Best Kept Secrets

Makayla has been my friend for a long time, and I don’t know if I should tell her what I know. She and I met fresh out of college when we started working at the same place. We have a great deal in common in regard to tastes, priorities and fashion. Nosy and opinionated southern mothers-- who have no reservations telling you your skirt is too short or that the pork loin is overdone-- gave us something to bond over.

She married Rome before I met my husband Keane, but the guys hit it off as soon as they first met. They don’t do a lot just them, but they don’t object to getting together. Their three kids and our two are all in the same middle school. We do birthdays, patriotic holidays and regular cookouts together. We are not just friends. Our families are friends.

Rumor, more than rumor, has gotten back to me that her husband is having an affair. I know her well enough to know she won’t think of it as “an affair.” It will be seen as betrayal. She will be angry first. Her first reaction to pain is almost always anger like that time her neighbor ran over her cat. I went with her to answer the knock on the front door where Mrs. Spence stood there tearfully pointing at the lifeless Mr. Tuttles in the street next to her white Impala. Makayla let loose with a stream of profanity like water from a fire hydrant. Poor Mrs. Spence just stood there mouth open like she was trying to do her part to swallow it.

I helped Makayla bury the poor thing; and she was still angry. Two days later she called me at work. She had not gone in, “I’m stuck in bed. I can’t stop crying.” I went over to fix her and the kids something for supper because Rome was out of town.

Rome is such a great father, but he’s complained a long time about her preoccupation with everything but him. If she’d been paying attention, she probably could have seen it coming, but then she’s not been able to hear his complaints. Last September I tried one last time to help her hear.

She sat with her feet up on the couch looking through the window behind it into the back yard. The men and kids were playing cornhole. The two youngest had somehow turned it into a running game. The grill puffed white burger smoke that we could smell even inside.

“You know he loves you,” I began.

“Mmm.”

“I love Keane, but I’m not always happy with him. It’s the same with Rome. He keeps telling you he’s not happy.”

“I know. Dammit I know. What I don’t know is what to do about it.” She looked at me over the cup she clutched close to her chest. Her hair was tussled like the fringes on her denim shorts. At first glance you might thing she was just hanging out at a beachhouse, but her eyes were troubled and she looked weary.

“What does he say?”

“He says, I put him down. He says we don’t have sex enough. He says I pay more attention to the kids than to him….” She continued to talk until the subject wandered away from his complaints to hers. She didn’t feel loved. She didn’t feel like a priority. She just needed more time, “That’s what I told him; I need him to just be patient with me.”

“But he’s asking you to do something for him.”

“And I can’t alright? I can’t. Keane doesn’t complain about you. He’s not putting you down.”

I didn’t want to let her change the subject, but what I said next made it impossible to for us to talk about it anymore, “Rome needs you to do something for him.”

Her anger turned toward me, “And what do you know about what he needs?”

Outside the bean bags clumped onto the plywood boards and children squealed.

In a big city two people might be able to get around the public eye, but in a small town folks like our mothers mean secrets are seldom safe. When I first heard the rumor that Rome was seen with someone else, I couldn’t believe it. In fact, I defended him. But now multiple people are talking, and it won’t be long until she hears. So, that’s my dilemma. Do I tell Makala now? And more importantly, do I tell her it’s me?

END

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