Keeping Secrets

Keeping Secrets

A Novel

Suzanne Morris

FOR

Rega McCarty

Ye who read are still among the living:

But I who write

Shall have long since gone my way

Into the region of shadows.

For indeed strange things shall happen,

And secret things be known,

And many centuries shall pass away,

Ere these memorials be seen of men.

And, when seen,

There will be some to disbelieve, and some to doubt,

And yet a few who will find much to ponder upon

In the characters here graven with a stylus of iron.

The year had been a year of terror,

And of feelings more intense than terror

For which there is no name upon the earth.…

Lines from
Shadow
—A
Parable

Edgar A lan Poe

Contents

PART ONE

Electra Cabot

PART TWO

Camille Devera

PART ONE

Electra Cabot

ELECTRA

FEBRUARY 28, 1917

1

All that matters now is what becomes of Emory.

Though both of us will soon be leaving San Antonio, at least I still have ways of protecting myself. Emory may soon fear for his life, however, because he is a gambler and for that kind of man there is always lying somewhere ahead the risk that will prove too high.

I've known him twice, which is in itself unusual because we've both taken great care to cover our tracks. The first time was twenty years ago in Childers Texas. Emory was sixteen when he left there. Like his father, he was tall and lean with black hair, and dark eyes already keen and full of contempt. He had, too, that habit of cocking one eyebrow at the end of a question, which caused the people of Childers to reason they'd best look upon him with wariness. He was also a Cabot, and no one in town had ever held that family in high regard.

I was fourteen then, with blond hair still in braids, bony knees, scarcely a hint of bosom, and drab, hand-me-down clothes to wear: the picture of the kid nobody wanted. When Emory began paying me attention that year he left, I was sure it was because no one else liked listening to him brag about how he was going to get out of that town and make a lot of money. Like all the other young girls, including two of the cousins I lived with, I was warned of keeping company with him. Childers was a Bible-worsh ping, God-fearing town of farmers and it was clear to all the grown-ups that Emory Cabot, with his big ideas, was headed for no good.

They failed to realize that I had dreams similar to his. The only difference was that he knew how to go about making them come true. Even if I couldn't share in his plans, I was fascinated by listening to them.

I scarcely ever saw him except on school days, when he walked me home. On Saturdays he had a job sweeping out the hardware store, and I usually awoke with a full day of chores to do. One Saturday I finished early, though, and was sent for a walk into town to pick up the liver. The butcher gave it away because he couldn't sell it and my Aunt Eartha, always eager to save a penny, took all that he had on Saturdays so she could fry it in a batter then simmer it down under a mound of onions, to kill the strong flavor. That was our dinner nearly every Sunday.

I always despised the errand of picking up the liver because I was disgraced by taking a handout, but on that particular Saturday I made up my mind to take some extra time for myself and walk by the mercantile window. I'd heard the traveling salesman from the East Coast had been by on Friday and brought a new load of dress material and trimmings. The mercantile just happened to be next door to the hardware store where Emory worked.

There were the most attractive colors of new satin ribbons displayed that day. One bolt each of bright yellow, blue, red, purple, and green were arranged like a fan. I walked back and forth in front of the window enjoying the sight, knowing full well none of those ribbons would ever adorn my hair. In fact I didn't dare walk in and ask to hold them in my hands. Mrs. Turner, the owner's wife, had once caught me looking at some dress material and yanked at my hands, criticized their general untidiness and warned, “Get yourself out of here, Leslie Weems, or I'll tell your aunt, I swear I will.”

Emory came out next door, broom in hand, as I studied the ribbons. I hadn't been thinking of him at all and when I realized he was standing behind me with his arms folded over the broom handle, smiling at my foolishness, I bristled and said, “They're just stupid ribbons. Don't know why I'm wasting my time.”

“Sure they are,” he said, and went back to his sweeping.

I felt he'd shamed me, and I still had to face the condescending look of the butcher, so I thrust out my chin and stalked off.

Emory was out of school for the following week—this was not unusual because if he took a notion to go fishing or camping in the woods, he'd do it and the rest of the world could go hang. Even then he lived mostly by his own rules. I was angry with him for being absent and keeping me from showing I didn't want to talk to him anymore (though by Monday I really did).

Then he pulled the unexpected. The following Saturday he came to our front gate while I was shelling peas on the porch. He whistled, and motioned for me to come with him. I checked to be sure no one was around, then walked very slowly to the gate and asked disinterestedly what he wanted.

“Wanna go for a walk?”

“I'm busy.”

“We won't be gone long.”

So we walked across a field and down a cow path toward a maze of low shrubs. All at once I stopped and demanded, “Just what do you want with me?”

He dug down into his pocket and drew out a small brown package, which he handed over. “I gotta get back to work now,” he said, and walked off.

I had long since forgotten the ribbons as one forgets unreachable treasures, so I was awe-struck to find a yard each of the five colors, coiled around inside the package. Emory was already out of sight. I stood there for a long while, holding the ribbons and smiling.

Back home the gift presented problems.

Anything as flashy as those satin ribbons might be considered sinful by Aunt Eartha and Uncle Jack, who'd raised me since I was orphaned at two. Besides, there were eleven children to feed and clothe in that household, wo of the girls older than me. If I appeared with the ribbons in hand, assuming they were deemed wholesome possessions, there would be an excuse made of some kind (I knew from past experience), and my treasures would be confiscated.

I hid the ribbons in the pocket of the coat assigned to me for the coming winter, passed down successively from Bertha and Sue, and missing two buttons. It seemed the safest place in the house. That night I lay awake for a long time, thinking of Emory. There was little telling how he'd gotten the ribbons. All the money he earned went toward the common fund at his home. So what if Emory stole them from some woman's basket as she left the store? I didn't care, and if I ever found out, the information would follow me to my grave. No one had ever cared enough to steal for me, I reasoned, my admiration for Emory zooming higher than ever. Till that night the word “love” seemed a silly one, applied to first one then another of Bertha's many suitors. But now all at once I knew what it meant. I was in love with Emory Cabot.

For the next two days I thought of nothing and no one except him, and counted the hours till class was dismissed on Monday afternoon so I could walk home with him, even while fighting off a sudden and severe case of shyness. At the first opportunity I explained why I had to hide the ribbons. “But I'll save them and one day I'll have dresses to match them all, and I'll be a long way from this town,” I added. One thing Emory had already taught me was how to brag.

“Yep,” he agreed then remarked, “I'll be going myself before long.”

My spirits plummeted. I hadn't really visualized his leaving, though I never doubted his ability to do all the things he claimed he would accomplish. I tried to keep my voice even because I'd overheard Sue and Bertha say that boys hate pushy girls. “Oh, when?”

“Soon as school's out, probably, or maybe before.”

“Wish I could go some place and do something,” I said, and kicked a rock out of the path.

All too soon the day came when he announced during our walk, “I'll be on my way by sunup tomorrow.” We were almost home by then and I couldn't bear the thought of never seeing him again. “It's my turn to milk the cow in the morning. Could you stop around back of the barn? It's a shortcut from there to the main road.”

Next morning I stole four beaten biscuits while Aunt Eartha's back was turned, and a jar of pear preserves from the shelf. Taking the preserves was risky—she kept a close count of the jars down in the cellar to be sure the hired hands didn't make away with any—but then if Emory had stolen for me, surely I could chance the consequences of doing the same for him. Had I been two years older I know I would have begged him to take me along, but as it was I would have no more considered doing that than prancing around in the satin ribbons.

I wrapped the biscuits and preserves in a cloth and handed them to him when he came up. He was whistling nonchalantly as though leaving town were something a person did every day. The morning sun was just cresting the ridge ahead and his lean frame was silhouetted against the hills, erect and determined. His face was hidden in shadows, so if he had any misgivings about the unmapped future of his life, he wasn't about to show me.

I was nervous and groped for a parting phrase. “Where are you going, first?”

“A place where I can make some money … and this time I'll keep it.”

“Then?”

“I'm going to find my mother,” he remarked without a pause.

“But she up and left you years ago. Why—”

“That's just what I'm going to ask her,” he said.

I wished him good luck; even for Emory, finding someone who might be anywhere in the world seemed a pretty tall order. He turned and headed for the fence along the open road, a quarter of a mile away, and I stood watching him till I could barely make him out. Then I grabbed my skirt hem with one hand and ran after him, hitting the fence with a thud. All at once I realized he'd find someone else one day and forget all about me, and had there been no fence between us my legs might have kept on going. Yet the fence epitomized all of life's limitations on me. I cupped my hands around my mouth and called out, “You will come back, someday, won't you?”

“Not likely,” he said from the distance, but already he was out of sight.

Back at the house Uncle Jack was already calling me. “Leslie, you better get back to milking. You sure can figure out more ways to waste time …”

All that summer I thought of Emory every day, and often looked up from what I was doing outside to see if he might appear. I'd hear someone whistle like him, and my heart would leap momentarily until I discovered it was not him. As the days went past my longing for his return began to crystallize into bitterness at the cold fact that, whereas Emory Cabot had the ability to do something about his situation, I had little power over my destiny. I'd probably wind up spending my life in Childers or some other equally uninteresting town. Scrubbing the floors, I'd often find myself so lodged in thought it would take Aunt Eartha swinging by with a basketful of laundry to jar me out. “You've rubbed that spot sixteen times, girl, reckon you better move over an inch or two before you go through the floor. I declare, the Lord sent me a burden when you came.…”

Once or twice a week, after everyone was asleep, I'd sneak into the box of woolen clothes and reach down into the coat pocket to feel the ribbons. It helped a little, knowing I owned these strands of finery, because it would temporarily dispel my bitterness and renew the belief that there was a world out there with something better in it for me.

As far as I knew there was no wide-range effort by his family to find Emory. As the second eldest son, he was second in command since their father died. His position in the family led to many squabbles because Emory didn't like answering to anyone, and he spent most of his time alone. I would have known this even if he hadn't told me because the Cabots, who didn't attend church or go to town meetings, were always enticing food for gossiping tongues. No one seemed to know them very well; nor did I, except for Emory.

I used to feel quite special when I reasoned that I alone kept alive the memory of the only smart young man in town. While others at first spoke unkindly of him, and accused him of having taken things they were missing, they shortly forgot him as I knew they would. As soon as something new excited their curiosity, they put aside their jealously of the fact he was likely out there somewhere, paving the streets with gold.

I came home from school one evening at dusk, having stayed in town to run an errand for Aunt Eartha. I arrived to find Sue dressed up with two of my satin ribbons entwined in her hair. Some cow-eyed boy was coming to call that evening and, by chance, she had scavanged through the coats to find a lace-trimmed handkerchief she was missing.