That’s the point, he said. You can’t go around here telling lies. They catch up with you. Not in the beginning. But eventually. Someone discovers the truth, he threw coffee out into the grass. A permanent brown spot in the yard. And you tell one lie, it’s followed by another. And then another, he laughed. Till it gets to the point that no one believes you. Your word is no longer any good. That’s what happened to your granddad. He was a storyteller. He lied to everybody. Mostly, he lied to your grandma. She took the brunt of his tales.

How so? he eased back and forth on the front porch swing.

How’s that?

I said, how so?

He made up these ficticious stories. He’d tell her he was going out for a pack of smokes and then not return for a while. Usually on payday.

Oh.

He’d cash the check at the local bar. Never had a bank account. Kept money under the mattress in a shoe box. Grandma never knew she was sleeping on top of money. Not till he died, and she was moving things around. He didn’t leave her much; a few hundred bucks.

Really?

Yeah. She never changed sheets. Had a bad back. Couldn’t get the corners. Anyway. He’d be gone for a few days. He wound up in places far away. New Orleans, Dallas. Spent a while in San Francisco, Seattle, Portland. He came home with just enough money for the bus ticket. Worked a while and then was gone again at the beginning of the month.

What was he doing in those towns?

Chasing women. Drinking. Pool hustling. One time, he stole a car in Los Angeles and drove it all the way to New York City. He used to tell that story in the bars.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. But, they were all lies. He never left the county. He’d get drunk and stay at this woman’s place out in New Haven. She was his mistress. That’s what he said on his death bed. Not sure if that was a lie or if that was the truth. Not sure about any of it. Some said he just slept under a bridge till he sobered up.

Which story do you believe?

I don’t.