The Secret Keeping (2 page)

“It’s not healthy, you know.” (Delilah was back.)

Lydia watched the glass tip over on its side…the problem now of course is…her work…it was insane perhaps…she should probably hold her horses…but she felt like jumping instead. Could it be, she half wondered, watching the glass head steadily for the edge of the table, but making no effort to save it, that she was hoping for something soft to land on? It rolled back slightly and she feared she might have to push it.

An elbow nudged her ribs. “It’s not, you know,” repeated its owner.

The goblet hesitated then smashed onto the floor.

Absurd, Lydia murmured, grabbing gently at the offending appendage. “What?”

“It’s not healthy, I told you.”

“Del…what isn’t?”

“Oh, geesh, Liddy,” Delilah said, taking in the catastrophe. “That’s very, very unfortunate. And it saddens me. You shhhall have another.”

“I shhhall,” Lydia mimicked. She raised her arm and beckoned the waiter.

Table sixteen. The waiter nodded and made his way over. They were an attractive and lively group, regulars who like to sing and dance and never broke anything. Not usually, anyway. He could feel the crunch of glass beneath his shoe, the woman’s fingers as she slipped a ten dollar bill in his pocket and whispered,

“I’m sorry.” He signaled the busboy with a circular motion of his hand. “A glass of merlot,” he then said, turning to Lydia with a smile. “Will that be all?” he asked, now addressing the table.

“We’re hungry!” the group yelled. “Merlot? Merlot! I want some, too.” “Can you bring us menus?” “I need a drink.” “I have no idea what time it is.” “Me, too.” “Bring everyone some merlot.” “I don’t want merlot, I want a drink.” “Do you know what time it is?” “I think you’d better bring us a bottle then.” “It’s early, I think.” “I’m hungry. Can’t we order something now, or do we need menus?” “He’s bringing us menus.” “What are you having?” “C’mon, it’s early.”

_____

Food. She wasn’t really hungry. She watched the blond toying with her dessert.

“It’s curious don’t you think, Liddy?” asked Delilah, her mouth and hands full, gesturing with a chicken bone in the direction of the window seat.

“She’s a spy,” interrupted someone from their party, “Is this spicy?” he asked, pointing at Delilah’s platter. She ignored him. “C’mon, is this hot?” he demanded. She used a free elbow to push him away.

“She’s not a spy, Liddy. She’s a–”

“How’s everything?” interrupted the waiter, suddenly appearing behind Lydia.

“She’s a spy,” repeated their persistent friend as he lunged past Delilah’s jab.

“It’s hot!” she threatened, as he made off with her platter. Those on the other end of the table cheered the chicken’s arrival.

“Everything’s fine,” Lydia said, turning toward the waiter.

“Excellent,” he answered and bending closer he whispered, “She’s not a spy,” and was gone.

Delilah glanced curiously at Lydia. “What?” she demanded.

“What what?” answered Lydia, dipping her finger into the wine.

“What did he say?”

Lydia rubbed the rim of her glass until it began humming. It tingled to the touch. Half past seven. She should just go home. “He said I’m the only civilized person at my table and that I should feel quite proud.”

Delilah draped her arm on the back of her chair, crossed her legs, and dabbed at her mouth with a dirty napkin. “Bullshit,” she replied, grinning.

_____

“You’re doing that thing again,” asserted Delilah.

“What?”

“That, Liddy.”

Nearby, another one of her friends had noticed it, too. “What…so…yeah…and…” she imitated, sighing dramatically.

Lydia squirmed at the successful impersonation. “It must be time for me to go,” she said, checking the clock once more. Eight PM. “I’m speaking in monosyllables.”

“Nah, it’s early,” said the other two in unison. They clustered their chairs around hers to began their weekly critique, starting first with the most-eligibles lined up haplessly at the bar.

On the opposite side of the room a woman sat reading in one of the window seats, her long blond hair done up in a loose knot pierced by a single hairpin to keep it from falling in her eyes. She had a fine shaped face, smart indications across the brow line, bright animated eyes that bore nearly all her expression. The nose and mouth, rendered in sure but delicate strokes, were countered by pronounced cheekbones and a firmly set jaw which dignified her looks and made her seem at once both pretty and handsome. So too, the frailty implied by a pale complexion was juxtaposed with wide disciplined shoulders and a strong, almost unbending quality about the neck. The slender rest of her lounged luxuriously in a chair, her creamy skin complimented by a rich, dark blue dress that began its long-sleeved tour scooped low at the collarbones and continued its travels closely tailored to the torso and hips. In the woman’s lap and along the length of her outstretched legs, the fabric collected into sensuous little ripples and its excesses surrounded her in flattering folds. They slipped over her hips and dripped down her sides, cascading to the floor in a waterfall of velvet.

_____

Nine PM. She really should go home now, throw some weights around, the dumbbells.

“Liddy? Aren’t you going to say anything?” Delilah asked.

“No.”

“Don’t you think you’d feel better if you did?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it at least be better to be on speaking terms?”

“No.”

“But you see him everyday at work. Isn’t it awkward for you?

“No.”

_____

Ten PM. There was no moon at all. A light drizzle was soaking the city which only served to underscore Lydia’s ennui. No umbrella, she walked briskly from Frank’s to her apartment, stopping this evening at every crosswalk, finding herself waiting at them much longer than she actually needed to.

She had spent a considerable amount of time in this city, living in it with her friends, those that she had met at university like Delilah and the others she had later met at work. In finance, they were all the same, none of them the type to sit in Frank’s with only a book for a companion. She sought to remember the last book she had read. She couldn’t. No books. No newspapers.

An aching sensation was beginning to creep in under her coat and clothes. An old feeling, she knew it had nothing to do with the cold, although the cold certainly didn’t help. She shivered at the next intersection and set her briefcase down, pulling her gabardine tight to her chest and conferring with an amber light. Yellow means worthy, she suddenly remembered. Yellow roses. Worthy. Didn’t it? Or did it mean yield? She grabbed the briefcase and ran to the other side.

The only thing Lydia did read were the financials. Nothing to brag on there. The briefcase felt exceptionally heavy tonight. Her back hurt. She wished for a warm spring rain to make the city misty, to cloud it up. This one was as cold as snow.

Why hadn’t she gone on vacation this year?

All night deli coming up on her right. She had a sudden craving for sweets, she realized. All-night deli coming up on her right. Sweets or a cigarette? When was the last time she had a cigarette? She lingered undecided at the entrance. Or sweets for that matter? Her mouth had the aftertaste of wine in it, sour and woody. Bed was calling. No sugar tonight. She walked on.

_____

Home. Inside her apartment it was warmer than usual. Downright balmy, like it had gotten at Frank’s. She turned the heat off and scanned the bookshelf for something to read and, finding nothing of interest, sighed with disgust.

Why hadn’t she gone on vacation this year?

The bookcase. Exactly like her father’s with his tight rows of leather bound editions, none of which she had ever seen him read. She dragged her fingers over them. Dusty bindings. Like his, her books never came off the shelf either.

Financial papers on the coffee table. She cleared them with an impatient sweep of her hand and they landed in disarray on an otherwise spotless carpet. That accomplished nothing, she admitted. She stood over the debacle feeling foolish and wrestled down the overwhelming temptation to reorganize it.

Is there a problem, she asked herself. Yes, but nothing she could put her finger on. She contemplated the possibility of a mid-life crisis and did the easy math. Life expectancy, seventy-two. What a frightening sum.

You do act like a tourist, she confessed. In any event, you certainly feel like one tonight. Or a spy, spying on whoever I am, on the name on the door.

She glared at her belongings accusingly.

The stainless carpet, the curtained windows, the trophy books, all seemed in tacit agreement. They didn’t know her anymore either, or why she would be investigating them.

“She’s not a spy,” the waiter had said.

Lydia saw herself in the mirror and stopped short. Leaving for work in the dark, coming home in the dark, it was taking a toll on her, she suddenly thought, eyeing the impostor. She was shocked by the woman’s disheveled appearance, the missing button on her shirt collar, the rain-soaked coat, the hair wet and dangling in her eyes. She went up to the mirror and inspected her eyes. More than just exhausted, there were shadows beneath them, almost as blue as her irises. Her blue eyes. They had an unusual gleam in them. She was concerned about it. Not cool, she muttered, sitting down in the middle of the room as quiet as a sphinx.

“Excellent,” she remembered the waiter saying. “Will that be all?”

_____

Why did I bring this in here?
Lydia wondered, accidentally kicking her briefcase as she crossed her legs under the table. Another Friday at Frank’s Place and her friends were late.

The blond sat at the window seat, engrossed as ever in her reading. Now and again she seemed to stretch a little, a slight smile appearing and then disappearing from her lips. Lydia immediately thought of a cat reclining on a sunny sofa, about to lick itself.

“May I get you something while you’re waiting?”

She jumped in her skin.

The waiter smiled.

She blushed. “I’m sorry?”

“A glass of wine until your friends get here?” he asked.

She nodded and avoided looking at him. He had a funny expression.

“Red?” he suggested.

“What?”

“Red?” he repeated.

“Red?” (Red?) “Red! Yes, please, that will be fine.”

Four-thirty already. The girls were supposed to be there at four. With growing annoyance Lydia saw herself stuck alone in a bar and looking available, something which she did not relish.

Regulars were steadily arriving for happy hour. As they checked their coats at the door they scanned the barroom hungrily. She visibly registered discomfort whenever one strutted by and said hello. They all reminded her of Joe.

Only ten more minutes, she promised herself. This is unbearable. She glanced over at the window seat. A book sure would come in handy right now. She raised her arm to signal the waiter and the blond looked over, smiled an acknowledgment and went back to her reading.

“May I see a menu?”

“Certainly,” the waiter said. He returned with one a few minutes later.

Whenever she felt irritated she thought of Joe. An unrewarding habit she had just discovered. These past few days she found herself thinking of him a lot.

Joseph Rios. Everyone called him Rio Joe, but she doubted he knew that, not that it would bother him, not someone who spent as much time as Joe did making himself larger than life. He had cultivated that persona.

Rio Joe. The stuff of literature. “Good evening,” came a come-on voice from her left. Oh, please, she screamed in her head. She put her face in the menu, pretended to read it. The technique proved surprisingly effective. Talking head gone.

Tall, dark and handsome Joe. Her junior by four years. She had met him at work and instinctively disliked him, detecting something a little too slick and rather illicit in his style. In a way she couldn’t then explain, he’d given her the creeps. His interpretation that she was hard to get is what motivated him to pursue her so ardently. And it was nice to be ardently pursued. In the end…well…getting is the fun part for a Rio Joe. The romance left her with the same sick sensation she had after eating too much chocolate.

Love, sex, heartburn, nausea. This was as far as she could venture in her mind whenever she reviewed the matter. But she could see far enough. She knew that he had broken her heart because it stopped in pain whenever she saw him or heard his name mentioned. She knew he was not one of her greatest accomplishments, which is why she refused to discuss the mess with anyone.

Dear Joe. She had ended it months ago but still ran into him at work, still in Frank’s Place on Fridays.

Only recently had she stopped trembling at the sight of him. Only recently had she stopped wanting to lie down every time he was near. Only recently had she discovered she wasn’t thinking of him every moment of the day.

Lydia took a deep breath. Only recently, but thank god!

Another suit strolled by. She put her nose in the menu again–lunch? Wrong menu. Lydia blamed herself for not discovering it sooner. Everything’s been out of whack this week, seven days like this, all gone awry in precisely this manner. She hailed the waiter one more time and attempted to disguise her frustration.

“Madam? Ready to order?”

“Yes, but I think you brought me the wrong menu,” she said, handing it back to him.

“Oh,” he said, taking it from her, “the right menu at the wrong time.” He pulled another one out from under his arm and laid it on the table. “Or,” he added with a wink, “the wrong menu at the right time.”

She felt a tinge in her cheeks again and turned away without speaking. The clock over the bar read five.

Swell, she thought. So where are my friends when I need them? Sinatra sang something about being irresponsible, being undependable. The blond at the window seat, reading. Reliable. That waiter was so strange. It’s difficult to be alone, Lydia realized. She was sick of waiting. You can forget yourself, what you normally do or what you’re supposed to be thinking. Isn’t that old waiter kind of crazy? Sinatra sang on, singing about irresponsible madness. Lydia waited.