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Roscoe started wearing his Chairman Mao cap again. It was well worn, faded blue, and sweat stained around the headband, but it was still puffy on the top and its visor was sharp. Back in the 1970s, wearing it was a small act of rebellion. Unfortunately, with the only possible exception of El Jefe, none of his summer students understood its erstwhile significance. One of them complimented him for his “beret,” as if he were some French peasant instead of a revolutionary.
When he wore the cap in town, though, he received several salutes and thumbs up from passing citizens. These gestures confirmed, to Roscoe’s way of thinking, his status as one of Golden Springs’s most influential residents and an intellectual trendsetter.
“Thank you, comrade,” he said to well-wishers.
After five weeks, the halfway point of the summer residency, Roscoe Alolo felt reborn. He was astonished that things were going so well. The students were compliant but creative, and eager for his mentorship. Antaeus College administration gave him everything he asked for. Whereas he had arrived in Golden Springs worried that time had passed him by, now everybody treated him like a revered elder. Roscoe tried to act nonchalant, as if this was normal for him. Best of all, he was having more fun than at any time since smoking hashish with Snoop Dog on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial during the Million Man March.
On the last session prior to the Independence Day break, Roscoe arrived early for class. This was unprecedented; he had consistently and purposefully arrived late since day one. Half of the students weren’t there yet. While waiting, he sat humming “Peace Train” and twirling his cane like a baton. Every time a student entered the room, he made a check mark in his notebook. Mazie was the last to show up.
“We are so honored that you deigned to join us today,” he said.
The rubber soles of Professor Alolo’s sandals squeaked as he walked from one side of the floor to the other, then back to the podium, where he leaned onto his elbows and spoke: “I’ve been lying to you. I am not here to teach you to write. You already know that, whether you know it or not. Oh, it’s true there are some tricks and techniques I can show you, but nothing you wouldn’t eventually figure out for yourselves. Once you’ve seen one metaphor, you’ve seen them all. I’m going to share a secret with you. My true job is to teach you to lie.
“Lying isn’t as easy as you think. Anybody can speak an untruth. It’s as natural as laughing when amused, crying when sad, or screaming when afraid. The only difference is that any time is a good time for a lie. Not only will a good lie get you out of a difficult situation, but it can also enhance good times, improve your status, and enable you to win friends and influence people. Ironically, a believable lie strengthens your credibility. Even in the unlikely event you are exposed as a liar, people will still pretend to trust you rather than admit that they were fooled. Once they commit to your lie, they can’t turn back.
“Nothing empowers you like getting away with a lie. If you want to succeed as a writer, lie better. Before you tell a lie, think it through completely, with due consideration to time, place, persons, and circumstances, so that your fabrications are rich with detail, intricately complex, and consistent with every retelling. A good lie can be proven.
“Fiction lies to you. Poetry tricks you. Even nonfiction deceives you. The relationship between a writer and reader is one of symbiotic fraud. Lies benefit both parties. To a creative writer, the truth is useful only to disguise a lie.”
As he spoke, Professor Alolo scanned the room from left to right, from the first row to the last, establishing a moment of visual contact with each person in the class. When he finished, he nodded up and down, as if he had seen what he looked for.
“But you’ve been lying to me, too, haven’t you? You’ve lied to me about who you are, your expectations, and your motives. You cannot fool a master liar like myself. When you can tell me a lie that I truly believe, that’s when you will have earned the right to call yourself a writer.”
He held one hand open, upright, and turned toward the class—an invitation, a dare, or a warning; he meant the gesture as all those things.
“For the rest of the day, I want you to work with your groups.” He closed his notebook. “Tomorrow, Independence Day, you are free. Do whatever you want. But I encourage you to participate in the festivities sponsored by the community. I’ll be the keynote speaker at twilight. I hope to see you there.” By which he meant he would check whether or not they came. And that was no lie.
“Are we united?” Taara Ali asked as soon as everybody had settled in their seats.
“Yo,” Rufus attested.
“It’ll be a blast,” Quang said.
“I got nothing better to do,” El Jefe concurred.
“Sure,” Mazie lied.
At least she thought that she was lying. She hadn’t really made up her mind. Part of her believed that the whole half-cocked plan of theirs would only work as a piece of fiction and that they didn’t really intend to do it. Another part of her recognized that if they did it they asked for a whole shitload of trouble. Yet another part of her thought it was a dumb idea that might be fun, in the same way that drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa would be fun.
Mazie snapped out of her train of thought when Professor Alolo’s shadow fell upon her.
“Excuse me,” he said to all. Then he said to Mazie, “Would you please see me in my office after class, Ms. Tuttle?”
The question initially took her aback. Well duh, Mazie thought. Did he forget that he saw her every day after class when she went to take Shabazz for his afternoon walk? Then, noticing the baffled expressions on the faces of her teammates, Mazie realized that the professor made the request for them to see, rather than for her to confirm.
“No problemo,” she replied.
Meredith was getting sick and tired of Roscoe Alolo. The more he ingratiated himself with the board of trustees, the town council, and indeed the whole Golden Springs community, the lower her opinion of him sank. He seemed to enjoy their flattery. Vanity was unbecoming of a revolutionary.
She put her disdain of him to good use. Meredith channeled it when she sat down to write her response to Vanessa, summoning a vision of a primping Roscoe Alolo in her thoughts, and that helped to cut through all ambivalence and get right down to feeling bitter and betrayed. If not for keeping the image of Roscoe in her mind, she could never have written the things that she did, much less have mailed that letter, sealed with a loogie. Roscoe was easier to despise than Vanessa, although she deserved it just as much.
Furthermore, Meredith had to begrudgingly acknowledge that her improved status with the board of trustees was a direct consequence of having brought Roscoe onto campus. Pax Oglesby was especially smitten; he referred to Roscoe as “the Guru of Golden Springs.” So, despite her exasperation with him, it remained in her best interest to indulge Roscoe, which meant she had to continue bringing him pies.
At first, she resented being Roscoe’s personal pie delivery service. Increasingly, apart from the need to placate Roscoe, Meredith was glad for the excuse to get out of town every couple of hours. The drive to Coon Creek was a welcome reality check. Her angst faded almost as soon as Golden Springs vanished in the rearview mirror. The ninety-minute round trip refreshed her more than any session in her two years of cognitive behavioral therapy ever had, and it was free.
On July 3, in anticipation of the holiday, Meredith rationalized that, even though he hadn’t specifically asked, Roscoe would surely want to celebrate Independence Day with some extra pie, so she planned a trip to Coon Creek. She took off her shoes when she got in her car and drove barefoot. She rolled down the window and rested her arm on top of the door. She popped in a Dave Matthews Band CD and turned up the volume. Humidity soaked the air and a haze draped the surrounding hills and fields with an airbrushed quality; Meredith felt like she drove into a Monet. When Meredith saw the Good Old Boy Billboard just outside of town—“America is God, guns, apple pie, and the Fourth of July”—she knew that it wasn’t intended as funny, but even so she pulled over and cracked up laughing.
A pickup truck slowed down and pulled up beside her. Upon seeing her hunched over in laughter, its driver, a young woman wearing a cowboy hat, called across the cab at her, “Are you okay, ma’am?”
Meredith composed herself and answered, “Yeah.” She coughed a couple of times to disguise her laughter.
“Well, have yourself a really good day now.”
Even though she’d heard and said “have a good day” mindlessly a million times, it touched Meredith how sincere it sounded when this cowgirl said it. “Happy trails to you,” she replied—she’d always wanted to say that—then continued along her way.
It was midafternoon. Just inside the city limits, Meredith stopped to buy a ten cent cup of lemonade from a little girl with a corner stand. A postman was singing “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” and skipping along his route. A father and son played catch in the park. A crow landed on top of Philander Fink’s coonskin cap and cawed. Meredith took it all in.
There was a parking space right in front of the Hungry Coon Diner. Meredith got out of the car and pushed the door; she was gratified to hear its distinctive squeak. Stopping in the doorway, she called hi to Edith Doody, who waited behind the counter.
“Lookee who’s come for pie,” Edith said. “It’s Meredith from Golden Springs.”
Meredith was surprised but pleased that Edith remembered her name. “In the flesh.”
“What’ll I have yah for?”
Meredith approached the counter and looked at the pie case. “Let me see,” she said. “I’ll take an apple pie and a cherry pie. Those are essential for the Fourth of July, right?”
“Even in Golden Springs?” Edith asked.
Meredith wasn’t sure if that was a serious question or a subtle jibe. She left it alone and continued her visual inventory of the pies. “And I need a key lime pie. Nothing says summer like a key lime pie, am I right?”
“So true.”
“And I see you have three pecan pies. Good. I felt guilty the last time, taking the pie from the kind woman.” Meredith smiled, recalling that transaction. “In fact, I’d like to buy one of those extra pecan pies for her. I think she said her name was Faye?”
“Faye Pfeiffer. She eats here often. She’s a sweet lady, but kind of strange, what with always wearing those dark suits every day. But I guess that comes with the job when you’re a mortician.”
Meredith flinched as she absorbed this information, the way a reader might react to an unexpected twist to the plot of a novel. “A mortician,” she repeated.
“Yeah. It’s funny that you should mention her, because the last time she was here, she asked about you.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Just curious I suppose.”
“Well, if she asks again, tell her that this pie is compliments of Meredith Stokes.”
“Will do. Happy Fourth of July.”
“Yes. Happy Fourth of July,” Meredith said as she backed out the door with the pies.
While walking around to the driver’s seat of her car, Meredith noticed, stapled to a telephone pole, a flyer with a picture of fireworks superimposed on a red, white, and blue background. It read: “Come one. Come all. Food, fun, and fireworks. Coon Creek’s all-American Fourth of July Boom-a-Thon. Sponsored by Life Eternal Funeral Services.”
Meredith ripped the flyer from the pole, folded it, and tucked it into her purse.
Rufus was hanging out in the alumni house parlor with a copy of Culture and Anarchy open on his lap, although he hadn’t read a word of it. Shabazz slept at his feet, snoring like a warthog. The door to Professor Alolo’s office was closed. Mazie was inside with him.
Lately, when he accompanied Mazie on her evening walks with Shabazz, Rufus sensed that she was finally opening to him, just a crack. When they met, instead of saying “hi,” now she asked him “what’s up?” and once he learned to expect that greeting, he gave thought to answering in some clever way to break the ice, like:
“The international space station,” or
“The price of gasoline,” or
“A two-letter word indicating direction,” or
“My patience.”
There were other potential responses, some risqué (“it’s in my pants”), that he had so far refrained from using.
They’d even started teasing and joking around with each other. Once while discussing their favorite hip-hop artists, they decided that their rap names would be “MC Real Money” and “Queen Vanilla Millie,” and they both laughed at their private joke. Another night, when Shabazz was in an especially frisky mood and Mazie struggled to hold him back, she handed his leash to Rufus and asked, “Are you man enough to handle this?” Either he read her entirely wrong, or that was flirty. Unfortunately, he was so tongue-tied that not only could he think of nothing to say in return, but he let the leash slip out of his hands and they had to chase Shabazz all the way to Shawnee Knob. The whole time, Rufus cursed himself for having blown an opportunity. He hoped that he’d get another.
That afternoon, when Professor Alolo interrupted the group and asked Mazie to meet him after class, Rufus didn’t know why but he didn’t like it, and it disconcerted him even more when Alolo asked her to close the door. Rufus waited outside in agony. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. Half an hour. He got up and pressed his ear to the wall, but couldn’t hear anything but muted, indecipherable conversation on the other side. For some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they talked about him.
Another five minutes passed before the door opened, and when it did nobody came out. Rufus got up and peeked in. He heard the professor say to her: “Trust me.”
“Thank you, professor,” Mazie said.
Dismissed, Mazie stepped briskly past Rufus on her way out.
“Yo, yo, yo. Maze. What up?”
Mazie kept going, then stopped abruptly, as if relenting to the necessity of speaking to him. “Oh, Rufus,” she lamented with a sigh. “Sometimes I think I’m not a good enough liar to be a writer.”
“That’s Professor Alolo talking, not you.”
“No, for once, that’s me.”
“Do you want to talk about whatever or anything?”
She dropped her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I do. But not now.”
“When?”
“Right now, I just want to be left alone to write.”
Rufus believed that she wanted to be left alone and that she wanted to write, but not necessarily both at once. In either case, her request left no room for negotiation, so all he could do was let her go and say, “Yo. Okay then.”
Shabazz woke up with a snort, clambered to his feet, and went to Mazie, expecting her to pet him, but she walked by him and out the door without pause, leaving it to close by itself. Shabazz whimpered.
Left behind, Rufus and Shabazz looked at each other with blank, lingering eyes, an empathetic exchange between man and dog, both equally clueless.
