A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  Five

  An intrusion in the dark

  Claire woke, alert and listening, just as she had during Simon’s infancy. Had he cried out? She crept to the doorway and peered into his room. He lay perpendicular to his bed, his arms dangling. She tucked him in properly, listened to the depth of his breathing.

  Three in the morning, she guessed. She wandered to the kitchen for a glass of water, heard the whir of the refrigerator, and something else. Strangely watchful now, as though she expected an intruder, she tiptoed into the great room. No one here. She paced through the last of the stately furniture—soon to be replaced by comfortable, plush sofas—and walked along the line of photographs documenting the construction of this stone house, and stepped over several bins of toys. A thief would break his neck. In the dining room, Claire checked beneath the walnut dining table, in the corner by the hutch, and finally the lock on the sliding door.

  What had she heard? At the top of the stairs to the basement, on the metal strip that edged the carpet, she stood and listened. Ridiculous. A grown woman frightened—her pulse rapid—at the thought of descending. She even considered flipping the light on. In the end, she dashed down the basement stairs and stood in the dark, gasping, as she tried to decipher her sense of alarm.

  When had she last been in Dee’s study? She touched the desk, remembered that she hadn’t yet searched through this room for the missing research. Probably dusty—the papers, the books, the windowsill—probably everything in this room had dust on its surface. Or worse, centipedes, and poisonous spiders, and if they were here, they could be in the rest of the house. She’d have to clean. Now. The entire basement. She’d vacuum first, and obliterate the worst of the infestation. Mice—maybe mice had woken her with their skittering.

  In the utility closet, she grabbed the duster, and started with the windowsills. She vacuumed, and scrubbed, and emptied the garbage cans, and ran back upstairs to make pancakes when she heard movement above her, and then left Liv and Simon to their sticky devouring, only to run back downstairs, to stand in the middle of the shag carpet, and contemplate the paneled walls. It looked like a country lodge down here. There should be mounted heads of horned creatures.

  “Hey,” Liv called from the basement door, “you’re not allowed to do any work. Remember?”

  Startled, Claire turned toward Liv as though toward laughter.

  Liv came down the stairs, “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing here. There’s something—something I’m supposed to do, but I have no idea what. I’m just standing here, waiting for an answer.”

  Liv considered the disarray in the sad, paneled room. “Maybe it’s the book. Maybe you feel guilty about playing hooky.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe it’s the décor in here.”

  “I know. It’s so grim.”

  “Or maybe you just need to be outdoors. Let go a little.”

  “Let go?” Claire asked.

  “It’s what all the kids are doing.”

  “Right, the kids. I nearly forgot.”

  “Don’t worry,” Liv said, “I’ll help you remember.”

  “Now why would that worry me?”

  They drove Claire’s car to Riverside State Park, played Norah Jones to appease Simon; he’d decided no other artists existed. After crossing the swinging bridge above the river, they picked up the trail, rutted and loping and easy enough for Simon. Pockets filled with treasures, Simon would dart down to the river to hurl stones, then catch the women up again, gasping for breath, his face euphoric. Liv collected stick-swords for him and they battered rocks as they passed. Cyclists hurled through, their bikes wrenched by stones and roots on the pathway. And dogs, off lead, sprinted down the trail and into the water, the light around them smoky.

  In her backpack, Claire carried water bottles, and spicy jerky. She had chocolate Sundrops for Simon as well. Ahead of her, Liv walked in sandals, her calves flexing during quick scrambles, her shoulders browning, unprotected by the thin straps of her orange tank top.

  “Maybe it’s grief,” Liv said.

  “You mean this morning?”

  “Yes.”

  Claire ignored this. To their right, the river tore past in frothy pitches. Why should having a child make her feel so much more alone? But it was true, Simon put her solitude into relief and it hurt her now. Her solitude hurt her.

  From the front of a raft, a woman screamed as the raft shot down the rapids beyond them. They heard the scream bend.

  “Fun,” Claire said, the brim of her hat pulled too low to see Liv properly. Away from the house, she’d expected to outdistance the strange nagging, but she could feel it out here too. Liv’s interruption bothered her, called her mind into focus.

  “I’ve rafted here,” Liv said. “It’s too short, over too quickly.”

  The trail wound through a stretch of burn. Claire watched Simon jump over a charred log. Grief, her stubborn mind said. Maybe it’s grief. She had never worried while her aunt was alive. Never thought she’d be alone with a three-year-old. How did this happen? A morning jog, and you’re dead: a body in the snow. Among the burn, dozens of saplings poked through the litter.

  Simon slept on a towel from her pack; Claire and Liv reclined against a log. Along the little beach were smooth white stones of various sizes, and pieces of driftwood. Liv’s feet were bare; her shirt bunched behind her head.

  “What do your tattoos mean?” Claire asked.

  “Nothing. They’re just designs.”

  “Are they Polynesian?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So they’re symbols without meaning?”

  “They aren’t symbols, just designs.”

  “I think maybe it was grief,” Claire said.

  Liv looked at her. She tore into a piece of jerky and passed the bag to Claire. Claire had meant to say more. From the trees: birdsong. Light dappled the water.

  “How is it you’re in Spokane?” Liv asked.

  “How is it anyone’s here? Isn’t that really the question? It seems like people end up here on their way someplace else.”

  “So, how is it you ended up here?”

  Claire pushed her hat up, and said, “I came here when I was twenty. Working for my aunt was just this temporary thing that lasted for fourteen years. Why are you here?”

  Liv lit a cigarette, stretched her body out, “I have no idea really. I was living in Portland and then I thought it wasn’t good for me. One morning, I packed my shit and drove here.”

  “You have family here?”

  “Not anymore. Most of my friends have moved away.”

  Claire drank water and swatted at a mosquito. “Why wasn’t Portland good for you?”

  Beyond Liv’s feet, the water snagged. Pine trees leaned overhead.

  “Portland is too close to my family,” Liv said.

  “That’s me and Seattle.”

  “But with Simon, wouldn’t it be worth the trouble?”

  “Not for either of our sakes. Dee was the only family I ever got along with.” Claire grabbed a handful of rocks, and skipped them across the river, four five six times.

  On the shag carpet in her aunt’s study, Claire sat cross-legged, chin in her hand, and fumed. It was two in the morning, and she’d felt that nagging alarm again. Why was she awake and in this room? What was she meant to do? She would finish the bloody field guide. She’d find the notes and finish, and no one would ever guess there had been entire days when she’d stared at her keyboard and not written a sentence. No one would ever know.

  This room was a hideous beast. Brown in every direction, like being buried alive. Maybe instead of starting with the kitchen, Liv should gut the basement. Would the nagging—and this sense of claustrophobia—vanish with the paneling? Claire waited, listening, and still nothing came to her.

  In the dark, she climbed the stairs, walked through the cold stone rooms, and stood on the deck. She could hear the river and the rustle of leaves. As
she debated whether or not to give sleep up, and work for a while, headlights cut through the night. Liv’s truck crawled down the gravel road to her camper. For a moment, Claire considered calling out, but remembered she only had on boxers, so withdrew, instead, to the house. Her curiosity about Liv deepened with every step.

  Just before dawn, she dreamed the money. The room with the broken cupboard, her aunt seated in a rocking chair, knitting something irregular in degrees of brown.

  “You’ve come back,” Denise said.

  “Back?” Claire asked.

  Her aunt pointed to the bag Claire found in her hands. “Have you come to take the last of it?”

  “Yes,” Claire said.

  “Then hurry.” Her aunt looked at her opened palm as though the time were written there. “It’s late.”

  Claire woke to the smell of bacon and coffee. Simon, wearing a helmet, bounded into the bedroom, yelled, “Eat!”, and bounded back out. Cotton-brained, Claire squirmed into her robe, and wandered down the hall to join the fray. Piled in the sink and on the counters were pans and cookie sheets, mixing bowls and Simon’s trains, utensils of every description, several pairs of socks, and a couple of glasses of milk.

  “Simon and I cooked breakfast. Do you like monkey bread?”

  Claire, uncertain whether or not this was imaginary bread, answered, “Yes.”

  “And we have eggs and bacon and coffee.”

  Simon sat at the table, his short legs metronome kicking, his helmet pushed back from his forehead as he ate chunks of cinnamon-glazed bread. Liv handed Claire a large plate, piled with food, including a tiny citadel of monkey bread. Simon had finished his and was scooping more from the funnel-cake pan on the table.

  “This is a superb surprise,” Claire said, several bites in. She would not think about the dishes.

  “Don’t worry about the kitchen,” Liv said as she joined her. “I’ll load the dishwasher before we go.”

  “Go?”

  Liv pointed at Simon’s helmet.

  “Rock climbing?” Claire hazarded.

  “We’re riding bikes on the Centennial Trail today.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  “If we bike through the Valley, I know a cool little spot where we can swim.”

  In the cold, sandy-bottomed pool down from the trail, Simon dunked his whole head in the water and swam about his mother and Liv.

  “You’re like a river rat, Simon,” Liv told him.

  He dunked himself again and floated past them on his belly.

  “How’s Simon’s trailer?” Liv asked Claire.

  “Heavy.”

  “Do you want me to have a go on the ride back?”

  “Are you worried I’m too old and infirm to pull it both ways?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall we race?”

  “Oh, Claire. You can’t be serious.”

  “Loser buys dinner.”

  “You are so on.”

  Claire’s legs burned along the muscles, her wrists hurt, and her neck and her ass. Still she pedaled; Simon behind her, cawing. As the wind teased through her short black hair, clouds of bugs spattered her face and sunglasses. She rode like terror itself kept pace with her. She’d lost track of Liv and the time and everything but her heart and her legs. Along her back and shoulders, her muscles pushed against her skin.

  So she was alone. Alone with a three-year-old. Unplanned, yes, but she’d be fine. She’d always been fine: a girl who landed on her feet. Her aunt had employed her, but she hadn’t saved her. Claire didn’t need anyone to save her. She leaned forward and pedaled harder, her breath roaring through her like a dragon.

  They waited for Liv at the truck: Simon sprinting around, kicking pinecones, and Claire on her back in the grass, her legs boneless as jellyfish. She’d just remembered her dream when a shadow blocking her light made her aware of him.

  “Hard ride?” the man asked.

  Claire opened her eyes, tilted her head sideways, “Clearly.”

  The man chuckled, stepped back; his enormous black poodle licked at Simon. “What’s your name?” He asked the boy. Simon patted the poodle. “I’m Dave,” the man said. He wore the dog’s leash across his torso like a girl-scout sash. “Dave,” he said again, this time to Claire.

  “Yeah, Dave, my girlfriend’s just coming. Excuse us, will you?” Claire had said this as though it were true, and found herself standing, keen and relieved, as Liv tore into the parking lot. Her hair awry, sweat from every pore, her breath coming in dashes.

  “Oh, that hurts,” she said, grinning at Claire.

  They ate at Thai Bamboo, the mango smoothies thick and rich; Simon slurping Pad Thai noodles; Liv and Claire exhausted and blissful.

  “How is it you’re so fit?” Liv asked, trying to understand being beaten by someone’s mother.

  “Yoga.”

  “Oh, right,” Liv said, uncertain whether or not Claire was teasing.

  “There’s no shame in it.”

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?”

  “When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

  “Right. Well, I appreciate the lesson anyway.”

  “No bother,” Claire laughed.

  That night at the bar, Bailey scowled across at Liv. They were drinking beer; both in tank tops, Liv watching the troupe of college girls march up and down the stairs. Sitting on the upper level of the Mercury Café with a clear view of the door, the first floor, and the bar, Liv thought the gay bar overwhelmed with straights.

  “So I’ve been promoted,” Bailey said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m head baker now.”

  “That’s swell, congratulations. So, more dough?”

  “You’re cute. And yes, now I’m salaried.”

  “Next round’s on me.”

  “Thanks,” Bailey said. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve been back in Spokane a year-and-a-half, right? And I haven’t met anyone—not anyone—that I’m excited about. I’ve met some nice people, some sweet girls, but I haven’t met anyone I’m really into.” She bent her coaster, smoothed her hair back from her forehead. “So I don’t get it. You’re back like ten minutes and picking up chicks all over the place. I know pickups aren’t relationships, but they’re sex and that would be OK too. You know?”

  Liv sipped her beer, waited.

  “I just, I just want to be happy here. I know it’s Spokane, but I want to be happy here. I’ve got a job I’m psyched about and I love my house, and I can’t meet a single person that I’m into. Why is that?”

  Bailey in all her honest desperation: her tank top and jeans ironed, her hair curled and styled, her nails polished. They both knew she was pretty, and that that was not the problem. She was really asking, though, and this made it painful for Liv; she was embarrassed for Bailey.

  “I don’t know,” Liv said. “It’s tricky.”

  “So like with you; I mean, you don’t even think of me like that, right?”

  Liv debated sprinting from the building. “I don’t sleep with my friends.”

  “Right. Because that would be messy.”

  “Bailey, what is it that you want?”

  “Jesus, you’re like talking to a guy. I want you. You’re what I want.”

  Liv rocked back in her chair, held her breath.

  “Not a relationship—I know you. Just sex. Light and uncomplicated.”

  Uncomplicated. Liv nearly laughed. “Bailey, I don’t sleep with my friends. It never goes well.”

  “But we’re not friends. Not really. We hang out, but we’re not friends. Not if you’re honest.”

  “Bailey—”

  “Is it because we’re not strangers? Is that what it is? Does it have to be anonymous?”

  Liv watched the beautiful gay boys dancing by the jukebox. This was the worst conversation ever. Bailey’s eyes were red when Liv checked back in. “I can’t do this with you, Bailey. I can’t even tell you why, but I know that I
can’t. And I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t let it worry you,” Bailey said, standing. “I know I’m a little older than you’re used to.” She threw some money on the table and walked away.

  In the truck, the girl rammed her head back against the window, grabbed at the strap of the seatbelt. She lactated into Liv’s mouth. Astonished—the thin milk sudden and sweet—Liv looked up at her, murmured; the girl’s hands fluttering; Liv sucked harder.

  At night, the river had a different tone. Liv sat on the hood of the truck, the metal warm beneath her, and smoked.

  She thought of the girl in Portland who’d come to her parents’ house. Seated in the kitchen, eating a bowl of soup with Liv’s mother one evening when Liv came in from work. Afterward, her mother had said that word, the one that wounded her, the one she refused to consider, “predatory”. And Liv had started up, yelling: declared they’d met at a bar, convinced she’d been of age; no one victimized; inappropriate, prejudicial, to trot that word out as though it applied. “Chivalry never did me any favors,” she’d said. Like a slap. She’d said it to her mother like a slap. The next morning she’d given notice, and left Portland for the nearest place she knew.

  Liv dragged her sleeping bag and bedroll outside to the deck and planned to sleep there, like an old dog, sentry to the house. In starlight, the stone looked elegant and cool, the cedar shake roof almost foreign, as though one had stumbled on a manse here in the wilds.

  Six

  Outpace this

  Simon used his trowel to dig carefully into the earth as Liv had showed him. Moving the dirt, slowly slowly, he poured it over Toby and the Troublesome Trucks. Six feet away, Liv plunged the post-hole digger and squared off the hole. Another three days to finish the fence line along the front of the property.

  Claire had sent them out with a thermos of lemonade and some crackers. Magpies blitzed a cherry tree in the field beyond them. As they arced and quibbled, Simon thought of planes. Poor Toby, another scoop buried him.

  Wasps in the blossoms, and the sun like a wicked parent, Simon lay back and listened to Liv digging, each thrust like a striking clock. His mother was happy again: singing and patient and laughing. Simon wanted Liv to stay with them forever. Like Dee, only never go away.