The Lifeguards(49)

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THE BAILEY HOUSE WAS one of the original ranchers. It was in OK repair, needed a new roof, the front lawn a bit overgrown but not unkempt, a gorgeous live oak well watered and healthy in the corner of the lot. There was no car in the driveway. This was the kind of house Salvatore dreamed of, actually. If only he’d bought one like this in 2000, or before the boom, anyway.

There wasn’t anything wrong with Slaughter Lane (besides the name—my God! Were his kids really going to grow up between Slaughter Lane and Convict Hill Road?). Honestly, his “way South” neighborhood was made up of guys like him, guys who’d grown up in Zilker or Hyde Park and couldn’t get near Central Austin with a normal salary. But he missed these streets, living in a place where you could bike to Barton Springs and jump in anytime you wanted. The Barton Creek Greenbelt was the heart of the city.

Salvatore slowed and parked across the street. Framed by what might be the living-room window, he saw a woman at a desk, pecking at the keyboard of a laptop. She was in her mid-to late thirties, closer to his age than he’d realized. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears as she focused intently on her computer, the screen’s glow lighting her face.

Salvatore’s eyes widened. He knew this woman. From his memory, he heard her speak her name, playing with the label on her Shiner beer, tucking that short hair behind her ear: I’m Liza. Hey.

Liza.

Elizabeth Bailey.

It was so long ago, before he’d even met Jacquie. He and Liza—Elizabeth Bailey—had danced together, both pretty buzzed, the fabric of her dress silky in his hands. Her lips had tasted salty, pressed to his. Her hips, underneath his fingers. He’d lived in a cramped apartment then, and in the morning she was gone. They hadn’t exchanged numbers. He had no way to find her. He’d actually thought about her—the woman he’d met at a Damnations concert—for a long time.

Liza Bailey.

An almost—but not quite—forgotten lover, now before him, the mother of a murder suspect.

Liza stopped typing, placed her chin in her hand and gazed out the window, lost in thought. She wore a gauzy white blouse that skimmed her cream-colored skin. He had kissed a freckle on that collarbone.

Salvatore watched her for a moment, overcome with yearning. For her? For who he’d been, a young man who could get drunk at a Damnations show? For a life where anything was still possible?

Salvatore swallowed. He had to do his job, which was interview Liza Bailey. He gathered himself.

He approached the front door and knocked. She did not answer. He knocked again, but there was no reply. Stepping back, Salvatore saw that Liza had shut the shades to the room where she was working. Knowing she was inside made him feel a weird, hot thrill. He peered into the side yard, spying a Big Green Egg smoker next to an outdoor dining set. The smoker was filmy with pollen and one of the patio chairs had fallen over on its side. It had been over 90 for a month, so it made sense that nobody had been grilling recently.

“Hello?”

Salvatore turned. An older man was walking toward him from the house next door. He was heavyset, his hair in a long braid. “Can I help you?” he asked, crossing his arms. Why he was wearing wool socks and Birkenstock sandals in the insane heat was a mystery that was not Salvatore’s to solve.

“I’m Detective Revello,” said Salvatore, pulling out his badge.

The man peered at it; his brow furrowed. He nodded, seemingly satisfied, but his arms remained crossed. “Yes?” he said.

“I’m trying to find Elizabeth Bailey,” said Salvatore. “But she’s not answering her door.”

“As far as I can tell, you’re trespassing,” said the man.

Salvatore rubbed his eyes, dismayed by the neighbor’s antagonism. “Can I ask you a few questions?” said Salvatore.

“No, you may not,” said the man.

Salvatore handed the man his card. “Well, give me a call if you change your mind,” he said. “I’d appreciate it very much.”

“Goodbye,” the neighbor said. He stood sentinel on Liza Bailey’s lawn, watching Salvatore like a hawk until he drove away.

I’m Liza. Hey.

Salvatore saw her in his mind’s eye, thought of her naked on the futon he’d discarded long ago, the pale green sheets, her eyes looking up at him, giving him a sly grin as she moved down his body…

Salvatore pulled over. He looked at himself in his rearview mirror: grizzled, perspiring, old. He was an adult. With adult responsibilities. He tried to dispel the thought of the mother of a murder suspect with her lips opening to his. Her tongue.





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    Barton Hills Mamas


CHARDONNAYISMYJAM

Does anyone know how early a child can be tested for dyslexia? Lulu Rosemary is three and when I do her letter work in the mornings, she consistently thinks the “B” is a “P”! I’m so freaked out but I don’t want to scar her by seeming alarmed. I try to be low-key and gently correct her. I know BHE has a great dyslexia specialist (part of the reason we moved here from Boston in the first place!). Can I contact her now? I do feel it’s important to intervene early so Lulu Rosemary doesn’t fall behind. Help!



LIBRARIANMUM

I think what’s important now is for you to read to Lulu Rosemary and instill a love of books. The rest will fall into place! Join us at “Story Time” at the Twin Oaks Branch of the Austin Public Library every morning at ten!