The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

  And I was tired all the time. When track season started, I underperformed at workouts and stopped caring about that too. That’s when I knew something was very wrong.

  The nurse at health services said I had mono. Other than instructing me to rest, she had nothing to offer. My track coach told me to try out again in the fall, after I got well. I was crushed. Running was my life.

  My heart wasn’t into continuing at school. When spring break started, I withdrew from my classes, even though making it through college had been my singular goal since the fateful day with Gladys and Dr. Herm Davis. I left a note for Mike, saying I needed some time off to figure out some things, but I would be back. I had no real plan, so I didn’t know what else to say.

  I drove to Gallup, barely stopping to eat or rest, pushing my Rambler to the limit. I wanted to go to a place where I felt normal, where I belonged. On the edge of Route 66, I rented a cockroach-infested room at a dive motel for a month. The heater groaned and shook, but for two dollars a night, I couldn’t complain. Besides, the drunks out front seemed familiar.

  The next morning, I drove to the end of the strip on Route 66, a few blocks from Pinos. The thought of seeing Ray Pino again made me smile. Gallup looked dirtier than I remembered, or maybe the fancy, rich East made me feel that way. Near the condemned duplex where we’d lived on South Second Street, I saw a sign at a construction site: “Day Laborers Wanted, $10/Day.” I pulled over.

  When I asked for the foreman, a flabby, overweight man stirring concrete and smoking a cigarette pointed at a taller guy with a huge gut.

  “Do you need a laborer?” I asked the man with “BUCK, FOREMAN” stenciled on his shirt.

  “Yeah, we need a college-educated genius to swing a hammer and carry cinder blocks and mortar,” he said. The half-dozen Mexican workers in earshot laughed. “Show up tomorrow at seven o’clock, Professor Dumb Fuck.”

  I glanced down at my University of Maryland sweatshirt and swore under my breath. “I dropped out of college and came back home.” It was the only heavy piece of clothing I had, so I ripped it off and turned it inside out. Wearing a shirt with a college name on it was a dumb thing to do. It might as well have read, “I’m from Harvard and you’re stupid.”

  Buck cracked a surly smile. “You found yourself working with a bunch of fucking ex-cons. This is philosophy class without the tits.”

  Over the next several weeks, I asked each of them why they’d gone to prison and if the experience had changed them. Was it true what Dad said—that no one could be rehabilitated, beginning with himself?

  “Stop trying to figure us out,” said one beefy worker with tobacco-stained teeth. “All any of us wants is some ass, lots of whiskey, and money.”

  I FOCUSED ON MY JOB every day, not thinking about the future. I’d go see Mr. Pino as often as I could, and we’d laugh about the crazy stunts Sam and I pulled. Soon I felt stronger. Early one morning in June, I ran the twenty-five miles from Gallup to Fort Defiance and hitchhiked back.

  On weekends, I drove all over the reservation to fill my time, always ending up at the post office in Fort Defiance to see the Kontzes, the only real family I’d ever known. None of my close friends were around anymore. Henry, Richard, and Jim had gone off to college, and Tommy had been killed in a gang fight. When I found out Evelyn had passed away, I was heartbroken. I’d never had a chance to thank her for all she had done for me.

  Mrs. Kontz and I visited as she sorted mail, delivered a steady stream of local news to her customers, and kept her kids quiet in the back room. She asked me questions about living back east, and in the middle of my answers, she would stop sorting packages to look at me, but she wouldn’t tell me what was on her mind.

  When I stopped by in the late afternoon, Mr. Kontz was usually there, and we reminisced about 4-H and Little League. I’d tell him he was more like a father to me than my own father, but he didn’t respond, sometimes cutting off the conversation. One day near the end of August, Mrs. Kontz told me her husband wanted to talk to me alone when he got home.

  I was happy he wanted to spend time with me. I’d read recently that not only had he fought in the Pacific during World War II, but he was one of the Navajo code talkers who developed the only unbreakable code of the war. Without them, we wouldn’t have defeated the Japanese. I couldn’t wait to ask him about it.

  But when he walked through the door, Mr. Kontz barely said hello before telling me to follow him outside. In their small backyard, he pulled up two plastic chairs in the dirt. “Sit down and listen,” he said, his dark eyes fierce.

  My chest tightened as I sat across from him.

  “What you doing here?” he said. “It okay for you to visit. Work the summer. But you still here. Why? You don’t belong here. What you do without education?”

  “This is home for me.”

  “No, is not. Never was. You want to be laborer rest of your life like kids who stay on reservation? They Navajo. They live the way of their fathers, near where umbilical cords are buried. That not for you.”

  “Mr. Kontz, I—”

  He waved a hand in my face. “Go back to your people. You not Navajo.”

  “But we’re Cherokee.”

  He scoffed. “That is lie. You not Cherokee. Your father not Cherokee. He lies. You know that.”

  I shook my head. What was he saying? “We are Cherokee, and this is my home.”

  “No, David, you Anglo. Fort Defiance not your home. Gallup not your home either. I didn’t understood why you try come back in high school. You afraid of your father, afraid of who you are. Face your fear.”

  I turned away, my head spinning. Mr. Kontz must have been telling the truth. Honesty meant everything to him. He was brutal to anyone he caught in a lie.

  If I wasn’t a Cherokee, what the hell was I? And if I didn’t belong on the reservation, where did I belong? I thought that Mr. Kontz loved me like a son, that I’d be a part of his family forever. I stared at the tumbleweeds wedged into the fence, unable to speak.

  All this time, Dad had been lying and Mr. Kontz knew it. Everyone knew it—but us. I flashed back to Gilbert when he forced me to say I wasn’t an Indian. He was right. I was a liar.

  I felt sick.

  Mr. Kontz stood and reached out his hand. The conversation was over.

  I grabbed his hand and got to my feet without looking into his eyes, not wanting him to see my tears. Keeping my head down, I left the yard through the gate and hurried to my car.

  I SLOWLY DROVE BACK TO Gallup, dizzy with embarrassment and shame.

  This wasn’t the first time I’d found out that Dad had lied about his past. Among his many fairy tales was the one about being a war hero. The numbers simply didn’t add up. He enlisted in the navy in May of 1945 at age eighteen, completed basic training, and then spent three months stationed in New Orleans. The Japanese had surrendered by then.

  But this news from Mr. Kontz hurt a lot more. Mostly because I wanted to believe the lie so much.

  The millions of stories Dad had told us about suffering at the hands of the white man—all bullshit. And his insistence that we were the pale kind of Cherokees—more bullshit. And training me to be a brave warrior—bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

  It was all one BIG LIE.

  The sun was going down as I turned onto Route 66 in Gallup. Unable to face my lonely motel room, I stopped at the American Bar on Coal Avenue and ordered a beer. I was about to take a sip when an old Navajo man teetered over to the bar and leaned into me. “Buy me a beer, you son of a bitch.”

  His bloodshot eyes and boozy fumes told me he’d been drinking all day. I nodded to the bartender, and as he placed the beer on the counter, the Navajo slurred, “What is rich bastard like you doing here?”

  I was dressed in jeans, tennis shoes, and a well-worn shirt, but to him, I must have looked rich. I felt nothing but pity and sadness for him, as I did for the other drunk Navajos there. No doubt they had arrived in the morning and would remain all night.

 
It suddenly occurred to me that these were the same men Sam and I tormented with cherry bombs and firecrackers. We also knocked off their hats and pulled down their pants. These were the guys whose wives came looking for them on Sunday mornings.

  How the hell did I ever think it was funny to play tricks on them?

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

  On my way to the car, Mr. Kontz’s words swirled around in my head. “What you do without education? . . . You want to be laborer rest of your life? . . . You not Cherokee . . . You don’t belong here.”

  At that moment, I was sure of two things: I couldn’t stay there. And Mr. Kontz loved me enough to be totally honest.

  FIRST THING MONDAY MORNING, I dropped some coins into the pay phone outside the motel and called the University of Maryland Admissions Office.

  “There’s good news and bad news,” said the male voice on the line. “You officially withdrew, rather than failing out or you would not be allowed to come back to the University of Maryland. Period.” He repeated the word “period” as though he needed to discipline a bad child.

  “We accepted you because Montgomery College has a relationship with our university, but if you don’t return this fall, you’ll have to reapply for admission. Unfortunately, your grade point average, combined with your abysmal high school record, is too low for readmittance. You have a week to return to campus, fill out your class schedule, and begin classes, or you’re out.”

  “What if I decided to wait and transfer to another college later?”

  “Believe me, no other college will accept you. If I were you, Mr. Crow, I’d get back here, fast.”

  I felt a jolt of panic. “Thank you,” I said and hung up.

  If I drove hard, I could get back to Maryland in time and pretend this Gallup interlude had never happened. I hoped my fraternity would let me come back and the coach would allow me to run with the cross-country and track team again. Burning Tree had seen me come and go, and they always seemed happy to give me caddying jobs.

  I threw my few clothes in the back of the Rambler, gassed up, and headed east.

  CHAPTER 47

  AS I DROVE DOWN ROUTE 66 past all the stores and restaurants, nothing seemed the same. For years, whenever I thought of home, Gallup and Fort Defiance came to mind, but that day, all I felt was a deep sense of loss.

  It was pointless to confront Dad about the lies. He would just explode into a rage. No, it was up to me to find my own truth. But how would I begin? The Crow children had been lied to since birth—the myths had become our identity. Being a Cherokee was the only point of family pride. I had no good truths to replace the lie.

  Were we nothing more than Okie white trash?

  APPROACHING ALBUQUERQUE, I SAW THE turnoff that led to Mom’s part of town. On a sudden impulse, I took the road and made my way to her house. We hadn’t been in contact since she sent the package of pictures and the note. Surely she felt upset about that. And I wanted to apologize for being a bad son.

  When I arrived, Wally’s car was gone. As I knocked on the door, my stomach knotted, all visions of a happy reunion fading. Was this another big mistake?

  Mom answered the door, and her face torqued into a snarl. “What do you want?”

  My mouth opened and closed.

  “You’re not the only one who bleeds when they’re cut, mister. Don’t you want to know why your daddy tried to kill Cleo? And why George wanted to kill your daddy?”

  “Do we have to talk about Dad?”

  “I loved him and waited for him to get out of prison.”

  Mom’s adopted son, John, now almost seven, appeared next to her and smiled at me.

  “Do we have to talk about every bad thing that happened to you?” I returned the young boy’s smile. “It’s all we ever talk about.”

  “They should’ve given him the electric chair. He just missed it. No one knows how Cleo lived through that beating. Thurston wanted him dead. The warden told me not to take him back because he was a cold-blooded killer. But I did. And what did it get me? Nothing but trouble.”

  “Why did you mail me those pictures? That hurt a lot.”

  “Not as much as you hurt me. You had it coming, buster. You don’t want me. You only want your daddy.”

  “At least every conversation with him isn’t about the past, things I have no control over.”

  “You chose him over me.” She crossed her arms and pouted, like she was upset I didn’t pick her to be on my kickball team on the playground.

  “I’m not living with him. I’m struggling to make my way in life.”

  “I’ll forgive you if you move to Albuquerque. Wally can get you a job driving a truck. We can see each other almost every day.”

  “Mom, I can’t. I’m headed back to college.”

  “You don’t love me or you’d stay here.”

  Her definition of love was obligation and guilt. It was the only love the Crow family had to offer.

  “Can’t you forgive me? Dad treated you wrong—we all did—but we were scared kids. Can we have a relationship that isn’t based on the past?”

  “Yes.” Then she blurted a verbatim repetition of her previous complaints, as if her mind were stuck on an endless loop.

  “I don’t think you love me at all,” I said, wanting her to deny it.

  “You have a lot to answer for.” She closed the door in my face.

  Mom had no intention of ever forgiving a Crow. I went to my car and got back on the road for school, cursing myself for stopping.

  FIVE DAYS LATER, I ARRIVED in College Park, drove to a 7-Eleven, and bought two money orders—one for room and board at Sigma Chi and one for tuition. My heart hammered against my chest as I stepped into the fraternity house. If my frat brothers didn’t want me back, I didn’t know what I’d do.

  BA, our Sigma Chi comedian, a stocky, red-faced Irishman, saw me first. “David?” He jumped up from the threadbare couch. “Oh man, is that you? Hey, guys! It’s Half-Breed!” He shouted pseudo Indian war cries and threw his arms around me for a quick hug. “Where the hell have you been? We thought you might’ve been scalped.”

  My roommate, Mike, came into the common room from the kitchen. “Well, if it isn’t the aimless wanderer.” He smiled.

  “Is my bed available?” I asked.

  “Savin’ it for you,” he said.

  “Hopefully nothing died in it while you were gone,” BA said.

  Marty and Billy tumbled into the room from the stairwell, along with Tom, Tony, and Doug.

  “He lives!” Marty said, shaking my hand and throwing his other arm around my shoulder.

  “You going back on the track team?” Billy asked.

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Good to have you back, man,” Tom said, giving me a pat on the back.

  I swallowed hard, amazed at how excited everyone was to see me.

  Cher’s hit “Half-Breed” was popular then, and for days, BA, Tom, and Billy would break out into the song whenever they saw me. BA whooped his war cry and did a celebration dance as we all sang the chorus. We laughed ourselves silly.

  Of course, now I knew that the Crows didn’t have a drop of Indian blood in them. But this didn’t seem like the time to set the record straight. And they probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

  Within a week, it seemed like I’d never left. My cross-country coach let me compete for my spot on the team, and I made varsity again—barely. Mike rehired me as a busboy to help me pay for meals, and I went back to caddying at Burning Tree Country Club on the weekends.

  Mr. Kontz had been right—I’d needed to get my butt back to school. The biggest difference when I returned, though, was I realized how much I mattered to my fraternity brothers. I didn’t belong on the reservation—I belonged there, with them.

  ON PARENTS’ DAY, ABOUT A month after classes started, my fraternity brothers’ parents and siblings arrived for food, drinks, and a football game, making it one of the best days in the fall. I was on my
bed, reading a book, when Mike came into our room. “Uh . . . David . . . your dad’s looking for you.”

  I broke out in an instant sweat. “How did he find out it was Parents’ Day? I sure as hell didn’t tell him.”

  “I think all the parents got a letter. Your dad’s in dirty work clothes with grease on his face. It looks like he overhauled an engine and didn’t have time to clean up.”

  Dashing through the house, I found him on the first floor landing next to the trophy case. He was talking at a group of my brothers and their parents. It wasn’t a conversation—he was holding court.

  “Well, hot damn, look at these fancy digs, with fancy light fixtures, real carpet, indoor plumbing, fine food, and all sorts of goodies.” Dad’s ridiculous fake country accent made me boil with anger and embarrassment. “Ahhh, shit. Is this how AWWs live? You know, AWW? ‘Ain’t We Wonderful’!”

  My brothers laughed, but their parents went stiff and stepped away from him.

  I grabbed his wrist to get his attention. “Dad, please stop it.”

  “Your so-called brothers have their heads up their asses, thinking they’re better than Okies like me. They have all this fancy crap, including indoor shithouses. We never had one of those. I didn’t go to school. We didn’t have electricity, running water, or books. I always wondered how the AWWs live,” he yelled. “Now I find that my son is one of them. Ain’t that the goddamn petunias?”

  I tugged his arm to make him leave. He pulled out of my grasp and stood silent, glancing around the now empty room. The composite picture of the fraternity members on the living room wall caught his eye. He walked over, found my photo, and poked it with his grimy finger.

  “These fancy assholes pretend to be your brother. What a load of crap. Do you think they give a damn about you? You don’t really believe that shit, do you, boy?”

  “I believe you wanted to humiliate me in front of everyone and you succeeded.”