Truth Hurts

by David Boyle

  “When I asked you if he was real you told me no.”

  “You’re right, Will. There is no boogeyman. That’s what I said. Sometimes you let your imagination get away from you. I’ve never lied to you before, and I sure wasn’t going to tell you a scary man lived in your bedroom when he really didn’t.”

  “So what about Santa then, Dad?”

  Dan groaned. “What about him, son? What do you want me to say?”

  “Is there really, really a Santa Claus?”

  Katherine had completely withdrawn herself from the situation. Dan swallowed, he felt alone and at a loss for words. “Why don’t you just go to bed? Dad’s really tired and needs sleep, and so do you.”

  “Okay, Dad.” Will moseyed toward the main hallway; Dan sighed. Just as he turned to go to the kitchen, Will stopped and looked down at the floor. “Dad?”

  Dan took a deep breath, his heart misfired. “Yes, son?”

  “Is Santa real or fake?”

  Dan walked over to his son and knelt before him, took him gently by his shoulders. “I love you, kid. I would never do anything to ruin the bond we have. You know that, right?”

  Will nodded.

  “I’m so sorry, son.” Dan’s stomach clenched so tightly that he thought he was going to vomit. Perspiration glistened on his face. “Santa is not real.” Will’s lips curled, quivered, and behind the lens of his glasses Dan saw tears building in his eyes. “But you listen to me, pal. You are free to believe in him if you want to—Mommy and Daddy will always love you.”

  Dan picked up his son and took him to his room. Under her breath Katherine said, “How could you?”

  Minutes later Dan and Katherine were getting ready for bed: Katherine was washing her face, Dan changing into pajamas. The bathroom door was ajar, and Katherine peered through the crack. “Are you going to check on your son?”

  Dan shook his head, moaned, “Here we go again.”

  Katherine emerged from the bathroom and sat on the opposite side of the bed, her back to her husband. “Well?” she said.

  It had been a long night for Dan and the evening’s events had exhausted him. He just wanted to rest. “Kath—I know you’re upset about all this but we’ll sort things out in the morning, okay? We both need to get our heads clear before this situation becomes disastrous.”

  Katherine got up from the bed. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”

  She left the room. At the end of the hall she came to Will’s room and opened the door gingerly, whispering his name. “Will? Will?”

  He did not respond. He was asleep under a mound of blankets. She crept up to the bed and leaned over him, his glasses were still on his face but once again dangling over his nose. She smiled and pulled the glasses off, then set them down on his night stand, where she noticed a pad and pencil. As she reached for the switch to turn off the light, she glanced at his notepad and read what Will had written. At the top of the page it said: When Timmy Clark laughed at me for playing with dolls at school, I walk away and never speak to him ever again. He is not my friend then. The pain hurt me for a little time but I felt better soon after.

  Katherine was stunned. She had no idea that Will had been keeping a journal and recording his thoughts. After flipping through a few of the pages she learned that his first entry was dated almost a month ago, and all his notes were about him confronting some level of pain or frustration. About halfway down one page she read a comment about his teacher. I tell Mr. Walker that I did not put chalk in his eraser. Chris Lane did it but I never tell on him but I stay away from that kid anyway. At the bottom of the page she read Will’s most recent entry: Dad tells me there is not Santa any more. I feel better tomorrow I bet. It’s no big deal. I can’t wait to use my new car that Santa gave me. With a soft stroke Katherine rubbed her son’s forehead, smiled, and then turned off the light. Of all the wonderful gifts a boy could have at this delicate stage of life, a mind of his own and a self-imposed belief system were the most invaluable gifts to behold. More important and most impressive, young Will had developed the gifts all by himself. As a parent, Katherine couldn’t have been prouder or more relieved. Now everybody could sleep peacefully.

  UNDER LIGHTS

  Alexia Rivers displayed her inherent ability to entertain. She gyrated against the pole, commanding attention, performing for business-class men—some married, some soon to be, some unlikely ever to contemplate the mere idea of monogamy. A few cheapskates (the usual bunch) looked on, savoring the presentation, refusing, though, to tip the hard-working staff, dancers and servers alike. Regardless, Alexia was giving them a show, despite the raucous, dank, dehumanizing atmosphere. Lonely, sex-obsessed patrons filled the wall-to-wall tables, nursing cocktails, polluting the club’s air with a thickening haze of cigar and cigarette smoke, blowing tendrils of it into the air with each exhalation, faces prideful, as if there was no place they’d rather be. For as long as those dedicated customers remained unabashed about tucking tens and twenties into Alexia’s bikini or inside her high heels, she could continue amassing her savings, bringing her one step closer to her attainable goal.

  Across the room sat Paul Norton, one of Alexia’s more frivolous tippers—a married man with two little girls. His wife, whom Alexia had seen once or twice over time, was prettier than all the girls at Under Lights, even much prettier than she herself. Alexia had shared with him her favorable opinion of his wife several times, encouraging him to re-evaluate his life, to appreciate all that his loving, nurturing home had to offer. Nothing, no one, could curtail his patronage, nor would he ever realize his own shortcomings. He alone brought in upwards of a few hundred a night. When she was feeling amiable, Alexia’s closest friend, Trish, earned double the rate by offering the clients a lap-dance or a quick blow job in the “champagne room.” Norton typically requested this service of Alexia, who vehemently refused to oblige.

  The room was alive with flashing lights, pounding music, and ogling, judgmental men. A pair of girls alternated working each side of the rectangular bar. Many nights the girls were asked, at the owner’s request, to dress in sexy attire and further entice the patrons. Leather biker get-up, nurse outfits, fringy cowgirl skirts and tops, sexy police uniforms—these outfits among others had become crowd favorites. The club, at night’s end, was always littered with empty glasses, broken bottles, overflowing ashtrays; a rancid smell permeated every room, every hallway. Used condoms, found in bathrooms and in the parking lot, had to be picked up by Jimmy, the unkempt twenty-five-year-old bouncer, who could neither read nor write nor articulate words of more than three syllables. He often forgot the names of steady patrons, those he’d seen dozens of times a month. Desperate for any girl’s attention, for even an admiring glance from any female, he probably would have worked for free. Customers often found humor in the way he stood at the door, posing, his short sleeves rolled up to reveal his mediocre physique, trying to come across as intimidating yet not having the size and prowess to back it up. He lacked intelligence, common sense, tact. But Jimmy, though inadequate, was all the owner could get for a paltry wage of twenty-five a night. Half the time Jimmy failed to carefully inspect drivers’ licenses, allowing underage customers to become regulars, to imbibe illegally, to sometimes shout obscenities at the dancers; but his incompetence had not thus far created a major problem. Phil, the longtime owner, overlooked his bouncer’s stupidity so long as money was being made and there were no complaints.

  Alexia felt the sweat pouring down her torso as she danced beneath the multi-colored club lights. Tom Browning, the man in ecstasy at her feet, had a cigarette in one hand and a wad of fifty-dollar bills in the other. Alexia slithered her svelte frame around the pole. Aroused, Browning forked over one fifty after another. She ran her tongue up and down the pole while gesturing him toward her. Browning leaned over the bar; at the same time, Alexia extended her shapely leg over the counter, her high-heeled foot rubbing against his homely, sweaty face. He stroked her ankle with a crisp, clean fifty, his mouth gaping, his ton
gue moving, wormlike, behind his teeth, occasionally protruding beyond his puffy, liquor-soaked lips. Alexia flexed her foot, exposing the inside of her black leather pump, where Browning placed another bill from his thick roll of cash. Alexia secured the shoe on her foot and continued to work the front of the bar. Who else, this working girl wondered, had cash to spend tonight?

  Leonard Rivers had just returned home from the graveyard shift. He plopped down on the couch and, while snacking on a three-day-old burrito from 7-Eleven, flicked on the television and channel-surfed. He had worked odd shifts for more than ten years but for the last six months had taken advantage of extra hours as they became available. After finishing his meal and finding nothing interesting to view he glanced at his wristwatch: 4:30 a.m. He tugged off his heavy Kodiak work boots, closed his eyes, and turned on his side.

  Not thirty minutes later the rustling of gravel woke him, the time 4:57 a.m. He heard footsteps coming up the driveway, then a similar noise, the click-click-click of shoes on the front stoop, a sound which invariably knotted his stomach.

  On the front porch Alexia removed her shoes and tucked them under her arm. She elevated her leg and winced as she rubbed her throbbing foot; her toes had been mashed inside six-inch heels all night. As she looked down at her swollen feet, cringing, the porch light came on. Her father opened the door.

  “What are you waiting for out there, Alexia? You coming in? You all right?”

  “Sure I am, Dad. I was just looking at the pretty rose-bushes that Mrs. Harmon is growing. I can smell them from here. They’re wonderful.”

  Her dad smiled. “Annie’s a terrific gardener. Come inside, kiddo. I’ll make you something to eat. You hungry?” “

  A little. What do we have?”

  “Your choice of a hamburger or a ham sandwich. It’s all I’ve got. I’m behind on my shopping.”

  “Burger sounds good, Dad. Thank you so much.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s the least I can do.”

  They sat at the kitchen table, Alexia eating while her dad sipped a cup of coffee. “How was work?” she asked. “Is it busy at the factory?”

  “Sure is. At this pace I’ll be able to pay off some of my old bills. I’ve got a long way to go to get caught up, though.”

  “Dad, why do you put so much pressure on yourself? I know the score. I mean, I know Mom left us and cleaned you out...but you can’t...we can’t fix this overnight. I told you I can help with some—”

  He wouldn’t let her finish the sentence. He knew where the conversation was headed. “Not now, Alexia. Don’t make this hard on me. I know you make decent money but...”

  “It’s not about that, Dad. I’m just trying to say I can lend a hand.”

  “You know how I feel about this crap, Alexia. I love you. You’re my daughter, so I deal with you doing things your way. But you know it makes me sick. Just the thought of...” He coughed hoarsely, covered his face with his hands.

  “Knock it off, Dad. I’ve heard this one before.”

  “Let’s drop it, Lex. I’m going to lie down. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  After Leonard woke and splashed water on his face he grabbed the laundry and drove to town. At the laundromat he had to wait a while for a washer to become available so he sat on a ledge in front of a large window leafing through a newspaper. He studied the place, realizing it was always hectic no matter the day of the week. For a few minutes he kept his eye on a washer in the far corner of the room; any minute it would be available. In the meantime he returned his attention to his newspaper. A young girl, a striking blonde, accidentally bumped into him and broke his concentration. He looked up at her. Their eyes met. “Sorry,” she said, smiling. “This basket of clothes is heavier and more awkward than I thought.”

  He reciprocated with a smile of his own. Leonard found her attractive and, by the look in her eye and the way she bit down on her tongue, he believed she was attracted to him and, quite possibly, flirting. But he couldn’t act on it, he wouldn’t act on it. Not now, not in his unbalanced state of mind, his topsy-turvy circumstances. Leonard blushed and turned away. “That’s all right. I guess my legs are in the way. I’m hogging the lane here.” Leonard folded up his newspaper and grabbed his bag of clothes. “I think a washer’s ready. I’ve gotta get moving. Nice talking with you.”

  The girl seemed disappointed. She curled her lips, twirled her hair, walked away. “Yeah, you too.”

  Squinting pensively, Leonard wiped his face with the palm of his hand. “Hold it a sec, miss, I’m so sorry, where are my manners? What’s your name?”

  “Maggie,” she said, coming back to him. “Maggie Sanders,” she continued, her voice smooth, even-toned.

  “I’m Leonard.” Leonard would not give his last name, and Maggie, sensing his uneasiness, didn’t press him to explain why he withheld it.

  “Look, Maggie, I... I…know you don’t know me but I was wondering if you could give me some advice—some female perspective?”

  “I must say, I’m intrigued. No one has ever asked me for advice on anything. Not even my stubborn know-it-all brother, before he jumped in front of a train. Anyway, fire away, Leonard.”

  Leonard soothingly placed his hand on her arm, just above her elbow. “So sorry, Maggie. My troubles are nothing compared to your unimaginable loss.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It was a long time ago,” she said, stretching out the word long. Besides: life is tragedy, tragedy is life. Acceptance is the key to survival. So, about you, stranger,” she said somewhat playfully, “how can I help?”

  Leonard’s eyes swept the periphery, as if hyperaware of eavesdroppers, though their discussion couldn’t be heard over the background of noisy washing machines and driers. “I’m a single father. My soon-to-be eighteen-year-old daughter, she’s...she’s a dancer. Not the kind that dresses in pretty gowns and performs in upscale theaters.” Leonard looked down at the tile floor, attempting to conceal his deep-seated embarrassment. Blood rushed to his head, he felt pressure between his temples; his stomach became sour.

  “I follow,” Maggie said.

  “I’ll get to the point, then.” Leonard turned pale. Sweat appeared on his forehead. “How do I stop her? How do I put an end to the endless ache in my heart?”

  Maggie’s light-cherry lips formed a smile of heartfelt concern. After a deep breath, and what appeared to be a moment of earnest contemplation: “You leave her alone. Let her make her own choices. Don’t smother her with your guilt, your feelings of frustration, your parental insecurities.”

  “I wish I hadn’t asked. This advice is absurd.”

  “Absurd? Hey, I’m being honest, not trying to upset you. I mean, if you had a son and he was living the same life as your daughter, you’d probably be proud of him, supportive of his choices, maybe even brag about what kind of man he is. Don’t mean to sound harsh, but I was a teenager once too. I’m not speaking out of ignorance.”

  “So you’re saying I should—”

  “Give her a break?” she cut in. “Yes. For her good...and for your own.”

  Leonard stood speechless, dumbstruck, his eyes widening as he took in Maggie’s thoughts.

  “Not only that, but respect her fully. Unconditionally. Even if it goes against everything you believe in. In my mother’s words: ‘Over-parenting comes with disastrous side effects.’ ”

  “This is preposterous, Maggie. How can you be so matter-of-fact?”

  “Because I’m certain of what a woman wants—and doesn’t want.”

  “So what the hell does my little girl want? I try to be a damn good father. What else is there?”

  “How about being a damn good friend? How about letting nature runs its course?”

  Mystified, Leonard looked around the room. Maggie, sensing the situation could become increasingly uncomfortable, if not heated, started toward the door. “I’m terribly sorry to have caused you further distress, Leonard. Maybe that’s why nobody ever asked me for advice. I’m unworthy.”

  “B
ut wait,” Leonard said. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Goodbye and good luck,” Maggie replied, leaving.

  Several minutes later, having momentarily cleared his muddled mind, Leonard was about to load his clothes in the machine when he spotted a stack of promotional postcards on a nearby ledge next to the glass. Outside, pedestrians were going back and forth, running errands, crowding the busy street. He bent over to get a better look at the cards. Bold green letters jumped off the page at him, his heart beat out of rhythm. Two words sent a distress signal rippling through him: Under Lights. His eyes shifted back to the street, where it seemed the whole world was moving in slow motion. People’s smiling faces he interpreted as laughter, laughter at him and his misguided daughter, a lady selling herself, her skin, her precious soul, her inherent value, her promising future. And for what? And to whom?

  Reminders of his failure had been popping up everywhere lately, troubling him like a merciless toothache. He had to accept his daughter’s decision to work as an erotic dancer but the frustration had become unendurable. When she had revealed this to him he felt terribly disappointed, while at the same time promising to stand by her—she had been honest with him, and that had to count for something. He knew that such circumstances could potentially destroy the bond between parent and child. But Leonard would not let that happen. Alexia had been raised properly, so he didn’t know what could have caused such a lapse in her reasoning, in her decision-making sensibilities. When her mother had walked out on them Leonard hoped Alexia would always lean on him, be honest with him, and, in turn, he had promised never to abandon her or to become judgmental or abusive or excessively rigid in his parenting. Alexia was an adult, after all, and she would have to make her own way in the world, a reality Leonard had to come to terms with, sooner rather than later, for his daughter’s benefit and for his own.