Woman Chased by Crows (2 page)

“I'll bedazzle them.”

“— and they'll rubber stamp the application forthwith.”

“Forthwith.”

“Even so, you're going to want all your ducks in a nice straight line. Everything they could possibly want — pictures, plans, estimates, maps, all the forms filled out.”

“Hate forms.”

“World's built outta forms. Beats me how you've come so far.”

“It's a wonder,” said Orwell.

Georgie spun around, planted his feet, grinned, threw a soft left jab at his big friend's chest. “I guess congratulations are in order.”

Orwell shrugged. “Not quite. I may be jumping the gun. They haven't exactly set a firm date.”

“Dragging their feet, are they?”

“Being prudent, I guess. Patty's had one bad marriage, can't blame her for thinking things through.”

“Is there no escaping the man?” Georgie was pointing. Orwell looked over his shoulder to find Gregg Lyman's face smiling at him. Lyman's campaign placards were twice the size of Donna Lee's. His campaign colours were blue and silver, his slogan was “A Breath of Fresh Air,” his image had a healthy glow. “There's been money spent,” said Georgie.

“His?”

“Well, the family's, I guess.”

Sam Abrams, the burly bearded owner and managing editor of
The Dockerty Register,
was heading their way, briefcase bulging, overcoat flapping, delicately stepping around wet spots on dainty feet. Graceful as a dancing bear, thought Orwell.

“
Register
going to endorse anyone, Sam?” Georgie asked.

“It's a one-paper town, Georgie — I can't afford to take sides. Fair and impartial, right down the line.”

“Coulda fooled me with that front page this morning.”

“Hey, the Kingbirds don't win a championship every year.”

“Oh? Is
that
who won? Looked like Donna Lee was getting the trophy.”

“She wasn't scheduled to show up, was she, Chief?”

Orwell shook his head. “There I was, ready to hand the loving cup to the captain, and I find myself in a tug-of-war. Hope that's the last of it.”

“Wouldn't count on it, Stonewall.”

“I'll make sure Gregg Lyman gets a photo-op real soon,” Sam said. “As soon as he does something even vaguely civic.”

“Well, you and the Chief here are required to tippy-toe,” said Georgie. He gave his walking stick an airy twirl. “Happily, I don't have to be circumspect. I can come right out and say I don't much care for either one of them. Tell you one thing though, young Lyman didn't get that haircut in this town.”

“That'll cost him one vote, anyway,” Orwell said.

“Doesn't buy his suits here, didn't get his teeth capped here. Doesn't even live here.”

“I hear he's shopping for a house,” Sam said with a grin. He did a dainty dance around a patch of mud and headed off to work.

“He should sublet first,” Georgie called after him.

Georgie and the Chief parted company at a fork in the path; Georgie off to feed cruller crumbs to the birds and squirrels, Orwell heading back to the station. Gregg Lyman's visage confronted Orwell twice more before he reached Stella Street. He doubted the sincerity of the man's smile. He reminded himself that the coming election had nothing to do with him. He maintained as conspicuous a remove from Dockerty politics as was possible for a man in the employ of Dockerty politicians. He kept his dealings with the mayor's office businesslike and his relations with elected officials excessively polite. He refused to be drawn into conversations that might indicate which way he was leaning. In private, and to those close to him, he freely admitted that the Mayor was a thorn in his side, a stone in his shoe and an occasional gumboil, but publicly he was never less than loyal. And while he had often entertained thoughts of a world without Donna Lee's annoying voice, the prospect of dealing with a new office holder, and one so obviously determined to climb the political ladder, gave him pause. He could do business with Donna Lee, he was accustomed to her, and their differences were clearly defined — she thought he was a sexist pig, and he knew she was a shrew.

Orwell was as convinced that he
wasn't
a misogynist as no doubt Donna Lee was that she didn't have a shrewish bone in her body. How could he be sexist? He lived and thrived in a house of women, his best investigator was a woman, he dealt with women every day — hell, half the storekeepers and waitresses in town smiled and fluttered when he walked in. He was a prince, he was certain of it: fair, respectful, non-patronizing. He had been confident enough of his gender-neutral behaviour to ask his youngest, Leda, Voice of the Oppressed, if she thought he was sexist.

“Well, Dad, you
are
a ma-an.” Leda dragged the word out like a schoolyard taunt.

“Can't do anything about that,” he said reasonably. He'd been driving the seventeen-year-old home from the Dockerty Little Theatre. She had auditioned, convincingly she thought, for the part of Emily in
Our Town
. Drama was her forte, although she had a tendency to declaim. Orwell worried that she might have picked it up from him.

“It's not your fault,” she said kindly. When he started laughing, she gave him a critical look. “But that laugh, the one you're doing now, you don't think it's maybe a bit condescending?”

“How so?”

“Has a sort of ‘oh isn't she just the cutest thing' sound to it.”

“I was amused.”

“In a paternalistic way.”

“Right. Me. Father. Laughing.”

“Okay, so maybe I can deal with it on those terms, but how about women who aren't related by blood or marriage? You give them that indulgent chuckle, too?”

“Oh heck, that's just me. I don't patronize — how could I and survive in our house?”

“You indulge us.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“I'll let you know in a few years.”

Not the ringing endorsement he'd been fishing for perhaps, but she hadn't exactly reproached him for being an indulgent father. She merely pointed out that he sometimes adopted an air of, oh well, call it
condescension
if you want to be critical. He preferred to see it as the warm and gracious outward manifestation of his need to protect and provide. There were moments of course, late at night usually, when he acknowledged that he could sometimes be a bit . . . what did Erika call it?
Herrisch
. One of those many-layered German words, the simplest definition of which was “manly,” but seemed to encompass “imperious,” “overbearing,” “pompous,” “domineering,” and a few dozen other concepts that, he had to admit, were clearly implied in his daughter's pronunciation of the word “ma-an.”

Anya walked from the psychiatrist's office to her studio. It was a dancer's stride: exaggerated turnout, shoulders back, head high and floating, almost motionless. She changed directions arbitrarily, side streets and lanes, dodging traffic, checking reflections in the store windows, ever watchful, never the same route twice. She was wearing what she wore most days — sweater, tights, a black and grey wraparound skirt, a plain wool coat, flat shoes to nurse her perpetually sore toes. In
Giselle
she wore flowers in her hair. In
Swan Lake
she wore egret feathers and a tiara. She had no use for fashion.

She cut across the parking lot behind Sleep Country. Two men were loading a huge mattress into a truck. She wondered briefly if a bed like that might help her sleep, but she doubted it. Her problem couldn't be mended by pocket springs and foam padding. She turned into the narrow walkway separating Laurette's Bakery
and Home Hardware — Vankleek Street at the far end — but a feathered black lump was lying on a grate, blocking the way.

Dead crow. Very bad omen in a world of bad omens. She sidestepped. For one thing, stay clear of dead birds. Some kind of virus was going around. What was it? West Nile, Avian something, Chinese chicken flu? If you paid attention to all the warnings you heard in one day you would go mad. Diseases, tornadoes, terrorists, escaped criminals — it is amazing any of us gets through a day. But a dead crow carried more than disease. It did not matter if it was killed by a mosquito or a train, it was in her path. On the roof above, other crows were looking down and making crow noises. Blaming me, she thought. Every dead crow is my fault. Go to hell. You get killed, it is your own stupidity, or bad luck, or bad planning, or bad friends. I am not responsible.

On the corner across from the Gusse Building, she lit a cigarette and lifted her eyes to the studio window on the third floor. No movement. No shadows. Three girls were waiting beside the florist shop on the other side, waiting for her to let them in. Just three. Two of them were hopeless, the third one was graceful but too tall. She should tell their parents, but she needed the money. She caught movement behind her.

“
Salut, Mademoiselle.
”

It was the Chinese girl, the one with promise, missed three classes with a sore foot. Get used to it. Anya smiled, the first smile of her day, happy to see her star pupil, the only one who might some day dance, barring the thousand hurdles and pitfalls. “
Salut Christine
,” she said. “How is your foot?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“I am happy to hear it.” The light turned green. Anya motioned to the crosswalk.
“Continué. J'arriverai bientot
.”

“
Oui, Mademoiselle
,” said Christine. She crossed the street to stand with the other three. They were waving at their teacher. Anya nodded graciously and then turned her back to look at the travel brochures in Dawson's window and finish her cigarette. A ship was sailing the blue Caribbean, happy golden couples danced on a beach somewhere, silver planes promised smooth flying to paradise. She blew smoke at the glass and her reflection came into focus. A petite blonde woman with pale, watchful eyes, eyes that missed nothing, took in everything, eyes that immediately saw the dark car drive by and the tall man behind the wheel. That hair: unmistakable.

Georgie said he was preparing a list of what Orwell would need to make his case: plot map, maybe even a survey, photographs, estimate of house size — now how the hell would he know that? That was Patty's decision. He didn't know what kind of house she wanted. Maybe she didn't want a house at all. Maybe he was just being Big Daddy again, throwing his not inconsiderable bulk around. Maybe he should mind his own business.

“Chief? Mayor Bricknell on line one.”

“Thank you, Dorrie, just what I need to brighten my day.” He knew what that was about. She was trying to wheedle him into an appearance at a conference on civic beautification. “Madam Mayor, I'm sure your presence will be more than enough to persuade the good citizens to tidy up their front yards.”

“It's much more than that, Chief Brennan, I want a concerted effort at fixing up some of our more distressed areas.”

“I support your vision for a prettier Dockerty and I assure you that the
DPD
will do what's necessary to facilitate whatever course you and the good ladies of the . . . what is it again?”

“The Dockerty Restoration Society.”

“Yes, an admirable organization to be sure.”

“You'd only have to put in a brief appearance.”

“I know, just long enough for a photo-op.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Donna Lee, I truly wish you well in the upcoming election, I mean that, but you already have a picture with me looking supportive. I don't like being co-opted as a tacit backer of your campaign. And I definitely don't want to be trotted out like a prize bull every time you need your picture in the paper.”

After he hung up he wondered if he could have handled the exchange with more tact, but he tended to feel that way after most of his encounters with Mayor Bricknell. It was still a month until voting day. A long month.