The Secret Keeping (3 page)

_____

“I told you she’d still be here! Liddy, you’re not mad, are you?”

“No, Del. I just love sitting by myself on a Friday afternoon, drinking by myself on a Friday afternoon, eating by myself on a–”

“Oh, good. You ordered already?” Delilah slid Lydia’s bread plate away from her and laughed at her friend’s dour expression. “Oh, come on, Liddy” she said, pushing it back again. “I hate it when you pout. We were hoping you might mingle a little. We’re not really all that late and you do look marvelous, dear. Arsenic obviously becomes you.”

_____

Half past five. The furniture around her scuffed loudly with a life of its own and Lydia was once more absorbed into the dull but comfortable roar of her table. She watched her friends coming and going, the girls falling one by one like flower petals into their chairs, each one exhaling on arrival about a week’s worth of office air as they landed, the guys circling like hawks. Happy hour. Another respite. Exquisite nails tapped on the tabletop to the music. The ladies cooed about that one’s sweater, this one’s skirt, a new piece of jewelry, who they had recently run into. The guys heckled. It wasn’t hard to be distracted–even the blond looked over–at the loud chatter, sordid details of cubicle life, the funny stories and tales of intrigue. Gossip, gossip, gossip.

By six, even the waiter was once again himself, once more the prerequisite aloof that one might reasonably expect a waiter to be.

Fine. Everything would return to normal, Lydia hoped, as she glanced about the room and back to her own busy table. Normal, whatever that is. She turned in her seat to observe a few of her friends who had snatched up partners from the row of men at the bar. They were, as Del fondly called it, “doing their war dance.” World War Two. They were all faking it of course. Nobody knew these old steps except from imitating classic movies, but it looked right in the vintage atmosphere of Frank’s Place and it belonged there with the old songs and posters and dim light. Warriors dancing.

Things felt right, at last, for the first time in a week. Lydia smiled back at the blond who then looked away. More right than wrong, she added, feeling like a pretty close facsimile of herself again. I am Lydia Beaumont, she said in her head, studying the profile of the reader, whoever she was. I am Lydia Beaumont.

Whoever she was, too.

Maybe who you are depends largely on who you’re with?

_____

But back in her apartment she discovered, much to her dismay, that the air was still rarefied, as it had been since last Friday. She instantly fell into the strange mood again, the funk that was ruining her, and despaired to think that her evening at Frank’s had been only a temporary success.

Standing at the foot of her bed, left unmade for the second time this week, she inspected the solitary impression that remained in the middle of it. It certainly showed how accustomed she was to sleeping alone.

And it looked odd. Maybe this was normal, the new normal of her life, regarding normal things as strange.

She wasn’t too comfortable with that. I’m not sleeping in this bed tonight, she told herself, and went to sit on the sofa in the dark instead, avoiding the bedroom mirror as she passed it.

All week Lydia had been distracted by Lydia. At Frank’s she had tried to overcome herself by concentrating on the events going on at the table, the free-for-all she usually ignored. She was glad to be able to focus on something other than the hum in her head, on her aching back, but now sitting alone in her apartment like a house guest on the sofa, trying to reflect, she could scarcely remember a thing about the long evening. All she could recollect was her friends showing up late, the silly waiter with his menus, the blond in love with her solitude. In love. In love. In love. Or was it a self-imposed exile?

Reflect. It had to be at least six months ago. Maybe longer. But not a year. No, not quite that long, she doubted. Not more than nine? Could it possibly have been more than nine months ago that I first noticed that woman sitting in there? Could be. Ah, I know why. Because before that, I was out on the patio. Right? I wouldn’t even have seen her from out there. Right. For all I know she could’ve been coming in for years without my knowing, if she only sat inside. All that time on the patio and before then? Ah, well, before then there was that thing with Joe.

She went into the bedroom to look at herself in the mirror. She could be coming down with something, going off into space like this, and her eyes looked funny. She’d see how she felt tomorrow and take it from there she promised.

On the way back to the sofa she bumped into the papers she had piled on the floor in one of her new private compromises. She swore under her breath. I don’t have what it takes to be alone anymore. That’s the thing.

The thing. That thing with Joe. She stretched herself out.

Is this Joe’s fault?

It felt good to get the weight off her shoulders.

Not having what it takes?

Off her back.

Being alone?

She let her eyes adjust to the darkness.

The longer it takes the farther you go–she had seen these words scrawled across the ladies’ room wall in Frank’s Place.

No. Not his fault, really.

She didn’t know who was supposed to have said it.

The farther you go. She sat up uneasy.

He had never offered her anything.

There was a hopelessness at the thought of him. She felt it lodged deep in her womb. That was the ache, a killing consumption.

Ugh. She didn’t know when her loneliness had stopped being Joe’s fault. She pictured an empty glass falling over the edge of a table and forced herself to remember the last time he was in her apartment, showing up late for her birthday, and he had been with someone else, too. That was no secret, but it was her goddamned birthday she had shouted as he slammed the door behind him. She saw her glass of wine whizzing through the air at him, could hear it smashing against the wall. There was still a slight stain where it had trickled like blood to the floor.

Her blood, she learned too late. He had been after her blood, running her through every time he could. At parties. Behind her back. He even did her wrong in bed. On purpose. Many, many times leaving her there, for no reason, to be cruel, that’s all.

The bright light of the kitchen made her eyes water.

It was overblown. A couple of months in bed. She had overrated him.

Lydia rose from the couch. And you never even sent me flowers, you rat. Not one goddamned blessed rose.

She turned on the living room light, feeling suddenly redeemed, and searched the room for her briefcase, then remembering where she had left it and headed into the kitchen.

All week she had been popping in and out of bookstores, spending entire lunch hours peering at racks of paperbacks and on Friday afternoon, unable to determine any subject of interest, she had purchased a Sinatra CD from a street vendor on the way to Frank’s Place. She took it out of the briefcase and put it in the player.

The clock on the wall showed midnight, but Lydia was wide awake, opening and closing the cupboards and refrigerator door. There was nothing to eat.

She had brought work home for the weekend with the idea of barricading herself in, but at this rate by Monday morning she knew she would starve to death. There wasn’t even half and half for coffee.

“The right menu at the wrong time,” she suddenly recalled.

“Or,” the refrigerator door slammed shut one last time, an assortment of items clinking inside, “the wrong menu at the right time.”

“Excellent,” she said in a voice like the waiter’s.

The music played.

_____

Lydia worked feverishly all Saturday morning, as if she had an important appointment to keep and might not make it. She did without coffee or breakfast and by noon she was absolutely famished.

Lunch time and not a crumb of food. She grabbed her coat and hurriedly left the apartment.

She entered Frank’s Place alone at about half past noon. The waiter saw her before she noticed him. She hesitated at the door. He was waiting on the blond seated with her book at the sunny window.

Alone.

Lydia had never been to Frank’s for lunch and it struck her as quite different from the raucous environment she was used to on Friday nights, a little more subdued than she had expected.

“Madam,” said the waiter, “how nice to see you.”

Lydia smiled cautiously. “Thank you,” she replied, indicating by pointing that she desired a table at the back of the room.

He held her chair for her, placing the now familiar lunch menu on her plate.

“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed,” he assured her.

She smiled the same at him, careful to remain composed. He had made her feel awkward the night before, almost like a child. She had not fully forgiven him for it. When he subsequently returned with a glass of merlot that she hadn’t ordered she gave him an anxious look, which he utterly ignored. After that, through the rest of her meal, he acted virtually oblivious to her presence in the dining room for which she was exceptionally grateful.

That was more or less how he treated the patron at the window seat, Lydia observed, as well as the dozen or so other discreet diners seated in distant places throughout the room.

She liked how the place felt this afternoon, even though it was different than how she knew it. There was the low murmur of contented couples, the muted strands of the music in the background. The same old songs, she recognized, but only softer, seeming instrumentally more civilized this afternoon. Same songs, same lyrics. Maybe a bit more daring.

Warm tones, charming light, peaceful time of the day.

There were others alone at their tables. Like her, they seemed satisfied. They talked, ate, read. But one didn’t feel alone in this atmosphere. Not exactly. Except if one didn’t want to be alone.

_____

“Do you know what you’re looking for?”

“No, not yet. I was hoping something would jump out at me.”

Lydia’s searches had led her to the conclusion that there were basically three topics of fiction: love, war…or love and war. But nothing worth dying for is worth living for, she had determined early in life, so she came up empty-handed.

The nonfiction section held limited allure for her as well. Its shelves were dominated chiefly with how-to instruction manuals that explored the gamut of human interests from abdomens to the zodiac, self-help books that covered a myriad of ailments and complaints whether real or imagined. Self improvement, a big industry. These nearly always occupied an area of their own which was usually located in the front of the store right next to the checkout.

Bookstores overall had changed considerably from the last time Lydia had visited one. Now, with their wall-to-wall carpeting, their quiet reading areas, the out-of-the way-benches and comfy chairs littered with patrons absorbed in their seemingly sacred texts, the places more closely resembled libraries than anything else. Of course, unlike a library, you couldn’t take your favorite book out. In the end you had to buy it.

Lydia spent the next week in much the same way as the last and failed to find anything to curl up with.

She bought another CD.

_____

Oh, yes, she hated her job. She hated her job. She hated her job. There were too many Joes writing Dear Johns and too many like herself and her girlfriends reading them. Reading. The same letter, a chain letter, a pyramid scheme of lovers, loading the dice, moving from table to table, playing it like the numbers, exchanging commodities, leaving a collection of precious metals on the bedside. Junk bonds.

That’s the marketplace, gambling over the limit, like Blackjack. Or Rio Joe.

These are dark thoughts again, Lydia reminded herself, still at her desk on Friday at four o’clock. One more time, the phone. Vice President Treadwell. Lydia groaned into her sleeve. It looked like she would be there a while.

“Hi, Paula. No, not bothering me at all. Oh, cocktails? You know I forgot all about it. I’ll put it on my calendar. Nah, I don’t want a secretary, I like to be alone in here. A while, maybe another hour or so. Okay, thanks, Paula.”

_____

Six(ish). Lydia arrived at Frank’s around six. The blond saw her first and smiled. The song on the juke was extra special loud, competing with her thoughts. She stood in the doorway, smiled back and then caught sight of Joe menacing the place with criminal looks and winking at her. She pretended not to see him and searched the room for her friends.

“Lydia!”

Her friends finally saw her and they hooted and howled out unseemly hellos. The seating arrangements had changed. She wondered how it had happened that they were now sitting closer to the center, in the blond’s half of the room. Lydia glanced suspiciously toward the waiter, but he seemed to be unaware of her.

She doubted the woman would be able to enjoy her book tonight and she grimaced as she made her way through the crowd to the noisiest table on the planet.

“Boo! Hiss!” came a rowdy greeting from her friends.

“Very nice.”

“I am shocked, Liddy. Shocked I tell you. I think you did this to get even with us for last Friday. We’ve got a bottle…here…oh…ask the waiter for a glass…waiter! Waiter!”

Frank’s was energized in a way that promised spring was near. Maybe that’s why they were moving closer to the windows, anticipating summer on the patio again. For days now warm winds had been blowing in from across the sea. They lingered there, down by the waterfront, where Lydia could be found from time to time lost in her lunch hour searches for a good book. The heat came from down there. She was sure of it.

Deep beneath the water it lurked, perhaps all winter, simply waiting for an opportunity. It was finally near.

“I don’t know what you’re suggesting, Del.”

The waiter appeared with a glass and she thanked him.

“Liddy, sit down and drink.”

She sat.

“Won’t be long now,” the waiter said cheerily.

“What won’t?” she asked.

“Spring!” he declared, leaving the table with a broad grin.

From there he went directly to the window seat. Lydia observed the two of them lowering their heads together. Not about the menu, their conversation lasted only a few minutes before she saw him leaving again, the blond casting a furtive glance after him. What a busy man, Lydia thought. What’s going on? Nothing, he seemed to be saying. She turned back toward the blond. Look up. Look up. Yes, smile. Yes! Green eyes.