The Pale-Faced Lie

by David Crow

In a strange twist, Dad had befriended the son of New Mexico Senator Joe Montoya the year before and spent time at the senator’s house. When Dad discovered that Senator Montoya was disturbed by his son’s ongoing, embarrassing antics, he exploited the situation, as he always did. Dad offered to keep the son’s name out of the headlines in exchange for a job on the senator’s Environment and Public Works Committee. Only my dad could have gone from a maximum-security prison to a prestigious position in the Senate.

I walked for miles around the mall leading to the Capitol and thought about Evelyn, Rex Kontz, Chauncey Ford, Herm Davis, and Tom Coleman. I’d worked hard, but there was no way I could have done it without them. This meant that after more than a decade, I could stop caddying. I had learned so much from the country club’s members and made enough money to survive, but I could finally let it go. What would that nasty high school counselor say to me now? By then, all my siblings had successful careers too. Lonnie had finished her doctorate in early childhood development and was an associate professor. After Sam completed his tour with the army, he received a two-year degree as a medical technician and worked at hospitals and clinics in Montgomery County. Sally earned her bachelor’s degree in education, like Lonnie, and taught in Buxton, North Carolina, not far from Mona’s house in Hatteras.

What would my impeccably pedigreed political colleagues think if they knew my dad was planning to murder his family? I burst into nervous laughter, remembering how afraid I was that a hint of scandal would ruin my political career. What career? What life, for that matter? My only concern was to save my stepmother, my sister—and myself.

Could I outthink him? Scare him? Set my own trap? Understanding his mind had been my mission since the first time he told me we had to get rid of Mom. But how could I scare a man who thought life in San Quentin had been a cakewalk? A man who enjoyed killing sons of bitches who richly deserved it? Not me. He understood my frailties, insecurities, and fears. He’d created them.

“None of this makes any sense unless you know what makes Dad tick, and I do. He won’t kill Mona without your help. And you won’t help him. If you did, and he got away with it, he would hold it over you for the rest of your life. He’s a weak man who manipulates others to do his dirty work. Don’t let him control you any longer. There’s nothing more to it than that.” “How’d you stop him?” she asked. “By remembering everything he taught me.”

BACK AT MY FAVORITE HOTEL, the El Rancho, I jotted down notes about all the events in Gallup. I felt lighter but leery. Could I let go of the past? It stunned me how much blame I had assumed for everything. The same tape had played in my head as far back as I could remember: “If only I had saved Mom. If only I had stopped Dad. If only I was a stronger person.”

up the pillows behind me, I stretched out on the bed. At that moment, at age fifty-two, I wanted to be free of Mom, Dad, and Mona. They wouldn’t—or couldn’t—change and I couldn’t change what had happened. Then it came to me. The only way to be free was to forgive them—and forgive myself.

It was advice I’d heard plenty of times, but on that day in the hotel, I was ready to do it. In an instant, I stopped expecting anything from them. Their approval, friendship, understanding, empathy, love. And I stopped believing that Dad, Mom, and Mona were right about me—or any of us. I didn’t want to carry around the burden of longing and guilt and shame anymore. I was done. How else could I ever feel any joy or happiness? It was as if a light went on inside my brain. It had been so simple, something I could have done long ago. But no tie is as strong as family, making it the hardest one to break.

It took time, but I became more relaxed and less anxious. I began to like myself and my confidence grew, as did my ability to share myself with others. The childhood memories I had buried came to the surface, but I saw them through a different lens, without anger or blame, as though they had happened to someone else. This allowed me to break the cycle that had defined my family for generations. The benefits flowed. My lobbying firm flourished, and my two partners made it their firm also, becoming close friends and allies. My relationship with my children became stronger. Through lifelong friends, I met Patty, a wonderful woman who is now my wife. She wa...

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.

One night, after an open-heart operation he wasn’t expected to survive, he grabbed my hand and motioned for a pad of paper and a pencil. He had tubes coming out of his mouth and IVs in both arms. “Can you forgive me?” he wrote, his eyes filled with fear. I gave him a big smile and squeezed his hand. “Of course. You’re my dad.”

As I walked into the hallway sobbing, Patty put her arms around me. “It’s hard to say goodbye to a father, even to him.”

Without fail, Mom and I talk on the phone a few times a week. She still hates the Crow family and feels the need to say so in every call.