Give Me Some Truth

by Eric Gansworth

  “I only got one master. I’ll let you in here, park, and let myself in near the loading docks.”

  “Why don’t I just come with you?”

  “I already got a dolly for the bird on the other side of that door. You’re standing guard. Let’s go, if you’re in such a hurry.” He grabbed a different set of keys and ran to the door, unlocking it and lifting the turkey as if it were nothing heavier than a rubber chicken.

  He held the door for me, close, making me squeeze through. He pressed his hands on my shoulders. “Stay right here.” He locked the door from the other side, went back to the car, then dropped the Trans Am into gear and headed away. Lewis would think this was a prank, that Jim had locked me in and left.

  A shiver washed over me. This dark hallway felt wrong. Like I was the last girl on earth. The last young woman, my mind corrected. I didn’t want to move, in case those Dawn of the Dead zombies flew out of the gym (a crazy thought I couldn’t shake).

  The door behind me burst open a couple minutes later, and I let out a scream. Jim chuckled. He carried a big canister flashlight. “Was beginning to think you’d ditched me,” I said.

  “Just making myself presentable,” he said, smiling. He’d left his jacket somewhere, and underneath he’d worn a button-up shirt, a regular one without a name patch. It was unbuttoned three down, and though I’d already seen him shirtless, that sweep of hair peeking out the collar was still sexy. Almost like a mystery all over again. He’d also combed his hair into a clean and casual part tonight. “Would I ditch you?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  “I’d never leave you anywhere alone.” He looked directly into my eyes, a warm smile softening his features. “Take this.” He handed me the flashlight. “I’ll wheel the bird and you walk behind, shining the light, so we can see where we’re going.” He pushed, and I shone the light, hitting his jeans back pockets. They were Jordaches. Jim Morgan never struck me as a sixty-dollar-a-pair-of-jeans kind of guy, but the evidence on his butt was plain.

  “So how come you’re dressed so nice? Did I steal you away from a date?”

  “A guy can dress nice if he wants. You don’t know what I’m like when I’m not driving a damn riding lawn mower or pouring gravel for that friggin’ track. I’m a snappy dresser.”

  “No guy who is a snappy dresser uses phrases like ‘snappy dresser,’” I said. He seemed disappointed. “And I did see you in your shorty-shorts at Susan and Artie’s.”

  “Like what you saw?” He grinned. I laughed, though I had liked what I’d seen. He worked hard and his legs showed it. “You’ll see,” he said. “What young people say changes fast. Another year? You’ll say something you think is hip and some kid’s gonna laugh at you.”

  “Hip? You mean ‘groovy’?” I said, but he ignored my comment this time.

  “So you’re in eleventh?”

  “Why?” I asked. I’d been able to dodge his questions without actively lying so far.

  “Just wondering. Only eleventh and twelfth graders get to take Cooking. Least that’s how it was when I came here. How come I haven’t seen you before you started at the garage?”

  “You went here?” This would be easy to get him off topic. “How’d you like it?” Working with older people, I discovered they thought about their younger selves more than about who they’d become as adults. If you could get them thinking about the past, they drifted (made me wonder if I’d look back on Rez Life with more fondness than I had, living it).

  “Loved it,” he said with a grin. “Played football—all-state, even. I’m in that case down by Calderone’s office. Big as life.” Calderone was a vice principal. Football players hung out at his office.

  “Show me?” I asked, using my Impressed Girl Voice.

  “We’re going right by there,” Jim said, unaware he was grinning. The case was full of trophies and framed photos. Each photo contained out-of-shape men wearing whistle necklaces, their arms around young guys in pads and uniforms. Aside from the hairstyles, the young guys looked almost identical: sad high school mustaches and a pose combining Tough, Humble, Casual, and Cocky (which I had to admit would be difficult).

  “Find me,” Jim said. He had to be in his thirties. The recent notables were on top shelves. I spotted him, in 1967–68. Fifty pounds lighter, with the requisite mustache and long hair.

  “Look how young you are!” I said, squatting down to get a closer look. “Did you go to college after? Or did you have a job like mine?”

  “The welfare jobs?” he said, laughing. I didn’t join him.

  “I’m not on welfare. We’re just poor. We get by.”

  “I just meant …” He thought for a minute about how he might want to answer. “First of all … you going to college? Like art school?”

  “College? I haven’t thought that far ahead.” I laughed, myself, relaxing a little.

  “If you’re in eleventh, you better get thinking. It ain’t that far ahead. Anyway, when I was in high school, a lot of guys went to college, to get out of the draft. I didn’t, but whatever.”

  “Why didn’t you? If you were all-state, wouldn’t that get you a scholarship or something?” His story wasn’t adding up. (Mine too, since I was truly only in tenth grade—it was getting harder to remember my multiplying stories. All because of Carson’s stupid turkey error!)

  “I hated school. I only did homework so I wouldn’t be disqualified from playing ball. Why would I sign up for more once I got out of this shit hole? I wasn’t a Joe College.”

  “Weren’t you worried about the draft?”

  “Not with one uncle working for county government, and another on the board of trustees here. One made my number disappear from the draft lottery, and the other got me this job. It wasn’t even ever posted. My uncle asked me if I wanted a job. I said yeah, and bingo! There was a new Grounds job, Tier II. I collected my diploma on Saturday, and on Monday I was reporting for work. Never looked back.”

  “What’s Tier II?”

  “If layoffs come, other people get let go before me. A lot of other people.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair,” I said. “What do the other groundspeople think of that?”

  “Who cares? My last name’s Morgan, but they know that my mom’s maiden name is Reiniger, and in this rinky-dink county, that name means something.”

  “Reiniger Field,” I said. I’d seen the giant electronic sign at the football field and wondered who that was, but had no idea who you would ask. It wasn’t a name I otherwise knew.

  “More than Reiniger Field, but yeah. Thought you were in a hurry to do this,” he said.

  “I am,” I said. I was a little worried. We were close to the room, and when we got there, I was going to have a harder time pulling off my Turkey Dilemma Lie. I’d never been in the home ec classroom, and I didn’t even know where the friggin’ fridge was that I was supposed to swap out the turkeys from.

  “Wish I still looked like I did back then,” he said, glancing away. “Once you hit your mid-twenties, though, your pants start fitting a little tighter. I used to like that my shoulders got bigger, but no one thinks you look better with a spare tire.”

  “You look better now,” I said.

  “Bullshit,” he said, laughing, but then he put his arm around my shoulder and drew me closer to him. “But you’re all right, kiddo. Thanks for saying that. Let’s get your turkey home.” He expertly tilted the dolly with one hand, keeping his other hand cupped around me, sliding it to my hip. It was a little awkward, his stride so much longer than mine, but we each made the effort to match. I was letting him guide, hoping I seemed like I knew where I was going.

  “I have to stop here,” I said, with relief, as we reached the B Wing. The home ec lab was clearly labeled and it was right across the hall from the girls’ room.

  “All right,” he said, pulling out his enormous key ring. “I’ll swap them out. I’m assuming it’s the only turkey I’m going to find in the freezer.”

  �
�How do you keep track of the keys?” I said, heading to the girls’ room.

  “Master key. Can get into almost anything here.” A grin crept over his face. “Almost.” He flicked his eyebrows. “Some things, you need to wait to get into. ’Til you have permission.”

  “Pig,” I said, laughing.

  “What are you talking about? Dirty mind? Guilty conscience?” Jim badly pretended we weren’t talking about the same thing. He wanted to be sure we both knew we were talking about the same thing. It was exciting to have a man notice me. Marie wouldn’t leave me in her dust.

  “Just swap the turkeys,” I said. “And put the new one in the fridge, not the freezer,” I added, laughing as I stepped into the girls’ room. He gave me a look like, Well, duh! It had never occurred to me before, but there was no lock on the lav door, except the kind you needed a key for. That felt a little unnerving with just the two of us here. I touched up my gloss and eye shadow, and stepped back out. Jim was locking the home ec lab, Carson and Lewis’s frozen turkey on the dolly. I looked down the dark halls and a shiver came over me. The near total darkness really was freaky.

  “Seems funny to be here when no one else is, don’t it?” Jim said, shining his flashlight down the darkened hall. “I like walking around like I own the place. I go places these fancy-pants morons think are private.” He waited for me to ask who, but I didn’t want to know. “Anything you wanna see before we leave? Teachers’ lounge? Principal’s suite? My keys go everywhere.”

  “Yeah, teachers’ lounge. I always wondered.” We walked down the back of the building, him jangling his key ring like a cowboy’s spurs in one of Marvin’s stupid Westerns. We stopped at the door and Jim unlocked it, holding it open for me.

  “What you waiting for?” he asked.

  “It’s so dark,” I said. You could see almost nothing a couple feet in.

  “No windows,” he said. “They like it that way. They also took out the overhead fluorescents, messing with the ballast lock.”

  “Why?”

  “They like their special lighting. Stupid garage-sale floor lamps and rugs, old end tables, junk. A couple nice couches. Even a comfortable recliner. Just go in and grope around ’til you feel a pole.”

  The first thing I noticed was the overwhelming odor of stale cigarettes. It smelled like a bingo hall. I slid my hand along the wall, felt the switch, and kept going. Just as the door was closing behind us, I heard footsteps from the back cafeteria hall.

  “What is that?” I asked, mad that I could hear my breath catch in fear. The door was totally closed, and the room was black. The only light was a faint glowing sliver under the door.

  “Just Vern,” he said. Vern was one of the other groundsmen. He seemed close to Jim’s age, but he was bigger, bulkier, his arms knotted in veins as thick as electrical cords. “He’s working tonight. I had to let him know I was coming. Keep quiet and he’ll be by in a minute.”

  “But you didn’t—” I started to say. Jim leaned into me, covering my mouth with his hand. It smelled of soap, cigars, and some cologne that was vaguely familiar.

  “Morgan! Oooh, Mooorgaaan!” Vern said, in a singsong voice, like you might use trying to coax a strange cat to come up to you. When Jim didn’t respond, Vern’s yells got sharper, more demanding. “Morgan! I know you’re down here. Saw your light. Trixie’s coming on for the next shift, and she usually gets here early. I don’t want to be in trouble for unauthorized visitors.”

  Jim let a series of hushed curses. He opened the door. “Here, Vern,” he said, irritated.

  “What the hell?” Vern said, coming our way, with his own flashlight. “What you doing anyway? You only enter the building if you’re on the clock. If you want to switch—” he said, stopping when he noticed me behind Jim. “Who’s that?” he said, grinning and looking worried at the same time. “Hey, Maggi. What’s doing here? You come with this chump?” He laughed, trying to sound casual, but shone the light into Jim’s eyes. “He knows the No Guests rule.”

  “She’s no guest. She works here.” Jim held his hand up. “Get that light out of my face.”

  “He was doing me a favor,” I said. “I needed to get something here.”

  “I bet he wants to swap favors,” Vern said, and laughed, pointing the light now at me. “You needed something from the teachers’ lounge, did you?”

  “No, we already got what I came for,” I said. “I was just curious.”

  “Curious,” Vern said, exaggerating his vowels. “Know what they say about curiosity.”

  “Killing the cat?”

  “Just being a nice guy,” Jim said. “No return favors necessary.”

  “Okay, Nice Guy. Get your butts out of here.” Jim shut the door, and we started to walk, Vern beside us. He stopped and shone his light back on the turkey. “Forgetting something?”

  “Shit, almost,” Jim said. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Present for me? For letting you in when you’re not supposed to be here?” Vern said.

  “Um, no.” Jim tilted the dolly, and the bird reclined.

  “That wasn’t really a question, Morgan,” Vern said.

  “It’s mine,” Jim said, suddenly irritated. This was news to me. I didn’t have any plans for it myself, but the band and I were out serious cash for the one Jim had just deposited for me.

  “Not anymore, Jimbo. I agreed to let you in here, for a six of Labatts. Not you and this little chickie. Price went up.”

  “I’m not a chickie,” I said. “And that’s my turkey, if you want to know.”

  “I don’t,” Vern said, reaching for the dolly. Jim let go, easier than I would have thought. For all his supposed family connection, he let Vern walk all over him. “And no,” he added. “It’s not your turkey. Now get going.” He walked us out through the Bee Gees break room.

  “Don’t forget your fancy duds, super stud,” he said, tossing Jim his suede jacket off a coatrack. Jim shrugged it on as we walked out. Vern lifted the turkey into the trunk of a Ford Maverick and turned to us with the same stupid grin. “Drive around behind the junior high,” he said. “You’ll be able to see Trixie pull in, and she won’t see you. Give her five minutes. I’ll keep her busy, and then you can head out, clear. You wouldn’t want to get caught now, would you?”

  Jim shook his head and we got into the Trans Am. “Thanks for the giving!” Vern yelled as Jim followed the dirt path to the junior high’s far side.

  “Sorry you lost the turkey,” I said. I felt kind of stupid, apologizing to Jim for not being able to steal my turkey away for me, but it seemed like I should say something. He just looked forward.

  “My mom still cooks a big dinner, on the hopes that some of us might show up,” he said, finally. “My brothers usually go, ’cause they’re single and lazy. My ex-wife and my mom didn’t get along too well, so I haven’t gone in a few years. This year, though …”

  “You’re married?”

  “Some part of the word ‘ex’ that you don’t get?” he grumbled. My parents referred to each other as the Ex the whole time we lived in the city, but when we moved back, they stopped. “Here comes Trixie,” he said. The dashboard clock read ten to eleven. “You’ll be home before the hour.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “When the late news says, ‘It’s eleven o’clock. Do you know where your children are?’ they’ll be able to say yes.” As soon as those words were out of my mouth, I knew they were the wrong things to say. “Wish I could offer you something to make up for the turkey,” was what came out next.

  “It’s late,” he said, letting out a sigh that rattled in his chest, and then he dropped the Trans Am into drive. We pulled out and headed to Bitemark.

  “I live the other way,” I said, then remembered that he already knew that.

  “Going this way so Trixie don’t see.” He took us down Bitemark, and headed toward Snakeline. As we got close, he slowed down, killing the headlights and putting it in park in a strip of road that was mostly woods. This was a little dangerous on the
Rez. There were no sidewalks, no curbs, almost nothing. It went road, a strip of cinders and gravel, and then the drainage ditch. If someone came flying up on us and wasn’t paying attention, we could be seriously rear-ended.

  “Thanks, Jim,” I said, pulling off the gloves he’d given me to wear. “For everything.”

  “What friends are for, am I right?” he said, and we smiled. He could hear Young Woman in my voice, not Rez Kid. As I handed over the gloves, he stopped my hand. “Keep ’em. You seem to like them. And you got a little bit of a walk ahead. I don’t want to stop the car in front of your house.”

  “But, Jim, these are expensive.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Gift from my ex when she wasn’t my ex. Just as well I get rid of them. Too many memories.” He let go of my hand, and I put them back on.

  “Thanks for picking up the phone.” I was babbling a bit, but I didn’t want this to end, this … Encounter? He’d claimed all program employees got his number in case we had to call in. I didn’t think others had it on a Polaroid of shirtless Jim in tiny cutoffs.

  “Why I gave you the number. Wouldn’t have, if I didn’t want you to call if you felt like it.” He swallowed hard and tried to smile at me with sad eyes. “A lot of the guys hate being called at home,” he said, looking down. “But I’d never mind.” I felt like crying, picturing that empty apartment. I got out and walked to his side of the Trans Am. He also got out.

  “To make this the real movie car, you gotta pinstripe ‘Bandit’ here, under the widow,” I said, tapping the door. We both heard the hitch in my voice.

  “Bandit, yeah, that’s me. Not even a good Turkey Bandit.” He laughed, but it wasn’t a real one. He just wanted me to feel like I’d told him a good joke.

  “You know, when you called, I thought maybe you wanted to talk about that magazine I gave you.” I had wondered when this was going to come up. The magazine, Avant Garde, had indeed been an art magazine, about exactly the kinds of things I was interested in. The cover feature, though, was “Wedded Bliss: A Portfolio of Erotic Lithographs by John Lennon.” Some were cartoons, but not like what you’d see in a comic book.