Every Last Lie. Mary Kubica

It’s one of the many things I love about her.

      “I’m almost done,” she tells me as she continues to scour that frying pan.

      And so instead, I collect the shreds of Sunday newspaper from the breakfast nook where Maisie sits quietly, staring at the comics, the funnies as she likes to call them because that’s what Clara says. At the table, she giggles, and I ask, “What’s so funny?” plucking a piece of leftover Lucky Charms from her chin. Maisie doesn’t say, but she points a gooey little finger at the paper, an image of a gargantuan elephant squishing some sort of prairie animal flat. I don’t get it, but still I laugh, ruffling her hair with my hand. “That’s funny,” I say, as an image of the latest terrorist attack floats before Maisie’s eyes while I pile up the paper for the recycle bin. I see her eyes jump at the image, leaping from comics to the front-page news: an inferno of fire; a building collapse; bits of rubble obstructing what was once a street; people with heads in their hands, crying; law enforcement agents walking around, toting M16s.

      “What’s that?” asks Maisie as that gooey finger finds its way this time to an image of a man with a gun on a street in Syria, red blood reduced to a dusty brown so it isn’t evident that it’s blood. And then, without waiting for a reply, Maisie’s finger travels to a woman standing behind the man, caked in tears. “She’s sad,” she tells me, an interested expression on her pale face, one that proudly asserts an aggregate of freckles now that the heat of summer draws near. She’s not concerned. She’s too young to be concerned about the woman in the newspaper, crying. But still she takes notice, and I see the question there in her confused expression: grown-ups don’t cry. So why is this woman crying?

      And then Maisie asks the question out loud, “Why?” as her eyes and Clara’s eyes land on mine at the very same time, Maisie’s curious, Clara’s stymieing. Why is the woman sad? Maisie wants to know, but Clara wants this conversation through.

      For Clara, when it comes to Maisie, ignorance is bliss.

      “Time for you to get dressed, Maisie,” Clara says as she finishes rinsing the frying pan and sets it in the drying rack. She takes a series of short, quick strides across the room to gather the rest of the newspaper in her wet hands, struggling to bend to the floor to recoup the pieces I’ve dropped. My Sunday morning routine and also Clara’s pet peeve: my dropping the newspaper to the ground. As she bends, her hands clutch her midsection, as if worried if she bends too far down, our baby will fall out.

      “I’ll get it,” I tell Clara as she drops what she’s collected on the image of the buckled building, the crying woman, the humongous guns, hoping to erase the photograph from Maisie’s mind. But I see Maisie’s curious eyes and know she’s still waiting for my reply. She’s sad, those eyes remind me, begging, Why?

      I set a hand on Maisie’s, one that all but disappears in mine. On the kitchen chair, she squirms. Holding still for a four-year-old is near impossible. Her rangy legs kick willy-nilly beneath the table; she shifts erratically in her chair. Her hair is a mess and her pajamas are clotted with spilled milk, which will start to smell rancid the longer it sits, that spilled milk smell that often clings to kids. “There are lots of people in this world,” I tell Maisie, “some bad, some good. And some bad person hurt this woman’s feelings and made her sad. But you don’t have to worry about that happening to you,” I say quickly, before Maisie’s mind has a chance to go there, to envision the collapsed buildings and the M16s here in our safe, suburban neighborhood. “As long as Mommy and Daddy are here, we won’t let anything like that happen to you,” and Maisie beams and asks if we can go to the park. The sad woman is forgotten. The guns are forgotten. The only things on her mind now are seesaws and monkey bars, and I nod my head and say okay. I’ll take her to the park, leaving Clara at home to rest.

      I turn to Clara, and she gives me a wink; I did good. Of my little spiel, she approves.

      I help Maisie from the table, and together we find her shoes. I remind her to go potty before we leave. “But, Daddy,” she whines, “I don’t have to go potty,” though, of course she does. Like every other four-year-old in the world, she resists potty breaks and naps and anything green.

      “You need to try,” I say and watch as she scampers off for the bathroom, where she’ll leave the door open wide while she uses the step stool to climb up on the toilet and pee.

      It’s when she’s gone for a whole thirty-eight seconds and no more that Clara comes to me, pressing that baby bump into my body, and tells me that she’ll miss me, her words like some sort of voodoo or black magic, making me melt. She has a power over me; I’m under her spell. For the next forty-five minutes, while I’m romping around the playground with Maisie, my pregnant wife will be at home missing me. I smile, filled with warmth. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.

      Clara stands tall, just inches shy of my own six feet, unshowered, smelling of sweat and eggs, but beautiful beyond compare. In my whole life, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love Clara. She kisses me in this way that only Clara could kiss, gauzy, diaphanous lips that brush the surface of mine, leaving me completely satisfied and yet greedy and wanting for more. I set my hands on the disappearing curves of her waistline; she slips hers under the cotton of my shirt. They’re damp. She leans into me over the bulge of our baby, and again we kiss.

      But as always, the moment passes too soon. Before we know it, Maisie comes skipping down the hall from the bathroom, calling out for me loudly, “Daddy!” and Clara draws slowly away in search of bug spray and sunscreen.

      Maisie and I pedal off down the sidewalk while Clara stands on the front porch, watching us go. We haven’t gone more than a house or two when I hear a voice, grouchy and rude. Maisie hears it, too. She also sees her friend Teddy sitting on his own front lawn, picking at the grass, trying to tune out the sound of his dad screaming at his mom. They stand in an open garage, our neighbors Theo and Emily Hart, and it’s pretty damn quick when Theo thrusts her against the garage wall. I slam on the bike brakes, but tell Maisie to pedal on ahead. “Stop when you get to the red house,” I say, a redbrick home just about half a block away.

      “Everything okay over there?” I call across the street, stepping off my bike, ready to make a run for it if he attempts a second assault. I’m expecting a response from Theo—something curt and rude, probably even threatening—but instead it comes from Emily as she wipes her hands on the thighs of her jeans and pats down her hair, stepping away from the garage wall as Theo hovers behind her, watching like a hawk.

      “Doing great,” she says, with a smile as phony as spam email. “Beautiful day,” she adds, then calls to Teddy, telling him to come inside for a bath. Teddy rises at once, not all gun-shy and reluctant as Maisie is when we suggest a bath. He does as he’s told, and I wonder if it’s simple compliance or something more. Something more like fear. Emily doesn’t strike me as weak—she’s a tall woman, a fit woman—and yet that’s exactly what she is. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him buttonhole her with my own two eyes, his hands on her in a way that verges on abuse. If he does this out in the open, what does he do behind closed doors?

      Clara and I have had this conversation more times than I can count.

      You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped.

      I watch Emily and Teddy disappear inside, hand in hand. As I continue off down the street, hurrying to catch up with Maisie, who hovers at the end of a driveway waiting for me, I catch sight of Theo and his death glare.

       CLARA

      The grief comes at me in many ways.

      I spend my mornings with sadness, my evenings in melancholy. In private, I cry. I can’t bring myself to confess to Maisie why Nick is not here, and so I’ve taken to lying, to telling the girl who stands before me with pining eyes that her father has run out, that he’s on an errand, that he’s at work. I rely on tired responses—he’ll be home soon; he’ll be home later—thankful when Maisie smiles and prances gleefully away, telling me okay. Granting me amnesty, a reprieve.