The Kindest Lie

by Nancy Johnson

Forty

  Ruth

  New Year’s Day had been Papa’s favorite holiday, and he’d even let her and Eli sip from his spiked eggnog over the objections of their grandmother. It had become tradition for Mama to cook a feast, and this late morning, Ruth smelled black-eyed peas, corn bread, and collard greens.

  From her bedroom window, she watched Eli toss a football on the street below with his sons in the same spot where you could probably still see the faded hopscotch lines from their youth. When the ball rolled onto the neighbors’ square patch of dirt, Keisha ran to fetch it.

  By the time Ruth dressed and made it to the kitchen, she saw her sister-in-law mixing ingredients for a red velvet cake. By Mama’s side, sprinkling onions and garlic into the black-eyed peas, stood Dino.

  “Happy N-N-New Year, Ruth,” he said, and wiped his hands on a red apron wrapped around his waist that read Real Men Cook.

  “Same to you, Dino.” She pecked him on the cheek, showing Mama she approved of whatever and whoever made her happy. Still, she wondered about the timing of his arrival that morning and whether or not he had slipped in before the sun came up.

  Under her grandmother’s careful supervision, Ruth rubbed brown sugar and vinegar on the pork roast. “Pick up that meat. It won’t bite. And don’t be stingy with the rub. Make sure you get some on the backside.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The front door opened and Ruth turned to greet her brother, but there, standing in the foyer, she saw Xavier, his face unreadable, looking like a mismatched piece of furniture in her old house. He started toward her like a horse just out the gate in a race, but pulled back, hesitant, suddenly shy and uncertain.

  Her feet locked in place on the linoleum, and she froze there like a block of stone, her hands dripping with apple cider vinegar. All the lies and hurt feelings stood between them. Now, here he was in the house where she’d given birth.

  People talked about straddling two worlds, but Ruth had never achieved that perfect balance. How could you find firm footing in one, enough to be rooted, without becoming a passing stranger in the other?

  He took a halting step closer to her.

  “Happy New Year.”

  “Xavier.” Saying his name set her feet free. She ran into his arms and inhaled the woodsy scent of his soap. She felt the familiar beat of his heart. Hard and steady.

  His hug felt different, though, not like one between a husband and wife, but more patronizing, the way rich society ladies hugged when they didn’t want to get too close to the proletariat class.

  “Oh, sorry. My hands,” she said, realizing she’d smeared his coat. “Happy New Year.” Pulling away to look at him, she noticed the razor bumps along his throat. She hadn’t been there to remind him not to shave against the grain. Evidence that he might still need her. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

  “Don’t be mad at her, but Tess filled me in on things.” He winked at her grandmother. “Then Mama Tuttle invited me over for her black-eyed peas. How could I say no to that?”

  Mama popped him playfully with a dish towel and tried to hide her smile. Already, he had conferred a nickname on her grandmother, and she didn’t seem to mind at all.

  Ruth stood there, still in slight shock, gazing at her husband and trying to catch up on what was happening. Eli walked in with the kids trailing behind him and slapped Xavier’s back. “Hey, man, let’s watch the game,” he said, and Xavier shrugged at her before disappearing into the living room.

  Where did things really stand between them now? She couldn’t be sure. In a way, she understood Mama’s lies but hadn’t fully forgiven them. Had Xavier forgiven hers?

  Hours later, after they’d feasted on pork roast, black-eyed peas, and corn bread, she waited for the right moment to pull him aside to talk. But now she found Xavier hunched over Mama’s old record player.

  “This is a classic right here, Mama Tuttle.”

  Mama rocked back and forth on the recliner until she got enough momentum to stand and move to the buffet table, where he had opened a drawer to reveal stacks of album covers. She nodded permission for Xavier to peruse them.

  “Ohh. Temptations, Etta James, Al Green, James Brown. You’re taking me way back now.” He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. It warmed her to watch him be so easy with her grandmother.

  Mama put one hand on her hip. “I think some of these take you back way before you were even born, child.”

  “Oh, my folks raised me on the Supremes and Marvin Gaye, all of this. That’s all they played in our house. May I?”

  Before Mama had time to answer him, Xavier blew dust off an LP and placed it on the turntable, sliding the needle on the record. Within seconds, the song “My Girl” filled their living room for the first time since Papa died.

  “May I?” Xavier asked again. This time, he extended his hand. Ruth watched from her position next to Eli and Cassie on the sofa, the kids on the floor, and Dino on a folding chair pulled from the closet.

  Only their fingertips touched at first, and then Mama let her grandson-in-law take her hand and wrap his arm around her back. She stood stiffly in place at first until he crooned in her ear. As if her feet were brand-new and she’d never walked before, she moved into the curve of his arm and swayed woodenly with him to the melody.

  Eli called out to her. “You can do better than that, Mama. Show that big-city boy what you working with. Show him how we do it in Ganton.”

  Mama shot Eli a look of feigned reproach and then turned her attention back to Xavier. She must have seen what had attracted her granddaughter to the man—his effusive charm, the way he made you feel like the most special person in the world.

  A fullness she couldn’t quite describe rose within Ruth, and she regretted not bringing Xavier around her family all these years. But now, when she tried to catch her husband’s eye, he avoided looking at her.

  Xavier took both of Mama’s hands in his and gently twirled her, even dipping her twice, and she let him. Only then, when watching their fancy footwork, did Ruth notice her husband’s shoes. The Magnanni leather shoes she’d bought him for Christmas. She’d left them wrapped in a box under the tree. He’d opened her gift and worn the shoes here. That had to mean something. Everyone clapped and catcalled at the end of their dance, encouraging an encore.

  “You’re all right now, Mama Tuttle. I like your style,” Xavier said when she sang along with him. “And you can sing, too. I’m impressed.”

  “Oh, I do a little something,” she said, taking a stage bow as if she were standing before thousands at Carnegie Hall.

  After the others got up to dance, Ruth seized her chance to grab her husband’s hand and lead him away from her family to her childhood bedroom. She cringed imagining how it must have looked through his eyes. Just being alone with him in this room where she’d brought a life into the world unnerved her.

  “Look.”

  “Hey.”

  They spoke at the same time, stumbling over each other’s words. Nervous laughter buzzed between them.

  “You go first,” Xavier said.

  “I don’t know where to begin or how to begin. We’ve been away from each other for such a long time and so much has happened that I haven’t been able to process it all. I just know . . . I’ve missed you. Really missed you.” She paused and studied his face, hoping for a glimpse behind the mask. “You’re so quiet and it’s scaring me.”

  Backing away from her, Xavier knelt over his luggage and pulled out a wooden box. Confused, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  Opening the box, he pulled out a piece of yellow folded paper. Taking her hand, he placed it in her palm. It was one of the colorful notes from their gratitude box, she recognized. The last time she’d read what he’d written, their marriage had begun to splinter. Fear squeezed her heart and made her hands tremble. Unfolding the paper slowly, she sucked in a breath and read his neat cursive. Us, Always Us.

  “I’ve missed you, too,” he said.

&n
bsp; She knew they still had unfinished business and a lot to work through to make things right again. But maybe it wasn’t about going back to some earlier point in time in their marriage. Maybe you just continued wherever you were, wiser from all you knew, stronger from all the burdens you’d carried.

  “All right, you lovebirds, get on out here,” Eli called to them. They held each other’s gaze for a moment longer and then rejoined the rest of the family.

  Eli rose to get Mama’s good glasses from the cabinet and fill them with eggnog, adding a shot of bourbon, and for once their grandmother didn’t protest. They toasted everything they could think of. Old friends becoming lovers. The new president in all his swagger. And Papa, who was surely looking down and smiling on them all.

  To Hezekiah. To Hezekiah.

  Dino lumbered over to the record stack and found the Temptations Christmas album and set the needle to “Silent Night.”

  “This was Hezekiah’s favorite, and I think we need something a little f-f-festive,” he said, and pulled Mama into his arms.

  They all moved with the music, letting the melody wash over them, the spiritual meeting the secular in some excelsis that could only be described as soulful.

  Ruth had grown into both parts of herself in this town that did more than kill dreams. It birthed them, too. She could never escape this place, and she didn’t want to, because these people were in her and she in them.

  Perfect mothers didn’t exist, only perfectly flawed ones did. She couldn’t predict how far Corey would go in this world, just as Mama and Joanna couldn’t have known what would become of Ruth and Eli. Yet they still believed beyond what they could see. This day here in Ganton was a love note to Hezekiah and Harriet, W.E.B., and Booker T. And at the start of this new year, Ruth imagined the ancestors dancing somewhere right along with them.

  Acknowledgments

  In a St. Petersburg, Florida, parking lot after a writing workshop, author James Anderson said this to me: “Whatever you do, don’t let Ruth and Midnight languish on the side of the road. Only you can breathe life into them.” About a decade earlier, journalist Byron Pitts sent me a note that I kept taped to my bedroom mirror for years. Quoting Maya Angelou, he wrote, “You are the hope and dream of the slave.” Those wise words carried me through the still waters and the turbulent tides of this journey to publication.

  First, thank you to my brilliant agent, Danielle Bukowski of Sterling Lord Literistic, for plucking me out of the Twitter slush pile, believing in this book, and being my escort to the publishing ball every step of the way.

  To my incomparable editor, Liz Stein of William Morrow, whose razor-sharp editorial eye strengthened this book, you helped me make the story on the page match the vision in my head, and for that, I can’t thank you enough.

  While this novel is a work of fiction, I consulted subject matter experts for accuracy and authenticity. Thank you to Tammy M. Minger of Minger Law Office for background on Indiana adoption law; Evan Smith, a research and development and process engineer, for explaining the work of chemical engineers in the consumer-packaged-goods industry; and Sergeant Adam Henkels of the Chicago Police Department for details on gang recruitment tactics. Any factual errors are mine and mine alone.

  This novel would not exist without these phenomenal beta readers who offered the most valuable, insightful critique: Erin Bartels, Julie Carrick Dalton, Alison Hammer, Alison Murphy, and Milo Todd.

  The first person I call with book news—the good, the bad, and the petty—is Julie Carrick Dalton, my literary soulmate and the most generous writer I know. Every milestone on our journeys to becoming debut authors has been in lockstep. We’re opposites in so many ways, yet I can’t imagine a better sidekick on this crazy ride!

  Alison Hammer is always up for meeting me at local book events and sharing wisdom from her own debut journey. I’m so appreciative.

  Michele Montgomery, thank you for the long-distance accountability writing dates in the home stretch and for all the candles you lit for my book’s success.

  I’m indebted to the writing organizations that helped me hone my craft and gave me a tribe: Eckerd College Writers in Paradise, Kimbilio Fiction, Tin House, Hurston/Wright Foundation, GrubStreet, Mystery Writers of America Midwest, Women’s Fiction Writers Association, FLOW (For Love of Writing), StoryStudio Chicago, and Writer Unboxed.

  Every accomplished author I studied under in workshops influenced the shape of this book and the ones to come: Ann Hood, Laura Lippman, Lori Roy, David Haynes, Tayari Jones, Nicole Dennis-Benn, and Donald Maass.

  A special note of gratitude to author Caroline Leavitt, who was the first to review an early draft of the novel. Thank you for being my cheerleader and literary fairy godmother.

  I’m also grateful to bookseller Pamela Klinger-Horn of Excelsior Bay Books and Ron Block of Cuyahoga County Public Library for being early and vocal champions of this novel.

  The writing community teaches and lifts me every day. I wish I had enough space to tell the stories of how each of you has supported me, but know that I’m smiling and remembering as I type your names: Denny S. Bryce, Heather Webb, Therese Walsh, Rita Woods, Irene Reed, Catherine Adel West, Mary Hawley, Julie Clark, Suzanne Park, Kristin Rockaway, Kathleen Barber, Lori Rader-Day, Heather Ash, Susanna Calkins, Mia Manansala, Ava Black, Cynthia Pelayo, Bo Thunboe, Lainey Cameron, Lisa Montanaro, Mary Chase, Amy Melnicsak, Kasia Manolas, Robb Cadigan, Cerrissa Kim, Beth Havey, Jane Rosenthal, Leah DeCesare, Kathryn Craft, Louise Miller, Amy Sue Nathan, Eve Bridburg, and Sonya Larson.

  Publishing a book and building an author career require the expertise of a team. Thankfully, I have a dynamic one by my side, including Alice Lawson, my TV/film agent at Gersh. Also, the entire William Morrow/HarperCollins family: Tavia Kowalchuk in marketing and Bianca Flores in publicity; Greg Villepique, copy editor, and Jeanie Lee, production editor; Ploy Siripant, cover designer, and Nancy Singer, interior pages designer; and Vedika Khanna, the assistant editor who handled details, large and small.

  So many teachers over the years have nurtured my love for books and writing. One in particular is Donald Nekrosius, my high school English teacher at St. Ignatius College Prep in Chicago. He told me I had something important to say and that the world needed my voice. He planted the seed, and eventually, I believed it, too.

  Thank you to my college crew, who celebrated me throughout this writing journey: Yolanda Harris, Amber Maiden, Robin Fleming, Camille Meggs, Sabine Champagne, and Tracy Dumas.

  De Anna Ward and Sharon Tubbs, thank you for the vision setting during our February birthday month each year. Dreams do come true.

  Fhelt Brown and Aaliyah Thompson, you are chosen family and I appreciate your steadfast love and support.

  To the ladies of P4, who are like sisters to me: Jada Hill, Cinterro Jones, and Elsa W. Smith. Love you to pieces. The talk-show circuit awaits our tell-all exposé, which is sure to be the real page-turner.

  I stand on the shoulders of those who came before me, and I offer gratitude to my loved ones, especially the Johnson, Rudy, Compton, Smith, and Hines families.

  I owe any success I’ve achieved to my parents, who have loved me completely, unconditionally, and endlessly. To my mother, Doris E. Johnson, you are the one who knows and loves me best, the wind beneath my wings. None of this would have been possible without your sacrifice and prayers. To my late father, Herman H. Johnson, you instilled in me an appreciation for education and a fierce sense of family pride. Weeks before your death, you taught me how to live without you, saying, “Carry on and do great things.” I hope I’ve made you proud.

  And finally, thank you to my readers for choosing The Kindest Lie. I wrote this novel to spark meaningful conversation and address my own questions about race and class in America. But mostly, I wanted you to enjoy the story. These characters grew from my heart. I hope they’ll remain in yours for a long time to come.

  About the Author

  NANCY JOHNSON grew up on Chicago’s South Side and worked
for more than a decade as an Emmy-nominated, award-winning television journalist at CBS and ABC affiliates in markets nationwide. A graduate of Northwestern University and the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, she tells stories at the intersection of race and class. She manages brand communications for a large nonprofit and lives in downtown Chicago. The Kindest Lie is her first novel.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  the kindest lie. Copyright © 2021 by Nancy Johnson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Cover design by Ploy Siripant

  Hand lettering and illustration by Joel Holland

  Cover image © Atlas Studio/Shutterstock (woman)

  first edition

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  Digital Edition FEBRUARY 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-300565-5

  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-300563-1

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