A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  “Do you need encouragement to be difficult?”

  “Would you like another drink?” Drake asked. “Liquor might help you be forthright.”

  “The last time I was out, I was in a bar fight.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Quite serious. I hit a woman in the head with a beer glass.”

  “Maybe soccer league is the thing for you after all.”

  “She hit me first.”

  “Of course she did. I’m not judging.”

  Liv nodded at this. It was true; Drake didn’t judge. “Did you always want to teach?”

  “No, no, I wanted to be a painter. I worked for years—and I mean worked—in my studio for hours everyday. I thought desire could make it happen. But I never produced anything that wasn’t mediocre. It broke my heart not to have any talent. I have a great appreciation for art, and an absolute inability to produce it.”

  “Appreciation is nothing to sniff at.”

  “Who’s sniffing?” Drake asked. “You are an unusual woman.”

  “I want more of those mini ahi burgers.”

  House music—acoustic and soulful—and the bar lights moody, Liv tapped her cigarette pack on the tabletop as the phone rang. Bailey didn’t answer the first few times Liv called, but finally picked up. It was just midnight.

  “Hello?” Groggy, disbelieving. “It’s midnight.”

  “I know. It’s still early. You should come out.”

  “Liv?” And then, “Come out where?”

  “Zola. The food is superb. And the drinks; she pours like a sailor.”

  “My god, you’re drunk.”

  “Bailey, I’m going to need a ride. Drake too. Even sober, someone else should drive for her.”

  Liv started laughing, and closed her phone abruptly.

  “What did she say?” Drake asked.

  Liv looked at her phone, and kept laughing. “She’s on her way.”

  Bailey hadn’t bothered with her contacts, but came upstairs tucked into her coat, her jeans expensive and worn to good effect, her glasses librarian. She paused, several feet from the table, well in view of Liv and Drake and shook her head like a disappointed parent.

  “Ladies, you will now buy me a drink. One drink. And while I have my drink, you will both have coffee and two glasses of water. Then we will all go home.”

  “Drake, this is Bailey. Bailey, Julia Drake. I’m finishing her attic.”

  “A pleasure,” Bailey said to Drake. “Are you celebrating something, or is this dire drinking?”

  “Dire and celebratory,” Drake said. “We’re working on contradictions.”

  “I can’t remember,” Bailey said, helping herself to the rest of Liv’s drink, “the last time I was out.”

  “The bar fight, wasn’t it?” Liv asked.

  Bailey stared at Liv, horrified.

  “She hit Liv first,” Drake said.

  “Well, that’s true,” Bailey allowed. “And she was a big meathead mother fucker. It could have gone either way.”

  “Oh, I like her,” Drake said.

  “Told you. Drake is a professor of Art History, Bailey. She thinks education will save me.”

  “Not save.” Drake said, flagging the server. “Fix.”

  “She thinks,” Liv amended, “that education will fix me.”

  “You’re broken?” Bailey asked.

  “Bailey, we’re all broken.”

  “I wish,” Bailey said, “that I’d been in on this conversation four hours ago.”

  “I like you in glasses,” Liv told Bailey. “I never see you in glasses.”

  “Two coffees and four waters,” Bailey told their server. “And I’d like a cape cod.”

  “Do you work tomorrow, Bailey?” Drake asked.

  “Yes, I’m working lunch. No doubt the garbage disposal will clog any number of times, and I’ll have to make a few phone calls to our contractor. Liv, you’re starting to look like a hippie. I can’t remember the last time your hair was long enough to curl.”

  “I’ll probably shave it this weekend.”

  “Off?” Drake asked.

  “All off.”

  “Don’t worry,” Bailey said. “She looks beautiful with a shaved head. Her eyes are larger, if you can imagine that.”

  Drake looked back and forth at the two of them. And Bailey said, “Where’s Claire tonight? At home with Simon? I keep telling my housemate that’s what she can expect. Nights at home with the baby, nobody sleeping, and nobody having sex.”

  “What does she say?”

  “Nothing. She just puts my hand on her belly. And, to be honest, it’s a remarkable argument. When she’s on her back, her whole fucking abdomen shifts back and forth like he’s trying to break out. He gets pissed, apparently, because her spine’s hard. I’ve never seen anything like it—his arms and legs and head pushing up through her skin. It’s creepy and amazing and kind of hypnotic.”

  “So the boyfriend is going to marry her?”

  “I don’t know what he’s doing, but she’s having the baby.”

  Their drinks arrived, and Bailey’s eyebrows arched a sip in. “I do love this drink.”

  They dropped Drake first; waited as she walked up the steps, waved, let herself in.

  “What’s her story?” Bailey asked.

  “Drake?” Liv wanted to smoke, but Bailey had quit, and wouldn’t abide cigarettes any longer. She tapped at the door. “Dude, I have no fucking idea.”

  “Those boots were killer.”

  “Yes, they were.”

  “Are you going to fuck her? If you are, will you breakup with Claire first? I don’t want any more fucking drama from you two. Done with the drama.” Bailey braked suddenly for a yellow, tossed both of them against their belts.

  “I’m not going to fuck her. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Right. Tonight was just a social outing with the woman you work for. Haven’t you done this already? Don’t you ever get tired of this story?”

  “Bailey, you’re yelling at me. Why are you yelling at me?”

  “Because you’re going to fuck that woman, and the fallout is going to be a big nasty mess. And I don’t want another mess. Claire is a little ragged even without something like this.”

  Along Government Way, a raccoon slunk into the underbrush. Liv checked her pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket, exhaled, said, “Claire is a little ragged. That is true.”

  Bailey glanced at Liv. “What’s going on? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know. Something. I’m sure something happened, but I have no idea. She just stopped talking. There’s the café, and nothing. Nothing else exists.”

  “I think that’s true for me too. I’m consumed with the café. We bought the place, and everything else disappeared. It can’t go on forever, though. We’ll find a balance—get a rhythm—when we figure out what the fuck we’re doing. We’ll normalize. We have to.”

  “Oh good. I’ll just wait here, shall I?”

  “What’s the matter, Liv? Are you feeling neglected? Is that what tonight was? Another woman to focus her attention on you—fix you. You go through women like tampons. You’re killing me with this shit.”

  “You’re yelling at me again. Stop yelling at me. I haven’t done anything. I didn’t even flirt with her.” She reached over and turned the heater off.

  “Yeah, clearly she was having a miserable time.” Bailey turned it on again, lowered the setting.

  “Why are you mad? I can’t be friends with a woman, is that what you’re telling me?”

  “Friends? Like you and I are friends?”

  “Yes. Like that.”

  “Perfect. No potential for messy drama there.”

  “You’re acting like a jealous girlfriend, Bailey.”

  “You’re acting like an arch brat, Liv.”

  “Jesus, I’m so tired of women I could scream.”

  Claire murmured when Liv climbed into bed, stretched her arm out, pulled Liv into her, curled around h
er, and promptly fell back asleep. Liv stared at the ceiling fan, craved a cigarette, and imagined a belly shifting, a head protruding through skin. She could almost feel the shift beneath her palm.

  She never got tired of this story. Running up five flights of stairs on Christmas Eve, desire as clear as her pulse, a chocolate bar in her coat pocket, and she’s knocking on the door, rubbing her hands together, anxious for them to be warm.

  There was a part of the story that she always edited, even in her own recollection. The moment where she offered to take care of them, the girl and her child, and the moment after that, the last moment, where the girl had looked at her with pity, and shaken her head.

  Twenty-four

  Accountancy

  Bailey and Claire waited in the foyer at the CPA’s office. Butterscotch candy in the dish by the receptionist, Outside and Backpacker magazine on the coffee table that fronted the yellow couch, scenic photographs on the walls, a plain, well-lit room.

  They’d worn skirts, makeup, and appealing blouses. Inexplicably formal, as though they’d both come to interview for a job. Claire felt ridiculous waiting like this, and wished she’d had Patrick come by the café, where at least they could be working.

  “You’re nervous,” Bailey remarked. “Me too. Like I’m about to take an exam.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Maybe we should all go to lunch, have a cocktail.”

  “Since when are you wearing glasses?”

  “I’m out of contact solution.”

  “You look good in them.” Smarter, Claire meant.

  An energetic, sculpted man bounded into the room and hugged Claire. His hair deliberately unkempt, his cologne subtle and spicy, his suit impeccable, he extended his right hand to Bailey, while his left stayed wrapped around Claire’s shoulders, “And you must be Bailey.”

  Bailey shook his hand, nodded.

  “Great. Let’s grab some lunch. Thai cool with you two? We’re expensing it, of course: client meeting.” He shuttled them out the door, sunglasses on, his suit jacket and no coat, his shoes Italian leather, gorgeous.

  Patrick talked the three blocks to Thai on First—a boating trip in August—and after they’d chosen a booth, and been handed menus, and water glasses—a climbing trip to Colorado—and then he ordered a round of beer and iced coffee, and told them about biking to Portland.

  After they ordered food, he paused to look at them. “This is exciting. I’m excited to be working with the two of you.” He raised his glass. “To the café’s continued success.” They raised their glasses as well, Bailey’s head tipped forward to smother her smile.

  Claire put her hand on Patrick’s sleeve before he could say another word. “Patrick, we only have forty minutes.”

  “Right. Right.” Patrick looked at Bailey, and said, “I’ve read the reviews of the café. I’ve looked at the preliminary financials, and I’ve heard the buzz around town. You’re doing extremely well, and I can help you do better. I can look at your business from a numbers perspective—dispassionate, with a focus on long-term profitability. I can help you use your profit to bolster the business. I’ll watch your expenses and draws and contributions—I’ll keep as much of your money working for you as is legal. I’ll handle your taxes, and your investments. Claire is doing a bang-up job on the bookkeeping. You really just need me for quarterlies and year-end, and as a purely financial perspective.”

  Their plates arrived: a tureen of sour soup; spinach chicken with a peanut sauce; spring rolls; red curry with vegetables; a large pot of rice. Claire ate, while Patrick fielded Bailey’s questions. Patrick was a goofball. He talked too much and too excitedly. As a child, he’d never learned to hide his ardor. It was disarming and enticing and annoying, and it was working on Bailey. Claire felt herself beyond enticement anymore. The café was supposed to make everything better. That had been the plan. Not a distraction—the work, the investment—but a livelihood, a life. What had happened to her life?

  She felt cheated now. She felt cheated of the life she was supposed to have. The field guides, and her aunt, and the writing, and the peace of their house with Simon. Something wild, something foreign welled inside her. It felt like bitterness. And fear. In the mornings, coming into the kitchen, Simon and Liv at the table with their cereal bowls, Claire knew herself to be an interruption—a Russian sentence in a Portuguese story. She’d stepped outside her life, and could only orbit now like a moon.

  “Thanks,” Bailey said, in the car on the drive back to the café, “for setting that up. I feel so encouraged about the whole situation. Patrick’s fantastic. He’s like a little kid—all ideas and energy. He talks more than I do. And you just trust him. You’re with him like five minutes, and you just know he’s going to take care of everything. It’s fantastic, really.”

  “Good. I’m glad you approve.”

  “I do. I approve. He’s fixated on you. You’re aware of that, right?”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that. It’s not a problem.”

  “Of course not. He knows about Liv?”

  “He knows.”

  “Well,” Bailey said. Her feet on the dash, her skirt high on her thighs, her legs bare. “This chick told me recently that knowledge can fix anything.”

  Claire read to Simon for an hour. He kept hopping up to grab another book, or asking for the same one to be read again. And then he wanted more kisses, and more kisses before he finally let her turn off the light, and shut the door. He’d clung to her, his arm wrapped around her hand. He hadn’t done that in months, and she felt worn down now, depleted. She ran a bath, sat on the edge of the tub, her hand dipping occasionally into the water. Could she be tepid? Is that what had happened? She’d become tepid.

  She stripped and climbed into the bath. The water a breath away from painful, red patches spread up her skin. She rolled onto her side, and saw Liv in the doorway.

  “Hey,” Liv said.

  “Hey.”

  She stayed in the doorway. Claire wanted to call out—she wanted back into her life, even if it required a collision.

  “How was your day?” Liv asked.

  “Bailey and Patrick met, and it went well. Good numbers today, especially lunch.”

  “I’m sorry I missed story time.”

  “We had a marathon session. How’s the attic?”

  “Coming along. The electrical is finally done.”

  Liv stepped forward, crossed her arms, and tugged her shirt over her head. Claire held her breath, loved this moment of exposure, the drawn torso. Liv yanked off the rest of her clothes, and climbed into the bath. Claire had shifted onto her back, and welcomed the weight of Liv’s body, the tremor of the water, the inflexibility of the tub behind her. Crushed.

  “Liv,” she said. The word jagged in her mouth, torn from someplace. “Liv.” And it burned—the water, the girl, the stress of re-entry—it burned and Claire wanted to fight, to tense against this vulnerability. Tears slipped down her face and into the bath, her foot kicked against the faucet, she strained against Liv and into her. Her orgasm hurt her, and left her laughing.

  “Carry me to bed,” Claire said. “Tuck me in. I want to sleep like a child.”

  And she did. She slept while Liv watched her. She slept when Liv climbed from bed. She slept while Liv paced and smoked, huddled into her jacket beneath the quarter moon.

  Twenty-five

  Daycare and other bureaucracies

  Claire phoned Liv on her march back to the car, and several times while driving to the café, and from the parking lot. And as she walked into the kitchen, she gave up on the notion of a conversation, and left a message, her voice tight with fury.

  At the oven, Bailey looked at Simon, his hand in his mother’s, his face turned up to watch her as she closed the phone, clenched it in her fist, and growled. A terrible, rumbling growl, from which Simon looked away. He focused on Bailey, his eyes dilated.

  “Come over here,” Bailey said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  Claire
stood a moment, her body moving slightly as though it were considering. She stooped down to pick Simon up, then walked over to Bailey’s station.

  “When I got to daycare, there was a note in his cubby that they needed to talk to me right away about Simon’s socialization.”

  “He’s a puppy now?”

  “He’s got a new teacher; she’s been there three weeks and she’s decided that Simon’s autistic. She wanted me to take him to a specialist to figure out where he is on the spectrum.”

  “What?”

  “She said he only speaks in a whisper, and refuses to play with the other kids, and never wants to do crafts. She said he’s only interested in trains, and never uses more than three words at any given time.”

  “This is the same kid that’s been reading for months?”

  “The very same.”

  “And this teacher has some sort of accreditation to make this diagnosis?”

  “She has a special ed background. That’s how they said it. A special ed background. I don’t even know what the fuck that means.”

  “Claire, you know Simon’s not autistic. He’s exceptional. He’s amazing. He just hates those other kids, and this woman bores him. He’s unhappy at daycare. That’s the extent of this.”

  “Why won’t Liv answer her phone?”

  Bailey walked over and took Simon from Claire. “Go outside, and take a walk. Simon will be fine here with me. Go take a walk, and don’t come back until you’re calm. I don’t care how long that takes. Simon and I will be here baking. Simon, will you help me bake?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. And he hurried to the cupboard for his apron.

  Claire walked south on Grand, the wind a furious press, the cars a torrent until Manito Park, where they crawled at 20 miles per hour for the three blocks of the park. Dog walkers and runners, a fat kid waiting for the bus. She tried Liv’s cell again. Why didn’t she notice that he hated daycare so much he’d completely closed down? How had she left her kid in a climate like that?

  She walked up the hill, past the beautiful homes and the dental offices and the looming maple trees. She walked past the piled leaves, the air smelled of wood fires.