by Ann Minnett
Lark shook her head. Nora escaped. They spent three nights and two more days in the hospital, taking turns for breaks. Diedre's mother often called the dorm room phone to leave a message because Diedre’s mobile phone—rare in the early nineties—was supposedly destroyed in the wreck. For her mother's sake, the girls pretended to have fun in the emptying dorm.
Her final night in the hospital they learned that Diedre had been drugged and then raped by at least three men. Nora and Lark walked out of Boone Hospital, sickened and determined to show solidarity. What could they do to symbolize their profound personal connection with her? Nora devised the perfect tribute.
They picked up Diedre in her own car on Tuesday morning. Nurse Sonja pushed her wheelchair to the front entrance under the portico. She shook her finger at the girls, but she smiled, as did Diedre for the first time in days. Nora and Lark posed beside the opened car door, their left legs resplendent and reddened by new tattoos showing below their cutoffs. The tattooed Bimbettes were now linked forever.
Diedre didn't know her rapists' identities, where the attack happened, or who dumped her in the hospital parking lot. Police reconstructed what might have occurred, judging by the damage to her body and what the doctors explained. If her body hadn't suffered, she'd have been no wiser.
Diedre's body had been an object, ransacked, open to men who not only raped her but treated her like trash… Well. Was it a blessing to have been oblivious? Perhaps. But the not knowing burned like a hole in cloth. The damage she suffered created irrevocable change and slowly spread until singed threads held the fragile garment together.
Everyman became her rapist. Everyman became a threat.
They never caught the guys.
Diedre eventually flew home to Vermont, but Nora and Lark shipped their things home and drove Diedre’s car out of Columbia, Missouri in search of adventure. They armed themselves with Army Surplus knives and headed west. They stayed a month with a friend of a friend near Colorado Springs before finding housekeeping jobs at a tourist court in Estes Park.
Diedre called one night to tell them, “I’m pregnant.” She joined them days later, barely showing but weary. "I don't feel much like a Bimbette anymore," Diedre sighed. "And don’t call me Diedre ever again. All I hear is my long-suffering mother wailing Diedre.”
Nora laughed.
“I’m serious. Do you know what Diedre means?”
The others shook their heads.
“Old Irish for melancholy. Mother explained it in delicious detail when I told them I was pregnant.”
Lark said, “So they know?”
Diedre nodded. “Not how it happened. Just pregnant. Nothing like Irish Catholic guilt to get them what they wanted.”
“Which is what?” Nora asked.
Lark had no clue what Diedre meant either.
“I’m having this baby,” she said, patting her belly. “I’ll give it up, but I just can’t kill it.”
Lark and Nora shared a joint, sitting on the plank floor of a 1940’s cabin they had rented. Diedre sat apart and went outside when the sweet haze became too thick. Lark and Nora had consumed half a bag of Doritos and a can of bean dip by the time their friend returned. Lark asked, “So if you aren’t Diedre, what do we call you?”
Diedre rubbed her arms against the evening chill. “Call me Dee. Plain old Dee.” She sat on Lark’s cot. “Oh, and I decided to become a lesbian from now on.”
One second of silence preceded a burst of laughter from all three.
A week later, they packed up and headed south and west for the winter. Dee’s baby boy was born on February 12th in Santa Fe.
CHAPTER 11
Lark had hardly slept after talking to Dee and Nora about the money. She’d thrashed around in bed, tried to read an assigned article for her essay class, checked her email and Facebook on her laptop, and finally got out of bed around noon to prowl the condo. Her nervous exhaustion turned giddy when she found Zane’s old pocket knife in the kitchen junk drawer.
“Score,” she shouted in the quiet. She opened the rusted three-inch blade. Playfully, she lunged at the hall tree mirror like a fencer engaging an opponent. “En garde!”
"What are you doing?" Zane emerged from his darkened bedroom.
She jumped, and clasped the pocket knife at the seam of her jeans. "I didn't know you were home."
He pulled her fist away from her hip, exposing the dull blade. “Is that my knife?”
Busted and embarrassed, she dropped the knife into his open palm.
"What's going on?" Zane closed the blade and slipped it into his baggy jeans. He hiked them up, but they sank down to his narrow hips.
And she didn't care for the person she had become. As much as she and her sibs had laughed at their parents' pacifism, a gentle concern for the world endured in her. She was a vegetarian, for God's sake, not a slasher. Yet she intended to carry a knife with a three-inch blade that surely would slice her own hand if not another’s. And Zane caught her practicing. Dammit. She changed the subject and peered into the refrigerator.
“It’s Saturday. Why aren't you at Patty's?"
"She has the flu and didn't open up today." He circled his mother. "Didn't you get the text?"
"Text?" She hadn’t checked her phone since yesterday. "Oh right. I forgot."
"What's the matter? Did Mick come back? Has he threatened you again?" Zane puffed his chest, ready to protect his mom. Clearly, Patty's nonviolence hadn't rubbed off on her grandson either.
Lark loved him especially hard right then. "A new man in town has been bothering me."
Zane's body tensed, poised to react.
She waved him down into a chair. "It's okay. It isn't even bad."
Zane sat, but his knees jutted out into the room. “Out with it.”
"But what's bothering me is he sends me cash through the mail." Even she wondered why it bothered her so much. "Someone I don't know, with no message, nothing. Just cash. Anonymously."
"Why?"
"My question exactly."
"How much money?"
"Four envelopes with two thousand dollars total."
"Shit!"
"Don't cuss. Anyway, I found out who's doing it, and Sky and I went out to ask him what the hell's going on."
"Did Sky rough him up?"
"What? No."
Zane started laughing. "Right. Sky beats him up because the guy gave you money. Mom, you're hilarious."
He hurt her feelings.
"The guy kind of scared me." Really, Rob hadn't threatened her at all. Of course, Sky had been there.
"Scared you how?"
"He mentioned the past."
"Jesus, Mom, was he one of your peyote pals?" Zane was laughing at her. He had not been told the real story of why she left college and bummed around the west with her two friends. He chalked it up to Lark’s hippie genetics.
That’s what she wanted him to believe.
"He was not. And I never did peyote." Another white lie. "No, I question his motives. That's all."
Zane's eyebrows raised, finally understanding what he understood. Lark was grateful he stopped asking questions.
"You wouldn't stand a chance in a knife fight, Mom." Zane lunged gracefully, closed knife in hand. "Especially with this bad boy."
"Don't laugh at me." All right, the knife practice embarrassed her, but she’d do whatever it took to shield him from what had happened in Missouri. To her surprise, Zane handed it back to her.
“Here’s your big bad weapon. Are you sure you can handle it?”
She fumbled with the fake bone handle which fit perfectly in her palm.
Zane sighed. “Here’s how not to protect yourself, Mom.” He made an overhand hacking motion, fierce grimace included. “Don’t do that. They make girls do that in movies to look stupid. Hold the knife down at your side, blade pointing at the bad guy, and go for his gut. If the blade lands, yank upward.” Zane thrust the imaginary blade forward, then jerked up. “And do some damage.”
/> His power stunned Lark. “Where did you learn this?” What is this kid capable of? Sharp tools and knives were a way of life on the commune and later on the small farm near Columbia Falls, but ‘doing damage’ had never crossed the lips of her non-violent parents.
Zane stood in front of the open cupboard, milling through cracker boxes and snack bars. “Hmm?”
“Never mind,” she said, pocketing the knife. She wondered who Zane was when she wasn’t around.
* * *
The next few days, Lark worked her jobs, attended court with Zane, kept to herself, and secretly carried the stupid knife as a touchstone. Giving in to a vague unease, she no longer walked the three blocks to McCord’s after dark. If she went at all, she drove. Mostly, she stayed in. She also tried to warn Lulu.
"Well, I never saw any money," Lulu giggled over the phone.
"Did you, do you see anything unusual about him?" If Rob had screwed her sister in some sicko game to get closer to her…
"He's harmless, Lark." Lulu sighed over the phone. "Kind of boring, actually."
Boring for Lulu could mean anything. "Explain. Like how boring?"
"He worries about his dog. Like not completely with me. Know what I mean?"
Lark didn't. "Not rough or weird?"
"What? Are you kidding?" Lulu laughed again.
Lark could tell her sister had lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at her phone.
"Listen, take the money and enjoy. You never have to speak to Rob if you don't want."
Lark thought, a guilty conscience will make anyone nice. Patty's words came out of her mouth. "Don't let him take advantage of you, Lulu. He's hiding something."
"Oh Lark. Get a life." She hung up.
Lulu hurt her feelings, too.
Rob’s probable knowledge about Dee’s rape and his increasing creepiness practically immobilized the three friends. Patty suspected something. Zane might have mentioned it, but Patty was bad, or good depending, about auras. She claimed Lark's aura had dimmed, changing to lavender. And thanks to Lulu, the whole town knew the story about the money.
Meanwhile, Lark became obsessed with Rob. Why, of the three friends, had he targeted her? Both she and Nora stayed only two, maybe three days in Columbia with their fresh tattoos. Rob must be confusing her tattoo with Dee’s. She started freshman year with the outrageous tattoo.
"Why me?" Lark asked the rhetorical question a hundred times. Neither Nora or Dee had answers.
Then one early February day, Dee unsnapped the hairdresser's cape from Lark’s throat and shook platinum hairs onto the floor. Dee hummed along to the soft jazz in the background, stooped and swept the clippings into the dustpan.
"Really. I'm baffled." Lark threw a poncho over her head. "Why me?"
"Maybe it's a God thing. You're the chosen one." Good Catholic girl Dee still talked the talk. She continued to straighten her station. “He can’t see beyond your tattoo.”
The words shifted Lark’s perception and left her dumbstruck. Rob had singled Lark out because she and she alone had the courage to confront him. He didn’t recognize her, all he saw was tattoo.
* * *
Rob lost track of several days, spending time alone with Raven as his sole companion. He slept in later each morning, not knowing what day it was, and typically irritable after late-night drinking. He observed snow fall on top of more snow. Meditation and reading—both meant to soothe his perpetual anxiety—just bored him. He languished in the pitfalls of daytime TV.
One dreadful night, he sat on his closet floor and pressed the spring-loaded kickplate to open a small safe. He fondled the two hand guns inside, thinking, what if? They were loaded. Easy.
But the plain envelope, bumpy and inviting, distracted any thought of self-destruction. He got hard remembering what the envelope contained.
* * *
Rob awoke to sunshine and thought, hell no, he wouldn't permanently disappear. "If I want to kill myself, I'll rub sirloin over my body and run into the forest."
Raven stared expectantly.
"Not you, Raven. I'll never do that to you."
With Raven on his heels, Rob took to the woods, trudging miles on snow shoes and mulling how to make Lark understand he was a good guy now. She made him so damn mad. He had burned his bridges, and left a sketchy life behind. He yearned for empathy to his problem. Lark's scorn, the whole shitty event weighed on his dream of starting over and being a good guy. He couldn't let it go. How could he explain in a way that downplayed his own shortcomings? His guilt? He wanted her to appreciate him.
People change, you know. But how to enlighten her without looking like an impotent pussy? Rob knew Lark suspected him. How does a man convince a woman he isn’t a rapist?
Why else would his grandmother's Bible-thumping righteousness speak to him in the forest? Thou protesteth too much. Shakespeare? He imagined so.
At dark, he let Raven out to run off any left-over energy. Threw sticks and a fluorescent ball she retrieved expertly. He wore her out, crated her, and drove into town for dinner. Just for dinner, he told himself.
Christ, he couldn't stand that woman.
* * *
Drinks and more drinks calmed Rob’s spirits at the Whitefish Lake Lodge overlooking the icy shoreline. The ambiance of flickering candlelight cozied and quieted the diners, himself included. Lights from mansions on Lion Mountain extended in long reflections across the lake. Maybe he’d buy a place overlooking the lake. He could afford it.
He had worn a nice sweater and down vest and trimmed his moustache and beard which had tufted at his ears. He cleaned up well, and bartender Cindi obviously approved. Sunday was not a slow night at The Lodge, but she paid him considerable attention as he complained how Lark (not by name) hadn’t respected him. Cindi sympathized, shook her long ponytail in disgust that some women can be such bitches. She cocked a shapely hip in disbelief. Who could blame Rob for “only trying to help a woman in need?” Cindi said it herself.
He ordered dinner at the bar just to keep talking, since Cindi was a good listener. The two of them hashed it out and by his last bite of sirloin, he struck on a great idea. He settled his bill and bar tab with all the cash in his wallet. Now there was a woman who appreciated his generosity.
Rob knocked on Lark's front door ten minutes later.
"Zane, if that's one of your friends, it's just too late..." He could tell she shouted for the benefit of whoever knocked at ten o'clock.
Zane answered the door in his boxers and t-shirt. "Hey."
"Oh, hey. Remember me? I was here the night you had a fight and—"
"I remember." The kid straightened to full height.
"Who is it?" Lark remained out of sight.
"You're the dude who gave Mom money." He opened the door farther.
"That's me."
"What's up with that, man?" Hand on hip, an imposing, if gangly figure.
"It's a long sto—"
"Cool." Zane didn't move.
"Is your mom—"
Papers fluttered behind the kid, scattering across the floor. Lark said, "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Chill, Mom." Zane blocked her from Rob's view and asked him, "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here to explain. I don't want to scare you or your mom. I'll stand right here and talk." He shifted position, but the kid nudged him in the chest, which pissed him off royally. Rob kept his temper, backing up. He caught a glimpse of Lark's hands, gripping papers.
"Not another step," she said.
"Mom, I got this."
"Not another step," Rob echoed. He kept his hands at his sides, but he wanted to smack the punk kid.
"It's after ten o'clock." She waved a pen at him. "I have to finish my essay for class tomorrow. I'm busy."
"I had no idea of the time. I'm a little lost." Rob hadn't meant to tell her that at all, so he smiled broadly to cover.
She slid the security chain into place, blocking Rob from entering. "Zane, go to your room, but call nine-one
-one if anything strange happens out here."
He backed into his room, giving Rob what they used to call a hairy eyeball.
"Close your door, Zane," she said.
Rob hadn't moved. "What can I do to make you less afraid?" Didn’t she know he could bust through the door and unhinge her precious chain lock? He wanted to bust through and laugh at her. What would she think then?
"Go away, for one."
"I will as soon as I explain,” he said.
"What did you mean about Missouri?"
"I went to school at Mizzou. The Business School." He paused, thinking Lark lacked her family’s good looks, or Cindi’s for that matter. "I thought you looked familiar from back in college."
"Bullshit. I don't know you." She sidestepped out of view for a few seconds to light a cigarette. She returned and blew smoke at the chain separating them. "Dee and Nora don't recognize you either." Funny how a lit cigarette gave her attitude. She leveled a mean stare at him. That's it, she's a mean bitch.
He tamped her anger with both hands, calm, calm. "I recognized your big ol’ tattoo."
"My tattoo?"
"Remember when I saw you in the Winter Carnival Parade? I recognized your tattoo from college." His confidence built, shoulders slid down his back, and he spoke more evenly, but his thick tongue lolled in his mouth. "I mean, that tattoo stood out back then. No one could forget it. Then."
Her gaze dropped. Did she have to make this so damn hard?
"That was you, right? The bird and flower tattoos on your leg?" He stooped to brush his calf, lost balance, and staggered a step or two. Did she see that?
She exhaled. "You're drunk."
"Not me!" he lied. "I heard you had money troubles. Pardon my clumsy attempt to help out a fucking fellow Mizzou Tiger." He smiled, hoping for her acceptance of his lame explanation. Failing to find what he sought, he added, "An awkward gesture for sure."
She simply sucked on the cigarette like a straw.
He conjured up false sincerity he had practiced with Cindi not an hour earlier. That melting of the eyebrows and impish half smile had gotten him laid untold times. Did he appear charming now? Her lack of response meant no.