About the Book

During times of grief, therapists recommend jotting down feelings, memories, and observations in a notebook. Neal Motherwell takes this practice to the extreme, sometimes writing twenty-thousand words in a single day. Neal thought he’d left an abusive childhood behind until his brother Mick dies, forcing him into a search for authenticity in a world of deceit.

A Parable of Lies is not a novel but an experiment in healing fiction, an illustration of writing as an act of redemption and renewal. Writing prompts are embedded in the narrative.

Excerpt: PJ (from Part I, corresponds with Florence and the Machine “Cosmic Love” on playlist). Click to listen while reading.

There was no swelling in her ankles or legs. She complained of left-sided chest discomfort when she took a deep breath, but her lungs were remarkably clear. Covering her back was an elaborate anatomical tattoo of the lungs. Below, on her sacrum, read, “Cosmic Love.”

I said, “Thanks for the map. It’s all here, so I know exactly where to put my stethoscope.”

She brightened. “That’s the idea. You like Florence and the Machine?”

“Is that what this is?”

“You know the album?”

I said, “Lungs!”

She said, “Like Florence Welch, I’m a Pre-Raphaelite.”

I said, “Too bad they were all guys, a brotherhood.”

“Don’t you agree they need some feminine energy?”

Excerpt: THE ORACLE OF DELPHI (from Part II, corresponds with Fleetwood Mac “Rhiannon” on playlist). Click to listen while reading.

I said, “I know a Greek place around the corner on Elmwood.”

“Think it’s still there?”

“My guess, it is. Things don’t change much.”

Standing in Armstrong’s vestibule, we bundled in scarves, wool caps, and gloves.

I said, “I’d forgotten what a hassle it is to live here.”

Vic poked me in the side. “Do I take that to mean you’re not moving back?”

We laughed, and I pushed the door open against a foot of fresh snow. It blanketed everything, feathery and unblemished. The sky was an inviting, vibrant blue.

Vic said, “This reminds me of Yosemite.”

I said, “I’ve never heard that analogy.”

We locked arms, raised our boots high, and Vic broke into a goosestep.

She said, “This is fun. Let’s do the angel thing.”

I said, “Armstrong’s neighbors will think we’re nuts.”

She plopped down on her back in a fresh, soft bed of snow, extended her arms, and made wings.

She said, “Come on, it’s New Year’s Eve. There’s no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.”

I knelt and flipped over on my back and pitched out my arms. A squeaky, cold powder reshuffled around my head.

She said, “This isn’t so bad.”

Her face flushed and rosy, both of us puffed big, white, steamy breaths. We dusted each other off and walked to the eatery, The Oracle of Delphi, and the lights were off.

I said, “See, it’s still here.”

A man in a long, gray overcoat and Russian fur cap with ear flaps was shoveling the driveway. He motioned to us, pulled a long chain from his pocket, selected a key, and opened a padlock. He pulled back a rusty metal security gate with a jolt.

Once inside, Vic didn’t take off her coat.

I said, “Planning to stay?”

“After he turns the heat on,” she said.

“I used to come here with my buddies, after pickup midnight basketball games. We’d meet at Baker Hall and play until dawn, then hang out and eat a huge breakfast. A Greek family ran the place.”

The clanging sound of pots and pans came from the back. We heard a grill fire up.

She said, “Don’t get your hopes up. Looks like this guy is the cook and the waiter.”

Ten minutes later, a slim, short, dark man brought the menu. His eyes danced, and he brandished a toothy white smile as he said, “You like Greek food? Very healthy Mediterranean food.”

I said, “Do you serve breakfast?”

“Sure, also delicious dolmades, moussaka, and kabob. You like grape leaves?”

“We weren’t sure you were open,” I said.

“Everything’s ready.”

“Was that you out there shoveling the driveway?”

He nodded. Without a winter coat and hat, he looked like a bird without feathers.

I said, “Are you Greek?”

“No, I am Ali from Jordan. This place mine now. Food is good.”

He brought Vic coffee, and we ordered breakfast. Our meal consisted of stone-cold pancakes and stringy scrambled eggs. A jukebox in the corner played Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon.”

Ali resurfaced. “Everything OK?”

I said, “It’s cold.”

“Let me take. We make it right. You like mezze plate, hummus, tzatziki, kalamata olives, dolmades?”

“Sure, I love it.”

Vic nodded enthusiastically.

He said, “First, I bring hot pita bread.”

Vic swayed her shoulders and sang, “I love this song.”

Ali’s face brightened, and his body twitched. “You like Stevie Nicks? Very popular in Amman.”

Vic said, “Stevie rocks. She’s a witch.”

Ali swiveled his head. “Witch?”

“You know how she dances?” Vic stood and twirled, holding each end of her scarf like a cape.

Ali laughed. “That rhythm section son of bitch. Mick Fleetwood big foot on bass drum. John McVie, holy shit, train coming down track.”

He vocalized, “Ca chew, ca chew,” from the base of his throat.

I said, “They drive Stevie hard. You’re right, that rhythm section has the bottom locked down. She rides it. I’ve never thought about it that way.”

Vic said, “That’s why it’s called Fleetwood Mac, but they’re nothing without the witch and Christine.”

“Alhand lilah.” Ali wagged his head. “I was there May 19, 1980, Memorial Auditorium, downtown. Right here in Buffalo.”

He scampered back to the kitchen and brought back two vinyl albums, Fleetwood Mac” and Rumours. He said, “I play every day. Worn out. Skips a little.”

He retreated to the kitchen, and we heard him conversing with someone, a female voice. A few minutes later, a steaming plate of pita bread arrived, searing to the touch. Then a mezze platter with all as promised, plus tabbouleh and a thick hunk of feta cheese, all interlaced with vegetables, tomatoes, and dried fruit.

My mouth watered.

A petite young woman in bright traditional dress accompanied Ali. She bore a plate of baba ghanoush with a broad smile that danced all over her face as she said, “Mezze means ‘welcome.’ ”

Fleetwood Mac played on and, with both hands forgoing cutlery, Vic and I gorged ourselves. The young woman brought another basket of pita, and we mopped up every morsel.

When we asked for the bill, it was a pittance for pancakes and eggs, not a sumptuous Mediterranean feast. When we stood to leave, the young woman came out from the back and bowed. There were bountiful goodbyes. We shook hands with Ali and promised to come back. We left a generous tip.

Ali shook his head. “I can’t believe, Mick Fleetwood. Holy shit. Big tom-tom, rhythm section. Think of me when you hear.”

As we walked back to Armstrong’s, I said, “That was such a good meal and baklava for dessert.”

Vic put her hand on her belly. “Heavenly, what a flaky crust.”

“Do you think it was homemade?”

“Of course. You can’t buy anything like that in a store. I need a nap.”

“Where did that young woman come from? Is she Ali’s daughter?”

“Or his wife.” Vic grinned.

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