Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “But—” I pause, tucking my hair behind my ears as I formulate my thoughts into an intelligent question. “If you lose, do you lose money?”

  “Of course.” Outside I hear some of the other tenants of the complex walking past us, their voices light with laughter.

  “And if you win?”

  “You win money.”

  “That’s not gambling?” I ask.

  “No.”

  I chew on my lower lip and turn my eyes to the upside-down people in the M. C. Escher print. “Is there a dictionary to back you up? Because to me the fact that you’re using the word win rather than earn means you’re kinda feeding me a line of bullshit.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You’re just going to have to trust me on this.” He puts his hand on my knee. The move almost makes me jump. “Can you stay past midnight?”

  “You’re going to play poker for more than five hours?”

  “It might be a little longer, but not much. It takes a while to get to the Commerce Casino and back,” he explains. “I wouldn’t ask, but I can’t afford to miss tonight.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” I say, looking down at his hand again. “I can stay.”

  “Thank you, Mercy.” Has my name ever sounded so seductive? “Sixty-five dollars? Will that be enough?”

  I pull my leg away and get up, crossing to the poster of the tightrope walker making the journey from one World Trade Center building to the other. “It’s not exactly cage dancing money, is it?”

  I hear Brad sigh. “How much do you need?”

  “I want you to teach me how to play poker. I want you to pay me in lessons.”

  “Instead of money?” he asks incredulously.

  “If you can support two people on the money you’re making, then, yeah, I want the lessons more than I want the sixty-five dollars.” I turn away from the poster. “Deal?”

  He gets up, crosses to me. I catch the scent of his cologne, notice the way his muscles tighten and relax as he walks. He offers me his hand and I place my palm against his. “Deal.”

  Why do you trust me? Why do you think I have what it takes to care for a child? What do you see when you look at me that I can’t see in the mirror?

  “I’m just going to say good night to my daughter,” he says, releasing my hand.

  “Wait,” I say, feeling a sudden stab of panic. “Is there anything she can’t eat? I mean, I know she can have pizza and cranberry juice, but does she have any allergies or anything?”

  “No, no food allergies.”

  “And what if she wants a snack? Is all the food here safe for her?”

  “As long as it’s not alcoholic, yes, it’s safe,” Brad says with a bemused smile.

  “Right, okay, just checking . . . Does she have any other kind of allergies? Asthma? Any medical conditions I should know about?”

  “She occasionally gets ear infections.”

  “Oh.” I lean my weight up against the wall. “What do I do if she gets one while I’m here?”

  “If she gets an ear infection in the next five hours just wait it out and I’ll deal with it when I get back.”

  “Okay, makes sense.” I clasp my hands in front of me, staring down at the floor. “I don’t want to make any mistakes.”

  Without even looking up I can tell Brad is studying me. His gaze reaches out and tickles my skin.

  “You won’t make a mistake,” he says in that gentle, rumbling voice, and then I hear his footsteps go down the hall, to his daughter.

  “DO YOU LIKE to draw?” June and I have been playing Candy Land for about twenty minutes and we’re both getting a bit bored.

  I smile and sit back. “Yeah. I’m not any good at it, but I always enjoy it.”

  “You have fun doing things you’re bad at?” June asks, tilting her head to the side.

  “Especially if I’m bad at it.” I take the pieces off the board and fold it, sensing that we’re done. “When you’re bad at something you know you can get better. Maybe you won’t get to be the best, but no one expects that since you started off so bad. If you have paper I’ll show you.” June jumps up and runs off to her room, immediately coming back with several blank sheets of paper, and then runs to where the phone is perched on the counter between the kitchen and dining area and grabs a few black and blue ink pens that she hands over to me. I accept it all graciously and draw a woman, a big smile on her face. She looks a little like the drawing of a woman you would find on any ladies’ restroom. “See, all I have to do is progress past stick figures and people will be impressed. No one is impressed when an Olympian comes in fifth place, but everyone’s impressed when the pudgy, flat-footed kid makes it around the track.”

  “Who’s the pudgy kid with flat feet?” June asks.

  “No one, I was . . . making something up in order to be clear.” When she gives me a skeptical look I laugh. “I guess I failed at that.”

  She smiles uncertainly and looks down at the pens. “Daddy always thinks I should draw with pencils.”

  “Would you prefer a pencil?”

  “No, I like pens.” She takes the paper from me and starts to make her own inky additions to the drawing. “I don’t want people to be able to erase what I’ve done.”

  “And what about when you want to erase what you’ve done? Like when you make a mistake?” I challenge. “How do you feel about pens then?”

  “Good!” she says, shouting the word like a playful challenge. “You said the most important thing is to improve! If I erase my mistakes how will people know I got better?”

  I sit back in my chair, unnerved by this child’s casual wisdom. But her hands and mind are too busy with her drawing to notice my silence. Her tongue is between her teeth and her pen is moving with steady, deliberate movements as she creates an image next to mine. After a few minutes her eyes light up, her smile making little apples out of her cheeks. She jumps to her feet and holds the picture in front of her. “Ta-da!”

  I hesitate a moment, then reach forward and touch the drawing, looking at the image of a little girl with frizzy brown pigtails holding the hand of the much less detailed woman I had drawn. When I don’t say anything right away she taps the picture impatiently. “That’s you and that’s me!”

  I run my fingers over the image. “It’s beautiful,” I say quietly. “It’s perfect.”

  June cocks her head to the side, a gesture that is the perfect imitation of her father. “Did my picture make you sad?” she asks, a note of hurt in her voice.

  “No,” I reply. “It’s just . . . well . . . it’s that your picture makes me feel. And that’s what all great art should do.”

  “Feel what?”

  I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t know, June. I’m not always great at figuring out my feelings. I guess . . . I guess it makes me feel alive. How ’bout that?”

  “But you are alive! So of course you feel like that!” She shakes her head and lets out a surprisingly world-weary sigh. “You’re silly.”

  Again I laugh, this time reaching out to take her hand. “True. You know what else I am?”

  “What?”

  “Hungry. You ready for pizza?”

  She nods her head enthusiastically and off we go, hand in hand, into the kitchen. It’s uplifting and . . . and it hurts a little . . . and I totally feel alive.

  CHAPTER 17

  JUNE’S BEDTIME IS at eight thirty. If Brad isn’t coming home until after midnight . . . well, that’s a lot of snooping time. It starts innocently enough. Going through his spice rack takes about thirty seconds. Then I peek in each of the kitchen drawers and cabinets, where I find a mishmash of neglected kitchen tools and a fair number of spiders that scurry around when their home is disturbed for what may be the first time in over a year. The cupboard is packed with different kinds of nuts, unsalted brown rice cakes, steel-cut oatmeal, and protein bars ready to be taken to the gym. So he’s not a junk foodie, but he’s not exactly Martha Stewart, either.

  The living area comes
next. His mail is in a pile on a table by the entryway. Cable bill, health insurance bill, day-care bill all tucked neatly into standard white envelopes as if the unobtrusive packaging will hide their nefarious nature.

  Nothing at all of interest in the bathroom. All the drugs are over-the-counter stuff. Children’s cough and cold remedy, Ibuprofen, gummy vitamins. A hairbrush for her, a comb for him, toothbrushes for both of them. Totally normal.

  I hesitate when I get to the closed door of his bedroom. I have no right to go in here. I really, really shouldn’t.

  But if I did, who would know?

  I place my hand on the doorknob, count to three, and then throw the door open while jumping three steps back as if I expect the space to be guarded by pit bulls and ninjas.

  But the only things in the room are a carelessly made bed, a dresser, a bookshelf, a desk with a keyboard on it, and a drum set.

  He has a drum set in his room.

  I step inside to get a better look. It’s actually better than the set he’s been keeping at Traci’s. He’s been holding out on us. And the keyboard. I walk over to examine it . . . It’s pretty standard, but I didn’t even know he could play this. And then, in addition to the filled bookcase, he has stacks of books everywhere, mostly on history and politics. Huh.

  So this is probably when I should turn around and leave. That would be the respectable thing to do.

  But what if he’s started to compose more music for the band? If he is and I find out about it first, then I could sort of discreetly prep Traci and Tonio, make sure they don’t use their budding hostility to dismiss the song before playing it. So then looking through these drawers, just for the music . . . well, it’s sort of a good deed, right?

  The top desk drawer is a bit of a mess. Pens without lids, envelopes, more bills. I don’t see any sheet music, not even in the open envelopes (and I look in each one), and it’s probably not going to be in this large, fat envelope at the bottom of the drawer from . . . I look at the return address that’s peeking out from the chaos a little more carefully. Harvard? Does that say Harvard?

  I push everything aside, pick it up, and check out the contents.

  It’s not just from Harvard, it’s packets of information accompanying an acceptance letter from their law school.

  He’s going to Harvard? But when I check out the date on the letter, I see it’s from five years ago. So my drummer went to Harvard law school . . . and now he plays poker for a living.

  So maybe he won’t make the alumni newsletter.

  Who is this guy?

  I start going through the drawers in earnest. I know I’m breaking every rule of common decency, but come on, what else is new? After searching every desk drawer and the first three drawers of his dresser, I finally find another thing of interest in his sweater drawer . . . a photograph in an envelope. Not of June, but of a woman who has her almond-shaped eyes and full pink lips. It was taken at a beach.

  I study the photo. I have no idea what her ethnicity is, but she is drop-dead gorgeous. Brown skin, wild, wavy brown hair, and a smile that could light up a football stadium. And her figure is . . . perfect. I look down at myself. I’ve always liked my body. Surfing, running on the beach, hiking, dancing—all of it has worked to keep my waist tiny and my legs and arms strong. But I’m not built like this bitch. She’s got some full-on Claudia Schiffer shit going on.

  I replace the photo, suddenly feeling tired. I drop down on the bed and stare up at the ceiling. Why am I here? In this house, in this room? It would have been so easy to say no to Brad this morning. Easy not to come in here, really easy not to look through his drawers.

  My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket, pressing it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Ash replies. “Just calling to say I had fun last night. Sorry I had to dash.”

  “Happens.” I turn on my side, run my hand over Brad’s comforter.

  “You want to do it again tomorrow? I got us on the VIP list for Graffiti.”

  “I’ve never been to Graffiti. Hear it’s hot, though.”

  “Baby, I got you hooked up,” he says teasingly. But then his tone shifts to something more sincere when he adds, “I won’t leave you this time. I missed having you next to me when I woke up this morning. I missed the smell of your hair.”

  I close my eyes, imagine being wrapped up in his arms. The funny thing is, he never really has held me, has he? Come to think of it, I don’t know if anyone has ever held me. Brad came close with that almost-hug he gave me outside Traci’s, but that’s it.

  Of course my mother must have held me, but that was a very long time ago, if it ever happened at all.

  “Mercy?”

  “Yes,” I sigh, “I’d like it . . . if we could wake up together, that is.”

  “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Tell you what, be ready for me at . . . say, nine-ish? Actually, let’s just plan on my being at your place at nine thirty. Is it weird that we’ve only been apart for, I don’t know, maybe eighteen hours and I already miss you?”

  I smile as his words wrap around me, giving me an invisible version of the hug I’m craving. “I’ll be ready at nine thirty,” I promise. “And I miss you, too, Ash.”

  I hang up the phone, my eyes still closed. Somebody misses me. What a lovely first.

  IN MY DREAM I’m on a surfboard, past the breakers of Manhattan Beach, and the ocean is raging. Water pours from the sky, and differentiating between rain and the spray of the turbulent sea is impossible. I can’t stand so I lie on my stomach, clinging to the board as I’m tossed to the left and then to the right. I’m not meant to have control. I’m nothing, absolutely nothing compared to all this. And I can’t manage this and I can’t survive, not with the tools I have.

  Give up. That’s what I’m meant to do. Let go of the struggle, surrender to the waves, breathe in the water, and wait to see what this death will bring.

  But then the air changes, a breeze caresses my skin, brushes my sopping hair from my face. It’s gentle, and loving and kind. There are beautiful messages tucked inside the howl of this storm, insights and guidance that I can’t quite understand.

  And the sky grows darker and darker until I can’t see the sea at all. Everything grows completely still . . .

  It takes a moment for me to realize that I’m really on Brad’s bed, that I fell asleep here, that the dream is over. With my eyes still closed I move my body, stretching my limbs, adjusting my position. And when I finally do open my eyes I see Brad, sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching me.

  “Oh my God, I’m—”

  But he puts his finger against my lips, stopping my apology before it starts.

  “You were tired,” he says, moving a lock of hair away from my face.

  I prop myself up on my forearm, looking up at him while he looks down at me. The door to the bedroom is closed. How long has he been here? Watching me sleep?

  He gets up and walks to his desk. “You found my acceptance letter.”

  “Oh shit.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t have—”

  “I didn’t go,” he says, stopping me again. “I wanted to. I had planned my whole life around it. But then, sometimes things don’t work out the way you plan them. Sometimes you get careless, if only for a day, an hour, and then your whole trajectory changes.”

  “June?” I ask as the pieces fall into place for me.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice thick with both love and pain. “Her mother, she just didn’t want her, and once I saw her . . . when I actually held her in my arms, I simply couldn’t give her up. Maybe I should have. The unselfish thing would have been to give her up. We had an adoptive family lined up and everything.” He grows quiet for a moment, and as I watch him I still feel like I’m in my dream, like this moment is just a little removed from reality. And then he turns his head slightly, glancing back at me as I lie in his bed. “You should know, I am not unselfish. If I want something I won’t let it go once it . . . or she, is wi
thin my grasp.”

  I bite down on my lip, forcing myself to remember that we’re talking about June. “You think you’re selfish,” I whisper, “and yet it sounds like you’ve sacrificed a lot.”

  “Yeah, yeah I have. It’s worth it, but it’s not the life I imagined for myself. And there are days, many, many days, when I wonder if I’ve done the best thing for her. It’s a real possibility that I didn’t.” He drops the acceptance packet back down on the desk and moves over to the drums, running his fingers over the surface.

  “You play in here?” I ask.

  “It’s why I chose this place,” he says with a sigh. “The man here before me was a musician and the nephew of the owner. They invested a lot in getting this room soundproofed for him . . . Well, not perfectly soundproofed but close. As long as I don’t play in the dead of night I can get away with it without disturbing the neighbors.”

  I sit up, scoot to the edge of the bed, dangle my legs. “Tell me again what got you into drumming and, you know, feel free to throw in a few specifics this time.”

  His shoulders move as he lets out a small chuckle. “All right, well let’s see. I was a kid and my father . . . he had his issues. A very domineering, abusive guy.”

  I’m hit with a moment of queasiness, something that frequently happens to me when I hear about messed-up fathers. “He hit you?” I ask.

  “Me?” he asks. His back is still turned to me so I can’t see his face, but the rigid line of his shoulders speaks volumes. “I got whacked a lot when I was small, nothing too bad. He would threaten to hit my mother and me all the time. He’d break furniture, occasionally put a hole in a wall, and then he’d pull back his arm, fist clenched, as if he was about to throw a punch, as if he was about to break my mother’s nose, jaw, whatever. But he never did throw that punch. It was all about intimidation. He wanted us to flinch and cower, beg for forgiveness, acquiesce to his demands. He was giving her something to fear without ever giving her something to report.”