Becoming Mona Lisa (13 page)

“Thurman would like to know what happened to his mailbox,” I said, stepping aside to wait for an answer.

“I think it was lightening,” Tom said, and I had to give him credit for thinking fast on his feet.

“Lightening,” Thurman repeated.

“Bad storm,” Tom said.

“Hmm,” the Death impersonator said, seemingly weighing the explanation my husband had provided. “Where'd you want this?” Thurman asked, holding up the dead bird again.

“Jesus!” Tom said, recoiling. “Where did that come from?”

“Was on my front lawn. Where'd you want it?” Thurman asked.

“Leave it on the porch. Thanks for bringing it by. Have a nice night!” Tom rambled, closing the door in Thurman's face. “This isn't over with him,” my husband declared.

Nope. Not by a long shot.

Eleven

Friday

There might be no such thing as pantyhose,

if Eve hadn't eaten that damn apple.

By Friday morning, I'd had it. I had redefined happiness. It wasn't a perfect house, a perfect bathroom, a perfect marriage, or a perfect life. It was simply a life without crows.

I saw crows everywhere I looked. There were crows to the east, west, north and south. Crows on the lawn, in the trees, on the fence, and plastered across the sky.

“
I live in hell,” I growled, over soggy corn flakes.

“
I would have thought it would be warmer,” Tom said, from across the table. I couldn't find anything to stab him with so I mustered a smile.

“
Hang in there, babe,” Tom said. “Ray is sure he can find that CD somewhere.”

“
And if that doesn't work?” I whimpered.

“
Burt will be here tomorrow,” Tom reminded me.

“
I hope he brings a small army,” I said, and against my better judgment, I glanced out the window. There were birds everywhere, and the lawn looked like One Big Fat Greek Crow Wedding.

I fed my cornflakes to the circular file, and saw Tom to the door. He sprinted to the deer car, which was absolutely covered with crow shit.

Tom blew me a kiss from beneath the ridiculous antlers, and I waved from the porch.

Two crows leered at me from atop the mailbox. I flipped them off, stepped into the house, and slammed the door.

I grabbed a coffee and headed for the bathroom. The demure black dress I'd pulled from my closet hung on the back of the door. An angry wad of nylon, beautifully wrapped in a pink plastic bag, was balanced on the edge of the sink.

“Awesome,” I said, picking up the pantyhose. I checked the tag. Sure enough, they were made in hell. “I hate these friggin' things,” I muttered, removing the hateful nylons from the bag.

Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, I stood on my right leg, and forced my left foot into one leg of the pantyhose. That part went pretty well. I then stood on my left leg, shoved my right foot into the nylons, and that's when all hell broke loose. Something got tangled, and I felt myself begin to sway, and when one is swaying in an eight-by-eleven room, there is little leeway, and even less margin for error.

Before I could right myself, the left cheek of my buttocks collided with the old green sink, and the entire thing crashed to the floor. The faucets hung in mid-air, held there by ancient plumbing.

“Holy schnookies,” I muttered. I could already picture my husband's expression, but there was a silver lining. Demolition was a sizable part of our bathroom estimate. Maybe we'd save a few bucks since I'd basically gotten the job started.

I moved the pantyhose party into the hallway, and jumped up and down five or six times. It seemed I'd fallen victim to dishonest advertising. The nylons would not have fit a five-foot-five female with a body weight in excess of one-hundred-fifty pounds. The damn things wouldn't have fit an eighty-five pound Girl Scout.

I shuffled toward my bedroom with all the grace of a prisoner in leg irons, hoping the discomfort would keep my mind occupied. It didn't.

“Shit,” I whispered, fighting tears as I stepped into the black dress. Before I could stop myself, I was bawling.

I grabbed the phone from the bedside table, and punched in ten digits. My mother answered on the first ring.

“Mom?” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

“Mona? Is everything all right, dear?” she asked.

“No.”

“Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

“Everything,” I whimpered.

“Oh, honey,” my mother soothed, and I cleared my throat.

“Edith Purnell died. I'm going to the funeral today.”

“That lovely lady Aunt Ida was friends with?”

“Yes.”

“I'm sorry, honey. She was very sweet.”

“I know.”

“Is everything else okay, Mona?”

I couldn't help it. That did it. The blubbering escalated, and I sobbed with the phone pressed to my ear.

“Sweetheart, please. You're starting to scare me. What's really going on?” my mother pried, and I took several deep breaths and prepared myself to bare my soul to the woman who had given birth to me.

I told her everything, and I mean
everything.
I admitted to the hopelessness, the despair, and I told my mother I didn't have sex with my husband for five years. I figured this was a nice way of keeping her even with Doris Siggs, which could bode nicely if we all spent a holiday together. Tom and I could do a take-out run, and our mothers could stay behind and discuss the
lost years
, the years when poor Mona had been frigid.

“
I wish I could go back and fix it,” I admitted to my mother.

“
You can't go back, Mona. None of us can. All we can do is take everything we've learned and do better in the future. That's how life works.”

“
I know. Remember when you used to tell me I was unique? You'd say, 'this is my daughter, Mona. She's unique.'”

“
Of course I remember that.”

“
Was that a good thing, Mom?”

“
Yes. A very good thing. I knew the minute I looked into your eyes. I knew you were one of a kind, sweetheart, and not just because you were mine.”

“
Thanks,” I whispered, as the tears came again. “I've always known I was special,” I said, without a hint of arrogance.

“
You are. You're a treasure worthy of the name I gave you. Take all that goodness and do something wonderful with it. Give something to this world, and not because you want something back, but because it's what makes you feel whole.”

“I will.”

“How did you leave things with Tom? Are you going to work things out?” my mother asked.

“Yes. We're trying.”

“You still love him, don't you?”

I bit my tongue to keep from sobbing again. “So much. He's such a sweet man, and he's been so unhappy, too. I've missed him so much. How can you live with someone for five whole years and still be lonely?” I asked my mother.

“Unhappiness causes us to isolate ourselves. Isolation is lonely.”

“I know.” I glanced at the clock. “Mom, I have to go. I'm sorry. Thanks for listening, and for always knowing what I need to hear.”

“You're welcome. I love you, my Mona Lisa.”

“I know, Mom. I love you, too.”

“Take care of yourself, dear. Give yourself permission to be happy, to matter. Tell Tom how you feel. Let him share your life.”

“I will,” I said. “Thank you, Mommy. Please tell Daddy I love him, and we hope to see you guys in a few months.”

“We'd love to have you, sweetheart,” my mother said before disconnecting.

I hopped into a mental time machine, and sat thinking of my childhood. Those were some damn fine years - a good start to what I'd expected would be a nice life. Somehow, somewhere, I'd veered off the path. It was time to fix that.

I checked the time again. I had five minutes. I stood, did the jumping thing a couple of times with no results, and crammed my feet into my shoes.

“Ugh.” I was absolutely miserable. The pumps felt like a vice, and the pantyhose were causing a sudden onset of circulatory disease.

I checked my image in the mirror and found my sobbing jag had done less damage than I'd expected. A little mascara on my nose, a little lipstick on my chin. Not quite ready, but not quite a Picasso. Spit and a tissue righted the mess in thirty seconds, and with no time to spare, I grabbed my black trench coat, and headed out the front door.

I backed out of the driveway, nodded to Thurman, who glared at me from his front yard, and took off like a bat out of hell. The last thing I needed was to have to deal with that idiot.

I dialed Tom.

“Hi, babe,” he said, and I smiled.

“Hey.”

“You holding up okay, honey?”

“So, so. I'm actually on my way to meet Beth now. I know this might seem disrespectful, under the circumstances, but I wondered if you'd want to do something tonight.”

He paused for only a moment. “How about Teddy's? We haven't been there in ages, and the newspaper says they have karaoke tonight,” Tom suggested, sounding excited.

Teddy's Bar & Grill had been a staple in our town since I was in diapers. It didn't have a grill, and barely had a bar, but nobody minded. It was a nondescript dive that could be found in every small town in America, but it was ours, and we loved it.

“Teddy's sounds great,” I agreed.

“You keep your chin up until I see you, okay?” Tom said warmly, and I started to cry.

“Thanks. I have to go. I'm at WalMart, and Beth's already here,” I said softly.

“Okay. I love you, Mona.”

“I love you, too,” I whispered.

I hung up the phone and cleaned off the passenger seat while I waited for Beth to lock her car. There were four Fudge Round wrappers, and I shoved them in the trash.

Four Fudge Rounds and a funeral.

Sounded like a movie.

I smiled through my tears.

Twelve

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

A bird in the house is a gigantic pain in the ass.

I have always been amazed by the life lessons that come in death's packaging. The morning and early afternoon passed in a blur of murmured prayer, muffled sobs, wadded Kleenex, and ham and potatoes served on mismatched dinnerware in a church basement that reeked of Mr. Clean and old-lady perfume.

By two o'clock, Edith Purnell had found her final resting place beneath a massive oak, without a wheel in sight, and I was home. I spent about an hour nursing a cup of cocoa and my emotional misery, then shook off the sadness and focused all my energy on planning a second attempt at a romantic evening. I'd distanced myself significantly from romance, so this took some serious thinking. With the daunting task at hand, I proceeded to my closet and spent two hours on an archaeological dig in search of a push-up bra I knew I had, but hadn't seen in eons.

Successful in my quest, bra in hand, I back-hoed all the shit into my closet, and headed to the bathroom to get ready. Four hours later, I was just about done.

“
Come to Mama,” I whispered to my reflection. I had boobs to kingdom come, and the black sweater from Kohl's was bursting at the seams, compliments of my enhanced bust line.

“You ready, hot stuff?” Tom asked from beyond the closed bedroom door.

“You have no idea,” I whispered. “I'll be right out!” I called. Well-worn Levis hugged my butt, and I slipped my feet into some Dominatrix-style black boots I'd discovered forty-five minutes into the
dig
. They hurt like hell, but the five hours I'd spent in the satanic nylons had upped my pain threshold, and as a result, the boots bordered on comfortable.

“Mona? Were you talking about going this Friday?” Tom called from the hallway.

“Coming!” I yelled, crossing the room to the door, which I opened slowly. “Worth the wait?” I asked, as I leaned against the door frame.

Tom didn't speak. He stood there with his jaw slack. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, and I spun around like a runway model.

“You like?” I asked suggestively.

“Very nice.” He reached for me, pulled me to his chest, and kissed me in a way that sent heat rising from my boots to my bottom, at a rate of speed that rivaled a Space Shuttle launch. “We should go,” Tom said through a moan.

“Okay.” I switched the light off in the bedroom. The kittens watched us from the end of the bed. “Perverts,” I said, and Duke yawned.

Tom stood in the doorway. He was bathed in shadow, and looked like the budding rock star I remembered from my youth. He'd paired his favorite jeans with a crisp white shirt, and a black suit jacket he normally reserved for wrapping up the sale of a used car. He looked young and handsome, and my heart raced as I looked at him.