SOMETIMES A BOY JUST HAS TO LIE | Nonfiction by J.R. Welch

Hayti, Missouri — 1979

The trailer was white with faded green trim, paint peeling from the metal siding still hot from the day’s sun. I sat in the back of the cop car, vinyl sticking to my legs. In the Delta, cops had a way of making everyone sweat. That night, it wasn’t just the heat.

In my family, truth was never solid ground. It was whatever Dad wanted it to be.

That night, he and Mom were fighting hard. I don’t know what lit the fire; maybe jealousy, maybe money, perhaps nothing at all, they were hard to understand. I know he shoved her, and she ran. Barefoot, out the door, into the dark. I was in the way when she bolted. Dad ran me over trying to chase her down, grabbed me up off the ground, and threw me in the car. He drove fast, headlights cutting through the night, following her to Aunt Wanda and Uncle Tom’s trailer two blocks over. Trailers and tired houses leaned side by side in Hayti.

By the time we arrived, Mom had already made it inside. Uncle Tom came out on the porch; his voice stayed steady, but his hands shook. He’d already called the cops.

“James, you need to calm down and leave.” Uncle Tom said with a quiver in his voice.

Dad heard it as a challenge. He stormed toward Uncle Tom, fists balled, chest out. Uncle Tom wasn’t a fighter. Behind him, Aunt Wanda crossed her arms like a shield, eyes darting between Dad and Mom. Dad’s shouting filled the block.

Red and blue lights swept across tin walls, pulling neighbors to their windows. The cop cars rolled in slowly.

I already had the marks: red welts rising on my arms, blood spilling down my knees from where Dad had barrelled me over and yanked me into the car. The pain was sharp, but I said nothing.

By the time the police walked up, Mom’s anger had drained away. Fear had taken its place. She bent close, her breath fast, her whisper burning in my ear: “If the cops ask you what happened, you just tell them you fell.”

The officer guided me to his car. The vinyl seat burned my skin. He handed me a piece of candy; some chocolate, wrapped in foil. It should have been comfort, but it wasn’t. I held it in my fist, feeling it soften in the heat. I wasn’t going to trust him, dad had already taught me not to.

The cop asked if Dad had a temper. If he hit me. If he hit Mom.

I looked him in the eye. “Nope. Not ever.”

He wrote it down like gospel. My lie became the truth on his clipboard. He thanked me and told me to have a good night, as if that were even possible.

He spoke with Dad, Mom, Aunt Wanda, and Uncle Tom. The whole scene ended quickly, Wanda finally spoke. She told Mom not to bring this mess back again. Her voice was flat. Jaw tight. Eyes fixed on the gravel instead of on us. Tom stood next to her, silent, staring at the siding of his own trailer as though he could disappear into it.

Mom pulled me close and lifted me into our car. Dad, wild-eyed, drove us back home. We went inside as if nothing had happened.

Later that night, I sat on the floor in front of the television. Dad and Mom curled together on the couch as if they hadn’t nearly split each other apart. Johnny Carson’s voice filled the room. They laughed at his jokes with ease, like nothing had happened, laughed as though the night hadn’t left marks on me.

My ribs ached, but I laughed anyway.

Because sometimes a boy just has to lie.

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