We were on the way to the home of my father’s new boss. I was 11 or 12.
“David, if he asks you about your foot, here’s what you need to know,” my father said as he drove. “You accidentally got it cut by the blade of a lawn mower. You went to the emergency room, but it wasn’t very bad. If he wants to see what it looks like, tell him it hurts if you take your shoe off, so you can’t.”
I acknowledged my assignment and added a couple of details for effect. My father approved my additions. I was ready to play my role backing up an excuse he had used when he needed to leave work one day.
I didn’t know the full story. I never knew the full story when it came to his lies. I just knew how to lie. I was very, very good at lying.