It's Just a Game

Seven: The Problem with Lying

Sometimes a moment of clarity will strike when you least want to see things as they are. There are only a few feet, between Pauline's place and Eleanor's place. The walk from one place to the other took less than a minute and yet, halfway between the two, I had that unwanted moment of clarity.

There was something about the September afternoon sun, the scent of flowers that I remembered from some distant past, and the feel of the late summer breeze on my face that did it. For a moment, I was ten years old again and heading back into the house with the reluctancy of having to stop playing and deal with family duty. Wash my hands, set the table, smile, be a nice little girl.

I was aware of my mother's intense need for me to pass her older sister's muster, just as it had been a part of every summer of my childhood. Eleanor would come home for the summer and make Mom feel inadequate. At least, that is how it seemed to me. I resented my aunt for that then, and I realized in this moment, that I still resented her for making my mother feel diminished.

How dare she? Mom was then and still is a much better person than her selfish sister.

I was forth-eight years old and stuck somewhere in time past. An overwhelming homesickness washed over me. Homesickness for a home I didn't have but I missed it anyway. I wanted to go to Gayle's and have coffee and cookies. I wanted to avoid reality and making decisions.

I was unable to move forward and make the most simple, and essential, decision. I was hiding out under my mother's wing rather than face going back to a job that had failed me or that I had failed. I was avoiding trying to figure out what went wrong and why. I did not want to know where the failure came from. Did I fail my congregation or did the congregation fail me?

I won't go into the tedious description of cocktail hour with Eleanor and my parents or the too-early and too-large supper. I won't even attempt to explain the difference between supper and dinner. Not right now anyway. After the obligatory tidying up after the meal, I did what I always do, I lied. I suppose I could resort to my old terminology and say I fabricated.

I fabricated my story knowing full well it only compounded the issue. I pretended that I knew I was onto something at Pauline's. All this ultimately meant was that sooner or later I would have to sit down and explain that the murder was all in my aunt's mind. There was no foul play involved in Pauline's death. People do sometimes just give up on life.

All I wanted to do was get away from these people and be by myself. I poured myself a glass of water from the kitchen tap and drank it slowly, to have an excuse not to answer their questions. Drinking water, even slowly, does not take long.

"I'm on a roll and I want to get this done as quickly as possible. I've decided to stay here overnight so I can work. I think Bernadette will be very pleased with what I've gotten done so far."

It was nothing but babble. "Yes, I'll be home for coffee and breakfast in the morning."

"You can't sleep in a dead woman's house," Eleanor said.

"Of course, I can. She has a spare room."

"What if the murderer comes back?"

I covered my face with my hands. I had to conceal the irritation on my face. Deep breaths, Millie. Deep breaths. See what I mean about fabricating stories only causing more problems. The imaginary murderer was not going to sneak in and strangle me in my sleep.