“Truth is generally the best vindication against slander.”

–Abraham Lincoln

“All truths are easy to understand once they are discovered; the point is to discover them.”

-- Galileo Galilei

“You can bend it and twist it... You can misuse and abuse it... But even God cannot change the Truth.”

–Michael Levy

“We both have truths. Are mine the same as yours?”

Pilate, from the play Jesus Christ: Superstar. It might even be a Bible quote. I don’t know. I don’t read the Bible. But that was a quote that got me every time. I agree with it. There IS no truth. Why? Everyone has different ideas of truth. Everyone thinks their truth is right. Fact is, no one’s is. We should just live with it and move on.

For example, a man who is in love with his wife will tell her that she looks beautiful no matter what, because to him, she is. A man who hates the woman will think she’s horrible, and because it’s what he believes, he’s right too.

Which one’s correct? How can you tell?

And why should we tell the truth? Life sucks with it.

We all know this feeling. Your parents all drilled thoughts into that thick skull of yours when you were a kid. They used to loom over you. Intimidate you. Until the point was well imbedded. And there were a lot of points. Don’t talk to strangers. Don’t eat stuff off the ground. Be nice. Say please.

Tell the truth.

Let’s be honest with ourselves. How many of us actually keep true to these points? How many of us don’t talk to strangers? No one. Because it’s stupid. If we didn’t talk to strangers, how would we meet new friends? If we weren’t rude, could we get our point across?

If we didn’t lie, could we survive?

And then you meet that weird person who keeps to those rules. The one who says please. The one who won’t talk at all. The one who is so honest that it hurts.

Do they seem happy? No. Not really. But what do we do when we have kids? We turn around and teach them those same cruddy lessons. Even though they haven’t done us an ounce of good. But it’s STANDARD. It’s expected, so that’s what we do.

Here’s a lesson we should teach our kids: follow society’s rules.

That’s the truth. It hurts. We move on. If people all told the truth, it won’t be a better world. More honesty, and honesty doesn’t stop wars. Honesty stops misunderstandings. Honesty makes things easier. It won’t stop a bullet, no matter what mommy tells you.

Kristian Skeptike watched as her boss read her latest column. Her hands twisted the black fabric of her nice jacket until she was fairly sure that she could hear it rip, but she didn’t stop. It was….different. Choppy. Blunt. Nothing her boss would like, but Kristian hadn’t written it on the thought of what people would like. It was the truth. That was all that mattered to her. But she knew that wasn’t what Mr. Milson wanted. He didn’t like much that was different…

The papers crinkled and folded as Mr. Milson dropped them. He gave Kristian a look over his thick rimmed square glasses.

“It’s crap,” he said with an air of finality. Slamming the papers onto an already covered desk, he turned and stormed off, his thick back resembling a gorilla’s to Krisitan’s frustrated mind. The woman scowled at it for a moment, growled in frustration, then swept up her much harassed papers and stormed after him.

It took her a while to catch up. She had to jog around desks for starters, and then around photographers, editors and journalists. THEN she had to avoid trashcans and papers that she always tended to slip on. The room was a disaster zone, but no one had the time to care. Papers flew right and left and were ignored until people realized that they had something to deal with it. That was life in a newspaper. Stuff happened, and you couldn’t fix it. You learned to deal with it. She had to leap over two overly-full trashcans to manage to reach her boss.

“Crap?” she demanded once she walked next to him. She had to keep struggling to keep up with his long strides. Mr. Milson was nearing sixty years old, but he still stood proudly at six foot three, and about five feet of that were his legs. At six feet tall, Kristian didn’t usually have problems. She was fairly good and using her own strides to keep up with him. But lately he’d been picking up the pace, and rumor had it that he fired anyone who couldn’t take it. Krisitan didn’t know if that was true, but she didn’t intend to find out. She liked the job, even if it did mean dealing with Mr. Milson. “What do you mean, crap? What the hell’s wrong with it?”

“Watch it, Skeptike,” Milson snapped, looking down at her. “You ain’t growin’ any taller, and my patience gets shorter by the day. It’s crap. Toss it. Write another one.” He turned his attention back ahead and kept up the impossible pace. Kristian couldn’t handle this today. But she gritted her teeth and skated around a man holding a stack of papers as tall as he was high. By the time she finally caught up with him, he was about three steps to his office. Kristian knew that if she didn’t stop him before he reached the door, she was sunk. She NEEDED the column done. She was hours from her due date, and she wouldn’t have any time tonight. So she practically ran some poor dazed photographer over in her haste. Lengthening her stride, she dove in front of him and put one hand on the doorframe, glaring up at him through HER square glasses.

Kristian was not sure how such a large man could stop himself on a dime. But there he was, all two-hundred-odd pounds of him, stopping without any apparent effort. Kristian frankly envied him. That kind of skill was what she needed. Then again, when she was sixty, she would probably have the same talents.

“I NEED this information, sir,” she told him, tilting her chin up as if she was haughty. She wasn’t. But she wasn’t afraid, either. Milson wouldn’t hurt her, and if he fired her, fine. She had enough money to survive for a while, and if she couldn’t find a job, Rob could manage to bring home the bacon for a few weeks. He certainly made enough money for that. “How can I get better otherwise?”

“By paying attention to other articles?” Milson asked, looking down at her. He put his hand above hers and loomed over at her. “Look, Skeptike, they’re there for a REASON. Read those blasted past papers like I’ve asked you to! It’ll make your life easier.”

“I think that I can accomplish things fine without them,” she retorted. “I’ve read them. There’s nothing of interest to me there.”

Milson stared at her, looking fed up. No wonder there. Kristian knew she was pushing him. Milson didn’t give out information. She knew that from experience. She’d ask him a question, he’d refuse to answer it, and she’d go around to everyone trying to figure out what was wrong with her article. Kristian could understand his meanings, even if she didn’t like his methods. By making her ask others, she was getting to know people who would be useful when she actually wrote articles. By asking them, she got more criticism than he gave her and would learn more. But Kristian didn’t have time to make the rounds. The column was due and she had a life to tend to, something she knew Milson, childless and three-time divorced, wouldn’t get at all.

“Kristian, what the hell’s wrong with doing things the conventional way?” he demanded after a moment. “Why can’t you just ask me if it’s good, then go ask everyone why it’s not, and let me live my life in peace?”

“Because,” she said bluntly, “I don’t have the time. I have to pick up Michael from the doctor, remember? The information, Milson! Please. Last time, I promise.”

He gave her a look, then sighed. “Oh, all right. LAST time, though.” He tapped her temple to make a point, then grabbed the papers and scanned them again. Once again, Kristian found her hands winding her jacket corner into knots.

Please let him like it this time, she prayed. Please let me just get it over with.

Like that would ever happen.

Sure enough, as soon as Milson looked up, Kristian knew she was sunk. But she tilted her chin up and forced herself to take the bad news. How did she know it would be bad? Well, by the look on his face.

“Well,” he said, tapping on the rim of his glasses. He handed the papers back to her. “For one thing, it’s too short.”

Kristian stared at him. “Too short?”

He nodded. “Less than five hundred words, Kris. Not good.”

Kristian looked down at her paper, then back up at him.

“How the hell could you tell that?” she demanded crossly.

“I have the eye.”

“But it’s barely short!”

“Barely, but still short.” He smirked a bit. “How many words, Skeptike?”

There was a moment of silence. Then, Kristian admitted, “442.”

“Knew it.” Milson laughed. “Second, get rid of the quotes.”

“Excuse me?” Kristian looked back at her article. What would happen to it without the quotes? Well, she’d lose words. And she didn’t have any to spare.

“You have to ask for a repeat of everything?” he asked crossly. “You heard me. We’re moving on.” He brought his glasses down and gave her a look over them. “Lastly, don’t write about the truth, Kris. It’s overdone, and no one wants to think about it. Makes people uncomfortable. Because NO ONE tells the truth twenty-four-seven. So give it up, Kris. It’s not a good subject. NOW can I get into my office?”

“Exactly, sir!” Kristian ignored the fact that he had shoved her papers back into her hand and waved them in his face. “Look, no one talks about the truth. Why not?” She slapped her papers for emphasis. “Because they DON’T want to hear about it. Someone has to face that, right?”

“Wrong,” he snapped back. He was opening his door, and slowly wedging his rounded body through the opening. “Dead wrong. Look, Kris. We APPEAL to people. That article doesn’t. I don’t make society’s rules. I just write them. Don’t you have a kid to pick up?” He was almost all the way through the door, much like a bat trying to wiggle its way through an opening that barely looked like it would fit an ant. “Get going. Stop focusing on work. Good way to get a divorce.” He laughed and vanished into the room. The door shut with a slam.

“You should know!” she shouted through the wood and glass. It was a lame insult. She didn’t care. He was right. Michael would never forgive her if she was late. So Kristian took off running through the crowded newspaper building once again, knocking over photographers, editors and journalists alike, ignoring calls, and sending papers flying. She might have even leapt over a desk. She wasn’t paying attention. She was focused solely on making it to the elevator before the door closed.

She dove in before the doors were more than halfway closed, giving the other occupants—only two, thank God—heart attacks. She leaned against the wall and sighed in relief.

“Going down?” the elevator operator asked politely.

Kristian spared him a brief glance. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Wait,” the other occupant said nervously. “I think I’ll take the stairs.”

Kristian and the elevator operator both looked over at her.

“Trying to lose weight,” she explained.

“Right,” Kristian muttered, eyeing her skinny frame. The elevator operator was more polite. He jabbed the button to make the doors open. Both watched as she fled, barely remembering to grab her suitcase.

“Lose more of them every day,” the elevator operator said glumly, as the doors closed.

“Really?” Kristian asked.

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “You know. The obesity scare… anorexic actors….diving columnists…”

Kristian grinned. “Makes the stairs seem safer?”

“Yeah,” he agreed. He studied her. “You never take the stairs,” he observed.

Kristian shrugged and motioned down to her skinny frame, made larger by a billowing black pantsuit and a man’s button down blue shirt. “No need.”

“Ah.” He blinked at her, then turned to the doors as they opened. “Here’s your floor.”

“Thanks.” She walked out. Once out, though, she turned to him. “Why are you still employed?”

He smiled. “Appearances. You forgot your bag, by the way.”

His last sight was of black-haired Kristian cursing colorfully and darting to the stairs.

Another fifteen minutes. More dashing back and forth. Up the stairs she went. She ran through the room again. This time, people pulled things out of her way, and sometimes their friends. Others shoved enemies in front of her and chortled as they were trampled. Kristian ignored it all and was soon down the stairs and into the underground parking lot.

She checked her cell phone and swore again. 3:15. Michael needed to be picked up at 3:30. Only one thing left to do. Drive like a bat outta hell.

Kristian had the time to consider that statement briefly. I’ll have to look it up, she decided. But then she spotted her blue Civic, and all thoughts went out of her head. Michael!

In record time, the car was unlocked, started, and then driven out of the parking lot.

Much better.

On the road, Kristian was a nightmare. She cut people off. She sped. She got more than her fair share of fingers through sunroofs and windows. But she ignored it all. It was only a wonder that she didn’t get a ticket.

Kristian had mastered the art of avoiding policemen.

She hadn’t mastered finding her exit. She had to cut through three lanes of traffic and then a patch of grass and flowers in order to make it onto the right off-ramp. The drivers on it gave her space. LOTS of space.

Probably smart of them, she thought. She was a lady on a mission. A woman late to picking up her son.

She glanced briefly at the stereo. 3:26. She could make it. Maybe. Assuming he was let out late.

Well, optimism was a girl’s best friend.

Kristian’s bad driving was not limited to the freeway. She ran three red lights, nearly drove into the opposite lane of traffic, and sent more than one driver slamming on his brakes. But it was all worth it. Because at exactly 3:30, she pulled up in front of the doctor’s office and got out, shutting the door with a trembling hand. She took a deep breath, tugged on her shirt to straighten it, and then walked in with her head held high.

She had excellent timing. The doctor, a shortish woman with mousy brown hair and tired features, was just guiding her dark haired son out. His arm was in a cast, and he looked bored with everything. He was seven. NOTHING pleased seven-year-olds, not even the lollipop in his free hand.

Kristian smiled a bit. He couldn’t be too bad. He wasn’t crying.

“Hey, Mike,” Kristian greeted, moving to him. “How’s your arm doin’?”

“S’fine,” the boy mumbled. He stuck the lollipop in his mouth and gave her the bored look. “Camb web gob?”

“In a minute.” She turned to the doctor, who was staring at the boy with annoyance. Michael did that to people. Just like Kristian did. She could only hope that he’d grow out of it, even if he hadn’t. “Well?” she said, trying to catch her attention. “Diagnosis?”

“Getting better,” the doctor said, turning her attention to Kristian. Her tone adopted that ‘trying-to-make-idiots-understand’ quality and her face a pitying smile, Kristian ignored both. They were meant for idiots, and she wasn’t one. She knew it was getting better. Mike was no longer tried to fish for more information.

“How so?” she asked.

. “It was fractured, but the fragments are starting to come together,” the doctor explained kindly.

“Uh huh.”

“Captain Obvious,” Michael muttered.

“Excuse me?” the doctor turned a puzzled look on him. Kristian hastened to change the subject.

“Any painkillers?”

“Oh, no.” She waved a hand airily. “Same ones.”

This woman was useless. “How much longer, then?” she asked desperately. She needed an ANSWER.

“A few days,” the doctor said, oblivious. “You know, for it to settle.”

“S’not few days,” Michael mumbled around his lollipop.

This time, the doctor turned to him fully. “Excuse me?”

“S’not few days. You said two to three weeks.”

Only one person could be painfully honest at one time. Kristian decided that Michael had had enough of that role and caught his hand. “All right, Mike! Time to go now! Thank you, Doctor…erm…doctor.” She nodded and dragged her son out.

Once Michael was safely buckled in and entertained with his favorite music, the Beatles, Kristian took off down the street again. Conscious of her son’s safety, she didn’t drive as crazily. The other drivers on the road thanked her, even if they didn’t know what they were thanking her for.

“So,” Kristian said, turning down “Strawberry Fields”, “how was your day, Mike?”

“Fine,” the boy mumbled. “Could you turn it up, Mom?”

“In a minute. Trying to bond.”

“Could you try after the song?”

Kristian sighed and turned up the volume.

It was only after “All You Need Is Love” that she could get him to talk.

“It was okay,” he said with a shrug. “Dad was in a bad mood.”

“Really?” Rob was rarely in a good mood. It was one of those things that Kristian did her best to ignore.

“Yeah. What’s for dinner, Mom?”

“Spaghetti. You know I can’t cook anything else, and Dad’s not coming home to make it.” She glanced at him in her rear view mirror. “And how was school?”

“Fine.” He shrugged and contemplated his sling. “Lots of people signed it.” He pointed to the rather lopsided signature.

“Very nice.” Kristian grinned back at him, but his black eyes had gone distant again. She’d lost him to the Beatles.

“Could you turn it up, Mom?” he asked. “Hey Jude’s my favorite.”

Kristian turned it up. And that was the end of bonding time.

Kristian pulled into the parking lot of their small little suburban house. It was good for Michael. He liked having the neighbors to play with. Rob said it made him feel cramped, but Kristian smiled and said they’d move when they both got promoted. She liked the house, though. It was a light blue, with a lot of windows and nice wood panels that served as walls. The inside didn’t have a lot of furniture, and it was wall to wall carpet. It suited Kristian’s Spartan tastes. And Michael didn’t complain. Besides, they needed the money for gas.

Michael instantly settled himself down on the cheap blue sofa, and Kristian grabbed her laptop and sat down next to him. She barely glanced up at the show he was watching—Planet Earth, she thought—before turning her attention to her column.

It was hopeless, she decided, after reading it about six times. There was no way to change it without changing the point. That decided, she settled down and opened a whole new document. She stared at it.

And stared.

And stared.

This wasn’t getting anywhere.

Kristian glanced up, and she blinked as she saw the sun go down behind the horizon.

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“Two hours,” Michael said in his bored voice. “Are you going to keep sitting there? Can I have dinner?”

Anything other than staring at a blank document. Kristian nodded and went to the kitchen. In her usual, slapdash way, she somehow managed to pull together a respectable spaghetti dinner. She didn’t burn the sauce, although the same couldn’t be said for her hand, and she even managed to avoid overcooking the noodles. She put the bowl for Michael down on the counter. Without saying a word, he turned off the TV, sat down in front of it, and began to eat.

“So,” she said, after he was beginning to slow down from his initial shoveling, “what homework do you have?”

“Flacarth,” he mumbled through a mouthful of spaghetti.

“Did you bring them?”

He nodded.

“Good.”

They went back to their eating in silence. And, once it was done, they both sat down on the couch and began their staring again.

At about six thirty, Kristian practiced the flashcards with him, then sent him off to bed at eight. She resumed her staring. She didn’t even look up as the front door opened and shut.

“Hey, Rob,” she said.

“Hey, Kris,” he replied.

Rob was not a talkative man. Never had been, never would be. Then again, neither was Kristian. She had always thought it was a good thing, that neither of them expected huge talks. But it didn’t seem to be working. Without another word, he went over to the fridge and opened it. Kristian tilted her head to the side, but shrugged it off and went back to looking at the document. She heard the fridge shut and heard her husband open the microwave door. Every movement seemed impatient and angry. Doors slammed a lot. And there was more cursing than usual.

Kristian turned again to look at him. “Bad day?” she asked.

His brown eyes met hers. His lips thinned.

“You might say that,” he said.

There was a pause. Kristian debated saying something.

“Want to talk about it?” she asked at last.

“No,” he snapped back. “Not really.”

Right. Kristian closed the lid of her laptop and put it on the couch. She got up and went over to him.

Robert worked at a software company. He didn’t like his job. He complained about his boss taking all his time. He said he wasn’t rewarded. He said that he was tired of having a second-rate job. But he’d always complained. It was recently that he’d been coming home upset and refusing to say why. Kristian was not one of those women who went to pieces whenever their husband was upset. But she was worried. She didn’t like to see him upset. She didn’t get why he wouldn’t talk to her. And Kristian liked knowing things.

“You sure?” she asked, putting her arm around his shoulders. “You can talk to me about it.”

“Ha! Right.” He removed her hand from his suit and yanked the microwave door open.

Kristian watched and took a few steps back as he stormed past her and to the couch. She walked after him and settled down on the couch next to him. She watched him eat for a while, and observed his short movements. Gingerly, she put her hand on his back again. He didn’t protest. She doubted he noticed. So she began fiddling with his black hair and studying his face.

Kristian hadn’t married him for looks, that was for sure. Rob wasn’t an ugly man, but nothing was really handsome about him. He had a square jaw and lips that were too large for his face. When he smiled, those lips were charming. When he scowled, as he did now, he looked like a gargoyle. His nose was small and turned upwards, and his eyes were small and squinty. But Kristian wasn’t a looker either. Her large glasses hid her one good feature—her eyes. Kristian had dark blue eyes and lashes to die for. Or, so she’d been told. Michael had the best of both. He had her eyes and lashes, but Robert’s nose and her thin lips. He had Rob’s jaw, too, but on a smaller scale.

But Kristian was biased.

She had married Rob when they were in their early twenties. She’d been in college. He’d been working. It had been one of those runaway weddings. They’d been married in Vegas the first time, and then in a more formal event for the families in California. Kristian never regretted marrying Rob. Robert had given her Michael. But she didn’t think Rob felt the same way.

She waited for Rob to finish. When he had, she leaned against his shoulder. He looked down at her.

“Still don’t want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head. She nodded.

“All right,” she said. She offered him the TV remote. He took it. They watched the news in silence.

“What’d Milson think of that column?” he asked at last.

She shrugged. “He hated it. Told me to write another one.”

“Another one?” He looked down at her. “Did you?”

She looked up at him.

“No,” she said at last. “I didn’t.”

He swore and turned off the TV, then threw down the remote and walked around the couch. Then, he whirled on her. “Kris! Why do you have to make everything so God-damn difficult? Can’t you just make some adjustments like the rest of us? Why didn’t you write the column?”

Kristian always told the truth. “I couldn’t.”

“You couldn’t?” Rob stared, then threw back his head and laughed. “This should be good! What’s your excuse this time?”

“None,” she replied flatly. “I didn’t feel like it.”

“You didn’t feel like it?” he repeated. “Of course you didn’t! You never do!” He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t deal with this tonight.”

Kristian pushed herself up, but she said nothing.

Rob gave his hair a tug, then turned to her and spread out his arms in a helpless shrug. “I just can’t, Kristian, okay? Look. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He grabbed the car keys and headed to the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked quietly.

“To a bar,” he shouted back. The door slammed shut behind him.

For a long time, there was only silence. Kristian sank down onto the couch, still staring at the door. Then, she heard a faint rustle. She whirled and found herself facing a sleepy Michael.

“Does that mean pasta tomorrow, too?” he asked, rubbing his eyes with the same hand that held a stuffed bear with glasses.

Kristian stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled.

“Pizza sound good?”