by Ann Minnett
Of course, there was Birch, who died before his second birthday. Lark shook her head clear of those memories and started walking toward Baker Avenue.
Patty and Samuel meant well, giving the kids one-of-a-kind names. Most folks never bothered with their last name. Lark’s best friend Dee suggested she split her distinctive name and become Lark Spur. Of course, then she'd have to become a stripper.
Lark skated, arms extended for balance, daring shadowed Baker Avenue to knock her on her butt as she crossed. She had never been so angry at her son, nor this frightened. She shuddered recalling how he came at her like a zombie and how quickly he turned into a playful son. Playful? No. He had shown her his superior strength, dominant and unafraid.
Her shoe slipped sideways, but she caught her balance on a No Parking sign. She turned down one block and then left into McCord's where her friends hung out most evenings. She dried her cheeks and entered. Lark was nothing if not composed.
Neon beer signs, the smell of old wood, and the crisp colliding of billiard balls welcomed her inside the locals' bar. Here she might escape her shitty life for one damn hour and act like her old confident self.
McCord's owners made no accommodations toward ambiance. Still, the lighting did forgive crevices around tired eyes and the pallor that Lark took on in winter. The bi-level haircut Dee had talked her into made her appear more edgy and flirty than she felt. The tired imposter smoothed Cherry Chap Stick on rough lips for color and snaked her way to their usual table.
Nora's barstool leaned precariously toward affable Kirk. Her new old husband worked on the ski mountain in maintenance by day and dealt poker at the Lone Wolf on Friday and Saturday nights. Nora had latched onto him his second night in town "before someone else did." Neither Lark nor Dee thought Nora had much to worry about, but love was blind. Kirk had a bitter ex-wife and adult children who shunned Nora and refused to attend their wedding at the Stillwater Grange Hall. Kirk likely did something awful to their mother years ago, but he proved to be protective of Nora and was a decent dad to their two toddlers.
Lark slid into the chair next to Dee, who watched the May-December couple in silence. She harbored a long-standing disapproval of Kirk's cap. He hadn't appeared in public without a hat perched above his spindly pony tail since he joined their group.
"I'm surprised to see you on a school night." Dee's pearlized manicure flashed finger quotes around school night.
"Right." Lark sucked in her stomach and squared her shoulders. "Mondays are busy and Tuesdays worse." She examined her bloody knee before sitting down. It hurt.
"What is it, Lark?" Nora always was the sensitive one.
"I fell on the walk over."
Both friends leaned across the table, excluding Kirk from the huddle to look at her exposed and scraped knee.
“Be right back,” she said. She held up one finger to the bartender on her way to the restroom.
Lark hiked up her short skirt, stripped off her tights and threw them away. The scrape cleaned up painfully with a sequence of damp and then dry paper towels pressed against her kneecap. The potential scab and scar wouldn’t interfere with the ankle-to-knee tattoo adorning that leg. She and her friends had been through too much to mess up the identical tattoo they each wore.
She tugged at the hem of her denim skirt which covered her butt with little to spare. She glanced in the mirror. Gawd-awful black eyeliner smudged both lower lids. She swiped at raccoon eyes and pinched her sallow cheeks for color. She went back out, determined to have a good time.
When Lark sat down, Dee said, "You look tired." She sipped her usual can of Diet Coke.
"Well, I am, and it's been a long damn day." The others waited in silence. Her voice broke. "Okay, it's Zane."
"Here you go, darlin'" The server's deep Cajun accent sounded totally foreign to her ear, but Lark’s usual Wheatfish Lager appeared like magic on the table.
"What did that kid do this time?" Dee relaxed into her seat back.
On the walk over, Lark vowed not to mention what happened. She talked about him too much as it was—the little bit of good, and lately the increasing amount of bad. Nora advised tough love like a broken record. Dee remained steadfastly in Zane's corner, no matter how shitty his behavior. Like when he’d stayed out overnight last summer, supposedly camping with his buddy Mason. Lark had filed a missing person report, so sick with worry that Dee had to fill out the form for her. He strolled into the condo the following morning as if nothing had happened, stumbled past his mom without a word, and tumbled onto his bed. Dee had quietly straightened a comforter over his shoulders, but Lark shoved him off the twin bed and demanded to know where he'd really been. He never told her.
No, Lark could do without her friends’ uninformed opinions on raising a teenager. Just give me one hour to be only me, she thought. I'll deal with him in the morning.
"It's nothing. Teenagers." She waved away the comment and straightened, sitting as tall as the oblivious Kirk. She used to feel strong, emotionally stable for sure. Lately she wondered.
Nora scooted off her chair to hug Lark's shoulders. "Take your jacket off and stay a while."
"What a fine idea." Lark left her striped scarf wrapped around her neck, not because of McCord's notorious drafts, but on the chance Zane had bruised her. "Hey, Kirk, what's happening on the mountain?" She smiled at his visible relief as the drama lessened around the table.
"Lark, honey, we're busy." Kirk drew Nora close to his stout body.
A twinge of envy shot through Lark, softening her vision. She liked Kirk for the most part and respected his careful patience with her friend.
His face brightened and scraggly eyebrows shot up as his gaze moved beyond their table. "Hey, Brian, over here," Kirk said, waving a burly arm. “Come meet these lovely ladies.”
Dee glanced over Lark's shoulder and sighed.
Lark took a deep swallow of her beer. Well, all right.
* * *
Her alarm clock finally displayed 5:00 a.m. She hadn't slept and felt mildly tipsy—thirsty and nervous more than anything. What the hell had she done?
Lark poked ebony toenails into Brian's rear end and said, "You need to go." Brian's bristly head thudded face down in her pillow. Again, she kicked at the broad-shouldered twenty-something in her bed, scratching his calf.
He grunted, squinting at her. "’Kay."
She smoked the cigarette violently, thoroughly, and stubbed it out as the goddam kid shoved his bowed arms into a t-shirt and fleece. She looked away when he rocked out of her bed and hoisted his pants up. He finally skulked out of her bedroom and through the front door without a word.
What the hell was the matter with her? She never brought home a man when Zane was in the house. What the hell was the matter with Zane, other than his screwed-up mother? She tossed her flannel robe over her shoulders and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. She gulped two full glasses. The light over her range dimly illuminated a spotless sink and counter tops. Zane had gone so far as to fold the pizza box into the trash and wipe up the usual Dr. Pepper spills.
Zane had made nice after their… what? Their fight? Confrontation?
And she had brought home what’s-his-name. Brian. Vividly, she recalled a sliver of light at Zane’s bedroom door when she came in drunk and his blaming stare. Cheek against the cool fridge, she closed her eyes, wishing to sleep standing up like a horse. She actually dozed off, but buckling knees woke her with a jerk at five-fifteen.
Her bland attempt at self-directed pep talk consisted of, "Might as well get an early start on the day."
Tuesday morning meant cleaning the house Sky was care-taking over the winter. More than likely, he wore an equally shabby robe at this moment and watched Fox News.
Lark drank a third glass of water and left to take a shower while a pot of coffee brewed. She stripped her bed and returned to the kitchen to find Zane drinking from her dad's handmade coffee mug. Her mug. Lately, Zane drank coffee loaded with milk and sugar. It certainly
hadn’t stunted his growth, she thought with a brief, prideful smile. He poured half a bottle of syrup over a stack of toaster waffles.
"Are there any left?" Meaning waffles. She felt starved, remembering she drank her dinner the night before.
"What do you think?"
"I think you ate the whole box."
"Correct. So why ask?" His sly face turned arrogant. Her fifteen-year-old thief-of-a-son had claimed the moral high ground.
She sighed. "To make conversation with you. That's all."
He swallowed huge mouthfuls in silence. She left him and cowered in the kitchen, separated by a pass-through under the cabinets. There she choked down peanut butter and jelly toast.
Her world had changed in twenty-four hours. Hell, her world could change in one minute. She knew that, but this world menaced her. Thunderstruck and numb, she wondered what happened to the peace that enveloped her when she made right decisions. It had long gone, replaced by the knowledge she had messed up royally. She let Zane down, again, and had to make it right.
“I’m walking,” Zane said and slammed the front door on his way out. An hour early for school, she noted. She usually drove him, but maybe it was better not to today.
Lark scooted to the carport in pre-dawn, unplugged the engine heater cable, and started her ancient Outback right up. She phoned her brother before backing out. "Hey, Skyrocket, I’m on my way. Put on the coffee."
His TV garbled in the background. "I'll be here. Take it easy on 93, sister."
His concern tempered her sadness. She had to talk to someone, and Sky would know what to do about Zane.
CHAPTER 2
Twenty minutes later, Lark pulled into a long dirt driveway and met Sky's truck on his way out. His exhaust spouted clouds in the cold gray dawn.
He rolled down his window and said, "The couple I showed around yesterday called. They want to make an offer on the Bridger House. Got to go in early. Sorry." He grinned, freshly shaved, black felt cowboy hat in place low on his forehead. His glasses couldn’t dim a deadly handsomeness. He and Lulu got all the good genes, she thought.
"No worries," she said, disappointed.
"Give 'em hell." He roared away.
If he had let her spill her guts, he'd suggest a firmer hand with Zane—like the boot camp out by Kila where rich folks from Texas and Californicate (his term) sent their problem kids.
"Just as well," she muttered. She pulled up to the comfortable lodge where Sky currently lived. When Sky’s ex-wife kept the house after their divorce, he house-sat throughout the valley and sold real estate to get back on his feet. He fell on tough times with the crash in the market for second homes and continued his vagabond lifestyle.
Lark cleaned his houses, but Sky hardly mussed his temporary quarters. Bed covers resembled an unused envelope, turned down to show that he had slept there, yet flat and straight-cornered. The kitchen, always wiped down. Other than the toilet seat left up, Sky was meticulous to a fault. Clean in body and right-wing in spirit, her younger brother went against everything their parents stood for.
Lark teased him about being adopted, but he clearly had the strong Horne imprint. Square jaw, chestnut waves of hair, quick lopsided smiles with teeth that never needed straightening. Sky pulled off the look better than Lark. So did their little sister Lulu, the stunner in the family.
Their dad Samuel died young. He had failed at hardscrabble farming and became a fishing guide. He drowned on the Flathead River's Middle Fork, attempting to rescue a Japanese tourist who had offered big money when the mountain runoff made navigation unsafe. Their mother Patty sold their little farm and moved the kids into Columbia Falls for a life of less work against the elements, less loneliness, and fewer ghosts.
Lark turned twelve in the clapboard cottage on Nucleus Street. She and baby Lulu shared the big bedroom. Their mom took the small one, and Sky slept out on the makeshift back porch, that had been studded in by previous owners. Patty had crammed newspaper between the boards for insulation and finished the room by nailing plywood inside and out all around. She waited for spring to saw out a window. Lark’s theory: Sky's childhood room strongly affected his need for natural light and meticulous order in adulthood.
Tender memories came unbidden in Lark’s weariness. Deep snow dolloped off the roof of the log home she needed to clean. Rustic log furniture sat sheltered under the porch’s overhang, as if anyone would venture outside in Montana’s bitter winter.
Lark could not stop the memories.
Sky had not been the only boy. Birch came along when Sky was six, a year before Lulu. When Lark allowed thoughts of her childhood, her family's off-the-grid life with four little kids seemed difficult, if not harsh. Patty appeared unfazed by hardships and let them run wild, leaving her oldest, Lark, to fret about the younger ones, and she hated her mother for it. She dragged Birch along without joy and had been happy the summer Birch learned to walk. His first steps toddled around humps of bear grass, trailing the older, faster kids running toward their secret hideout.
She had turned around to say, "Hurry up, kiddo."
He landed hard on his bottom among the abundant yellow creeper and daisy-like fleabane, his baby-fine hair waving in the warm breeze. He giggled and swatted at tall grass. An interesting object had caught his attention, just like a hundred, no, a thousand times before. She had let him play. She didn't check until he had already swallowed what Dr. Kulsveen later identified as a handmade nail. She didn't check until Birch coughed, then gagged. Blood pooled in his slick mouth. She pounded on his back, couldn't reach a finger far enough to dislodge what he had swallowed. Lark cradled their baby brother's torso and Sky grabbed his legs, and they ran jerky steps through the hilly pasture toward home. When they spotted the house's steep green roof, they began to scream and scream…
A loud thud and screeching metal on metal snapped Lark’s head off the steering wheel and out of her past. How long had she lingered with the engine idling?
Out on the highway a blue SUV had hit a deer near where the dirt driveway merged. The animal lay in the road, and the mailbox and post both wedged under the car. Lark shut off the engine and ran toward the accident. The SUV backed off the mailbox and pulled safely onto the driveway. The driver got out and opened the rear hatch before she reached him.
"Is everyone all right?" She recognized one of the Haggard brothers who lived in a family compound a few miles up the road.
Jed Haggard's wild hair sprouted out the bottom of his skull cap. "I hit a doe." He sounded disgusted. "We're fine, but she's suffering."
The deer's back legs dragged in her struggle to stand and flee. Lark couldn't watch.
"This is Julie's car,” he said, “and my rifle's in my truck. I'm taking Gracie to school and on the way to work. Will you call the sheriff for someone to come out and kill this doe?"
"Sure. You go on." Lark waved at Jed's second-grader in the back seat while he surveyed the car's grill.
"Damage?"
"Not too bad. A headlight and quarter panel."
The doe had dragged herself into the ditch by then, safely out of other cars' paths.
"I sure hate that," he said.
They waved goodbye, and she ran to the car for her phone to report the accident.
The doe's agony plagued Lark's thoughts and hampered her work for the next half hour while she cleaned the house that didn’t need cleaning. Finally, a single gunshot echoed in the valley. She looked out the window above the kitchen sink to see a burly, bald deputy walk toward the raised trunk lid of his cruiser and secure a rifle inside. Once in the car, he spoke into his radio, made a U-turn, and sped toward Whitefish.
After another hour of light dusting and swabbing the four untouched bathrooms and kitchen (Sky had changed the bed), Lark left for home.
A black extended cab truck with Montana plates blocked the driveway up by the road. The driver had stopped to take photos of the deer carcass in the ditch, now supporting the weight of three bald eagles. Each stood almost three
feet tall, heads swiveling. Ravens squawked and scampered on the periphery and waited for the eagles to eat their fill. Magpies perched on the fence lines, waiting their turn—always last. The birds had all day to eat their fill before larger predators came out after dark.
She pulled in behind the truck, expecting the driver to notice her. He didn't, so she got out and approached the driver's side. All three eagles flapped about ten feet from the carcass and landed on a fence rail. A black-haired man in the truck twisted toward the spectacle, capturing the action on his smart phone. She knocked on the window, startling him.
He let his window down. "You scared the hell out of me."
"Quite a sight, isn't it." His huge truck required a step-up and handgrip to get in. She looked straight up into his nostrils and fledgling beard. "I'm behind you and need to leave."
He glanced into his rearview mirror. "Oh, I didn't see you. This is the most amazing thing I've seen since I moved here." Sports talk played on his radio… something about Seahawks.
"I just need to get by." She adjusted her woolen cap and sunglasses. She smiled. “Welcome to another day in paradise."
His truck fired up—a diesel. "Take care, now." He pulled out onto the highway toward town, and she followed, vaguely aware he watched her in the rearview mirror. He drove too slowly on the snow packed road to be local. Lark briefly wondered why this newbie’s truck had Glacier National Park custom plates. At the stoplight in town, he drove straight ahead toward Spokane Avenue when she turned left on Baker.
She should have kept going straight, too… to her Tuesday math class. But she hadn’t done any of the homework and simply couldn’t face the drive to Kalispell and back when she worried about Zane. Not for the hated math. She parked in her open carport, determined to take charge.