Fifteen Years of Lies

by Ann Minnett

  "That's it?" she said.

  "That's it. No strings." Rob stepped back and nearly tumbled off her tiny porch. He flailed, catching his balance.

  "I spent it. All of it." Smoke billowed out the opening.

  No, she hadn't. He wanted to laugh in her face, but he said, "Good. That was the fucking plan." He turned to leave. Stopped. "Just tell me this. What do the tattoos signify, if you don't mind me asking?" He had always wondered, ever since that night.

  "None of your fucking business."

  What a bitch, after all he'd done. He nodded like a robot. "Fair enough. Good night." Bitchity bitch bitch cunt. One eye stared holes through him from under the chain, but he wasn't finished. "Do you know your boot's untied?" He could see long laces stuffed inside her boot along with her jeans cuff.

  She showed him her bandaged hand. "So?"

  God, such an unpleasant bitch.

  He nodded and turned toward his truck. The door shut and the dead bolt lock clicked behind him.

  Christ, she had it coming, he thought. She must have really pissed off some guys back in the day. She certainly pushed all his buttons, and he hardly knew the bitch.

  A simple thank you might have cleared his conscience. But no.

  He was done being nice.

  CHAPTER 12

  Lark got home late from work Monday morning. The lazy-assed insurance office staff left a huge coffee stain under their conference room table for her to scrub up. Behind schedule and not happy, she bought Zane a Mocha Frappuccino at Cowgirl Coffee on the drive to school as an apology for handing him three power bars in place of a cooked breakfast. She would have loved to kiss him goodbye, but settled for a tepid "Have a great day," before he slammed the car door without acknowledging her. She knew better than to take it personally. At his age, that's about all she could expect. But she was damn sick of it.

  Zane ambled toward the school’s front entrance, head down and sweatshirt hood up. The tallest kid on the sidewalk, his backpack draped heavily from one shoulder like he'd packed for a weekend campout. A short girl in leggings and knee-length sweater merged onto the wide sidewalk with him. His long arm snaked around her shoulders, catching her dark ponytail. She flipped it out and leaned into Zane's sore ribs—at the spot where he hollered when Lark even breathed on him. Zane held the girl close.

  Lark felt... what? She didn't know what she felt. Her life flowed at warp speed, and she had little if any control over its trajectory. It was just a matter of time before Zane had a girlfriend. She knew that. But he hadn't told her. Oh hell. Why would he?

  Back at home, she made a pot of coffee, showered, and dressed for her nine o'clock appointment to clean Alice's already spotless home.

  * * *

  Alice hadn't yet left for the office when Lark entered her bright kitchen. "Come have a cup before you start." Alice patted a paisley place mat and poured a mug for... the client or the housekeeper? Lark wondered. As much as she enjoyed Alice's company, the woman prevented her from getting the job done quickly and leaving.

  She sat as directed.

  "They found all but two guns in the Eidsvoldts' wood shed behind a row of rickety firewood. Mick stashed the electronics in a basement storage room. He copped to it all and admitted pawning an old revolver in Great Falls the day after the burglary. They're tracking it down now."

  "Is he still in jail?" Lark-the-client fidgeted, imagining what Mick might do if he were free.

  "He's in jail. No money, no way to make bail, and his parents are done fooling with him. 'Teach him a lesson,' his mean old man says." Alice sipped from her cafe-au-lait. "I think they're as sick of him as the rest of us are."

  “So it's over."

  "Not exactly." Alice's plain gold wedding band tapped her coffee mug. She leveled her business persona fisheye, and Lark's breath caught.

  "The Hensens are suing you and Zane for damages."

  Lark sucked in air.

  "They can verify that the swords…," Alice donned her glasses and read from a page stapled to several others. "Let's see. Here it is. ‘…which were crafted in the late 1700s in Sheffield, England, suffered gouges in the shaft handle of one and an emerald was pried from the other.'"

  Lark rested her forehead on Alice's slate table top. She wanted to bang it over and over and—

  "Then there's the issue of the upholstery and wooden furniture which was scarred, allegedly by the swords."

  Lark raised her head and lowered it again in defeat.

  Alice peered from her saucer-like glasses. "The wooden furniture: one poker table, three chairs, two side tables, a custom mahogany stair rail, and—you get the idea—must be restored. The pillows, sofa cushions, and leather inlays," Alice once again paused, allowing the damages to sink into Lark, "must be replaced."

  A headache exploded over one eye socket. "How much?"

  "The damages?" Alice flipped a page. "Forty-seven thousand dollars."

  Gut punched. "Jan Hensen knows I don't have that kind of money."

  "Of course she does."

  "Then why?"

  Alice tossed her glasses onto the stapled pages. "They're pissed. They want to make an example of Zane." She rubbed her make-up free eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose in deep thought. "They also want punitive damages of a hundred thousand. We can get the numbers down and settle."

  "But I can't afford half, no, one-tenth that amount. I can't even pay you."

  Lark pounded her injured hand on the table top, which hurt like hell. The aroma of pork sausage made Lark gag, but she went to the sink for something to do. Two juice glasses and two small bowls should be placed in the dishwasher, but she rounded the island, running her hand along the textured granite edge, and broke down crying instead. Elbows on the counter, she bent over and gave up.

  "What the fuck. What the fuck. What the…" The mantra got lost in her snotty nose.

  Alice's strong hands guided Lark to the breakfast nook's bench seat and rubbed between her shoulder blades. Lark's shoulder sank into Alice's cushy hip, her hammered temple rested at the woman's waist. A damp dish towel appeared at her face which she used to mask out the world and relax into Alice's maternal curves. Here was a woman to rely upon. Lark had been the go-to woman since her little brother’s death, but she lacked the strength to show up for herself now. She blew her nose until it bled pink into the cotton towel.

  "I give up. Zane and I will escape to Canada."

  Alice stepped away. "The hell you will. You'll get through this, my dear." She jammed one hand into her softened waistline like a teapot handle, the other rustled stapled pages. She dropped them dismissively. "You've been through worse." Alice's tan eyes with inky pupils, lasered the message, no funny business.

  Yes. She had been through worse.

  "What we have here is just a matter of money, my dear."

  Lark laughed feebly. "Easy for you to say."

  Alice flinched. "Lark, some folks have more money than you. So what?"

  "Don't tell me that money can't buy—"

  "Don't you dare!" Alice jabbed the air. "Don't you dare trivialize your life or your hard work. You've earned love and respect, and just because your kid went fucking nuts one night, don't think you deserve to piss away what you've built."

  Not even Sky talked to her like that. Lark drew a deep breath, ashamed of herself. Grateful, yet scared.

  Alice sat with fanfare, shoving up forest green sweater sleeves, which Lark now noticed highlighted her pale eyes, along with flushed cheeks. Morning sunlight created a silver aura around the aging attorney's head.

  Auras. I'm my mother's daughter, Lark thought.

  "I discussed the lawsuit with Chet this morning, and here's what we propose." Alice prepared for action: glasses on, pen in hand, and notebook open to a numbered, hand-written outline.

  "I can never repay you." Lark blew her nose and rolled up the damp towel for the laundry later. "Never."

  "We'll see about that."

  Alice replenished their cups and did all
the talking.

  * * *

  Lark shuffled to her car at twelve-thirty having spent a few minutes vacuuming, which Alice professed to hate. She also changed the master bedroom sheets and towels. Those simple tasks sapped her energy. When Alice left for her office, she insisted that Lark go home.

  Alice had emerged as an immovable force in Lark’s downhill life. Thank God, a positive force at that. She drove past Ozzy's Pets and spotted Patty's car. On a whim, she parked, wanting to share the lawsuit news with her mother before she heard it from some busybody.

  Patty offered Lark leftover hummus and crackers. Her powdered cheeks blotched on hearing about the lawsuit. She slapped the table, jostling the simple meal and reminding Lark that Peacenik Patty could turn violent if someone threatened her kids. She had slashed their drunken neighbor’s thigh with a broken pop bottle when he tripped into their mud room one night, brandishing a key and wicked leer at fourteen-year-old Lark.

  "Don't worry." With a finger, Lark scooped some avocado hummus to distract her mother. It worked.

  "What are you going to do?" Patty shoved food into her mouth and licked her thumb. Emotional eating had padded her tall frame over the years. She described herself as zaftig and didn't let it bother her.

  "Alice has a strategy to reduce the punitive amount."

  Her mother abruptly stopped eating.

  "We'll settle, I guess."

  Patty became agitated, glancing around the small room crowded with pet grooming equipment and supplies. Bells around one ankle tinkled with her steps. She opened a drawer in a reclaimed side board and took out a lighter and dried sage.

  Lark dreaded what came next.

  "Stay where you are, Larkspur." Patty rested a firm hand on Lark's tired shoulder. She set fire to the sage, blew on it, and smoked Lark's left, then right bicep area. Patty prayed to The Universe on behalf of Lark and Zane, and swirled the sage smoke above her head.

  When Lark was ten, Patty had singed her bangs during the ritual. Lark never could completely relax after that, but she absolutely had to endure the ritual when life went south. Patty insisted on demonstrating her soul strength to her children as best she could. She believed the noxious odors kept harm away and fortified the family. Every one of her children preferred the woman of action who once killed a pack rat with the broom, to this New Age version.

  Lark sneezed. Her eyes had swollen over the course of the morning from crying. Now, the sage made her puffy lids itch.

  "Patty, I'm allergic."

  "Nonsense." But Patty dropped the burning twigs into a shallow tray and put away the unsinged sage for another emergency. The cuttings continued to smoke next to her business cards on the counter, sure to keep customers away.

  Patty stashed her leftover hummus in a cooler. She buzzed the electric shaver for two seconds—a test—before she resumed her work on a Schnauzer. Comforting had ended, so Lark left through the back door.

  Why did she bother?

  First Presbyterian Church's bells struck twice. She decided to soak up cold sunshine from a corner bench. Zane would walk by after school in an hour or so on his way to Ozzy's. Meanwhile she'd listen for the church bells' three o'clock song and indulge in the luxury of being still. She’d try not to worry.

  * * *

  Did Rob intend to let Lark go on her merry way? Yes.

  But did he? Oh, that's rich. He hated himself for pathetically seeking Lark's approval and for this one last small attempt. Church bells rang four o'clock as he entered Ozzy’s.

  Zane sat on the plank floor near the expansive checkout counter, stocking chew toys at snout level. His longish brown hair hung in strings behind his ears, some fell forward to the bridge of his long nose. The kid didn’t notice him.

  Rob wandered the store, picked out organic dog biscuits and a red bandanna collar to complement Raven's black fur. The kid paid no attention when Rob approached the counter, and Ozzy energetically rung up the items.

  "Hey. Zane, is it?"

  A curtain of hair hid the kid’s eyes.

  "Hey." Zane stayed on the floor, less intimidating than the first time they met. "Ron?"

  "No, Rob." He stuck his hand out to shake. Although the kid followed suit, his eyes dropped, uncomfortable with the formality. "I wonder if you’d give something to your mom for me.”

  "Money?" Zane's face showed mean spiritedness, a challenge in itself. "Just kidding."

  "No, not money. Jeesh, does everyone know about that?"

  "Just about." The kid's arrogance surprised him. "What's the cash about, man?"

  "I've learned my lesson. Don't want to piss her off any more than necessary."

  "I hear that."

  "This is just a small something she said she needed. Well, not really." Rob shook his head. "Never mind. Will you give it to her?"

  "Why not give it to her yourself?" Zane peeked into the plastic bag, pulled out neon pink and green corkscrew shoe ties a four-year-old might covet. Out came a second set, bright yellow with orange dots. Zane examined them close to his pimply nose. "Cool. Ladybugs." Sarcasm dripped.

  "Like I said, I learned my lesson." Rob backed out the open door, letting in a cold draft.

  "Did you say ladybugs?" Ozzy asked.

  Rob stepped outside but overheard Zane say, "The guy's hot for Mom."

  Rob winced.

  "Loser," the kid mumbled just before Rob pulled the door shut.

  * * *

  Rob fastened the red bandanna over Raven’s collar before he started his truck. “Now I can find you in the woods.”

  Less than hour later at home, snow fell in flat plates of delicate ice, drifting, as Rob and Raven followed the plowed road to check on Axel’s place. Through the fog of flakes, he easily tracked the black blob, now with a streak of crimson, leaping in and out of snow berms.

  He already felt better. Nothing but physical exertion eased Rob's anxiety. He hadn't slept well in the weeks since recognizing Lark and now took meandering hikes on snowshoes each day. He carried his snowshoes in case he'd need them to walk the half mile back into Axel's.

  The path from county road to the cabin had been obliterated by close to two feet of snow since Axel left town. Rob thought Axel would play hell clearing a path when he got home. He pulled the bright blue tarp from Axel's snow blower, thinking he’d be neighborly and clear a path. Rob noted the missing key—surely on Axel's keychain in North Dakota. He snugged the tarp over the blower and walked on.

  Raven dashed ahead twenty yards. A howl rolled like thunder from nearby woods and up Rob's spine. A wolf? Wolves? Raven crouched her belly to the snow and growled. A ruff of fur rose along her back. Rob dropped his snowshoes on the trail and slogged toward her. Raven slithered through the high drifts to their right. He lost sight of her but could see a gray wolf skulking in that direction.

  Axel's workshop stood a couple hundred yards ahead, too far through knee-deep snow to reach for protection. Rob veered to the right, hoping to cut Raven off and come between the gray wolf and his dog. "Raven! Come!" His legs churned through snow up to the knees. His labored breathing slowed him more. He patted his waist. No bear spray. He'd gotten lax in the woods after weeks of no encounters with predators.

  A smaller black and tan wolf slunk across Raven's tracks in front of him. Stealthy, terrifying, its large head puffed out steam from a long snout. It circled behind Raven, stalking from the opposite direction from its partner.

  Rob screamed, "Go! Go!" He waved his arms, making himself as big a target as possible. The black and tan twisted in the air, landed, and backed up. Still, the animal bared yellow teeth and challenged Rob.

  Raven yelped. A dust-up of snow hid the spot where Rob last saw his dog, then settled to reveal gray on black. He high-stepped and unzipped his coat while punching his legs through the snow. "Raven! Raven!" Waving his coat like a lasso over his head, he kept the circling black and tan at bay.

  The gray had pinned Raven on her back, frozen in surrender. The wolf yelped, nipped at Raven's neck, t
hen glared over its shoulder at Rob. He lunged and blanketed the gray wolf with his coat. He threw his weight onto the squirming, powerful animal, but Raven was trapped underneath them both, and she squealed. Rob rolled away, enveloping the gray wolf's powerful body in the jacket, grappling it off Raven. The wolf struggled and easily broke free.

  Raven bled from her chest and neck. She shook violently. He scooped her into his arms, swaddled by his coat. The two wolves circled. The aggressive gray approached within ten feet to nip at Rob's legs. He screamed until hoarse, fighting back to the trail through his tracks in the snow. Both wolves followed his struggle from twenty yards off. The wolves melted into the forest before he reached the road, but he sensed them to his left, waiting in the snowy brambles for him to abandon Raven. Meanwhile, she floundered weakly in his aching arms.

  He set her down briefly to pick up a snowshoe he had dropped. He walked home, cradling Raven and ready to jam the serrated weapon down the gray’s throat, should it come to that.

  The vet's office was closing when Rob's truck skidded into their empty parking lot around 5:30. Raven had laid in his lap, wrapped in his jacket and towels, for the thirty-minute trip into town. She bled through them all, as well as his flannel shirt.

  She moaned when he placed her on the examining table.

  "She's coming out of shock now," said the new female vet. Clean hands with short nails manipulated Raven's belly gently, but the pressure elicited Raven's shriek. "There, there," she cooed in a lullaby voice. An assistant passed a syringe to the vet, and soon Raven's eyes glazed over.

  Raven had two gashes on her belly and several punctures around her throat. She needed stitches and rest, but would survive. They decided to spay her while she was under anesthesia. She needed to stay at the clinic overnight, but Rob balked.

  "Really. She'll be fine," the assistant said. "You don't want to see the operation, right?"