A Field Guide to Deception by Jill Malone Page B

able to drive. On the dark streets, the stoplights flashed, and rain drizzled. Bailey walked with great concentration.
    â€œI love summer nights,” she said.
    July was a balm for these two women and the night itself, determined to comfort them. Claire felt that too, their need—hers and Bailey’s—for comforting. That day in the garage with Liv, sawdust in their mouths, hard metal surfaces behind and beneath them, even that day, Claire remembered with disquiet.
    â€œWhere’s your son now?” Bailey asked, after stabbing her eggs so that the yolk spread over her entire plate.
    â€œHe’s in the car, sleeping, I hope. I left his baby monitor.”
    Bailey, startled, and quite instantly terrifying, had just begun her tirade when Claire held up her hands, apologized, explained about Simon sleeping over at the sitter’s house. “He loves it. He gets to sleep in a bunk bed with her little grandson.”
    â€œSure, I had a bunk bed. Loved it. Like being on a ship.”
    Tears along the purple vinyl of the booth scratched at Claire’s legs. Below the photographs of men racing cars, paint bubbled on the walls. Bailey used her toast as a spoon for her eggs and hash browns, asked, “What do you do, for work, I mean?”
    â€œWell, I write field guides, actually.”
    â€œNature guides?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œThat’s interesting.” Bailey poured two little plastic thimbles of milk into her coffee, stirred, and smiled at Claire.

Nine
    Just like paper
    Simon sat on the steps, crying. He’d spilled his milk in the office and his mother was furious. Scolded him and sent him away. He threw Murdoch in the grass, scowled at him a moment, and then quickly retrieved the engine. Bees flitted about everywhere and he walked along the field, keeping back from the high grass, until he came to the fence line. He ran his train along the fence as though it were a rail.
    He had not said her name once. He had not asked his mother where she was, or when she was coming back. Liv had told him that she would be quick. With a present, she had said. “I’ll be back with a present.” Simon stared down the gravel road and said her name once like a magic word. He looked for a long time, but no yellow truck.
    At dinner, they had spaghetti. Simon twirling the strands in his fingers, sucking them hard so they squirmed as he ate them. Claire gave him extra cheese, rubbed his head for a moment before she handed him a second toasted roll.
    â€œIs there another plate for me?” Liv asked behind them.
    Simon sprang from his chair and was at her. Liv scooped him up and kissed him repeatedly on his face. His hands were fists at her shoulders, holding fast to her shirt. Liv walked forward, and then he was pressed between them.

    She’d bought him a small plane with a motor and a remote control. It flew and Simon could direct it. Mostly he ran beneath it while Liv
controlled its flight. Claire, sipping at her lemonade, sat on the rail of the deck and watched them. She’d forgotten, in seven days, how young Liv looked. Lithe in the field with Simon, both of them bright with laughter: immortal. That word came to her as she looked on, immortal.
    At bedtime, they both read to him. He gave books to each of them and sat between them, on his knees, turning the pages. Liv brought him Edward and Emily and kissed him goodnight. His mother knelt by the bed and then they closed the door, and stood a moment in the hallway, savoring.
    Liv kissed her, finally, there outside Simon’s door. A tender kiss, new and hopeful, and Claire’s eyes closed heavily as she leaned into Liv. Their bodies entangled, afflicted, soft as vellum.
    They sat on the recliner, wrapped in a blanket, and Liv told the story. Her mother’s surgery, how they’d removed a breast, but thought they’d found it all. Her mother’s anger volcanic, destroying in all directions. Her father at the