Give Me Some Truth

by Eric Gansworth

  But then, per usual for what happened when people get busted doing asshole things, the tide changed. That reporter had given us a fair shake, but then Custard’s supporters claiming to be “witnesses” quickly jumped in, taking over the paper with their onslaught of This Country Was Founded on Free Expression articles and editorials. Guess they didn’t see how stupid it was to use the “Founding Fathers” bullshit when dealing with Indians. They weren’t our Founding Fathers. We were already here, so we didn’t need to be found. “What had you planned?” Mrs. Marchese asked, interrupting the place I’d wandered off to. She had a weird patience that said she was asking questions in a friendly-seeming manner when there was something else on her mind.

  “Well, it’s kind of screwed up that that guy Custard—I guess that’s probably not his real name—that he even thought he’d made up a good name for a restaurant. Don’t you think it sends a message? Particularly in a town between two reservations? I’m guessing up in New England, they probably don’t have Lee Harvey Oswald Omelets kind of restaurants.”

  “That’s a bit of hyperbole, isn’t it, Mr. Mastick? Isn’t it possibly just a clever pun?”

  “Hyperbole?” I hated when teachers used hard words when easy ones were around.

  “An exaggeration to make a point,” she said, her Understanding Smile in place.

  “Okay, maybe. But why would you?” She raised her eyebrows. “Why name your burger dive after a doofus US military guy who got VD at West Point and was the last-ranked, whatever, West Pointer in his class? And then add his stupidest decision to your restaurant’s name? The decision that killed him, and killed most of the men following his orders.”

  “You must be getting an A in history,” Marchese said, with her Seriously Off Smile.

  “That ain’t exactly the way history’s taught here, Mrs. Marchese. I got that history from a book called Custer Died for Your Sins.”

  “Vulgar title.”

  “It’s hyperbole, Mrs. Marchese. A pun. A lot of Indians love puns, including Vine Deloria, Jr., the person who wrote that book. Truth? I don’t read a lot of books I don’t have to. But I read that one. Maybe that jerk-off General Custard should read it. Then he’d get why we think his burger dive has …” What had she said a minute ago? “A vulgar title.”

  “Perhaps he should. Someone should recommend it to him.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Marchese? I really do want to get to my practice.” We’d agreed to do the songs we’d worked on the longest, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t always stuff that could use a polish. Our set list included my Stones songs, a little Beatles for Lewis, and even a bone for him Susan had advocated for. She wanted Lennon’s “Imagine” as the song that showed off her keyboard skills. “Look, I’m sure you didn’t want to see me to talk about my history grades, so why did you want to see me?”

  “I told you. There’s no hurry.”

  “Battle of the Bands is tomorrow,” I stressed. She really wasn’t getting it. “You never ignore one last chance to tighten up.” I still wanted to do a couple run-throughs of the closer I’d thought up last week. We began with Maggi setting it up, doing “Amazing Grace” translated into Tuscarora. Maggi’d been raised saying words that began in the back of your throat with abrupt changes, so those syllables come naturally to her, and we arranged for her voice and water drums with regular harmonies. Susan couldn’t wrestle those sound shapes, so we had her doing soft harmony vowels, and the rest of us played light. Finally, we’d end with “Radar Love,” a barn-burning showstopper spotlighting Doobie and allowing the mixing of Maggi’s water drums with the drum pads on Susan’s keyboard. It was going to be awesome.

  “But you won’t be in the Battle of the Bands, this year. Maybe next?” Marchese said, a tight grin splitting only the lower half of her face.

  “Mrs. Marchese, I won’t be here next year. I’m graduating next June.”

  “Another incorrect assumption, Carson. I’m happy to shed a little light. Shall I? Yes? Did you look at the papers when you enrolled in the Battle of the Bands?” That was when I knew I was in some serious trouble.

  “They just explained the rules,” I said, which was all that I remembered seeing.

  “The rules state that you cannot participate if you have a deficiency report. It’s like all the other extracurriculars. If it’s on school property, your grades must be at least passing.”

  “But all my grades are passing. I don’t have any deficiency warnings. I did last year, but I got caught up on my work. That stuff doesn’t carry over from year to year, does it?”

  “Deficiency warnings went home yesterday. Yours is probably on your kitchen table now. It won’t be addressed to you, of course.” Marchese pulled a white-and-red plastic plunger thing from her apron pocket. “Do you know what this is?” She set it between us. I had an idea of what it was and had a worse idea of where it had come from.

  “It looks like …” I could not think of a single thing it looked like other than what it was.

  “I’ll help you. This is a doneness indicator, a very simple device. Many commercially sold turkeys now come with them embedded in their breasts. Personally,” she said, examining it like it was her first time, “I’ve never found them very accurate. Sometimes, they don’t pop, or when they do, the turkey’s so dry it crumbles like pencil shavings. This is why I have students use a probe meat thermometer when we do our turkeys.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  “Do you? And where do we put the meat thermometer probe?”

  “You stick the probe into the area between the breast and thigh and it should read one hundred and sixty, and then you take it out to let it … rest? That’s a funny word for a cooked turkey, but that’s what you said, and it continues cooking for a little while longer. It should be one hundred and sixty-five before serving.”

  “Correct. Excellent. You will make an excellent cook if you decide to be.”

  “So why are giving me a deficiency? I’m guessing it’s you, or I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Assertive,” she said, again, sounding impressed, but her forehead crease assured me she was not. “But I shouldn’t be surprised, given your splashy presentation for the newspaper. That couldn’t have just been happenstance that a reporter from the Cascade was there. Clever.”

  “Dumb luck,” I said. “I had no idea until I got there. But I wasn’t gonna turn him away. Only a fool says no to coverage with Battle of the Bands coming right up.”

  “Do you know they sell food at the Battle of the Bands and other school events?”

  “I guess,” I said. Weird switcheroo on the topics, but she was proving herself to be kind of a freak anyway.

  “Do you know how that food is arranged for? How that works?”

  “Vendors, I imagine?” I said. “I’m from a reservation, Mrs. Marchese. Vendor Tables are a way of life.”

  “I see,” she said, picking the turkey popper up again, spinning it casually, wanting me to continue being aware of it. “Do you know Custard’s Last Stand has been one of the most popular vendors for events at this school for years?” I shook my head. “He, like you, will not be at the Battle this year. The Music Boosters thought his presence would reflect badly on the program.”

  I looked down at the big front-page picture on the top newspaper. Flipping out on top of his counter, Custard gave the perfect image of what he and his customers were really about. Right under the title “LAST STAND?” was him wearing that ridiculous Cavalry costume, both arms up, each holding a handgun in firing position. The caption insisted he’d used blanks, totally safe, and that he’d fired them to restore order in a dangerous blah blah.

  “If you’re waiting for a crying Indian, Mrs. Marchese, you should watch for that Anti-Pollution commercial. Though that guy ain’t really an Indian anyway.”

  “Still a smart aleck, even having just been told you’re being held back a year.”

  “I went from deficiency warning to flunking? What is it you think I’ve done, Mrs. Marc
hese? Holding a protest at a shitty drive-in twenty miles away from here has nothing to do with my grades. Free speech and all?”

  “You failed your turkey project. I don’t have to tell you, that is your major project for this course. I’ll leave it as a failing grade, but if you contest it, I’ll file the reason as cheating and that will wind up on your transcript. No college application is going to be competitive with that on your transcript.” College application??? Was she kidding?

  “How do you cheat on a turkey? You saw us wash it out, save the giblets, and prepare it, and you saw the done turkey! You even ate some and didn’t throw up! So, no food poisoning.”

  “That’s why I haven’t already filed it as a cheat. I can’t quite figure out why or how you swapped out my turkey for another. I only know that you did.” She held up the plunger. “Mr. Mastick, I dislike these so much, and I believe so firmly that my students should know the proper safety techniques, that I special-order my turkeys. Mine don’t come with these doneness gimmicks.” She dropped it like it was leaking radiation. “And yet, yours had one.”

  “Maybe it was a mistake,” I said. I was busted, but her evidence was seriously flimsy.

  “It wasn’t. We invoice with a single supplier. Specializing in culinary class requests.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Marchese.”

  “Well, I encourage you to take the F. I looked at your transcript. I see you won’t be able to add a class for your final two quarters. Perhaps summer school?”

  “I still don’t know what you’re talking about. If you’re done, I’m gonna leave now.”

  “Aren’t you curious?” she asked as I grabbed my guitar. Apparently she wanted me to be curious, so I set it down and stared at her. “You don’t strike me really as the political activist sort. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps I’ll check out this book you mentioned from our library.”

  “It’s not in our library,” I said. “But be sure to check some … most Rez houses.”

  “I see. Still, to go to the lengths you went to at Custard’s Last Stand, I assumed you must have a vested interest. In the library’s yearbook archive, I saw only two other Mastick alums, Sheila and Derek. No extracurriculars in their Senior Profiles beyond Indian Culture Society. Other than that? No distinguishing characteristics, except one, on their transcripts. They happen to share your address. Brother and sister? The yearbook years would suggest Derek might be a little older than twenty. Isn’t that the age of the suspect in the failed robbery?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said, trying to steady my voice. It would do me no good to flip out on Marchese. I’d been enough of a wiseass in my time that this could move me from Prankster to Troublemaker in the school records, and I couldn’t afford that now. I might be able to figure something out once this cooled down, to get out of summer school and graduate on time, but only if I kept my mouth shut.

  “Oh, but you must be a faithful follower of the newspapers, or you wouldn’t have known about this incident at all.”

  “I saw that gasbag Custard on TV. He said he could recognize Indians just by looking at us. He doesn’t know we’re everywhere.” The long, silent avoidance between us and Custard had ended that night. I kept thinking of the weird way Lewis’s Uncle Albert, who sometimes made very little sense, was able to knock Custard’s dick in the dirt, just with words. And Albert would have totally smoked him without even one swing, if my dumb-ass dad hadn’t jumped in.

  “Some of us could walk in, and he’d never know. I got to thinking, there’s only two reasons you’d name your restaurant that. One, if you were stupid, unaware of what a shitty name that would be to Indians, or two, if you wanted Indians to stay away. You couldn’t really ban Indians, without risking legal shit, but you could make it a place Indians wouldn’t wanna go. I had a look-see. I blend in easy, when I’m not wearing a beadwork cap.” I pulled the cap Marie had beaded for me from my bookbag, held it up to Marchese, and then dropped it back in.

  “You know what I saw on the counter there? I bet you do, since it seems like you have a, what? A vested interest. This?” I slid the article back to her, with the photos of Custard’s No Indians sign and the Whites Only one from the South. She had a good poker face, but like most teachers, she didn’t like kids arguing back. If I’d thrown a tantrum, thrown a desk, yelled “Fuck!” or something, she’d know what to do. My calm, it seemed, bothered her.

  “Now he’s been exposed,” I continued. “And anyone who goes there is telling people something about themselves.” What I didn’t say was, would it matter? Would they keep coming back because of their choices? My gut suggested that: Yes, Yes, they would.

  “If I were to submit your brother’s name,” she said, stone face recovered. “To the police? To bring him in for questioning? Might they find a scar on his backside that shouldn’t be there?”

  “I don’t check out my brother’s ass. I don’t know what scars he might have.” Thank you, Marchese, for the tip. “He’s been in a couple accidents. Got some stitches from scrap roofing materials a couple years ago. Tetanus shot. He’s played lacrosse. It’s a big thing in my family.”

  “Not for this school, he hasn’t.”

  “No, he always thought playing against white kids wasn’t challenging enough.”

  “I see. It didn’t look like you played here either. Same challenge concerns?”

  “I play the guitar, Mrs. Marchese,” I said, lifting my case. “Can’t risk messing up my hands. Lacrosse—particularly the way Indians play—is too tough for me.” Thanks again, Marchese. I wouldn’t have thought of this. “I work on sticks. And I repair players’ uniforms. Ask Mrs. Gronka, about my work in her sewing class. I got an A. It’s gonna look weird if I get an F here. Is there some vested interest I don’t know about, Mrs. Marchese?”

  Stone face.

  “Whatever,” I continued. “I’m gonna go tell my band the bad news. Probably see Mr. Groffini, tell him too. Our guidance counselor was rooting for us. I think he even volunteered to be a chaperone.” Her face never changed as I swung my guitar case around and stomped out the door. I considered slamming it, but that would have been a Kid Tantrum move.

  I found Doobie and Susan in the practice room we’d signed out, playing “Come Sail Away,” one of our Just-in-Case Songs. We’d only been given a half hour to play, but it could change, depending on other things. Like an encore, if we’d won. I’d wanted us prepared, but I hadn’t prepared the band for this kind of information.

  “Maggi and Lewis already went to work,” Doobie said, not stopping the run he was doing on his bass. “They got tired of waiting on you.” He’d been kind of cool to me since I hadn’t asked him to join us at the protest. He didn’t understand that I’d done it for him, knowing there was no way to plug in his amp, and the idea was too serious to drag out that stupid orange caution cone. If things had gone right, he would have just had to sit there while we played.

  “I’ll deal with Lewis later,” I said. “Either of you happen to know where Maggi might be in the building?” They shook their heads. If she were cleaning hallways or classrooms, I’d be able to find her, but since September, she said her new boss mostly assigned her places that were for Facilities Employees Only. None of us were allowed back there while she was on the clock.

  “Okay,” I said, and let out a sigh I hadn’t even expected. “Listen. Bad news. I’ve been disqualified from Battle of the Bands. I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m hoping I can get it straightened out, for me, later, but there’s no way that’s gonna happen in time for tomorrow. I’m sorry. I just found out. Like ten minutes ago. It’s why I was late.”

  Doobie didn’t say anything, his face doing the same stone-faced statue imitation Marchese had been giving me. He started playing the bass line from “Silly Love Songs,” the McCartney song I’d rejected on principle, then put his bass away and started packing up.

  “That’s it?” I said. “No questions?”

  “I’ve known you fo
r thirteen years, Carson,” Doobie said, looking at his amp. “I don’t know what they’re saying you did, but I know you probably did it. Whatever it is, it ain’t the first bridge you burned and probably ain’t gonna be the last. I’ll be here next year, you know, Hubie Doobie the Flunked-Out Booby. Maybe I’ll try with a different band then.”

  “Really?” Susan whispered to me. “That’s it? You’re not even giving us an explanation?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “And one I’m still trying to sort out.”

  “You know, Artie asked me to be in his band, but I didn’t want my brother bossing me around. And … and I know guys form bands ’cause they think it’s going to get them laid.” I took a quick narrow glance at Doobie. He didn’t look up, but his ears glowed red. “And you’re all just Maggi Maggi Maggi. Know what? She’s not even into you. She likes someone else.”

  “What?” Who could that be? I ran through the possible suspects. Couldn’t think of a one.

  “If you’d ever listen to someone besides yourself, you’d know that.” Susan grabbed her keyboard, slid its cover on, and locked it.

  “You want a ride?” Doobie asked her, and just like that, they left. It was almost four. Lewis would be at work for another hour and a half, so I headed there.

  I’d never been inside the garage gates before. I was amazed to see that the back row of spaces looked like a Used Muscle-Car Lot. There was a Mustang, a Charger, a Maverick, a Camaro, a Trans Am trimmed like that Smokey and the Bandit car, an Omega, and a Cutlass ragtop, all wicked well kept. Lewis had told me that the security door near the Dumpster was never locked when the place was open and that it led to the areas he mostly worked, so I headed in through there.