Every Last Lie

by Mary Kubica

  I lead Maisie into the thicket of trees that surround our yard, where the fireflies like to frolic at this time of night, playing with their friends. “What are they doing?” asks Maisie as she points her fingers intermittently at the light as it appears and then disappears, appears and then disappears, and I say to her, “They’re talking. This is how they talk with their friends,” and I see Maisie contemplating that, thinking what fun it would be if some part of her lit up to say hello. Her head or her hands or her toes. I lift her up into the trees and tell her to grab a handful of leaves, and she does—asking, of course, “Why, Daddy, why?”—and together we drop down onto the earth to fill the glass jar with sticks and leaves. The grass doesn’t grow here, where we sit, and is always austere, just a few blades poking out of the parched dirt. The tall trees prevent the sunlight from reaching the grass, preempting it from growing tall and strong. “There are things,” I tell Maisie as she helps me stuff handfuls of leaves into the jar, “that every creature needs to live. Food, shelter and oxygen are a few. We put holes in the jar so that the firefly can breathe, and these leaves are for food.”

  “Can we catch one?” she asks, and I ruffle her hair and tell her, “Of course we can,” and then we rise from the earth, and I show her how. Darkness closes in quickly, though the moon is bright, a crescent in the nighttime sky. The black-blue sky abounds with stars, helping us see, as somewhere off on the horizon, the sun fades away, leaving only faint traces of light, which will soon disappear, too.

  “Cup your hands together,” I tell her, “like this. But not too tightly,” I caution. “We don’t want to hurt the firefly. We only want to catch him for a little while, and then we’ll set him free.” I spy a light radiating through the air, and I catch it, this beautiful beetle that climbs easily across my hand. I show Maisie, and she giggles as the firefly spreads its forewings and flies, and she chases it through the yard, the skirt of her tutu fluttering in the nighttime air.

  “My turn! My turn,” she says, skipping back to me, and again I show her how to cup her hands. She tries, but her movements are too slow, too timid, the firefly always one step ahead of her unwieldy hands. And so I catch it for her, and let it climb onto Maisie’s tiny hand. She laughs. “That tickles,” she says, as six jointed legs creep across her skin. I’m not sure whether or not she likes it, not until she says, “Hi there, Otis,” pressing her face close to the bug’s tiny face to greet him in the eye.

  “Who’s Otis?” I ask, and she raises her hand so that I can see.

  “This is Otis,” she says. “This is Otis, Daddy. Can we keep him?” she asks, and I nod my head as I help Maisie set Otis in the jar and screw on the lid.

  “Just for a little while,” I explain, as Otis clambers on a stick and drops down into our glass house, making himself comfortable in this temporary home. “But then we’ll have to set him free. It’s fun for a little while, but Otis doesn’t want to live in a jar forever.”

  “Why not?” Maisie asks, staring curiously at me. This one is an easy one.

  “Would you want to live in a jar forever?” I ask, and she shakes her head a firm, decisive no. “Why not?” I ask, and she happily explains, “Because I want to fly!” as she twirls around and around through the yard, arms extended, until she becomes dizzy and falls.

  “Daddy, fly with me?” Maisie begs, and I can’t help myself. There’s nothing I’d rather do than fly around the backyard with my girl. I help her rise to her feet and set her on my shoulders, spinning around and around through the lawn. Around us fireflies dot the sky as Maisie calls out, “We’re flying! We’re flying, Daddy,” and I laugh and tell her that we are. We’re flying. For just one minute I imagine our feet leaving the earth, Maisie and me soaring together through space.

  “Look at the stars,” I tell Maisie as if she and I are one with them, the stars and us, and Maisie exclaims, “There’s the moon!” and we make believe we’re in a space shuttle of some sort, circumnavigating the moon. We laugh, giddy, silly, happy.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve ever felt so happy.

  How long we fly, I don’t know. Until I’m wobbly on my feet and Maisie has had her fill. “That’s the best thing,” Maisie says, and I ask, “What is?”

  “Flying!” she screams.

  “Can I bring Otis to my bedroom?” Maisie asks as I return her to the ground and she sits cross-legged on the lawn, leaves in her hair, and I mull this over, thinking Clara wouldn’t like it in the least bit if I let Maisie bring a bug into her bedroom. But Otis is in a jar, completely harmless. And it’s only for one night. If she were awake, I’d ask her. I’d plead Maisie’s case, about how we should let her keep Otis in her bedroom for one single night, and then tomorrow we’d set him free, return him to the trees to play with his friends. But Clara isn’t awake, and I don’t want to wake her. I picture her in my mind’s eye sleeping serenely with Felix in her arms. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Clara so peaceful, so relaxed. The last thing in the world I want to do is wake her, and so I make a judgment call and tell Maisie yes.

  “Yes,” I say. “We can keep him for one night,” I tell Maisie, and I hold out a pinkie finger for her to grasp with her own, “but we can’t tell Mommy. Okay? Pinkie promise we won’t tell Mommy about Otis,” and she does.

  “Why not, Daddy?”

  “Mommy doesn’t like bugs,” I say. “This time tomorrow night, we’ll set Otis free. Deal?” I ask, and she says, “Deal,” as we tiptoe back into the house, up the wooden stairs and into Maisie’s bedroom where we set Otis in his jar on the edge of her dresser, and I tuck her into bed. It’s a compromise; Maisie would like for Otis to sleep under the covers with her, but I smile and say no. “This way,” I say, “he can watch you sleep.” I pull the blanket clear up to Maisie’s chin and say to her, “Snug as a bug in a rug,” and she laughs and reminds me of Otis the bug in a jar, in case I’ve somehow already forgotten about Otis.

  “Sweet dreams, my love,” I whisper to her as her eyes drift sleepily closed. “Good night,” I say as I stand in the doorway, watching as a chemical reaction from inside Otis’s abdomen illuminates Maisie’s night.

  CLARA

  This afternoon my mother has a neurologist appointment at three o’clock, the very same time that the HVAC men are to come to my home and bless me with an operable air-conditioning unit at my father’s expense. But the memories of the HVAC men evade me as I maneuver a sleeping Felix and a completely crazed Maisie into the back seat of my car, not thinking of anything but that car, the black car, my mother’s car. Maisie is beside herself, absolutely unable to calm down for anything, not a sticker or her teddy bear or the promise of ice cream. She hasn’t stopped crying, a paltry cry but still a cry, as if she’s truly scared out of her mind. She kicks in my arms as I set her in the back seat of the car, and, as I attempt to strap the harness around her lobbing body, she gets me in the nose with those hot-pink Crocs of hers. I recoil, and she begins to whimper, petitioning desperately and to no avail for Daddy. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” she begs.

  As I stand there on my driveway, both sweating and out of breath, trying to close the back door against the weight of Maisie’s foot, Emily comes scurrying down the street, tugging little Teddy by the hand. “Would Maisie like to come over and play?” she asks, as if she’s plain forgotten about our rift the other morning, as if it didn’t happen. Teddy stands beside her with pleading eyes, telling me how he and Maisie are going to do another magic show as if it’s already been discussed, which of course it hasn’t, but I’m shaking my head before I can stop myself, and already I’m telling them no. “No, Maisie can’t play today,” I say. “No.”

  As if it matters, Emily tells me that Theo isn’t home.

  I step past her and say that I’m in a rush. “There’s somewhere we need to be.”

  “Clara,” she says, latching on to my arm. The bruising is still there, decorating her neck like festive garland. My eyes fall to it and then glance away quickly, as Teddy presses his fac
e to Maisie’s side window and makes a silly face. From the interior of the car, I hear Maisie squeal in delight, clapping her hands. How she adores sweet Teddy, so much so that already she’s forgotten about kicking me in the nose. Oh, how easy it is for Maisie to forget. “I just couldn’t bear to think of it,” Emily says to me. “A murder,” she whispers, so that Teddy won’t hear, “so close to our homes. We’re not that type of community.” I think to myself, easy for her to say. Hers isn’t the husband who’s dead. “It isn’t that I didn’t believe you,” she says. “It’s that I didn’t want to believe. Theo and I picked this area to live because of the low rates of crime. Some vandalism, arson, auto theft. Sure. But murder, Clara? I can’t imagine. There just has to be some other way,” she goes on, though I excuse myself; I don’t want to hear it. I say I have to go, stepping into the car and driving away quickly, leaving Emily and Teddy standing awkwardly on my drive, wondering whether her words were a failed attempt at an apology, a rationalization or something different. Something else. Something more.

  I think of Theo with his rotation of loaner cars. His petulance and temper. The fear in Emily’s eyes.

  Theo is no stranger to brute force; the bruises on Emily’s neck are proof of this. He and Nick were never friends; he called the police on Nick. He had a beef with him. Maybe he wanted to get even, to seek revenge.

  And suddenly my mind is swimming, all logical thought and sensibility sinking beneath the water, drowning a slow death. I can’t think. My mother killed Nick, of this I was certain just moments ago.

  But now a new thought crosses my mind, one that doesn’t replace the first but only distorts it somehow, turning it ogrelike before my eyes.

  Theo killed Nick.

  And I find that it’s like radio static somehow, all sorts of white noise and other disturbances interrupting the ordinary processes of my mind. Crackling noises. Interference. Background noise. Drugs and adultery, lying, stealing, cheating. Who is this man I’m married to? Who killed Nick, or did Nick kill Nick?

  My mother killed Nick.

  Theo killed Nick.

  Or maybe someone else killed Nick, I think as I see Emily and Teddy shrinking away in the car’s rearview mirror as I drive slowly down the street. Emily’s eyes are aimed in my direction, watching as I go. The hem of her long skirt blows in the wind, getting wrapped around her legs.

  Maybe she isn’t trying to cover for Theo.

  Maybe she’s trying to cover for herself.

  She would do anything for Theo, out of fear and out of necessity. Maybe Nick threatened to go to the police if Theo ever laid a hand on her again. Emily has confessed to me that she couldn’t live without Theo, not because she loves him but because he pays the bills, he puts food on the table and a roof over their heads. He’s the sole breadwinner in the family, and without him, Emily believes she has nothing. Believes she is nothing.

  Maybe Nick told her he would turn Theo in for spousal abuse, for child abuse.

  Maybe Emily killed Nick.

  A dozen radio stations play simultaneously in my mind, each playing a different genre, a different song, not in harmony but, rather, fighting each other for airtime, the volume turned all the way up so that it’s impossible to think or to hear, and it all becomes one thing: noise.

  A migraine forms in my head. It’s all too much to handle.

  It’s all I can do not to scream.

  “Mommy, play a song?” begs Maisie from the back seat of the car, and I think to myself, How can she not hear it? The radio is already on.

  NICK

  BEFORE

  I stand in the doorway to the bathroom, watching as Clara forces Maisie’s hair into twin pigtails with adroit hands. Maisie, excited for an afternoon at ballet, is completely incapable of standing still, though Clara reminds her countless times, “The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can go.” She forces a pair of white tights onto Maisie’s legs, then slides on her leotard and the pink tutu. Maisie begs Clara for lipstick, and at first Clara hesitates, but then she relents, painting a pale pink lip gloss across Maisie’s lips.

  My heart stops. My little girl is all grown up.

  “Look at me, Daddy,” she says, and I smile at her and tell her she’s beautiful. I smile at Clara and tell her she’s beautiful, too, though she scowls at this, wearing her maternity clothes still because it’s the only thing she has that will fit. On her bottom half is a pair of sweatpants, and up top a spit-up stained shirt. Her hair is unwashed, oily, and she looks whipped. She hasn’t showered; she covers the smell with deodorant and perfume. In the past four days, she’s slept much less than me, awake at all hours of the night to feed Felix. I’ve offered to help, but there’s only so much I can do, and so I make every attempt to stay up and keep her company, but inevitably my eyes drift closed while Felix is still imbibing his nutrients from Clara’s sore chest. Her eyes are weary, and her mood is starting to sink.

  I pull her into an embrace and tell her it’s true, she does look beautiful, but she draws away and says that she has to change before she can take Maisie to ballet.

  “I can’t be seen in public like this,” barks Clara as she rummages through the closet for something to wear. I see my own reflection in the bedroom mirror. I, too, am looking worse for wear. My hair is slovenly, my face covered with so much stubble it now resembles dirt. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve shaved. My jeans are slouchy where they’re not supposed to slouch; it’s quite likely I’ve worn the same pair of denim every day this week, tossed over the end of the bed at night only to be slipped back on, come morning. There are pit stains on my shirt, and even though I have plans to go nowhere, I can’t stand the smell of my own body odor. I yank the shirt over my head, toss it to the floor and slide into something clean, a blue polo shirt that smells of lavender laundry detergent.

  Ballet class is only an hour long, and with the commute either way, Clara and Maisie will be gone less than three. Clara has got it all timed out down to the minute, a chart left on the breakfast nook for reference. Felix has just been fed and burped, and is fast asleep on a blanket on the living room floor, which should be enough to tide him over until she gets back home. Then he’ll need to eat again. “If he wakes sooner,” she says, having yet to start using the breast pump we rented from the hospital, “call me and I’ll come home.” She quickly ushers Maisie down the stairs, and they grab the ballet slippers. She tells Maisie to use the bathroom.

  “But I don’t have to go,” says Maisie, arms across her chest, pouting, as if using the bathroom is the worst thing in the world.

  I tell her to try.

  Clara’s purse and the car keys have been gathered; Maisie’s feet are stuffed in her pink sandals. They’re all set to go. They’re halfway to the door when, from the living room, we hear the sound of a baby’s cry, soft and subdued at first, but quickly growing more needy, more insistent, as we stand by the garage door and listen. It’s instantaneous, the way the worry lines besiege Clara’s face. “Don’t worry,” I tell her, setting my hand on her arm. I’ve been a father before. This isn’t new to me; I’ve done this all before. He can’t possibly be hungry, but is instead fussy, lonely, plagued by gas.

  “He’ll be fine,” I say, but still she’s worried. “He can’t be hungry,” I assure Clara. “He can’t. I’ll rock him. I’ll settle him down. It will all be fine.”

  But by now Felix is wailing, and I can see in Clara’s eyes that this will not be fine.

  “He needs me,” she says, nervous, as beside her Maisie’s face reddens, and she begins a mounting tantrum, sure that if Felix is crying she won’t be able to go to ballet. Her eyes plead with mine, and it’s easy, a no-brainer, when I lean into Clara and whisper, “You stay. I’ll go,” and Clara and Maisie both turn to me at the same time and ask, “You will?”

  I’ve never been to Maisie’s ballet class before. I’ve never met the four-year-old Felix who Maisie is crazy about; I’ve never met the other moms with whom Clara finds conversations therapeutic,
a way to combat all the monotony of motherhood. I’ve never laid eyes on Miss Becca, and so I tell them that I will.

  We say our goodbyes to Clara, who hurries off to tackle Felix, and as she goes I hear her say, “It’s okay, Felix, Mommy is coming, Mommy is here.”

  Grabbing Maisie by the hand, we step outside. I decide to take Clara’s car to ballet because her car is parked at the edge of the drive, roasting in the hot summer sun. It’ll be like an oven when we step inside, the interior a smothering eighty or ninety degrees. “Come on, Maisie,” I say, tugging on her hand as she stops to snap a dandelion from the yard. “We have to hurry so we won’t be late to ballet.”

  At that she picks up the pace, letting go of my grasp as she rushes ahead of me and toward the car, yanking on the locked door handle as I fumble with the car keys to let her in. But I have Clara’s car keys, and so finding the right one isn’t as easy as it seems.

  “Come on, Daddy,” says Maisie, bouncing back and forth between her feet, and I tell her I’m coming.

  I’m not halfway to the car when I see a black Beemer inching its way down the street, the tinted windows rolled down, Theo staring out at me from behind a pair of aviator sunglasses, moving in slow motion. At seeing me, he stretches out an arm, a finger pointed at me like the barrel of a pistol as he cocks the imaginary hammer and shoots. I flinch instinctively, and Theo laughs, this patronizing laugh that’s hard to hear from the distance. But still I see it. Even Maisie sees it, as her eyes wander from Theo to me and back again, and I think to myself, God, how I hate him.

  I remember Clara’s comment from months ago as we stared out the window at Theo and the Maserati he had at the time. It’s not like it’s his, was what Clara had said. Clara, if possible, hates him even more than I do. Theo could never afford his own BMW, much less a Maserati, but he always has some fancy loaner that he likes to cruise around town, purporting it is his, letting it go to his head like a boy with a toy. What I want to do is tell him to fuck off or to give him the finger, but with Maisie standing there, tugging on the car handle, waiting for me to unlock the door so she can climb inside, I can’t. I’m better than that.