A Field Guide to Deception Read Online Free

intuitive hunter of mushrooms—one thought of ballet as one watched her scour the forest litter—her writing was wretched and stilted and tiresome. Denise Bernard’s reputation was founded on her field guides, of which Claire had written every vibrant word. The two women had lived together in this same house for fourteen years, since Claire had come to Spokane at twenty, seeking refuge.
    It didn’t have to be a scandal; after all, her aunt had done all the research, and supervised the writing of each book. Perhaps her editor could arrange for Claire to work with another researcher, to continue producing field guides. They could keep it quiet. Maybe no one would ever spot the similarities—move away from mushrooms, and write wild flower guides.
    Simon’s trains had derailed in a horrible crash. He’d looked up at his mother and grinned. She’d as likely slit Simon’s throat as expose her aunt, to her editor of all people, a man whose opinion Denise had revered.
    â€œIs James hurt?” she asked.
    The boy nodded.
    â€œDoes he need a kiss?”
    Simon carried the train to her for comfort, flat in his palms as though it were an injured bird, and claimed a kiss for himself as well. Field guide to the medicinal property of kisses. He returned to the track to stage another tragedy.
    In the dark office now, the child asleep, the house quiet, Claire dreaded her impending research trip, another first without her aunt. At some point, she’d quit counting firsts, wouldn’t she? First canoe ride on the Little Spokane, first stirring of desire in years, first time she’d stood at the opened window to watch Liv, seated on the hood of her truck, light a cigarette. The night around them swollen with the sound of crickets.

Four
    The howling fence
    Liv stained the deck. For cigarette breaks, she made herself walk down to the river as though this were any day: their absence not a howling inside her. We’ll be back midweek, Claire had said. Simon had a little mummy sleeping bag that he’d carried out to show her, the most blinding shade of orange she’d ever seen. At the riverbank now, she smoked her second cigarette, imagined the boy sailing his boat in the little eddy just there, a step from her.
    On the deck, she worked barefoot and topless, the scent of the stain igniting the dense summer air. Brush strokes were too subtle; she wanted some heavy, painful work. She wanted to demolish a wall, or pour foundation, or dig a trench.
    At three, she left and hit several bars before she finally found one.
    The howling woke her in the night. For a moment, she panicked and had to grab her own throat to keep from shouting out. Beside her, the girl sweated. Liv threw her pants on, and sneaked out. Before she made it to the truck, she was crying.
    In the morning, she drove to Windsor Plywood and bought load after load of wood. She’d build the fence while they were away: digging holes, and dragging posts, and pouring cement. In the garage, she unloaded the wood, went back for more, and did the same.
    She dug and imagined Claire pregnant: her face fuller; her breasts like clutching beasts; leaned backward, her hand on her hip; the tremendous pouch of her belly rocked by his mutant kicking. She dug and imagined Simon nursing: his fingers kneading at Claire’s skin; his little shark-mouth seeking; his eyes on her face. She dug and
begged the imagining to stop. She saw herself cut the cord. Felt the weight of the newborn in her arms. Heard his wailing, touched his glossy, swollen eyes. Please, she said. Please. She dragged rocks the size of a toddler from the earth, and kept digging.
    That night, at the bright fire, she thought herself obscene. She’d been afraid to try the bars: afraid of the howling, afraid she wasn’t in a holding pattern so much as a tailspin. What has happened to me? She drank another beer. Refused to consider the question. Fell asleep on the recliner on