The Sundeck

“God damn you!” she screamed.  She’d never screamed like this in her entire life—she was sure of it.  Her insides felt molten, boiling, and she felt her throat scratch and tear as she railed “You fucking bastard! You son of a bitch!” she could almost taste blood.

                “Nice language, very dulcet.” His tone was cool and mocking.  Steely and unforgiving.

                How could he be so fucking calm? She felt the walls of her perfect life coming down around her, crushing her.  The humiliation. Her heart was shattered, her world spinning faster and faster out of control.  It was all she could do to keep from throwing herself off the three-story sundeck. 

                Non-chalant, he stepped up and out of the swirling bubbles of the hot tub, not bothering to conceal his lingering erection.  Not in any rush, he casually reached for a towel.  “They teach you that at charm school?”

                Her throat, sore from screaming, felt tight and constricted.  Her French-manicured fingernails were digging sharply into her palms.  “Shut the fuck up!”

                “Oh, very nice-“

                “No. No!” She cut him off, her expression murderous. “No. Don’t you say another fucking word, you Goddamned son-of-a-bitch!”

                The hum and bubble of the electric hot tub was driving her out of her skull.  She felt a thousand pinpricks, hot and cold, on the back of her neck and realized, vaguely, that the entire party three stories below had stopped dead.  Everyone was watching.  All their friends, all those people.  She was making a spectacle.

                She could hear her mother’s voice somewhere in her memory, it came rushing up now, unbidden and unwanted, to the surface of her consciousness: “Mark my words young lady, that man will bring you nothing but pain and heart-ache.  He is a lothario.  He’s a bastard.  If your poor father were alive…”  She pushed it back down, buried it forcefully.  Swallowing hard again and again, she thought she might vomit.

                “Anything else you’d like to announce to our guests—or are you quite through?”  He smiled, a cold, twisted sort of self-satisfied smirk, and waited with eyebrows raised expectantly.  When at length she made no reply he extended his hand lazily toward the hot tub.  “Come—I’m terribly sorry about all the fuss.” He purred.

                As the other woman’s hand reached to take his offered hand Velvet made a sound like an angry cat and lunged at the bastard.  She was seventeen and he was nearly forty. She was a wisp of a thing and he was a professional athlete. She was furious and frenzied, and he was dripping wet.

                Velvet clawed and scratched, she even spat and bit, and she screamed until she had no voice left.  She was infuriated that he was implacable; he brushed off her assault like he might a stray animal.  She wanted him to hit her back. She wanted to kill him or for him to kill her.

                By this time some shocked guests had mobilized and people were pulling her off him, pulling her wildly flailing limbs to a distance where they could no longer make contact with his person.

                During the scuffle the other woman made a scramble to get out of the hot-tub, but didn’t betray any embarrassment at her nudity.  Instead she looked disdainful at the interruption, and when at last a spent and sobbing Velvet collapsed on the wet deck floor, tears streaming, breaths coming in painful heaving gasps, the woman looked down in mild disgust.  Her upper lip curled in the same way it might at the sight of a squalling child or a mangy animal, and when she spoke it was in a voice as cool and dry as the vodka stingers she was well-known for favoring.

 “Someone had better calm the wretched thing down before she has a miscarriage out here on the sundeck.” And with that she placed her sunglasses atop her head and strode—perfectly arrogant and completely nude—into the townhouse and out of view.

Someone was holding her, Velvet acknowledged numbly, but she didn’t know who.  Someone was murmuring comfort, but she couldn’t place the voice.  All she could focus on was the blood pounding in her ears, the snake-like whispers of gossips hissing all around her, and him. His snide, contemptuous voice flooded her consciousness like a noxious cloud.

                She listened to their concerned party guests asking him if he was alright, should they get him some ice, would he like someone to call the police.  He was like a god to them and she was the cast-off, the fool, the spectacle.

                “No, no, no. That won’t be necessary.” He replied in his oh-so-brave and oh-so-suave baritone.  “She’s just—emotional.” He made it sound like a mental illness.  He painted her with his words as pitiable, irrational, ridiculous.

                Emotional.  This was their fucking wedding celebration, for Christ’s sake.  Velvet had thought eloping had been wonderfully romantic and deliciously exhilarating, but always regretted missing out on having a reception.  Today was supposed to be that social event in celebration of their marriage.  And it was the social event of the season. 

Velvet Calder, daughter of Mrs. Sebastian Calder and the late Sebastian Calder Esquire, and sole heiress to the Calder Appliance fortune, had been the most eligible bachelorette in the community.  She had been pursued by nearly every available man and a fair few who were considerably less than available.  With shining brunette hair swept over her flawless forehead and down to mid-back, and large heavy-lidded ethereal green eyes, men, women, young and old were naturally drawn to her. 

All her life being beautiful, elegant, and generally soft-spoken had served as effective padding, shielding her from arduous tasks, unpleasant realities and mundane labors.  She was a princess-like figure: wealthy, delicate, poised, and kind.  Never did she venture into a boutique, a salon, or a park without kind words from acquaintances, without freely offered favors from folks she knew only by sight, and without doors held open by strangers who maybe let their eyes linger over-long upon her radiant visage. 

                Nothing had, nothing could have prepared her for a moment, for a day such as this one.  Pampered, precious, preserved and petted, she had no mechanism with which she could cope, none of the weapons and armor most women had ready to deal with a situation of this sort.

                “Pull yourself together, for Christ’s sake-“ He snarled, leaning in low so the guests wouldn’t hear, “the whole town is watching.” Then, straightening back up he murmured something to the concerned crowd about pregnancy hormones and what her doctor had said about “over-reactions” and “insecurities”.  Then he left.  He sauntered into the cool of the townhouse and most of the party followed him.

                There on the elevated stage, her own personal Greek tragedy just having played out in front of a captive and cannibalistic audience of her peers, Velvet found the harsh glare of the spotlight unforgiving.  But everyone, it seemed, was less interested in her personal drama than in the celebrity status of their dashing host.  They trickled off the deck; Velvet could feel their retreating footsteps vibrating the hot boards under her thighs.  The spot-light sun was bearing down on her, scolding, blinding.

                The steady stream of softly lilting words of comfort in her ear and the gently insistent stroking of her hair and back started to come into focus.  She could hear the sounds of the party picking up again below, the distant tinkling of glasses coming together in a toast somewhere inside, and the dull murmur of group laughter joined in revelry, but she couldn’t muster any feelings about it.  She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to feel anything but exhausted ever again.

                Licking her parched lips she found them salty and hot.  Every time she closed her eyes she saw only her husband.  Her husband fucking that woman.  His wet naked back, her jungle red fingernails digging into the tanned, taut flesh.  His bare ass rising out of the water to thrust again, deeper.  Her long, smooth legs spread apart and wrapped around him.  Her husband.  Her husband’s expression of inconvenienced annoyance when she’d discovered the two of them.  Not shock, not embarrassment, and certainly not remorse, but rather a look that said he was clearly put-out that he hadn’t gotten to finish.

                “C’mon, let’s get you out of here.”

                These were the first words her addled brain managed to process from the steady stream of kindnesses being murmured to her in low tones.  Finally she looked, feebly turning her head to see who was holding her. 

                She saw his eyes first—so brilliant.  Where her husband’s eyes were closed off, mysterious and dark, these eyes were open, honest and bright with emotion.  And they were exactly her favorite shade of violet.  This thought made her smile wanly.  What a strange color for eyes, and stranger still for a man, surely. She’d worn that color to her junior prom, in a lovely taffeta off-the-shoulder number.  She realized he was smiling back.  He looked relieved.

                She swallowed hard.  She swallowed again.  Then she vomited all over his front.

                His body jerked away instinctively, but in his unwillingness to let her go he remained directly in the line of fire and waited resignedly for the ordeal to cease.  He brushed her hair back and held it away from her face.       When she was through and thoroughly mortified, she tried to apologize but had only a whisper of a voice left and felt nearly too weak to keep her head up.

                He smiled an ironic sort of smile then and said to her: “Hello.  I’m Jonah—I’m not sure we’ve met.”

                She fell in love with him immediately.

Viola Delaney Had a Terrible Secret

Viola Delaney had a terrible secret. 

But who didn’t have terrible secrets in Cedar Falls?   Every citizen over the age of twelve had some secret they were keeping, some private sins they kept hidden beneath their upper-middle-class suburban facades.  While genial Mr. Jones watered his prize-winning tomato garden he was privately thanking his lucky stars for the secret ingredients in his compost heap, and waving to his neighbor who was posting yet another Lost Dog flyer on the telephone pole on the corner.  While Old Lady Desmond sat serenely on her favorite bench at the Cedarwood Park gazebo, secure in her superiority, she hid the sordid fact that she’d murdered her sister and stolen her husband.  From the mayor (who was hiding his homosexuality), to the police commissioner (who hadn’t quite kicked the painkiller habit he’d formed while on disability two years ago), from the superintendent of schools (who hired his secretaries right out of high-school for one reason alone), to the president of the PTA (who had had three abortions before finally having little Timmy), and even the bagger at the local grocery store who liked to purposefully touch private parts of his body and then, without washing his hands, thoroughly handle your produce.  Everyone in Cedar falls had secrets, perverse, twisted, traumatic little secrets.

                Affairs, embezzlement, theft, arson, rape, murder, assault, bestiality, pornography, addiction, sabotage, molestation, blackmail, stalking, abuse, fraud- the worst sins of human nature were all represented in the idyllic and wealthy community, the chief secret being the hypocrisy. Everybody judged their neighbors, salivated for news and gossip and rumor, but each was carrying their own form of scarlet letter, emblazoned on their breast but hidden beneath their waspish normality.

                But Viola Delaney had a terrible secret and it was not so easy to hide, not anymore.  She’d done something terrible and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t take it back or make it disappear because now there was going to be a very permanent reminder of her sin.  She hadn’t been paying attention, she hadn’t been careful enough, she’d fucked up, and now it was too late to fix it, short of suicide.

                Which was an option she had of course considered frequently, being fifteen and prone to over-dramatic gestures.  Sometimes she’d imagined taking a length of rope and jumping from the balcony overlooking the great-room in their mini-mansion.  Other times she was ready to take handfulls of pretty pills from her older brother’s ample supply of prescription pharmaceuticals.  Drowning seemed the most romantic, the most serene, like those paintings and poems and that Ophelia from Hamlet, but for the life of her Viola couldn’t imagine a way to drown herself that was both elegant and effective, and not wanting to be less than lovely when found by the authorities and photographed for evidence, she abandoned the Ophelia method.

                She wished she didn’t have a thing about blood, wished she weren’t so squeamish, otherwise the slit-your-wrists-and-bleed-out-in-the-bathtub method would probably be the way to go.  It certainly looked dramatic and gothic-ly romantic.  But she doubted she could do it, go through with slicing herself open and watching the tub turn red with her own blood.  The thought of it always forced her to sit down until her knees stopped tingling and she could breathe properly again.

                Sitting now, waiting for the about-to-pass-out-feeling to pass, Viola wondered, not for the first time, about what her mother would say if she found out. When she found out.  No doubt there’d be two stages of reaction; first to the obvious news and second—to the real terrible part of the secret.  And what if other people found out?  Would it ruin her family?

                Closing her eyes and trying not to think about the ways her recklessness had put everything she loved in jeopardy, Viola was at least grateful for one side-effect of her situation.  She hadn’t had to deal with getting her period for months now, which for a squeamish girl was always a stressful and nauseating event.  Of course her mother had put her on birth control very early on to help with that… but people make mistakes… and people make choices… and people sometimes choose to forget to do what they ought to do.

                Viola took a moment to look around.  She hadn’t sat out here, alone, for probably years.  She was too old for swingsets and playing in the backyard.  But it felt sort of sweet, sort of nostalgic to be sitting on a swing in the fading daylight, it felt somewhat comforting and safe.  Some kind of songbird was warbling in the cherry tree by the driveway and over the fence she could hear the Archer boys making lightsaber sound effects with their mouths, playing pretend and having a duel.  The dull thump of her sister’s stereo upstairs underscored the sounds of her mother gathering plates and silverware for dinner inside the house. 

                It occurred to her that this was where he’d taught her to swing.  Well, taught her how to pump her legs so she could swing without having to be pushed all the time.  She remembered resenting the lesson, accusing him of not wanting to push her anymore, not wanting to spend time with her.

                He’d chuckled a little bit, but not in an unkind way, and come to kneel in the dirt before her as she pouted, arms crossed, eyes downcast, in the swing.  “Hey, hey look at me.”  His voice was gentle as he lifted her chin and made her meet his eyes.  “There’s nothing I want more than to stay out here and push you on the swing.” 

                “Then how come I need to learn how to do it by myself?” She kicked at the dirt, petulant, and tried not to let that choked-up feeling spill into tears.  She wasn’t a baby anymore.

                “Well sweetheart,” she remembered he looked sort of sad “You’re growing up.” She didn’t look at him for a moment.  When it didn’t seem like he meant to explain further she crinkled her brow. 

                “What does that have to do with anything?”  Her tone was dangerously close to having attitude, a quality she knew got her older sisters in trouble with Mom, but she couldn’t help it.  “You won’t like me when I grow up?”  She tried to sound brave but wasn’t sure if he bought it.  He could usually see right through her.

                “Of course I will!” He smiled and gathered up her small hands in his.  “I will like you and love you always.” His tone was honest, heartfelt, not condescending or patronizing like some parents sound when talking to young children.  Viola always liked that about him.  He never made her feel small. 

                “Then why, Daddy?” She couldn’t help it, a tear overflowed and rolled down her cheek.

                “Oh Vi.”  He frowned.  “You don’t need to cry, love.”  He wiped away her stray tear and she liked the way he smelled—like soap and bergamot from Mommy’s herb garden.  “I will always be here to push you if you want.  Always.”  She believed him.  “But it’s almost time for you to go to school, and guess what?  No one will push you there.”  An expression of panic and dread crept across her face and he had to look away to mask his grin.

                “What will I do?” A few hurried thoughts skittered through her brain.  Maybe she could ask a classmate to push her, maybe she could push the swing back as far as it would go and then hop on and ride it until it ran out of back-and-forth, maybe she just wouldn’t use the swings at school.

                “You’re going to need to be able to do it for yourself.” He told her conspiratorially.  “I’ll help you.”  When still she looked uncertain he finished: “I know you can do it.”

                He stood up then, and bushed off the knee of his trousers.  She held on to the swing’s chain with one hand and plucked at a stray thread on the ruffle of her skirt.  She knew he was giving her time to make her decision.  He always did that.  It was another thing she liked about him that was different from most other grown-ups.  He never forced her to do anything she didn’t want to do.  But he made her less afraid of those things and helped her see how doing the thing might not be so terrible.

                “Is it hard?”  She asked, her voice so tiny she had to repeat it again as he leaned in to hear. 

                He smiled.  “Maybe for some kids,” he told her seriously, “But not for you.”  He looked thoughtful for a moment.  “In fact, I bet we can get you swinging on your own in record time.” 

                Viola perked up then, always eager for a competition.  “Did you teach my sisters how to swing?”  Being the youngest had made her keen to rivalry.

                “Yes I did,” he conceded “but I have a feeling you are going to put them all to shame.”  He looked grave but his eyes were twinkling behind his glasses.

                She giggled.  “O.K.”  And with a nod she had consented to undertake the challenge.

                He moved around behind her and began to pull the swing back, back, back.  Just before he released her he always asked if she was ready, always gave her the chance to say ‘not yet’ or ‘higher!’  She waited until she knew he was going to ask her if she was ready and she said “Daddy, wait.”

                He’d pulled the swing so far back that her face was nearly at his eyeline.  “Hmm?’

                She looked at him a long time, at his kind, confident face.  She wasn’t sure how to ask him without sounding cowardly or baby-ish.  His eyebrows were raised, waiting for her question.  She took a deep breath.  “Will you really push me whenever I want, even if I can do it myself?”

                He pulled on the swing a placed a kiss on her forehead.  “All you have to do is ask” he murmured against her hair.  She squeezed her eyes shut in relief and excitement.  As long as she knew it wouldn’t change things too much, she was willing to take this next step.

                He pulled back and looked at her.  “Now,” his eyes narrowed and he smiled, he was in ‘coach’ mode.  “Are you ready?”

                It had been sunny that day, warm, the end of the summer.  Now, as she idly dug her sneakered toe into the well-packed dirt beneath the swing, it was spring and the air held a ghostly remnant of a winter chill.  As the sun receded it was taking its warmth.  It would be another month or so before the day’s warmth would linger into evening.

                She looked up when she heard the swoosh of the sliding glass door.  Her father stood, tray in hand, framed by the warm amber glow of the kitchen.  He stood there, indecisive, not yet in or out.  She heard the soft tones of her mother’s voice in the kitchen, though she couldn’t make out what she’d said.  Her father turned his head toward the sound and made a low reply, then stepped out onto the porch.  Swooosh.   He slid the heavy glass door closed behind him.

                He walked deliberately to the grill and set his tray down.   She watched him take the lighter and heard the snap-click of the igniter.  Click, click, click, click.  A long moment.  Again: Click, click, click, click.  And the dull pooof that meant blue flames breathed life.  The hinge creaked slightly as he closed the lid.  He didn’t turn around immediately, instead stood there, back straight, tense, for a long moment.

                Viola thought she understood.  He was in hell.  Everyone had secrets, especially in Cedar Falls, but not everyone had to endure others keeping their secrets for them.  There is something so much more imprisoning about knowing someone else holds your secret.  Having a secret could be empowering, give you an inner strength, a private fire.  But someone else knowing?  She knew he felt trapped.  Emasculated.

                She wondered if he planned on ignoring her completely.  Not say anything to her, just slip back inside the house until the grill was hot enough to cook.  Perhaps he was wondering the same thing, because he gazed into the kitchen for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time.  The sun was disappearing rapidly now, only a few red-orange steaks remained to illuminate swatches of the deck and yard. 

                Perhaps she would say something to him.  Initiate conversation.  But her voice was locked up in her throat, her tongue stubborn and thick.  The pressure of the silence pushed on her chest and eardrums and it felt a lot like being held underwater.

                At last he turned toward her, and started in the direction of the swing set.  The movement triggered the motion sensor porch light and he froze momentarily as if caught in a searchlight.  He was jumpy.  The secret was wearing on him, stretching him thin.  Continuing toward her his face was in shadow, but judging by his body language Viola could guess that his features were taut, fixed, and arranged in a false mask of casual neutrality.

                In case anyone was watching.  In case Mom were to glance out the kitchen window.

                He stopped short of the swing set by a foot or two and put his hands in his trouser pockets.  He turned his face in the direction of the Morrison’s house, leaving him in profile between her and the house.  From the kitchen window he would be the picture of relaxed dad, shooting the breeze with his teenaged daughter as she brooded on the swing.  But from her proximity to him, Viola could practically feel the tension in his sinews, almost hear the conspicuous pounding of his pulse in his veins, nearly smell the anguish, the fear, the dread.

                “How are you feeling?” he asked.  It wasn’t rhetorical. 

                “Better, I think.” The sound of her own voice sounded alien, detached, sounded like somebody else.

                He nodded slightly.  She watched his Adam’s apple jump up and down several times.  She wanted to apologize again.  She wanted to beg him to forgive her for what she’d done.  She just wanted to make it alright, to take it back, to have everything be like it was before.  But there was nothing she could say, not a single thing she could do to fix this.  She missed the way it used to be.

                “Tomorrow I am asking your mother for a divorce.” He said quietly.  He looked at the ground then, and his shoulders collapsed slightly.

                Viola felt her mouth dry up and hot pin pricks stung her eyes.  She bit her lip.  She would not allow herself to cry.  “You don’t have to do that.”  It came out a strangled whisper.

                A muscle ticked in his jaw.  “I believe it’s for the best.” 

                She could argue with him, reason with him, beg him, but she knew he wouldn’t change his mind.  The way he’d said it, she knew he’d wrestled at length with the decision and come to the only course of action that satisfied his rigid sense of honor and decency.  She knew him well enough to understand that once the path had been chosen he would not turn back, would not veer.  Unbidden, a tear escaped and rolled to her chin.

                “Daddy.”  She was too old to use that word.  But it was all she could think to say.  He finally looked at her, looked right at her.  Reflexively he moved to wipe the tear away but stopped himself, unwilling to close the distance between them.  His hand fell back, and he put a fist back into his pocket.  “I love you.”  It came out of her mouth before she could stop it.  It sounded like an excuse and like an apology all at once.  And it was woefully inadequate.

                She couldn’t read his face, couldn’t see his eyes—his glasses were reflecting the image of the swingset and the teary teenaged girl sitting lonely on the swing.  She wanted, but she wasn’t certain what she wanted.  Did she want him to say it back, or did she hope he would never say it again?  She thought now that hearing him say those words might be too much, or that they might sound false, or ironic, or flat.  But she wanted to know if he did, if he could possibly still love her after everything that she’d done.

                He inhaled slowly.  She didn’t want to hear it, she decided quickly, and cut him off before she ever knew what he intended to reply.  “Will you push me?” 

                His frame went stiff and for a moment she thought he might simply walk away.  But, as if compelled by an unseen and all-powerful force, he removed his hands from his pockets and moved around behind her.  Viola felt the slow pull-back, felt the earth fall away from her feet, and felt that old familiar flip of anticipation in her belly.  She gripped the chains a little tighter, squeezed her eyes shut and bit her lip.

                When he spoke in her ear his voice was thick, ragged.  “Are you ready?”  She knew if she looked she would see tears wet on her father’s cheeks.  She hated herself.  She nodded. 

                And he let go of the chains.  The spring air felt brisk and cleansing as she sliced down and up in that nostalgic arc.  Falling back toward earth tickled in her joints, as it always had, and she felt weightless.  And then his strong hand was there, cradling her back as she rose to the top of the arc, and then pushing her firmly away again.

                The grill was probably hot enough now.  And the sun had disappeared, the warm glow gone.  But he kept receiving her and sending her out again.  He wasn’t going anywhere.  She knew tomorrow would be different.  She guessed that when he asked her mother for a divorce everything would change irrevocably.  He would likely have to move out.  And then what would happen?  Her own secret would come out soon enough, too, and life as she knew it would never be simple or clear or safe or calm again.

                But for now she was his little girl again and that was all that mattered.