Sharon Henegar - Sleeping Dogs Lie

Gratefully dedicated to the members

of my original writing group

Marcia Tungate, Patrice Kavanaugh,

and Brandy Stewart.

Without you, Louisa would still

be sitting in that parking lot wondering

what was going to happen next.

And always, to Steven.

Sometimes life turns on the smallest decision. On a Monday evening in October it came down to the fact that I chose to wear my black velveteen sneakers embroidered with silver moons and stars, and a storm blew in and poured buckets of rain.

Bob steered his car into the grocery store parking lot and found a slot half-way down the row. Do you want to come in with me? he asked. Ill only be a minute. I need to get some dog food for Jack.

I opened the door and saw a good-sized puddle. I thought of my shoes. Ill wait. The door made a solid thunk as I pulled it back.

His quick smile flashed. I'll leave my keys in case you want to listen to the radio. He got out and locked the door behind him. The supermarkets neon signs colored the raindrops that sparkled on his hair as he hurried inside.

I turned on the radio. The familiar clipped tones of the public radio stations news commentator filled the air. I poked the buttonsall rock music or jazz. The only one tuned the same on both our cars was that first public station, and I wondered about the viability of a relationship based on mutual NPR membership. I began to search for classical music, got sidetracked by a country number Id always liked, paused for the last bars of a Celtic fiddle tune, and finally found a station playing Copland.

The windows of the little Civic had steamed over as soon as the defroster went off. I wiped off the window with my sleeve, and sat back in my seat to listen, looking idly toward the door of the supermarket.

Bob came out, closely followed by a curvy blonde woman in a red business suit and red four-inch heels. She walked with a lithe strut that had no trouble keeping pace with his long-legged steps. I looked down at myselfmy black slacks and sweater were comfortable and looked nice, but in a bright red suit I knew I'd feel as wide as a barn door. And those shoes would tip me right onto my nose before I took a single step. I peered down fondly at my fancy sneakers and thought, even if I don't want to get them wet, at least I can walk without injury.

I looked back out at Bob. He was empty handed. No dog food. Had he lost his wallet? He had it earlier when he paid for our dinners. He walked with the woman to a gray Mercedes sedan, an older, classic looking thing, parked in the short row in front of the store. She handed him some keys and said something, and he leaned down to unlock the passenger door.

What is he doing? I wondered out loud. The woman stood very close to him. Her right hand jammed into her jacket pocket caused her arm to bend awkwardly. She moved forward to speak directly into his ear. Bob pulled open the door, folding his long legs to get in. He slid over behind the wheel as she seated herself on the passenger side. Exhaust plumed into the night as the engine started.

Hey! I yelled, though they couldnt possibly have heard me. I wiped off steam again and squinted at the other car. Maybe it was someone who just looked like Bobanother tall, thin-faced middle-aged man wearing a Pendleton shirt under a navy cotton sweater, elderly jeans, and black high-top Converse All-Stars. Right. Theyre everywhere.

The gray car backed out of the parking space. They may be everywhere, but that one, I thought, is the one I came with. Damn stick shift, no room to climb into the drivers seat. I flung open the door and ran around the car, then had to run back around and lean in to unlock the drivers door. Around the car again. I crammed myself behind the wheel and began to back out. I had to jam on the brakes to keep from hitting the rattling procession of carts pushed by a figure in a too-large plastic rain poncho. I gritted my teeth.

This is unbelievable, I fumed aloud. I'd only known Bob for two weeks, but hed done nothing in that time to indicate he was capable of deserting me in a grocery store parking lot. Even my dead husband Roger had never done that. Of course I couldnt think of a time Roger and I had gone to a grocery store together. Perhaps only lack of opportunity had kept me from having this delightful experience earlier in life.

The cart parade finally moved past the car. I backed out and zoomed to the entrance to the lot. I saw the Mercedes passing under a streetlight a couple of blocks away. I gunned the engine and the old Honda bucked onto the street. I caught the light at the corner on the yellow and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor.

Coplands Third Symphony provided grandiose background music to my chase scene. A no-color Pinto pulled out from a side street in front of me, and I stood on the brakes. Thats all I needed tonight, to have a Pinto blow up in my face. The Mercedes red taillights grew smaller and smaller.

I banged on the steering wheel with frustration, uttering phrases unbecoming to a lady, watching for a chance to pass. As soon as I could, I pulled around the plodding Pinto, shifted down to second, and pushed the Civics four cylinders as hard as they would go. All right! I growled as the gap between me and the Mercedes began to close.

Even as I hurtled down Prairie Avenue, I couldnt help wondering if I really was following some other guy while Bob waited back at the grocery store. Hed never leave me the keys again. Supposing we ever went anywhere again.

The Mercedes bounced over the railroad tracks just north of the old Western Electric plant, and as I reached the tracks, a pulsing red light filled the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Oh, god, a cop. I looked down at the speedometer and saw the needle hovering near fifty. The speed limit along here was thirty-five. And of course there had been the little matter of passing that Pinto on a two-lane street in town. I looked at the Mercedes taillights once more and put on my turn signal.

But wait, the cop could catch the Mercedes. I stopped and unclipped my seat belt, shoving open the door. I forgot I hadn't turned off the engine. When I took my foot off the clutch the little car lurched and died. The door swung back and banged my arm. I ignored the pain and scrambled out onto the gravel shoulder. The police car had stopped about fifteen feet behind me. The cop was climbing out. Officer, theres been a

At the sound of my voice he snapped on the large flashlight in his left hand and with his right pulled the heavy revolver holstered at his hip. Stop right there! he ordered, pinning me with the beam from the light. I stopped so suddenly that I teetered back and forth. Get your hands out where I can see them.

I held my hands out to the sides, palms forward and fingers open. I have to report a kidnap

Turn around slowly and walk back to your car, he said. Stand by the front wheel and keep your hands in sight.

It's a curious thing about having a gun pointed at you. I felt no trace of the resistance to authority that has occasionally marred my passage through life. I turned and walked to Bobs car.

The officer followed, clicking on the flashlight to inspect the interior. Apparently satisfied by its bareness, he brought the glare of the flashlight around to my face. I blinked and squinted.

All right, lady, wheres the fire? Stern, gravelly voice. Dont you know better than to get out of your car when youre stopped by the police?

But theres been a

I need your license and vehicle registration.

Maybe it would be faster to give him what he wanted. Theyre in the car.

He motioned with the flashlight. Get in.

He kept the gun in hand as I opened the car door and slipped inside. I grabbed my purse from the floor on the other side. When I turned back and proffered the wallet open to my license, he slid the gun back into its holster. I let out breath I didnt know I'd been holding and then leaned over to reach for the glove box for whatever papers I could find. His reaction was instantaneous.