John Hart - The King Of Lies

“Are you cooking?” I asked, surprised. Barbara rarely cooked.

“Beef Wellington,” she replied.

“What’s the occasion?”

She stepped back, put her wine on the counter. “An apology,” she said. “For the way I treated you last night. It was a bad time for you, a horrible time, and I could have been more supportive.” She cast her eyes down, but I didn’t believe her. “I should have been, Work. I should have been there for you.”

Barbara had not apologized to me in years, not for anything. I was struck dumb.

She took my hands and peered at me with what had to be mock concern. “Are you okay?” she asked, referring to my fall, I guessed. “I should have come to the hospital, I know, but I was still mad at you.” She made a pout of her lips and I knew that in her mind, that made everything okay. She turned away before I could respond and snatched up her wineglass. Her calm seemed less natural when half of the glass disappeared in one swallow. She turned again to face me and leaned against the sink, her eyes shiny. “So,” she began again, her voice too loud. “How was your day?”

I almost laughed. I almost slapped her, just to see what expression would appear on her perfectly prepared face. Somebody tried to kill me last night and you didn’t come to the hospital. I made love to a fragile and lonely woman, then ground her spirit into the dirt for reasons I’m too chickenshit to explore. My father is dead with a couple of bullets in his head, and the district attorney wants to know where I was on the night in question. I’d really like to choke the fake smile off your face, which, I think, means my marriage is in trouble. And my sister, whom I have failed in every possible way, hates me. And worst of all, this sister, whom I love-I’m pretty sure that she murdered our father.

“Fine,” I told her. “My day was fine. How was yours?”

“The same,” she said. “Go sit. The paper is on the table. Dinner will be ready in half an hour.”

“I’ll go change,” I said, and walked from the room on wooden feet. I felt things as I moved: the wall, the banister. What was real? What mattered? If I walked back into the kitchen with shit in my mouth, would she kiss me and tell me I tasted like chocolate?

I splashed water on my face and put on khakis and a cotton roll-neck sweater that Barbara had given me for Christmas several years back. I studied my face in the mirror, amazed at how complete it appeared, how calm and intact. Then I smiled and the illusion collapsed. I thought of the things Vanessa had said.

Barbara still stood at the stove when I walked back into the kitchen. Her glass was full again. She smiled as I poured more for myself. Wordlessly, we clinked glasses and drank. “Ten more minutes,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Do you want me to set the table?” I asked.

“I’ve got it. Go and relax.”

I turned for the living room and the deep, soft couch. Ten minutes sounded good.

“Douglas stopped by,” my wife announced. I stopped and turned.

“What?”

“Yeah, a routine visit, he said. Just to talk about the night Ezra disappeared.”

“Routine,” I repeated.

“To fill in the blanks, he said. For his forms.”

“His forms.”

She looked quizzically at me. “Why are you repeating what I say?” she asked.

“Am I?”

“Yes. Almost every word.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was.”

“Honestly, Work.” She laughed. “Sometimes.” She turned back to the stove, her hand on a wooden spoon. I stood rooted, dimly aware that numbness was becoming my normal state of existence.

“What did you tell him?” I finally asked.

“The truth,” she said. “What else?”

“Of course the truth, Barbara, but what specifically?”

“Don’t snap at me, Work,” she said. “I’m trying…” She trailed off, gesturing with the spoon at the cluttered kitchen. Drops of something yellow landed on the counter and I stared at them because I couldn’t meet her eyes. When I did look up, I saw that she had her hand over her mouth and tears shimmered in eyes turned to the floor. Another man would have gone to her and put his arms around her, but my soul was already black with lies.

I gave her an awkward minute and she pulled herself together. “What did you tell him?” I asked again, more gently this time.

“Just what little I know. You’ve never told me much.” Her voice was small. “I told him that after going to the hospital with”-she paused, barely able to finish the sentence; she’d almost said my mother’s corpse-“with your mother, you went to your father’s house. Then you came here. I told him how upset you were, you and Jean.” She looked down again. “About how you two argued.”

I stopped her. “I told you about that?”

“Not what you argued about. Not the words. Just that you fought about something. You were very upset.”

“What else?”

“Jesus, Work. What is all this?”

“Just tell me, please.”

“Nothing else to tell. He wanted to know where you were that night and I told him you were here. He thanked me and left. That’s it.”

Thank God. But I had to test her. I had to be sure.

I made my voice casual. “Could you swear that I was here all night? Could you testify to that?”

“You’re scaring me, Work.”

“No reason to be scared,” I assured her. “It’s just the lawyer in me. I know how some people might think, and it’s best if we’re clear on this.”

She stepped closer, stopping in the kitchen door. She still held the spoon. Her eyes were very steady, and she lowered her voice, as if to give her words a special emphasis. “I would know if you’d left,” she stated simply, and something in her face made me wonder if she knew the truth. That I had left. That I’d spent long hours weeping on Vanessa’s shoulder before creeping back into our bed an hour before dawn, scared weak that she would wake up.

“You were here,” she said. “With me. There can be no question about that.”

I smiled, praying this time that my face would remain intact. “Good. Then we’re settled. Thank you, Barbara.” I rubbed my hands together. “Dinner smells great,” I added lamely, turning away as quickly as might seem reasonable. I almost made it to the couch, when a thought stopped me. “What time did Douglas come by?”

“Four o’clock,” she told me, and I sat down on the couch. Four o’clock. An hour before I spoke to him in the parking lot. I was wrong, then. Our friendship didn’t die when he questioned me; the corpse was already cold and starting to stink. The fat bastard was testing me.

Dinner would have been great if I could have tasted it. We had caramelized Brie with slivered almonds, Caesar salad, beef Wellington, and fresh bread. The chardonnay turned out to be Australian. My wife was beautiful in the candlelight and at times I thought that maybe I’d misjudged her. She made clever remarks at the expense of no one, spoke of current events and a book we’d both read. Occasionally, her hand touched mine. I grew mellow with wine and hope. By half past nine, I thought maybe we had a chance after all. It didn’t last long.

The plates had been cleared away, stacked in the sink for the people we’d be the next day. The remnants of dessert littered the table and we were halfway through a coffee and Baileys. A quiet contentment filled me, and I looked forward to loving her for the first time in forever. Her hand was on my leg.

“So tell me,” she said, leaning closer, seeming to offer herself. “When do you think we’ll move?” The question caught me by surprise. I didn’t understand, but her eyes had a new glitter and I felt myself sobering, almost against my will. She sipped her wine, her eyes dark above the pale half-moon of the glass’s edge. She waited in silence, as if only for me to pluck a date from the air.