The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

Dad and I spoke almost every day, either over the phone or in person, about his time in prison and how he survived his childhood. Whenever he had the chance, he’d bring up the BIG LIE, going on about his Cherokee heritage and the vicious crimes perpetrated on him and his family by the white man. Dad had no remorse about anything, except for not killing more of the bastards who richly deserved it. When I asked him again if he felt bad about the way he’d treated Mom, he said, “Hell, no. Your mother should have died in Gallup.” At least once a month, Dad would call upset about something, whether it was figuring out a medical bill, getting his hearing aids to fit right, or programming his TV. Before offering to help, I’d say, “Dad, let me call Buddy for his advice.” He roared with laughter every time. Our inside joke about his first San Quentin cellmate was still fresh after more than forty years. By then, a decade had passed since I called him after my visit to 306 South Cliff Drive. He spoke as though the Crow children’s lives had been idyllic. But there was no longer any reason to argue or question his version of events—I was free from all of it.