A Field Guide to Deception (24 page)

Autistic. She'd countered with reticent and shy, and they'd looked at her like she was deluded. Poor, stupid woman doesn't even know her kid is sick. Outrageous, and the conference felt like an attack, an attack on her parenting, and Simon's nature. Her phone's disco ring startled her.

“Liv, those assholes at daycare think Simon's retarded.” She told the story, disjointed pieces of her distress mixed into the narrative, making the recital more tangential than anything else. Liv didn't ask questions like Bailey, simply listened until Claire exhausted herself.

“So we're done with those fucks,” Liv said.

“Yes, we are.”

“How did Simon react?”

“When I came out of the office, he walked over to his cubby and grabbed his hat and coat.”

Liv laughed. “He's a marvel, that boy.”

“I hate myself for making him go there.”

“You can't protect him from assholes, honey. They're everywhere.”

Simon licked the frosting from the knife. “Hooray,” he told the cupcakes. “Happy birthday everyone.”

Across the table, Bailey laughed.

“Mama's cross,” he said.

“Mama's cross at daycare.” He dipped the knife into the bowl and licked off more frosting. “Mama's not cross at you. You want a cupcake?”

“Yes.” She handed one to him. “Thank you, Bailey.”

“You're welcome, Simon.”

“I like this cupcake. It tastes real good.”

“Thanks, kiddo. You want to learn how to bake a cupcake like this?”

He stood, nodding, ready. And said, “I'll bake them for you.”

“Perfect,” Bailey said. “I needed a helper.”

Simon loved his blue apron, cracking eggs into bowls, and working at his station on his wooden stepladder. He loved the scent of the baking, and Bailey's laugh, and the buzz of customers in the café, and the girls who rushed in for plates and kissed him and rushed out again. Sophia, the one who brought him chocolate milk, was his favorite, blond like Bailey but short and heavy with a white apron.

Once Claire returned, Bailey made lunch for the three of them. They ate on stools, Simon with a second glass of chocolate milk, grinning with happiness.

“You'll bring him here with you,” Bailey said. “We'll setup some trains in the office, and you've already stockpiled play dough and crayons and stickers and books. He's grown up around you working, and he's just
fine with it. He's respectful of all of us when we're working—he was of Liv in the summer, too. We'll all be happier if he's here with us.”

Claire, her eyes brimming, nodded.

Drake listened to the story; Liv's variation had a distinctly muted rage. “Autism,” she said, “is the new ADD. Any kid that doesn't fit a teacher's notion of average is labeled autistic. I hate to tell you this, but you two are probably in for a long struggle with this kind of shit. You may have these battles with the system for years. Simon is an advanced kid. Our school system works to make all kids the same. We don't want originality and creativity and liberated thinking. We want cookie-cutter kids.”

“Last week you told me education would fix me.”

“Higher education. Higher education will fix you. The rest of it is a gamble.”

“Jesus, Drake. Doesn't that terrify you? Aren't you angry?”

“My dear, I have speeches about this. I can go on for days. Just let me grab my flow charts.”

Liv laughed. “I need a drink first.”

“You and me both. Come on, my treat.”

“All right, but I'm driving.”

At the Lion's Lair, death metal vibrated from the walls where skateboards—painted with skulls and contorted naked girls—hung. The bartender had a tongue ring, a baseball cap, and full-sleeve vivid tattoos on each arm.

“You in this bar makes no sense to me,” Liv said.

“I love this place. The music's too loud, but the drinks are stiff and the crowd is artistic and studied.”

Liv watched the trio at the bar, attired like Bolsheviks, each listening to an iPod.

The bartender came over to their table, turned a chair backward, and sat down. “Julia, I'm in a contest next week—tastiest original drink—want to try out some of my ideas?”

“Of course.”

“I'll make one for your friend too.”

He came back with drinks that glowed pink like dainty toxins.

“Yes,” Drake said after she'd tasted it. “I dig it.”

He looked at Liv.

“Yeah,” she said, “Sweet.” Like syrup mixed with turpentine.

“Right on. I've got two more.”

“I get it now—the appeal of this place,” Liv said, once he'd gone. “If your drinks aren't radioactive, they aren't really trying.”

They'd had five rounds by the time Drake leaned so far forward that Liv felt she'd practically crawled onto the table. “I want to ask you something. And I don't want it to be awkward. Just bear with my questions, will you? I'm actually headed somewhere.”

“OK.”

“You and Bailey are friends?”

“That's right.”

“Do you know if she's seeing anyone?”

“She's single.”

“And available?”

“Yes. Single and available.”

“Do you think she'd be interested—do you think possibly, that she might …”

“She thinks you're hot. She told me the other night. Are you saying you'd like to go out with her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want me to arrange something?”

“Yes.”

“Consider it done.”

“Is this weird—my asking you?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. I'll leave it to your discretion.”

“Do you want me to call her now?” Liv asked. “Have her meet us
here?”

“My god, no. I have to prepare for things like this. Spontaneous dating, no thank you.”

“Right.”

“Did you two date?”

“Nope. We've been friends since college. She asked me what your deal was.”

“What did you say?”

“That I didn't know.”

“I'm open.”

“And affirming?” Liv grinned.

“Completely affirming.”

“That's important. Affirmation is important.”

Liv finished her drink, and considered that she hadn't eaten lunch, and it was time for dinner. “Death metal blows.”

“Yes,” Drake said. “Yes, it does.”

In the café, Bailey held her knife up as though it were the string of a balloon. “What are you telling me? You're saying that she wants to date me?”

“Yes. That's what I'm saying.” The kitchen had a battered, overly scrubbed quality to it. Each station pristine, Liv in her steel-toed boots and Cartharts always felt like a workman here, whether or not she'd come to repair the equipment.

“Julia Drake. That woman from the bar—the one with the attic—she wants to date me.”

“That's right.”

Bailey turned back to her station, chopped several bell peppers, her knife blade knocking rapid-fire against the counter. “She's fucking hot.”

“I agree.”

“And she's like twenty years older than I am.”

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen is better.”

Liv shifted, unable to look at anything other than Bailey's knife. It occurred to her now that Claire might have been a better emissary for Drake. “We could double if you want, or just the two of you. Whatever.”

“Did she want to double?”

“I told her I'd arrange a date. She didn't specify anything except that she wanted to go out with you.”

Bailey grinned. The kitchen door opened and Simon rushed in, threw his hat and coat on the chair, and ran to the cupboard for his apron.

“Hi, Simon,” Bailey said.

“Hi, Bailey.” He dragged his stepladder from the corner, and pushed it out to the stations. Bailey soaped his hands at the sink, and handed him a towel. At his station, she laid out dough and a rolling pin.

Claire came in with her laptop bag, and a box of register tape. “I didn't know you were coming to the café,” she said to Liv.

“I'm arranging a marriage.”

“What?”

“Drake asked me to hook her up with Bailey.”

Claire glanced at Bailey. “That's unexpected.”

Liv shrugged, ready to be done. “What do you say, Bailey, dinner and a movie?”

“Dinner at Luna on Saturday night.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I'll let her know.”

Liv kissed Simon and Claire, and took an apricot scone for her trouble.

“A date with a hot professor,” Bailey said to Simon. “Here's me hoping to be liberally educated.”

Twenty-six

Doubles

Liv had the last of the wallboard up in the main room before the plumber finished prepping the attic's soon-to-be-bathroom. After the plumber, the only subcontractor left would be the tile guy. She'd use the same guy who'd tiled the bathroom and kitchen at Claire's—he'd been efficient, reliable, and remarkably skilled. The attic felt more confined now with the wallboard up, and like a Quaker meeting hall: sparse, stripped, silent. Her knees hurt, and she stretched toward the ceiling, tried some lunges, before finally abandoning stretches for a cigarette.

Drake met her at the base of the stairs. “I was just coming up for you. Coffee?”

“Oh yes, please.”

When Liv returned—hands and cheeks wind burned—she found her mug on the kitchen table. She shuffled out of her jacket and scarf, and stretched forward toward her boots.