Secrets are like stories. They have a beginning, a middle, and an end. They’re short, or long, or in between, and they all take on a life of their own. Some go on and on, when you’d rather they not. You can close the book anytime, but it doesn’t mean you are finished. And you may think you know where they are going, but you never know for sure until you get to the end and unravel it.
I kept secrets from Buck. I didn’t talk to him about what had happened between Murphy and me, just pretended it wasn’t there. Buck saw through it and wrote his own ending. But he only had part of the story. He’d missed out on the chapters that were about him. If I’d been open and honest, he might have seen they were there and considered them equally important. And I’d missed the signals he sent, too. Maybe I just chose to ignore them.
You know, it wasn’t only Buck’s body that was different. He was different. His eyes were dark puddles of sadness. The sparks that used to glow in them were gone. They’d sunk like heavy rocks thrown off a bridge. All that was left were ripples of who he once was and the piercing stare of who he’d become. He looked beyond me, then into me, seeing clearly what it was I wanted, wished for, and dreamed of. He saw Murphy. I thought I had him hidden, but he was there, firmly in my heart. How could love bring together so much sorrow?
The sheriff came by and brought a note they found in Buck’s shirt pocket. He said I could read it, but I’d have to give it back. It was evidence.
“Of what?” I said.
“Suicide’s a criminal offense,” he said.
“You plan on having a trial?” Verna said and snatched the note out of his hand. She offered it up to me. My fingers were trembling but I managed to hold on to it. Mama took the baby. Verna picked up Sam and coaxed Grace Annie to follow. She opened the door and motioned to the sheriff.
“Be my guest,” Verna said and pointed to the stoop. They each went down the wooden steps and out into the yard. I curled up on the sofa and unfolded the note. Buck’s voice was there on the page as soft and gentle as it was at the hospital when he said I was beautiful.
Dear Adie,
You are the blamingest girl I know. By that I mean you always feel things is yore fault. It’s your nature. That sweetness in you that always has you wanting to make things right. You got to stop doing that, okay?
This how it is: I know the baby, he’s mine. But I know some other things. I know about the letter you wrote Murphy. I snooped in his truck thinking I’d find some piece of yore clothing you left behind when you two was maybe doing what I always used to be up to. All I found is yore letter telling him why you were staying with me. It ain’t no secret how Murphy feels about you. A body have to be blind not to see the way he looks at you and they’d have to be double stupid not to notice you looking away and trying to hide the fact that you feel what he feels. It’s him wanting you and you wanting him and me wanting things different. Like a gift we’re all after, each of us hoping it’s ours.
I think you found out while I was gone what it is that makes life worth something. I figured it out, too, but I found it out too late. And you found out you didn’t wait long enough for what you wanted to show up. So now when it does, you won’t take it. You made a promise and signed it when you married me, so now you’re standing by it no matter what and won’t take the gift that’s there with yore name on it—Murphy’s gift.
It’s the one you’re supposed to have, Adie. One you’d never give yoreself. It’s the one I can give you. Your letter to Murhpy said some reasons you still love me. Love me for one last reason, Adie—a reason worth something. Love me for what I’m able to give you now, your freedom.
Luv,
Buck
I gave the letter to Willa Mae. She said a letter like that will break your heart, but only if you let it.
“If you thinks you can fix what a body’s gwine do, you got a high opinion on yoreself,” she said. “Dey’s gwine do what dey’s gwine do.”
I knew what she said was probably true. Even so, guilt stabbed me like a spike and remorse pummeled me like a sledgehammer. It wasn’t just Buck ending his life the way he did. It was this battle going on inside me. Of course, I wasn’t happy over what Buck did, but once I got over the shock of it, I wasn’t completely tore up over it, either. Truth be told, I was relieved. I didn’t like feeling the way I did, but I couldn’t hide from it. I felt like I could stand up and shoulder my future again, that I had a future worth fighting for. I could breathe in the air and not fear it would suffocate me. Buck was right. He had given me what I would never have given myself. I’m sure there are people who think he was just being a coward, that he didn’t want to live with what happened to him. I think he was just being honest. For the first time in his life he was happier letting other people be happy. Still, I wondered if he would have felt the same way if I’d been honest with him about Murphy, if I wouldn’t have kept my feelings secret, if we’d talked it over. Maybe he would have wanted to fight for me. Maybe he would have said, “Let’s give it some time.”
Maybe he wouldn’t be dead. Secrets, they’re very hard to keep, and even harder to hide. And you pay a price for them. I’ve heard folks say some secrets are best kept a secret. The dictionary says it’s something unknown. How can that be a good thing? If you don’t know a snake’s in the grass, you might step on it. And if you are standing at the edge of a cliff and you don’t know it’s there, you could walk off of it. So knowing is probably always better. Except for maybe planning a party, and even then, that’s not really a secret, it’s a surprise. There’s a difference, don’t you think?
I was almost finished with Tempe’s journal. After she lost Thomas, she took her little girl Heart and left Macon and traveled on up north of Atlanta. There she kept house for Doctor Harvey Beryl and his wife Loma. Tempe helped the doctor out one night when he was busy birthing a baby and couldn’t get away to help birth another. The old doc said Tempe had a gift, that she could coax a baby into the world with just her voice. Soon, she traveled with Doc Harvey in his wagon when he made his rounds. Together they birthed babies, set broken bones, and tended to the sick and dying. Granny Temp they called her. Heart stuck close to home, her only playmates the doctor’s son Will and his two school chums. They knew Heart was a bit slow in the head but didn’t seem to mind her none or the fact she wasn’t white. She played in the stream and romped in the woods with them, a nearly white-skinned Negro girl tagging along after three older white boys.
• • •
There weren’t any more pages in the journal! All that was left were the ragged edges fastened in the binding of what was once there. It about drove me crazy.
“What happened to the rest of the diary, Willa Mae?”
“Dey’s gone. Dey’s tore out and burned,” she said.
“But—”
“Best we lets it be,” she said and tucked Grace Annie into her bed. I put the baby in his cradle and picked up Sam. Mama and Verna were down at the funeral home seeing about a service for Buck.
“But I just have to know what happened—”
“The words be on them pages cause lots of sorrow. Best they never be on them pages. I lost ’bout everything I had ’cause they was.”
“It’s driving me crazy not knowing,” I said.
“Oh, dey’s better things to be crazy on,” she said and turned the light out. “Bes’ you forgits about it, ’cause I can’t be talking ’bout dat.” I followed her out of the new bedroom Murphy had built onto the cabin and heard his truck pull up into the driveway.
“Don’t says nothing ’bout this to Murphy,” Willa Mae said and patted her lips with the side of her finger. She took Sam from my arms and walked out onto the porch.
“Your daddy be’s here for you,” she said and bounced him on her hip. He grinned and clapped and wiggled to get down. She walked down the steps and placed him on the gravel. He toddled over to Murphy and stretched out his arms. Murphy scooped him up.
“Where’s Adie?” he said. “She okay?” He brushed past Willa Mae and bounded up the steps to the door, while I finished making up a plate of okra and tomatoes for supper.
“Adie?” He snapped the door open and we nearly collided.
“How you doing? You alright?” he said.
“I’m fine,” I said, but I wasn’t. Secrets, they were all around us, fixing to build walls between us. I could feel my shoulders getting heavy again. Maybe it wasn’t Buck’s disability that had caused them to feel that way before. Maybe it was living with lies.