The Kindest Lie

by Nancy Johnson

  Sebastian plucked a bag of dill pickle chips off a display and tossed it across the aisle to Corey. “Think fast.”

  Everybody knew Corey had the best arm in town and that’s why he had gotten the reputation for being the greatest pitcher in Ganton Little League history. Not bad at catching, either, he leapt off the floor and snatched the bag from the air, bumping into an old lady as he landed. “Oh, sorry,” he said. She rubbed her hands along the front of her coat like he’d spilled something on her.

  Never having an idea that didn’t live in somebody else’s head first, Pancho scooped three Snickers bars and hurled them at Midnight in rapid succession. “Think fast,” he said, parroting Sebastian.

  The first candy bar sailed past him and slid across the floor.

  With one bum arm, Midnight’s reflexes had slowed. All the video games he played helped, but he knew he’d always be one step behind his friends.

  Focusing intently, he managed to catch the other candy bars and clutched them against his jacket.

  A delivery guy wheeled in a stack of cases of Diet Coke on a panel truck. Midnight grinned at his buddies before he jumped on and pushed off on it like a skateboard. The other boys’ eyes widened in amazement.

  Even if they had been on the witness stand with their right hands raised to God, they couldn’t pinpoint for sure which of them had knocked over the tiered display of Funyuns. When the yellow bags of onion rings tumbled, one after another, to the floor, a large, red-faced man appeared in front of them. The name stitched on his striped gas station shirt was Dale.

  “What the hell is going on here?” he said, breathing hard. Sebastian and Pancho started backing up slowly. “Don’t you dare try to run away.”

  When Corey stooped to pick up as many of the fallen bags of Funyuns as he could, the wet soles of his boots squeaked on the floor. Dale snatched the onion rings from his hands. “Were you trying to steal from my store, kid?”

  “No, sir,” Corey said.

  “Open up your jacket.”

  That request from Dale must have confused Corey as it did Midnight and the other boys. All of them stayed silent, glancing at each other, unsure of what was going on, only understanding it wasn’t good.

  “Did you hear me? Either you open your jacket, so I can see what you stole, or I’m calling the cops.”

  Other customers in the store had stopped their shopping to stare. Without thinking, Midnight said, “He didn’t steal anything.”

  He couldn’t help but remember the day those older boys set him on fire, yet Daddy and other people accused Corey of doing something he didn’t do. Some people in this town would never give Corey a break.

  “Will you just be quiet?” Corey said under his breath, the fright on his face surprisingly more intense as Midnight defended him.

  Dale kept his angry eyes on Corey, who pulled loose the snaps on his jacket. The zipper got stuck and Corey pulled hard until his coat opened. When Dale was satisfied there were no hidden bags of Funyuns, he said with a growl, “Get out of here. All of you.”

  Sebastian and Pancho ran to the door, but Corey walked slowly as if he knew Dale was still watching him. Midnight, who followed behind, turned back to the gas station owner and said, “Told you so.”

  Corey turned around. “Will you shut up?”

  Once they were back outside, Izzy stood on the curb with her hand outstretched, her toothless grin spreading. Corey dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill. When he held it out to her, she glanced from his face to his hand and back again to his face.

  “Here,” Corey said, almost shoving the bill into her hands as if he were anxious to get rid of it.

  “Oh, thank you. What’s your name?” Izzy said, her eyes following Corey, but he’d already turned away from the store.

  Midnight grabbed Corey’s jacket sleeve. “How come you let that guy in the store talk to you like that?”

  “Yeah, you just let him get away with it,” Pancho said.

  When they reached the street corner, Sebastian put his fists up to his face. “I would’ve kicked his ass. You know that.”

  “Me, too,” Midnight chimed in.

  Spinning around to face Midnight, Corey pushed his chest. Lightly at first. Then harder. “You are so dumb sometimes.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You kept pissing him off. You play too much.”

  None of this made sense to Midnight. Corey overreacted whenever he thought he might get in trouble at home or school or anywhere. “So what? You didn’t steal anything, so who cares if he gets mad?”

  “Just shut up. You don’t get it.”

  A strange quiet followed them like a shadow. Midnight thought about what Corey said, but he still didn’t understand.

  The cold blistered Midnight’s fingers. It bit his face and snatched his breath. But it also brought him closer to Daddy, and that made freezing his butt off worthwhile. While he was out of school for Christmas break, he tried to spend as much time with his father as he could. Besides, Indiana cold beat Louisiana, where you sweated all the time in the heat.

  “How much you paying for the day?” Daddy said to a large man in a navy down jacket and a Colts hat. He grabbed one of the shovels and handed Midnight a metal dustpan that was easier to manage with one hand.

  “Depends on how much work you do, Boyd. Twelve fifty an hour. Got all of Pratt to cover. Street team can’t get it all,” the man said. He carried a clipboard in one hand and a hot drink in the other. A trickle of steam rose from his cup.

  Snow had been falling all week, the heavy kind that stuck. Granny hadn’t even opened the store one day this week after seven inches covered their street, making it impossible to even get her car out of the driveway. The plow truck hadn’t shown up until the next day.

  “Bet I can outlast you, Boyd.” That dwarf-looking guy, Loomis, with the limp, was always talking tough, even though his right leg was shorter than his left.

  “Keep it up and I’ll dunk your pointy head in the toilet next time.” Daddy punched him playfully and then put an arm around his shoulders, and they stumbled in the uneven snow.

  The three of them worked steadily, Midnight trying as hard as he could to keep up with the men. Trails of filmy vapor carried their onion and cigarette breath, and they cursed as if they didn’t see Midnight standing there. They bragged, about either women or money or cars or all of it.

  “You know they got a seven-day cruise going to the Bahamas. I’m taking Shirley with me on a honeymoon,” Loomis said, hobbling after Daddy in the snow.

  “Your first trip better be to the justice of the peace, don’t you think?” The force of the windblown snow and his laughter made Daddy hold his side.

  By now, other men hired to shovel for the day had joined them, and Daddy pounded his shovel in the ground to get their attention. He held the handle like it was a microphone. “Forget the Caribbean. I’m saving up to go to France someday. I met a girl from there a long time ago when I was driving trucks long distance. She offered to show me around to the places tourists don’t know about.”

  Midnight had seen Daddy with a few women after Mommy died, but he suspected he might have been lying about this one. Something about the way his mouth twisted like when he talked to the electric company, the cell phone people, his boss when he’d been late to work, or Drew around the first of the month.

  But usually, when Midnight was in school, he saw Daddy only twice a week, so much of what he knew about his life now he pieced together from what he heard him say to other people. Some of it must be true.

  “Is that right now, Butch Boyd? You had a French girl?” Loomis tapped Daddy’s shoulder. “I think I’ll stick with Ganton women. At least they shave their pits.” He stepped back to avoid the jab of Daddy’s shovel handle in his ribs.

  That laugh of Daddy’s was like a safe that Midnight didn’t have the combination to anymore.

  When his father shoveled snow, he attacked it like it had done something bad to him and
he had to make it pay. He jabbed at each mound with the blade and scooped it up, tossing it aside like chicken bones. “Bend at your knees,” Daddy said to Midnight.

  “Like this, right?” Gripping the handle of the dustpan, Midnight pricked the snow, but it was packed too tightly for him to make a dent.

  “Try pushing it. Lean into it more.” And that’s what he did, just like Daddy said, throwing all his seventy-three and a half pounds on it. “You got it, Patrick. That’s my boy.”

  His back ached a bit, but there they were, side by side, snot dripping from their noses, grunting with each scrape of the asphalt. Midnight’s glasses slid to the tip of his nose and he pushed them up.

  A strong wind whipped around them. While Midnight staggered, Daddy stood up to it, feet spread apart, like he could fight it with his bare hands. He grabbed Midnight and pulled him close. Daddy’s coat smelled of gasoline and sauerkraut, kind of like a fart, but he buried his cheek deeper in the space between Daddy’s arm and rib cage.

  Once the wind died down, Midnight pulled back. It was like when the doctor had told Granny about her diabetes. One slice of apple pie was okay every now and then, but you had to know when to stop. Too much of it could hurt you if you weren’t careful. Same thing with getting too close to Daddy.

  Midnight made small circles in the snow with the dustpan. “Um, so I was thinking about going out for Little League next year.”

  If he joined the team, they’d be counting on him for games and he wouldn’t be able to move to Louisiana. All his friends played baseball, but after he got burned, he gave up on the idea. He might have missed out on his shot, though. During training, he watched Corey, Sebastian, and Pancho run, pitch, catch fly balls, field ground ones, and bat.

  Before Midnight got burned, Daddy had coached him on weekends, determined to see his son start at the best infield position. Soft elbows. Stop locking those knees. Watch the ball. Get ready for it before it comes to you.

  His father’s gaze, following every move, had burned like a flame at his back. Midnight’s head tightened like it had a rubber band pinching it.

  Now, Daddy swiped his nose with his jacket sleeve and rested his arms on the handle of his shovel. His breaths came loud and fast like he’d been running.

  “Leave that baseball crap to those who can’t do any better. I told you to focus on science. You won that science fair last year, right?” The sun’s brightness blinded Midnight, but he squinted up at Daddy’s face, which was unreadable.

  “You’ll be a doctor someday. Treat cancer. Save guys like Elroy Richards. Hell, find a cure for it. Get some letters behind your name, in front of it, too. We need some good doctors in this town. And in this family.”

  Daddy’s eyes weren’t on him anymore. Instead they focused on something far off that he couldn’t see, some future picture he was drawing in his head as he talked. Then, as if he remembered Midnight was still next to him, he laid a gloved hand on his shoulder. “Forget tryouts. You’re bigger than baseball. Remember that.”

  Daddy expected him to do big, important things someday. But he also wondered if Daddy didn’t think he was good enough to play baseball. At least not with only one good arm.

  “I read about this guy, Pete Gray. He was an outfielder in St. Louis and he played in the majors with only one arm.”

  Daddy laughed. “That’s one guy. And how long ago was that? The forties? And the Browns were the worst team in the league. So bad they folded and became the Baltimore Orioles.”

  Midnight’s shoulders slumped. “Okay, but I know I can do it. I can be like Corey. He gets good grades and he plays Little League. Mr. Cunningham said it’s important to be well-rounded.”

  Daddy frowned and immediately Midnight knew he’d said the wrong thing. “I’ve told you before that I don’t like you hanging around that kid so much. No need to go over to Hill Top or Grundy to find friends. Plenty of good kids right here in Pratt.”

  “But why?” Midnight said.

  “I’m your father, I don’t need a reason. But I have plenty. I heard that Corey kid was causing trouble at the gas station today. I also understand there were some low-life thugs hanging around. I don’t want you mixed up in that. When Lena first mentioned you going to Louisiana, I didn’t like the idea so much. But if you can’t keep your nose clean, that’s where you’re headed.” Daddy yanked his shovel from the snow mound and began the walk back to his truck.

  Helplessness settled so deep in Midnight’s bones, he barely felt the cold anymore. Desperation buzzed around him, and he frantically searched for a way to control what seemed to be out of his hands.

  He kicked the dustpan as hard as he could, making it skitter across the road. And then he ran to catch up with his father.

  Twenty

  Ruth

  Ruth hadn’t seen her high school best friend since twelfth grade. Even though it had been a long time, she believed their bond withstood all those years of separation. The year Ruth had the baby, Mama kept her quarantined in the house and pretty much made her walk away from all her friendships, including the one with Natasha. But now, with Mama stonewalling her, she needed to talk to Natasha, the one person who kept it real no matter what.

  In one of her attempts at a put-down, Mama had casually mentioned that Natasha had stayed in Ganton and did hair at A Cut Above, a salon where you could get sew-ins, twists, braids, rod sets, relaxers, as well as fish dinners from a gaunt, well-dressed man in penny loafers.

  “Get your fried catfish right here.” Ruth heard him before she saw him, his voice potent with strong lung capacity, reminding her of those vendors who hawked ice-cold beer at baseball games. With all the years that had gone by, she couldn’t believe he had remained there giving the same sales pitch. He and those smelly fish dinners hadn’t crossed her mind in forever, but his presence—consistent and familiar—made her smile.

  The moment she walked in she smelled hair sizzling in the jaws of a flat iron like bacon frying in a skillet, and she noticed one stylist braiding with the precision of someone crocheting an afghan. The scent of singed hair from an old-school press-and-curl filled the air.

  At a workstation in the far corner by a window, Natasha brushed loose hair from the nape of her client’s neck and then curled a few stray locks in the front. Perhaps she felt Ruth’s eyes on her. When she looked up and spotted Ruth, her face lit up with a smile and then just as fast went dark, transforming into an impenetrable mask.

  Ruth gripped the straps of her purse, pressing the bag to her chest like a security blanket. An awkward discomfort descended upon her as she stood in the middle of the salon looking lost.

  Natasha had intentionally turned away from her, but why? With trepidation, Ruth walked slowly to the stylist chair where her old friend spritzed holding spray that tickled Ruth’s nostrils.

  “It’s me, girl. Surprise?” Ruth said, adding an upward inflection to her words, turning them into a question.

  “Ruth. I didn’t know you were in town.” Natasha’s tone stayed neutral, drained of any emotion, good or bad. In spite of her friend’s indifference, her voice still sounded the same, as if it had been dipped in warm brandy. She kept her eyes on her client through the mirror, brushing gel onto the woman’s edges.

  Sensing her visit might have been a mistake, Ruth backed away a few steps and said, “I know you weren’t expecting me and I see you’re busy. I don’t want to take you away from your customers.”

  Finally, turning to look at her, Natasha said, “I’ve got twenty minutes before my next client. I need to mix her color anyway. Come with me.”

  After bidding her client farewell, she led Ruth into a narrow supply closet.

  “Sit here.” Natasha pointed to a stack of brown boxes labeled shea butter oil, and Ruth bristled at the command but obeyed. Jars and bottles of leave-in conditioners, shampoos, and detangling lotions lined the walls.

  Natasha pulled off her decorative scarf and shook her head, waves of sandy-brown hair falling like a river. It was all he
rs, not because she had a receipt as proof of purchase, but because it grew from her head like that. In the early grades, all the girls swore Natasha must have had more than just Black blood in her. She had to have been part Indian, they surmised, with her golden-brown skin and dark eyes dotted with flecks of bronze.

  At recess, Natasha’s body glistened from the Vaseline her mom used to coat her skin, guaranteeing Natasha wouldn’t be one of those ashy kids people whispered about.

  “What is it? I can tell you’re angry with me,” Ruth said.

  Natasha, with her back to Ruth, squeezed a tube of orange hair color and let the liquid flow into a plastic bowl of purple dye, the mixture turning a deep russet when she stirred it.

  “You don’t get it, do you? Everything is still all about you.”

  Ruth watched her friend’s hands at work. The mixing process reminded her of the hydrocarbons, whitening agents, and perfumes she blended to make detergent on her job. She smiled in spite of the distance between them, thinking of how Natasha hated chemistry in high school, how she cursed the Bunsen burner and whined about having to memorize the elements of the periodic table. Now she mixed solutions with the finesse of a chemist.

  “Eleven years. That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you. You ghosted me senior year. First, you started acting funny, and then you wouldn’t take my calls or answer the door when I stopped by. So forgive me if I don’t jump up and down at the sight of you and kiss your ass after all this time.”

  What could Ruth say to that? Any excuse she gave would sound lame, woefully insufficient to repair the tear in their once durable bond. “You’re right. I did everything the wrong way.”

  Natasha rinsed her hands and sat on a box opposite Ruth. As if a dam had broken, years of hurt and resentment gushed from her like rolling waters. “Was it when you got into Yale? Is that when you decided to cut me loose? You needed to upgrade, I guess. I wasn’t good enough for the bougie new friends you would make. Just tell me the truth. No need to bullshit anymore.”