Hawk: (2 page)

“Yesterday, I go to the grocery store.”

Tildy’s nose crinkled.

“Ay,” Mari said, shaking her head.

Tildy smiled. “Close,” she told the much older woman. “Really close. Yesterday, I
went
to the grocery store.”

Mari blew out a frustrated breath. Tildy’s eyes slid to the clock on the classroom wall. It was nearly six o’clock. She was late, so late, but as Mari shifted in her seat and regained her focus, so did Tildy.

“Sorry,” the older, Mexican-soon-to-be-American woman said.

“You’re getting it,” Tildy assured her. “You really are.” When Mari looked doubtful, Tildy tacked on, “Honest.”

It was true. Despite having very little grasp of English, Mari had signed up for one of the classes Tildy volunteered to teach at the Rapid City Community Center, but Tildy was confident that Mari would be more than ready for her naturalization exam in December. She was determined to help Mari achieve her dream of becoming a U.S. Citizen, hence the after-class tutoring sessions three times a week.

“Let’s finish the exercises,” Tildy prompted.

Mari nodded and finished the rest of the conjugation exercises with only a few mistakes.

At six o’clock, the two women began packing up their things. For about the millionth time, Mari picked up her purse. Tildy didn’t even need to turn and look at the woman.

“Olvidelo,” Tildy said.
Forget it
.

Mari grunted. “Stubborn,” she said, shoving a few bills back into her wallet.

Tildy turned to smile at the other woman. “I make enough.”

Tildy was the Head Teller at the Black Hil
ls Regional Bank downtown. This was a better paying job than the commercial laundry where Mariposa worked 6 days a week, even without taking into account Tildy’s hiked-up salary because her parents owned the bank.

“You’re worth more, Tildy,” Mari replied, reaching out and fingering the gold medallion around the younger woman’s neck. “You’re a good girl. I need five like you instead of the three I have, always chasing the wrong boys.”

Tildy laughed and tucked the pendant back into her shirt.

Tildy and Mariposa parted ways in front of the Community Center building. Mariposa walked to the covered bus stop at the end of the street, while Tildy rounded the corner of
the building to the side lot where her Mercedes was parked.

She thumbed the key fob and unlocked the doors. As she started the
engine, she felt the shudder of a rough idle that she’d noticed this morning when she left the house. It revved fine though, and Tildy turned out of the lot and headed across town.

Urban buildings gave way to small neighborhoods, with chain-link fences separating the yards, which eventually gave way to newer, nicer subdivisions with larger, landscaped yards. Tildy drove past all those and took the last road before leaving the city proper. The houses here were larger than even the Community Center and they were much nicer than Rapid City’s standard split-level ranches. Tildy pulled into a three-car garage of a French country inspired house with large windows and surrounded by mature trees. She killed the problematic engine. Thankfully, the other two vehicle bays were still empty.

She hurried inside the house and up the stairs. In her room, she frowned at the blue three-quarter sleeved dress laid out across the made bed. It was slightly warm for the first of July, but she looked ‘nice’ in it, or as close to nice as Tildy could apparently get.

Tildy had a slim frame and was only 5’5”. Her hair was dark chestnut, and according to her mother it was her only really good feature. It hung well past her shoulders and framed Tildy’s too-plain face.

She kicked off her sandals and flung her button-down blouse over the large dollhouse that sat in the corner of the bedroom. She wiggled out of her designer jeans and tossed them aside as well. She carefully unclasped the chain of her St. Christopher medal and gathered the necklace into the palm of her hand. Bypassing the jewelry box that sat on top of the dresser, she headed toward the bed with its pink and white frilly comforter. She picked up a pillow and slipped the medal into the pillowcase. She replaced the pillow, fluffing it, and straightening the corners.

She turned and headed into the adjoining private bathroom and turned on the shower. She quickly showered and washed her hair. It took a long time to dry, even with the hair dryer, too long.

Tildy stepped from the bathroom at the same time her mother entered her bedroom. The look of irritation that seemed nearly permanently affixed to the older woman’s face was clearly visible.

“Matilda,” her mother sighed. “You’re not ready? I left that dress out for you
hours
ago.”

Tildy said nothing, knowing there was no point. She crossed to the dresser and pulled out a clean pair of panties and a matching bra. Her mother came up beside her, and Tildy fought the urge to flinch.

But Deirdre Fletcher merely opened the small jewelry box and selected a pearl necklace and matching earrings. She laid them out on the dresser.

As Tildy quickly dressed, she barely listened to her mother drone on about having been at the caterer’s to double check the quality of the food being served tonight. Tildy pulled the dress down over her head and shimmied it down past her hips. As she was zipping it, her mother came up behind her and ran a hand through Tildy’s hair.

Tildy froze.

Deirdre declared her daughter’s hair dry, miraculously, and left the room. Tildy applied just a tiny bit of makeup and a dash of eyeliner in the silence of her bedroom. Then she
slipped on the high heels that had been left on the floor by the bed. She checked her final appearance in the full-length mirror, for all the good it would do, and declared herself ‘good enough.” She headed downstairs.

The living room was full of Tildy’s parent’s friends. The Fletchers were having their annual Fourth of July party. It was always held the Friday before the holiday so as not to interfere with anyone’s weekend plans. The sun had just set, but it would be an hour before the fireworks.

Tildy followed the sound of her father’s voice toward the patio doors. He was laughing his Banker’s laugh, which is what Tildy had always secretly called it. He never laughed that way at home, not that he ever really laughed. It was a laugh reserved for people associated with the bank that Tildy’s grandfather had owned and then left to her father.

She stepped through the French doors and maneuvered around a waitress carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres. Tildy’s father was i
n the middle of a fishing story- his
only
fishing story.

Her parents had a cabin further north, on the edge of the Black Hills. They owned it for no
other reason that Tildy could see except to say they had it. Tildy’s mother spent their entire cabin getaways complaining, and Tildy’s father had Wi-Fi installed partly to appease his wife and partly because an hour at the cabin was as much getting back to nature as he seemed to be able to stomach.

Tildy was fine with or without internet access and simply schlepped her books with her. She mostly read at night though, as she seemed to be the only member of the Fletcher family who actually enjoyed the outdoors. Her days were spent hiking the hills, far away from her parents, which suited Tildy just fine.

Tildy waited patiently knowing better than to interrupt. Apparently, the bank’s youngest associate, Henry Cross, hadn’t quite figured that out. In an ill-advised attempt to ingratiate himself to the boss, he laughed and said that no matter how many times Mr. Fletcher told that story, it was always funny.

T
he Banker’s laugh must be contagious
, thought Tildy. The rest of the men laughed out of surprise more than anything and Tildy’s father joined in, but Tildy didn’t miss the hard set of his jaw. Henry Cross would pay for that remark in some form or other.

Tildy’s father steadfastly refused to finish the story, smiling all the while. The men
then shuffled off to inspect the commercial-grade fireworks Tildy’s father had purchased and to question the technician that he’d hired to set them off.

“Dad,” she
called out.

Her father paused, falling behind the group headed out toward the lawn.

“Dad-”

“Not now, Matilda.”

Tildy frowned. Obeying was important, but so was what she had to say. “There’s something a little off with the car. I noticed-”

“Matilda, now isn’t the time,” he snapped and walked away.

Tildy sighed and headed back into the house. She maneuvered through the guests, to make her way to the kitchen where she hoped to hide out for a bit. The kitchen was perfect because if her mother caught her, Tildy would just say she was checking on the catering. She plucked a crab puff off one of the trays and leaned against the island. It was almost to her lips when she heard a feminine giggle. Tildy’s eyes cut to the large pantry with the closed door. She frowned. Her father was outside in the yard, so that significantly reduced the number of possibilities. She bit her lip instead of the crab puff. Her parent’s Fourth of July party was hardly the time or place for a scene. She pushed off the island and walked quietly past the pantry and back out into the living room.

Tildy stood off to the side, plate in hand to appear occupied, but she wasn’t hungry. Her attempt
to blend in with the scenery had obviously failed, however, because Vera Simmons, one of her mother’s friends, spotted her and headed across the room. Tildy hid her frown as her mother moved to intercept the other woman. At 22, Tildy was still obviously not housebroken enough for company. She remembered to affix her party-smile as Vera made her way over.

“Matilda,” Vera proclaimed, smiling at Deirdre, but continuing toward the younger girl. “How are you, darling?”

“Good,” Tildy replied. “Thank you for asking.”

“Any prospects?” Vera asked, making a show of looking around. The older woman’s eyes twinkled and Tildy knew she wasn’t talking about career opportunities. It was a useless effort, though, because there weren’t that many people Tildy’s age invited to a Fletcher soiree. In fact, there were only two.

“Oh, a few,” Deirdre teased as she glanced meaningfully across the room at Tate Carson, who was emerging now from the double doors that separated the living room from the rest of the house.

Vera followed Deirdre’s gaze and smiled. “Ah,” she said.

Tildy thought the whole charade was ridiculous. Deirdre had made it no secret to anyone who would listen that Tate and Tildy were perfect for each other. Tate’s own parents were thrilled at the prospect of their son marrying into the family that owned the second largest bank in Rapid City.

Tildy was less thrilled. During their senior year at SDSU, she’d been on several dates with Tate, who mostly drank until he got bored and
only then did he turn his attention to her. Thankfully, he’d only put forth half-hearted efforts at groping her before giving up and dropping her off at the dorm. After a while, Tildy had informed everyone that she really needed to concentrate on school. It was one of the few times she had made her parents dismally low opinion of her work in her favor. Deirdre and Blake Fletcher agreed that Tildy wasn’t smart enough to keep up her grades amidst distractions.

Deirdre had informed Tate’s parents that Tildy was focusing on school. The Carsons were understandably disappointed at not being able to further cement the connection between the two
families until after graduation, but Tate seemed to not care at all. Tildy had heard from friends that he had been ‘not caring’ at frat houses all over campus while she was stuck in her dorm pretending to study.

So Tildy had managed to delay the inevitable for a little while, at least. After graduation
, Tate had been in Europe for most of June and Tildy, though she was no longer getting course credit, continued to volunteer at the Community Center. She’d managed to spend almost two months blissfully Tate-free, but it was looking like her freedom would be short-lived.

Deirdre beamed at Tate, whose eye she’d finally caught. Tate smiled back at her, barely, and his mother, having seen the exchange, practically shoved him toward them. Vera gave Deirdre and Tildy a conspiratorial wink and glided away.

“Smile, Matilda,” Deirdre whispered fiercely. She deftly moved beside her daughter, hand gliding along Tildy’s back, and viciously pinched Tildy just above her elbow on the tender inside of her arm. Tildy held her breath when the initial tears sprang up, as they always did. She managed to keep the smile on her face, as she always did, and the three-quarter sleeve would hide the beginnings of a bruise, as it always did.

Tate approached and leaned in, kissing Tildy lightl
y on the side of the head. She pretended not to notice the heavy floral scent of French perfume that lingered on his clothes, especially since Tildy wore sandalwood. Deirdre Fletcher was so practiced at ignoring such a thing that Tildy could scarcely be sure that her mother had noticed it at all. A few moments later, Skylar Harrison breezed in, wedging herself between Tildy and Tate. She also kissed Tildy, though a bit more enthusiastically than Tate had. Tildy held her breath as she embraced her best friend. Apparently French perfume was popular this summer.