White Lies

by Jeremy Bates

“It just popped into my head.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Catholic? Protestant?”

  “Whichever one goes to midnight Mass on Christmas.”

  She smiled. Two out of three wasn’t bad.

  “So you owned a gym,” she said, wanting to glean some more information out of him. “Does that mean you know how to box?”

  “I’m no Mike Tyson.” He held up a tattooed forearm. “I’d have to get one of these on my face if I was. But sure, I box. Started with karate, actually. Did some judo. Then got into kickboxing and boxing.”

  “A fighter? I never would have guessed.” He had the physique for it, no question. But he seemed too refined, too articulate and worldly to once have been involved in such brutal sports.

  “Don’t underestimate anyone,” he told her. “I learned that the hard way.”

  “But why fighting?”

  In a thick Rocky Balboa accent he said, “Because I can’t sing or dance.” They laughed. He asked her, “What about you? Have you always been a teacher?”

  She nodded. “I love kids. Always have.” For a moment a cloud passed in front of her sunny disposition as that nesting instinct took hold inside her once again. The one thing she wanted most in life—a child of her own—still seemed so impossibly far away.

  “Even the older ones?” Jack asked. “They don’t drive you crazy?”

  “You just have to know how to handle them. It’s not their fault they’re teenagers.” On the stereo “For What It’s Worth” finished and was followed by “Mr. Soul.” “You know what? I don’t even know where you’re from.”

  “You’re very inquisitive this morning.”

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  Jack dismissed her apology with a wave, took off his sunglasses, and jumped into his life story. He was born in Colorado to an Ojibwa mother and a Caucasian lumberjack father, who’d been a violent drunk. At the age of two, Jack was diagnosed with leukemia. For the next few years he grew up in a hospital ward where, day after day, he was subjected to the crying of mothers over their dying children. “It was pure grief,” he said, uncharacteristically subdued. “I mean, there was grief everywhere. I learned not to make friends because they would probably be dead the next day or week. But I beat the cancer. I think I must have been about five when I left the place. I was the only one in my ward who survived.”

  “God, Jack.”

  “You think it would get better after that, right? Things could only get better? Well, they didn’t. Not really. My mom and pop fought all the time. Screaming, calling the cops on each other, you name it. Sometimes it got ugly. I mean, bloody ugly. For seventeen years that’s pretty much all I heard. I’d been hearing grief all my life, I guess you could say. But if there’s a bright side to any of it, it’s that their constant fighting was the impetus that got me into karate. I needed to get out of the house. More than that, I needed to get all my anger out. The therapy became an addiction. When I got a bit older, I started getting into tournaments, some legal, some not. I made some money, opened a gym. You know the rest.”

  “I had no idea,” Katrina said, breaking the trance she’d been under. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a wink. “It was a long time ago. I was a kid. I’m as good as new now.” That trademark wink of his, she thought, was as much a part of him as his long hair and tattoos. It made an intimidating rock of a man approachable, the way a popular uncle could always break the ice with his nieces and nephews. It also summed up his outgoing personality more than any words could, and it erased any awkwardness she’d felt about pressuring him into revealing his past—a past he might want to keep private.

  “Did you like it?” she asked. “The fighting?”

  “Quick and easy answer, no. I didn’t like beating up on guys. Didn’t like the destruction. I’m a sensitive guy, believe it or not. When I saw an opponent after a fight, all bloodied up and everything, I felt bad for him, really bad. I did it because I was good at it.”

  “But you left it.”

  “Doing something you don’t like for a bit is okay, I think. You learn from it. Learn what you like and don’t like. But then you move on, take that knowledge with you, and apply it to a different situation. If you don’t, well, if you don’t that’s a little sad. You got one shot at life. Why waste it? I’d rather live my life regretting certain choices I made rather than regretting choices I never made, if you get what I mean?”

  She thought she did.

  “I have to tell you though,” he went on. “I don’t usually get caught up talking about the past. So if you have any more questions, I suggest you ask them now while I’m on a roll.”

  “Just one. Why Leavenworth? Why are you here?”

  “Like I said. I was just passing through.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He shrugged. “Haven’t decided.”

  Katrina wanted a better answer than that, but he’d just revealed so much about himself, while she’d yet to tell him anything about her past. She figured it would be best to wait for another time. And perhaps, on some level, she didn’t want him to tell her what his plans were, because there was a strong possibility, given how short a time they’d known each other, those plans didn’t include her.

  That thought shook her, hard.

  Twenty minutes later they passed a fun-looking place called Squirrel Tree Resort, then turned right onto State Route 207. They took this all the way up into Lake Wenatchee State Park, where they turned down some rutted back roads, which were definitely not made for low-riding sports cars. Eventually they pulled up to the A-frame log cabin. It was in a little disrepair, but it felt like a cabin should feel, as opposed to the multimillion-dollar cottages that were popping up all over the country—or the alpine villa, for that matter, which Jack had tried to talk her into renting.

  Jack pulled up beside a silver pickup truck parked out front, and they got out of the car. Katrina breathed deeply the fresh mountain air. She didn’t think she’d ever tire of doing that. An elderly man dressed in black cords and a black turtleneck and leaning on a polished cane limped out the front door. His thinning gray hair was cut close to the scalp, and a few liver spots stood out on his skin. He peered at them through rimless eyeglasses. Katrina’s first thought was of Steve Jobs in his last few months. “You made it,” he announced, then broke into a coughing fit.

  “We did,” Jack said, crossing the distance between them and shaking hands. “I’m Jack Reeves. This here is Katrina Burton.”

  “Howdy,” the man said. “I’m Charlie. I don’t got much time. Got to get me to a goddamn funeral. Seems like I’m going to more ‘n’ more of ‘em each year. Soon it’s gonna be me. Who’s gonna come? No one, cause they’re all fuckin’ dead. But come in, I’ll give you the tour. Don’t mind your shoes.”

  The cabin was rougher around the edges than the Internet advertisement led prospective renters to believe, but Katrina liked it. A wagon-wheel chandelier hung from the cathedral ceiling above the open living/dining room, which featured a stone fireplace, an uncomfortable-looking patched sofa, and a rocking chair with ottoman. Mounted on one wall was a stuffed deer head, its beady eyes staring off into nothingness. The kitchen contained the bare necessities: scarred fridge, ancient stove, stainless-steel sink, and two sets of cupboards. Katrina poked her head in the bathroom and discovered an unremarkable toilet and sink along with an old-fashioned, claw-footed tub, which made her think momentarily of her bathroom back in Leavenworth, and the creep who’d been looking in. A narrow flight of dangerously steep steps led to the second-floor loft. It was stuffed to capacity with a queen bed and a small night table on which sat a blinking alarm clock. The smell of old wood and old blankets hung over everything, musty but not unpleasant.

  “This little baby’s been in the family for years,” Charlie told them. “Grandpa built it, oh, say, must’ve been just after the Depression. I came up here all the time as a wee pecker, and when the
folks went knockin’ on heaven’s door, it came to me. That’s Bob Dylan, ain’t it? Anyway, it’s the only thing they left me worth two shits. I don’t got no brothers or sisters. Glad not to.” He whipped out a handkerchief to smother a coughing fit that left him looking shaky. “Fuckin’ cold,” he explained. “That’s why I’m renting. We live in Skykomish. The missus don’t want me out here in the fall or winter. No insulation. No central heating. Holy shit. Thinks I’ll get pneumonia. Get yourself pneumonia, she says, and you best go sleep in your grave ‘cause you’ll be dead soon enough. Goddamn women. Can’t stand ‘em. No offense, ma’am.”

  “None taken.” Katrina handed him the one hundred and fifty she’d withdrawn from the ATM last night.

  Charlie counted it, then frowned. “Didn’t I mention the deposit?”

  “What deposit?” Jack asked.

  “Hell if I didn’t,” Charlie said reflectively, scratching his bald head. “Can’t trust my memory no more. I need another hundred deposit. Never used to ask, but last year I rented her out to two college boys over Memorial Day weekend. Said they just wanted to do some fishin’, hikin’. I don’t care, I said. Just as long as I get my money. You know what them kids end up doin’? Havin’ a big old party. Twenty friends, I reckon. Helluva mess. Goddamn beer spilled over the floor, cigarette butts everywhere you looked, bottles behind every rock ‘n’ tree. Probably pissed wherever them little peckers wanted to, I bet. Kids nowadays got no damn respect for nothing. Not even the dead. Am I right? Sure I am. Thank the Lord they didn’t burn the fucker down. But I learned my lesson, I’ll tell you that. Don’t rent to no snot-nosed kids no more. That’s why all the questions last night.”

  “So no parties, huh?” Jack said lightly but cautiously.

  “Hell no! But you look like a respectable fella, am I right?”

  “The best.” Jack took two fifties from his wallet and gave them to the old man. “All we have in mind is a little romantic weekend. Here you go. One hundred for the deposit.”

  Charlie took the money and stuffed it in his pocket. He gave them a final, lengthy appraisal before handing over a single key and bidding farewell. He limped down to his pickup truck, hiked himself inside, and drove off with a toot of the horn.

  “Why’d you do that?” Katrina said to Jack as they watched the truck disappear into the trees.

  He looked at her. “Do what?”

  “Tell him it’s just us here? We should have told him we’re having some friends over.”

  “You heard him talk. He’s a crazy bastard. He might have told us to go to hell. Besides, what does it matter? He’s never going to know if we have people over or not. And we’re not a bunch of rowdy college kids throwing some big bender. I’ll keep an eye on everybody. Afterward I’ll make sure the cabin is spotless before we leave.”

  What he said made sense. Despite his assurances, however, a bad premonition had stolen over her, sending a chill down her spine. She eyed him speculatively.

  “It’s no big deal,” he insisted.

  “I don’t like it, that’s all.”

  “What’s not to like? Look around. Smell the air.”

  “It’s just another lie,” she said, and she almost wanted to laugh. She felt like someone waist deep in quicksand. The more she struggled to free herself, the deeper she sank.

  “You’re worrying too much,” Jack told her, taking her hand. “Everything is going to be fine.”

  Katrina hoped he was right.

  Chapter 11

  It was seven thirty p.m. and the sun was dipping behind the mountains in the west, throwing long, scarlet streaks across the sky. The yellow school bus bumped and chugged its way down a back road bordered by towering aspen and moss-covered maple trees. Inside it the atmosphere was buzzing and upbeat and expectant. The female teachers were lumped up by the driver, gossiping and chatting about whatever women gossiped and chatted about on buses. Dolly had a guitar and sometimes she would strum a few chords and get everyone singing. The men were grouped together in the middle of the bus, separated from the women, like they were at a high school dance and afraid of catching cooties. They were telling ribald jokes and popping beer cans, each trying to get a word in over the other. Big Bob was winning, commanding the most attention as usual as he reminisced over past ice-fishing trips to Lake Wenatchee.

  Zach was sitting at the very back of the bus, watching all this with an odd combination of contempt and envy. It was the feeling you got when you were looking at something from the outside in. He didn’t fit in with them, didn’t really want to, to be honest, but still felt a mild longing. He would have felt better if the not fitting in was his decision, not theirs. But whatever. They were all a bunch of country, go-nowhere hicks. He didn’t want to hang out with them anyway. He cracked open his sixth Beck’s and took a swallow. Cold and good. He’d had four before he left his house—no way was he getting on a bus with thirty people stone sober; he’d likely have one of his panic attacks inside of five minutes—and then two more on the road, including this one.

  He thought again about the phone conversation with Katrina earlier this morning. He’d been walloped by the fact she really did have a cabin. When he’d hung up, he’d been embarrassed as well—so embarrassed he’d considered not coming tonight. He’d felt how Donald Trump likely felt when the president released his birth certificate. Still, he decided to come because he couldn’t not come. His obsession with Katrina didn’t end because it turned out she hadn’t been lying. In fact, that only made his obsession stronger—because it meant she hadn’t kicked him out of the car because she thought he was a drunk and a freak. She’d genuinely taken him as far as she could.

  Did that mean it was time to finally bury the hatchet? Yes, he thought it did. Maybe then they could even become friends. And maybe if they became friends, they could become more than friends—

  In the middle of the bus, Graham Douglas stood and started making his way down the aisle toward the back. He was grabbing each seat for balance, resembling someone wading through waist-deep water. He took the seat across from Zach, leaned forward, unzipped his pants, and pissed into an empty beer bottle. “There’s no toilet on this thing, man,” he said to Zach without looking at him. “What the fuck do they expect you to do? Piss out the window?” He did up his pants, stuffed the full bottle in the crack where the seat met the side of the bus, then reached across the aisle and snagged one of Zach’s Beck’s.

  Graham worked with Monica in the Music Department and was one of the more popular teachers at the school. He sang in some garage band that apparently played the occasional gig around the state. He was older than Zach, maybe twenty-six or seven, and with his red afro, mustache, and muttonchops he was one of the ugliest fuckers Zach knew. He dressed like he was from the seventies as well, with tie-dye shirts and bell-bottoms. Zach always thought he looked like he’d just stepped out of the Fleetwood Mac lineup. He twisted the cap off the beer, took a swig, and said, “How dope is tonight going to be, Zachy-boy? Bob-O brought a couple fishing rods. See if we can’t catch some pike. You fish, Zachy-boy?”

  Zach merely shrugged. He hated that nickname. It was a dig at him, a condescending reminder he was by far the youngest teacher at the school.

  “What’s wrong, Zachy-boy? Cat caught your tongue? By the way, why the hell are you sitting way back here by yourself? We’re missing your deep philosophy shit. Seriously. You’re a whack kid, you know that? Who else knows so much about the next stage of evolution, right?”

  Graham was making fun of him. Zach would have known that even if the smug amusement wasn’t written all over Graham’s face. At a party last year, Zach had gotten pretty drunk and he’d somehow gotten sucked into a discussion about evolution with Henry Lee, a science teacher at the school. Zach had gone on about how human bodies were replaceable if not altogether obsolete, how the next step in evolution was going to be a hive-like interconnection of cyborgs in a metaconsciousness, a necessity step to out-compete the super-intelligent robots mankind will c
reate à la The Matrix. “If you can’t beat computers and robots, then join them!” he must have slurred half a dozen times. A group of teachers had formed around him, and he’d thought they were genuinely interested in what he was saying. They weren’t. They’d been mocking him, egging him on, like Graham was doing now. He discovered that the following Monday at school by the looks he got, the laughing behind his back.

  “Fuck off, Graham,” he said.

  “Whoa, man! What’s up with you? I’m telling you the real deal. We’re missing you up there. After all, we got you to thank for organizing this little shi-bam, right?”

  Zach felt a shot of panic. “What are you talking about?”

  “The RSVP thing. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” he said immediately. “Why do you think that?”

  “No one really knows her yet, except you. Hey, is she single?”

  “Who? Katrina?”

  “Does she have guns?”

  “What?”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Zachy-boy? Jugs, cannons, norks, gunzagas. Tits, Zach. What do they call ‘em on your planet? She has a thing for suits and I haven’t gotten a good look. Sexy all right. But a little prissy, if you ask me.”

  Suddenly Zach felt extremely protective of Katrina. “You don’t have a chance,” he said.

  Graham grinned, looking a bit like a clown. “We’ll see, won’t we?” He patted Zach on the shoulder, then headed back to join Bob and the others in the center of the bus.

  Zach watched him go, and all of a sudden he felt queasy and lightheaded. His eyes started to water and blur. He groped at the window and yanked down the upper pane of glass, letting in a sharp gust of wind. He breathed deeply and steadily, counting to ten, then twenty. He began to feel better again. He looked up the aisle. Thankfully no one had noticed his episode. They didn’t know he suffered from agoraphobia and panic attacks. They would have assumed he’d drunk himself silly before the party even started again.

  Assholes.

  A short time later the bus shuddered to a halt. This was accompanied by a rising buzz of excited chatter. Zach peered through the window. A small log cabin was ahead of them, facing the shadowy expanse of a lake. He grabbed his six-pack of beer, which now only had three remaining in it, and his knapsack, which contained his harder booze, then followed the noisy procession off the bus. He started toward the cabin but stopped abruptly when the cabin’s front door opened and Katrina appeared to greet everyone. Because right behind her was some macho-type guy with long dark hair and a big white smile. He hooked an arm around Katrina’s shoulder and welcomed them all to the party.