The first lie I remember telling my parents was a bold one. I was eight, a “good girl”, and I was eager to try out my brand new set of tempera paints. So I went outside and I looked for something that needed painting.
My family lived in a pretty white Colonial, meticulously clean, and antique-filled, but obscured by a miserable looking front yard. According to my parents this was due to the ancient Sequoias that majestically stood on opposite sides of what was supposed to be the lawn. Apparently the tree roots were shallow enough to prevent any potential ground covering from filling in, and so the grass was spotty and brown, at best. The giant juniper bushes in front of the kitchen and den windows downstairs (my mom feared passers-by would peer in and see all that my family was up to if we ever removed them), did not complement the dead lawn effect. And two more giant juniper soldiers stood up straight and tall against the house, guarding the front door and daring anyone to touch the shiny brass knocker. A wobbly brick walkway split the dead grass straight down the middle, and on the sidewalk end of that runway was a step down, flanked by two seat-height pedestals. They were also made of brick, and a neat pattern formed on the top. This was the place, I decided. This was where I’d begin my artwork. I would make the front of our house just a bit more bright and inviting.
So I painted one. I didn’t try to hide it. There I was, right there on Webster Street with plenty of neighborhood traffic, carefully painting each brick square atop the pedestal a different color. It was beautiful, and so much fun! I became engrossed in my work, and I must have been out there for at least an hour, oblivious to everyone and everything going on around me. I wasn’t concerned about keeping my artwork a secret. In fact, I never even considered the possibility that I might be doing something wrong. As far as I knew, my family was still inside, going about their own business.
Later that evening when Mom and Dad were getting ready to go out, my dad called me into his bathroom, which overlooked Webster Street – and the front walk. The bathroom exuded all of the warmth and good smells of my parents: shaving cream, hairspray, cleanliness, and just a hint of that “glass of personality” my father referred to before attending social events.
My sister and I often voluntarily hung out in my parents’ room as they prepared to go out for their typical weekend social or business party. Kate and I would sit on the bed consulting my mother as she labored over her decisions of what went with what, and which earrings she should wear. Well, actually, my sister helped her. I just sat there pondering how difficult it seemed to just go out for such a party. And when I did offer an opinion, the response from my mom was often something like “Really? Don’t you think, though, that this works better?” I would nod obediently. What did I know about fashion? I was just waiting for my dad to come back in from the bathroom so I could watch him tie his tie while he made me laugh with his funny comments.
But on this occasion, my dad didn’t come back into the bedroom. It struck me as odd that he called me in to him. My dad was peering through the curtains that covered the bathroom window (whatever the juniper soldier did not), all clean-shaven and wearing his dress pants. It then occurred to me that maybe I had done something that might have upset him.
“Maureen, do you know who did that?” He was pointing outside. Uh-oh. Why didn’t he call me Mo? He used my real name. I joined him at the window.
“Did what?” I asked innocently, though I knew very well what he was talking about. I didn’t even think about what I was saying.
“Somebody painted the bricks.” He turned to look at me. I continued looking out.
“ Hmmm. I think I saw Sean Bourke out there earlier today.”
My parents did not associate with the Bourkes, even though they lived just across the street and one house over. They were “difficult” neighbors, so Sean Bourke was easy to blame. Certainly any follow-up with his parents would be highly unlikely.
My father looked at me straight in the eye. “Really,” he said. He said it. It was a statement, not a question.
“Yeah,” I continued, a bit too easily, “maybe he did it.”
Again my dad said, “Really.” Then he offered me the chance to come clean: “But you don’t know that he did. Are you sure you don’t know how this happened?”
I looked him straight in the eye, and I knew there was no turning back. I was committed. Shaking my head, I lied, “No.”
“Will you please go wash it off so it doesn’t stain the brick?” This was a direct command, so of course, I did.
I had lied to my father, my hero. I had not wanted to disappoint him by admitting that I, his little girl, his baby, had done something that made him mad. I preferred making him laugh his from-the-gut belly laugh and seeing his eyes sparkle when I sang “The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow” just like Annie herself. In order to keep things neat and tidy with my dad and with my family, I was quickly learning that to avoid conflict of any kind, even if it meant lying, was the safest route to take.
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