The King of Lies

by John Hart

  I had other visitors, too: lawyers, neighbors, even some old friends from school, all of whom were probably just curious. They all said the same things, and they all rang false with me. I knew who had believed in me, and a few flowery words would never make me forget those who had not. But I did what I had to do. I thanked them for the visit and wished them a happy life. Dr. Stokes was a different story. He stopped by several times, and we talked about small things. He told me stories of my mother, and of things I’d done as a child. He was good for me, and I felt a little stronger after each conversation. On his last visit, I held out my hand and told him that he had a friend for life. He gave me a smile, told me that he’d never doubted it, and insisted that the next drink was on him; then he shook my hand gently but solemnly, and there seemed to be a light upon him as he walked from the room.

  Jean and Alex came by on the day before I was released. They were packed and ready to leave.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Up north. Vermont, maybe.”

  I looked at Alex, who returned my gaze with the same unswerving strength as always. Yet this time there was no animosity, and I knew that Jean had not lied to me. When the time was right, I would be welcome.

  “Take care of her,” I said.

  She put out her hand and I shook it. “I always will,” she said.

  I looked back to Jean. “Send me your address,” I told her. “I’ll have some money for you once I sell the house and building.”

  “I wish you would reconsider. We don’t want anything of his.”

  “It won’t be from him. It will be from me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I want you to have it,” I said. “Use it well. Build a life.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  I shrugged. “I owe you more than money, Jean. This is the least I can do.”

  Jean looked at me then, looked so deeply that I could not hide the emptiness I felt, the reverberation of utter aloneness. Nor could I hide the guilt that rose within me every time I looked at her. Eventually, I had to turn away.

  I heard her voice, and there was something new in it. Strength, maybe? A clarity of her own? “Will you give us a minute, Alex?”

  “Sure,” Alex said. “Take care, Work.” And then we were alone behind the closed hospital door. Jean pulled up a chair and sat beside me.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” she said.

  “I do.”

  “For what?”

  I marveled that she could even ask the question. “For everything, Jean. For not protecting you better. For not being a better brother.” My words fell into the narrow place between us. My hands twitched beneath the thin sheet, and I tried again because I wanted her to understand. “For not having faith in you. For letting Ezra treat you the way he did.”

  Then she laughed, and the sound of it hurt me; those words had not come without cost. “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “I’m serious.”

  The smile fell from her face. She settled back into her chair and studied me with overly moist eyes. But she wasn’t on the verge of tears, far from it. “Let me ask you a question,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “And I want you to think about it before you answer.”

  “All right.”

  “Why do you think he brought you into the practice?”

  “What?”

  “Why did he encourage you to go to law school? Why did he give you a job?”

  I did like she’d asked. I thought about it before I answered. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “I’ve never thought about it before.”

  “Okay, another question. Was there a time when your relationship with him changed? And I’m talking about a long time ago.”

  “Do you mean like childhood?”

  “I mean exactly like childhood.”

  “We used to be close.”

  “And that stopped when?”

  “Look, Jean, what’s the point of all this?”

  “When did it change?”

  “I don’t know, all right? I don’t know.”

  “Jesus, Work. You can be really dense sometimes. It changed overnight. It changed on the day we jumped for Jimmy. Before that, you were a chip off the old block, but then you went into that creek. After that, everything changed between you. I never understood why, not then. But I’ve thought about it, and I think I do now.”

  I didn’t want to hear any more. The truth was too ugly; it never shut up, and this is what it said. It said that my father sensed something different about me after that day. He felt the change, and knew to be ashamed of me, even if he didn’t know exactly why. It said that he could never respect me after that. He smelled my degradation like old garbage, and so he turned away. Even now I know that he died despising me.

  I finally looked at my sister, expecting to see some small shadow of the same emotion.

  “You know?” I asked.

  “You started that day a boy, Work, Ezra’s little boy—a reflection of him, perhaps, but no more than that. Something he could look down on with vague pride, point to, and say, That’s my son; that’s my boy. But you came out of that hole a man, a hero, a person everyone looked up to, and he couldn’t handle that. You were the center of attention, not him, and he hated that, hated it enough to grind you down and keep you down, so that you would never surpass him like that again. That’s when it changed for you and that’s why it changed.”

  “I don’t know, Jean.”

  “How many grown men do you think would have gone down that hole all alone? Not many, I can tell you that, and certainly not our father. I saw his face when they pulled you out and the crowd started cheering.”

  “They cheered?” I asked.

  “Of course they did.”

  “I don’t remember that,” I said, and didn’t. I remembered scornful eyes, ridicule, and pointing fingers. I remembered Ezra, drunk and telling my mother that I was just a dumbass kid. “He’s no fucking hero.” That’s what he’d said.

  “Vanessa Stolen would probably have died that day, raped and killed at fifteen. How many twelve-year-old boys have saved a life? How many grown men? It’s a rare thing, and it took courage. Only our father could make you blind to that, but that’s what he did, and he did it intentionally.”

  Her words were destroying me. I was no hero. He’d been right about that. But what she said next penetrated some of the fog that filled my mind.

  “Ezra brought you into the practice to keep you beneath him.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not cut out to be a lawyer, Work. You’re smart as hell, no question, but you’re a dreamer. You have a big heart. Nobody knew that better than Ezra. He knew that you could never be cutthroat like he could, and you would never care about money like he did; that meant that you could never succeed like he had. Having you in the law kept Ezra safe. As long as you were there, you would never be the man that he was. Never as strong, never as confident.” She paused and leaned toward me. “Never a threat.”

  “Do you really believe that?” I asked.

  “Trust me.”

  “None of that lets me off the hook, though. I still owe you.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you? He treated you worse than he ever treated me. For me, it was simple misogyny. I was female and therefore of little value. But for you, it was personal. He waged a campaign against you, Work. He went to war, and no one can do that like our father could. Good or bad, he was a force.” She laughed again, a bitter and dismayed sound. “You talk about protecting me from him. Jesus, Work. You never had a chance.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “You do that,” she said. “He’s dead. Don’t let him drag you down any further.”

  Suddenly, I was too tired to talk about Ezra anymore. It would probably take years to sort out the mess he’d made of my head, but the carnage seemed less absolute. And maybe Jean was right. Maybe I needed to give myself a break. I was only
twelve when it happened, and that seemed terribly young to me now.

  “I’m going to miss you, Jean.”

  She stood and put her hand on my shoulder. “You were going to go to prison for me, Work. That makes you a very good man. Better than anyone I’ve ever known. You remember that when things get you down.”

  “I love you, Jean.”

  “I love you, too,” she replied. “And that’s what family is supposed to be about.” She crossed the room and stopped at the door. She opened it and looked back. “I’ll call you when we get where we’re going.”

  Then she stepped out of the room, and as the door swung shut, I saw Alex materialize beside her. She slipped her arm around my sister and turned her down the hall. I watched until the door closed between us, and saw, in that last second, that Jean was crying; but it was a good cry, a healthy cry, and I knew that when they found their place, she would call. I took great comfort in that.

  I was packing my few belongings the next day when Max appeared in the door of my room. He looked exactly the same.

  “You want your dog back?” he asked without preamble.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Damn!” he said, and walked off. I heard his raised voice from down the hall. “You come to me when you want him. Maybe I’ll let him go, maybe not, but we’ll have beer regardless.”

  I laughed for the first time.

  An hour later, I went home to a house that rattled when I walked inside. I wouldn’t miss it, I knew, but I took a beer onto the front porch and sat where I liked to sit. I watched the sun descend on the park across the street. It touched the treetops and I thought about another beer. But I didn’t get up, and the sun went down as I watched. I sat there long into the night and listened to the sounds around me. They were comfortable sounds, city sounds, and I wondered if I would miss them.

  The next day, they’d put Ezra in the ground, and once he was there, I planned to seek out Vanessa. I would say what I had to say, make whatever promises were necessary. I wanted her back, if she would have me, but only after the truth was told. If I had to beg, I would. That was the curse of clarity, and the price I would happily pay. For I saw things now like I never had before. I was ready to make my own path, but I wanted her to walk it with me; I wanted to make the life I should have had all along.

  So when the sun came up the next day, I took my time in shaving. I brushed my teeth and I combed my hair. I put on my favorite jeans and a pair of sturdy boots. The funeral was at ten, but I had no plans to go. Jean said it best, really, when I asked her if she would attend.

  “He died for me that night, Work. Like I’ve always said. They can’t bury him any deeper.”

  I did drive past the church, however, and I saw the long black car that would carry him to the hole they’d dug. And when they came out, I was still there. Maybe I wasn’t like Jean; maybe I needed to see. But whatever the reason, I followed the line of cars to the cemetery outside of town. When they turned in the main gate, I continued past. I found the feeder road that ran along the ridge and drove until I found a place where I could watch. There was a tall tree there, and I leaned against its dimpled trunk and looked down on the gray mourners as they departed their expensive cars. They puddled around the rectangular pit, which looked so small from where I stood, and I saw a man, probably the preacher. He held out his arms as if for silence, but his words were lost in a sudden wind, which was just as well. For what could he say to make it right for me?

  I stayed until they shoveled in the dirt, and when all were gone, I walked down to look upon the settling mound. There was no headstone yet, but I knew what it would say. They’d come to me for the words, and I’d done the best I could.

  Ezra Pickens, it would read. His Truth Travels with Him.

  I stood there for a long time, but mostly I looked at the place where my mother lay. Would she thank me for putting him there? Or would she rather have been left alone? Again, I’d done the best I could. What I thought she would want. By his side, she had lived, uncomplaining; so be it in death. But in my heart I was angry, and knew that I would always question the wisdom of this choice. What I’d told Barbara was true: Life gets messy, and death, it seemed, was no exception.

  When I heard a distant engine, I paid it no attention. I probably should have known better, so that when Vanessa appeared beside me, I would have had a smile to greet her; but all I saw was fresh-turned earth and the hard edges of my mother’s graven name, until she spoke and touched me on the shoulder. I faced her then, and she took my hand. I said her name and she took all of me. Her arms were slim and strong, and she smelled like the river. I leaned into her, and her hand moved on the back of my neck. When I pulled away, I did so for a reason. I wanted to see her eyes, to see if there was cause to hope. And there was, for there was clarity there, too; and I knew, before I even spoke, that we would be okay.

  Yet the words had to be said, although not in the shadow of Ezra’s mounded earth. So I took her farm-worn hand and led her slowly up the hill to the shady place I’d found. I told her first that I loved her, and she looked away, down to the rows of chiseled stone. When she looked back, she tried to speak, but I stopped her with a finger. I thought back to the day we met, the day we jumped for Jimmy. It’s where it started, where everything changed, and where our future almost ended. If we were to have a chance together, she needed to hear about that day, as I needed to tell her; so I said what I had to say, and truer words have never been spoken.

  EPILOGUE

  Many months have passed, and the pain has lessened to an occasional throb. I still have trouble sleeping at night, but I don’t mind; my thoughts are not unpleasant. I keep Vanessa’s letter in the drawer of my bedside table, and I read it from time to time, usually at night. It reminds me of how close I came, and that life is not a given. It keeps me honest, and maintains what I’ve come to call “this precious clarity.”

  The clock reads just after five, and although my days start early now, there is no hurry; and the dream is still fresh upon me. So I swing my feet onto the cool floor and walk from the room. In the hallway, there is light from the moon, and I follow it to the window. I look down on still fields, then to my right and to the river. It winds into the distance, a silver thread, and I think of currents and of time, of things that have been swept away.

  The courts ruled that the cash and jewels from my father’s safe were part of his estate. They would go to the foundation. But the buildings sold quickly, and for a better price than I’d hoped. In the end, I sent over $800,000 to Jean, and she used it to purchase a cabin on the wooded shores of Lake Champlain. I’ve not visited yet. Still too soon, Jean told me, the world still too entirely theirs. But we are talking about Christmas.

  Maybe.

  As for my share of the money, I used it as best I could. I restored the aging farmhouse, bought a decent tractor, and acquired the adjacent two-hundred-acre parcel. It is good land, with rich soil and a bold stream. I also have my eye on eighty acres that borders to the south, but the sellers know my ambitions and their price is still too high. But I can be patient.

  I hear the door swing open behind me and smile in spite of myself. She only wakes when I find my way to this window. It’s as if she knows I’m here and rises to join me in looking down on this garden we’ve made. Her arms slip warm across my chest, and I see her face in the window—Vanessa, my wife.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

  “I had the dream again.”

  “The same one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Come back to bed,” she says.

  “In a minute.”

  She kisses me and returns to bed.

  My hands find the windowsill and I feel the cold draft coming through. I think of what I’ve learned and of those things I have yet to discover. Farming is a tough life, replete with uncertainty, and much of it is new to me. Yet I’ve grown lean and welcome the long hours that have made my hands so hard. It suits me, this life. There is no rush, neither
to judgment nor to action; and that, perhaps, has led to the greatest change of all, for I have yet to face a single regret.

  Yet I remain my father’s son, and it is not possible to escape fully the reprehensible choices he made. I know that I can never forgive him. But fate, which can be so wayward, is not without a sense of justice. Ezra played his games with Barbara, manipulated her for his own twisted ends. At her insistence, he changed his will, inserted a clause providing that any child of mine would inherit the fifteen million dollars in the event of my death. It was Barbara’s idea, her safety valve, and I am quite certain that my father planned to change it once he was through with her. But she killed him before he could sign the new documents. Maybe that’s why she shot him. I’ll never know. But I realized, when I finally read through his will, that there was no time limit involved. So I did the research, and what I learned was this: When I die, whenever that might occur, my child will inherit a large part of Ezra’s millions. I filed a caveat on the matter, seeking declaratory judgment. Hambly fought it, of course, and the loss still embitters him. But the will was specific, and the law favored my interpretation.