The Last Best Lie

by Kennedy Quinn

  I exited the car, closing the door carefully so as not to shatter it. As I reached the bottom step of her porch, a woman the size of a tall child opened the door, her face both aged and ageless. Though heavily wrinkled, her skin glowed with health, and her deep brown eyes sparkled with the kind of self-awareness that comes of having seen enough to know that one can never see enough. Her white hair, angora-soft and plaited into a long braid, draped over the shoulder of her pink sheath dress. Thin arms ended in hands that, though peppered with age-spots, still displayed sinewy strength and long-fingered grace. Her fingertips had a pronounced spade shape, the nails short and shiny, the quintessential mistress of the piano.

  I mounted the porch hoping that an hour marinating in cigar smoke and fish stink wouldn’t be too obvious. “Ms. Brouchard?”

  With a warm smile and delicate drawl that spoke of small talk outside the Piggly-Wiggly, chit-chat by a raffle-ticket booth at the State Fair, and firm but gentle admonitions to rambunctious six-year-olds on the porch at church, she said, “Now, my dear, if you don’t call me Miss Livy, I won’t know to whom you are speaking.”

  I smiled, instantly charmed. “Yes, ma’am, I will. I hate to bother you. I’m wondering if I could ask you about a former student of yours, Adalida Thibodaux.”

  Her brows drew together, and her eyes softened. “My heavens, that’s a name I haven’t heard in many a day. But I’m afraid she passed on, oh, three years ago now.”

  “Actually, it’s as much about her father.”

  “I see. Mr. Thibodaux’s been hurt, hasn’t he?”

  I blinked. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “My dear, I’ve seen so much tragedy and death, I can recognize it in a person’s eyes. It has followed you to my porch this day.” I turned, half-expecting to see the Angel of Death, scythe and all. She chuckled. “I was speaking metaphorically, child.”

  “Oh. Of course. Sorry.”

  “Don’t you worry. Mr. Boogedy’s not behind you. My, but you spook easily. Yankee?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid so.”

  “Don’t fret. We all have our crosses to bear,” she said, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

  I broke into a wide smile, which she returned with a gentler version. Stepping back, she gestured me in. “You come in, now. I am a little old lady, so, of course, there is tea inside. And I have found the most wonderful recipe for cinnamon rolls for my bread machine. I made some this morning. We can pop them into the microwave and heat them right up.”

  I stepped in, and the rich scent of fresh baked rolls wafted over me. I could almost taste the icing drizzling over each spicy crevice. The décor of the small, neat home was equally inviting, shades of vanilla and blueberry predominating, the light of crystal lamps mutely reflected in the surface of well-polished furniture. As we cleared the door, I spotted her piano, a grand of immensity and grace. Its surface gleamed like an ebony mirror. Even more impressive was the sight above it. My mouth formed a silent oh as I gaped at dozens of small portraits suspended from the ceiling on colored ribbons.

  At least half the pictures were in black and white and most were school portraits. Every face smiled. I approached, mesmerized. “Who are all these people?”

  “Students. The old and the new.”

  Unable to resist, I reached up toward the display. My hand grazed a black-and-white in a simple silver frame that hung from a faded red ribbon. A girl gazed at me from under a soft bob of dark hair curved around pudgy cheeks. Cat-eye glasses surrounded her large eyes, and a small choker of pearls rested above her Peter-Pan collar.

  “That’s Patty-Jean Turnbout. She married Jimmy Stanslin. He owns a local hardware franchise.” Miss Livy touched a newer, silver-framed color portrait of a young man with the same pudgy face and large eyes. “Jimmy Junior when he was a boy. He’s just started his first year at Georgia State.”

  “You must have been doing this for a very, very long time.”

  She nodded somberly. “Since God was a corporal.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were—”

  She chuckled, her eyes aflame with amusement. “Older than dirt? That’s all right, my dear. I’m just teasing you. Look at this one.” She pointed to a washed-out color photo of a boy kneeling beside a golden retriever. “This rapscallion is Stevie Knox. He might be our senator next year. What a fine young man. He never practiced, but he never lied about it. Of course, the way things are in politics, his honesty might mean a short career.” She chuckled again.

  Her smile faded as she caressed a more recent picture of a woman. “Carol Simmons, forty-year-old mother of four. She started taking lessons two years ago. She was so looking forward to learning to make music. She would not let her age deter her. She was determined to show her little girls that a woman can accomplish anything if she puts her mind to it.” Her brows drew together, wrinkles carving soft furrows on her face, the light in her eyes dimming, like a bulb being draped with fine linen, the diminished glow forcing an observer to peer that much deeper, to mentally venture out of narcissistic self-awareness and focus, for one moment, on the suffering of someone other than oneself. “She died in a car accident last year. Her nephew came to the porch one day and told me. He had the same look you have now.”

  Unable to think of an appropriate reply, I looked into the forest of photographs until I found the one I sought. It was of a much younger Adalida than in the picture in Jake’s lockbox. But the nose, the eyes—Jake’s eyes—were unmistakable. I brushed away a curlicue end of the ribbon that hung in front of those joy-filled eyes.

  “Yes, that’s our Adalida,” Miss Livy said. “But that sweet child’s been gone for some time now. And her mother left us well before. I knew her better than her husband, as it was mostly she who retrieved Adalida from her lessons.” She smiled as if picturing some poignant memory. “Although, I remember many years ago, when Adalida was nine, or perhaps ten, her mother had gone to Savannah to tend a sick aunt. A terrible storm broke out in the late afternoon, and only Mr. Thibodaux could pick up Adalida. She was my last of the day. He called to say the entire police force had been called out to duty. I assured him I would be happy to care for his little girl until he arrived.”

  “She must have been so frightened.”

  “She was. But Adalida was not an anxious child by nature. She asked me to turn the chair, that one in front of the window, so that she could watch the road. And there she sat, her hands folded, patiently waiting. She knew how dangerous it was out there and that her daddy was in the middle of it. But she did not fuss. The only contrary thing she did was refuse to go to bed until he came for her. So I drifted off on the couch, and she slept in the chair.”

  “What happened?”

  “He came in about three a.m., and he was a sight: bone-tired, muddy, soaked to the skin. Oh, but when his little girl rushed to him, he picked her up and held her like she was his only salvation.” Tears filled the corners of her eyes, and she dabbed at them. “He hated sitting on my couch as dirty as he was, but I made him do so and brought him sandwiches and coffee. And when I came in from the kitchen, Adalida sat there next to him, patting his hand. Like this.” Miss Livy reached over and stroked my hand gently. “He was a strong man but so tired, close to collapsing. And his little girl comforted her daddy like she was the grown-up. I will never forget that.” She smiled at me. “Dear me, now I’ve got you doing it.”

  I wiped the corner of my eye, the scene reminding me of my own father. In his calm way, my dad had been a real man of action. With his death, my strained relationship with my mother deteriorated even further. I sniffed back the tears, pushing aside the guilt that accompanied my every thought of her these days. “Ma’am, I heard that Jake and Adalida were very close but that they fought over her boyfriend.”

  A white eyebrow rose. “Did you now?”

  I went on gently. “And that Adalida committed suicide as a result.”

  Miss Livy’s eyes flashed. “She did not! I don’
t know what truly happened, but that child would not have done that.”

  “People have killed themselves over irreconcilable relationships before.”

  Her small chin went up. “No. Not her. Not that child. Absolutely not.”

  “Did Jake feel that way too?”

  “My word, yes. He quit his job and investigated to the exclusion of all else, but nothing was found to indicate foul play. Mind you, the details of the incident were hushed, as is appropriate. She was a policeman’s daughter—a well-respected policeman. Happily, at least some news people have the good manners to mind their p’s and q’s in such a situation.”

  In my family, the latter would be considered censorship, but imagining this delicate, well-mannered pianist, who could undoubtedly reverberate the walls to the ardent rhythms of the third movement of Beethoven’s “Appassionata,” squaring off with my Great Aunt Gertrude, an endowed chair of Feminist Jurisprudence at Cornell Law School who could rev up from “free speech” to “fascist manipulation of the media” in 6.7 seconds—and not being willing to bet as to whom might win such a contest—I decided not to pursue the subject. “I see. Do you know anything about Adalida’s boyfriend?”

  “She was no longer my student by then. I don’t like to gossip, but …”

  “Please, Miss Livy. It could be important.”

  She folded and refolded her hands on her lap, as if reluctant to proceed. “Well … to be honest, my dear, I suspect that Adalida’s beau might have been a married man or some such.”

  “Why do you say that?” Curious. Fancy suspected the same.

  “There was something, how would one say, forbidden about the affair.”

  “Forbidden?”

  “Perhaps that isn’t the right word. It’s rather difficult to say since it all occurred the summer Adalida went to Chicago, three years ago.”

  “Chicago?” I said with a start. “What was Adalida doing in Chicago?”

  “She followed young Christopher.”

  “Christopher? Wait, hold on. Who’s Christopher?”

  “He was one of her best friends since childhood, although he mostly went by Chris.” Miss Livy touched a candid snapshot of a young boy, a baseball cap shading his phenomenally light blue eyes beneath which escaped short tendrils of jet-black hair. I cocked my head, staring intently at the youthful face. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something familiar about him. A second ribbon looped around the back of the picture and I brought it forward, revealing a lock of hair tied in a bow at the end. “What’s this?”

  “That lock of hair is his. It’s an old southern tradition dating back to before the War of Northern Aggression. Ladies made trinkets from their hair, jewelry and cords for necklaces. They gave locks to friends, and, of course, to their husbands to carry into battle. People even wore rings made from the hair of a dead loved one.”

  Yuck. “Um, how romantic,” I said.

  “Christopher gave me strands of his in exchange for some of mine.” Miss Livy stroked the white braid that lay across her shoulder. “Oh, my hair was much darker then.” She laughed, a twinge of girlish self-consciousness echoing in the lightness of the sound. “It made me feel absolutely foolish. But there was something about that young man. He had a way about him.”

  I smiled, enchanted. “How do you mean?”

  “He had a genuineness about him. It was as if he could hold up a magic mirror to a person that reflected the best in them, make them believe in themselves. And he was one of those rare few who could see the good in everyone.” She grinned at me, “I can see you don’t understand.”

  I tried to affect an accepting smile. “No, no, he sounds very nice.”

  “True, young Christopher had to be seen to be believed. I’ll show you.”

  She led us to the sofa before the large bay window. I took a seat on cushions of blue and cream flowers. As she sat beside me, she touched the screen of a tablet computer that sat propped on the coffee table before us. With a series of quick flicks across its face, she pulled up a video. It started in the middle of a young woman’s squeal of laughter, which abruptly ended with a high-pitched giggle and “No, stop, stop, stop, stop! I can’t hold it still.” The validity of that statement was born out by the shaky visual, initially focused on short withering grass but then swooping up to pan about a dozen sneakered shuffling feet, before finally settling on a clearly over-stimulated gaggle of teenagers. They jostled for position, mugging for the camera: boys flexing their muscles and shouldering each other out of the way as the girls struck diva poses that would make Ru Paul proud. There was nothing glamorous about any of them, however. They were dressed in torn, dusty jeans and t-shirts. Their skin, ranging from Nordic pale to almost ebony black, gleamed with sweat; faces, bodies, and clothes were streaked with dirt and paint. Despite the signs of hard labor, the energy they exuded was like a tsunami of adrenaline washing over me.

  From the background a familiar voice boomed out. My heart leapt with surprise and joy but then sunk with dismay as the memory of the current state of its owner rolled over me.

  Jake strode into view, and I gasped. I recognized the voice as he said, “Hey, pichouette, give it to Papa.” The body, however—holy crap! Was that really Jake? F. Gloria had been so right. He had changed. For one, I wouldn’t have believed Jake could ever have been more intimidating than he is now. But this younger version of my boss would have made a Special Forces drill sergeant step back: tall, lean, and square-shouldered as Captain America.

  What in God’s name had happened to him?

  Before I could evaluate further, the camera was passed off to him, and another figure came into view: Adalida. With another high-pitched laugh, she bounded in front of the camera before turning to face it. Alight with guileless joy, she blew kisses like the queen of a county fair. She wore a faded red “Cabrini High School” t-shirt and was caked with dirt and sweat. But that didn’t tamp her verve one iota. Indeed, Adalida Thibodaux was life incarnate. She had a country-girl figure, feminine and round but still firm; muscles that could lift a bale of hay but overlaid with maybe one too many beignets. Robust was the word for her—and vibrant, energetic, alive.

  And now she was dead.

  I licked my lips in thought. My Aunt Marina, an anthropologist, had studied “ghost concepts” and found a common theme among even the most widely disparate cultures. Many saw ghosts as lingering snippets of a person’s soul, forever trapped into repeating some action of profound importance to him or her: walking a turret in anxious lookout for a loved one who never returned; contentedly kneading bread for a family long since passed; or joyously leaping into a lake from which they had never emerged.

  As I watched images of Jake’s dead daughter play to the camera, face bright with heat and life, I smiled. If someday my “ghost” were immortalized as a stream of zeroes and ones stored on the cloud, swapped between servers to be recalled, at will, by the swipe of a finger, I hoped I’d be forever trapped in joy as Adalida now was.

  I rubbed the back of my neck and stole a smile at Miss Livy, who smiled back knowingly, as if having read my mind.

  I returned to the video. I couldn’t tell whether the kisses Adalida blew were meant for the camera or her father, but they elicited a low chuckle from him. “Okay, you monkeys,” he said, addressing the swirling, bouncing group of adolescents. His grumpy delivery didn’t hide the pride and affection in his voice when he said, “Settle down! It’s been a hard day’s work, and we’ve got a long drive home. So let’s get this done. Up on the steps. Let’s go! Move it!”

  The camera panned as the whooping teens leapt onto the porch of a modest house that still gleamed of drying paint. They arranged themselves into two ragged rows.

  “Boys in front!” Jake shouted. “Down on one knee. Girls in the back row.” To the groans of male protest and the taunting laughter of females, Jake added, “Quit your complaining, fellas. I promise you, life will be a whole hell of a lot better for you if you learn to give a lady her due.”


  A tall black girl slipped her hip to one side and said, “Oh, hell yes!” And then blushed and lowered her eyes, adding, “Sorry, Mr. Thibodaux. I know you don’t like swearing.”

  What?!Wow, has he changed!

  “You’re fine, Alyssa,” he said in a tolerant tone. “Okay, who’s got the sign?”

  “I do, sir!” said a male voice, quickly followed by the appearance of its owner: Chris.

  All eyes turned as a young man strode into the picture. At first glance he was a typical American teenager in the prime of his youth. He had the build of a baseball player, muscular shoulders and legs but without the bulk of a quarterback or the rangy height of a basketball player. His black hair was short, the front gelled like an ebony fence, and he was covered in paint and glistening with perspiration. But when the camera caught his face, I caught my breath. The picture had not done him justice! His eyes! I’d never seen such color before; a pale hue so distinctive they reminded me of Hera, Queen of the Greek Gods, whose peacock blue eyes could capture a mortal’s soul and hold it in eternal bliss. He may not have had the classic chiseled handsomeness of a Zach Efron, but with those eyes, Chris would have stolen the show from him easily. Yet, as he ran up the stairs, I could see what Miss Livy meant about his ability to put people at ease: the kids smiled like they’d just eaten some truly special brownies. Chris was definitely BMOC but without the cocksure bravado that would have sent nerds like I was in high school sulking resentfully into the background. I found myself really wanting to meet him.

  On reaching the top stair, he handed one edge of a white, plastic-coated sign to a short Asian boy, saying, “Evan, dude, help me out, my man.”

  Evan leapt up from his down-on-one-knee pose. Face alight with the honor of being singled out by Chris, he took one end of the sign and together they unrolled it to reveal a huge black font on a pale green background that read “Cross the Line, Build the Future.” The teens lined up behind it as Chris and Evan anchored either side.