Randy White - Deceived

“Loretta, you’re upsetting yourself for no reason.”

Angry and near tears, my mother wailed, “Pinky’s hurt, maybe dying-that’s not cause to be upset? Hannah Smith, you listen to me! Just a few minutes ago, in my mind, I heard her crying for help! At least drive to the old Helms place and check.”

The poor woman looked frantic, rusty hair hanging in strands over her face and housecoat, her hands balled into pale, knobby fists. The sight of her so frail and frightened squeezed at the heart. My mother had once been sharp and sure and bullheaded, but now the years and a brain embolism had sapped the best part of her away. It had made her so childlike, I wanted to hug her close to let her know she was safe and protected. So that’s exactly what I did before returning with a pillow and a fresh glass of sweet tea, then apologized to her because it was the right thing to do. It was also a way of explaining the cries for help she’d heard.

“I was wrong to doubt you about that Pekingese, Mamma. What you told me was true about the owl. Just now, the neighbor lady found what was left-not far from the oak grove, like you said. That’s what you heard, not Pinky. The woman started screaming. There’s a deputy sheriff trying to calm her right now.”

Loretta’s eyes flashed for an instant, a triumphant look, which I expected, but I didn’t expect her to reply, “Think I don’t know that? I was watching from the porch when that evil bitch found the collar, then picked up a piece of his tail or whatever it was she slung into the bushes. Her bawling has nothing to do with Pinky.” Then again pleaded, “Hannah, please drive me so we can check. Pinky might be dying right now!”

I sighed, unsure if I should take Loretta seriously. There were times, as a girl, when I’d wondered if my mother was a mind reader. Even during my teenage years, Loretta’s intuition had been maddeningly accurate-although often aided by her snoopy behavior.

The grandfather clock opposite the fireplace was tocking solemnly. It read 4:20 p.m., which meant it was nearly five. At sunset, which was around eight, I had a date with the biologist, whom I’d allowed myself to phone only twice since leaving his bedroom in the early hours of the morning. Sunset was less than three hours away, and I still had to finish some work in my late Uncle Jake’s office before I showered, changed, and then boated across to Sanibel Island. Marion Ford lived there in an old stilthouse next to Dinkin’s Bay Marina, where, every Friday night, there is a party. I didn’t want to be late, nor did I want to give Ford the impression I was a slave to the whims of my addled mother. What kind of man would tolerate such a partner?

What to do?

“Lord A’mighty,” Loretta gasped, breaking into my thoughts. “You’re in love with that fish doctor! That’s why you’re refusing to help poor Pinky!”

“I am not!” I shot back and instantly regretted my denial. It invited bad luck, as lying often does, and somehow cheapened the good feeling inside me. But I wasn’t going to allow my mother to poke around in my private thoughts without a battle, so I stuck by the lie, saying, “What’s Pinky’s number? If she doesn’t answer, I’ll take the truck and knock on her door. But you’re staying right here. Mrs. Terwilliger just pulled into the drive.”

The keys to the truck, though, were gone from the storage shed, which was my latest hiding spot.

“Where are they, Loretta?” I demanded, which should have put my mother in a difficult position. If I was to check on her friend, she would have to admit she had been sneaking out and driving illegally or, at the very least, letting someone chauffeur her into town.

“How would I know?” my mother replied with some heat. “That poor little Thurloe boy is the one I let use the truck when he needs it. Ask him.”

“You’re making up another story,” I said, because it couldn’t be true. There was nothing “little” about Levi Thurloe. The man was the size of a field hand and older than me, but his development had been stunted by a fever in infancy or some accident. Local gossip varied. Levi walked everywhere, didn’t even own a bike. I’d seen him miles from the island, going to or coming from the mainland, head down, earbuds always plugged into his ears, using music to block the outside world. Walkin’ Levi, locals called him-or worse. He was a solitary young man, commonly seen on the roads, but he seldom spoke so was the target of jokes and nasty rumors that I, at least, didn’t find entertaining. More than once, as a girl, I had backed down some taunting bully, then been rewarded with Levi’s shy, “Thank you, miz.” The man was harmless in my opinion, but a poor choice when it came to loaning the family pickup truck.

“Levi doesn’t know how to drive,” I reminded my mother.

“People say the same thing about me!” Loretta countered. “He’s working for the new neighbors as a handyman, and I can’t say no to a half-wit who needs transportation. If you want the keys, find Levi-don’t believe he’s as dumb as some say. And for god’s sake, hurry up!”

Luckily, I checked the truck’s ignition before setting off on my search. The keys were there. So was Levi Thurloe. He was sitting on the passenger side, a big arm hooked out the open window as if already enjoying the ride. His sad, slow eyes stared straight ahead to avoid looking at me when I climbed in.

“You can’t go,” I said gently.

“Can,” he replied without making eye contact-something he refused to do.

“Please get out.”

“I can ,” he said again but not forcefully. It was more of a request.

I looked at my cell phone to check the time, aware the sun had already begun its slide west. “Levi, you don’t even know where I’m headed.”

“Don’t matter,” he responded, staring at nothing beyond the windshield.

It was five miles to the Helms place, a spooky-looking house in the mangroves at the end of a shell lane. Because the last stretch of road was bad, getting there would take awhile. Levi wasn’t wearing his earbuds, I noticed, which was unusual, so I made him an offer. “Don’t you miss your music? We’ll go for a ride another day when you’re better prepared.”

The man shrugged but didn’t budge.

I sighed, thought about it for a moment, then started the engine. “Put your seat belt on,” I told him, “and keep your hand inside the window once we get moving.”

Levi didn’t speak again until we had crossed the line into Sematee County, driving north.

“ You’re nice” was all he said.

“THE NEIGHBOR LADYthreatened to hire Mexicans to shoot the owl,” I told Marion Ford, cell phone cradled to my ear as I drove. “Then she threatened me. Said she’ll have me arrested if I pick up clients at Loretta’s dock because it’s not zoned commercial-doesn’t matter Uncle Jake chartered out of there before he died. Fifteen years? Longer-he was only forty when they retired his badge. Scariest thing is, the neighbor lady didn’t sound crazy, just mean. One of those women who’s used to getting what she wants.”

The biologist had called to ask if I would be at Dinkin’s Bay before dark, but his voice had assumed the role of comforter and counselor now that I was sharing details about my afternoon.

“I wouldn’t worry about the owl,” he said. “Mexicans, especially the illegals, are too smart to risk jail or their jobs. And the neighbor, it’ll dawn on her a sheriff’s deputy was there listening. She’s a physician? She’ll think it through and that’ll be the end of it.”

“A doctor of some type,” I responded. “I was tempted to do a background check through the office, but it seemed sneaky.”