A Field Guide to Deception (33 page)

“When did it happen?”

Bailey told her the story.

“A bar fight,” Claire said, watching Simon eat goldfish from the back of a dump truck. “My god. And now this girl's come to the restaurant.”

“And the police have a report on her, and she'd be insane to come back.”

“Because this morning she wasn't crazy enough? Oh, Bailey. In front of the customers and the staff. Right in the middle of the lunch rush.” Claire stood, rolled her neck, and pressed her fingers into her temples. “When does it stop? I thought I only had to worry about strange girls in bathrooms.”

Bailey looked drawn, haggard. Claire had noticed this previously, but hadn't commented. For herself, the same could be said. It wore them down, this business, successful, relentless, consuming. Could one screaming girl spoil the entire endeavor?

She stared about her. Initially, she'd planned to paint this tiny office something funky, like polka dots. Something to enliven the place: a cell, more than a room, with one thin, high window, two 3-drawer file cabinets, a squat wooden desk, a loveseat, and two corkboards full of notes, recipes, magazine articles, and employee schedules. But she hadn't had the drive to empty the space, even for a couple of days. She
had the drive now. Field guide to your relationship: start by tidying the office.

Claire put the bank deposit into her bag with her laptop. Nobody could have predicted this, and she hadn't been exactly forthcoming about her own indiscretions, not even with Liv. Claire sat down beside Bailey on the sofa, and punched her in the thigh. “If pink-girl comes back, I hope it happens while I'm in Portland.”

“Yeah, I'll see if I can arrange that,” Bailey said. “When do you leave?”

“Thursday afternoon.”

“You worried?”

“Of course.”

“You'll be fine. Simon's the perfect ice-breaker.”

“He's in bed by eight.”

“They might be too.”

“There's nobody like Dee,” Claire said. “It makes meeting people harder. They all suffer from comparison.”

“My grandmother did that for me.”

“It's such a stupid thing to miss, but it's what I think of most. I miss that she was alive.”

“Sophia's mom was at the house last night, yapping at her about gaining too much weight. And this thing with the crib—on and on about why isn't the crib assembled, and why hasn't Sophia bought bedding, and what kind of mother doesn't have the nursery ready and waiting, and, I swear to you, I nearly bounced her. She was just so mean about everything.”

“I called my mom to tell her what the publisher said, about this being the best field guide he'd read, and she said, ‘Wouldn't Denise be pleased?' like I was a traitor.” Claire laughed.

“What would Denise say?”

“She'd say,‘Now we're ruined.' And pour me a shot.”

They gave Simon gummi bears for the plane ride; he ate them four at
a time. He'd never flown on a plane before. The attendant gave him extra pretzels.

His mother had let him pack his bag—he'd been allowed to take seven trains—and his favorite red pajamas, and his shark t-shirt, and both Curious Georges.

“Do you see the mountains?” Liv asked.

He pressed his face against the window. “Clouds,” he said, wondrously. “They're right there. Look. There they are.”

When he climbed back into his mother's lap, reclined against her chest, and pulled her arm across his belly, he told her again about all the presents of trains Santa had left under the tree for Simon. Because Santa knew all about this adventure, the clouds, and gummi bears, and luggage, and Santa thought Simon had maybe not brought enough trains with him, and would need more.

On the ground again, more surprises still: they didn't have snow here, and he didn't have to wear his heavy coat, and this green car rumbled as they drove across the long Steel Bridge. People on bicycles zipped past the rental car at stoplights, and the cranes were as high in the air as the plane had been. Liv's mom had promised to make a special dessert in Simon's honor, Angel food cake. He said this over as they drove, Angel food cake.

When they pulled into the drive, Liv's parents came out to greet them. Bundled in coats, hats, gloves, and scarves. The mother was small, like Liv and his own mother. The father had a beard, and a voice full of money. Simon hugged them, took Liv's mother's hand, and led her back toward the house. “Simon's special treat,” he told her. “Angel food cake.”

The father helped Liv and Claire carry the luggage in; he'd patted Claire's back when he'd hugged her as though she were a child. Comforting, she thought. Steady, and kind, and comforting. She followed behind his plaid wool coat, and paused in the entryway of the house, as he did, to set the luggage down. A two-story, with leaded windows,
green shutters, white exterior paint, a gabled roof, an apple pie and baseball home.

He hung their coats with the rest, and pointed to the shelves where they could leave their boots. Indoors he wore a blue cardigan, slippers, a frank and untroubled oldness. Upstairs then, to separate rooms, their luggage and themselves left to be idle until supper. Supper, Claire smiled. Her parents still celebrated cocktail hour, knew only rubes used words like supper, and rube.

She left her bags by the bed, and wandered down the hallway, to the room the father had indicated would be Simon's. Liv's old room, Claire recognized. Maple bookcases, a navy bedspread, plain curtains, a desk and lamp, all rough and sturdy, like the girl herself. On the bedspread, a bedraggled teddy bear, and a hand-carved racing car lay against the pillow.

“Homespun,” Claire said, when Liv stood behind her.

“Yes, ma'am.” Liv took her hand, led her downstairs to the kitchen. Simon stood on a chair at the counter, and licked the remainder of the frosting from the bowl. At the oven, Liv's mother tested the pork chops.

“You girls go sit,” she said. “The table's set, and now we're ready to eat.”

Claire rinsed a cloth to clean Simon's hands and face. She couldn't remember if she'd been told their names, the mom and dad,
The Tannens
. She almost laughed. Nerves, she knew. She couldn't remember the last time she'd desired approval so deeply. She'd wanted Liv's this much, and Denise's. A rare thing though, in her experience: to feel assailable.

The mother wore a knitted cap. Her face looked pouchy and yellow, though her eyes were bright with pleasure, and she moved nimbly. A formidable woman, Claire thought, one to intimidate teenagers.

They passed green beans, salad with artichoke hearts and candied walnuts, and warm brown bread round the table. On the walls hung prints of Japanese characters. Marinated in a spicy barbeque sauce,
the pork chops had a sharp tang.

“Good flight?” the father asked.

Liv nodded. “Simon's first.”

“That right, Simon?” he said. “How'd you like flying?”

“It's a great adventure.”

“What'd he say?” the dad asked.

“He said, ‘It's a great adventure.'”

“Did he?” The father inspected Simon.

Simon had macaroni and cheese with diced ham, and a side of raw carrots. He ate happily.

“Your father baked the pork chops,” Liv's mother said.

“They're tender,” Claire said, “with a kick.”

The father inspected her. “Yes,” he said, and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.

“We'll have a tour after dinner,” the mother said. “Give Simon a chance at the tree.”

“What are you working on, Liv?” the father asked.

Liv told him, and then they discussed the café, and Claire's field guide, and Simon's swim lessons, and as the mother served Angel food cake with coffee for the adults, and chocolate milk for Simon (she'd scouted his preferences in a phone conversation earlier in the week) the father pointed his fork at Claire and asked, “So, do you want to hear Liv stories? And, if so, would you like the emergency room escapades, or the detention dramas?”

“Yes,” Claire said. “And both.”

“Enlighten me, if you've heard another version of any of these,” the dad began. “Well, the first trip to the emergency room, Liv was four, and she'd come down the slide and cracked her head open on the playground cement. Second time, she was nine—”

“Seven,” the mother said.

“Right, forgot that one. She was seven when she fell from the tree and broke her right elbow. Nine when she had two teeth knocked out fighting at school. Twelve when she broke her leg. We never did know how exactly, had something to do with that Lewis boy.” He scowled at Liv, then winked.

“Sixteen, she got a concussion in a car wreck. Seventeen—god, we went three times that year: two broken fingers, stitches along her left elbow, and, I've forgotten the last one.”

“Appendicitis,” Liv said.

“Right, appendicitis.”

Claire had been taken once, with a fever so high that her parents had convinced themselves she had a critical infection. She'd been given Tylenol, and sent home.

“The breaks to the fingers, and the stitches?” Claire asked.

“Fighting,” the mother said.

Liv shrugged, finished her cake. The frosting had cream cheese in it. Simon had already devoured two pieces, and drunk his milk.

“Detention for fighting as well?” Claire asked.

“In high school,” the father said. “For fighting and skipping. In junior high, she was suspended for building a bomb in the girls' locker room.”

“It wasn't a bomb,” Liv said, wearily. “Fire crackers, and silly putty, with a long fuse, so they'd blow after everybody left.”

“Instead?” Claire grinned.

“The putty smothered the fuse, and the smell of burnt plastic brought the gym teacher running.”

“Did the fire crackers ignite?”

“Nope.”

Claire laughed.

“Tell them about your time in detention,” Liv said. “They tell these stories like I'm the only kid that got in trouble in school.”

“Smoking,” Claire said. “A couple of times for smoking; once for cutting; several times for mouthing off in class; and most frequently for tardiness. I was always late.”

“See,” Liv said.

“As a parent,” the father said to Claire, “has your opinion about your behavior changed?”

She put a brown sugar cube into her coffee, and stirred. “Not yet. I have a lot of affection for that girl I was, and pity too. But I'm relieved that I have a boy.”

Liv's parents laughed. “Oh, my dear,” said the mother, “it's just another kind of trouble.”

“Another kind of worry,” the father added.