White Lies

by Jeremy Bates

  She vowed it would be the last.

  Zach grinned wickedly as he rode his bike home. He had never actually brought the party up with anyone today. It had been a ruse to see how Katrina would react, to smoke her out, so to speak. And although she had yet to buckle and confess, there was now no longer any doubt about it. She had lied. Not only to him, but to everyone who’d been at the pub. This certainty lifted his spirits tremendously.

  Katrina pushed open the door to the small hardware shop. An electric chime announced her entrance, though nobody called out to greet her. She took three steps inside, then stopped. In places like this—men places—she always felt uncomfortable, out of her element. Like she was allowed to be there but wasn’t supposed to be there. Even the smell of paint, metal, and wood seemed suddenly alien. It was the same feeling, she supposed, men had when they accompanied their girlfriends or wives into Victoria’s Secret.

  She glanced tentatively around, wondering where the nails would be located. Unlike in a supermarket, the aisles were not labeled. To the left of her was a pair of pumpkin-orange Black & Decker lawn mowers, their prices slashed, likely to move them before the snow started falling. In front of her were several pyramidal arrangements of paint cans. She stepped around the display and peered down the first aisle she came to. The eight-foot-tall shelves were lined with power tools and hand tools and other such equipment that looked like kitchen utensils on steroids. Garlic press? Sorry, but why don’t you try my deadhead mallet. Don’t forget the safety goggles! The next aisle was crammed with coils of wire and small plastic bins, each brimming with nuts, screws, nails, and a number of other gizmos.

  She bent down in front of the nails, thinking she had done quite well, finding what she needed in less than two minutes. She was trying to figure out what size nails would be best when someone asked her if she needed a hand.

  Katrina looked up and was surprised to see a tall, broad-shouldered man smiling down at her. She stood, smiling back at him. He was handsome in an almost exotic sense of the word. In place of a neatly trimmed haircut and clean-shaven face was raven-black hair pulled into a loose ponytail and about two days of dark stubble. He looked partly Caucasian, but his black eyes and high cheekbones and strong chin reflected his Native American heritage. He was wearing a short-sleeve button-down cotton shirt that revealed thick forearms covered with green-and-black sleeve tattoos. Physically, he was the antithesis of the pretty-boy, suit-and-tie power-broker look—Shawn’s look, really. But Katrina found she was instantly attracted to him. His presence exuded a strength and attraction to a degree she’d rarely experienced.

  “I need some nails,” she told him. It came out a little rusty and she cleared her throat. “To hang some pictures.”

  “You’re new to town?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Thought so,” he said, nodding. “I’ve only been here a short time myself. But I would have remembered seeing you around, someone as pretty as yourself, no question there.” He winked. It wasn’t sleazy; combined with his smile, it was charming.

  Katrina’s mind went blank. Horrified, she tried to think of something to say.

  “Drywall?” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “The walls you’re hanging your pictures on. Are they drywall?”

  “Yes, they are. I think.”

  “I know just the thing then.” He led her a couple aisles over and pulled a small package off one of the racks. Through the clear plastic she could see a bunch of bronze-plated thingamijigs that looked like large fish hooks. He handed it to her. “Much better than nails,” he explained. “You don’t need to hit a wall stud. You don’t even need any tools. Just stick one of these puppies into the drywall and give it a twist. They transfer the weight from the hole to the wall and can hold up to fifty pounds.”

  She examined the package. What could she say to impress him? “Monkey Hooks?” she said, reading the label.

  “The best.”

  “All right. I trust your judgment.”

  He handed her another pack. “On the house.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly.” She began digging through her handbag for her wallet.

  “Call it a welcoming gift.”

  She hoped she wasn’t blushing. “I’m Katrina,” she said, holding out her hand.

  He shook. Strong yet gentle. “Jack Reeves.”

  Outside, the evening sun was setting, splattering the sky with a dazzling blend of amethyst purple and ruby red. A breeze carried the fresh, green scent of pine needles. Katrina started west, admiring the Victorian Tudors with false half-timbering lining the street, the scalloped trim on the pointed rooflines, the folk-art cutouts on the balconies, the wall frescoes. Window boxes and barrels were everywhere, overflowing with colorful flowers that perfumed the air. She passed shops filled with nutcrackers, dolls, beer steins, music boxes, toys, and other collectables. Take away the touristy aspect, and she could almost believe she was walking through a living, breathing German village from centuries past. Maybe something out of an old Brothers Grimm fairytale. She was happy, content. It was the best she’d felt in a long time. And she knew why too.

  Jack Reeves.

  She’d always believed when, or if, she met another man, the first after Shawn, it would begin as a friendship, progress slowly, and eventually grow into something that was meaningful and complex. She’d never imagined it would occur with a burst of magnetism and desire—

  Now, now, Kat, she thought, chiding herself, and feeling extremely embarrassed at having to do that. You ‘re acting like a love-struck schoolgirl. Like this was love at first sight. Which was ridiculous. He gave her two packs of hooks. That was all. He didn’t ask for her number. Didn’t invite her to dinner. Hell, she didn’t even know if he was available or not.

  There was no ring on his finger.

  She stopped in her tracks, surprised with herself for noticing that fact. She looked back the way she’d come. She could still see the cast-iron lantern that hung above the door to the hardware shop. The lightbulb inside it was on, burning a soft yellow. No one entered or exited the shop—no one, in fact, was on this section of street—and Katrina was caught by the bizarre fantasy she had imagined the entire encounter. But that was only natural, she figured. It still felt dreamy, uncanny even, her entire psychology—a psychology she’d built brick by brick so it would protect her, protect her from being hurt, devastated, ever again—could be so quickly and dramatically knocked down. But that’s exactly what happened. Knocked down and flipped on its head.

  And in the space of minutes.

  “Who are you, Jack Reeves?” she said quietly to herself.

  Once home Katrina slipped a Queen’s Greatest Hits CD into the Sony stereo system sitting on the floor, then started hanging some pictures she’d brought with her from Seattle. The hooks Jack recommended were incredible. Poke, twist, voilà. Sturdy too. She could probably hang a small flat-screen TV on a couple of them.

  She was in the middle of leveling an oil painting by a funky contemporary artist she’d picked up at one of the galleries she used to visit when her cell phone rang. It was the first call she’d received since the unnamed someone rang the landline the other day and hung up. She turned down the volume on “Another One Bites the Dust” and snatched up her phone. She checked the display. It was her younger sister, Crystal.

  “Chris!” Katrina said.

  “Is that Queen?” Her voice was slightly sarcastic and impersonal, like a late-night radio DJ’s. Katrina thought this every time they spoke, and she decided they needed to spend more time together. Your sister shouldn’t sound like a stranger to you.

  “Good old rock opera.”

  “What are you doing? Having a party?”

  Katrina turned the stereo off completely. “Yeah. Eighties theme. You should see my hair.”

  “How was the move?”

  “No problems. How’s college?”

  “Different. Still getting used to the craziness.”

  “
And your classes?”

  “It’s only the third day, but I think they’re going to be all right. Except maybe this classical civilization course. It’s at nine in the morning and the assistant teacher is apparently a real prick.”

  “Can’t you take it at a later time?”

  “Doesn’t fit my schedule. Anyway, enough about school. Just called to see how you’d feel about some company this weekend? You know. Big old house. Strange town. Must be a little creepy up there in the mountains by yourself?”

  “You got one out of two,” Katrina said. “It is a strange town. But it’s a tiny one-bedroom house. I’m actually sleeping on a futon on the floor. But I’m fine. No need to worry about me.”

  “I’m not worrying. Just thought it would be good to hang out. Besides, I don’t mind taking a weekend off to get away. Frosh is crazy so far. A lot of fun, but, well, like I said before. Pretty wild. Over the next couple weeks all the girls are rushing sororities. Not my thing, really.”

  Katrina knew what her sister meant. While in her first year at Washington State, she’d allowed herself to be rushed by Gamma Phi Delta, more out of curiosity than anything else. It was fun at the time. But would she do it if she was nineteen again? Probably not. It wasn’t the initiation. That wasn’t half as bad as the movies and urban legends made it out to be. What nagged at her were the girls—or sisters—themselves. They had been shallow, two-dimensional, like cardboard cutouts of real people. Congratulating you for making the cut, then slandering you behind your back. Promising to be friends for life, then plotting to steal your boyfriend. Caring more about appearances than substance, more about how you looked than what you said. This was all a broad generalization, of course, because some of the girls were very nice and sincere and smart. But her overall impression had been of a mini-Hollywood. Fake tans. Fake boobs. Fake smiles. No substance. She quit after two months.

  She wondered if this was what Crystal was experiencing, thus the reason she wanted to get away. “Well,” Katrina said, “if you don’t mind sleeping on the floor, be my guest.”

  “Saturday then? There’s this floor crawl thing in my residence. A bunch of rooms are selected, each has a theme. Vodka in the Russian room. Tequila in Mexico. Get it? I don’t really want to go, and if I stay here, I’ll pretty much be forced to.”

  “Sure. Hopefully, my furniture will be here by then.” She paused, remembering it was this weekend her supposed cabin party was set to rock the woods. But that was okay, she thought. Perfect, actually. She could tell everybody her sister was coming up for a visit and she would be spending the weekend showing her around. “Chris, this is important,” she said, “make sure you give me some warning if you’re going to cancel.”

  “You have a big date or something?”

  “Just tell me you’ll let me know in advance if you’re canceling.”

  “Will do. How are the men in Leavenworth? Should I bring my heels?”

  Katrina thought first of Zach, then of Jack. “They’re an interesting bunch,” she said.

  There was a ruckus in the background. Crystal said, “All right, Kat. Gotta run. I’ll call you Friday or Saturday to tell you when I’ll be at the bus station.”

  They said their goodbyes and hung up. Katrina’s homemaking vibe was broken, so she left the chore of hanging pictures until tomorrow and went to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of the expensive Pinot Noir, which was still three-quarters full. She grabbed the romance novel she was reading—a steamy thing about a sex-starved blacksmith and a sex-starved noblewoman—and ran the water for a bath. Unlike the rest of the bungalow, the bathroom had been recently renovated. During the first and only meeting she’d had with the owners, they’d told her they’d removed the partition wall separating the main area from the laundry to open up the small space. The washer and dryer were now in the basement, which was cluttered with a generation or two of forgotten belongings, some of which may be rare and valuable such as the New York Times newspaper she’d seen on top of a stack of dusty, moldy boxes. It was the Sunday, July 20, 1969 edition, the headline proclaiming: “MEN WALK ON MOON: Astronauts Land On A Plain: Collect Rocks, Plant Flag.”

  The present arrangement made it slightly inconvenient for Katrina to wash her clothes, but she thought the tradeoff was worth it. According to an adage she lived by: a small living room was cozy, a small bedroom was practical, but a small bathroom was a nightmare.

  Katrina added to the steaming bathwater two teaspoons of a vanilla-and-lime scented oil she’d purchased on Front Street the other day, lit a few candles, and undressed, tossing her clothes in the hamper in the corner. She slipped into the tub, sighing as the heat seeped into her muscles, all the way to her bones. Very nice. Exactly what she needed. These past two days had been a bit of a mini-rollercoaster, and now that the ride was winding down, it was time to relax. She took a sip of the rich, silky wine, closed her eyes, and thought about Crystal. She was concerned for her little sister.

  After their parents had died, and Crystal, then eight, had moved in with their father’s sister and her husband, Crystal began retreating into herself, becoming more introverted, spending most of her free time by herself rather than with friends. This self-imposed ostracism lasted for much of high school until her senior year when, finally, she began to act more how a seventeen-year-old should act. And much to Katrina’s relief, she went to her prom. Her date had been a goofy-looking fellow in a cheap tux and a splattering of acne, but she’d gone, and that’s all that mattered.

  That summer, between high school and university, she got a job at a seasonal resort, working in the dining room as a waitress with a number of others her age. The resort was on Bainbridge Island, thirty minutes by ferry from Seattle, which meant she had to stay at the staff lodgings. A doctor couldn’t have ordered better therapy, as she was in constant communication with the other staff and guests. By the end of the summer, it seemed as though she’d come out of her shell for good.

  Still, her suggestion she pay Katrina a visit, only days after she started at the university, was not a good sign. Katrina wasn’t going to delude herself into believing Crystal simply wanted them to spend some quality time together. They’d just seen each other last week when Katrina had driven her to Seattle University and helped her move into her dorm room. No, it seemed her sister was having problems adjusting once again.

  Deciding to have a good talk with Crystal this weekend, Katrina set the matter aside and took another sip of the wine. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror: hair tied into a messy bun atop her head, a warm flush to her cheeks. Not bad for thirty-two. But she was in a world where young was better than old and she wasn’t getting any younger. During the six years she and Shawn were together, she had never really given her age much thought. But now, single, she was all too aware of the invisible expiry date she couldn’t necessarily see, but men definitely could. Hypocrites, the bunch of them, she thought. Why did they not have expiry dates as well? They used to, when they became impotent. But now with Viagra—well, look at Hugh Hefner.

  She set the wine aside, ruminating on that. Her eyes eventually drifted up to the black rectangle hovering in the wall above and beyond her, where the window was situated. As far as bathrooms went, it was fairly large, fitted with a regular pane of glass rather than glass brick or some other such design that offered more privacy. She knew she would have to get a curtain for it at some point, but she didn’t feel there was any rush, considering she had no immediate neighbors.

  She picked up her novel, mindless of her wet fingers, and began to read.

  The phantom moon floated in the black-water sky, a cosmic eye that seemed to be watching Zach as he took the skullcap out of his pocket and tugged it down over his head so it covered his ears and hid his eyebrows. He pressed himself tighter against Katrina’s Honda Civic. His heart was knocking against his rib cage, and he became aware of the fact he was not so much frightened as he was excited. His eyes never left the brightly lit front bay window.

 
; He could scarcely believe he was here again, doing what he was about to do. Maybe it was how gamblers felt when they found themselves at the blackjack table the night after losing their daughter’s graduation savings, or heroin addicts chasing the dragon the first day out of rehab. He knew he should turn around right then, call it quits while he was ahead—which in this case meant not in jail—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get the memories of the previous night out of his head. They had consumed him all day. The erotic thrill he’d experienced, the knife-sharp adrenaline rush, the satisfying knowledge he was getting a one-up on Katrina, a twisted kind of power trip. And then all of a sudden—he didn’t know when it happened, just that at some point it did happen— he was no longer reminiscing but planning.

  For tonight.

  Right now.

  Nevertheless, as the minutes slugged by, and Katrina had yet to appear in the window, Zach became increasingly anxious. He was going to miss her again. Do it then. Go. Now.

  He pushed away from the car and darted across the front lawn, beneath the heavy branches that blotted out much of the sky. He slowed when he reached the wall he’d skirted the night before. A light was on in one of the windows. He crept silently forward and stopped when he was adjacent to it. He was unable to bring himself to look inside.

  What if Katrina saw him?

  No—that wasn’t possible. Who sat at their window, staring out into the night? Maybe crazies in the state insane asylum who were doped up on medication and who rocked back and forth in their rockers. But he imagined Katrina had better things to do. Besides, even if she did randomly glance out, the glare from the lights inside would only allow her to catch her own reflection.

  Zach peered inside.

  Two nylon suitcases stacked against an unadorned wall. A jug of Brita filtered water on the hardwood floor, next to an empty glass. Clothes in a messy heap in one corner. The only sign it wasn’t home to a squatter was a neatly made futon mattress doused with an assortment of colorful pillows.