White Lies
There are some people you love so much, you can't bear to confront them with the truth.
"When asked about our behavior that spring afternoon, Nana assured our mother we had been angels.
When asked about our behavior that spring afternoon, Nana assured our mother we had been angels. While mom had dropped us off with fresh packets of wildflower seeds, watering can in tow, Nana had a sudden change of plans.
“Can you believe even the wallpaper couldn’t even take it anymore? Nana said, tying up her hair uncharacteristically into a claw clip. “It finally just quit, peeled right off, and fell on the bathroom floor in a sad, orangey heap!”
“Oh, it did not, Bev.” Papa waved her off and turned to wink at the three of us. “Meet me outside girls.”
“As I live and breathe. Or at least I’m trying to.” Nana fanned herself with a ferver which had little to do with the heat.
She smiled at the three of us as she carried a box of blue and white wallpaper and tools up the stairs. “When I’m finished clearing up this mess, I’ll make us some peach iced tea.”
Papa was waiting for us out in the garage. All three of our bikes had been wiped down and their tires pumped, various colorful streamers had been uncoiled in anticipation of our arrival.
“You girls up for a bike ride?” he asked, giving his mustache a scratch.
Margaret and I glanced at each other conspiratorially. “Can we play Sin City?
Papa smirked, “I’ll go get my plans out of the truck.”
The three of us cheered in unison, “Yesssss!”
“I’ll grab the sidewalk chalk,” yelled Margaret.
Like city planners, Margie and I would draw a map of our “Sin City” using old architectural plans from papa’s plumbing days refurbishing Denny’s and Soup Plantations. Pencils tucked expertly behind our ears, we would bark our orders and Papa would use sidewalk chalk to dutifully mark the roads and create an expansive city: a gas station, a sheriff’s office and, of course, a jail. Afterwards, all he had to do was keep us hydrated amidst the afternoon heat and settle our scores. As with most of our play making, the heart of Sin City was in its theatrics and everyone had a role to play.
Margaret, having strapped on her pink helmet, knee and elbow pads, pinned her badge onto the bib of her overalls. “The Sheriff’s in town!”
“And the gas station is open for business,” said Sarah. She hung a sign on her fisher price gas pump advertising a “special deal” 17.00 dollars a gallon. As I pulled up to the pump, she flashed me a wicked smile that seemed to say: whatcha gonna do about it? I’m the only proprietor in town.
“Time to pay up.” Sarah said, holding out her hand for the fake cash we always kept in circulation.
As Sin City’s resident outlaw, I hopped on my bike to make my getaway. “Down with Fossil Fuels!” I yipped and yelled into the wind ringing my little bell, and taunting her to follow me. Margaret joined in the high speed pursuit wailing like a police siren. We chased each other round and round the house, figure-eighting in and out of the three car garage, this well worn path perhaps, slowly deepening my neural pathways for later in life when acts of rebellion would be required for survival.
Although Margaret's legs be small, they harnessed the power of the wind, and inexplicably, she was nearly gaining on me until an opportunity presented itself. I jumped the concrete steps of the porch, and flew through the forbidden shortcut of Nana’s prized Cactus Garden.
Sarah gasped, “Liar, liar pants on fire!”
“Rachel, the cactus garden is forbidden!” Margaret yelled from behind.
We all screeched to a halt and dust swirled between us. I removed my helmet. sweaty bangs stuck to my forehead. “Come on, we don’t really have to tell Nana I rode through the garden, do we?”
My sisters stood arm in arm on the other side of the cactus blooms, their heads bobbing in disapproval. “We must tell the truth, sissy!”
I rest my helmet on my hips. “Says who?”
“Grown ups,” retorts margaret.
“Oh really?” I ask. Leaning around Nana’s tallest cactus I pointed to the smoke rising from behind papa’s old white econoline.
“Hey Papa, what’s that smell?”
He stepped out from behind the van shrugging his shoulders, “Beat’s me, darlin.’ I’m just fiddlin’ with some tools.”
“See? Now who’s pants are on fire?” I turned back to my sisters with a grin. “You may be the sheriff,” I said, flicking Margaret's badge. “But I don’t see a judge around here. Besides, even a judge needs proof.”
Sarah raised her hand, “Let me be the judge, sissy!”
“First of all,” I said, pinching her nose endearingly. “Big Oil needs oversight.”
“Second of all,” Margaret added. “Who’s going to listen to a little kid?”
“Roy!” Nana yelled from the top floor window. “The toilet is running again!”
One thing was certain in my grandparents' household, when Nana called, Papa came running. He walked by us as he sorted through his old gray tool box. “Hey number one, mind going back to my van and grabbing my big red wrench?”
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“Sure thing, Papa.” I ran across the property to where Papa’s van was parked and slowly pulled on the silver handle prying open the dilapidated white door of the driver’s side. On the worn leather seat were several types of wrenches, but I also noticed his glove box was open.There were three packs of unfiltered Camels, one half empty, and butts were scattered everywhere.
My eyes were wide, I felt like a pioneer who had struck gold. This was my chance to keep Papa alive forever. As a child hearing these conversations about emphysema, cancer, congestive heart failure, this is how I really thought about it. If he smokes he dies, but if he quits, he lives. End of sentence. Sometimes, I miss that binary existence.
"My grandfather was the most terrific liar I ever knew. He fibbed fantastically and flippantly with the carelessness of a school boy and the charm of a charlatan."
Using the skirt of my dress, I scooped up my loot, cigarette butts and all and ran for the house screaming for my grandmother. She came running to the door, “Why for heaven’s sake! Are you ok?”
“Yes, I’m fine, but look what I found.” I dumped the contents of my skirt, my findings scattering all over her kitchen dinette. She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Roy!” she called for him in a tone she always used when he was in big trouble.
For years I had heard my Nana carry on about Papa’s smoking habit, yet he would swear up and down he quit years ago. My grandfather was the most terrific liar I ever knew. He fibbed fantastically and flippantly with the carelessness of a school boy and the charm of a charlatan. Most days, I would feel myself begin to believe him too.
But today was different. Today, I had proof. Being young, I was naive enough to believe a wife of thirty five years wouldn’t have evidence of a husband’s misdoings. I marched up the step stool and plopped my buns on the kitchen counter. Today, I was the sheriff, the judge, and the arbiter of truth. I needed my height to reflect my elevated position.
My grandfather shuffled down the stairs, “Good night Nurse! I’m tryin’ ta fix the toilet.” He stops when he sees the table, feeling the tension in the room.
“How do you plead?” I asked.
“Roy, how the heck did she find these?” Looking back, my Nana doesn’t look as angry as she does tired.
“Well, beats me, darlin’” He shoved his hands decidedly into his pockets. The old standby. What a crock!
“Liar!” Tears were streaming down my face.
“You see this Bev.” He points at me. “This is what makes me so Goddamn mad.”
Papa retreated to his van under the pretense of finding a different wrench. This is the only time I ever remember my grandfather using a curse word in my presence. Although he had been a sailor, he was also a man of God and a gentleman.
My grandmother pressed me to her, pulling a worn kleenex from her pocket to dry my eyes. “How’s ‘bout you go on and grab a Moon Pie from the pantry, hmmm?” She swept my thick, black hair away from my face and tied it up at the nape of my neck.
Nana had a large walk-in pantry filled floor to ceiling with colorful cans. Cans of tomato sauce, Vienna Sausages, mixed vegetables, and chunks of pineapples in their juices and syrups. There were baskets of potatoes and onions lining the brick floor, and a row of all your baking needs from Bisquick to Vermont maple syrup, or Betty Crocker cake mixes. And then there was a special aisle just within my reach of rotating Hostess and Little Debbie confectionery delights: Swiss Rolls, Cosmic Brownies, Ding Dongs, Zebra Cakes, and Moon Pies. If you were really having a day that was kicking you in the pants, I happen to have it on good authority, the top drawer of Nana’s vanity was full to the brim with Snowballs, but you didn't hear that from me.
I snagged two Moon Pies from their glass jar, walked into the garage for a Coke and Sprite from the overflow fridge, and headed outside into the mid day summer heat to Papa’s van.
At the sound of the screen door slamming shut, I saw him drop a cigarette to the ground and quickly rub it into the gravel with the toe of his old tennis shoe. A Dust Devil of smoke and debris swirled around him as I peaked around the rear of the van.
He opened the back doors and rummaged through remnants of his plumbing days to clear off a space for us to sit. I handed him his Moon Pie and Coke. Besides the rustling of the cellophane, we ate our dessert in silence in the shade of the van, sipping on our sodas, and waiting for the artificial sugar, chocolate, and marshmallow whip to bridge the small gap between us.
He was someone with whom I never needed to apologize. A man of few words himself, he simply knew how I felt, and he taught me the depth of how much can be communicated with someone in a certain kind of quiet. Most of our time together was spent in serene silence. And as I sat there overlooking Nana’s wildflower garden and basking in the second hand smoke, the intermingling of nicotine and tobacco which is still intoxicating to me today, I realized there are some people you love so dearly you can’t bear to confront them with the truth. After all, if we don’t have the lies we tell ourselves, then by god, what do we have?