The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

  “Dad, we’re hungry and cold,” I said. “Can we go home now?”

  “Please, Dad,” Sam and Sally chimed in.

  “Shut up!” Dad snapped his head around to give us a dirty look. “We have to stomp the shit out of the bastards who beat up Vance before they get away.” He hit the gas pedal. “We’re looking for a pickup full of drunk Navajos.”

  By this time of night, that description fit every vehicle in Gallup.

  “Vance, don’t worry—we’ll kick their asses.” Dad darted down the street, dodging drunks, parked trucks, and curbs.

  What had Vance done to get beaten so badly—and why hadn’t Dad been with him?

  Several times, Dad sped to a truck and said, “Vance, wake up. Are these the assholes who did this to you?”

  “No, Thurston, it’s not them,” Vance would say, not raising his head.

  When Dad finally gave up and drove home, he told Vance to go to the nearest hospital. The guy stumbled out of the car and puked twice as his kids silently watched. It took him forever to walk over to the driver’s side.

  Finally he nodded and drove away. How he maneuvered the car over the ruts on our street in his condition, I don’t know, but I felt worse for his kids than I did for him.

  It would be a long time before we saw any of them again.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON, I HAD TO stay late at school to retake a math test I had failed, so Sam left without me. When I got home, Dad’s brown Ford sedan was parked in front of the house. Bracing myself, I hurried inside.

  Sally was crying. “Dad’s hitting Sam in the bedroom.” She grabbed my arm. “When he walked through the door, he told Evelyn to get out.”

  The belt strap whistled as the buckle snapped against Sam’s skin again and again. I shook, knowing I was next. Sam didn’t whimper. He never did. He’s the bravest soul I’ve ever known. I’ll never understand how he took those vicious beatings without uttering a sound.

  The bedroom went quiet, and then Dad called out, “David, get in here, you little bastard. You would’ve gotten it first, but you weren’t home.”

  He opened the door, and I looked into blue eyes filled with hate. If the eyes are windows to your soul, his had descended into hell long ago. The Y vein on his forehead was in full throb, and his eyes bulged like he was being strangled. Sam slipped past Dad through the doorway, his face scrunched in pain, tears quietly rolling down his cheeks. He limped into the living room without looking at me.

  “What’d I do?” I asked. “Why am I . . .” I tried to dance away from Dad, but he yanked me by the arm. “Please. I’ll do anything . . . don’t hit me. I’m sorry . . . don’t hurt me again . . . I won’t do it again, whatever it was. Please. I promise.”

  Begging never helped. Fessing up to a mistake never did either. Lying would have been the best strategy, but I had no idea what to lie about.

  He bared his teeth and wrapped the belt around his hand to get a tight grip. “You little bastard. Shut up and take your whipping.”

  Dad dangled the buckle and swung. I squeezed my butt, hoping that would make the blood vessels hide down inside my skin, but it didn’t work. Spinning like a top, I tried to make the belt hit new areas. When it struck the same spot over and over, the blood vessels broke and the skin ached worse. It didn’t take long for the hits from the buckle to turn into a deeper pain that penetrated my bones.

  To block it out, I imagined being Mickey Mantle hitting a grand slam in the World Series, but each hit brought me back to the belt. Then I visualized being strong enough to fight back against him like Superman, but that didn’t help either. Fighting Dad would be impossible.

  When it was finally over, I collapsed on the floor. I knew I’d pee blood again.

  “Get up!” Dad yelled. “Do you know what your idiot brother did at school today?”

  “No,” I croaked.

  “Today the teacher asked the dumbass what he did this weekend, and he got up in front of the whole class and told them everything, beginning with your little escapade in the high school parking lot. They heard about Vance, including the fight with the Navajo sons of bitches. I had to go to the damn principal and deny everything.”

  “What about the trucks?” I asked.

  The Y vein had begun to fade, but now it was pulsing again. The belt fidgeted in his fist.

  “Please don’t.” I put my hands in front of my face. “What about the valve cores and potatoes?”

  “Yeah, you did one hell of a number on them all right.” Dad threw his head back and laughed. “They didn’t get a mile. Some of the trucks had to be towed.” Distracted, he seemed to forget about the beating and put his belt back on. “I told the principal you’re a mischievous little bastard, and it wasn’t my day to watch you.”

  Later that night, Sam and I looked at each other’s legs before going to bed. Mine were purple, bumpy, and swollen from my butt nearly to my calves. Sam’s were no better. It hurt to lie in bed. It hurt to move.

  I yelled at Sam for telling his teacher and class about what went on over the weekend. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Now nine years old, he always told the truth even when the consequences were painful. That would never change. It was the weirdest combination possible—Sam was devious but honest. He would do whatever I told him yet wouldn’t hesitate to tell anyone if asked about it.

  Though we were as close as brothers could be, I had stopped confiding in him years earlier about things that could get us in trouble. He didn’t believe in secrets. But I had lots of them, not just ones I needed to keep from Dad, but things I didn’t want anyone to know—not even Lonnie—mostly how I hated being a Crow.

  BY THE NEXT MORNING, EVERYONE at school had heard about Sam’s confessions. At least Lonnie could honestly say she had no clue her brother ruined the hayride. But this was one prank I didn’t want credit for. None of the teachers asked questions, but if they had, they couldn’t have gotten information from me if they’d put a stick of dynamite in my mouth.

  At the start of gym class, I opened my locker and pulled out my shorts, but then stuffed them back in. I didn’t want anyone to see my legs. When I walked outside in my jeans, my teacher, Mr. Jackson, said, “Go put on your gym shorts, David.”

  “No. I can’t.” I took a step toward the track where the rest of the kids had gathered.

  Mr. Jackson stuck out his arm to block my path. “We’re doing the fitness test today, remember?”

  “Please leave me alone. I’ll run in my jeans.”

  He marched me back into the locker room. “If you don’t change, you and I are going to the principal’s office.”

  Wrapping my arms around my chest, I stared at the ground. “I can’t. I hurt myself . . . and I bruise easily.”

  “Take off your jeans, David. Now.”

  I slowly stripped down to my underwear. Mr. Jackson’s jaw dropped and his eyes turned dark. I tried to hold back, but I lost control, an unforgivable crime in Dad’s mind, and tears spilled down my cheeks.

  “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  “No! Please, don’t say anything. Please. Dad will kill me if he thinks I snitched.”

  “Put your pants back on. You don’t have to wear shorts today.”

  Relieved, I wiped my face with my T-shirt and joined the other boys outside. Getting Dad involved with the school was the last thing I needed. In my next class, though, my teacher asked me to report to the superintendent’s office over at the high school. My classmates snickered. I felt their eyes follow me to the door. A couple of the kids whispered something about the hayride incident, but that wasn’t what this was about.

  I walked as slowly as possible to the high school thinking of what to say. Superintendent Martin and Mr. Jackson leaned against the desk, waiting for me. Mr. Jackson gave me a tense smile before he closed the door and lowered the shades.

  “Would you please pull down your jeans?” Mr. Martin asked.

  “Please don’t do this. If Dad finds out . . .”

 
“Pull them down now.” His voice was kind but firm.

  I turned around, loosened my belt and let my pants slide down to my knees. Mr. Martin gasped.

  “I told you,” Mr. Jackson said.

  “I fall down and hurt myself all the time.” I managed to steady my voice, but I couldn’t hold back the tears.

  “We don’t believe you,” Mr. Martin said. “We think an adult is hurting you.”

  “No.” I shook my head in panic. “No one is hurting me, sir. Please don’t say anything.”

  Dad couldn’t know about this. Pulling up my pants, I tried to get a grip on my crying, but couldn’t. I focused on the blue Indian head logo on the carpet and the words underneath: “Window Rock High School, Home of the Scouts.”

  “David,” Mr. Martin said, “if nothing is going on, it shouldn’t be a problem for me to call home to find out how you got injured so severely.”

  “No!” I yelled. “Dad will think I ratted. We don’t have anywhere to go. Our mom is gone. No one else wants us. I’ll wear gym shorts if you want. I’ll do anything.”

  Mr. Martin and Mr. Jackson studied me for several moments. Finally, Mr. Martin put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

  Wiping my tears on my T-shirt again, I shook my head. From that day on, I changed into gym shorts. No one in class mentioned my legs, and Dad never got called.

  CHAPTER 28

  I HAD STOPPED READING THE NEWSPAPER because we didn’t get one, and I couldn’t imagine being a paperboy in Mud Flats. At least our school had a library. But no one seemed interested in the news until Friday, November 22, 1963, when President Kennedy was assassinated. The teachers talked about his death like it was the end of the world. For the next two days, we sat in the living room watching TV almost every waking moment, but once the drama ended, everyone in Fort Defiance went back to ignoring the world outside the reservation.

  By the end of the year, Mud Flats had become more tolerable. Kids still threw rocks and Coke bottles at me, but I avoided getting beaten up most of the time. Then after Christmas vacation, I had to face a new challenge: a bilagáana named Cal, who moved to Fort Defiance from Phoenix and transferred into my class. Instead of being frightened and bullied by hogan and the trailer kids, he got some of them to join his gang.

  I couldn’t figure it out. Cal looked like an easy bully target. He had blond hair, blue eyes, glasses, and the skinniest arms and legs I’d ever seen. But he smoked Camels, chewed tobacco, drank whiskey, and always had some combination of razor blades, brass knuckles, switchblades, and guns available to him.

  “I cut up guys all the time and shoot them dead,” Cal said on the playground. “And I’ve screwed most of the eighth-grade girls behind their hogans.”

  It didn’t take him long to discover that the Crow kids didn’t have a mom and their dad wasn’t home much. One evening, after Evelyn left, we heard a voice from outside. “Open the door before I kick your ass.”

  Sam, Sally, and I had been watching television in the living room, and I ran to the front door just as Cal barged in. Since moving to Mud Flats, we never locked the door once we got home from school. He walked straight to the kitchen and within seconds found Dad’s Old Crow bourbon under the sink and took a big swig.

  “Hey—” Sam started, but I put my hand on his chest and shook my head. Cal had Dad’s violent streak and loved being in fights with weapons. Trying to save Dad’s liquor wouldn’t be worth getting stabbed.

  Cal left the bottle on the counter and went from room to room until he found change on Dad’s dresser. I followed him but was afraid to say anything. He put it in his pocket and left. The next morning, Dad hit both Sam and me for the missing quarters. If we’d told Dad about Cal, he would have whipped us harder for letting an outsider take advantage of us.

  Later at school, Cal cornered me in the bathroom. “Where does your old man keep his money? Give me at least ten dollars when I come later or I’ll hurt you bad.”

  Dad didn’t keep cash stashed in the house, but it was only a matter of time before Cal would find Dad’s rifles, rings, good clothes, and other bottles of bourbon. When Evelyn left that evening, I locked the door, feeling every bit a coward.

  Soon after, Cal appeared and knocked, but I didn’t let him in. He pounded the door and jiggled the knob. “I’ll hurt you bad if you don’t open up!” he shouted.

  I put my finger to my lips to keep Sam from yelling back. The three of us stared at each another in silence and waited. Cal shouted again, then gave the door a couple of kicks and walked away.

  The next morning at recess, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and pulled my face toward his. “I’m coming this afternoon. Let me in or else.” He pulled a switchblade from his boot and held it up to my throat. “I’ll kill you and your old man too.”

  When Sam and I got home from school, we told Evelyn.

  “Tell your father,” she said. “He know what to do.”

  I grimaced and shook my head. “I can’t. Dad would tell me to get the money and the whiskey back—and probably beat me besides. He’d want me to fight Cal and get back what he’s taken.”

  After Evelyn left, I sat in the living room, barely able to breathe. When Cal knocked, Sam and Sally scurried to their bedrooms. Opening the door slowly, I pushed against it to block him from coming inside, but he swept by me like I wasn’t there. A pack of Camel cigarettes and a lighter stuck out of one pocket in his jacket, and the other pocket bulged with something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

  “Where does your old man keep his money? Not just his loose change.”

  I followed him into Dad’s room, not answering. I couldn’t think of any way to stop him. None of my pranks and schemes had prepared me for someone like Cal.

  “He leaves change on his dresser,” he said, “but he has to keep more somewhere. Give it to me now.”

  “Get out, Cal.” I tried to sound tough as I moved between him and Dad’s closet where the guns were stored. “Dad and Lonnie will be home soon, so you better leave.”

  He reached into his pocket and whipped out a .22-caliber pistol.

  I couldn’t move.

  Smiling, he stuck the barrel to my forehead and pulled the trigger.

  I fell to the floor shaking, picturing my brain splattered all over the bedroom walls. Cal laughed and put the gun back in his pocket.

  “Next time it’ll be loaded. Tell your old man my gang will kill him too.”

  Cal left the house, and I watched him slowly walk down the street through the living room window. Even the dogs left him alone.

  “What are you going to do?” Sally asked. “He might kill you next time, and what about us?”

  I didn’t have an answer. I was still shaking, hearing the gun clicking over and over again in my head.

  Lonnie came in the door moments later, and Sally burst into tears. “Cal tried to kill David with a gun. He stole Dad’s whiskey and money,” she said between ragged breaths. “He comes every day and scares us.”

  “Come over here, you guys,” Lonnie said, and we followed her into the living room. “When Dad gets home, we’ll tell him about Cal.” She sat on the couch, and Sally snuggled next to her. “Dad will drive over to Cal’s house and talk to his mother. She’ll get him to stop bothering you, David. If that doesn’t work, Dad will schedule a meeting with Mr. Martin at school, and he’ll straighten this out.”

  Lonnie hadn’t been home for any of Cal’s visits. She didn’t have a clue. “Those are the worst ideas I’ve ever heard,” I said. “Dad will either kill Cal or beat me for not handling him myself. And the last thing I want is to get the school involved. Don’t tell anyone.” A thought occurred to me, and I was desperate enough to try it. “I have a better plan.”

  Gathering my nerve, I walked one block over to Tommy’s trailer. When his mom came to the door, her dark almond eyes widened, no doubt surprised to see the frightened look on my face.

  She smiled at me, but I didn’t smile ba
ck.

  “Is Tommy home?” I asked. “I really need to talk to him.”

  She stared at me for several seconds. “Wait here,” she said finally. I heard her say something in muffled Navajo.

  Tommy came outside right away. “Gáagii, what’s wrong?”

  “Cal pulled a . . . pulled a gun on me . . . in our house,” I stammered. “Stuck it to my head . . . and . . . and pulled the trigger. Said next time, it’d have a bullet in it.”

  “I’ll take care of him.” Tommy smiled and put his arm around me. “It’s okay.” He went back inside and turned before gently closing the door. “Don’t worry, Gáagii. I’ll get him.”

  Walking home, I felt good for the first time since meeting Cal. Like Dad, Cal understood how to intimidate and threaten, but Tommy was tougher, stronger, and more intimidating. For the first time in Mud Flats, I’d found someone who would protect me, though I couldn’t figure out why.

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER EVELYN went home, Sam, Sally, and I crouched under the living room window, sneaking careful peeks, watching for Cal to arrive. We didn’t have to wait long before he appeared at the front door. I looked out the window and saw Tommy come into view from around the corner of our house.

  “You been messing with Gáagii,” Tommy said to Cal.

  “Mind your own business.”

  Tommy raised his fists. “Gáagii is my business.”

  Cal reached for a switchblade, and Tommy slugged him in the face. In one punch, Cal lay flat on his back, blood dripping from his mouth. Tommy put his boot on Cal’s throat. When Cal tried to move, Tommy used that same foot to kick him in the ribs. Cal doubled over and groaned.

  “Mess with Gáagii again, and we’ll finish this,” Tommy said. “Now get out of here.”

  Cal gingerly rolled to his feet and walked down the road without looking back. Sam, Sally, and I watched Tommy in awe. When Cal left, I opened the door and Tommy smiled at me, bright teeth and glowing dark eyes in his broad, powerful face. “Don’t worry, Gáagii.”

  The next day on the playground, Cal formed his hand into a gun and pointed it at me. “Pow,” he said, but he never came to our house again.