YOU WON'T TELL--WILL YOU

I pulled my jeep into the parking garage of the duplex and reached across the seat to retrieve my purse. My hand brushed against something on the floor. Angie had forgotten one of her bags!

I looked at my watch; it was almost midnight, too late to make the drive back along the treacherous mountain road to the cabin. Angie would just have to make do with what she had until morning. Besides, Samson was probably hungry.

I left the suitcase in the jeep and went inside. Samson met me at the door.

"Hi Baby," I crooned. I reached down and picked him up and nuzzled my face against his soft fur. Samson purred his delight at seeing me.

I threw my purse and keys on the counter and reached into the cabinet for the cat food.

After I fed Samson his dinner, I checked the messages on my machine, then went into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. I laughed to myself when I pictured Angie all alone in the cabin. I had purchased the cabin a year ago. It was the perfect place for a writer. But now that my novel was finished, I was ready to rejoin the rush-and-go world. Angie said she needed some time to think things over, so I lent her my cabin for a week. Knowing her, after a night of total isolation, she would probably beg me to drive her back to town tomorrow anyway.

The following morning, I was on my way to the mountains, just as the sun began peeping over the blue-tinted ridges. I breathed deeply of the damp spring air. The mornings were my favorite time of day. I hummed a tune to myself as I rocked and jarred along the washed-out road that led to my mountain retreat.

I crossed the rickety bridge and wheeled the jeep into the yard in front of the cabin, almost sideswiping a pick-up truck parked in the drive.

"Who the . . . " I muttered. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here except Angie. I climbed from the jeep and hurried toward the front door. When I turned the knob, the door swung open. As my eyes became adjusted to the dim interior, I noticed a pair of cowboy boots lying on the floor beside the fireplace. A plaid shirt hung from one of the chairs and a pair of jeans had been flung carelessly across the back of the sofa.

"Angie," I called softly.

No one answered.

I ran to the bedroom. The bed was rumpled and the blankets lay half on the floor, but the room was empty.

Suddenly, I heard voices and the unmistakable sound of Angie’s laughter coming from the creek at the back of the cabin.

I hurried out the back door and down the path to the creek. There on a blanket lay Angie, wrapped in the arms of a man I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in one another, it was a long moment before they noticed I was there.

When Angie looked up and saw me, she had the grace to blush. "L-Lillian, What are you doing here? I didn’t think you would be back until the weekend . . . "

The man on the blanket appeared undaunted by my presence. He gave me the once-over from head to toe, then smiled. "So, this is Lillian? "

The awkwardness of the situation hit me like a pie in the face. "Angie, could I speak with you? Inside! Alone!"

I turned and stalked back toward the cabin with my face on fire. While I waited for Angie, I measured out the coffee and filled the pot with water. I heard voices in the other room and finally the sound of the pick-up leaving the cabin. Angie came into the kitchen, but I didn’t look around.

She was the first to break the silence. "I’m sorry, Lil."

I poured two cups of coffee without speaking. My hand shook as I placed the steaming cup in front of her. Some of the scalding liquid splashed onto my hand, but I scarcely noticed it.

"Angie, why did you lie to me? You told me you were through cheating on Brent. You said you needed to borrow the cabin so you could be alone. If I had known . . . "

"You wouldn’t have let me use it," Angie finished for me. "Lillian, you don’t understand. This time it’s different. I really care about Cliff. If you knew him, you’d understand."

"If you’re in love with Cliff, then why don’t you divorce Brent. Honestly, Angie, I just don’t see how you can treat Brent the way you do. He’s so . . . "

"Oh, Please! Don’t start in again about how wonderful my husband is. Shove that, will you? Anyway, I can’t divorce Brent. I could never make enough money to support myself, and besides, Cliff is married too. He can’t get a divorce and if he did, he doesn’t make much money."

Angie ran her fingers through her tousled hair, and a dimple appeared in her cheek. "You know I’ve always liked nice things, Lil. Why should I give up my nice house and my car and all Brent’s money, when I can have both of them? What Brent doesn’t know won’t hurt him."

"But what if he finds out and decides to divorce you? What then?"

Angie threw her head back and laughed. The sound grated on my nerves.

"Brent would never divorce me. You know how he is, Lil. Poor Brent believes that a marriage is forever . . . until death do we part, and all that crap."

"How can you be so callous about it, Angie?"

"I’m not being callous; I just look at things differently than you do, Lil. You won’t tell . . . will you?"

I looked at Angie and recalled the many times I had heard her ask that same question. Suddenly we were little girls again. Angie had climbed to the top of the China cabinet and broken one of Mother’s priceless antique plates. She was looking at me with her tragic blue eyes. "You won’t tell–will you?"

Another time, Angie had burned a hole in the sofa with a cigarette. Then there was all those times that Angie had climbed out through the bedroom window, while Mother thought we were both safe in our beds . . . And always, it had been the same question "You won’t tell, will you Lillian?"

I looked at her now, her lovely blond hair all mussed and her blue eyes pleading with me to keep her ugly little secret.

Angie’s voice shook me from my musings, "Lillian, stop looking at me that way. Honestly, sometimes you scare me. You remind me of those ruthless characters you write about in your books."

"For heaven's sake, Angie" I answered, walking toward the window. "Stop being silly. I’m the one in the family with the boundless imagination, remember."

"Yeah, you’re right." Angie laughed. "Anyway, getting back to our original discussion–you won’t tell, will you?"

"No, Angie, I won’t tell."

Angie put her arms around me and gave me a warm hug. "Lil, you’re so wonderful. You’ve always been so good to me. It’s a pity you’ve never married. You’d be the perfect wife."

"I’m still waiting for Mr. Right," I answered, smiling a little. "Angie, you must be careful. The game you’re playing can be a very dangerous one."

"Oh, Lil. I can take care of myself. You just don’t know what it is to love a man the way I love Cliff."

Oh, how wrong you are, Little sister, I thought. How dead wrong you are.

In the weeks that followed, I saw Angie frequently, but she never mentioned Cliff nor the incident at the cabin. I knew she was still seeing him, but I didn’t bring it up.

Brent’s job began taking him out of town more and more, but this arrangement seemed to suite Angie just fine. She never questioned his absences. His being away gave her more time to carry on her affair with Cliff. Personally, I couldn’t see what Angie found so attractive in Cliff, but she and I had always had different taste in almost everything, including men.

The months sped by, and Summer came–the hottest one I could ever remember. It was a sweltering July night when the call came.

"Are you Lillian Warner?" the caller inquired.

"Yes," I answered, still half asleep.

"This is Captain McDowell from the Union City Police Department. Do you have a sister named Angie Kelly?"

"Well, yes I do. What is this all about, Officer?"

"Could you come down to the station right away?"

The next three hours were sheer agony. When I reached the police station, Brent was waiting for me. He sat slumped in a chair, emotion making his voice almost unrecognizable. Slowly, he explained what had happened.

He had left the house around one o’clock. It was his day off and he wanted to play some golf. However, he changed his mind before he reached the golf course and went for a drive instead. He had driven up to Piedmont, where he had spent the better part of the afternoon. Then around six o’clock, he returned home and when he opened the garage door, he had found Angie, slumped behind the wheel of her car. Almost choking on the fumes, he dragged her from the car and tried to revive her. But it was too late. Angie was dead.

"Why did she do it, Lillian?" Brent sobbed, "If I had come home sooner, maybe I could have stopped her."

"Are you saying it was suicide?" I asked. "It could have been a freak accident" I just couldn’t imagine Angie doing that.

Without speaking, Captain McDowell handed me a piece of paper. "We found this note on the seat beside her, Miss Warner."

I read the few lines Angie had written in her flowery script, on the torn piece of paper:

I’m sorry to hurt you, but it’s over.

Forgive me for ending it this way.

Goodbye

Angie

Captain McDowell put a comforting hand on Brent’s shoulder. "Mr. Kelly, sometimes these things just happen. No sense blaming yourself."

"Are we free to go now, Captain?" Brent asked.

"I see no reason to detain you any longer," Captain McDowell answered. " If we need any more information, we’ll be in touch. I’m sorry about your wife, Mr. Kelly . . . and your sister, Miss Warner," he added, giving me a sympathetic glance.

I took Brent’s arm. "I’ll take you home, Brent," I led him away from the police station and helped him into the car, my heart breaking for both him and my sister.

Angie’s suicide rocked the little community of union. No one could understand how a beautiful young woman, who had so much to live for, could take her own life. How sad for her devoted husband. How terrible it must be for her only sister. They shook their heads in disbelief.

What a tragedy, suicide!

The funeral service was a beautiful, solemn affair. The altar was banked with flowers. The minister delivered a touching eulogy. Through it all, Brent sat like a statue, looking pale and hollow-eyed while I sobbed quietly into my handkerchief. Friends whispered their condolences, and offered to help in any way they could.

Shortly after, Angie was laid to rest in the family cemetery, next to Mother and Father. It was all over.

After the service, I packed a small suitcase and placed it on the back seat of the jeep, then went inside and sat down in a chair facing the window.

The phone rang, startling me, even though I was expecting the call.

"I’m almost ready to go," he said. Lillian, thank you for inviting me to the cabin for the weekend. The house just seems too big and empty without Angie." His voice broke, "It’s just . . . I feel so lost and alone."

"I know you do, Brent," I answered, "But I’m here for you if you need me."

"I know you are, Lil," Brent answered. "It seems you’re always filling in the gaps that Angie leaves in my life."

His remark stung me just a little, although I was sure he hadn’t meant it to. "I’ll be by to pick you up in a little while," I whispered.

As Brent and I drove through the deepening twilight toward the mountains, a kaleidoscope of emotions kept me silent. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a flash of lightening turned the sky to a deep purple. The first drops of rain began pelting the windshield just as I pulled into the drive beside the cabin. Brent and I jumped from the jeep and made a mad dash for the front porch. We were both soaked to the skin by the time we reached the cabin door.

"First things first," Brent said. "We need to get out of these wet clothes. You can have the bathroom and I’ll change in the kitchen."

I scrambled out of my wet clothing and into a dry bathrobe. I wrapped a towel around my dripping hair, then took down some towels for Brent. When I walked into the kitchen, he had already changed into some dry jeans and was standing at the window, staring out into the violent night. His mind seemed to be miles away.

Brent felt my gaze and turned from the window and smiled. Once more, emotions welled up inside me like a wet weather spring. What kind of person was I? How could I have these feelings for my sister’s husband? My sister, who we had just buried only a few hours earlier. Tears threatened to choke me. I couldn’t bear to look at Brent. To cover my emotions, I bent down and scooped up the wet clothing from the floor.

"I’ll throw these things in the clothes dryer, while you start the coffee," I mumbled, then fled from the room.

I hurried down the basement steps and switched on the overhead lights. Tears blurred my vision as I dumped the wet clothes atop the clothes dryer. Had I really managed to hide my feelings from Angie for the past five years, or had she guessed? Was that the reason . . . ?

"No!" I choked back a sob as I shook out the wet clothing. I checked the pockets out of habit. I removed Brent’s wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. I checked the front pockets and drew out a folded envelope, his car keys and some loose change.

Suddenly, the name on the envelope drew my attention. It was addressed to Cliff, and I recognized the handwriting. It was Angie’s. I tossed the shirts and jeans into the dryer and pushed the start button, then slowly unfolded the envelope. I pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope and began to read. Angie was informing Cliff that the affair was over. She told him that Brent was becoming suspicious and they would have to stop seeing each other.

My breath caught on a sob. Poor Brent, he had found out after all. What a blow that must have been, coming right on top of his wife’s suicide.

I smoothed the paper and read Angie’s words once more. Something seemed strange about the letter. It wasn’t her usual style. I turned the paper over in my hands. It seemed incomplete and she hadn’t even signed her name at the bottom. It was as though the last page was missing.

When had Angie written it and how did Brent end up with it? How long had he known? I shivered and a chill of apprehension passed along my spine. Why hadn’t Brent confided in me?

I gasped as a hand fell heavily on my shoulder. I turned to face Brent, as the letter slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the floor. He was smiling–a cold, and practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I had never seen him look that way before. Suddenly he seemed like a stranger.

He retrieved the letter and held it between us like a shield. "Did you finally figure it out, Lil, or should I help you along? I suppose you’re wondering about the rest of the letter."

I gasped, and he continued, "Yes, you’re right. There was more. Want me to recite it for you? I have it memorized, you know."

I started shaking violently as Brent began talking in a monotone, reciting the words that had been going over and over in my mind, like a sad love song for the past three days.

"I’m sorry to hurt you, but it’s over. Forgive me for ending it this way. Goodbye, Angie."

I stared at Brent as realization dawned. My breath came in short gasps and my knees threatened to buckle. Frozen tears dripped down my cheeks. Outside, the storm raged on, while inside the cabin, a deadly calm had settled about the room. I turned toward the stairs, but Brent blocked my path.

"You’re not going anywhere, Lil," he whispered.

Slowly, I began backing toward the tool shelf in the corner. Outside, the thunder continued to rumble, mingling with the voice of the man I had worshiped for so long . . . the man who had made all other men pale in comparison . . . my Mr. Right!

"You knew all along, didn’t you Lil? You knew about Cliff and Gerald and all the others. You knew, but you didn’t tell, did you Lillian? You lied to me and hid things from me, just the way your sister did. You’re no better than she was."

Brent moved his arm and the light glinted off the blade in his hand. I took another step backward and felt the sharp edge of the tool shelf gouge into my back.

"The two of you always kept your ugly little secrets, didn’t you Lil," Brent continued, "Only they weren’t really secrets, now, were they? You see, I knew about it too."

He continued walking toward me, still talking in a soft, deadly whisper. "I don’t like it when people keep secrets from me, Lil. Angie paid for her mistakes and now it’s your turn." Brent reached out and wound my hair around his hand. I felt the cold steel of the blade against my neck, almost like a caress.

"I loved you, Brent," I choked, "I’ve always loved you."

"I knew that too," Brent answered, "Poor pathetic Lillian. Always begging for her sister’s crumbs . . . .the same way I always did." Brent’s insane laughter fell around me like shards of broken glass, cutting straight through my heart.

I reached behind me and my hand touched the smooth handle of the claw hammer I always kept on the shelf. "My God, Brent," I croaked "You’re insane. You murdered my sister! How could I have ever thought I loved you? I don’t even know you."

Still smiling that dreadful smile, Brent continued to caress my throat with the tip of the knife blade. He leaned close to my ear and whispered the words that chilled me to the bone . . . .words I had heard so many times . . . .the words I thought I would never hear again . . . . "You won’t tell, will you, Lillian?"

For the first time in my life I failed to answer the question. The sound of the claw hammer connecting with flesh and bone was the only sound in the room . . . .

****

copyright © Leeuna Foster

all rights reserved

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The Voices of Reason Her hand trembled only slightly as she moved the center piece of red roses, irises, snapdragons and summer chrysanthemums a fraction to the left. She touched a match to the red tapered candles and they flickered to life, casting a soft romantic glow about the room. She stood back and surveyed the table set for two. “Perfect,”  she breathed, “simply  perfect.” The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour and her stomach drew itself into a knot. Steven would be here soon.  He was coming home at last. After Steven walked out on their marriage, a year ago she kept telling her family and friends repeatedly that he would come back to her.  They all looked at her with pity in their eyes.  They didn’t believe her.  But she knew.  After twenty-five years of marriage and two children it would take more than a twenty-one-year-old child to hold onto Steven.  Angel!  What kind of home-wrecker would be named Angel?  She almost laughed at the oxymoron. Yesterday, she watched Angel at the lawyer’s office. She watched her squeeze out huge glistening teardrops that dripped with practiced ease down her unlined cheeks. She also watched as Mr. Linquest, her attorney, fawned all over the poor distraught young lady, attempting to soothe her distress with comforting words and a protective arm draped across her bare, young  shoulders. Why were men such fools when it came to young women?  She hadn’t been fooled for a minute by Angel’s  little sniffling act. Now she walked to the mirror and studied her own reflection. Green eyes glittered back at her from above the fireplace. Steven had always liked her eyes. The red satin dress she wore went well with her dark auburn hair.  Red was Steven’s favorite color.  She glanced once more across the room to the small table in the corner, resplendent in its creamy lace covering. The rose-patterned china and the crystal wine goblets gleamed in the dancing light from the candles.   The entire room was blanketed in a warm rosy glow. Steven would be here soon.  She must tell the children.  She walked to the foot of the stairs. “Rob! Teresa!  Your father will be here soon.” Only silence came from the top of the stairs.   She listened to the increased pounding of her heart, the sound echoing like a drum beat in her ears; the room lengthened, descending farther and farther away from her. Where were those ungrateful brats anyway, she wondered? Probably sulking in their rooms, determined to ruin her evening no doubt.  Since the day Steven walked out on her they acted as if it had all been her doing.   They believed she had driven him away. “Rob! Teresa! Did you hear what I said,” she screamed up the stairs once again. “Get down here this minute.” Why must they spoil everything for her?  Why was everything always working against her? She felt the familiar band around her forehead;  gripping, squeezing, tighter and tighter until it threatened to crush her skull. The white-hot pain began gouging at her eyeballs from the inside.  “Not tonight,” she pleaded. “Not now!”  She staggered toward the kitchen. Where were those wretched children? She sank to her knees upon the cool kitchen tiles. Her head cracked and splintered into the silence surrounding her.  Then the voices returned. The voices.  When they first began six months ago, she tried to make them go away; she tried to ignore them; she tried to run away from them, but they continued to pound at her temples like tiny little drummers, demanding her attention until she gave in. In the end they proved to be her salvation. Now they spoke to her in comforting tones, soothing away her anxiety.  “Calm down, Laura” they said. “Remember the plan?  The children are at your sister’s house. Martha -- your sister. Remember...?” She gripped her head with both hands. “Oh, yes. The plan,” she whispered.  Of course they were at their Aunt Martha’s house.  How could she have forgotten?  She sent them there herself last week.  She told her sister she needed to rest.   In fact, the voices had told her to do it.  She had learned to obey the voices, to allow them to guide her.  The voices knew best. “Take some medication, Laura;  Steven will be here soon. You must make certain that everything is perfect for his homecoming.” “Yes of course,  Steven will be here soon,” she whispered. She rose to her feet and staggered toward the bathroom.  In the mirror above the sink, she watched as the woman with the paper-white face and glittering eyes swallowed the pills.  She pinched the pale cheeks until some color returned, then wandered back into the living room to wait. She sank down on the sofa and picked up the newspaper, dated over a week ago.  She had read it several times.  Once again, the headlines screamed at her; Local Police Say They Have No Leads On Recent Murder Of  Prominent Businessman... She shook her head.  “Ah, such incompetence in our  local police department,” she said aloud to the empty room.  “They’ll never find the killer.  They never do.  There's crime on every street corner.  A person could get away with murder these days.” Laughter at her own joke echoed throughout the empty room. The candles flickered.  Shadows crawled along the walls. “Steven’s on his way,”  the voices soothed.  “He’ll be home and you can rest, Laura.” The jangle of the doorbell brought her to her feet.  She glanced nervously at her at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace.  She patted her hair in place and smoothed her dress. She pasted on her favorite smile, opened the door and held out her arms toward the dark figure framed in the light from the candles.  She took the package from his hands and watched him as he turned and walked away and disappeared into the shadows.  Still smiling, she closed the door and walked toward the lace-covered table set for two.  Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped the package and lifted the delicate urn from the mounds of paper.  She turned it around lovingly, admiring the swirling designs of red and green.  She ran her fingers softly across the gold nameplate near the base, then raised the urn to her lips. Her eyes glittered and her teeth flashed white in the glow from the candles as she walked to the far end of the table.  With great tenderness, she placed the urn beside the plates set for Steven.  Still smiling to the empty room, she seated herself at the opposite end of the table. She uncorked the bottle of wine and poured herself a glass of the blood red liquid.  She had been so right in allowing the voices to guide her.  The voices always knew best. "To the two of us... together forever," she whispered, raising her glass. "Welcome home Steven..." *** Copyright© Leeuna Foster all Rights Reserved