by Jill Malone
“Where is she anyway?” Bailey asked, craning her head as though Liv might be hiding nearby.
“Supply run.”
Bailey drew her long legs up to her chest, rocked forward and back like an egg. She’d been quiet so long that Claire thought maybe that was all she had to say, when Bailey asked: “What happens at the end of the summer, or the end of the project, whichever comes first? Liv seems hard, she wants everyone to believe that she’s hard, but she isn’t. And you know that, as well as I do. If you injure her, it’ll be intentional, because you know she’s vulnerable. So any wound you give her will be deep, and on purpose.”
Claire had felt stabbed at the word “vulnerable”—a sharp prick to the heart. She resented Bailey’s speech, its mode as well as its intention. Sipping her iced tea, calm and introspective, Claire wouldn’t engage. Not with Bailey or anyone, what happened with Liv would happen, and talking never changed a fucking thing.
They had quinoa salad, chilled and improbably filling, for dinner. Liv didn’t make it home until almost seven, and Simon, having eaten, sat on her lap, rested against her chest, while she devoured her salad and edamame.
“You’re filthy,” Bailey remarked, while Claire fetched ice cream from the kitchen.
“Well spotted.”
“And fun, Liv. You’re fun too.”
“Do you live here now?”
“I hear your camper’s empty; looking to sublease?”
Liv set her fork down, and emptied her glass. Claire had made sundaes with cherries and whipped cream and hot fudge. She brought bowls for each of them, and rubbed her hand through Simon’s hair as he murmured delightedly.
“What?” Claire asked Liv, as she sat down to her own bowl. She turned to Bailey, “What happened?”
Bailey shrugged, and twirled her spoon.
“Has she been telling you,” Claire asked Liv, “that you’re soft?” Bailey stood up then and told them she had to go. “Have a swell night, ladies. Don’t be too thoughtful. You might develop bad habits.”
“Bye, Bailey,” Simon called, ruining her exit line, whipped cream on his nose.
“Bye, Simon,” she said, and was gone.
Liv set her bowl on the table, the sundae spoiled: the ice cream tasted bitter. “I need to shower,” she said, and went indoors.
“Let’s go for a walk, Simon.” They’d finished their ice cream, and the evening had cooled enough that they’d stopped sweating. He held her hand as they picked up a trail, and walked toward the road. The air smelled of fire, distant and to the north.
Eighteen
Dismantling the kitchen
At the Imax, they watched a movie about sharks, and then took Simon to ride the carousel. He disliked the horses, but loved the giraffe and the goat and the tiger. Afterward, they let him slide down the giant Radio Flyer Wagon and all three of them went to the bookstore.
Browsing along the tables, Liv contemplated her irritation. She’d snapped at Claire repeatedly several days running. Since the girl at Home Depot, there had been three others. Something brutal inside her kept grasping at her throat and she wanted to lash out, to kick something, to throttle her own throat until whatever it was submerged again inside her. And what was all this for exactly? Liv hadn’t even enjoyed it: the girls pushy brats who came in a rush and whined for more. Tired. Liv was tired of sex. Tired of their bodies and the begging. Tired of all their transient expectations. Tired of her inability to keep away. Liv was tired of herself. And Claire. She was tired of Claire and her perfect life. Her glowing child, and her money, and her beautiful, secluded house, and her goodness, her tedious, reliable goodness.
“Do you need help?” the clerk asked. She was young, and small, and had pale, piercing eyes. “A recommendation?”
“Sure. Hit me.”
“Fiction?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you read Jesus’ Son?” The girl handed Liv the book, and went on around the table, to pick up another book. “Motherless Brooklyn. Inventive and unpredictable, this book is hypnotic. Trust me.”
“Sure,” Liv said. “I trust you.”
The girl smiled. “You’ve read them, haven’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll bet you haven’t read Ali Smith?”
“I’ve never even heard of her.”
“Then you’re in for a treat.” The girl led Liv down the fiction aisles, and pulled The Accidental from the shelf. “Her voice is unreal. She won the Whitbread for this one.” She handed the book to Liv reverently as though it were a sacred text.
“Thanks,” Liv said, and grinned at her.
“Anytime.”
“Found something you like?” Claire asked behind them. Simon, with a Thomas picture book and a small Curious George doll, held her hand.
“Yeah,” Liv said, and maneuvered herself around Claire and Simon, to herd everyone toward the cashier.
Whatever had clasped at her throat had released its hold, and she felt buoyant, elated even. She paid for their purchases, and lifted Simon to her shoulders, walking ahead of Claire to the car. “We should go to the Japanese Gardens, yeah, Simon? Want to see the fish?”
He did, of course. He asked about them as they drove up the hill, and turned into the gravel parking lot. From the slats in the bridge, he watched the tremendous koi, sleek and sinuous, propel through the water. And Liv strolled through the trails and waterfalls where light broke and shimmered. She hadn’t waited for Claire, and now when she looked for her, couldn’t see Claire anywhere, couldn’t even recollect what she had worn. Liv checked the bridge for Simon, but didn’t find him there. In a panic, she imagined a kidnapping, and moved quickly through the grounds searching, then out to the parking lot and found them, Simon crouched beside his mother, playing with two black Labrador puppies.
Liv slowed instantly, not liking this tug-of-war with Claire, this lesson about running off disguised as an impromptu play date with puppies, this silent lecture about the effects of neglect. Stalled against a tree, she lit a cigarette and imagined the next girl. Free, free of Claire’s attitudes and postures, free of Bailey’s insistent interference, and free of her own inevitable withdrawals. These girls did, in the end, have meaning. They meant Liv wasn’t Claire: housebound with a child and money and property; entitled and presumptuous and needy.
Simon looked up. “Puppies!” he cried. “Liv. Come see. Puppies. Come see them.”
As Liv crossed to them, she saw hurt, as clear as a sunburn, on Claire’s face. Need would be their undoing, Liv thought. Need and disappointment. She crouched beside Simon and admired the puppies—biting, thrashing little creatures. They kept climbing into Simon’s lap, nearly knocking him over.
“Well, if you can make it, I’d love to see you there.” The man standing on the other side of the puppies said this to Claire. Liv hadn’t noticed him until he spoke. Tall and brown and well dressed, with a diver’s watch and purposely chaotic hair.
“I don’t know where Zola is.”
“Just down on Main, by the yoga studio and Rocket Bakery.”
“Right,” Claire said.
“Fantastic jazz, and great food.”
“Friday night at Zola.”
“Friday at 9.”
Claire nodded, and rested her hand on Simon’s back. “We’ll see. Thanks for stopping. It’s been a long time.”
“I’m sorry about Denise.”
Claire nodded again.
“I hope to see you around,” he said. “Bye, Simon.”
“Bye, puppies,” Simon said quietly.
Liv stalked to the car.
Unaffected by the swollen hostility, Simon fell asleep in the car on the drive home.
“Do you want me to drop you somewhere?” Claire asked.
“Yeah, downtown.”
“How does it work if you don’t have your truck, or do you just go to her place? No, wait, I know, the bathroom door locks.”
“Fuck off.”
“These are your errands, right, t
hese girls? All week you bite my head off because you’re out screwing at random, and somehow that’s my fault. You fucking child.”
“Let me out. Stop the car and let me out.”
“I’d like to throw you from the car.”
“Let me out.”
Claire pulled over and Liv jumped out, slamming the door behind her. Staring forward, murderous, Claire stamped the accelerator. Later, it felt like the car drove itself to Bailey’s.
Bailey came to the door in pajama bottoms and a pale yellow tank top, her hair in a ponytail. She stepped back to let Claire through, reached her hand to her hair, and closed the door behind them. After Claire carried the sleeping child to the couch, she crossed to Bailey and pressed her from the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom, their bodies not quite touching, Bailey’s expression worried. A strain between them as Claire closed Bailey’s bedroom door, grabbed hold, and kissed her. Their clothes left on, stretched awkwardly, neither spoke, until Bailey panted Claire’s name.
On the windowsill, scented candles and incense cones. Chef pants tossed onto a chair in the corner, back issues of food and wine magazines piled on one end table, and ten pounds of hardcover cookbooks piled on the other. The walls painted a cool shade of green like daquiri ice.
“What happened?” Bailey asked, on her side, with her head propped in her hand. “Did she screw somebody?”
“We’re all so smart.”
“So I’m revenge, is that right? I’m the dagger in the back. Et tu, bitch.”
“I hate girls.”
“Wait, I know this song.”
“I was only sad before.”
“You’re pretty sad now. It’s just sex, Claire. Nobody took vows or holy orders or anything. Do you care so much? You’ve seen the girls. They aren’t a threat in any real way.”
“Are you encouraging me?”
“I don’t really have a fitting speech for this situation. I haven’t even shaved my legs.”
Claire laughed. Bailey’s hair had pulled from her ponytail, and fell now around her face. Without makeup, she looked younger, her eyes lighter. Rocked up on her elbow, Claire kissed her gently. Claire meant to say something about this being unfair and how she was sorry, but knew she wasn’t sorry, and so didn’t say anything. She had wanted, and she had taken what she wanted. Just like always.
Bailey stood up and fixed her hair. “Come on, I’ve been baking scones. Blueberry lemon, you’ll love them.”
Liv pulled the old cabinets from the walls, above the counter and below, so that the kitchen looked like a shell, just the idea of a kitchen. In the end, the counter would be replaced as well, but the cabinets were first. Two days before, Claire had emptied the cupboards, stored the contents in the pantry, in boxes on the kitchen table, above the refrigerator. Liv had hitched a ride back to Claire’s. Almost the moment she slammed the car door, she’d turned for home, ashamed of herself.
Heavy, ugly, and awkward, the old cabinets came down in pieces. She’d piled them in the wheelbarrow and hauled loads to her truck. She’d finish before they came back, and could start installing the new cabinets in the morning. The drill’s battery had died, and the backup had lost its charge, so she re-charged one while she unscrewed the panels by hand. Glad of the struggle, glad of the weight of the wood, glad to be alone and sorry, the ache almost a pleasure.
“Does Simon like scones?” Bailey asked, smearing butter on the opened halves.
“Probably. I’m not sure he’s ever had them.”
Astonished, Bailey stared at Claire a moment before shaking her head. “Poor neglected kid.”
“Want me to make coffee?”
“Help yourself. I think you know where everything is.”
Claire pulled the grinder down and proceeded to overwhelm the buttery lemon scent with brewed coffee. They sat on stools in the kitchen, Claire’s mouth alive with tastes and possibilities. The scones made her hopeful, a kid in a garden where the flowers bloom all at once. “Bailey. You have a gift.”
“Don’t gush. You can have another if you want.”
“Are these your own recipes?”
“Sometimes. I experiment. Nothing ever really tastes the same from batch to batch.”
“You should have your own bakery. You must.”
“Yeah, I know. It’ll happen just by wishing. That’s how financing works, right? Oh, Simon, you’re awake.”
He came into the room with his face creased from the pillow on the couch and his hair random. He climbed into his mother’s lap and nestled against her. “Butter,” he said.
They gave him half a scone and a scoop of butter. Bailey poured a glass of milk and set it beside him. He woke slowly, dipping his finger into the butter, becoming more alert bite by bite.
“Do you camp?” Claire asked.
“I love camping.”
“I was thinking of going this weekend. What’s your schedule?”
“I’m off work by noon on Friday. My weekend is clear.”
“What do you think, we could go to Missoula, camp up at Lolo?”
“And Liv?”
“I’m asking you.”
Bailey looked at Simon, then back at Claire. “Let’s be clear here. I like you, Claire. I do. Enough, in all probability, to make trouble for all of us, but I’m not courting trouble. This afternoon won’t happen again. Liv and I aren’t what we were, but I’m not out to punish her. I don’t want any part of that, well, just this tiny part, but not to make a habit of it.”
“It isn’t like that—“
“Uh huh. I’m just saying. Ask Liv if she wants to go camping. We can make a weekend of it, the four of us.”
All evening, Claire stalled. At Bailey’s, at the market after Bailey’s, on the drive home, she asked Simon multiple times if he wanted to go to the park. Each time he refused, asked to watch a movie, eat popcorn, play with his trains. A dark and empty house, she dreaded it. Dreaded her mood and Liv’s.
Her aunt had never sustained a romantic relationship while Claire lived in the house.There had been men, electrons of them, circling around, but Denise had never let any of them settle. She’d found relationships exhausting, felt they compromised her focus, hindered her work.
Claire felt this too, and on some level, believed it. So she was unprepared for the house, lit and noisy, or for the kitchen, half-dressed with aspirations, or the girl, sweating and determined. She stood in the doorway; Simon sprinted past to his trains and returned with Donald and Douglas. Liv, on her knees, continued assembling the new cabinets, drilling hardware, hanging doors. The pieces were striking and elegant, stained lightly to accentuate the cherry wood.
As she put the groceries in the refrigerator, or the appropriate storage box, Claire went back over the day in case she had missed something. She had not expected this. She had not expected the fight or Bailey or the kitchen. In the end, she put a movie on for Simon and ran a bath for herself.
In the night, she ventured back, and turned on the kitchen light. The west side of the kitchen sat unfinished like glaring eye sockets, but the east side was complete except for the new counters. Claire touched the smooth, gorgeous grain, her hands drawn across the wood as though it were a fabric. They might have been bodies, skin, as she glided her hands across their surfaces. It felt erotic—topless, in her bare feet—to stroke Liv’s handiwork. Self-conscious, she switched the light off, stood in the dark before the cabinets like a temple virgin: hesitant, restive, thrilled.
Denise would have liked Liv, Claire was certain. Would have considered her unpredictability proof of her intelligence, her worth. The boring, reliable ones were bred for simple girls, satisfied with less. If a relationship was effortless, you weren’t doing it right.
Claire walked downstairs, convinced less each step that she knew what Denise thought. Denise might have considered Liv shifty, irresponsible. After all, Denise had stayed—all her life she had stayed in Spokane—by the river, with her samples and her work and little else until Claire had descen
ded. Even Simon she had fought, warred against the simple idea of him. Change a worrying variable for Denise, one outside the control of the scientific researcher and, therefore, dangerous.
In the basement, moonlight, and the past on tiptoes. Claire, unafraid, heretical, opened the closet door in her aunt’s study, pulled down boxes, and began to go through Denise’s papers. Alternate chapters of previous field guides, transcripts from lectures given at universities and conferences, field notes dating back to the 1970s. Piles at her feet as she worked methodically through the closet, before turning to the desk drawers and filing cabinets.
The paper trail of a life, Claire tore through every item, and felt remorseless for the first time. Stripped away like the cabinets in the kitchen, just papers, memorabilia and nothing more. Not a soul, not even a body, just documents.
Claire wanted some place to rest, some haven for this furious love. She wanted to feel less, and with more control.
She ran upstairs and outside. Her path through the grass slick with dew, it might have been 3 a.m., and Claire stumbled in the long wheatgrass, grasping at roots to pull herself back up. Down again several steps later, and she couldn’t make herself get up. She didn’t want this anymore. Not another step on this path, volatile and destructive. She didn’t want anymore.
“I don’t want you,” she said. “I don’t want you.”
Claire stood, shivering, ten yards from the camper. “I don’t want you. I don’t want you.” Shivering, unable to go on, or turn back.
Nineteen
Finish work
Liv finished the cabinets the day after they left, Claire and Simon, to camp in Montana. Claire had never asked, only packed their things and said she’d be gone. Less complicated, Liv thought, than their staying. She’d begin on the bathrooms while they were gone, the shut-off water inconveniencing no one.
She tore out the bathtub, found the subfloor remarkably sound, and when Bailey came by on Saturday, recruited her to help drag the behemoth outdoors to be left in the grass until the truck could be emptied of old cabinets. Bailey stayed the afternoon, chattering from a chair she’d pulled into the doorway, while Liv worked to disconnect the plumbing, and pull the sink and toilet. Grateful now for the distraction of another human, Liv offered to buy dinner and drinks.