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“Lies, Agreed Upon” was a finalist in our recently concluded 70th Short Fiction Contest, and is published with the consent of the author.

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photo by Rina/via Pexels.com

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Lies, Agreed Upon

By M.R. Lehman Wiens

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…..The backhoes arrived on the first day of June, their buckets raised with an animal hunger. The signal was given, and they moved forward, metal teeth biting into brick and mortar. As the first wall collapsed, the mayor attempted to raise a cheer. Those assembled clapped a few times, but most simply sighed, quieted by a sense of loss. The City Hall had been a vessel for decades of the town’s identity and history, even if a simple brick one at that. The model the Mayor had presented to the town was modern, steel and glass glimmering in the sun, but it lacked the simplicity and groundedness that represented the people of Picketsville.

…..A second wall fell in a cacophony of grinding and roaring engines. As the excavator reared back for another strike, though, the crowd came alive. Voices spilled into the air, joining the cloud of papers that had suddenly erupted from the excavator’s bucket. The mayor gasped into his megaphone.

…..Skewered on one of the excavator’s teeth was an object that could have been mistaken for an old oil drum. The excavator shook back and forth, a horse clearing a fly off its muzzle. The cylinder crashed to the ground, and the crowd surged forward.

…..Closer up, the cylinder was all burnished chrome and rounded edges, more an alien spacecraft than an oil drum. The backhoe had sliced through the side of the egg, and the contents that weren’t already floating in the wind were spilled across the ground. Words were stamped into the metal side, now bisected by a deep slash.

PICKETS/VILLE

TIME C/APSULE

/1965

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…..That evening, the image of the disemboweled time capsule was broadcast across town. Thomas had retired years ago, and the 8:00 news was one of the few signposts of his day, permission to finally pour a drink and settle in for the night. He lived alone, had always lived alone, and had always lived in this house. It had been his parents’ home before it became his, an early inheritance they gave to him after he graduated college and before they’d retired to Costa Rica. He hadn’t updated the decor in the fifty years since then, but kept it clean and organized. Other than the TV, a new flat screen from one of his nephews, it was the same home he’d grown up in.

…..The time capsule re-entered his life at 8:52, a local interest story before sign-off. Thomas had turned his hearing aids down, shutting out the noise so he could drown in the silent parade of video. He got up, and poured himself another drink. His fourth, maybe, or his fifth. He never kept track any more, only noted when the bottle of whiskey started to feel light. Turning back towards the TV, he froze, the glass halfway to his lips.

…..Photos were cycling across the screen, polaroids in yellowing paper frames, filled with smiling black-and-white faces. They were faces of people he thought he knew, or had perhaps imagined, faces from a lifetime ago. The video cut back to the news anchor, his mouth moving around silent words, and then there was video of the ruins of City Hall, the mayor in the foreground. The mayor was sitting on the time capsule, legs crossed, one hand reaching into the gaping wound in its side.

…..When the next photo appeared on the screen, it felt like fate, like the report was anticipating his thoughts, knew exactly what he wanted to see. Four young men, arms around each other, proudly showing off varsity jackets and exuberant grins. The boy in the middle had his arms raised high, an enormous trophy clasped above their heads. The boy in the middle had been him once, a god on the basketball court, an Adonis with his hand on the reins of the world. He had tried to forget the other faces in the photo, had tried to drown them in whiskey. He had almost succeeded.

…..The phone rang. It was loud enough that the dull echo made it past his hearing aids, a clarion he couldn’t ignore. He turned his aids back up and put the receiver to his ear. His lips were suddenly very dry.

…..“Hello?”

…..“Hi there, is this Tommy Witlick? I’m calling from Jefferson Davis Secondary School.”

…..The voice on the other end was bouncy, rushing, like trying to hold on to an electric fence.

…..“Who’s asking?” The words came out in a shallow rasp.

…..“Ah, yes, sorry, been making a lot of calls lately, completely forgot that bit, I’m Alex Ivakin, the Superintendent of Schools.”

…..His eyes crushed shut, the world shrinking to the light rustling of phone static. The superintendent cleared his throat.

…..“So, yes. Um, apologies for the lateness of the call, but we’re really scrambling over here with all of the hullabaloo.”

…..Thomas grunted, the sound rising to a question at the end.

…..“Oh, did you not hear? The town’s time capsule got broken open, lots of items in there from the school, and we’re trying to reach out to the class of 1965, set up a special project or presentation of some sort, a where are they now. So, just wanted to give you a ring, see if you’d be willing to write a couple hundred words, let people know what’s changed since you graduated. One more bit of homework for the old nourishing mother?”

…..Thomas wanted to do no such thing. He wanted very badly to hang up the phone, but he knew Picketsville. He knew how whispers flowed through the town’s veins, had felt the silent glare on the back of his neck. People left him alone now that he was an old man, but there had been a time when the whispers followed him, a miasma that filled the air of the local bar, the grocery store, the library, the churches. Especially the churches.

…..“Tommy?”

…..“Look, Mr. Ivan–”

…..“Ivakin.”

…..“Sorry, Mr. Ivankin–”

…..“No worries, the kids just call me Mr. I, at least to my face. I’m pretty sure they refer to me as the Eyeball or something behind my back, but at least they’re engaging with the English language, am I right? Hahaha! But then there’s what they call Ms. Buckwalter–” 

…..“Mr. Ivankin, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not interested in reliving the past. Frankly, I’d prefer the school not contact me again.”

…..“Well, I understand that, but we’re not asking for you to talk about the past, that’s what the capsule is before. Just give a blurb about what you’re doing now.”

…..Thomas didn’t remember pausing the TV; he rarely messed around with the DVR. The technology was, as he often voiced to the cable company, completely unnecessary. But the remote was clutched tightly in his age-spotted hands, and the screen was frozen on the image of the four of them. He had put that photo in the capsule, and he had hoped it wouldn’t resurface until he was long gone.

…..Jake’s face jumped out at him like a broken bone pushing and tearing through the skin. He wanted to keep saying no to Ivakin, but thoughts of Jake were rising up faster than he could push them away. The pressure had been building for years, memories pressing on the backs of his eyes, and now they were free. He could no more stop the flow than he could put down the bottle. Jake was looking at him, urging him to speak. He tried to say no, and couldn’t.

…..“What’s the least I can do?” He meant to sound put-upon, resigned, but the lift in Ivakin’s voice told him it had been taken as a strong affirmation.

…..“Oh, delightful! Well, you’re welcome to send a letter, or you can come by the school to drop it off. Heck, feel free to stop by beforehand too if you think the capsule will jog your memory. Your area code seems to indicate you’re local, but I know people have cell phones and do tend to move around these days, are you still in town?”

…..“No, I’m still in Pickettsville.” Thomas regretted this immediately, realizing too late that this was a tacit commitment to appear in person.

…..“Wonderful wonderful! Why don’t you come by on Wednesday afternoon? And are you free next week for the capsule reinternment? With the mayor’s offices at the school for the summer, we’ve got all the relevant stakeholders in one building, it should be a delightful little affair, and we’d love to have one of our hometown heroes in attendance…”

…..He did not remember hanging up the phone; time skipped, and he was slouched in his easy chair, the cool glass of a fresh drink pressed to his forehead. The whiskey swirled through the Drambuie like oil and water, like gasoline and blood, spilled on the pavement and connecting islands of broken glass.

…..Thomas pressed play on the remote, and the news story went on, shifting to mention his basketball records, the Dream Team of ‘65, the state championship trophy. Jake Norwood sat in the room with him. Neither of them spoke, but Thomas knew it was time. He was done hiding.

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…..     “Welcome, welcome, and hello! Tommy Witlick, I presume! I’m Alex Ivakin.” A bearded bear of a man was waiting for him in the high school lobby, clad in a khaki blazer and blue sweater vest. A yellow tie knot was nested just below a smile that Thomas thought had entirely too many teeth.

…..       “Thomas.”

…..        Thomas held out his hand, and it was immediately crushed in Ivakin’s meaty fist. He winced, his arthritic knuckles screaming, but Ivakin didn’t notice.

…..         “I’ve got that update you wanted,” Thomas said, jerking his hand back and reaching into the breast pocket of his blazer. He’d spent several hours typing that morning, hunting and pecking his way towards a full account.

…..     “Oh, that can wait for later! Let me show you the capsule, Tommy – it’s really something. Although I suppose you’ve seen it already, long before I came along!” Ivakin’s hand slapped him on the back, and Thomas nearly toppled over from the impact. The hand slid down Thomas’ back and wrapped around his arm, pulling him forward helplessly.

…..      “I’m sure things have changed since your day! Not the all-time field goal record, of course!” They were passing the trophy case, and Thomas caught a glimpse of the trophy, a group photo of the team, Jake Norwood watching him from the front row.

…..       “And we’re so excited to have you here for the ceremony next week, really something, a school legend! Ah, here we are,” said Ivakin, stopping abruptly outside the gym doors.

…..        “I’ll let you go on ahead, Tommy – just need to rush myself off to the little boys room!”

…..      The time capsule was sitting on a large tarp in the middle of the gym, its liberated contents spread across a folding table next to it. As he walked across the floorboards, the distance to center court felt longer than he remembered. His feet dragged, orthopedic sneakers squeaking against the polyurethane.

…..        The familiar shriek of shoe on board stripped away the years, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, rising with the crowd’s crescendoing roar. This gym was not has gym, never had been, his court had been torn down in the 80s and rebuilt, but for a moment, the old electricity flowed from his feet to his hands to the hoop and he felt the throat of the world twitching beneath his palms. The world was his again, old dreams resurrected, dreams made of the thud of the ball against the floorboards, all of it the smell of sweat and passion and youth.

…..       The crowd was louder, chanting his name, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy, increasing in tempo until it was a scream, an undulating coil of whining noise, a cry that he had only heard once before and never since.

….. He was alone with Jake again, Jake screaming, an inhuman shriek that had seemed to start a split second before the collision, a scream that echoed in Thomas’ ears long after Jake had finally died. Even as Jake’s blood drained down the shattered windshield, trickling over the hood and to the ground, the car horn blared on, as if it were a hound lamenting for its slain master.

…..  Everyone had tried to convince him that no one was to blame; accidents happen. Sometimes deer run across roads, they said. Sometimes young men don’t wear seatbelts. Sometimes they have a beer or two or five before they leave the party.

…..     Sometimes, stories like that are true; but were they true like his mouth on Jake’s neck, true like the feeling of Jake’s hands in his hair? When the man you love flies away from you and through the windshield, when your pleas for help go unanswered, truth can’t protect you.

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…..     “Bring back memories?”

…..     He started. Ivakin was back, lips peeled back from his shark-like expanse of teeth.

…..      “I suppose.” Thomas leaned over the table, searching. A signed football, the names smudged and faded. An 8 track tape. A warped vinyl record, the 1965 Concert Choir assembled on the sleeve. A yearbook, still dusty from the construction site. And there, amidst a jumble of other polaroids, was Jake. He’d wanted to give Ivakin his typed account, watch him pale as he read what Thomas had written, but Thomas knew what was written on the back of the photo. It would be enough.

…..       He picked up the photo, four boys in with boozy grins. He couldn’t remember the names of the other two, but he and Jake were in the middle. Both his arms were raised high, but Jake’s arms were wrapped around his waist, pulling the two of them close.

…..       Thomas turned the photo over, hiding the faces, knowing what he would see on the other side. The words were still there, scrawled in faded graphite, barely visible. His handwriting was shakier now, but the words were unmistakably his.

…..       “Find something interesting?” Ivakin was at his shoulder now, his words carried on a cloud of cheap soap and coffee breath.

…..      Thomas did not speak. He held out the photo with shaking hands. His hands had been shaking for years, but this was one of the rare days they had a reason to tremble.

…..     Ivakin looked at the front, at the four boys.

…..      “This was you?” asked Ivakin, pointing with a finger still damp from the bathroom. “I recognize that trophy from the case.”

…..   “Read the back, please.”

…..    Ivakin turned it over, and his smile dropped.

…..     “Who wrote this?”

…..       “I did.”

…..    “Just now?”

…..     “In 1965.”

…..      “Oh.”

…..   Ivakin’s hands were shaking now, the photo dropping from them like a baby bird.

….. “Would you mind waiting here, Mr. Witlick? There’s some calls I need to make.”

…..   “Sure.”

…..    Thomas watched as the superintendent fled the gym, nearly running, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went. He turned back to the items on the table, and for the first time, let himself slip into the memories they held.

…..       The polaroid stayed where it had fallen on the gym floor. Until the sheriff arrived twenty minutes later, the words scrawled there faced up and out to the world.

…..        Jake Norwood and I loved each other. He was murdered. – TW

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…..       Thomas had considered the potential outcomes; perhaps he’d be placed in handcuffs and provided with a ride to the county jail in Trenton. Or perhaps a headline in the Daily Pickett, COLD CASE SOLVED!

…..He had not expected, however, to be escorted to a chair in the principal’s office. The sheriff, the mayor, and Ivakin sat across from him. Although the spots on his hands told him otherwise, he suddenly felt very young. The polaroid sat face down on the desk between them, the words on the back filling the room.

…..     “So this is your handwriting. You wrote this,” the mayor said, his eyes flitting from the photograph to Thomas and back again.

…..      “Yes. That’s Jake and I on the front, with..” the names suddenly came to him, “John and Max. I don’t remember their last names.”

…..     The three men remained silent, so Thomas continued.

…..    “I just wanted someone, somewhere, to know the truth. I put the picture in the time capsule. It’s all here,” he said, pulling the typed paper from his jacket and dropping it on the desk. “I thought I’d be long dead before the capsule–”

…..    “It wasn’t supposed to be opened early, just a happy accident,” Ivakin interjected. The mayor turned sharply towards him, an outstretched hand willing him to silence.

…..     “Jake and I talked last night. I’m done being scared. I’m done hiding,” Thomas finished.

…..      The sheriff leaned forward and turned the photo over, his eyes searching the four faces.

…..      “But Norwood wasn’t murdered,” said Ivakin.

…..     “Are you sure, Mr. Ivakin?”

…..     “Granted, it was before my time, but we talk about the tragedy of the 1965 dream team every year around homecoming. Dangers of drunk driving and all, it’s an object lesson–” Ivakin cut himself off, realizing, for once, the effect his words were having.

…..       Thomas had imagined a day like this before, and had thought that if he thought it through, gamed it out like a play on the court, he’d be protected. But tears were welling in the corners of his eyes, and his mouth had gone dry. He wanted a drink.

…..“That’s what they told people, yes. Because how else would a car end up wrapped around a telephone pole in the middle of nowhere?” Thomas asked, his voice quavering with years of pain.

…..And then he noticed the last name on the sheriff’s badge.

…..“McRoy? Your father wouldn’t have been John McRoy, would he?”

…..“Close, my grandpa. You knew him? Crossed the law a few times, eh?”

…..Thomas felt something inside him snap, a thin thread that had been keeping him civil, compliant. He could see the family resemblance, a certain slope of the shoulders, the thin line of upper lip. They were the same lips that had twisted in disgust, even as he wept over Jake’s body. Thomas wondered what else Sheriff McRoy had inherited from his grandfather, and laughed.

…..“Yes, I knew your grandad, back before he was sheriff, back when he was deputy. You could say he left an impression.

……“Your pappy ever tell you,” he continued, and then let his voice slip into a nasty, mocking drawl “what they do to faggots in this town?”

…..All three men reacted differently. Sheriff McRoy’s jaw dropped open slightly, and his face paled. Ivakin tried to speak (Now hold here, there’s no call for language like that!) but he was drowned out by the mayor, who had shot to his feet.

…..“No! That’s enough, Mr. Witlick. I won’t sit here and have our boys in blue defamed by contrived bullshit–”

…..But then Thomas was yelling too, the old fire flowing through his veins, not as a memory but real, he could feel the words burning his throat and they saw us kiss and chased us echoing in his mind and then they hid the damage to the police car but he couldn’t hear the words, not really, the whole room was dead silent and they stood and watched him bleed out and told me what to say if I didn’t want to end up just like him.

…..Thomas could smell blood, taste it in the air as if Jake was still dying, fear and pleading in his eyes as Thomas held his hand and begged him not to go.

…..“It’s all there, everything,” he said at last, gesturing at the paper on the desk. The mayor was still standing, his face beet red, but none of them spoke. Then he lunged, and Thomas thought he was going to hit him. Instead, the mayor grabbed the photo and Thomas’ written account. The paper was tucked into the mayor’s back pocket; the photo was crumpled, the aged plastic disintegrating before the mayor tossed it into the trash.

…..“Gentlemen,” he said, not looking at Thomas. “Could you step outside with me?”

…..None of them looked at Thomas as they filed past him into the hall. Turning, he could see their silhouettes through the office’s frosted glass window. The heavy door muted what they were saying, but he could still hear tones, raised voices, Ivakin’s reedy complaints mingling with the mayor’s booming voice. The sheriff said very little. Suddenly, the door opened.

…..“Mr. Witlick, I think it’s time you went home,” said Ivakin.

…..The fire was rising in Thomas’ veins again, but this time no words came to him.

…..“Thomas, we’re not interested in digging up the past,” the mayor continued. “This story you’ve told us, about how this town used to treat members of the, um, LQBTA community and so on, isn’t germane to how we’d like to celebrate this time capsule. Dragging this out again would only hurt the town.”

…..The three men parted, the sheriff moving to his left, the mayor and Ivakin moving to his right. Ivakin beckoned towards the door.

…..“I’ll tell everyone. You can’t just sweep this under the rug. I’m done keeping quiet!”

…..The sheriff’s hand fell heavy on his shoulder. He leaned in towards Thomas, his stance wide.

…..“Mr. Witlick, you will do no such thing. No one is interested in hearing what may or may not have been done.”

…..“Take your hands off of me,” Thomas growled. “This town, your grandpa and his lackeys, they killed the man I loved, and now you want to kill him all over again. You can either get out of my way or get run over.”

…..He had been trying to stand, but he was jerked out of his chair by the armpits, then slammed down against the desk.

…..“Threatening an officer of the law is a criminal offense, Mr. Witlick,” the sheriff growled in his ear. One hand had grabbed Thomas’ wrists together, and over the pain shooting through his shoulders he could hear the clicking of handcuffs being opened.

…..“Easy, Mike. I’m sure Thomas was just speaking metaphorically. I think when he’s had time to go home and pour himself a bourbon he’ll be able to put this whole thing behind him. Isn’t that right, Thomas?”

…..Thomas hesitated, and his arm was twisted a few more inches. He nodded.

…..“Good. Mr. Ivakin, please escort Thomas to his vehicle.”

…..       Ivakin started to say something apologetic, but Thomas reached up, and plucked his hearing aids from his ears. He walked out of the building and climbed into his car without looking at the other man.

…..Pickettsville, full of familiar roads and homes, passed by him a blur. The church where he grew up, and the cemetery where his parents were buried. The ruins of City Hall, rubble waiting to be carted off. Go home, pour yourself a drink, and forget the whole thing.

…..His agitation had been crushed by the sheriff, but the closer he came to his home, the more it edged back, eating away at his thoughts.

…..No.

…..Just pour yourself a drink.

…..No.

…..Forget the whole thing.

…..No.

…..It’s worked out well enough so far.

…..NO!

…..He had been slowing down to pull into his driveway, but now he punched the accelerator. The car took him past his home, a vehicle possessed. He watched as he and the car flew over the hills towards the highway, faster than he’d driven in years. Trenton was fifteen minutes away, and if not Trenton, then he’d try the next city, and the next.

…..Blue and red lights flashed to life behind him. He thought of that last night with Jake, the police car forcing them off the road, the laughter of the deputies. McRoy stepping onto the hood, and pressing his boot onto their clasped hands.

…..“This is what we do to faggots in this town.”

…..He kept driving.

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M.R. Lehman Wiens is a Pushcart-nominated writer and stay-at-home dad living in Minnesota. His work has previously appeared, or is upcoming in, F(r)iction, Short Édition, Consequence, The Wild Umbrella Literary Journal, and others. He can be found at lehmanwienswrites.com.

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War. Remembrance. Walls. The High Price of Authoritarianism – by editor/publisher Joe Maita

“The Sound of Becoming,” J.C. Michaels’ winning story in the 70th Jerry Jazz Musician Short Fiction Contest

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