Susan Duke  Under Wraps

I started collecting secrets when I was just six years old.  For the next twenty years, people who passed through my life confided in me, drawn to my open expression and faithful, calm manner.  Some confidences I could have lived without.

This amazing accumulation of mysteries sprouted in my sweet mother’s bed.  Circumstances beyond my control helped shape the situation.  One hot summer night filled with lightning bugs sending covert messages to each other, Dad sat in his patrol car by the side of a well-paved interstate, unaware of impending doom.  Intent on his task of checking the license plates of an abandoned vehicle five feet ahead, with windows closed, air conditioner blasting, and police radio squawking, Dad never heard the eighteen-wheeler that plowed into him. 

The semi driver, amped up on speed and alcohol, walked away virtually unscathed.  Mom would later face him in court but spared me from that trauma.

Well-meaning friends and family tended to run out of hushed condolences, meat loaf dinners and tuna noodle casseroles.  A month into our new life, loneliness stalked Mom and me when we let down our guard.  When the nightmares began, I crept into her bed.

“You can sleep with me as long as you need to, honey,” she wisely said.  My presence comforted her, too.

One Saturday night as fall had just begun to turn leaves and agitate squirrels, we rented “Peter Pan” from the local video store.  Mom urged me into the bath and bed earlier than usual.

“Why are you smiling so much, Mommy?”

“I’ve been keeping a secret all day,” she said.  She pulled two plastic flashlights from under her pillow.  “Do you want the pink or the blue?”  She flipped off the lights and snuggled under the covers.

“I believe in fairies, do you?”  Mom laughed as we raced beams of light around the bedroom walls and across the ceiling.

“Tinkerbell,”  we whispered as our lights chased each other.  We gasped in  unison as the phone rang in the dark.  Nine-thirty.  It had to be bad news just like the night Dad died.  Mom cleared her throat and inhaled.

“Hello?”

“Maggie?  Are you two okay?  What in the world is going on over there?”

Mom exhaled the tension from her body.  “Oh, Cecelia.  I’m so sorry to have alarmed you.  We’re fine.  Susie and I are just playing a game with flashlights.  I’ll close the blinds a little tighter.  So sorry.”

She made a funny face at me and climbed out of bed to attend to the windows.  I heard her sniffling in the half-bath off the bedroom and knew she was crying, thinking about Dad.  I wished she would talk more about him, but I think it hurt her too much.

One blustery Saturday, Mom resolved to clean out Dad’s side of the closet.  “Someone could make good use of these things.  We’ll take them to Good Will.”

As I helped fold and stack Dad’s clothes, she paused to relate a buried memory triggered by a shirt or pair of pants.

She sat on the edge of the bed and laughed softly.  “One night he was telling me good night at my back door and his shiny red car started to roll down the driveway.  He had to run fast.”

“Did Daddy kiss you?”

“Not that night.”

I adored each private story Mom shared with me.  It helped me realize what a fine man Jack Arnold had been.  Although by April I didn’t crawl into her bed so often, this night I was troubled.

“Mommy, I have a secret.”

She laid her book on her lap and reached over to brush dark curls from my face.  “What, baby?”

“First grade is almost over, but we got a new girl today.  She’s nice.”

“That’s good.”

I ran my fingers up and down her arm.  “Some of the girls don’t like her because she has brown skin.”

“Hmmm.”

“But I like her a lot.  She’s kinda quiet and shy, but I like her.  I sat by her at lunch and played with her at recess.  Her name’s Gwynetta.”

"Even if you lose some friends, it is important that you follow your heart.  If Gwynetta is a good person, and you will be able to tell that in a little while, you will decide what is best to do.  I’m proud of you.”  She kissed the top of my head.

Confidence surged through me.  “Hey, Mommy, I saw a lot of beer bottles in Cecelia’s garbage can.”

“Susie!  Don’t tell people that.”

I grinned.  “I can keep a secret.”

By junior high, I’d learned to screen information swirling around me into two categories—useful knowledge and meaningless gossip.  I strove to be tight-lipped and developed a reputation as a smart girl who could be trusted.  Maturity and unseen power intoxicated me.  A summons to the office ripped my world apart.

“Susie,” Mrs. Durbin said.  “Please sit down.  Susie, your mother has become ill at work.”

I jumped up.  “Mom!”

The principal did not waste words.  “I’ll drive you to the hospital.   Don’t worry.  I’ll notify your teachers.  Let’s see. Today is Thursday.  We won’t expect you back until Monday.  Who should collect your homework assignments?”

I choked back a sob.  “Gwynetta Johnson.”

“Yes, your best friend.  Come on, dear.  Get your things from your locker and meet me in the parking lot.”

I had to research ‘pancreas’ to understand the cancer killing my mother.  She had hidden the pain from me and others.  Another secret.  By summer she was gone.

Auntie Louisa and Uncle Fred proved to be angels on earth.  To have a thirteen year old thrust into their childless home must have been shocking.  Their kindness, sincerity and structure nourished me through difficult days and dark nights.  They wisely set boundaries and loved me unconditionally.

In my grief, I tended to forget Auntie Lou had lost her only sister.  Once I caught her staring at me and said, “What?”

She shook her head and apologized.  “I’m sorry, honey, but as you grow older, you look so much like her.  You’re beautiful.”

My aunt and uncle earned my undying devotion by accepting my dear friend into our lives.  Gwynetta felt comfortable within our walls as I did with her family.  I could relax .  The ‘girl whose parents are dead’ stares I received from others were easier to deflect with her by my side.

During our senior year of high school, Gwynetta and I realized our future paths were diverging.  She would attend the state university to earn a degree in Early Childhood Development while I would enroll at Northwestern.  Scholarships and my parent’s life insurance helped me into the door.

Diligence and sincere application resulted in success.  College proved to be the challenge necessary to fuel my imagination and creative processes.  I thrived with little time for boys or frivolous antics.

Yet, once again, I became the repository for private news and tales without seeking such trust.  Why me?  Why did a wide assortment of my classmates unload confidences with me?  I remained closed-mouthed and respected privacy and locked away several journals filled with untold secrets.

Gwynetta eagerly leaped into the real world while I remained at the university to pursue an MFA.  Internships nurtured my endeavors and I flourished.

“You’re so lucky,” a young woman gushed during a group seminar.  “All the professors simply adore your work.”

At my blank expression, she faltered.  “What?  Did I say something wrong?”

I shrugged.  “It’s okay, Julie.  See, both my parents died by the time I was twelve, so I’ve never considered myself lucky.”

“Wow.  I didn’t know.  You never said anything.”

Perhaps that explained why I hardly exerted efforts to become popular with my peers.  Aspects of my life were intimately locked in my heart.  Gwynetta understood me and I missed her.

Chapters of my life had turned sometimes in a positive direction, sometimes in a negative manner.  Coming home to Peoria felt right.  I cherished the Midwest—the changing seasons and friendly people.  Easy access to Chicago and St. Louis helped me feel rounded and secure.  Auntie Lou and Uncle Fred allowed me to nest with them until I figured out what my future held.

Auntie Lou bustled around the kitchen as I sat and chopped lettuce for the salad.  She was as transparent as glass.

“What’s on your mind, Auntie?”

She peeked at the baking chicken and stirred simmering green beans.  Satisfied, she wiped her hands on a tattered blue and white dish towel I’d given her years ago and pulled out a chair.

"Honey, Mrs. Taylor told me you’d been over to the house.”

 I looked directly into her green eyes, so like Mom’s.  “Yes, I met her out at the mailbox.  We chatted for a bit.  She told me they were moving out.”

 “Oh?  I wonder why.  They’ve rented off us for years.”

 “Mr. Taylor has found work in Cincinnati.”

 Auntie Lou clucked her tongue.  “We’ll miss them.”  She stretched to turn down the flame under the beans.  “You know, honey, I’ve been meaning to mention this.

Uncle Fred and I were only too happy to send you half the rent from the house while you were in college.  But, see, we were able to save a lot, too.  It’s yours.”

She raised both hands as I shook my head, but my determination won out.  I walked around the table to plant a big kiss on her cheek.

“Auntie, I mean for you guys to keep that.”

She put both hands to her face.  “It’s a considerable amount, sweetheart.  Oh!  The beans.”

During dinner, I watched the interchange between my aunt and uncle.  Both unspoken messages and easy banter warmed my heart.  I hoped to find true love one day, someone to feel comfortable and grow old with.  If only my parents. . .

“Susie, what shall we do about the rental income from the house now you’re home?  It’s really yours.”

I took a deep breath.  “Uncle Fred, I want the house.  I want to move in and make it my home once again.”  Words gushed forth now the dam of my emotions had broken.  “I love that house.  Even though Dad died when I was young, the house holds so many memories for me.  And I could fix up the back bedroom as my office—shelves for all my books and internet access for my computer.”

I stopped as Aunt Louisa wiped tears from her round cheeks.  “Auntie Lou, why are you crying?”

She sniffled and said, “Oh, Susie, two blocks away!  We were terrified you’d want to move to Chicago or New York or some other big city now that you’re a famous author.  Can you write from here in the Midwest?”

As I rose to put my arms around her neck, I winked at Uncle Fred as he smiled.  “I can’t think of any other place to settle.  Of course, my agent will want to meet me in the ‘big city’ once in awhile.  The pressure is already on for a sequel.”

"Where do you get your ideas?”

 I grinned.  “Well, Aunt Lou, I happen to have journals full of gems.  I just need to change a few names and places.  I can’t wait to get started.  Besides, I’ll need your help planting a garden in the Spring.”

 Uncle Fred stood.  “Do you need any money to tide you over?  It takes time to write a book, doesn’t it?”

 I laughed.  “I’m okay.  Auntie Lou always says something will turn up.”

 As we finished our delicious meal, I detected a sort of conspiracy between them.  I didn’t enjoy being kept in the dark but chattered away about various topics.

 “How’s ‘Netta doing?”  Aunt Lou asked.

 I sighed.  “Government cuts have hit her hard.  Have you visited her day care?  It’s wonderful and fills such a need in the community.  She’s put her heart and soul into this, and if she misses just one loan payment—well, I just don’t know.  Politics makes me so angry I could scream.”

 Uncle Fred said, “You should write a story about this.”

 I nodded.  “I wish I could do something. ‘Netta is close to paying it all off, but times are tough.”  I sighed again.  “More pie, Uncle Fred?”

Dishes done, I clicked off the kitchen lights and expected a quiet night of television with my aunt and uncle.  Instead, the air crackled with anxiety and excitement.

“What?”

“Come in and sit, honey.”  Auntie Lou invited.  “We need to talk.”

Uh-oh.  This could be good or bad.  I couldn’t read their expressions.  As I took a deep breath, she patted the sofa.  “Sit beside me, sweetheart.”

Eyes as wide as open windows, I sat and looked at my uncle.  I noticed he held a large metal box on his lap.  I wanted to ask, but silence seemed the better route.

He cleared his throat and said, “Your dear mother left this. . .well, actually a key to a safety deposit box in our care until you reached the age of twenty-five.”

I blinked.  My birthday had rolled around three months ago.

“You tell her, Louisa.”

“Okay.  Here goes.  Susie, your mom and I kept a secret from you.  Your great, grandpa lived in Chicago and worked for the Mob.”

“Organized crime?”  My mind whirled like a spinning top.

“Yes, Henry Sullivan was a gofer for some pretty scary crime bosses.  He was a bag man, messenger, whatever.”

“Did he kill people?”

“Oh, no, no,  At least, I don’t think so.  See, the Windy City was pretty wild back then.  The Depression, Prohibition, all that.  Anyway, Henry skimmed a little here and there, even robbed other bag men.  He squirreled away a lot of cash over the years.  A lot.”

“What happened?”

They looked at each other as Uncle Fred picked up the tale.  “He was murdered, execution style but not before he used his connections to secure his fortune by converting the cash into silver coins and stock in Caterpillar Tractor Company.  It was called Holt and Best manufacturing back then out in California but later merged.  Coming out of the Depression, CAT equipment was the only thing our country had to move earth, later build Eisenhower’s highways.”

“Susie, you look dazed,” Auntie Lou said.  “I’ve taken my share and invested wisely.  Look, honey, I know you’re thinking this money was acquired through ill-gotten gains.  But how do we return it?  To whom?  The Federal Government?  I don’t think so.  I prefer to believe you will find something good and worthwhile to. . . .”

I carefully picked up a fancy, yellowed stock certificate and shook my head.  “Uncle Fred, what is this worth?”

He shrugged.  “It changes almost hourly, honey.  I’ll teach you how to watch the markets.  I’d say these twenty silver coins would bring between five and six hundred from a respectable coin dealer.  Of course, spot silver and spot gold changes daily, too.  Now, good old Henry bought this CAT stock for a dollar a share.  You have a thousand shares worth about a hundred apiece today.  It goes up and down, honey.”

Sleep did not come easily as midnight rolled around.  As I tossed and turned, visions of blood money, my next novel, fixing up my house, and gangsters filled my  dreams.  In the morning, I stumbled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.  My hair stuck out in all directions like wheat blown by restless winds.

“Kept a big secret from me, did you?  Well, I just might have a good one up my sleeve,” I informed my now determined expression.

Tuesday evening Gwynetta fairly jumped from her red vinyl seat as I entered our favorite pizza parlor.

“Susie!  You’ll never guess!”

“Let me sit, at least.”

She laughed as her deep brown eyes sparkled.  “All day I watched the clock, dreading the time passing.  You remember I had that three o’clock appointment at the bank where I planned to grovel and debase myself to obtain an extension on the loan.”

I reached across the checkered table cloth to grab her hand.  “And?”

“Susie!  Mr. MacIntyre calmly informed me an anonymous donor had been in earlier and paid off the loan.  Can you believe it?”  Tears welled in her eyes.  “I own the building with money to spare for updates.”  She paused to sip her soda and catch her breath.  “Oh, Susie, it’s a miracle.  Think of the children, all we can do for them now.”

I squeezed her hand and grinned.  “That’s so wonderful, ‘Netta.  Beyond words.  Do you have any idea who. . . .”

"Not a clue and I don’t care.  Susie, I think I have a secret angel, don’t you?”

 I gazed across the table at the best friend I could ever hope to have.  Gwynetta Johnson had been there for me without pause through good times and bad.  I wanted to tell her, but smiled and said instead, “Yeah, we all need secret angels once in awhile, don’t we?  Pass me a slice.” DSS

 

Susan Duke of East Peoria, IL., is a retired special needs teacher whose stories have been published in many magazines and journals.  She's working on a novel, and with her husband and daughter she helps operates a self-storage facility.

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