Just Be True To Me

The picture slid into the middle of the room.

Clifford picked it up, his face becoming serious. “What is this?” He showed it to her. “Why do you have this? Where did you get it?”

Her mouth moved as fast as her eyes, not a bit of her explanation making any sense.

“You were snooping through my things. What else did you steal?”

“I didn’t steal anything. I just forgot to put it back. I found it when we went shopping.”

He said, “Stop lying.”

“I’m not lying. But even if I was, you have no right to get mad. You lied about killing your dad. You’re a murderer and you hid it from me. You’re not supposed to lie to your lawyer. And you’re damn sure not supposed to lie to your girlfriend.” A shock sped through her spine, causing her feet to burn. Climbing back into the bed, she turned her back to him, hiding half of her face in the pillow. “I think you should leave.”

“The childishness has returned.”

Mia sat up. “Wanting to be alone doesn’t make me childish. I need to clear my head.”

“You’d rather be alone than talk it out. That’s being childish.”

“I already have a father, so I don’t need you pretending to be mine.” She began texting. “Now leave me alone so I can figure out how to fix this mess. You’re still on trial.”

Clifford ripped his jacket from the back of the chair. He waited a few seconds before opening the door. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Mia used her medical scare as an opportunity to get a ten day long stay of proceedings.

Her living room floor was covered with papers. Individual pieces stuck to the back of her legs. She blew a curl out of her face and stretched her neck. Tamara handed her a cup of tea and kicked some of the papers out of the way before sitting across from her. Mia moaned as she drank, her face scrunching.

“That’s not coffee.”

“You don’t need any coffee. You’ve already been up for the past 36 hours. I’m hoping that tea makes you sleepy.”

“No time for sleep. I need to find a way to make the jurors forget Clifford killed his dad.” She flipped through some of the pages. “Rosario was right. There’s nothing about it anywhere.”

“Maybe you should just ask him about it?”

Mia’s head snapped up. “Why the hell would I do that? So he can lie to me again? No thank you.” Tea spurted from her lips, the bit in her mouth continuing to scald her tongue. “That’s a sign that I don’t need to even be thinking about him.”

Her anger didn’t come from being caught off guard. In fact, she was more angry than hurt. She thought they’d built up enough trust to tell each other everything. She’d found the courage to tell him about her past. All of her past. It was upsetting that he didn’t trust her enough to tell her about his. Though she knew their relationship was fake, it was beginning to feel real. She hadn’t told anyone as much about herself as she told him and that gave her hope that one day she might be able to trust someone, a man, fully again. His omission shattered that hope.

“Well there’s nothing here,” Tamara said. “At least, I didn’t find anything. I’m gonna go rest my eyes. Do you need anything else from me?”

She thanked her, leaning into Tamara’s legs for a half hug. Her back beginning to ache, she stretched out on the sofa. Letting her arm fall to the floor, she picked up the first paper she touched.

It was Clifford’s bank statement. Skimming the information, she turned on the light. Reading it again, her mouth dropped open.

***

Clifford ignored the call and turned his phone off. He pushed it into the back of his glove compartment. Pulling the hat’s brim over his eyes, he slid on a pair of shades and checked himself out in the rearview mirror.

The darkened area was selected for its seclusion. He dipped in and out of the shadows, running on the tips of his toes as he dashed between the buildings. With the door in sight, he made sure his lungs were full of air before sprinting the 200 yards. A yellow light led him in the right direction upon entering.

“You’re late.”

Clifford apologized, shaking the man’s hand after he caught his breath.

His name was Jeremy Richard. He was another childhood friend of Clifford’s. He stamped out the cigarette on top of the growing pile in the ashtray.

Clifford pulled a brown package out of his jacket and tossed it onto the table. “How is she?”

“Better. Still scrappy,” Jeremy said. “She wants to see you. I don’t mind taking care of her for you, but every son has his duties.”

“I got a lot going on right now. After the trial—”

“Yeah, sure.” He tossed Clifford a beer and kicked the chair out as an invitation to sit down. They talked about sports and Clifford’s latest business dealings. Jeremy updated him about his wife and kids, both of his boys just having celebrated birthdays, the oldest turning seven, the youngest turning four.

Clifford liked hearing about Jeremy’s family because it allowed him to live through him. He’d always wanted a family of his own. Fear stopped him. He wasn’t sure he was fit to be a father.

“They miss their Uncle Cliff. They ask about you all the time.”

“I miss them too. I’ll get back home soon.”

“Guess you can’t run anymore. The truth is out there now. I don’t know why you were hiding it anyway. It’s not like you did anything wrong.” He took a sip and knocked on the table. “If anybody asks me that old bas*ard deserved what happened to him. He was a waste of space and oxygen.”

“And you didn’t mind telling him so,” Clifford said with a laugh.

Their relationship was more like brothers. Jeremy, two years older, had always been Clifford’s protector. He fought off the bullies and let him know how to look out for gold diggers. He taught Clifford more about what it was to be a man than anyone else.

“I never thanked you.”

“You ain’t got nothing to thank me for. Any real friend would have done what I did.” Jeremy ended his swig with a wall-shaking burp. “Fu*k friends. We’re family. You’re my brother. And I’m your keeper. I just wish I was up on that stand.”

“Your mouth would’ve got you thrown out.”

“Yeah, but not after I let those people know the truth. Clifford Knight ain’t do nothing wrong. How can a man be a man if he can’t protect his family?” Jeremy sat two more beers in front of him. “I hope you don’t have anything to do tomorrow because we’re about to get pissy.”

The alcohol opened Clifford’s mind. He knew in his heart that he did what was best. He was left no other option.

It was them or him.

Life and death.

A part of him wondered if there was a less messy way to handle it. In adulthood, one of the things he prided himself on was looking a man in his eyes before defeating him. He wasn’t there to look in his father’s eyes, doing the complete opposite, running away.

As the beer trickled down his throat, he surmised that he did it the best way he knew how. And the old man didn’t suffer.

As far as he was concerned that was more than Marty Knight deserved.