A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  “Let’s watch a movie,” her mother said. “Best Years of Our Lives? I’ll make some popcorn.”

  When Simon woke, his dinosaur clutched in his fist and pressed into his face, he remembered that he’d been promised a look at some trains, and had somehow been derailed into a nap.

  He hopped up and went in search of Dennis. The house smelled of food. In the family room, Liv and her mother were asleep on the sofas, an old black-and-white movie playing unheeded on the television. Simon wandered into the kitchen, and watched Dennis pull a steaming metal tray from the stove.

  “What you got in there?” he asked.

  “This,” said Dennis, picking up the child, “is a turkey. We’re going to have it for dinner, as soon as everyone else wakes up.”

  “No, I don’t like this turkey. No, thank you. I want to play trains.”

  “Trains, is it? Well, we might be able to find some trains for you.”

  Down a flight of carpeted stairs, Dennis pulled the string for an overhead light to illuminate his workshop. Biplanes, racing cars, roadsters, sailboats, engines, cabooses, trains with coaches, vehicles elaborately designed and carved and glued.

  “Wow,” Simon breathed. “I like these.”

  He squirmed down to walk the line of the worktable, his hand outstretched, though carefully withheld, from the vehicles. They were larger—wider and taller—than any of his Thomas trains. The coaches on the train were attached to one another by hitches. A solitary engine made of cherry wood sat last in the line. Soft, beautiful lines.

  “I like this one,” he said, then looked up at Dennis.

  “Go ahead and try that one,” Dennis said.

  Simon picked the engine up, ran his hands over the wheels and stack, and the hitch at the back. Then he knelt and drove the train along the cement floor before the worktable. Smooth and fast and strong, a good train. With this train tucked under his arm, he returned to his examination of the remainder of the vehicles. In the end, he picked two cars, a train with coaches, a caboose, and the cherry engine. Dennis said yes to the lot, and helped Simon carry them back upstairs.

  Claire woke at ten that night, and tore down the stairs, flushed with apologies. In the living room, sitting on the floor before the tree, Dennis and Simon played with trains. A bright fire burned in the hearth; Bing Crosby on the stereo.

  “I’ve missed dinner,” Claire said.

  “Simon and I had bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios.”

  Claire glanced around, instantly blissful. “I’m not the last to wake?”

  “Look, Mama,” Simon said. “Trains.”

  “Liv and her mother fell asleep watching a movie.”

  Claire knelt down beside Simon to admire his train. “And the turkey and pies?”

  “In the fridge. We’ll have them tomorrow for Christmas. No harm to anyone.”

  “These are beautiful trains,” Claire said. “Did Dennis make these trains?”

  “Yes,” Simon said. “He made these real good trains for Simon.”

  “Simon and I have had a little walk, and played with trains, and had some hot chocolate with whipped cream—the real stuff, naturally. We’ve had a lovely Christmas Eve, isn’t that right, Simon?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Thank you,” Claire said to Dennis.

  “The purest of pleasure, all of it. I’ve been spoiled all evening.”

  Simon stayed up another hour; fell asleep in his mother’s arms. Liv was up by then, disoriented from sleep, and sat at Claire’s feet, rested her head on Claire’s legs. Dennis made hot chocolate for them as well, and lit his pipe contentedly, the smell of vanilla tobacco enticing.

  “I can’t believe I slept for so long,” Liv said, again. “Crazy.”

  “I think I was drugged,” Claire said.

  “Mom put something in the wine? That would explain everything.”

  Her father chuckled. A log broke in a tantrum of sparks. They were dwarfed in the room between the fire and the colossal tree.

  “What happened to the Carpenter’s Christmas CD?” Liv asked him.

  “You’ll hear it the moment your mother joins us.”

  “Swell. I was afraid maybe it broke, or was smuggled from the house, or something.”

  “Not in time, no.”

  “I was looking forward to eating a sewed turkey,” Liv said.

  “Me too,” Claire sighed. “We were like renegade doctors putting that poor bird back together.”

  “Why did you let me sleep so long?” Susan asked, shuffling into the room, a fleece blanket wound around her.

  “Except for Dennis,” Claire said, “the rest of us have only just woken.”

  “Claire thinks you drugged the wine.”

  “A sound theory,” Susan said, sitting at the hearth. “Cereal for dinner?” This to her husband.

  “We enjoyed every bite.”

  “Did he like his trains?” she asked, noting the many wooden vehicles on the floor.

  “Oh yes,” Claire said in a voice piped to mimic her son’s. “These are real good trains.”

  “Do we all get a Christmas Eve present?” Liv asked.

  “Yes,” her mother said. “Yours was a long nap.”

  Thirty-three

  Clutch

  Claire couldn’t remember Simon climbing into their bed, yet here he was, lying perpendicular to her and Liv, with his arms thrown wide like a savior of men. She checked her watch, and marveled that she had slept until nearly seven. Certainly they’d been drugged.

  “Are you awake?” she asked Liv.

  “Hmm?”

  “Are you awake?”

  “I need coffee.”

  “I need to shift this little guy.”

  Liv sat up and they moved him between them, his eyelids flickering, a little moan as he scrunched himself into a ball.

  “I’m in love with your parents,” Claire said. “And this house.” Their room wallpapered in blue and white stripes, watercolors of girls in gardens in dark frames, a sewing machine by the window, piled with fabric. The air smelled of cloves.

  “Mom’s so much better. Last time I was here, breathing seemed to hurt her. Yesterday she was drunk, and carousing in the kitchen.”

  “The one with the hair,” Claire said smirking.

  “Jesus.”

  “You dated someone they refer to as the one with the hair. I love that.”

  “You don’t get to be alone with my parents ever again.”

  “I don’t think you being present is going to stop them.”

  “Trust that.” Liv stretched across Simon, and kissed her, rested her forehead against Claire’s chest. “I’m glad you’re here. It actually feels like Christmas.”

  “Pigs in a blanket?” Liv asked, incredulous.

  “For Simon,” Dennis said.

  “But we always have monkey bread.”

  Her father filled her coffee mug, added milk. Behind him, her mother laughed.

  “Told you,” she said to Dennis. “We’ve made both, Olivia.”

  His hair in rogue waves, Simon came downstairs in pajamas, holding his mother’s hand.

  “Where’d my trains go?” he asked, hugging each adult in turn. “Where’d they go?”

  “Check the tree,” Susan whispered.

  He ran into the living room, and they all followed, gathered just beyond the threshold to listen as the small boy screamed at the presents: the bicycle with training wheels; the legion of trains, and cars, and sail boats; the paint set; the stockings on the mantel crammed with gifts; the Thomas comforter and pillows; the puzzles and candy.

  “Hooray,” he said, hopping toward them. One by one, he pulled them into the room, placed them on the chairs nearest the tree, and brought them gifts.

  Susan, in her robe, sat on the armchair in the guest room while Liv and Claire packed their luggage.

  “I slept for half your visit,” she said.

  “We did too,” Liv said. Simon needed two suitcases for all his loot. Liv had taken the bicycle
apart, wrapped each piece, and stowed it in the suitcases with the rest of his hoard. “Free babysitters, and we didn’t even go out, get trashed, and kick some ass.”

  “Goals for next visit,” Susan said. She sniffed, and both Claire and Liv looked up, alarmed. “I’m fine, really. I’m just fine.”

  Claire reached her first, and lifted Susan from the chair, scooped her up and held her.

  “I’m fine,” Susan assured them, the sobs wrenching, sonic. “I’m fine.”

  Claire rubbed the mother’s back, and thought of muscles, glands, veins, organs: the marvelous body and its desperate living. And she held on tighter, touched the stubble of new-growth hair, ached.

  Thirty-four

  A little something

  Bailey held the door opened, her grin tore her face in half. Hair jutting from a clip, pajamas plaid and baggy, she looked beautiful and jubilant. When she squeezed Claire, she whispered, “I’m so glad you’re home. I fucking hate Christmas.”

  “You should have come with us. I got drunk with Susan.”

  “Did she tell you Olivia stories?”

  “They are so harsh. I kept wondering what my nickname would be.”

  “Neo, in all probability.”

  Struck, Claire paused, wanted to kiss her, shook the impulse off.

  “Come and have a beer with me,” Bailey said, moving backward into the house. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too.” Claire slung her coat across the back of the sofa, followed Bailey into the kitchen, heaved herself up on the counter. Admired, again, Bailey’s immaculate workshop: the bowls and plates in frontless cabinets, the copper pots gleaming on shelves above the stove, the herbs and spices in uniform glass bottles. She took the beer gratefully, saluted. “What happened with Christmas?”

  “I bitch all the time about the hours, and how exhausted I am, and how burned out, and how managing people sucks, but after three days lounging around the house I was in withdrawals. Life outside the café is pretty fucking boring.”

  “That’s funny, I wanted peace and sleep. Liv asked me to go to a club for drinks, and I kept coming up with excuses not to.” She swirled her beer in the bottle, kept her head bowed. “I liked them; I hadn’t expected to, but I did.”

  “I know.”

  “I came away envying her. Except for the cancer, their life felt idyllic.”

  “Her who? Susan or Liv?”

  “Both. How is Julia? Has she called from Italy?”

  “I’ve talked to her every day,” Bailey said. “Her life’s idyllic as well. I’ve missed her too.”

  “Missing is good.”

  “Says the woman who spent the holiday with her girlfriend and son. I wish I’d gone to Italy. I could have flown over for a few days. I never do anything spontaneous. I’ve been knocking around here for three days, wishing I’d been bolder.”

  “I don’t know. Owning your own café seems spontaneous and bold to me.”

  “You minimized the risk considerably.”

  “Speaking of that.” Claire took a folded envelope from her pocket, handed it to Bailey.

  “What’s this?”

  “A little something.”

  Bailey tore off an end, and pulled out the check. She sat, staring at it. “I don’t understand.”

  “A shareholder distribution. The café is doing really well. I’m sorry you didn’t have it before Christmas.” Claire doesn’t mention that the bank check was drawn from her personal account, not the business account. This is her gift to Bailey.

  “This is for me? $20,000. Are you for real?”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey jumped up so quickly that her stool toppled as she rushed into Claire’s arms, shrieking happily. “This is amazing. I’m so happy I might vomit.”

  “Let go of me first.”

  “Claire, can we really afford this?”

  “We can.”

  “For both of us?”

  “Yes.”

  Bailey jumped up and down, lifting Claire with her.

  Thirty-five

  Manito run

  Liv dug the toes of her boots into the snow to drag the sled and Simon up the hill. Around them, dozens of children raced past on sleds, inner tubes, skis, and snowboards. At the base of the hill, dogs—off lead and hyper—bounded at toppled children, and each other. The hillside gave an excellent dash, then a long gradual finish. On the other side of the park, at the duck pond, boys played ice hockey. Lightly, snowflakes fell upon them.

  Simon had covered his eyes the first few runs, slid, deliberately, off the sled at the bottom, and fake-cried. Each time, as Liv pulled him back up the hillside, she’d turned to see him grinning at her. Woodstoves burned across the street in the residentials, and days like this—the air iced and draped in indigo—she loved Spokane.

  At the top of the hill, she pushed him, cheered, and raced after him, reaching the plateau just as his momentum languished. As they turned, began the climb again, he said, “You want to slide with me, Liv?”

  “Yes, but your sled is too small for both of us.”

  At the peak, Simon jumped off his sled and ran to another boy, said something and pointed back at Liv. He had to repeat whatever he’d said before the boy nodded, brought his inner tube with him as he followed Simon back to Liv.

  “We’re swapping,” the boy told her, handing her his double inner tube, and taking Simon’s sled.

  “You sure?” she asked the boy.

  “Yeah. Take three rides, then we’ll swap again.”

  She agreed. Simon had already climbed in front, and instructed her to get on. They were down so quickly that she almost hadn’t had time to enjoy herself before she remembered she had two rides to go. Simon hefted his side of the inner tube, grinned across at her: “Hurry. Let’s go.” And began to run back up.

  They sledded for two hours, then stowed the sled in the truck and walked around the park, watching the hockey players; the women wheeling SUV strollers through the park with down-filled sleeping bags, like blinds, around the children; the kids building snowmen.

  He kept his gloves on, and his scarf and hat. Occasionally, he’d nail her with a snowball. On the drive home, he fell asleep in his car seat, his head nodding abruptly as though sleep might give him whiplash. For a while, she drove around, stalling, enjoying the ridiculous yard displays, the electric candles in windows, the frantic lights.

  Tomorrow she’d meet with Kyle to handle a couple of quick projects, and then she’d tackle the kitchen remodel for the retired Army colonel, Hoffman. Good, interesting work, all of it, and she hadn’t advertised, oror had any famine spells. In fact, all of her customers had paid quickly, and praised lavishly. On side streets now, the fan roaring, Simon jolting occasionally beside her, she pronounced herself all grown up: practically thirty, a partner, a parent, a reliable and steady wage-earner, a reputed builder with a growing customer base. The girls of the summer were fable now. Stories her parents would tell. As relevant as firecracker bombs, or basketball brawls. Some crazy shit she got up to when she was wild.

  Thirty-six

  With with-child

  Simon stood on the toilet seat, watching his mother’s reflection. He’d applied lipstick repeatedly, to his tongue as often as his lips. He loved this part, the preparation. The smells, and trial of outfits, and his mother’s wet hair, the curl and style of it—she looked most beautiful damp, and in progress.

  “I want to come,” he said again.

  “You’d be bored.” She hovered, inches from the mirror, her mouth opened as she applied eyeliner.

  “Please.” Plaintive, the way she hated. “Please, Mama. I want to come too.”

  “You’re going to stay with Agnes, and sleep on bunk beds.”

  “No. I don’t want to.”

  His mother’s brown eyes—direct, cautionary—focused on him. He grinned at her, as though there’d been some misunderstanding. It didn’t matter to her that she was beautiful. She didn’t seem to notice.

  �
��Tomorrow we’ll watch movies on the couch in our pajamas, and eat popcorn and ice cream.”

  He’d lost already. He knew, and almost didn’t mind.

  “These?” She held up a pair of dangling blue earrings, then a pair of silver ones. “Or these?”

  “The silver,” he said.

  She nodded, put the silver ones on, examined herself again. “Well?”

  “Your dress.”

  “I guess I’ll wear the black one.”

  She returned to her room; he paced behind her, certain she’d choose something other than the black. She’d wear the dark purple.

  Clothes lay strewn on chairs, the bureau, the bed, the floor. With no place to sit, he stood beside her, looked where she looked.

  “The black, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “The purple.”

  She bent, touched the purple dress, glanced at him. “The purple? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  She tried the dress again, and shut the closet door so that the full-length mirror aligned properly. “This one?”

  “Yes.”

  He would remember her like this always. His mother in stockings, a deep purple dress, the earrings he’d chosen flitting about her like summer insects. Both of them occupied, yet expectant, the party and the bunk beds, and the adventure ahead.

  Liv’s new pinstripe slacks were impeccably tailored. She looked, even in her own estimation, fucking hot. She’d left this much too late, but hoped to please Claire so much with the product, that the lack of foresight and efficiency might be forgiven.

  They’d arranged to meet at the party. Now, in her new button-down silk shirt, and polished black shoes, Liv left the store amidst a clutter of people who were downtown for First Night—a tour of galleries, shops, and restaurants, replete with bands, food, and activities for the entire family—with their distinctive First-Night buttons and their best intentions.