Mothers and Other Liars by Amy Bourret

behind the column, he takes her hand. “Ready?” As if she could ever be ready for this.
    They step over a shin-high chain barrier and take quick, determined strides across the court house lawn, hand in hand, toward the side parking lot. Ruby’s instinct is to run, flee, but John’s hand steadies her. “Just keep looking forward, keep calm,” he says.
    Two reporters leave the sidewalk in pursuit, as if in a race to see who mows her down first. A chubby man huffs up beside John, shirt-tails flapping and chinos sagging below his bouncing belly. On Ruby’s side, a blonde, coiffed hair bobbed at her chin, approaches with mincing steps, legs constrained by a tight scarlet suit. Stiletto-heeled Barbie shoes churn up divots in her wake. “Ms. Leander,” she calls, “what do you want to say to the parents of the child you stole?” The voice is barfly-rough, a surprise from such a perky, petite body. “Ruby, what do you have to say?”
    Ruby just hums the daffy song and concentrates on John’s sure grip of her hand. He weaves her through the scattering of cars left at day’s end in the government lot toward an old white Land Cruiser, a spiderweb of cracked windshield sparkling in the sun. John yanks open the passenger door, helps Ruby inside. Before she can buckle her seat belt, he is climbing in the driver’s seat, tossing his briefcase in the back.
    “Good thing I drove today.” The engine spurts to life. “I usually just walk over from my office, but I ran an errand before court.”
    In the side mirror, Ruby watches the little red reporter pat her helmet hair in place. “Well,” she says, with fake cheer, “My grandmother always said life is an adventure or it is nothing at all.” Of course the old bird’s definition of adventure was trying a new hybrid of tomato plant.

THIRTY-EIGHT
    John drives a circuitous route to Ruby’s house. He checks the rearview mirror, trying to spot any cars tailing them. Mrs. Levy transferred the house to Ruby through a trust, so it may take the media awhile to locate the address, but they will find it, in this world of computer search engines. Ruby grips the strap above the door as John takes corners as if he were drag racing. Nausea roils in her stomach, yet this is no morning sickness that will pass after a few saltines.
    They are all there when John drops off Ruby at her house. The Ms, Chaz, Antoinette. And Clyde. The dog leaps off the front porch, barrels down the drive to greet her, almost knocks her on her can. He jumps up, puts his front paws on her shoulders, gives a quick lick to every inch of exposed skin, then races back up to the porch ahead of her, barking, “She is home, she is home.” When he reaches the porch, Clyde spins around on his heels and looks beyond Ruby. The confusion and disappointment register on his face; his other human is not home.
    The Ms grab Ruby in a two-sided hug; Margaret pats Ruby’s cheek with pruney fingers—she hasn’t been away from the salon for long. Chaz elbows Margaret aside, jokes, “Hey, you’ve got your own girl.” He squeezes Ruby, lifts her until her feet dangle and the shoes she borrowed from Antoinette fall to the porch. He sets her back on her feet, gives her a loud, smacking kiss. His lips taste of beer and worry.
    Ruby steps toward the door, then turns back. She can’t do it, can’t go inside that Larkless house. Chaz breaks her fall as she crumples to the porch, pulling him down with her. She lays her head in his lap as if she were a child. In the corner of the porch ceiling, Louie, Lark’s “pet” bat, hangs upside down, undisturbed by the commotion, sleeping until the prime hunting hours. She wonders if he misses Lark, too.
    She doesn’t know how long she lies there. At some point the Ms and Antoinette leave, whispering good-byes and promises to call later. With Clyde whimpering beside them, Ruby stays there in Chaz’s lap. Her legs fall asleep. Her back muscles tighten into knots of wood. The bat takes