A LITTLE LIE
Billowing in front of the setting sun, rising smoke from the town’s lifeblood, the Clayborn Bottle Factory, manufactured a faded, salmon-colored sky. The factory doors pushed open and a couple dozen mostly stocky, mostly bearded men marched out to the parking lot to start up their trucks. Minutes later, a towering, suited man with a bushy greying mustache, balding head and a thick leather briefcase exited the building and was ushered into the back seat of a shiny black car.
Joseph Clayborn loosened his tie and said “straight home” to the wrinkly, deep-set eyes of the driver peering at him through the rear-view mirror. Mr. Clayborn rifled through papers on his lap, not lifting his gaze as they passed the familiar trucks from the factory lot, now parked in front of rows of spaced-out one-story ranches. They drove through the two-block main street that featured a general store, a post office, a grocery, a bank, a fire department, and a watering hole. They passed the primary school-house Mr. Clayborn’s son attended and continued on the flat road that cut through tallgrass fields whose wheaty tips pierced the darkening sky. Once they reached the large Swamp White Oak tree that marked the start of “Clayborn Way”, Mr. Clayborn lifted his gaze and packed his papers for the final leg of his journey; up the grassy hill to the vast brick mansion tucked behind a horseshoe driveway.
Once inside, He made his way to the kitchen where his 10-year-old son, Joe Jr., was sitting in the breakfast nook chomping away at a bowl of chocolate chip cookies; his t-shirt hugging his pudgy gut and dotted with crumbs. Mr. Clayborn grimaced and raised an eyebrow, “I assume you’ve completed your homework?”
Joe Jr.’s face flushed, “Not yet, but I started.”
“Well, put the snacks away and get to it. How do you expect to make something of yourself if you’re lazing around all afternoon? You’re going to be fat and stupid living like this” Mr. Clayborn shook his head.
“Alright.” Joe Jr. pushed the bowl forward and shifted off the bench, his belly jiggling against the table as he scooted out, “Dad, do you have friends?”
“Sure, I do, Son. Why do you ask?”
Joe Jr. looked at his pudgy toes, “All the kids at school play together in their neighborhood. I don’t have anyone to play with here.”
“Well, Son, you have to win them over. Give them a reason to respect you.”
Joe Jr. looked confused.
Mr. Clayborn put his hands on Joe Jr.’s shoulders, “find something the other boys would get excited about and use your resources to provide that for them.” He winked and then left the room.
Joe Jr. went to his bedroom and dug up his large allowance container from under his bed. He unhooked the latch and grabbed a couple handfuls of cash, smelled the crisp, earthy green bills and then laid on his bed, wondering what he could do.
__
Come Monday, Joe Jr. was up early. He skipped breakfast and went straight to school; his black car arriving before the usual flurry of walkers and yellow buses. He sat at his desk patiently waiting for Johnny to arrive. Johnny was a half foot taller than Joe Jr. and conventionally handsome, with combed back blonde hair and piercing blue eyes, even if his clothes looked a bit worn. When he pushed through the classroom door, Joe Jr. motioned toward him. Johnny frowned and looked behind him before mouthing “me?”
Joe Jr. nodded his head and put his backpack on his lap.
Johnny walked over and grabbed the desk next to Joe Jr. “What’s up?”
Joe Jr. pulled two brand-new red-hot wheels cars out of his backpack. “I saw you playing cars the other day at recess, thought you might like these.
“I have a track set in here too if you want to give it a ride today.”
Johnny shifted in his seat and looked around, fidgeting one of the little red cars in his hand, considering.
“You can keep that one,” Joe Jr. suggested.
Johnny lifted his gaze, wide-eyed, “awesome. Alright, I'll see you at recess then.”
Joe Jr. smiled and turned toward the front of the class where he spent the next couple hours daydreaming about what it would be like to have Johnny as a real friend.
__
At recess, a small group of 5 boys and 2 girls were gathered around Joe Jr.’s Hot Wheels Track, taking turns with the cars, cheering and heckling at each other. Their infectious laughter caught the attention of a small, bespectacled boy who was reading by himself beneath an oak tree, as he did almost every day. He closed the book and walked over to see what all the fuss was about. Joe Jr. looked up at him and asked, “do you want a turn?”
Johnny scoffed before the boy could answer, yelling, “is there a manual he can read? I don’t think he’d know what to do with a car without one!”
Everyone laughed and Joe Jr. quickly joined in the fun, chuckling so his belly shook.
The little boy sucked in his cheeks, “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t really like cars, anyway.”
Joe Jr. shouted after him, “Yeah, go back to lazing around all by yourself!”
Everyone laughed.
Each day, Joe Jr. showed up with a new toy and his recess crowd kept growing. By Friday, he had more than half of his class surrounding him as they threw poppers onto the cement and laughed uproariously at their mini explosions.
A heavy-set girl in a pink floral blouse walked over to the edge of the circle carrying a tin jar filled with cookies, “Hey! My mom baked these. They’re chocolate chip. Would anybody like one?”
Joe Jr.’s eyes widened, a bead of sweat formed on his brow as someone broke from his circle to take one of her cookies. He squeezed his fists closed against his thighs and yelled, “No one wants your mom’s cookies. We don’t want to end up fat and stupid like you!”
Johnny shrieked and the crowd roared with laughter as the girl’s chubby cheeks flushed red and wet with salty tears.
Joe Jr. puffed out his chest and smiled before reaching into his backpack to hand out more poppers to his crowd.
When Joe Jr. arrived home from school that afternoon, his father was already home. The unusualness piqued Joe Jr.'s curiosity and he crept over to the door of his father’s home office and pressed his ear against the mahogany wood panels. He couldn’t make out the content of the conversation but could tell his father sounded a bit exasperated. When the phone clicked back into place Joe Jr. knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Mr. Clayborn didn’t look up from the papers that covered his desk.
Joe Jr. stepped just inside the doorframe, “is everything ok?”
Still looking down, Mr. Clayborn responded, “Yes, everything will be fine. We have to make some cuts at the factory, which is never easy, but our profits are down this year and we’ve added some technology that will replace unnecessary manpower.”
Joe Jr. furrowed his brow, “does that mean you’re firing people?”
“It sure does. Just cutting the excess fat.”
“What about my friends from school? Will their dads be fired?”
“Friends?” Mr. Clayborn tilted his head up toward his son inquisitively, “some of those dads will be let go. Unfortunately, life’s not always fair. That’s just the way it is, Son. And ya know, they were lucky to have jobs here as long as they did.”
Joe Jr. bit his bottom lip and turned to go to his room.
“Oh, Son, before you go,” Mr. Clayborn called out, “Ms. Lydia called me.”
Joe Jr. turned, “my teacher?” He asked, confused.
“Yes, she says some students have been making complaints about you. Says there have been some incidents of bullying.” Mr. Clayborn’s face was stoic.
Heat started rising in Joe Jr.’s face, “She’s Lying!” He yelled, “I’m not a bully! Just because some of the kids are jealous that I have the most friends. Just because I’m popular. They’re lying. She’s lying!”
“She gave me a list of names, Joe. Four different students.” Mr. Clayborn tapped his pen against his desk a few times and then shooed Joe Jr. away, “I’ll take care of it. I need to make calls. Go make yourself useful.”
Joe Jr. ran up to his room and slammed his door. He picked up a pencil off his desk and broke it in half. He thought of the factory firings and how that might affect the kids at school. He thought of Ms. Lydia and how she had betrayed him, calling his father behind his back. He needed to maintain control. He could not imagine already losing what he had just so quickly gained. He needed to buy more things.
__
The following Monday Joe Jr. put a note on Johnny’s desk: Meet behind dumpster at recess. New stuff!
Johnny came in late that morning and didn’t look in Joe Jr.’s direction after reading the note. At recess, Joe Jr. waited behind the dumpster, but no one came. He walked around to the cement patio clenching his teeth, backpack on.
“What’s going on, Johnny?”
Johnny looked up and squared up with Joe Jr. “Your dad fired my pops.”
Joe Jr. shot back, “You should be thanking my dad. Your old man was lucky to have a job as long as he did at the factory.”
Johnny squinted his eyes and took a deep breath, “someone’s gonna pay for this, Joe.”
Joe Jr. darted his eyes around and kicked a pebble in the cement, “well, this is all Ms. Lydia’s fault anyway. She should pay.”
“Ms. Lydia?” Confused, Johnny’s pitch went up an octave, “what’s she got to do with this?”
“It’s her fault your dad got fired. She gave my dad a list of names; she chose the people to fire.”
“Why? Why would she do that?”
“You know how she is always trying to make us use science and technology? She found a new technology for the bottle factory and she told my dad about it. He said it can do the work of people so he couldn’t afford it. The profits are falling. So, she told him the profits will be better with the technology and that he had to fire some people. He didn’t want to fire anyone so then Ms. Lydia agreed to decide who gets fired. So, she gave him a list.”
Johnny was still confused, “does anyone know about this?”
“No,” Joe Jr. took a serious tone, “The teachers are all working for someone else. You can’t trust ‘em. Why do you think they’re always whispering to each other in the halls? And they go into that secret staff room at lunch that we’re not allowed to see? And what is Ms. Lydia doing right now?”
Johnny walked around the side of the building with Joe Jr. trailing close behind and pressed his hands against the windowpane of their classroom, shaping them into binoculars around his eyes. “She’s talking to the principal,” he said softly, “she just handed him a stack of papers.
“Now, she’s pacing back and forth,” Johnny backed away from the window, “somethin’ doesn’t feel right.”
“Maybe the principal found out she had those men fired,” Joe Jr. offered, “she’s trying to cover her tracks.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Johnny said, feeling the weight of this enlightenment.
They walked back to the pavement and Joe Jr. opened his backpack showing off a heaping pile of firecrackers as the crowd grew around him, “meet behind the dumpster after school if you’re in!” Joe Jr. smiled at the group before zipping shut his bag and making his way back to the classroom.
For the rest of the day rumors swirled around the classroom about how Ms. Lydia was responsible for those kids whose fathers lost their jobs and how Ms. Lydia was working on all sorts of science experiments that would put all their fathers out of jobs. With each new telling, details were added. That all the teachers were working together in the staff room on curriculum designed to keep the kids shielded from the truth, that the teachers had developed the disease that knocked out all the crops on little Abigail's father’s farm the year before, that the teachers created the poison that Freddy’s dog drank from a stagnant swamp before he died, and that Ms. Lydia was the ringleader.
After school, a dozen kids from Joe Jr.’s class gathered behind the school dumpster and plotted to throw the firecrackers at Ms. Lydia’s garden. Joe Jr. asked his driver to come back in an hour and set out with the group to Ms. Lydia’s house, a short walk from the school. They made sure no one was out and crept around the back of her shed. They counted to three and then blanketed her rose garden with firecrackers before escaping through the back trees down a path that landed them on main street. As they slowed their pace and headed their separate ways, a fire truck peeled out of the main street department headed toward Ms. Lydia’s house. Joe Jr. headed back to the school parking lot where he hopped into the back of his black car and headed home. As they passed Ms. Lydia’s house, they saw rippling flames engulf the shed behind her house as a fireman unloaded a hose from his truck.
“What a shame,” the driver muttered, “those roses were such a pretty sight.”
“Your job is not to speak.” Joe Jr. quipped at the old man, and then he sat back into the seat, turning away from the fire he had started.
__
That night Mr. Clayborn let Joe Jr. know that he had spoken to his school principal and that there would be no more discussion of bullying from Ms. Lydia.
“What did you say?” Joe Jr. asked.
“Not much necessary to say when your donations pay for the school’s extracurriculars, Son.” Mr. Clayborn winked, “they say money can’t buy you happiness, but it sure as hell can buy you out of trouble.”
Joe Jr. chuckled with his dad and headed upstairs to pack his backpack for the next day.
__
With Tuesday, the rumors swelled, and the schooling skepticism spread. Ms. Lydia had been particularly quiet and distracted that day, likely because of the prior evening’s ashes. She seemed oblivious to the note passing and was quick to dismiss the students for recess after lunch.
Joe Jr. unzipped his backpack and revealed a foghorn.
“What are we supposed to do with this?” asked a short, scrunched-faced girl with black pigtails.
Joe Jr. smirked, “just follow my lead.
“Who wants to be a brave soldier? You will be rewarded with a cash prize.”
“Me.” One of the boys whose father had been fired stepped forward, “my family could use all the cash we can get.”
Joe Jr. looked the boy up and down; tall and a bit wiry, with thin muscles attached to his dangling arms. His eyelids sloped downward, and his mouth followed suit.
That night, the slender boy snuck onto Ms. Lydia’s property and climbed the tall Oak in her backyard. He planted the foghorn high up on a sturdy, forked branch and, using the contraption they made at recess, he directed the rubber tube behind him as he descended the tree. He had about 2 feet of slack left which was attached to a pump. He glanced at his watch and when the minute hand hit midnight, he pushed down on the pump with all his might and then took off as a tremendous, deep howl emanated from the horn in the tree toward Ms. Lydia’s windows.
__
Wednesday came and most of the students in Ms. Lydia’s classroom were huddled around Joe Jr.’s desk, joking around, when Ms. Lydia entered.
Joe Jr. glanced at the clock above the door, “you’re late.” he said shaking his head.
The kids threw their heads back in laughter.
Ms. Lydia’s eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags drooped under her lower lids. She ignored Joe Jr. and walked straight to her desk, putting down a large cup of coffee. She went to the chalkboard, picked up a piece of chalk, and began the day’s lesson on multiplying fractions.
By now, all the students affected by Mr. Clayborn’s firings were convinced Ms. Lydia was at the helm, driving the ship of destruction. At recess, the group, increasing in size, hovered over Joe Jr.’s backpack eager to see what was inside. Before he could open it, a small girl with freckles, braces and a wispy French braid marched over to their circle and said, “ya know, what you’re saying isn’t true, Joe.”
Joe Jr. looked up, appalled, “excuse me?”
“You all need to know, Ms. Lydia has nothing to do with the Bottle Factory firings,” the freckled girl said, raising her voice and her eyebrows.
The group looked at her as if she had 3 heads, “oh yeah, says who?” one asked.
“My mom is a county clerk and she said this is a conspiracy,” the girl responded.
“Ha.” Joe Jr. stood up, inching closer to her, “your mom’s a county clerk? My dad’s the owner of the whole Bottle Factory. Don’t you think he would know the truth? My dad says county clerks are nothing but paper-pushers.”
The group laughed and hollered and told her to go cry to her mom as she receded.
Joe Jr. opened his backpack to reveal a container of antifreeze coolant.
The group sounded off, “huh?”, “What the hell is this?”, “I don’t get it.”
Joe Jr. revealed a menacing smile, “who wants to be tonight’s hero? Another cash prize is on the line. Freddy, this one was made for you.”
Freddy, a shy and slightly awkward boy with curly red hair and crooked teeth, stepped forward, “what do I have to do?”
“You are going to get revenge for your old dog, Champ. You’re gonna give Ms. Lydia’s cat a little extra seasoning on her tuna. She keeps the bowl on her front porch, so you should go now while everyone’s still at work,” Joe Jr. instructed.
Freddy scratched his head and turned a bit pink, “now?”
“Yeah, Freddy, now. Make yourself useful” Joe Jr. rolled his eyes, “we’ll cover for you if you’re not back before recess ends. Oh, and don’t forget to get rid of the evidence.”
Freddy took off with the antifreeze and the rest of the group sat around as Joe Jr. told stories of teachers all across the country who have been working in a network to keep kids in the dark about the real world. The stunned students listened, feeling a bit helpless but invigorated to know, and spread, the truth.
When the class regrouped and Freddy was still absent, Ms. Lydia, exhausted, began her lesson without noticing. A few minutes later a red-faced Freddy shuffled clumsily into the classroom and made a beeline for his desk.
“Freddy,” Ms. Lydia turned, “where have you been?”
“I… I… um…”
Joe Jr. jumped in before Freddy could finish, “he had diarrhea Ms. Lydia. I heard him in there during recess.”
The class broke out in hysterical laughter and Ms. Lydia closed her eyes, “alright, alright, everyone calm down. Back to the board, please.”
__
Thursday came and the students were greeted with a substitute teacher.
“Where’s Ms. Lydia?” one student shouted.
“Ms. Lydia’s cat is under the weather today, so she had to take him to the vet. Let’s all say a quick prayer for her cat and hope tomorrow is a brighter day. Please bow your heads.”
As the sub recited a prayer for renewed health, Joe Jr. looked around the classroom, noticing his number 2, Johnny was missing. Feeling anxious, he barely paid attention the rest of the day and then skipped out after lunch to see if he could find Johnny at his home, which was a five-minute walk from the school. He walked up the porch steps and rang the doorbell, peering inside as only the screen door was closed. A pretty, blonde 30-something woman pushed the screen door open and said, “who are you?”
“Oh, hi. I’m Johnny’s friend, Joe. I noticed Johnny wasn’t in school today, so I wanted to check on him.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Joe. Why don’t you head down the hallway to the last door on the right and see if he’s in the mood to talk.”
Joe Jr. entered the house and felt huge. He slowly passed the small kitchen and living room and walked the four steps down the hallway to Johnny’s bedroom. He knocked and then opened to find Johnny tossing a ball up and down on the top of a bunk bed, “hey Johnny, what’s going on?”
Johnny looked over the edge of the bed, his face reddened, “that bitch made my dad leave.”
“What?”
“My dad left this morning. He’s going after a new job at some factory 100 miles from here and mom don’t wanna leave,” Johnny said, blowing air from his cheeks.
“What? How are you gonna pay for this house?” Joe Jr. asked, confused.
“Pop’s is gonna send money home until we figure out the long term,” Johnny said, before adding, “none of this shit would have happened without that bitch, Ms. Lydia.”
Joe Jr. suddenly felt powerful; the world was in his hands. “I’ll take care of this. Don’t skip school tomorrow,” he said before walking back out the small doorway and through the smallest hallway of the smallest house he’d ever entered.
__
Johnny arrived on Friday morning, with dark circles shadowing his icy blue, ten-year-old eyes, making him look much older. Joe Jr flashed him a mischievous half-smile.
“Is your cat ok, Ms. Lydia?” The freckled girl asked, causing Joe Jr. to suck in his cheeks and imagine himself punching right through her metal braces.
Ms. Lydia seemed despondent, but looked up and answered, “he’ll be ok,” in not much more than a whisper.
Joe Jr. stared out the window for most of the day, watching dark grey clouds accumulate over the school yard and willing them to hold off so recess wouldn’t be disrupted. With still no rainfall by lunchtime, Ms. Lydia told the students they could take their recess outside. Joe Jr. sprinted to the dumpster and slipped behind it, pulling his backpack off his back and kneeling on the grass beside it, out of view from the rest of the students. Johnny appeared moments later, “What you got?”
The corners of Joe Jr.’s silent mouth tilted up as he slowly unzipped his backpack, watching for Johnny’s reaction. Johnny said nothing. He twisted his lips from side to side, narrowed his clear-blue eyes and reached into the bag.
The clouds began to crack as Johnny and Joe Jr. came out from behind the dumpster to a crowd of curious-turned-frightened faces. Johnny passed the line of students without so much as a glance and calmly walked toward the school. A light drizzle started falling from the sky as Johnny entered the building and the students rushed to the windows, hovering closely. Just then a loud pop rang from the schoolhouse, shaking the clouds as the students squeezed their eyes shut. The rain intensified and the students re-opened their eyes to see Ms. Lydia through the windows, lying on the floor of their classroom with blood pooling around her head. The principal rushed into the classroom and found Johnny standing motionless; the gun still erect, his small fingers still pressed tightly against the trigger and his under-developed lungs working overtime as his tiny ribs pounded in and out. The principal’s jaw dropped, and he rushed over to Johnny, tackling him to the ground as the gun hurled across the floor.
The students shivered in disbelief and soaking wet clothes, unable to move from the bank of windows. A sea of downturn horror-stricken faces, some with tears, others with shock; all but one. Joe Jr.’s mouth, a thin straight line. His hands folded calmly into his pockets. His eyes, dark and menacing as he kept his gaze trained on the crime scene, with thunder roaring above and thick drops of acid water pummeling down on his head.
__
The school was closed the following week as the town mourned the loss of Ms. Lydia and the janitors deep cleaned the classroom.
When class resumed on the next Monday, Joe Jr. returned to find the substitute teacher sitting in Ms. Lydia’s chair, clutching rosary beads with her eyes closed. Johnny’s desk stood an empty reminder.
The substitute told the class they would skip their Physical Science lesson that day and she’d lead them in a prayer of mourning instead. By lunch, the impenetrable cloud of sorrow had started to lift as students discussed what they heard happened to Johnny; “My mom said he was taken to Juvy”, “well, I heard he’s gonna spend the rest of his life in jail”, “Mr. Lawrence from the general store says he probably gonna go to a crazy person hospital.”
Joe Jr. went straight to the pavement at recess, his old stomping grounds, and unloaded a pristine, new Lego set from his backpack. A few kids came over oohing and aahing and before long, almost half the class was surrounding Joe Jr. hoping he’d give them a turn to stack onto the tower he was building.
After school, Joe Jr. slid into the back of the black car, barely looking up at his driver, and sat in silence as they headed home.
Plumes of smoke rose over the town, seeping out of the Clayborn Bottle Factory, reminding Joe Jr. that this was his father’s town as he sat quietly planning what he’d pack for recess tomorrow.