Friday, 5 July 2019

HIDDEN TRUTH


The following short story I wrote is a piece of fiction that was published in the Polar Expressions anthology “Shoreline” in 2016.

THE UNWRITTEN STORY

I once lent a book on writing memoir to someone and never thought any more about it until the plain clothes policeman rang my doorbell.

After showing me his badge and confirming my name, he asked, “Do you know a Gabriella Ramirez-Langdon and a Claire Winters?”

“Um, I’ve met them a couple of times, but I can’t say I really know them.  Why?  What’s this about?”

“I’m gathering information on these two women.  May I come in and ask you some questions?” he asked, moving closer to the door.

We sat in the kitchen, facing each other.  He had a notebook and a pen in his hand.  “How did you meet these women,” he wanted to know, opening the notebook and preparing to write.

I had to think back several years.  They had arrived together each time at my writers’ group.  Gabriella I had previously met socially, when she was with her husband.  She was in her early forties, a slim dark-haired beauty, from Chile, who said she loved to write.  So I invited her to the group.  She brought Claire with her.  She was a woman in her fifties, originally from England, a fading beauty, quiet and evasive.  They first hid themselves in my kitchen, whispering and making tea together, before joining the rest of us.

“They came together to my writers’ group several times,” I told the policeman.

“Can you tell me what their relationship to each other was?” he asked.

I thought back to their first visit.  We all took turns reading our writing, our aspirations for famed publication nakedly displayed.  Gabriella read her poetry.  It needed work, because English was not her first language.  Claire read pages of flowery obfuscation, hinting she had a story to tell, but never telling it.

“I can’t write the truth,” she said.  “My ex would kill me.  He was always abusive.  We had three children together.  He got sole custody and I was hardly ever able to see them.  Now that they’re older and I try to tell them the truth, they don’t believe me.  They think I’m just histrionic, looking for attention.  I want to tell my story, but I can’t.”

We encouraged her to write it down anyhow.  We said she didn’t need to share it with anyone, but that writing it could be cathartic for her, a healing process.

“No.  No.  You don’t understand,” she said.  “He’s a very prominent person.  Very well known.  And very powerful.  Any hint at my telling the truth about what he’s done, at home and not at home, and I would be snuffed out.  Like that!” she said, as she snapped her fingers.

Gabriella sat beside her, and soothingly patted her arm, or her knee, each time Claire looked at her for validation.  It seemed that Gabriella knew what Claire was talking about.  The rest of us wanted to know, but respected her privacy.  Those who had also survived abuse waylaid her afterward, out on the street, urging her to write, or to seek professional help.

But to the policeman I only said, “They appeared to be close friends.”

“Really?  How close?” he asked me.

“Just close.  They arrived together.  They looked to each other for approval.  They made tea together in my kitchen.  They sat together.  Why?  What’s going on?  And why are you here asking me questions about them?”

“I have a book with your name and address in it.  A book on writing memoir.  What can you tell me about that book?”

“On writing memoir?” I asked.  “I lent such a book to Claire the last time she came here to the writers’ group.  I haven’t seen her or the book since.  Why?  Please tell me what the book has to do with anything.”

He leaned forward, folding his hands together on the table.  “Are you sure there’s nothing more you can tell me about them?” he asked, his direct gaze holding mine.

I sighed, and then revealed Claire had said her husband would kill her if she ever told the truth of what he had done, but that she never told us what that had been.

Finally, the policeman closed his notebook and looked at me directly.

“We found your book in a hotel room with two dead bodies identified as Gabriella Ramirez-Langdon and Claire Winters.  They were found naked, in bed together, and these deaths are suspicious.”

Now I wonder whose truth it was that did kill them.

______________________
By Lisa A. Hatton

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