Why We Lie

by Amy Impellizzeri

  Neither was hanging out with his friends, if I’m being honest. Which I am.

  Huck and Finn sloshed beer sloppily on our shared table while regaling me with stories about Jude intended to embarrass him, but in truth, all they did was endear him to me. I was falling fast for him. Things moved at rocket speed with Jude. And I knew it was partly because I was simply looking for a safe place to land after the whirlwind life I’d led already. But I didn’t let that dissuade me that maybe Jude Birch in fact was a safe place to land.

  It didn’t help that I started to think he’d be exactly the kind of man my mother would want me to end up with. It didn’t help that I started to think my mother was in fact responsible for us getting together. No, I mean, I still knew my mom was dead and all, but I felt like maybe she had arranged things. Through the universe, you know. Oh, I know what it sounds like. But this is what I told myself.

  Jude had had a rough couple of years himself, and yet he had landed nicely. He now shared a nice apartment with exposed brick (I can’t say for sure why the exposed brick made the apartment seem so much more grown up than it would have been otherwise), with Huck and Finn. Huck and Finn were new associates at a prominent D.C. law firm. Jude had a high profile position at the U.S. Attorney’s office in D.C. And there was a third friend from law school, Laila Rogers, who I had trouble sizing up. Even then.

  Gorgeous and looking sort of perpetually 25ish, Laila claimed to have worked on both of President Obama’s campaigns.

  “Campaigns?” I asked incredulously. “Did you just make that word plural?”

  Laila laughed me off without actually answering. She had a rigidity in her shoulders that was off-putting.

  I offered what I did for a living even though Laila didn’t ask.

  “So, I’m in fundraising for a local fledgling Foundation. The mission is bringing arts and writing programs to underserved children in the District. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Appletreese Foundation?”

  Laila looked as if she might choke. I tried to believe I was imagining it. But when she changed the subject, I gave up trying to make conversation with her and mostly observed what was happening at the table.

  Finn kept trying to put his arm loosely around Laila and she kept letting him and then shrugging him off. The way he kept at it was more lost puppy dog than assailant so I was surprised when Laila got up to use the restroom at one point, and Jude poked Finn a bit too hard. “Dude. Lay off Laila, already. She’s not ok with this. Just leave her alone, ok?”

  Finn shrugged, but I noticed he left Laila alone after that. At one point, everyone at the table shushed and pointed to a row of television sets. Donald Trump had just announced his intention to run for President that day. Jude tapped Laila’s shoulder and smiled. “I told you,” he said cryptically.

  “I can’t believe it. But then again, I can,” she responded even more cryptically, and then mouthed “thank you” before returning to the table conversation.

  After that, Laila seemed much more physically relaxed. So much so, that she leaned into Jude for a long hug as we were all leaving. She thought she was whispering, but it wasn’t that quiet. I heard pieces of her goodbye to Jude. “She’s fine and all. But I hope you know what you’re doing. She works for the goddamn Appletreese Foundation for Christ’s sake.”

  Jude laughed, “Oh come on, not for him. For Mena. You know that family is the Kevin Bacon of this town. Everyone’s connected to them by six degrees or less. Don’t hold it against her.”

  Laila rolled her eyes, leaned in, and whispered something else to him through a laugh. And this time the whispering worked. I couldn’t hear her.

  I couldn’t help myself in the Uber afterward. After all, he’d called Philomena Treese, Mena.

  “Ok. So humor the new girl. How do you know Mena?”

  “Hunh? Oh, you know, the same way everyone knows her. This town is big, but small, you know. We all worked inhouse for her Dad’s construction firm when we were still in law school. He gave me a great recommendation for the U.S. Attorney’s office. I met her around the office a few times back then.”

  Mena’s Dad, of course, was, and still is, Dominic Treese. And Mena’s Dad’s “construction firm” was, and still is, a conglomerate in the city. An enormous mega-successful and mega-profitable company with a legal department the size of a small country. It wasn’t surprising that Jude and his buddies might have cut their legal teeth there; I remembered vaguely reading about Jude starting out at Treese Construction at one point.

  “Hey. One more question. What were you and Laila high- fiving about the Donald Trump presidential campaign announcement?” Jude became more reserved. “Oh, it’s a long story. There was some talk about the Republicans offering up a different businessman candidate altogether. Someone Laila and I know and—well, let’s just say, it would have been a terrible decision. We’re both pretty relieved he’s not actually running.”

  Then he changed the subject with whiplash speed to talk about a new restaurant we should try out later in the week.

  Bored or unsatisfied with the explanation of his connection to Mena, I moved to a different target.

  “So. What’s the dynamic with Laila? Old girlfriend of one of you guys? Like, I don’t know, you, perhaps?” I giggled to make the question more casual, and less stalker-y but I knew it wasn’t really working.

  Jude did humor me, though.

  “Nah. I wouldn’t bring an old girlfriend out to meet you at our place, Gorgeous.” Jude smiled and pulled my face up for a long sweet kiss in the back of the car.

  Our place. There was nothing I didn’t love about this guy. Even then.

  I pulled away anyway.

  “Seriously, though. I don’t really feel like she warmed up to me; so if you guys do have that whole faux big brother, little sister thing going, I don’t feel like I’m cracking the code.”

  “Aby. It’s fine. Laila’s got an edge to her. She’s been through … some stuff. And we’ve been friends since law school, but honestly, that’s all it is. You don’t need to impress her any more than you need to impress Huck or Finn. Or me, for that matter.

  “Although, for the record, Aby. I’m impressed. I’m very, very impressed.

  I didn’t pull away that time.

  Chapter 6

  Although we hadn’t been sleeping in the same room at the time of the shooting, after Jude survived, we resumed our old habit of sleeping in the bed next to each other. There was a new intimacy. Jude reached under the covers for my hand each night, something he’d never done before. Each morning I awoke to him curled toward me instead of away.

  I felt a loosening in my chest after the shooting. I was less angry with Jude. I was intent that after he finished healing, I’d share with him what I knew. That I’d ask him for the truth, finally. And I’d share my plans—what we’d have to do as a result.

  Those plans involved escaping on Front Runner. We’d rename it, of course. I thought about new boat names at night as Jude curled up into me and reached for my hand under the covers. After Dr. Drake diagnosed Jude with a diminished pre-frontal cortex filter, I found these small acts all the more endearing—but also a reminder that my plan might not work at all anymore.

  A reminder of how much danger we were still in.

  After Dr. Drake’s new diagnosis, I focused on work to distract me from more disturbing thoughts. My work was raising money for the Appletreese Foundation. The money I raised went to support writing and arts programs for underprivileged kids. It was work I’d grown so proud of.

  It was work I knew I would miss when everything came to light.

  At night, after I returned from my office at the Foundation, Jude and I caught up over dinner ordered in. Jude told me what he liked and didn’t like about therapy and the newest caregiver. I shared my days with him, too, and though he seemed interested, he also seemed more easily confused and to tire early.

  I carefully avoided subjects like our relationship. I avoided discussing the night of the shooting,
and the weeks leading up to it.

  I didn’t talk about the campaign, the election, Laila, or anything else of substance, because I feared—no, I knew—that if I brought up a topic, I better be damn sure I was ready for what would come next.

  I could no longer complain about the neighbor not picking up her dog poop anymore.

  If I mentioned it, Jude might get up from the dinner table, walk outside, and call to the neighbor, “Hey, Nancy. Could you make sure to clean up after Dutch every day? Aby was just telling me how disgusting it is to see his feces in our yard. She says she feels like throwing the shit right in your face next time she sees you, and even though that’s probably an extreme reaction, I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s understandable under the circumstances.”

  I could no longer mention that my administrative assistant was wearing an ill-fitting skirt to the office. Or hope for empty compliments anymore.

  I chose my clothes carefully each day as I feared one day, Jude would ask me when I got home, “Were you trying to compete with your admin in the too-tight-skirt department? That outfit looks terrible on you.”

  I realized that I couldn’t bring up any topics I didn’t want to hear the absolute honest truth about. And sometimes the truth came unsolicited. Like the time Jude spit out my crock-pot pot roast back on the plate and said it tasted like it had been cooked in old bath water. I had never made pot roast before. I never made it again after that.

  But those occasions were sort of rare. Mostly if I stayed away from troublesome topics, Jude did as well. And as long as I kept him away from the press, no one was asking him questions.

  That was a blessing at least. A small one. I didn’t let him near the Capitol or out in public. The publicity surrounding the shooting had died down in favor of other news that appealed far outside our D.C. circles.

  But still, as the days went by, I wondered how long I could keep quiet about certain things from the recent past.

  Like Innovative Media.

  And Out The Bullies.

  And Laila.

  I wondered how long before everything would begin unraveling and then come completely unglued. Of course, the answer came in no time at all. Like a bullet, it came tearing through the walls of our lives. After everything that had happened. How could it not?

  It was late May, about a month after we learned that Jude’s prefrontal cortex was overcompensating with excessive grey matter, and I was working from home while a late spring rain tapped relentlessly on the windows. When it stopped, the silence startled me and distracted me enough to stop working and go look for Jude.

  I expected to see him in the living room, sitting in his favorite chair, reading. But the living room was empty. A few moments later, I found him sitting on our unmade bed with a small box in his lap. He appeared to have just gotten up. His face held its usual first-thing-in-the-morning confusion, and I realized I had actually been so distracted by work I’d forgotten to come check on him when he woke. My new habit had been to get up much earlier than him. He slept wonderfully after his hospitalization. He’d enjoy long, full nights of sleep while I tossed and turned starting each night—or rather morning—around 3 am, waiting for 5 am which I decided was a more appropriate hour to start the day. Then I got up, showered, had a cup of coffee and spent some time alone with the crossword puzzle each morning before Jude even woke. Around 8 or 9 am, I would hear him moving about the bedroom and that would be the signal to check on Jude. I’d see if he needed anything to get up and get in the shower before his therapists showed up for his occupational and physical therapy. Then I’d either head to my home office for the day, or—several days a week—I’d head to Georgetown to my office at the Foundation, meeting with staff or investors, or reviewing grant proposals, as if our world was still turning the same way it had been at the time of the shooting.

  Or rather the way it had been before I made the deal.

  I tried unsuccessfully to avoid now one all too familiar phone number. He called several times a week.

  We need to talk, Aby.

  I can’t. Not now. You need to give me more time. I need more time.

  More time is not what you need, Aby.

  Click.

  He’d called the day before. Maybe that was part of my distraction that May Tuesday morning. And Jude hadn’t been sleeping quite as well lately, so maybe I wasn’t either. Jude was seeming more and more confused lately and I was debating whether I needed a follow-up appointment with Dr. Drake.

  On that particular morning, I was also distracted by actual work. Some new studies had come in linking success in Math to the quality and frequency of art programs at elementary school levels, and I had closed my home office door to Skype with the study authors. I’d been excited about their findings, relieved about their airtight process, less enthused about their small sample size, but overall satisfied about the study’s place in my quarterly report to the Board. The rain and the call and spiked stress must have provided enough background noise to override my “Jude intuition.” The one that usually summoned me from my work inexplicably just at the moment when he was waking so I could talk to him and ward off the early morning confusion that seemed to settle on him as he woke with some scattered memory loss, and sometimes, like on that particular Tuesday morning when he’d rediscovered his “box,” some memory recall.

  When I walked in that morning, Jude was staring at his lap and his hair looked mussed and the sheets had twisted uncomfortably between his legs and the item he was holding. The air in the room felt thick from humidity creeping in from the outside. And maybe from something else. I didn’t know yet.

  The box in Jude’s hands was small and metal and had a padlock hanging on it. He was fiddling with it. I had remembered seeing the box on different occasions in our shared bedroom closet. It had been there since the day we moved in together. Once I had asked Jude about it, and he waved it off. “It’s a fire box, with important documents—passports, and such,” he’d replied.

  I had taken that explanation at face value and hadn’t paid much attention to the box in a long time.

  Until now.

  The look on Jude’s face was very focused as he worked the lock, seemingly trying to break into his own fire box, and my gaze shifted back and forth from Jude’s face to the locked box.

  I was hesitant—tentative—as I asked the question, realizing as soon as it formed, that it was exactly the kind of question I’d been avoiding since the shooting. Certainly since I’d gotten the news about his prefrontal cortex from Dr. Drake. But I asked it anyway.

  “Jude, what’s in the box?” The room thickened. I gasped, trying to claw at the remaining oxygen in the air.

  “Important documents. Like passports and such.” I was overwhelmed with relief at the same answer echoed back to me as had been given before the shooting. He hadn’t lied about the box. It was exactly what he always said it was.

  My relief was short lived.

  “And I put a letter in here. A few months ago. I think it was right before the shooting, now that I think about it. A letter to you. I hid it from you.”

  “You hid a letter to me?” I sorted through his words, trying to understand what Jude was saying and measure it against my old assumptions about the box. For years, I had wondered whether Jude was saving love letters from an old girlfriend, mementos from another life before we met, or something worse.

  “It’s a letter asking you to agree to lie. About everything.”

  Jude reached into the fire box then. I watched him sort to the bottom and then I watched as he extended his hand out to me from where he sat.

  My mind raced.

  Was it all in writing?

  I stared at Jude as he sat on the bed with his arm outstretched and clinging to a crumpled letter. The letter was the only remaining thing left in the wide empty space between us that morning.

  And I reached for it.

  The Washington Truth, dated November 2, 2017

  Excerpt from the Op Ed piece, by Nate Es
suzare

  …A new generation of politicians has arrived in Washington D.C.

  Washington insiders have noticed that the newest classes of politicians on the Hill have little in common with predecessors other than title.

  The prior generation arrived in the nation’s capitol fueled by the threat of international terrorism and focused on post 9/11 strategies and protocol.

  But the newer generation fears and faces and fights a different threat. A threat much closer to home.

  In a world responding to and reacting to domestic violence, gun control debates, #blacklivesmatter mantras and #metoo admissions, the newest generation of politicians is less likely to enter office based on our fears of ISIS, and more likely to enter elected offices based on our fears of each other.

  Chapter 7

  The first time I was ever in a newspaper, Mena Treese thought she was the one who showed me.

  She called me into her office the day after Jude’s campaign announcement. That wasn’t unusual. In addition to everything else, she was technically my boss, after all, and the founder of the Appletreese Foundation. Mena’s pointed questions weren’t that unusual either. Mena’s style was nothing if not direct. I had learned that—and a lot of other things—about Philomena Treese in the time since I’d started a fellowship position with Appletreese Foundation.

  By the time of the campaign announcement, Appletreese was no longer, by any definitions, a “fledgling foundation” as I’d described it to Jude that first night outside Little Miss Whiskey’s. I had been working for Mena for just about three years by the time of Jude’s campaign announcement.

  I’d been with Jude even longer.

  Even though I made it sound like I had already started the position on the night I met Jude, in truth, my hire date was somewhat later. I was still working on cultivating a position with the Foundation—as I’d long been a fan of the founder and her story.