stray motorcycle boy going at it like a dog. My mouth arranged itself in this big ole grin and I had to clap my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. It was hard to imagine Mama doing anything so undignified, seeing as how she wore shapeless dresses, black stockings, low-heeled shoes and wrapped herself in a shawl—like somebody’s grandma—even in sweltering heat. You’d never have guessed that she was only twenty-seven. She wore no makeup and got her drab brown hair cut every six weeks in a classic shoulder length blunt cut, and never dreamed of coloring it for fear of what people might think. Housewifey, Mama kept the house clean and spent most of her days in the red and white kitchen that matched her Betty Crocker cookbook. She cooked meals much like the ones her mother had cooked down South—fried chicken, buttermilk biscuits and gravy, corn bread, greens with ham hocks, and anything with pecans.

It was impossible to picture Mama letting some boy stick his thing in her.

I knew she let Daddy do it. Every day, just after lunch, Daddy would slap her on the butt, wink, and say, Edith, dear, it’s time for our afternoon delight, and they’d head for the bedroom. I could hear the bed creaking and I knew they were doing it.

Afterwards, Mama would rush to fix herself up, worried that someone might drop by. What would people think? I heard her ask Daddy. I’m sure they’d think we’re awful. The only time Mama ever gave her opinion on any subject was to speculate on what people might think.

While Mama worried about what people thought, Daddy worried about their expectations. Concerned about making a good impression, Delbert Franklin Wright never left the house unless he was wearing his suit, a white shirt, and a tie. He was proud of the face that he had two suits and two ties, gray, the same color as his eyes. Every Sunday, he dragged us to the Baptist church up on the hill and made us sit way down front. He even adjusted his name to fit his business image. Thinking Delbert was an ineffective name for an insurance man, D. Franklin Wright was printed on his business card. No one knew his first name.

I wondered if Daddy had any secrets. As predictable as he was, it was doubtful.

That summer, the summer I found out I was a secret—that’s when I acquired the terrible habit that would turn my life topsy-turvy. It started on account of I got to thinking that if Mama, of all people, had a secret as big as me, other people must be hiding a heap of stuff.

I became obsessed with snooping around, listening in on private conversations, peeking in windows, and pouncing on every opportunity to discover what went on behind closed doors. There was something about knowing what nobody else knew that gave me the shivers and got my heart jumping up and down, stomping on my tummy, getting it all worked up. I had always had a naturally curious nature, but somehow curiosity turned into something else, something that had a mind of its own, something that had me doing things that were plumb crazy.

Like most all the kids back then, I was allowed to wander all over town as long as I was home at dark. Since I had never given Mama any cause to worry, she pretty much let me do whatever I pleased. Unlike the kids who had regular bedtimes, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted. And since Mama and Daddy were both sound sleepers, they had no idea how often I snuck out after they’d gone to sleep.

If Daddy—I still called him Daddy even though I had a real dad somewhere. If Daddy had known what I was up to he’d have taken me out to the woodshed and whipped me good. If Mama had known, she’d have pulled down the shades and most likely dropped dead of embarrassment.

When I first started snooping around, I didn’t know half what went on, but before long, I discovered more low-down hypocrites than flies in a heap of dung. What I didn’t see or hear myself, I learned after the fact. Fortunately, Rock Point had more than its fair share of gossips. One of the most prolific, Lillianna Windsor, seemed to know everybody and everything that went on in town. Where she got her information, I can’t say for sure, but I got an earful from her.

At first, it wasn’t easy spying on folks. It took time and effort to catch people off guard. For one thing, you need to catch them out of the public eye. After a while I got the hang of it. I learned to creep around in shadowy places, hiding in the bushes, up a tree, pressed up against the wall, next to a window, anywhere I could see into a window. I learned to follow along—not too close, not saying anything, pretending I just happened to be there.

Naturally, there were some folks I knew nothing about, like Thelma Anderson. The devil himself would have had a heck of a time getting through those thorny bushes next to her house. I would bet my last dollar that the prickers were two inches long. And her windows were too high to see into, and she had these thick draperies that she kept closed night and day. Most likely, nothing of interest went on there anyway. She lived with three cats. Not much could come of that.

I knew I ought to stop sniffing around in other people’s business, but I couldn’t stop. Once I got a whiff of something interesting, I was relentless as a coon dog following a trail.

I had no idea the mess I’d get myself into.

Chapter 2

By July 8, the twenty-third day of the drought, Summer had worn out her welcome in Rock Point. Grass turned brown. Leaves hung on the trees like dead things. And for the first time in thirty years, the Wumpucket River was so low you could walk across without getting your knees wet.

It was noon. The sun, directly overhead, burned through the clouds, pushing the thermometer just past the 103-degree Fahrenheit mark. It was the hottest it had been in fifteen years.

From the front porch, I could overhear the farmers who sat on the bench in front of the tow hall next door. Old-time farmers, they were getting on in years. Walter Clemens was ninety-two and had grown opinionated and outspoken. Now he stared at the newly painted town hall and shook his head. What do you think of this godawful color they painted our town hall?

Sam Watson pondered Walter’s question. Well, he finally said, the historical society determined it to be the proper color for a building of importance in 1852—that’s when it was built.

Disgusted, ole man Clemens stopped chewing and spit on the sidewalk. Pink? Important? What were they back then—a bunch of little girls playing with their dolls? Stupid looking color for a town hall. Looks more like the Easter Bunny’s house.

Sam Watson scratched his head. It is a bit bright, he said. I suppose they meant well, checking it out in them history books they got at the historical society.

Ole man Clemens smirked. So they say, he said sarcastically.

John Morgan stroked his beard thoughtfully. It’s gosh darn hot out, he said, hoping to change the subject and avoid an argument. Bet the wife ain’t pickin’ apples today. She said I should, but I told her it’s too dang hot. I told her that’s why we got that Pick Your Own sign up—so we don’t have to pick them anymore. I’m getting close to eighty. My knees can’t climb ladders anymore.

I was hoping the old men would talk about something more interesting but, as usual, they had a lot to say about the weather.

This is the hottest it’s been in July in a long while, John Morgan said thoughtfully.

Ain’t been this hot since ‘39, Walter Clemens reminisced.

Thirty years ago, it was hotter than this, ole man Clemens said. Back then, it was so hot grasshoppers lyin’ in the sun burnt to a crisp.

Sam Watson grinned. Scooped ‘em up by the handful and ate ‘em, he said, tasted just like tator chips.

The old men cackled at the joke and made predictions. If this heat keeps up, in a few years the maples and pines will shrivel and die, John Morgan predicted. The chestnuts are already gone. Without trees, Rock Point will be a sorry sight—sorry sight indeed.

Ole man Clemens nodded. Won’t be nothin’ left but the point.

I remembered my teacher saying that Rock Point had been named after a ridge of black granite jutting out along the coastline. On the east side, jagged edges formed The Point—like a huge finger pointing towards the sea. If truth be known, it ought to have pointed accusingly at the townspeople.

Every town has its secrets. I was about to find out that Rock Point was no different. During the day, while their neighbors looked on, the townspeople went about their business in an ordinary way. But behind closed doors, and in the dark of night, whispered, unsettling secrets sometimes seeped out to be carried on the wind, the unseen poison spreading like a disease. And, on Sunday mornings, upstanding church members defiled the churches with unconfessed sins.

I’ve never told anyone my secret until now. My unconfessed sin was sneaking around, spying, and eavesdropping on folks. I couldn’t help it. It was wrong, but curiosity had gotten the best of me. I was only eleven but had already figured that people wear false faces and pretend to be what they are not. Generally, it was enough to make up imaginary stories about people, but I had acquired an overwhelming desire to see for myself what they did when they thought no one was watching.

I can’t say why. I just wanted to know—that’s all.

It being so hot, Daddy set up a fan on the shady covered front porch. We were sitting in the rocking chairs Mama had brought back from down South, sipping Mint Juleps. I liked watching Mama, as she placed three old fashioned glasses in the freezer while she gathered mint leaves from the side yard. She would place just the right amount in the bottom of the glasses, cover them with sugar, muddle them together, add finely crushed ice, and fill the glass with bourbon. It was fun to pretend I didn’t know Mama made mine with tea instead of whiskey.

I was reading my new romance novel, skipping over the sexy parts. Daddy was immersed in Insurance Quarterly, marking everything he found interesting so that entire pages had been underlined in blue ink; Mama was crocheting—a forgotten dish towel draped over her shoulder. The radio was playing softly. Mama was humming along with one of her favorite country singers. She was smiling.

Daddy twisted the little blond moustache that was not allowed to grow beyond what he considered the proper length for a businessman and stared at the houses across the Common.

The Common sat smack dab in the center of town, a quadrangle around it. On the north side of the Common were four fine 200-year-old homes, all white with black shutters. On the south side was the soon to be doctor’s office, freshly painted robin’s egg blue. We lived in the yellow house between the doctor and the pink Victorian Town Hall.

The houses on our street are much too garish, Daddy said. We might as well erect a plastic Easter Bunny at the end of the street. A white house with black shutters like the ones across the Common would be much more suitable for a respectable insurance man. He tossed Insurance Quarterly onto the floor and reached for his prize possession—a leather briefcase he was awarded by some insurance company the year he married Mama. He began polishing it meticulously as he did every day. It was the only award he had ever received but that didn’t keep him from holding himself in high regard. It was highly unlikely that anyone else shared his opinion, seeing as how he made his living selling insurance in the small town of Rock Point. Population 2,438.

Mama wrinkled up her forehead. My goodness, she said. Is that what you think? I wonder what other people think.

I don’t give a rat’s ass what they think, I said.

Mama’s mouth flew open. Daddy frowned. Watch your language, he said. Daddy was against vulgarities as he called them. He himself never swore.

"I like living on a variegated street, I said. It’s a lot more interesting than a whole slew of boring ole white houses that all look the same. When I grow up, I’ll paint my house purple."

I had been positioned on the front porch, next to the railing, where I could hear the old men. From there, I could hear pretty much every word that came out of their mouths, and I could see Lillianna Windsor when she came out her front door and headed to the Common. She would be there most every day, sitting with her back against a tree, a notebook in her lap, watching the comings and goings of the townspeople. Sometimes, she wrote in the notebook, using the fine penmanship she had been taught in school, and always in blue ink. Then, more often than not, she