Becoming Mona Lisa (26 page)

“What did my husband say?” I asked. “Or, don't you know?”

“Oh, I do know. I was right there. Artie asked us all to come back when he presented it to Tom. Your husband looked like he'd just shit his pants, pardon my French,” Louie said, and I laughed. “Then, and I will never forget this, Tom Siggs, your husband, ma'am, the guy least likely to ever argue with Artie said, and I quote, 'I'm not driving that piece of shit. I'm going back to school to be a teacher, to teach young people to believe in themselves so they never, ever feel so desperate to please someone that they would actually drive something that ducking ridiculous.'”

“Ducking?” I asked with a smile.

“I believe that's what he said.”

“And that was all?” I asked.

“No. After Artie regained consciousness, your husband said, 'Oh, and, Artie...., I quit.'”

“What did the rest of you do?”

“The shop guys cheered. The sales guys all got real pale, and the new guy wobbled a little, and for a second, I thought he might faint. I figured they were all wondering who'd have to drive that hideous piece of shit, pardon my French,” he said.

“Your French is fine.”

“Thanks. Oh, and Mrs. Siggs?”

“Yeah?” I said, as we walked back toward my new Toyota.

“What's with 'ducking?'”

“It's our code word. My French was a little over the top.”

“Oh. Gotcha.”

Louie had another customer, so I strolled out front to talk to Robbie, who'd hung around to find out what had happened to his brother. After I filled him in, Robbie left to pick up a bottle of wine to go with dinner. I returned to the garage to pick up my new SUV. I wanted to get it out of there before anyone had designs on embellishing it with leftover deer paraphernalia.

The SUV drove like a dream, and I took a little detour just to sustain the ride home. I rounded the corner of Pleasant Valley Road, pulled in front of the house, and stopped along the street. If I recalled correctly, we'd had about ten conversations regarding a new car. What we hadn't discussed, was where we'd park it. I was thinking one county over, but it wasn't geographically favorable, so I left the SUV on the street, said a quick prayer for its paint job, and hurried up the sidewalk.

The house was quiet. “Tom?” No response. I thought I heard him moving around in the bedroom, but the door was shut. Intent on surprising him, I tiptoed down the hall and flung the door open. He stood in front of my dresser, wearing the zebra bra.

“What in the name of hell?” I whispered.

Three people lived in my house, only one was a woman, and everyone wore bras?

I was about to lose my freakin' mind!

Twenty-Thre
e

The decision to tinker with a gas appliance

might be the last decision you ever make.

“Hey,” Tom said, sounding casual. “I thought we'd decided the kitchen cabinets could stay.”

What in the name of God?
“Excuse me?”

“I happened to notice the cupboards were gone. I thought we'd talked about keeping those.”

“And, I happened to notice you're wearing a bra. What are you doing, Tom?”

“I was trying to figure out why my brother would voluntarily wear something like this. It itches, and frankly, it hurts like hell,” he said, removing the undergarment. I relaxed, but only slightly. After all, this was the man who'd told Thurman lightening had struck his mailbox. This guy could lie on a moment's notice.

“You've never worn a bra before?”

“Why would I?” he asked, his voice muffled by the sweatshirt he was pulling over his head.

“I was just asking.”

“You think I wear women's lingerie?” he asked.

“Do you?”

“No, Mona. I don't. I may not be the king of masculinity here, but I do not wear women's clothes, nor do I have any desire to.”

“Good.”

“While we're on the topic of being emasculated, I quit my job,” he said, and I smiled.

“I know. I picked up my car.”

“Did you see it?”

I didn't have to ask what
it
was. “Yeah. It's disgusting. I'm proud of you.”

“Me, too. I'm not the same guy I was when I agreed to drive that piece of shit the first time. I'm different now.”

“How so?” I asked, genuinely interested.

“I deserve better. More. I want to teach. I want to do something with my life, something I'm proud of. No one would be proud to drive that, and while there's no shame in selling cars, I want something more out of life. I used to be afraid to say that, to even think it. I'm not afraid anymore.”

“I want more, too,” I said.

“What do you want, Mona?” Tom asked, and I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him.

“I don't know exactly, but I've learned a lot these past two weeks, maybe more than I've learned in all the years leading up to them. I'd like to share what I've learned. I feel important now, like I matter, like I'm beginning to figure out who I am. Maybe I could help other women to do the same.”

“You want to do that, honey?” Tom asked with a gentle smile.

“I do. I didn't even know how much I wanted that until I said it out loud.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I don't have a freakin' clue right now, but I will. I think I was born to do this.”

“You're amazing, Mona. I hope you know that,” he said, and I swallowed hard.

He stood amongst shards of light cast by the late afternoon sun. The tiny prisms danced across the hardwood floor, and I was momentarily mesmerized, until a crow flew past, interrupting the stream of light.

“You know what else would make me happy? Escalated, wanting to dance buck-naked, under-the-moonlight, happy?” I said.

“What's that, babe?” he asked, and although he sounded riveted, I could tell by his eyes, he was picturing me naked.

“I'd like to look outside and not see any crows.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Tom said. “Did you notice that box in the foyer?” I shook my head. “Ray Cunningham dropped it off this afternoon. I talked to him this morning, basically to vent about not getting the CD yet. He'd forgotten he had this thing. He says it worked for his son.”

“What is it?” I asked, as I followed him down the hall.

“It's in the shape of an owl, but it emits a high pitched noise that sounds like –”

“Celine Dion?” I interrupted.

Tom laughed and swatted my butt. “No, a predator. Crows are supposed to be scared off by it.”

“They were supposed to be scared off by the scarecrows, too,” I reminded Tom.

“Yeah, well, I think we blew it with them the first time by letting my brother set up Diana Ross and the Supremes out there.” I chuckled. “Where is he, by the way? His flight landed this morning.”

“He's already been here. I was cleaning out the cupboards this morning when he got here. Once I'd unloaded all the dishes, Robbie noticed the cabinets looked rotted. He said it won't add much to the budget,” I lied, and Tom looked like he totally bought it.

“I say let's do it right. Then if we have to sell the house, it will increase the value,” he remarked.

“We're selling?”

“Maybe we could rent the house, just until Thurman dies,” Tom said, and I laughed. “Do you think you could talk to Ed Mulpepper once this crow business is over?”

“About what?” I said, as we stood in the kitchen.

“Ask him if we can shoot Thurman if he's on our property.”

“Seriously?” I asked, as my entire body tensed. Tom stood at the counter, holding a half-empty bottle of wine, and he looked at me with a strange expression.

“Of course not, Mona. I'd just like to know if there's some mediation process, or something, designed for 'neighbors from hell,'” he explained, and the muscles of my body relaxed in such a rush I felt like I'd been tasered. I took two glasses from the Fangerhouse box closest to the sink, and handed them to Tom. He poured a small amount of wine into each glass and handed one to me, which I took.

“I'd like to propose a toast to my liberation,” Tom said, raising his glass.

“Okay, but I'm only drinking on special occasions after this,” I said with absolutely no conviction.

“I'd say this is a special occasion,” Tom said, as he lifted the glass to his lips. “So, Mrs. Siggs, anything you'd like to do to celebrate this particularly special occasion?”

I felt heat in my lower extremities. I smiled, which was all the answer my husband needed.

We started making out, and Tom helped me out of my sweater. His lips found my neck and I pressed myself harder against him, forcing him against the wall. His elbow went right through, but this didn't stop us. Our libidos were at full sizzle when the phone rang.

Tom answered it.

“Hello,” he said, in a high pitched voice, because I'd grabbed for the family jewels. He kissed me again with the phone to his ear. “Sure thing.” He disconnected.

“Who was that?” I asked. I was fired up and ready to roll, and I could see smoke rising from my jeans.

“Robbie. He said we need to take the turkey out of the oven.”

“Shit,” I mumbled. “I forgot about that.”

I swung my sweater around like a stripper, as Tom put on some sexy, flowered oven mitts, and proceeded to remove our dinner from the antique oven. He carefully balanced the bird and carried it to the table which, in the kitchen's state of demolition, afforded the only flat surface. “Doesn't feel warm,” Tom said, and I felt my heart sink.

He lifted the lid so slowly, I wondered if he was afraid the turkey might jump out at him. “It looks okay,” he said.

I pulled my sweater back on and went to check out the bird. “It's not done, Tom,” I said, poking it with my finger.

“It looks all right.”

“It's raw. If we eat this, we'll die.”

“Oh. Let's not then,” my husband said. “I wonder what's wrong with the oven.”

“Seriously?”

It should have been obvious what was wrong with the oven. It was fifty or sixty years old, and had probably died from neglect. I grimaced as Tom began fiddling with something behind the oven.

“I don't think you should be touching that,” I warned, and he looked at me.

“Why?”

“Because you're you, Tom,” I said, and he made a face at me, and returned to his tinkering.

“I think I fixed it,” he said, and I felt the early warning system go off in my colon.

“I don't imagine you did,” I said.

“I'm serious. Something was disconnected, and I put it back together. I bet it will light now. Watch.”

To my dismay, I did. He lit a match, and I started mumbling. “The Lord is my shepherd.........”

“Have a little faith,” he said, as he held the match to the magic hole.

BOOM!

The kitchen exploded.

Once I got my wits about me, I realized there was smoke, but no fire. There was also no oven. The appliance had vanished. So had my husband. “Tom?” I yelled.

“Come here!” he shouted back. “You gotta see this. You're not gonna believe this, Mona!”

I hated when he said that, and whatever I was going to see, I knew it would mean more anguish for us. No doubt about it, not when you were a Siggs.

I found Tom on the porch, wearing a look of sheer astonishment. “The oven's in the tree,” he explained, and I gasped.

“What the.....?” I asked, leaving out the last part. I was too darned stressed to be inserting code words. It was easier to let the sentence trail off into a profane oblivion.

Sure enough, the Magic Chef was in the pine tree closest to the road. The oven was mostly concealed by thick branches, and was barely noticeable, unless you were looking for it, because yours was missing. Wood started to snap and crackle, and I could see the appliance losing its grip. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, so I did neither. I just stood there, jaw slack, imaging the outcome of this latest cluster........

“How did it get into the tree?” I asked, after standing there for several minutes. It was something I should have asked immediately, but I needed some time to reboot my brain.

“Flew right through the roof,” Tom said, and I groaned. Robbie was going to kill us.

As if on cue, Robbie rounded the corner in his Dodge Ram, just as the branches supporting Aunt Ida's Magic Chef gave way.

Only a Siggs could be killed by a falling oven.

“Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” I began praying.

Robbie stopped the truck just before the Magic Chef plummeted. It landed in the middle of the road and literally exploded, sending small bits of oven far and wide, and missing Robbie's truck by mere inches.

“Robbie!” Tom yelled, as he took off like a bat out of hell off the porch.

“What the hell happened?” Robbie asked, once he'd parked the truck in the presumed safety of our driveway.