Never Tell A Lie

by Gail Schimmel

  Usually my dad would tread carefully, but his mood is heavy like a blanket on him.

  ‘No,’ he says, sitting down next to Django. ‘I don’t.’

  Django gets such a shock that he laughs. ‘What?’ he says.

  I step towards them, as if to stop the conversation. Django looks at me, and I shrug.

  ‘Granpops is in a bad mood,’ I say.

  My dad nods. ‘I am,’ he says. ‘Terrible mood. But that doesn’t change it. I don’t miss Travis.’

  I wonder if I should say something to comfort or reassure Django, the same lie I always tell about how much I miss him; anything. But I hold back. For a long moment, Django stares at my dad, who in turn is staring at the TV.

  Then Django smiles. ‘I don’t miss him either,’ he says, and leans against my dad. ‘You’re almost never in a bad mood, Granpops,’ he says. ‘I guess your hip is really sore.’

  My dad snakes his arm around Django. ‘You’re a good boy, lad,’ he says. ‘And my hip is sore. But you know what? I’m also being an old grump. Rude to your mom and Nelly, who are only trying to help.’ He looks at me. ‘Sorry, Mare,’ he says. He starts to say something more, and then shrugs. ‘Never mind,’ he says. ‘I’ll sort my nonsense out in my own head, and then talk to you.’

  I’m a bit mystified, but both of them seem more cheerful than before, and Joshua is coming for dinner, so I go to the kitchen to start cooking. My kitchen is small, with old-fashioned wooden cupboards. I painted the cupboards in a fit of home-improvement, and for a while I felt very proud of them. I bought new curtains, and the room made me feel happy. But I used the wrong paint for the wood, and it’s showing wear sooner than it should have. I need to repaint; I think with some of that fancy chalk board stuff.

  As I take the chicken out of the fridge and start getting it ready for the oven, I’m thinking about cooking with my dad when I was a child. Something about preparing meals for him, and having him live with us, has triggered memories of my childhood: the hours spent at his workshop, me doing my homework in the little space that he used as an office, and then wandering out and helping him with his work – at first handing him spanners and screwdrivers, but as I got older, doing more and more. By the time I was eighteen, I could probably have quite justifiably called myself a mechanic. There is very little that I don’t know about how to fix a car, a skill that has had its uses over the years.

  Travis hated that I knew so much about cars and he knew nothing. He wouldn’t let me touch his car, said that I would mess it up. But he wasn’t above letting my dad fix it for free. Apparently my dad was good enough. I sigh and try to capture the memories again . . . the smell of oil and petrol, the familiar clank of tool against part, and the gentle hum of my father’s voice, talking or humming or singing.

  In the kitchen, things were less smooth. When my mother left, my father’s cooking skills extended to bacon and eggs. So he had to learn enough to feed me. And while he could take an engine apart and put it back together, things like the anatomy of a chicken or the cooking time of potatoes floored him. We ate underdone potatoes with overdone steak, or burnt potatoes with dismembered chicken, or mushy rice with hard peas. At about fourteen, I threw him out of the kitchen, made him pay for me to do a cooking course, and took over.

  Of course, we both hated the way people nodded wisely, as if this was the natural order of things – of course young Mary should be in the kitchen and poor Sean should be spared the burden, was the attitude of the many women from the church who came around, even years later, to ‘check in’ on us. ‘Doing their good deeds,’ my dad would say gruffly. ‘Can’t hold it against them that we’re the local charity.’ When I got older, and Dad started dating, I realised that the women had not been doing good deeds. All those nice Catholic ladies had been making a play for handsome and abandoned Sean Wilson, who’d had eyes for no one since Lorraine left. He was like some sort of obstacle that they all had a go at – without success for many years.

  I peel the potatoes and prepare a salad, which I will dress when we eat. I stuff the chicken, because I know Joshua loves that, and it’s easy enough, and I prepare some Brussels sprouts, which Django has a most peculiar affection for.

  I wonder what my father is worried about; what is putting him in a bad mood. I hope it’s not anything from the past. I hope it’s not my fault. And then I switch to worrying about Django. The situation cannot continue. I need to find a way to make him happier. To help him look forward and not backwards at a past that is completely imaginary, where he has a loving father, a past built on the foundation of my white lies. Maybe, I think, and the thought strikes me so hard that I have to stop chopping and lean against the counter; maybe I should marry Joshua and give Django what he imagines for real. I have to hold my hand against my heart to stop it beating, so clearly can I picture this idea, this alternate reality.

  My dad comes limping into the kitchen as I’m standing there, my hand on my heart.

  ‘Need any help?’ he says.

  I start to laugh. ‘From an old man with a gammy hip who can’t cook?’

  He laughs too. ‘I could always ask Django to do it,’ he says. Then he walks over to where I am standing, and puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re okay, aren’t you, love?’

  I glance at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh Lord,’ he sighs. ‘I mean, in the end, everything’s turned out okay. We took some wrong turns, you and me. But we’ve been okay. And you’re happy now.’

  I reach up and squeeze his hand. ‘I guess I am, Dad,’ I say. ‘I mean, obviously, I’m still worried about everything in the world, but I think I’m happy.’

  ‘And what about your mom? How are you feeling about that? It was a lot for you, finding out that she was alive. I blame myself for upsetting you. I handled it all so badly for so long.’

  I think about telling him about my post, warning him that my mother might respond. But that’s not what he needs right now. He needs reassurance that everything is okay.

  ‘I’m fine, Daddy,’ I say.

  I’m rewarded with a smile.

  ‘I was just thinking about all those church ladies,’ I say. ‘You used to tell me they were doing charity visiting us.’

  ‘Bunch of horn-dogs,’ says my dad, making me snort. ‘Randy she-devils trying to get into me knickers.’

  ‘Your knickers?’ I’m laughing so hard I can hardly breathe.

  ‘You heard me,’ says my father, with a wink. ‘Shameless, they were. Lorraine barely three steps down the path, and they were gathering like a crowd of hungry sex vultures.’ My father is thoroughly enjoying himself now. ‘Circling,’ he says, indicating the air above his head. ‘Circling sex vultures.’

  Django chooses this moment to walk in. ‘Joshua’s here,’ he says. ‘And what’s a sex vulture?’

  My father is quiet during supper. I don’t know if he’s in pain or if he’s still thinking about my mother. But Django seems to blossom, glancing from my dad to Joshua and back again, revelling in all the male company. I feel guilty. I always feel guilty.

  Chapter 28

  When April invites us to dinner at their house, it comes as a shock. She’s been more and more open about the difficulties that she has with Leo. The way she describes things he is a perfectionist who can never be pleased, and I had thought this might make her uncomfortable about inviting us over.

  She phones me one afternoon while I’m working on my novel, which has been slowly growing. I consider not taking the call, but in the end, I can’t be that person. I hope that she’ll be quick so I can get back to it.

  ‘You are not going to believe this,’ April says, not even pausing to say hello. ‘Leo wants me to invite you guys to dinner. A celebration of spring, he says.’

  I laugh. ‘Unbelievable,’ I say. ‘Who on earth would want to have us in their homes? The man must be mad.’

  ‘No,’ says April. ‘That’s not the bad part. That’s the lovely part. But he also wants me to invite you with Steve Tw
ala. Apparently he found him hilarious.’ She pauses. ‘Also, he likes to see himself as a man with friends of many races. It fits his image of himself. But that’s beside the point. Steve Twala. Who I just consulted about divorcing Leo. I am going to die.’

  ‘Make an excuse,’ I suggest. ‘Say that Steve isn’t a good idea or something. Suggest someone else. Or pretend to invite him but don’t. Or tell Steve to say no.’ The solutions seem endless.

  April is silent for a moment. I can almost hear the cogs ticking over the phone. I’m standing on the stoep, looking over my garden. The grass is dry; the plants are drooping.

  ‘I could never do that, Mary,’ she eventually says. ‘What if Leo finds out I lied?’

  ‘But what if Leo finds out you’d been to Steve for legal advice?’ I say. ‘That would be way worse.’

  ‘He’d kill me,’ she says, with a nervous laugh. ‘Like I’m not even sure that that’s an exaggeration.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I say, because what else can I say? ‘So make an excuse.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I can’t. I’ll ask Steve and hope like hell he’s busy. And anyway, I’m sure he’ll be ethical, right?’

  ‘I’m sure,’ I say. ‘But also, you can ask him not to say anything.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Good plan. Now look at your diary and tell me what date you can make and that you just have a gut feeling Steve Twala can’t make?’

  I laugh again. ‘You’re a nutcase,’ I say affectionately. We choose a date, and that evening April sets up a WhatsApp group – me, her, Steve and Leo. And then, after a moment, she adds Joshua as a separate person, not just my other half.

  Dinner at ours on the 23rd, she types, and adds the address. Don’t bring ANYTHING – followed by a winky face.

  I answer immediately.

  Good for us, I think. Joshua?

  Joshua’s also been briefed, so he quickly gives a thumbs-up.

  Now to see what Steve does.

  What Steve does is message April directly first. He asks her if she’s sure about this, she tells me later, and she obviously has to say ‘yes’ or she’d sound crazy. So Steve is in.

  Then the next day April sends this message:

  Decided to make the group a bit bigger and ask the other school peeps. Please pretend this is the first time you are being invited too. So they don’t feel bad. Or left out. You know.

  All followed by a laughing emoji.

  The invitation comes again, but this time with no references to what we can bring. Joshua and I once again say we’ll come, and so does Steve. When Michelle says ‘Yes,’ she asks what she can bring, and April quickly says, ‘Nothing, all covered.’ Finally, Linda, with many a sad face, says that she’s busy.

  I think about asking April to invite Stacey. It makes me a bit sad that my two good friends are strangers to each other. It makes me feel a bit guilty. But Stacey sees a lot of Marissa, who she has completely reconnected with since the reunion, so I can’t feel too bad. And with the amount that April stressed about the dinner, throwing Stacey into the mix would probably kill her.

  In the time leading up to the dinner, you would think that April has never entertained before, even though I know that she frequently does. When I want to talk about how worried I am that my dad is going home, and that he might not cope, she keeps interrupting with worries about whether the late invitees somehow intuited that they had been invited late. Only when I let her worry at it for about half an hour does she let me tell her about my father going home. Honestly, I think this is a slightly more valid worry, but after saying that she’s sure my dad will be okay, she is back to obsessing about the dinner. I also want to talk about my mom, because I haven’t had any response to my Facebook messages or the post on the website. I need to take the next step and I don’t know what that is. But April is so caught up in her dinner drama that I don’t feel able to raise it.

  When I wonder aloud, the next time we meet for coffee, what to give Django for supper because Joshua and I are going out that night, I trigger a full-scale panic about the food she will be serving at the dinner.

  ‘Well, what do you normally do?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m quite a good cook, actually,’ April says, sounding quite hysterical.

  ‘So cook something you feel comfortable with,’ I say. ‘Your go-to meal.’ I pause. ‘Actually, please definitely do that. I would love to see what your go-to meal is.’

  ‘What if you hate it?’ says April. ‘Like, what if it ends our friendship?’

  ‘Then I’m a pretty poor excuse for a friend,’ I say. ‘Truth is, I will even stay friends with you if you make people bring things.’

  We both laugh at that, and then April says, ‘Maybe that’s why Linda did it. So that no one could criticise the food, because we all brought it.’

  ‘Who would criticise the food?’ I ask. ‘Honestly, April – these people are friends, not the judges from Masterchef.’

  ‘Leo,’ says April. ‘Leo will criticise the food. He’s been all nice letting me invite my friends, so I need to get the food perfect.’

  There’s a lot in that sentence. I’m not sure where to start.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him what he wants?’ I suggest eventually. ‘Then it’s his fault if anything is wrong.’

  ‘Then he’ll be cross with me for being indecisive,’ says April. ‘He hates me being indecisive. His mother was very indecisive – you can’t blame him. And look at me, I’m terrible. No wonder I annoy him.’

  ‘You’re not annoying,’ I reassure her, although, actually, she is a bit. It’s a dinner party for old school friends, for God’s sake. This is a woman who once had the Minister of Education for dinner. I point this out.

  ‘Oh,’ says April, ‘we had that catered. Obviously. Leo wasn’t going to risk me burning the peas for the minister, was he?’ She laughs.

  ‘Do you often burn the peas?’ I ask.

  I’m starting to realise how different April’s life is from mine. I have never, ever had anything catered. Not even my wedding to Travis. I’ve never had a government minister to dinner, and neither do I expect to. But maybe, if I did, I’d have it catered. I hope, somewhere in our murky future, Joshua isn’t expecting me to cater to ministers.

  ‘Maybe you could have this catered?’ I suggest. April looks at me, and seems to seriously consider it. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I was joking! I want to eat food cooked by my lovely friend. Even if you burn the peas.’

  ‘I won’t serve peas,’ says April, mutinously, but with a twinkle in her eye. ‘Far too risky.’

  The next few days are filled with a barrage of WhatsApps suggesting various menus, all of which sound wonderful and quite beyond my capabilities, and all of which I comment upon, saying they sound great. Joshua and I start playing a game one evening, trying to predict what April will suggest next.

  ‘Lobsters stuffed with caviar-coated prawns,’ suggests Joshua. ‘Followed by fillet marinated in truffle oil.’

  ‘And then deep-fried ice cream coated in salted caramel and sweeties,’ adds Django, joining in.

  ‘No,’ I say to them. ‘I think all of those have already been rejected.’

  Joshua laughs but Django takes me seriously and his eyes grow big.

  ‘Am I coming to this thing?’ he asks. Which is a good question.

  ‘Are kids invited?’ I ask, on the dinner group, so that she notices amidst the quagmire of food WhatsApps we’ve exchanged.

  But she answers direct to me. ‘Hell. I dunno. Will ask Leo.’

  ‘You do that,’ I say to my phone. But to her, I just send a thumbs-up. After all, I, of all people, should understand what it’s like to have a marriage like hers. Only, as I keep reminding myself, Leo is nothing like Travis. And I must stop comparing them in my head, because I like Leo, and I want to keep it that way.

  On the day of the dinner party, April is a mess. She phones me four times in the morning to check the strangest things: do I think daffodils are suitable flowers for a table? (yes, I do); did she
say kids could come or not? (yes, she did); should she make the kids hot dogs? (yes, great idea); do I think red is bad luck? (I don’t ask what will be red – I just say no). Then there is silence. I presume that she is now actually getting ready, cooking and doing all the things involving daffodils and red that she needs to do. Then a last-minute flurry of WhatsApps: Linda has decided to come after all! With all the children! At the last minute! The seating plan must change! (Seating plan?) Will there be enough food? Can I bring a pack of Viennas? Never mind! Leo went to the shop!

  I am on edge by the time we leave. I’ve dressed carefully, because the message that April has given me is that dinner at her place is a very big deal, so I wear the dress that I wore on my first date with Joshua. He smiles when he sees it. I have an expensive bottle of wine, and an orchid, and some chocolates, and I have made Django shower and dress in clean clothes.

  ‘April might be a bit tense,’ I warn Joshua. ‘This dinner seems to have taken on epic proportions in her head.’

  But when April meets us at the door, she seems completely relaxed. She kisses us both, and hugs Django, who quickly runs off to play with Zach. She accepts the wine, flower and chocolate, saying, ‘Oh, what a spoil’, and she ushers us on to the patio that wraps the length of their house, where a gin bar is set up and Leo is already regaling Steve Twala with some story.

  I feel tense seeing Leo. I know more about him than I used to. I know more about their marriage and how controlling he can be. I know all the things that April tells me to explain his poor behaviour. I glance at his hair, thinking of the shampoo debacle. It does seem very clean. I’m less sure of him than I used to be. But I greet him warmly and allow him to pour me a gin.

  ‘Has she driven you mad today?’ Leo says to me, quietly, when no one else is listening.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, sipping my gin, hoping for an interruption. I don’t know if I am supposed to laugh and say that she has, or deny that I have heard from April at all.

  ‘She’s been so tense about this,’ says Leo. ‘Snapping at me. Everything has to be perfect. She threw away about five hundred rands’ worth of daffodils this afternoon and sent me out to get roses.’ He takes a sip of his gin. ‘This is a woman who has effortlessly entertained for years. I don’t get why this is different.’