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Three Different Ways To Tell A Lie
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TITLE (EDIT)
Three Different Ways To Tell A Lie |
DESCRIPTION
A father finds out that his son is not what he seems.
[1,177 words] |
AUTHOR
Piper Davenport |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
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[June 2009] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (26)
A Sunday Story (Novelnovella Excerpt) (Short Stories) A small town loves and lies on a Sunday afternoon. [2,381 words]
Ain't You Heard? (Poetry) A self-reflecting poem. [13 words]
An Obligation In Kalamazoo (Short Stories) - [1,298 words]
Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge (Short Stories) Patricia Fudge, a chocolate-lover who suffers a breakdown after becoming fixated with a guy named Elliott, whom she stalks. After she finds out that she cannot have his affections, she decides to use ... [1,143 words]
Finding A Poem (Poetry) Writing poetry is the one of the most challenging venues of a young writer's career. Mastering the technique requires the power of language, and finding a poem somewhere in your thoughts. [13 words]
Grayfield South (Short Stories) Two families converge when tragedy strikes. [7,086 words] [Mystery]
How I Ought To Be As A Writer (Plays) - [803 words]
Let No Man Tell My Story (Non-Fiction) - [1,274 words]
Morning In Detroit (Poetry) The beauty of Detroit on a weekend morning. [354 words]
Moving Beyond The Pain (Essays) - [2,014 words]
Nighttime Babies (Short Stories) A man encounters two strange individuals on a weird Sunday night. [5,565 words] [Science Fiction]
On And Off The Wall (Essays) - [1,538 words]
Secrets From A Writer's Notebook (Short Stories) Isn't it wonderful when a writer's work is read and fiction becomes reality? It makes you wonder whose following you, who are your "true fans." Lovely is the new sarcasm. [257 words]
Sestina!The Look! (Poetry) A woman walking in an inner-city neighborhood after a rainstorm questions the disconnection she feels from others of different backgrounds. She undergoes an epiphany that challenges her preconceived n... [306 words]
Sing The White Note Black (Novel Excerpt) (Short Stories) An aspiring jazz musician comes of age in 1950's Detroit. [11,701 words]
Sips Of My Coffee (Short Stories) - [732 words]
The Cat And The Mouse (Short Stories) An adventure short story. [1,367 words] [Adventure]
The Far Side Of My Room (Poetry) A writer's journey. [228 words]
The Far Side Of The Room (Poetry) - [228 words]
The Man Called Daddy (Novella Excerpt) (Novels) - [5,589 words]
The Motown Chronicles: Sing The White Note Black (Novel Excerpt) (Novels) A jazz musician comes of age in 1950's Detroit. [11,701 words]
The Nightmare Of Henry Dudds (Short Stories) This is a novel excerpt from The Motown Chronicles: Sing the White Note Black. I have decided to include this story in the trilogy that I am working on after all. [3,344 words]
The Other Side Of Me (Short Stories) This story was inspired by the darker side of my hometown of Detroit, Michigan. [1,456 words]
The Sidewalk (Poetry) A woman sees her neighborhood for how it really is. [396 words]
The Theory Of Knowledge According To A Woman Named Righteous (Poetry) A woman is hearbroken over her decaying hometown. [224 words] [Romance]
The Weight Of His Hands (Poetry) - [13 words]
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Three Different Ways To Tell A Lie
Piper Davenport
I hear my father, a painter, speaking in the background. My father only speaks on the telephone when he is making business calls
or if there is trouble. He does not know this, but today is my last day at home. I am afraid for my parents, but I am more afraid
of their reaction. My mother is talking about leaving, but that is just talk, and my father believes preachers and church folks
don’t tell the truth. I know that’s not true, but I cannot argue with him. See, he’s from down South, way down where sometimes my
girl cousins molest me against my will and my grandmother fixes chitterlings and swears it is not pig meat but something else.
Some say it tastes salty, but I am the wrong person to ask; I am a vegetarian. I am very excited about my quest. I am painting a
portrait of Factory Worker City. A paintbrush that guides my hands is under my full-size canopy bed. I plan to pull it out tonight
after my parents are asleep. I expect that they are going to want to see the portrait of her. I am prepared for that. My wrong
address is going to lead them down the wrong street. The next time my parents see me, I am on television. The black woman news
anchor with the Spanish name and the red freckles is interviewing me, and I am famous. A painter. That is why my father is talking
with my mother, telling her to get home. She is a muse, but especially for my father. My mother cries when I paint her, and I am
proud of myself. I finally did something to get her attention. I understand my capabilities, even when others cannot.
II.
She is sitting still while I read her letter. I paint over that image of my wife with my paintbrush. With the stroke of a bristle,
she disappears, and I am happy. I go into his bedroom a first time the other day to see what he paints, and all I see are gloves,
a ski mask, a crow bar, and lots of purses. He says that it is a part of his work. My son claims to be a famous painter. I go into
his bedroom to see his paintings, and I find my missing dames in a corner. His bedroom reminds others of a treehouse filled with
black dolls. They have painted faces with upside down clay smiles. He models them after the ones I have seen at Hudson’s. He calls
them inspiring; they represent the familiar side of this city. Their breasts are shaped from his hands, and I am scared of him.
The purses’ owners were the models, and he was the artist. Portraits of still life, I like to call them pictures. I am not Picasso,
but I know they were intended for me. I am not upset. These are the words that I tell you will be my last today.
III.
The very first time the father-husband learned how to paint across his wife’s face, the son was only two years old. The son wept
without tears and took his anger out on his mother’s breasts. He bit into her purple-brown chest with his baby-yellow teeth and
grabbed tufts of her hair with his hands, his fists. She responded by giving him sips of red wine. The son crumpled like paper
when she weaned him off her breasts with sips of red wine. She responded to her son by encouraging the wearing of long nightgowns;
his teeth bit down on leftover, baby dolls. As a child, he learned to take this allegiance, thus becoming a gatekeeper of secrets
between painters, a muse, and dolls. His first drawing was twelve dead babies, ten for each Christmas he had been on Earth and
two for those he had not; he had failed his mother.
The father loved to study his son, who loved to study his mother dressing up in beautiful gowns. The son painted makeup on her
cheeks and listened with her to the vulnerable black diva with the collapsing singing on the record player. One night he awoke
to hearing his father painting across his mother’s face, and he decided to learn how to paint. Only his colors were a mix of
reds, browns, and yellows. The mother encouraged her son to smoke cigarettes with him and was even proud of his interest in
her breasts. The hired one, a painter, liked to play with the son too. The three of them would hop into bed and pretend to
be a family while the father was away. They took turns painting across her face with a blank canvas. As a young man, the son
believed that he could become a famous painter. The first portrait was easy. He walked up to a woman waiting for a taxi in
front of a loft building on East Jefferson that reminded him of a painting he saw once. He told her that he was an artist,
and he would like to sketch her portrait. “How much is this going to cost me?” she asked. “Nada,” he said.
They walked to the edge of Belle Isle Park and sat down on a graffiti-sprayed bench. He took a cigarette from his pocket,
huffed and puffed, and began to tell his story: I am not actually an artist, but I am a magician. A bottle of red wine
and two glasses magically appeared. My father has said not to come back home until I could prove something. He did not
actually say these words, but that is what I am getting from him. Will you help me? The young woman said yes and closed
her eyes and parted her lips. With the slip of a tongue, he kissed her, and they locked fingers. “Your eyes are
beautiful,” she said. “Yes, that’s what people tell me,” he replied, cried, and began to paint. His father asked him
about the young woman, but he said nothing. His father’s friend asked about her, and he replied that she was a secret,
a woman hidden behind a smile with perfect breasts, but she was no dame. He winked at his mother when he said this.
She looked at him and knew what he meant. “Just like the painter, I will always be your muse,” she said and nodded
her head. The night after she took those photographs with the other painter, he mysteriously followed a bunny out
of the house and disappeared. That was the year her son had been a magician. He simply went into the wine cabinet
and pulled out a bottle of Merlot. He poured the drink into a magical glass. The son stood up and looked at the
group. “I think that it’s time for me to change professions. You know, I’ve always wanted to be an inventor.”
His mother took a sip of wine and his father looked at his son. The father replied, “Yes, of course, but first,
I am going to paint on your face.”
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 2007 Piper Davenport |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
July 2009 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
1742
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