The Kindest Lie

by Nancy Johnson

  Corey had kept his eyes lowered that day, focused on rubbing a shard of glass from a broken Coors bottle gently against his forearm just to see how hard you had to poke to break the skin. “My dad said we all bleed the same no matter what color we are,” Corey told the group, and it sounded like something Mr. Cunningham would say with his firm voice and kind eyes. And with that, Corey had shut them up.

  The two gangbangers, who seemed a little high, moved on from Midnight’s whiteness to Corey’s burgundy-ness. “I know you. You’re the big baseball star. What happened to you? You spill a gallon of Welch’s grape juice on your face?” The short one took his index finger and ran it across the birthmark on Corey’s cheek and then inspected his finger. The taller man bent over and laughed, grabbing his knees.

  Corey jerked his head away from the man’s grasp. The birthmark on his face had been the butt of jokes in school one year, and every kid in class, Midnight included, had picked on him until they got bored and people stopped caring. But these guys hadn’t earned the right to make fun of Corey’s face.

  “That wasn’t funny,” Midnight said. The words didn’t sound as tough as they had seconds before when he had rehearsed them in his mind.

  “Check out the mouth on this one.” The shorter guy advanced on Midnight and said, “You ready to join the Kings of Comedy, huh? Let’s hear you tell a joke.”

  Midnight stared at the ground, his heart beating wildly. The men circled them and chuckled. The boys moved closer to one another, their jacket sleeves touching. What did these guys want from them? Money? Sixth graders didn’t have any. It had to be something worse. Much worse. Auntie Glo said one of the local gangs wore red bandannas and they scored points sometimes based on how many people they killed.

  The shorter guy stood in front of him now, so close Midnight could smell the chocolate on his breath. “Why so jumpy?”

  Glancing over his shoulder at the length of the alley, Midnight tried to calculate how fast he would need to run to make it to Plymouth Street and then around the corner to head to Pratt without them catching him.

  “You need to relax, little dude. I’m Bo,” he said, extending his hand, dry white spots between his fingers. “And this is my boy Larry, or L-Boogie as we call him.”

  Midnight glanced up and then stared at the ground again.

  “We’ll forgive you all for your lack of manners,” Bo said when none of the boys shook his hand. “You see, I have a business proposition for you.”

  Midnight made a mental note to look up the word proposition if he ever made it home.

  “I bet you all like Jordan high-tops. Am I right?”

  Midnight didn’t intend to, but he looked down at his boots, slick and rubbed raw from overuse. Granny had bought them two years ago and they now pinched his cold toes. She had promised him new ones for Christmas.

  “Yeah, they’re cool,” Pancho said.

  “That’s right. They’re real nice. Better than what you getting for Christmas, I bet,” Bo said, kicking up his expensive gym shoe. A wide, diamond-studded watch hung from his wrist. “You can have all this, too.”

  “How? What do we have to do?” Sebastian asked.

  “A little bit of this and that. We pay you. Once we see your work ethic, we’ll show you how to run a business and make even more money.” Bo licked the chocolate stuck to the foil wrapper.

  “He’s right. But it’s more than business. We’re family.” L-Boogie stepped closer to them, running his tongue over his teeth. The white vapor of his breath filled the space between them in the alley.

  “I can do some jobs for you.” Sebastian stood straighter, preening as if Dale from the gas station had offered him a summer job.

  “Yeah, me too. How much you paying?” Pancho asked.

  “Will you shut up?” Corey told Pancho and Sebastian under his breath.

  “I’ll be real disappointed if we can’t do business,” Bo said, drawing real out into two syllables.

  No one spoke at first, and then L-Boogie and Bo told them they’d be in touch soon, that they knew how to find them. Then the men looked at each other and laughed so hard their knees buckled. Midnight didn’t know what that meant but he figured it wasn’t good.

  A shot of cold air ran along the insides of Midnight’s legs and he realized he’d peed on himself. As soon as the men turned out of the alley, he ran toward home without saying goodbye to his friends or seeing where they went. The night air, cars, storefronts, and naked trees whizzed by. He ran past Obama/Biden yard signs until the string of McCain/Palin ones began. He ran until he couldn’t hear anything but the echo of his footsteps in his head.

  A block from his house, with his lungs full, he hugged a stop sign and banged his head lightly on the metal pole. Sure, he liked to get into a little trouble every now and then. Mostly just to prove that he could. And because it was fun when there was nothing better to do. But he wasn’t the sort of kid to join a gang or sell drugs for one. Why did Bo and L-Boogie choose him?

  When he finally made it home to Granny’s, he saw a couple of cars lined up on the street and Daddy’s truck parked outside. The engine still clicked and crackled, telling him his father had just arrived. Midnight didn’t want to see anybody right now, not with a bomb exploding in his chest and piss in his pants. Nobody could see him like this. Especially not Daddy. Before Midnight turned the key in the lock, he heard laughter and music. Opening the door just a crack, he peered inside.

  Just like on Super Bowl Sunday, the smell of chicken wings, brats, and beef brisket hit Midnight’s nose the moment he walked in the house. During Christmas week, people set aside unpaid mortgages, overdue bill collector notices, and job ads to be merry and not miserable for once. In the kitchen a couple of Daddy’s buddies were egging on Loomis, who held the Elvis tree-topper like a microphone, crooning off-key about being nothing but a hound dog. He knew Granny invited Daddy’s friends to the Christmas Eve party just to be nice. Running through the living room, he saw Marsha from the credit union, Kimmie the interstate toll-taker, and a couple of people who regularly came to the store.

  He ran past everyone and into the bathroom, where he stripped off all his clothes as fast as he could. In the shower, he stood there for a long while letting hot water pour over him, feeling the pee and pressure of the day roll off him like sludge.

  After he finished, his skin blazed red hot and the mirror was completely fogged up. He toweled off, and using his forefinger, he wrote I hate my life on the mirror. Then he opened the door and sneaked into his bedroom to put on clothes.

  When he emerged from his room, he saw Granny and Daddy in the hallway, their faces contorted in anger.

  Granny exhaled loud as a muffler exhaust. “Butch, you know the rules. You get him Mondays and Fridays, and that’s it.”

  Grinding out each word, Daddy said, “It’s Christmas week and I want my son staying with me.”

  “You can’t just swoop in at Christmas and make up for everything you haven’t been doing. It doesn’t work like that. Putting on a big show once a year isn’t enough. I’m not saying it’s your fault you’re out of work and can’t do everything you used to, but you can’t even afford to buy him anything for Christmas.”

  Dumb presents didn’t matter to Midnight, and right now all he wanted was for them to shut up. Every few weeks, they had this same argument, and admittedly he sometimes enjoyed it because he liked being talked about and fought over, but tonight he was tired.

  He walked up and stood next to his father. “I want to go with Daddy,” he said.

  Daddy smiled, and Midnight knew it was aimed more toward Granny, rubbing it in that she’d lost this round. Being with his father at Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, and it might make it easier to remember holidays with Mom and the normal life they used to have. He could taste the fear from earlier that night, and his legs trembled, Bo and L-Boogie’s laughter still taunting him. The last time he’d felt truly safe had been with Mom, and he needed that feeling again now more than ever.
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  Twenty-Five

  Ruth

  Ruth clapped and slapped hands with Natasha as they sat cross-legged on her friend’s bed.

  Mama’s in the kitchen burnin’ that rice,

  Daddy’s on the corner shootin’ that dice.

  They sang their old schoolyard rhyme to the tune of “Rockin’ Robin” over and over, as if they could blast themselves back to the little girls they were growing up in Grundy.

  Natasha’s three-year-old daughter, Camila, bounced at the foot of the bed waving her Princess Jasmine doll. The little girl with the wavy hair like her mother’s shouted tweet tweet along with them.

  “Oh my God, girl, I don’t think we’ve done that since eighth grade,” Ruth said, falling on her back trying to catch her breath.

  “But wait,” Natasha said. “Was it your mama stink or your breath stink? There was more to the song. How did the rest of it go?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s pitiful when we just start humming because we can’t remember the words. We are getting old.” Ruth sighed.

  “Speak for yourself. I am still fly,” Natasha said, tossing her hair from her right shoulder to her left.

  Camila bounced on the bed screaming, “Again, sing it again!”

  It had been a surprise to learn Natasha was a mother, too. She’d married Luis Irizarry, the boy they’d known from shop class in high school. He had stood out as being exotic, like any Puerto Ricans in Ganton, since most people in town were either Black or white. Ruth hadn’t realized how diverse the world was until Yale, where she roomed with the granddaughter of a Korean war bride her junior year and briefly dated a young man from Mumbai who led a climate change initiative on campus.

  Ruth put a hand on Camila’s shoulder. “She’s a beauty, just like you.”

  “Yes, she is. Now you know I love the brothas, but I wanted my babies to have some hair I could get a comb through. That’s why I married a Puerto Rican man.”

  Ruth laughed awkwardly, but her friend’s words stung. She hadn’t detected any hint of self-hatred when they were growing up, but maybe she’d been too naïve to notice.

  “You are wrong for that.” Ruth ran her fingers through her own kinky twists and had to admit there were days she wished for a smoother texture, for hair that didn’t break a thin-toothed comb the first day she used it. But she said, “I’m happy nappy, thank you very much.”

  “Your hair looks fine. I would like to trim those ends for you, though.” Natasha pulled one of the corkscrew tips of Ruth’s hair.

  “You better keep your scissors away from me.”

  Natasha laughed and said, “What I do want is to see this husband of yours. Come on now. You been holding out on me.”

  Smiling shyly, Ruth pulled up a photo on her phone of Xavier at an Urban League gala in downtown Chicago. That night, he’d rocked a black fitted Tom Ford tuxedo.

  Natasha’s eyes bucked. “Well, yes, we can.”

  “Stop, you are so silly.”

  “What? I’m just saying you out here making Obama-level marital moves.”

  When their laughter settled, Ruth tried to achieve cool nonchalance, not wanting her voice to betray her giddiness. “Do you know a boy named Corey?”

  “Of course. Corey Cunningham. His friend Sebastian’s got people that know some of Luis’s people. They may even be kin. You know how that goes. Why?”

  Ruth took a breath, but Natasha caught on quickly.

  “Wait, you’re not telling me . . . ?”

  Ruth hesitated, knowing that when she said it aloud, it would feel real. Softly, she said, “I think Corey could be my son. My baby.”

  Not to be left out, Camila put her hands on her pajama-clad hips and repeated my baby while strutting across the bedroom floor.

  Natasha gripped Ruth’s hand. “For real?”

  “I think so.” She told her friend about her conversation with Midnight and relayed how Eli had stood up publicly for Corey, even going so far as to get arrested.

  Natasha sat up straight in the bed. “Okay, you took Patrick Boyd out for ice cream? I don’t get it.”

  From the outside, Ruth could see how strange that might seem, and she suddenly felt the need to defend herself. “First of all, he likes to be called Midnight. And you know my family and Lena’s have been tight for years, so I guess we just got thrown together a few times since I’ve been back in town. The real news is about Corey, not Midnight.”

  “I know, I know. Well, if this is true, we got to go.”

  “Go where?”

  “To his house.”

  The way Natasha said to his house tickled and scared her all at once. She spoke the words slowly and deliberately, as if Ruth were having trouble comprehending. Her friend had always been the spontaneous one, boldly telling boys she had crushes on them and borrowing the school van for a joy ride. Growing up, Natasha’s spontaneity often pushed Ruth to move when her natural inclination would have been to proceed with caution or just wait.

  Ruth stood and paced in a small circle at the foot of her friend’s bed. She nervously ran her fingers over the buttons of her cardigan as queasiness rocked her stomach.

  The small pleasure of repeating Corey’s name aloud to herself had felt oddly comforting. But until now, Ruth hadn’t allowed herself to carefully consider the last name of Cunningham or the people who belonged to that name, the people raising her son, and the house where they all lived together on some street right here in Ganton. The euphoria Ruth had felt knowing her son’s name after all these years was starting to fade like a narcotic wearing off.

  “Pump the brakes. I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.” Ruth fell onto the bed again, with her hands covering her face.

  Natasha stretched out beside her with Camila bouncing on the bed. “I hear you, girl. I didn’t mean to push.”

  Ruth exhaled. “I just need more time. Also, I did some research online based on what you said about that lawyer getting arrested for adoption fraud.”

  Propping on her elbow, Natasha said, “What did you find out?”

  “I think I know the name of the guy you remember from the news. Does ‘Stanley DeAngelo’ ring a bell?”

  Natasha massaged her forehead. “Girl, you know I’m bad with names. I just know there was a shady lawyer in town who got caught for all kinds of crimes.”

  “Yeah, I looked into it and DeAngelo kept coming up in my search. Well, he’s out of prison now. He got out a year ago and is living over on Wayland. I can’t help but think he was involved with Corey’s adoption. If so, did he do this whole thing off the books?”

  Natasha shifted her position on the bed and absently stroked her daughter’s hair. “I get it. You need to know what’s up, and if it wasn’t legal, maybe you got some options.”

  The implication of Natasha’s words settled within Ruth. If the adoption was indeed fraudulent, she might have rights to Corey as his biological mother. But for now, she only wanted to focus on getting to know her son and learning about his life.

  “This is all so new and I’m just trying to figure it all out. Now, tell me what they’re like. The Cunninghams.” Using their last name and avoiding the word parents was the easier way to talk about these people who were raising her baby.

  “They’re all right. They got good jobs. They’re good people. Live over on Hill Top. Let me put it like this. They’re like a knockoff version of the Huxtables.”

  “I’m glad. At least Corey’s not being raised in Grundy.” The scream of a passing police siren punctuated Ruth’s statement and she immediately regretted her words. Natasha rolled away from her on the bed and sat up.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean? You’re in my house right now. In Grundy. Your grandmother and brother live in this neighborhood. You were raised right here in Grundy.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “What did you mean, then?” Natasha said, indignation baked into her raised voice.

  Camila climbed onto her mother’s lap and wav
ed the doll in her face. “What’s wrong, Mommy?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart.” She rested her forehead against her daughter’s and smiled. “I’m just wondering if Mommy’s friend knows where her son goes to school now.”

  Pretending she didn’t detect the sarcasm in Natasha’s voice, she said, “Where?”

  “Driscoll. Right here in Grundy. The school that wasn’t good enough for you back in the day.”

  The public school that used to get all the raggedy books and secondhand furniture, where she and Natasha had met. The one her grandparents pulled her out of to send her to the Catholic school, where it was okay to be smart and girls wore pleated skirts every day.

  “Are we really going to get into it over grade schools right now?” Ruth said, anxious to change the subject.

  Her friend closed her eyes. “Things were just so different for you and me. I can’t pretend that it doesn’t matter. And look at you now. Your big fancy city life.”

  Natasha’s parents both worked for the city utilities company, but they had never married. Her father wanted and tried to be part of Natasha’s life, but her mother wouldn’t let him. Growing up, Natasha rarely talked about her future, whereas Mama and Papa, though they’d only finished high school, pushed Ruth hard. They told everyone she’d be a doctor someday, and Papa was sure of it when she took such care dispensing his baclofen for spasms and methotrexate for joint pain.

  “That was all a long time ago,” Ruth said. “What I do care about is that Corey gets the best education possible.”