Fifteen Years of Lies

by Ann Minnett

  Rob liked the way the woman talked to Raven, the dog with the perfect name. The vet ran practiced fingers over Raven’s elongated snout, puffy hairy eyelids on black bloodshot eyes, unclenched and examined her mouth.

  “She’s a little of a lot,” Dr. Whitcombe said in her flat Wisconsin accent. “She’s a big girl. Will be a big dog.” She ran both hands down Raven’s right-side legs. Cupped her paws. “I’d say more shepherd than anything.” With that, Raven got a clean bill of health.

  He made an appointment to get Raven spayed in late January and asked, “Can you recommend a good groomer?”

  “Absolutely.” His eagle photo buddy pointed out one of a half dozen business cards on the counter. “Patty Horne does an excellent job. She’s part of the Pet Co-op?”

  He drew a blank.

  “Corner of Third and Baker. Ozzy’s Pets. You can’t miss it.”

  Maybe this Patty could bathe Raven and fit in a nail clipping. How busy could a dog groomer be in this small town?

  Feeling accomplished if not proud, he walked Raven the five blocks to Patty’s.

  CHAPTER 5

  Lark drifted toward downtown to soak up the rare sunny day, thinking it might lift her spirits. Her canceled appointments and semester break meant an unscheduled Tuesday afternoon stretched ahead of her. That is, until three-thirty when she and Zane were due at the Whitefish Police Department. The Hensens had filed charges.

  Sunshine glinted off truck chrome at the intersection of Hwy 93 and Baker. A shadowed arm waved from a mud-caked pick-up, and the horn beeped. She didn't recognize the truck but waved anyway and crossed the street.

  Hands in pockets, Lark trudged past the Towne Printer, The Thrift, the liquor store, and finally to Ozzy's Pets where her mother operated a dog grooming business out of the back room. When times got tough, Lark sought out her mother as a last resort. Patty's eccentricities equipped her with aging hippie jargon and elusive common sense. Heavy on theatrics, Patty’s repertoire lacked maternal compassion. Nonetheless, here Lark stood.

  A bell tinkled when Lark pushed into Ozzy's and again when she shut the heavy door. She stomped on the bristle mat embedded with bigger-than-life paw prints, and unwound Nora's hand-knitted scarf from her neck. Its flounce contrasted nicely with Lark's edgier steam punk tastes. Patty's engaging laugh floated from the short hallway in the back.

  Ozzy greeted her while stocking homemade jerky in a mini-meat case. "Hey Lark."

  Lark wondered if he'd heard about Zane yet. "Hey. Is she busy?"

  He answered a ringing phone and pointed down the hall.

  Lark liked Ozzy's—a rustic retreat with exposed air ducts for heating. A center ceiling fan rotated slowly, pushing warmed air down toward customers, human and animal alike. A woman with a tiny fuzz ball half-swaddled in flannel in her handbag shopped for organic chew strips. A young girl tried to calm her magnificent Husky, saying, "Look here, that's you! That's my good boy." She pointed to one of the hundreds, maybe thousands of photos tacked to the walls featuring locals and their furry friends. Lark recognized most of the people in the photos and more than a few of their animals. Recent photos crowded the old ones because Ozzy never removed them. Sentimental reasons, he’d say. The walls reminded her of the plus side of small town living. Everybody knows everybody. The down side? Everybody knows everybody’s business.

  She whipped off her Macchu Picchu hat, also knitted by Nora, whose nesting instincts showed no bounds once her kids had been born. Actually, she made it for Zane, but he wanted blue instead of purple—"too gay," he confided to Lark. She cuffed his arm for the remark, secretly pleased to keep the purple for herself. Nora knitted him a blue version over one weekend. Lark had promised not to wear hers when he wore his.

  Lost in such mundane thoughts, Lark shuffled around the dividing wall. "Patty, do you have—" She stumbled into a dog.

  The black-bearded stranger from the parade spun around in the close quarters to see who had barged in on his conversation with Patty. The scruffy man wore a black cap promoting Montana fly fishing and wrangled an excitable coal black dog. Black on black, she thought. The man didn't recognize her.

  She knelt to talk to the stinky dog. "Sorry for the interruption." Her cheeks burned. She kept her head down, rubbing the friendly dog's ears. Her neck prickled, a sure sign of hives unless she took a Benedryl in the next couple of minutes.

  Patty and the man said in unison, "No worries." And all three finally made eye contact with polite smiles.

  "Who's this lovely girl?" Lark's hands rubbed under the shepherd's jaw while the dog soaked up the caresses and pranced, clicking her nails on the old wooden floor.

  The man said, "Raven, but she doesn't know it yet."

  "Oh, I'll bet she does. Don't you, sweet Raven?" Lark missed having a dog but couldn't justify having one in the condo. Zane would like it, too, which reminded her why she had come. She stood, trying to make eye contact with her mother, but Patty kept beaming at the man.

  He fished out his phone. "The coolest thing happened on the way into town—well last week and this."

  Finally, Patty and Lark exchanged curious glances.

  "I was knocking myself out about a name for my new girl here—adopted over the weekend—and we drove past this dead deer on Hwy 93." He scrolled through a couple of photos of eagles perched on a carcass. “The eagles were there last week. The Raven swarmed this morning.”

  "Do you drive a big-assed black truck?" Lark asked.

  He nodded and stepped away from her.

  "You blocked the driveway."

  The man's slate-gray irises gave the impression of containing no pupils. He scanned Lark's flattened hat hair. She roughed up the spikes over her left ear and smoothed the bobbed side. Damn this haircut, she thought. She had chosen kohl eyeliner for a change, too, projecting a mountain goth style that shouted WTF.

  The man didn't recognize her although they had met on two very different occasions.

  She pulled on her purple hat. "Ta-da!"

  The light switched on in his eyes. "Oh, right." Tension gave way around his features. His gaze scanned her ridiculous hat, dropped to her boots and striped tights and back again.

  Was he looking for her tattoo? He had mentioned it the night of the parade.

  He spoke slowly then, as if thinking in two parallel tracks. "Well, I saw all those ravens waiting their turn, and it hit me. Raven."

  Lark removed her hat, re-ruffling her platinum hair with chilled fingers. "A good name for sure." Alert the media, she thought. She tugged at her right earlobe, assuring herself she had worn two studs there. Three would be on the left. Lately, she hadn't bothered.

  "A name selected by The Universe." Patty spread her long arms in Tadasana, a simple yoga pose with arms extended upward. "I named my children in that custom, waiting for a sign from The Universe. In fact…"

  "Patty, I need to talk to you." Lark couldn't bear hearing the tired stories again. For the millionth time in her life, she thought, give it a rest and look at me.

  "Hmm?" Patty said. "Oh, right. Anyway, you can pick up Raven at two, okay?"

  The dark man, four or five inches taller than Lark in her boots, turned his back to her to hand Raven's leash to Patty. He smelled of wood smoke and could use a haircut.

  "Sounds good," he said. "And thanks for the last-minute appointment."

  "No worries." Patty shook his hand and coaxed Raven to a pen behind a low partition.

  Lark made a closed mouth smile that thinned out her skimpy lips, dammit.

  He ignored her and left through Ozzy's storefront.

  She overheard Ozzy say, "Seriously man, you ought to…" before Patty grabbed both of her hands and said, "Let's get lunch."

  * * *

  The cold dry air and brilliant sunlight slapped Rob in the face. He took a clean breath and tried to remember every detail of what just happened. The younger woman's face could have been Wonder Woman's. Her dark hair fell to the middle of her back at the parade—a wig—and she wor
e dark red lipstick then. Wonder Woman's boots had been white and short. Any identifying tattoo on this woman hid under zebra tights and tall brown boots.

  Still, it’s her.

  His heart raced. He lowered himself onto a butt-chilling bench in front of the ice cream store next to Ozzy's. He knew her from her body, fully displayed in costume, but now artfully hidden by layers of ugly clothes. Both had no boobs to speak of, and both women had appeared long and lean.

  He knew his women. Macchu Picchu Hat Girl had a platinum crazy haircut and was the made-up tattooed woman in the parade. He would never have connected the two. There’s a small town for you.

  His stomach growled, but he wouldn’t budge until the woman left the dog groomer's. Was she picking up a dog? He couldn't remember if the gray-haired hippie with old soul eyes had other dogs behind her partition. He hadn't heard another animal. He'd been too engrossed in explaining how Raven got her name. He'd felt almost giddy with the happy coincidence of her perfect name.

  His life had boiled down to coincidences.

  Maybe the friends intended to stay there yacking through lunch. His stomach growled again. Customers entered Ozzy's, but after twenty minutes the young woman still hadn't exited. He made the second decision of the day. He'd eat something and ask about the younger woman when he picked up Raven.

  Rob walked around the corner to Susie's Deli. He remembered a counter along the storefront where he could keep an eye on foot traffic, and the deli made a good bagel sandwich. He tripped over the threshold before his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. Huddled at the back corner table, deep in conversation, sat Patty and her.

  He ordered at the counter and took a seat at the front window with his back to the two women. Black coffee burned the roof of his mouth as he sipped and waited on edge for his order. He had a thought, went back to the counter and said, "Make that to go." He stuck a dollar bill into their tip jar, scooped up his sandwich and left.

  * * *

  Mother and daughter had exited Patty's shop via the back door and stepped out into southern-facing warmth despite freezing temperatures. Lark squinted into the sunlight and breathed deeply. Patty grabbed her arm, whether for unsteadiness on slippery walkways or from tenderness, it didn't matter. Physical contact with her mother soothed her worries on their slow walk to the deli.

  Lark picked the corner table near the drink cases at Susie's, sitting with her back to the room. Patty sprung for lunch, but Lark lost her appetite in recounting details of the break-in and arrest, not to mention the effort in keeping Patty's attention. Her mother's eyelashes and arms and poncho fringe fluttered, empathizing enthusiastically as the story unfolded, but she remained uncharacteristically silent. With Patty's focus fixed over Lark's hairline, sometimes her eyes flickered to people she knew. She’d wink or crook a finger their way.

  "Patty, down here." Lark pointed at her mouth.

  "I'm listening, honey, but your auras are blazing."

  "For God's sake, Mom." She never called her mother Mom. "Just listen to me."

  The maternal endearment worked, and Patty peered soulfully and with great pity into Lark's eyes. Too invasive, Lark abbreviated the story simply to end the intense scrutiny, the well-intended judgment. She found it hard to breathe. "Thanks for lunch. I have an appointment this afternoon." She placed her untouched veggie wrap in her bag and led Patty, jingling and fluttering, toward the door. Patty acknowledged two yoga friends, and she warmly greeted the owner of the hardware store. Lark put on her sunglasses so she wouldn't make eye contact with anyone.

  Patty finally emerged onto the sidewalk behind her where they hugged briefly and parted. Lark watched her drift back toward her business without a word of support or sympathy. Her woven poncho brushed the dampened hem of her broom straw skirt and the worn heels of her boots. Her mother's flowing hair caught in the slight breeze. She raised an arm to acknowledge a passerby. The dozen or so bracelets on that arm glinted in low winter sunlight, and despite the sunshine, melancholy descended on Lark like a veil. Her mother, so beloved in the community, so caring in her own way, never could console her oldest child.

  Lark pulled her purple hat low over her forehead. She crossed the rutted street and set off in the opposite direction, absorbed with her troubles. Zane had to give his statement to the police after school. They'd meet his court-appointed attorney then, too.

  * * *

  Rob trotted several blocks to retrieve his truck and found a parking spot on Central near the deli. He munched the delicious egg, turkey, avocado and something else on bagel sandwich. It dripped down his arm, into his coat sleeve. He licked it, laughing at what had become of his manners.

  The two women emerged from the deli and hugged before separating. He should keep his binoculars in the truck, he thought. He could have used binoculars at the deer carcass and certainly now.

  He wadded the juicy wrappings into a ball and wiped both hands on his pants. Patty drifted back toward her business. The young woman pulled the purple hat over her head and down low over her face. She disappeared in the opposite direction down Central. If she got into a car, he'd lose her for sure. He wheeled out, sliding on an icy patch, to the stop sign. He turned left past the deli, and there she was. The purple pointy hat helped identify her desultory pace, walking with head down and hands in coat pockets. He drove behind her, one eye on the hat and the other on the narrow street where cars parked diagonally into the curb. Luckily, the light turned yellow before he had to pass her. He stopped.

  The car behind him honked. He waved. She crossed in front of his truck. He switched on his left turn signal. The driver behind him held both arms in the air like what the hell. Rob waved again, and by the time he'd turned, Lark had turned left again at the next corner. His surveillance would have been easier on foot. But he swerved into the turn lane and saw her disappear into one of the shops between Ozzy's and where he idled. He parked on the street and waited. She came out of the Thrift Shop ten minutes later with a grocery bag and turned in the opposite direction he had parked.

  "Shit!" He checked his watch. "One-twelve." He made a risky U-turn on Baker and caught up with her at the next stop light.

  She zigzagged two blocks and used a key to enter the corner unit of a condo complex. So he knew where she lived but not her name.

  Patty might share if he didn't tip his hand. He drove straight to her shop, hoping to chat her up while she worked on Raven. Good God, he never chatted intentionally. He moved to Montana wilderness to avoid this very thing, but he had to know Purple Hat’s name.

  "I hate to take your money for this," Patty said, clipping Raven's nails.

  "I'm such a wuss. I'd probably snip off her toes trying to cut her nails, even with the right equipment." Rob ticked off one two three, hands in pockets, and looked out Patty's single window onto the back parking lot. The sky had darkened, threatening snow. "Didn't I see you in the deli? It's pretty good."

  "New ownership. They use local produce as much as possible, and it's all organic." She hefted Raven onto the floor, and the dog darted for him.

  He stooped, ran his thumb over a paw. "Ah, my floors will thank you." He handed her two twenties. She dug in her apron pocket for change, but he held up his hand as if to say, stop. Patty nodded her thanks with a smile.

  "Say, who was the girl in here when I dropped Raven off? I didn't catch her name, but I keep running into her. I mean before the dead deer." He had mastered an aw-shucks earnestness at will in his previous life and drew on it now.

  "Lark? Get used to the small town, Rob. You've probably seen her dozens of times."

  "Lark. You'd think I'd remember a name like that. Pretty." How could he continue without raising suspicions? "The name, I mean."

  "I think so." She wiped cleaning solution over the nail clippers.

  He snapped his fingers. "I know. She was a super hero in the Holiday Parade. Right?"

  "Sounds like something she'd do, but I didn't go. That's really for the tourists and children." Patty's dis
missive remarks were lightened by her placid, perpetual smile.

  He frowned. "I happened to be in Whitefish that night." Living near the small town for a few weeks didn't make him a local. "Anyway, I remember an elaborate tattoo on her leg. A bird and something else?"

  Patty's serene face brightened, pale blue eyes sparkled, but she shook her head gently. "Lark did that to her beautiful body in college. I was simply furious with her." Patty wiped the clippings off her grooming table and plucked an earth-friendly sanitizing wipe from the canister.

  "Furious?"

  "Lark had to rebel, I guess. Her father and I had done every drug imaginable, so drugs weren't her thing." She folded her hands on the counter, shabby-regal in her beauty. "She got the tattoo in college."

  "Where was that?"

  "University of Missouri—a scholarship student to boot."

  Raven wandered down the hall into Ozzy's.

  "So you've known each other a long time?"

  "You could say that. Didn't you know she's my daughter?"

  His mouth smiled, but the muscles around his eyes remained rigid. His deep intake of air covered the silence—awkward for him. He calculated leaving Patty with a diversion to think about. "Patty, has anyone ever told you that you’re Judy Collins’ twin? The folk singer?"

  Hoop earrings glittered in the temporary sunbeam moving across her cheek. Clean strong hands with short nails pulled gray hair off her neck. "You're the first one today."

  Raven strained at the leash, pulling Rob out of Ozzy's. He jerked her back too hard, stopped, and petted an apology onto her side. "I shouldn't take it out on you." His past clung to him like stink. His escape and fresh start, a second chance to become an honorable man, had shattered. His pious grandmother would have said, Robert, it's a God thing, your running into that woman.

  He thought more practically, No matter where you go, there you are.

  Oh, he'd followed her that night after the parade and waited in the cold outside the bar. For what? When he finally went in, he couldn't find her in the crowd and decided to just let it go. The odds were infinitesimal that she was the same girl. And what good would it do anyway?