John Hart - The King Of Lies

So I sat and I smoked, and something moved inside me that I recognized from a long, long time ago. The sun rose and put its warm red fingers upon me, and for a moment I was at peace. Then I felt Barbara’s presence and she stepped through the door.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Smoking,” I said, and didn’t bother to turn around.

“It’s six-forty-five in the morning.”

“Is it?”

“Look at me, Work.”

I turned around. She stood in the open door, wrapped in a fleece robe. Her hair was a mess, eyes puffy above a miserly mouth. I knew that her thoughts, like mine, were on last night. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

I gave Barbara my eyes as a warning, but I knew that she could not decipher even that pale message. She’d have to know me to get it, and we were strangers. So I gave her my thoughts, spelled them out in flat black letters that any moron could read. “I’m thinking that my life has been hijacked, held for ransom that I could never pay. I’m looking at a world that I’ve never seen before and wondering how the hell I got here.”

“Now you’re being silly,” she said, and smiled like she could play this off.

“I don’t know you, Barbara, and I wonder if I ever did.”

“Come back to bed,” she commanded.

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s freezing out here.”

“It’s colder inside.”

Her frown deepened. “That hurts, Work.”

“I’ve figured out that truth often does,” I said, and turned my back to her. In the distance, a man was walking toward us along the street. He wore a long trench coat and a hunting cap.

“Are you coming or not?” she insisted.

“I think I’ll go for a walk,” I told her.

“You’re half-naked,” she said.

I turned and smiled at her. “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t that a hoot?”

“You’re frightening me,” she said.

I turned back to watch my park walker and felt her step out onto the porch. For a long minute, she stared down at me, and I could only imagine what she might be thinking. Suddenly, her hands were on my shoulders, her fingers kneading me. “Come to bed,” she said in her voice of oiled silk and bedroom pleasures.

“I’m awake now,” I told her, meaning it in so many ways. “You go.” I felt her hands withdraw, and she stood silently-angry, puzzled, or both. She’d spread her angel’s wings, offered to lift me up, and I’d shot her down. Where would she go now? What lever could she trust to move me when the last resort of ready flesh had failed her in the end? I knew only that quiet retreat was not an option for her.

“Who’ve you been talking to?” she asked, a new edge in her voice. I glanced at the phone at my side, thought of Vanessa Stolen, and marveled coldly at my perspicacity.

“Nobody.”

“May I have the phone?”

I took another drag.

“The phone,” she insisted.

When I looked at her, I saw what I expected to see, thin lips in a face gone pale. “Do you really want to do this?” I asked.

In one movement, she stooped and snatched up the phone. I didn’t try to stop her. She pushed the redial button and I turned away, to the strange man in his long coat. He drew nearer, his eyes downcast, his face all but hidden. I wondered if Vanessa would answer and hoped not; beyond that, I felt nothing, not anger or fear, not even regret. I heard Barbara disconnect, and her voice, when she spoke, was tight with anger. “I thought you were done with her.”

“I thought so, too.”

“How long?” she demanded.

“I don’t want to talk about this, Barbara. Not now.” I climbed slowly to my feet, hoping as I turned that I would see tears in my wife’s eyes, anything to show that she felt more than wounded pride. “I’m tired. I’m hung over.”

“Whose fault is that?” she snapped.

I pushed out a deep breath. “I’m going for that walk,” I told her. “We can talk later if you still want to.”

“Don’t walk away from me!”

“Walking won’t put any more distance between us.”

“Oh. So now your adultery is my fault.”

“I’m not talking about this now,” I told her.

“I may not be here when you get back,” she threatened. I stopped halfway down the steps.

“Do what you have to do, Barbara. Nobody can blame you for that, me least of all.” I turned away from her heavy breathing and started down the sidewalk, heading toward the street and the park, which shimmered with cold dew.

“She’s a dirty little whore. I’ve never understood your obsession with her,” Barbara said to my back, her voice climbing. “Never!” The last word was a shout.

“Careful, Barbara,” I said without turning to face her. “The neighbors will hear.” I heard the door slam and imagined that she’d locked it, too. I didn’t care. My life dropped away as I stepped off the property and onto the sidewalk. I was a man, like any other. I had taken action, stood my ground. I felt real and it felt good.

At the bottom of the yard, I waited for this man I’d seen a thousand times yet never really met. I got a better look at him as he approached. He was magnificently unattractive, with melted features and a grimace that pulled his lip over brown teeth, which showed only on the right side of his face. He wore grimy glasses with thick black frames and his hair hung limply from beneath the hunting cap.

“Mind if I walk with you?” I asked as he came level with me. He stopped and tilted his head at me. Green irises swam in a yellow sea and his voice, when he spoke, was a smoker’s voice. I heard the same heavy accent.

“Why?”

There was distrust there.

“Just because,” I said. “Just to talk.”

“Still a free country.” He resumed his walking and I fell into step with him.

“Thanks.”

I felt his eyes on my naked chest. “I’m not gay,” he said.

“Me neither.”

He grunted, said nothing.

“You’re not my type anyway.”

He barked a laugh that ended with a snort of approval. “A smart-ass, huh? Who’d have thought?”

We walked down the sidewalk, past the big houses and the length of the park. A few cars were on the streets and some kids were feeding the ducks. The morning mist was slowly burning off the lake.

“I’ve seen you,” he finally said to me. “Seen you for years-sittin’ up there on your porch. Must be one heck of a view.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s a good place to watch the world pass by, I guess.”

“Hmph. Better you should pass through the world.”

I stopped walking.

“What?” he asked.

“A blinding flash of the obvious,” I told him.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I think you are a very smart man.”

“Yes,” he said. “I think you are right.” He laughed at my expression. “Come on. We’ll walk and you can compliment me. It’s a good plan.”

“I know your name,” I said as we left the park behind and moved toward Main Street and the poor neighborhoods that lined the tracks beyond.

“That right?”

“I just heard it around. Maxwell Creason, right?”

“Just Max.”

I held out my hand and he stopped, forcing me to stop alongside him. He held my eyes for an instant, then lifted up his hands to hold in front of my face. The fingers were broken and bent, twisted into claws, and I saw with horror that most of the nails had been ripped off.

“Jesus,” I said.

“You know my name,” he said. “And I don’t mean any offense when I say this, but let’s just leave it at that.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Look, I’m glad to talk to you-God knows, it’s been long enough-but I don’t reckon I know you well enough to talk about that.”