The Language of Secrets (16 page)

“Look,” Caroline whispered. “Look at how strong and happy they are.” In the presence of her children’s joy, Caroline’s grief dimmed. It folded inward, becoming quiet, allowing itself to be hidden.

But in hiding her grief, she hadn’t erased it. She had only obscured it. There was still torment when she thought about the things she had done, and, most of all, the things she had been unable to do.

As she walked through the park beside Barton, Caroline
couldn’t tell him that she was still haunted by what had happened to her in the days and weeks immediately following Justin’s funeral, when she’d learned Justin hadn’t died in Nevada but had been taken from her in the cold of New England.

Caroline had almost drowned in a swamp of sedatives and grief, unable to think logically or to act rationally.

She had rampaged through the house with the frenzy of a maniac, hunting for photograph albums and tearing out pictures of Justin. She’d run into the front yard with Justin’s little stuffed rabbit and stood with it, defiant, in front of a Polaroid camera, documenting her anguish. She had grabbed a spiral notebook and frantically taped the torn-out photographs onto its pages and then slipped the Polaroid picture of herself, along with Justin’s birth certificate, between the last page of the notebook and its back cover. And then she had cried. She had wept and howled.

Caroline had done these things in a desperate fight to reassemble Justin’s life. It had been her mad, futile attempt to do the impossible—to touch Justin again, to somehow bring him back to her.

She wanted to tell Barton about what she’d done. She wanted to explain, to have him understand. But instead, Caroline took his hand as they were leaving the park and murmured: “Tell me about New York. Tell me about the other side of the world.”

When Caroline and Barton and the girls walked into the kitchen, Barton’s wife, Lily, was there. She was letting a stream of cool water wash through a colander piled with fresh-picked tomatoes. A shaft of late-afternoon light was slanting into the room. Lily was in a white cotton dress, bending over her work at the sink, her blond hair, cropped and curly, her skin honey-colored. She looked like a beautiful summer sprite.

Barton went to her and kissed her. Lily let her head drop back
and gave a bright, silvery laugh. Caroline saw the potent intimacy in the look that passed between them, and it made her feel a grudging envy. She glanced away and wished that they hadn’t come from New York for this visit.

But the kiss lasted only a split second before it was interrupted by excited questions from the girls.

“Aunt Lily, Uncle Barton said that your friend, the one you went to see today, lives all alone in a spooky cabin in the woods that looks like a witch’s house.” Julie cocked her head to one side, brimming with little-girl skepticism. “Is that really true?”

“He said the only thing she ever eats is nuts and berries, just like a squirrel,” Lissa added.

Lily laughed. “Uncle Barton needs to get his facts straight. My friend is not a witch. She’s a writer. And she lives in the mountains in a pretty little house that looks out on a lake. And she eats all sorts of different things, except for meat. She’s a vegetarian.”

“She’s a very cranky vegetarian,” Barton said.

Lily looked at him with a teasing grin. “Uncle Barton thinks she’s cranky because she’s a feminist.”

“What’s a feminist?” Julie asked.

“Someone who thinks women are fish,” Barton replied. He was smiling at Lily. “And that men are bicycles, which makes us basically useless to anyone of the fish persuasion. But it does categorize us as creatures who exist solely for the purpose of being ridden.”

“Women are fish? And men are bicycles? That’s silly.” Lissa looked at Julie, and both girls giggled.

“You are very wise children.” Barton took a box of cookies from the counter. “Now who wants to come with me and watch TV and eat Oreos until we explode?” Barton sprinted out of the kitchen; the girls followed in hot pursuit.

“Cookies before dinner. No wonder my kids love him so much.” Caroline lifted the colander out of the sink and began to dry the tomatoes.

“Barton’s great with children … he’d be the perfect dad.” There was an odd hesitancy in her tone. It caught Caroline’s attention. And Lily explained: “We’ve really been trying, but so far no luck. Still no baby for us.”

Caroline wanted to console Lily, but she didn’t know what to say; she had always felt awkward around her. Lily seemed too rarefied a creature to ever be within Caroline’s grasp.

“I’m doing ‘Poor Me.’” Lily made a funny, wry face. “I hate people who do ‘Poor Me.’ The truth is, the doctors say Barton and I are healthy, and relatively young, and that all we need to do is keep working at it.” Lily briefly rested her head on Caroline’s shoulder, watching her dry the last of the tomatoes. “Is there anything in the world more delicious than ripe summer tomatoes?”

Lily’s skin was cool against Caroline’s, and her breath smelled fresh and sweet.

“I knew you’d love them,” Lily was saying. “We’re alike, you and I. We’re both kitchen people, food people.” As she moved away, Lily left a light kiss on the back of Caroline’s neck. “We were destined to be girlfriends.”

To Caroline, the feel of Lily’s kiss and the sound of the word
girlfriend
had an intoxicating effervescence. They had been delivered casually. But they had been received as if they were magic.

In the rootlessness of her growing up, Caroline had never remained anywhere long enough to establish a place in the company of other girls. She had always been the new girl, the one who had arrived late in the school year, or had left early. There had been no access to best friends. And certainly no opportunity for a friendship with anyone as lovely and refined as Lily.

“There was this roadside farm stand on the way back from Lake Arrowhead … bushels of the most beautiful tomatoes. I couldn’t resist,” Lily told her. “But I think I bought way too many. I don’t know what we’re going to do with all of them.”

Caroline was already gathering up the tomatoes. She was feeling wondrously happy as she said: “We’re going to make spaghetti sauce.”

Then Caroline and Lily opened a bottle of cold sparkling cider and they filled and refilled each other’s glasses and told each other funny stories as they took the bounty of summer and created a feast for the people they loved.

The time she spent cooking with Lily had brought Caroline such pleasure, and taken her out of herself so completely, that she hadn’t thought to put on an apron before beginning work in the kitchen. Now she was upstairs in her bedroom, shedding her sauce-splattered shirt and shorts and preparing to take a shower before dinner.

Through the open bedroom window, coming up from the lawn, Caroline could hear the sounds of a raucous game of tag—wild bursts of laughter from Lissa and Julie and cheerful hoots from Barton and Robert. Julie’s voice was loud and triumphant: “You’re out, Uncle Barton!” It was followed by a shout from Lissa: “Daddy’s turn to be it. Daddy’s turn! I want Daddy to chase us now.”

Caroline went to the window. She saw the oak tree, and the lawn, and Robert darting across it—Julie and Lissa racing after him, Barton cheering them on. Robert was keeping his movements quick enough to make the girls’ chase exciting, but never fast enough to carry him completely out of their reach. He was doing what he always did when he and the girls played together: He was seeing to it that they would win the game.

Barton caught sight of Caroline at the window. “Caro, come down here. Robert and I are getting slaughtered, we need backup.”

Before Caroline could respond, she heard Julie call out: “Mommy never plays games anymore. Only Daddy does.”

Caroline quickly moved away from the window. The lightness she’d felt in the kitchen with Lily disappeared and was replaced with the weight of all the things that were wrong on Lima Street. It made her feel singed and shredded. She went into Robert’s newest addition to the house—the master bathroom that now adjoined the bedroom. She was looking for painkillers. But none were there. She had taken them all.

The pain Caroline was trying to kill was rooted in the heartbreak of having come of age in a world where being pregnant and unmarried was a scandal. She now understood how that restricted world had consigned her to a powerless place in which she had received a wedding ring instead of a college degree; in which she had never once in her life held a job; in which, if she were to leave her husband and take her children, she was not equipped to provide a decent home for them. Caroline had no way to survive beyond the walls of Lima Street—walls that were both a fortress and a prison.

She returned to the bedroom and stood near the window. She watched Lissa temporarily abandon her pursuit of Robert and run across the lawn toward Barton. When Lissa came to a stop in front of him, Caroline heard her say: “It isn’t always just Daddy we play with. Sometimes we have fun with Mommy, too … just never with Mommy and Daddy together.” Lissa’s expression was exquisite in its sweetness, and in its wistfulness.

Later, they all gathered around the table in the dining room. The girls ate mountains of spaghetti. Lily talked for a while about her life with Barton in New York, and Caroline said very little.
Barton and Robert discussed politics and got into a trivia contest over their knowledge of old war movies and Robert announced that he knew more about them than Barton could ever possibly know and Barton laughed and said he could bring Robert down in one move. Barton bet Robert the last meatball remaining on the spaghetti platter that Robert couldn’t name the movie Barton was thinking of. And Barton said: “Here’s your clue, name the movie …
Ping, ping, ping
,” and he reached his fork toward the last meatball and Robert grabbed the fork away from him and with a flourish speared the meatball from the platter and said:
“Run Silent Run Deep.”
Then Robert jumped to his feet and waved the forked meatball in the air and proclaimed, “To the victor belong the meatballs!” The girls and Lily applauded and Barton held up one of the three empty wine bottles that were on the table and announced that the party was going downhill at an alarming rate—he was being deprived of both meatballs
and
wine. Robert went into the basement to bring up the only expensive bottle of wine in the house, one that a client had given him and that he had been saving for a special occasion. When Robert opened it, he asked Lily to take the first sip and she said the wine was superb.

Barton raised his glass. “To Robert. A terrific host. A fantastic human being, and a good friend.” Lily, too, raised her glass. And Lissa and Julie chorused, “Yay for Daddy!”

Caroline, meanwhile, dabbed at a spot of spaghetti sauce that was on her dress. Then she sat up straight and finished off her fourth glass of wine.

Barton draped his arm across the back of Lily’s chair. “I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun.”

“Probably not since the last time we were all together,” Robert said. “That’s our magic, Barton. The three of us.”

“The three of us, you, me, and Caro. We were always something special. The Three Musketeers.”

Lily laughed. “Don’t tell me you were corny enough to call yourselves the Three Musketeers.”

“Be kind,” Robert said. “We were young and stupid and from California. For us, that was being pretty damn erudite.”

“Oooh,” Julie crowed. “Daddy said ‘damn.’”

“Daddy meant ‘darn.’” Robert looked at Julie and feigned a scowl.

“Daddy, are you guys going to start talking about olden times again?” Julie’s scowl was genuine.

“Oh, I hope so.” Lily caught Caroline’s eye and smiled. “I’d love to hear about what the three of you were like in your wild youth.”

“Nothing to hear, really. It was a long time ago, Lily. And anyway, Barton must have told you all of it already.” Caroline was tired and on the edge of being drunk, and in no mood to hear the old stories.

“He’s shared a few tales with me,” Lily said. “But I have the feeling he hasn’t told me the truly interesting ones. I want to hear them all.”

Julie began to recite in an apathetic monotone: “Daddy was a really good surfer and Mommy was really really pretty and all the boys liked her and Uncle Barton was Daddy’s best friend and they all did a bunch of dumb stuff together. I want to be excused if that’s what you guys are going to talk about. It’s boring.”

“Then you’re excused,” Robert said. The girls were already rushing past him.

Lily was refilling Barton’s wineglass. “Wait a minute,” she said. “How come it was the Three Musketeers? Weren’t there four of you? It was you. Robert. Caroline. And Mitch. Right?”

“Mitch came later,” Barton said. “Then we were the Four Musketeers. But Robert, Caro, and I were the founding members. The three of us met on the first day of Caro’s freshman year, and—”

Lily interrupted him. “I know how the three of you got together. But what about Mitch? When did he come into the picture?”

Robert glanced at Caroline. “You should probably answer that, Caroline. You’re the one who knows the most about when Mitch came and went.”

“Shut up, Robert.” Her words were thrown at him like a knife. The silence in the room was absolute. Then Caroline said, “You want to know who all of us used to be, Lily? Well, Robert was the simple, good-hearted surfer from a nice middle-class family. Barton was the sensitive intellectual, raised by a widowed father who taught English at a ritzy boarding school. And I was a nothing girl who pretty much raised myself. And as far as Mitch goes, he was a sexy bad boy whose parents were rich and serially divorced. I had crazy sex with Mitch and was hooked on him like a drug. But I thought I should love Robert because he was so wholesome and nice, the all-American boy.”

“Caroline, that’s enough!” It came out of Robert in a growl.

“Oh but we haven’t told our story in such a long time, Robert. And there’s so much more to it now.” Caroline was full of wine. And she was angry.

She turned back to Lily. “I used to keep Barton up night after night whining about not being able to decide between Mitch and Robert. Then I got knocked up. By Robert.” Caroline snapped her fingers. “And just like that, the decision was made. I got married. A quick trip to city hall and a basket of burgers on the way out of town. Why? Because I was pregnant and I didn’t have any money and I didn’t have a job and the only girl I ever knew who had an abortion ended up bleeding to death on the floor of a gas station bathroom on her way back home.”