A Field Guide to Deception (43 page)

Epilogue:

Twelve years later

His mother is tense. This alone keeps him from sulking, dragged to Spokane for a funeral in the middle of term. He will miss two soccer games, and has had to lug all of his books with him, scribble his assignments on the food tray during the flight over, and—Calculus, an interminable misery—back to Ithaca.

In the rental car now, the day bright and warm just to spite him, his mother announces they're on the South Hill, and nearly there.

“Lovely hill,” he says. She laughs, and his mood slides away, just like that. “It'll be good to see Bailey.”

“Yes. Bailey is always good.”

He hasn't been back here since they left. Twelve years. They pull up in front of a Cape Cod, the dormers like raised eyebrows. He doesn't remember this house, wonders if he's ever been here.

“I'll get the bags,” he says.

She thanks him, climbs from the car, and stands in the street, looking up and down the block, and finally at the house.

“Hey,” his mother says, arm extended in greeting.

Bailey has sprung from the house, and is going to kill herself on the stairs. He steps toward her, hands raised against calamity, and she catches into him, pulls his mother into their embrace as well. The both of them crush him, murmuring and crying. Here less than two minutes and already they're crying.

“Oh, Bailey,” she says, “I'm so sorry.”

“I can't believe you're here. I thought you wouldn't come.” Bailey releases his mother, but strains backward to stare at him. “Jesus,
you're bigger every time I see you. How's that possible? Your mother's so little.”

“Hey,” she objects, and swats Bailey.

“Thank you for coming, Simon. I'm sorry you're missing your games.”

“It's OK,” he says. “I don't mind.” He wants to say something consoling, but can't. He's taller than she is now, and can see that her blond hair has washed grey. All these years of Bailey's visits, the pile of loot she never fails to bring him, and this is the first time he has thought of her as old. She links her arm through his mother's and they walk ahead of him to the house.

Inside, the hardwood floor, and each step on the stairs, creaks as Bailey guides them to the guest rooms. Something delicious—croissants, he hopes—is baking. The house is rich with it: cinnamon and dough.

He takes longer washing up than his mother does, and interrupts them in the kitchen. His mother's tension has increased.

“Do you drink coffee, Simon?” Bailey asks.

“Sure.”

“Latte?”

“Sure.”

He loves the sound of steam. A timer dings, and she turns from the espresso machine to remove a bunt-cake pan from the oven. Not croissants, then. His mother is standing in the threshold, with the exterior door opened, her coffee raised to her lips as though she might rinse her face with it. Morning light makes her ageless; it wings from her glasses, and the door's pane. She'd brought a pile of student papers with her to grade on the plane, complaining, as always, of lax scholarship. She didn't sleep on the flight, as he had. Yet she doesn't seem fatigued now, but wired, expectant.

Bailey sets his coffee beside him, and sits at the table. “We'll eat as soon as it's cooled. I have fruit too, mango.”

Bailey's in jeans, a pale green sleeveless sweater, striking by any standard, long-legged with veiled eyes and an easy manner. And he's aware of this—her desirability—in a sorrowful way, as though it were not a gift.

“I never thought I'd see your mother in this town again.” Bailey says this to him, though his mother must hear. “Do you remember this house?”

So he has been here before. He stares around him, the kitchen a marvelous room of copper pots and china, spices in uniform jars displayed in steel baskets, a large painting of an umbrella tipped back like some struggling insect on the wall above the table. Nothing jars his mind.

“No,” he says, wishing he could.

Up again, she takes a knife, and plates, to the stove. “Are you hungry, Claire?”

His mother crosses to Bailey, wraps around her. He wants to be elsewhere, and here observing, simultaneously. This intimacy shames him, this grief.

“Yes,” his mother says at last, and picks up a plate.

He wants to ask about Drake, finds himself listening for her voice. He is so used to them—Bailey and Drake—that he forgets.

His mother hands him a plate with a sort of battlement on it—the bricks of a castle wall rolled in cinnamon—beside slices of mango.

“Monkey bread,” Bailey says, in response to the hesitant poise of his fork. “You'll love it.”

“You always say that,” he grins. He bites into a chunk, and finds himself kneeling on a kitchen chair, a helmet on his head, his mother across from him eating cantaloupe, her leg propped on the chair beside her. She is impossibly young—without glasses—her hair dark and shorn, one strap of her white tank top has slid down her arm. And then, another woman leans into his mother, and kisses her. The woman is like his mother—a twin, he thinks—and then knows that she is not, that his mother and this woman are not twins, not likenesses, but dualities, light and dark, the two of them, bowed into one another and then looking across at him, their voices bright with laughter.

In Bailey and Drake's kitchen—just Bailey's now—his mother has raised her head, alert to the sound of boots on the stairs, the rap of knuckles at the kitchen door.

Another bite: his helmet tipped back on his head, the kiss, and laughter. This is what he remembers, the story he tells himself.

The woman who comes into the kitchen now is slight and rough, his mother's shadow rather than her twin. But she was never her twin.

“Claire,” Liv says, her voice as rough as her work boots. Liv has had twelve years to think of something elegant to say. Twelve years dreaming the river, a boy with a boat, Claire in her arms—always in her arms. She wants to say that she leaves that stone house, Claire injured and disoriented on the couch, bleeding when Liv leaves her, always leaves her, closes the kitchen door, walks into the blizzard, only to find herself back in the living room, leaving, again, the woman on the couch. Wants to say it is fresh each time, the hurt in her. But, “Claire,” is what comes out. “Claire.”

At the table, Simon takes another bite, and his gesture draws her focus. She turns toward him. He is so familiar that she finds herself grinning.

“Simon,” Bailey says. “You remember Liv.”

“Hey, Liv,” he says, and grins back at her. “Have some of this monkey bread. You'll love it.”

Acknowledgments

To Kelly Smith for your ruthless logic and clear-sightedness: You make me a better writer.

 

To Kym Neck, Erin Culver, and Lillie Petrillo for reading 25-page serials: You kept me honest.

 

To Carole Boswell and Steve Capellas for thorough, invaluable procedural advice.

 

To Bett Norris for encouragement in the clutch.

 

To Caroline Curtis for dots and crosses and keen insight.

 

And to my family, for every exquisite meal.

 

Some of the places named in this novel exist—including Spokane; this is a work of fiction.

 

Of all the mushroom guides, I referred most frequently to the slender volume
Common Mushrooms of the Northwest
by J. Duane Sept because of the lovely color photographs.

 

Bywater Books represents the coming of age of lesbian fiction. We're committed to bringing the best of contemporary lesbian writing to a discerning readership. Our editorial team is dedicated to finding and developing outstanding voices who deliver stories you won't want to put down. That's why we sponsor the annual Bywater Prize. We love good books, just like you do.

 

 

For more information about Bywater Books and the annual Bywater Prize for Fiction, please visit our website.

 

 

Jill Malone

 

—Sarah Waters

 

Fight or flight? Jane Elliott has tried both. Surfing, letting the waves take her. Teaching Latin, clutching at its rules to feel safe. Safe from a lover, safe from her friends, safe from her mother's death—and her guilt. And now she lies in a hospital bed, alone.

Set against the landscapes and seascapes of Hawaii, this is a story of one woman's courage and her struggle to find a balance between what she desires and what she deserves. Gripping and emotional,
Red Audrey and the Roping
is also a remarkable literary achievement. The breathtaking prose evokes setting, characters, and relationships with equal grace. Splintered fragments of narrative come together to form a seamless suspenseful story that flows effortlessly to its dramatic conclusion.

 

Print ISBN 978-1-932859-54-6

Ebook ISBN 978-1-61294-002-1

 

 

Available at your local bookstore
or call 734-662-8815
or order online at
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Sally Bellerose

 

“In her debut novel, Bellerose deftly tells the story of Cora Rose, Marie, and Renee LaBarre, a trio of working-class sisters in small-town Massachusetts who are best friends, mortal enemies, and forever loyal to each other. . . . A fast-paced, well-written tale with characters who will linger in the reader's memory long after the final page is turned.”—
Publishers Weekly

 

“Bellerose moves these wonderous creations of hers through the ordinary pitfalls of life, showcasing their heartbreaks, their triumphs, and their shame with equal assurance.
The Girls Club
is an incredible book—not just for girls, but for everyone.”—
Out in Print

 

“Winner of the
Bywater Prize for Fiction
, this first novel provides an intense study of human frailty and hope; sure to appeal to readers who enjoy literate coming-of-age and coming-out fiction.”—
Library Journal

 

“Bellerose's warm novel embraces the concept of sisterhood with propulsive gusto”—
Book Marks

 

Print ISBN 978-1-932859-78-2

Ebook ISBN 978-1-61294-020-5

 

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Joan Opyr

 

“What a great read! Character, story, dialogue—it's a trifecta of a page turner.”—Kate Clinton, author of
I Told You So

 

“Opyr is a master of mixing light and dark—of telling a story about family dysfunction, alcoholic rage, and life without a lover with laugh-out loud panache.”—
Book Marks

 

“It's a wonderful novel”—
Out in Print

 

Poppy Koslowski is trying to recover from a hysterectomy, but her family has other ideas. She's the one with the responsibility to pull the plug on her alcoholic grandfather in North Carolina. So she's dragged back across the country from her rebuilt life into the bosom of a family who barely notice the old man's imminent death.

Plunged into a crazy kaleidoscope of consulting doctors, catching fire with an old flame, and negotiating lunch venues with her mother and grandmother, Poppy still manages to fall in love. Because nothing in the Koslowski family is ever straightforward. Not even dying.

 

Print ISBN 978-1-932859-79-9

Ebook ISNBN 978-1-61294-018-2

 

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Z Egloff

 

—Emma Donoghue, author of
Room

 

—Alison Bechdel, author of
Fun Home

 

Claire has three goals: to stay sober, to stay away from sex, and to get into film school. A drunken affair with her professor's wife means she might just have blown all three at once. Stuck without the camera she needs to complete her course work, she turns to Sister Hilary at the community center for help. Sister Hilary has a camera to lend, but the price is recruiting Claire as a reluctant volunteer. The only trouble is, Claire's more attracted to Sister Hilary than to helping out. Claire ought to know there's no future with a nun, but can't this two-timing, twelve-stepping, twenty-something film freak get a chance at happiness?

 

 

ISBN 978-1-932859-68-3

 

 

 

Available at your local bookstore
or call 734-662-8815
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Copyright © 2009 by Jill Malone

 

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