Secrets Can Kill

37

Not for the first time, I pushed my hair back as I bent over, ironing for Chuck. Not for the first time, I thought I would die from exhaustion. How many of these friggin’ shirts were left to be starched and pressed, just right, for him to wear during his trip?

Another can of spray starch. Finally, I reached the bottom of the stack. Chuck would be gone for a week to furniture market in Dallas. As our company grew, his reputation as a big buyer became well-known, so he had to look sharp. Chuck, much to my admiration, had always been very particular about his appearance. We could afford to pay someone to do the laundry; however, in his opinion, the service provided by any cleaners could in no way compare to that of his wife.

The next morning my husband and I would spend the day at Louisiana Downs in Shreveport with a company employee, Bill Atwood, who was also Chuck’s gambling and drinking buddy, so tonight was my last chance to catch up on ironing.

I heard our mantel clock strike nine. Chuck sat in front of the TV in the living room, as usual. Our children, Sarah and Kate, were in their rooms, hopefully doing homework. Sarah came into the kitchen for a glass of milk. I asked her to tell Chuck that as soon as I finished his clothes, I would join him. I always missed him when he was out of town. I was still deeply in love with my husband.

I finished the last shirt and then checked on our girls, telling them goodnight. As I approached the living room, I realized there was no light on. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw Chuck lying on the couch, TV turned off. I sensed he was awake. As I sat down in a chair nearby, I began to feel nervous. Chuck didn’t speak or move. Nervousness now felt like nausea.

Total silence, total stress. As we sat in the dark and quiet of the room, I felt a distance between us grow each second. Suddenly I felt a silent confirmation of what I had suspected for several months: something was wrong between us. Yet I was always too tired, and too scared, of an answer to question Chuck.

As I turned on a lamp, he sat up and stared straight ahead. I asked, Chuck, is something wrong?

He sat perfectly still on the couch, avoiding my eyes. Again I asked the same question—with no response.

I waited as long as I could and then said, Chuck, I know something’s wrong, and I’ve known it for quite a while.

I was fighting back tears; Chuck didn’t like for me to cry. Actually, he hated women acting like women. I waited for his answer until I thought I would burst.

In his business voice, Chuck said, Sam, when I return from Dallas, I’m moving to Buck Bluff.

Buck Bluff was the name my husband chose for our hunting lodge/future retirement home in a town an hour away. It was nearing completion after months of hard work.

My husband didn’t call me by my full name. I had always disliked his nickname for me: Sam. It had to do with the way he said it; somehow it made me feel as if he were talking to a man. I much preferred Samantha.

I could no longer contain my tears. What? Chuck, what are you talking about? Why?

He sat silently again, for too long, before saying, I’m not happy, and I haven’t been happy for a very long time, Sam.

I couldn’t catch my breath.

What? What do you mean, Chuck? You’ve never said you weren’t happy. Not even once. And you haven’t acted unhappy. Please tell me what’s wrong.

I held my breath, waiting for his answer. Finally he said, There’s no use explaining it.

No use explaining it? Chuck, you’re scaring me. Let’s talk about it. Please, Chuck. We can work it out.

I’ve already made up my mind. Talking won’t do any good; it’s too late. When I get home from Dallas, I’m moving to the Bluff. I need time to think.

The room was silent except for sobs. Eventually, without saying another word, Chuck left me alone in the living room and went to bed. When I was too tired to ask myself more questions about what was happening, I slowly returned to the kitchen to put away the ironing board. Staring out the window into the dark, I was scared.

Sometime in the early morning hours I went to bed, still crying. Chuck slept on the far edge of the mattress with his back to me.

The alarm went off at six as usual. While Chuck showered, I made his coffee and set his cup on the bathroom vanity as I had done for eighteen years. Then I cooked breakfast for the girls. I tried to calm down and dry my tears before waking Sarah and Kate.

When my daughters finished dressing and packing their backpacks, they sat down at the kitchen table with me. Chuck was exercising in our bedroom.

Momma, why are your eyes so puffy? Sarah asked the question I knew was coming.

Well, I had a rough night, kiddo. I was worrying about Grandma.

My mother, recently diagnosed as terminal, wanted to spend her remaining time at home, so my daughters knew the amount of time I spent helping my father and siblings grant her final wish.

I’m sorry, Momma. Sarah and her sister understood. After they finished breakfast, I watched sadly as my daughters boarded the school bus, Kate to junior high and Sarah to senior high.

When Chuck came to the table, I sat with him, not eating but questioning him as to what was wrong. I thought I would scream if he looked at the newspaper one minute more. Finally, Chuck repeated what he said the night before.

Sam, there’s absolutely no use talking about it.

Bill Atwood arrived to go to the racetrack with Chuck. The minute I looked at his face, I knew Bill was aware of the situation. I saw sadness in his eyes; he cared deeply for Sarah, Kate, and me.

Without looking at me, Chuck said, Sam, you can still go to the track with Bill and me.

I couldn’t believe what he said. All I could do was stare out the window. As I sat crying at our breakfast table with Bill, Chuck telephoned his comptroller at the corporate office, telling her to get him $2,000 to take to the track. I stayed home.

After another sleepless night, I stared once again out the window over the kitchen sink, this time looking for the vehicle that would haul my marriage away. As Bill carried Chuck’s luggage to the van, I stayed in the kitchen with my husband looking coldly at me.

I love you, Chuck, I choked out, but I’m not telling the girls you’re moving out. You’ll have to do that.

All right, Sam. When I get back, I’ll tell them. Bill will be with me, so after I talk to the girls, I’ll leave for the Bluff.

That was it. No I love you, no goodbye.

The rest of my day was spent crying, pacing, not eating, wondering what I had done wrong, and worrying about when Sarah and Kate returned from school. How would I make it through seven days of hiding the truth from my daughters? The only answer was to keep us as busy as possible. For four days I kept a marathon pace with the girls when they weren’t in school: shopping trips, movies, eating out, and anything else I could think of.

Chuck didn’t call home once. On the fifth day of dreading his return, I took Sarah and Kate to the mall. I didn’t want them to eat fast food again, so we had lunch in Luby’s Cafeteria. After we were seated at the table with our trays, my daughters noticed that I didn’t eat. The darkness under my eyes and the gauntness of my face caught up with me.

Kate, my youngest, spoke first. Momma, what’s wrong? You don’t eat anymore.

I repeated my standard answer when questioned by the girls during the last few days: I’m tired from worrying about Grandma.

Kate was willing to let it go at that; however, Sarah knew better.

Momma, is it Daddy?

The pressure of concealment, not only from my children but from everyone, was killing me.

Girls, when Daddy comes home, he’s moving to the lodge.

My tears flowed in Luby’s. Expressions of fear and sadness were on my daughters’ faces.

Why, Momma? Their tears fell as they asked the same question I had been asking.

I don’t know why. He won’t tell me. All he says is he’s not happy.

Sarah and Kate asked no more questions. As the three of us sat sobbing over our lunch, the beverage server stopped to ask, Do you want refills?

No, thank you, I managed to answer as I looked at her with my mascara-streaked face.

We returned home to a house that was quiet. It remained so as we waited.

Leaves were falling, and I was in love. Twenty-two years old with blue-as-the-sky eyes and waist-length straight blonde hair grown during Beatle mania, I was hoping for wifedom. A tall slender man with to-die-for hazel eyes and thick auburn hair had captured my heart. He was a man of confidence, who was determined to succeed in whatever he attempted. I had never known an outdoorsman, so Charles Mosely’s love of nature was admirable, and attractive, to me. At a younger age, he trained to be a forest ranger, living in a fire watchtower on a mountain in Oregon for six months. His knowledge of trees and plant life, along with his love of hunting and fishing, awed me. When Charles decided his income as a ranger would never be enough to satisfy his financial aspirations, he made a career change.

A ten-year-older Charles was everything I wanted in a man. I discounted the age difference, even that he bopped to the beat of Elvis, because I had always been attracted to older men. I also discounted that he was the father of a four-year-old daughter.

I worked for a wholesale furniture company in Shreveport, and so did Charles. I was an executive secretary for two vice presidents, and he was a traveling rep. The company was in several states. Charles was the Golden Boy of the company, a go-getter who strived to be the top dog, dollar wise and otherwise, in the eyes of the owner.

When Charles was in the office, I watched him from a distance. I was shocked by the break room tales about Charles and women. Apparently he had absolutely no problem bagging female game. While sitting at my desk in the long row of secretaries, I watched as he cockily walked by or sat at the order desk. I tried to hide my daily observations of him, but I thought he knew. He never approached me.

My prior jobs had been in small offices, where it was business only. Starting a new job in a large company, I wasn’t prepared for the hanky-panky going on despite the rule that employees couldn’t be personally involved. What a joke that policy was. Talk of one-night-stands and affairs was everyday entertainment. Both of my married bosses were after me until I threatened to go to the owner.

Due to his business acumen and the higher-ups’ admiration, Charles was promoted to supervise three small retail stores, one of which was local. They had been subsidized by the corporation, and each was in the red. Charles was to correct that situation. All employees knew what a step up the ladder this was for him. Many were envious.

I missed watching Charles on the sly; however, his escapades locally and in other cities were still reported in the break room. Occasionally at work I would look up from my typewriter and see Charles, who was in town reporting his findings and progress to the owner. I never spoke to him; I just watched. Immaculately dressed in suit and tie, voice of strength and confidence, head held high. I couldn’t admit to myself how much his whole ball of wax appealed to me.

As the months passed, I worked hard trying to pay my bills. I no longer had a roommate, so my budget was tight.

Late one afternoon I received an unexpected phone call at work.

Hello, Samantha, this is Charles Mosely.

The sound of his voice caught me by surprise. My mind raced as I tried to control my breathing.

Oh, hi. How are you? No further introduction on his part was necessary. I knew that voice.

Just fine. You may not know my position at the company has changed. I now overlook three retail stores that aren’t doing well, one of which is here in town. The owner, Jack Baxter, is a great salesman, but he’s not good with numbers. We need someone to straighten out the books. Would you be interested in earning some extra money?

I was so shaken by Charles’ deep, professional voice that I hesitated before answering. I definitely could use the additional income.

Well, yeah, I sure need it.

How about stopping by the store after work today? Then I can introduce you to Jack, and we can go over all the details.

After our conversation, my job performance wasn’t the best. I went through the motions but kept wondering how I would handle being in close proximity of the man whom I had watched for so long. I needed the job, but I experienced apprehension, mixed with excitement, as I anticipated our first meeting.

As I pulled into the parking lot of the small store in my new Volkswagen Beetle, I could see my hands shaking on the steering wheel. I sat in the car, brushing my hair, freshening what little makeup I wore, and trying to calm myself. Walking to the front door, I made sure my mini-skirt wasn’t hiked up.

As I walked through the showroom, my heart was pounding. In a corner of the store, I spotted Charles and a short stout man who had to be the owner. Standing side by side, they looked like Mutt and Jeff.

Charles introduced me to Jack, who gave me the friendliest, warmest smile. My shoulders relaxed as I spoke with him. He and Charles walked me to the tiny office, where they explained the accounting system. After my classes in business college, I was surprised at the state of Jack’s books. Much work was ahead for me.

We agreed that I would work Monday through Friday after my full-time job, which meant my dinner hour would be late. I was excited as I calculated how my extra income would help pay for my first car. Because I had no credit history, a friend had to cosign my loan, and I didn’t want to disappoint him.

As I started my two job life, I was relieved that my finances would improve. I looked forward daily to ending one job and starting the other. I looked forward to seeing Charles.

I had been hurt in my last relationship. Prior to being employed as an executive secretary, I worked in a law firm. Typing legal documents for the approval of my boss and having the run of the courthouse were just part of my job. As a legal secretary, I learned much about law.

One of the attorneys in the firm, James Robertson, had his own secretary. He was thirteen years older than me. Barely twenty years old, I noticed that he noticed me. It wasn’t long before our relationship went beyond employer/employee. Jim and I ended because of his indecision concerning our future. He was still my friend; he was the cosigner on my Beetle note.

It was time for me to look for another job, so I applied for my current position. My salary was good, but as a single working girl, I could always use more money. The timing on the call about a second job was perfect.

Jack Baxter and I became great friends. Almost every day we would walk together to a doughnut shop nearby. He would have coffee; I ordered Coke. As we ate our pastries, it never failed that Charles was the main topic of our conversation. My new boss was very concerned: he warned me daily during our break that Charles had his eye on me. Jack urged me to turn the womanizer down if he asked me out. Unaware of the bond that was growing between Jack and me, Charles told him about each of his sexcapades. Jack would then repeat the stories to me. Some were shocking; some were hilarious. I had only seen such scenarios on TV; I was naïve enough to think they never happened in real life. Warnings from Jack didn’t stop my anxious feelings each time I was close to the tall redhead. His standing next to me as I showed him the results of my work made me nervous.

I worked the weeks away, wondering if Charles would approach me. Eventually he did, numerous times, with my same answer of no. But one night, it was late and I was starving. He casually asked if I would like to go somewhere to grab a bite. Jack’s warnings flew out the window. I agreed to go, telling Charles that I needed to come right back to get my car because I had to be at my day job early in the morning.

As we ate Mexican food and drank beers in Island X Restaurant, we discussed general things. I avoided his eyes as much as I could; too many Charles tales made me wary.

During our ride back to Jack’s store, my thoughts were mostly of what would happen when we parted for the evening. Charles parked his big gold Oldsmobile next to my tiny blue Beetle. I thanked him for dinner and said I enjoyed our visit.

As I turned to get out of his car, saying good night, Charles said, Can’t I have a kiss?

I laughed while I thought about how to answer him. My heart said yes, but my brain said no. I was scared.

Well, OK, but just on the cheek.

By the look on his face, I could tell he was surprised to hear those words. He started laughing and tried jokingly to coerce me into a real kiss.

With a smile I kept repeating, Only on my cheek. Cheek it was.

As I drove to my second job the next day, my stomach was churning. I didn’t know how to act around Charles.

Charles was his usual business self, so I tried to focus on the bookkeeping. However, I was concerned about Jack’s reaction to my dinner date; I knew he would be upset with me.

I didn’t need to worry; apparently Charles told Jack as soon as he saw him. When Jack and I took our break, I was embarrassed he knew that I didn’t heed his warnings. But Jack was a kind man, so he didn’t lecture me. His only comment was I should be careful because he knew Charles would hurt me one day.

As Charles and I started dating regularly, he asked that I call him Chuck, as did his family and friends. We dined late in the evenings and then took long drives down roads I didn’t recognize. We always had plenty of beer in the car. Even though I disliked smoking, I loved the smell of Chuck’s matches and Marlboros. I knew I was falling in love with him despite the gossip and the warnings.

One evening while Chuck and I were in my apartment, the phone rang. I was surprised to hear the voice of my lawyer friend. As I listened to Jim explain that he was ready to get serious about us, I tried to keep Chuck from knowing who was on the phone, but he guessed. I had told him of my past relationship with an attorney.

Chuck stood before me as he said, It’s either him or me. I won’t date you if you see anyone else.

My mind was racing. I still loved Jim, but he had hurt me. However, I didn’t know exactly where I stood with Chuck. I took a risk and told Jim goodbye.

I didn’t tell anyone at my day job about my relationship with Chuck, but somehow everyone knew. Because he was rarely in the office, there seemed to be no problem concerning the personal relationship policy.

When Chuck was in town, we were together on our days off, usually on a boat. Growing up with a mother fearful of water, I was too. Chuck gently persuaded me to get in a boat, assuring me of safety with his swimming ability and a life vest. We fished several days each week on various Louisiana lakes. Occasionally we were invited to a lodge called Boone’s Bluff, which was an hour from Shreveport. Owned by our boss at the wholesale furniture company, I was impressed: I never knew hunting and fishing could be so fancy. Expensive furniture, a fully stocked bar, and a pool table were just a few of the extras. There also were guides provided to guests to make their outdoor pursuits more enjoyable. The lodge was situated on a cliff overlooking the Red River. The boat dock was only accessible by walking down a long winding walkway. Each time Chuck and I left what I considered to be an adult boys’ club, I knew I much preferred sitting in a flat bottom boat, alone with my fishing buddy.

Chuck was a great fishing teacher. He taught me how to make tight, unbreakable knots for lures; how to bait my hook with worms, crickets, minnows, or stink bait; and how to remove my catch, hopefully without getting a hook in my hand. I didn’t mind scaling fish with a spoon, but I couldn’t clean them. Chuck respected my dislike of these details, so he handled the gutting and cutting up.

I never cared if I caught a fish; I just wanted to be with Chuck. As we talked and drank beer, who caught the most fish was never an issue with me, which was a good thing because Chuck was into numbers. He was as competitive in fishing as he was in business. Most of my time was spent daydreaming while my cork bobbed in the water. Chuck would notice and shake his head when he had to tell me that I had a bite. Anytime my catch would outnumber his, he would laugh and say it was beginner’s luck. I believed him.

With time and a ton of tangles in my line, my fishing improved. With Chuck’s patience and guidance, I graduated from shallow, limb-filled water with live