Becoming Mona Lisa (27 page)

“My car!” I wailed, suddenly reminded of my new Toyota.

“Oh shit!” Tom yelled. The three of us made the sad journey to where I'd left my new SUV. Miraculously, there wasn't a mark on it. It sat gleaming, surrounded by pieces of oven.

“Thurman's mailbox,” Tom groaned. Sure enough, for the second time in as many weeks, we'd committed felony mailbox destruction.

Robbie reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, pulled out his Lowe's credit card, and forced it into my hand.

“You guys go get something for dinner, and get a mailbox. I'm gonna load the oven into my truck and patch the roof. Pippin doesn't appear to be home, so maybe we can fix all this and he won't be the wiser. If he gets back before you do, I'll tell him I did it, and I intend to fix it.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. Tom ran into the house, returned with my purse, and we climbed into my Toyota and sped away from the scene of the crime.

We were back in less than thirty minutes with one large pizza and two mailboxes.

Robbie was on the roof.

“Why'd you get two?” Robbie yelled. “Were they on sale?”

“Emergency preparedness,” I said, and Robbie smiled.

Tom unwrapped the first mailbox, and I groaned. “The old one was gray. These are both black,” I pointed out, and Tom threw me a look that shut me up immediately.

“Robbie! Come set this up!” Tom begged, and his brother descended the roof by way of the ladder.

Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the house, and Robbie surveyed the damage in the kitchen which, surprisingly, was minimal.

“
This is an absolute miracle. The entire house should have exploded. I have no idea why it didn't. This can't be explained, it defies logic,” Robbie rambled.

“
Welcome to Siggs Central,” I mumbled. “Everything defies logic here.”

Tom and I each stared at a slice of pizza. Neither of us had an appetite, which concerned me. If we passed on Joe's pizza, we were at death's door.

“
You guys should be dead,” Robbie said, which seemed a logical explanation for why we had no appetite. Maybe we were dead.

I pinched Tom. “Ow! Jeez, Mona. What the hell?” he whined.

“
Just checking to see if we're dead,” I explained.

He flicked me, and I winced. “Did you feel that?” he asked.

“
Yeah. I guess we're not dead.”

“
Look, guys,” Robbie said, stepping in as mediator. “This is nobody's fault. The stove was ancient, and it's a wonder it didn't burn this whole place down a long time ago. I'll check with Lowe's tomorrow, and we'll bump up the delivery of the new appliances. In the meantime, one of you should call the gas company and see when they can come out to do an inspection. If the hookup's faulty, something like this could happen again, and next time you're not likely to be so lucky.”

Lucky?

I just looked at Robbie. “I'll call,” I offered, as Tom and I resumed our staring contest with our dinner.

Robbie begged off to get ready to go out, and I loaded the pizza into the fridge, while Tom opened the bottle of wine his brother had bought for our celebration. I knew it was a bad idea to drink on an empty stomach, but I needed to be medicated if I had any hope of surviving the night.

I suggested Robbie take my SUV, so he didn't have to drive around with a truck bed full of oven parts, but mainly because I figured my new Toyota was safer if it wasn't near the house.

Once Robbie was gone, Tom and I settled down to watch a movie, with the kittens snuggled between us. Halfway into the film, things got steamy on screen. I glanced at my husband, and sure enough, he had
the look.

“Seriously?” I asked, and he nodded. “I'll be right back.”

I rifled through my bedroom for a couple minutes, and finally found what I was seeking. The teddy was thrown on a chair in the corner, and I shed my clothes and stepped into it.

“I'll light some candles,” Tom called from the living room, and I froze.

“No, Tom! Whatever you do, do NOT light a match,” I warned. “Tom?”

Nothing.

“Now, what the hell is he up to?” I mumbled, as I made my way back to the living room. Tom was not where I'd left him. I had donned the itchy teddy, and my husband had ditched me? “Shithead.”

The living room was dimly lit, and thankfully, none of the candles were burning. I wrapped myself in one of the throws, walked to the window, peeked through the blinds, and saw my half-naked husband carrying the owl. Now, in anyone else's life, this might have been weird. In mine, not so much.

Tom set the owl in the middle of the lawn. I waved at him from the window, and he did a little dance for me. The lights were off next door, and I wondered where Thurman was.

As long as he wasn't seeing my husband dance around in his undies, all was well.

I met Tom at the door. Things heated up pretty quickly, and he whipped the throw off me with such enthusiasm, it's a wonder I didn't spin out like a little kid's top. We collapsed onto the rug, and rolled around enthusiastically for a long time. Tom was getting some serious rug burn, and the teddy was giving off friction sparks, which I prayed wouldn't ignite anything.

I laid beside my husband, and inhaled sharply as he gently removed the teddy. Just as I was about to achieve maximum satisfaction, compliments of Tom's lower extremities, something hit the window. “Jesus,” Tom said, from just above me.

“Ignore it,” I begged. He didn't. “Tom, just ignore it.” He pulled on his boxers and stormed out the front door. I wrapped myself in the throw, and shuffled to the foyer on weak knees. “Dammit,” I whispered.

Over the persistent yipping of Thurman's chihuahua, I heard the screaming of the birds. I couldn't see Tom, although I imagined he was wandering through the firestorm dressed only in his underwear. Then I saw him, lit by a handsome harvest moon. He emerged from the garage, carrying a large baseball bat. His expression frightened me.

“What are you doing?” I yelled from the porch.

“That damn thing doesn't work. You think I can't fix anything? WATCH ME!” He screamed over the fever pitch of sound, and began striking the owl with the bat.

What the hell is he doing?

I ran to the kitchen to get my cell phone, but I had no idea who to call. Who could help my crazy husband? Then I saw a familiar business card stuck to the front of the refrigerator.

Burt's Bat Removal.

“
Wrong kind of bat,” I whispered.

I returned to the foyer, and things hadn't improved in the yard. Tom was striking the owl with all the enthusiasm of an eight-year-old boy accosting a candy-filled pinata. I picked up the box the owl had been delivered in, and something jumped out at me. In small letters on the lower left hand side, was clearly printed:
Requires 4 D size batteries, not included.

“Sonovabitch,” I whispered.

By this time, Tom was in a frenzy, whacking the owl for all he was worth. I could hear sirens in the distance, and my body chilled, and not just because I was naked under the throw. I ran like hell for my bedroom. Whatever happened, I wanted to be dressed when it did. I flung the throw, grabbed my jeans and sweatshirt, dressed as I stumbled back down the hall, and stepped onto the porch just as the cops were arriving.

“This is the police. Drop your weapon, sir!”

Now where had I heard that before?

“Sir, owls are a protected species. Please step away from the owl and drop your weapon!”

Was he freakin' kidding? The damn thing wasn't real, which should have been evident from a mile away.

“Sir, I do not want to shoot you, but I will if you don't drop your weapon. DROP YOUR WEAPON, SIR!”

What the fuck?
“The owl is plastic for God's sake!” I screamed from the porch, and Deputy Ed Mulpepper turned to look at me.

“Hey, Mona,” Ed said, as if we'd just seen each other at a party. I just stared at the guy. Was he going to shoot my Tom or not?

“Tom! Put the bat down, or you're going to get shot!” I screamed.

Finally, Tom did. He threw the bat on the ground, and collapsed to his knees. Deputy Ed Mulpepper and company closed in on him as if he'd just robbed the Bucks County Savings and Loan!

I ran like hell, and as I did, I saw Thurman from the corner of my eye. He stood under his porch light, smiling like the devil himself.

Somebody better dispose of that bat before I use it!

I arrived at my husband's side, and he was kneeling on the ground, surrounded by cops. “Tom? What the hell are you doing?” I asked, and he looked up at me.

“I can't live like this anymore,” he whined pathetically, and I looked at Ed.

“Can we just let this go?” I asked, and I tensed when the deputy shook his head.

“Mr. Pippin wants to file charges.”

“That sonovabitch!” I roared, grabbing for the bat. Ed got to it just as I did, and he pulled it from me.

“I don't want to have to arrest you too, Mrs. Siggs.”

I didn't think that was such a good idea either, since I wasn't wearing panties, and I knew my mother would be royally pissed.

“So, he's under arrest?” I asked, and Tom whimpered from where he knelt in a pile of owl.

“I'm gonna take him to the station. We'll book him, and you can bail him out in a couple of hours.”

“What's the charge?” I asked, forcing myself to function like a normal person, when I was anything but.

“Disturbing the peace, but other charges are pending,” Ed said, and I groaned audibly. “I'm sorry, Mona. You seem like nice folks. I'm just doing my job here.”

“Dear God give me strength,” I mumbled, as Ed helped my husband to his feet and cuffed him.

“I'm sorry, baby,” Tom whispered, and I held him for a long moment. I touched his cheek and kissed him before he was led away. He plodded along between Ed and another officer, and his stride reminded me of a condemned man about to meet his executioner. I took comfort in knowing the use of deadly force against a plastic owl was not a crime punishable by death.

“Where's Robbie's phone number?” I yelled.

“He's in my cell, listed as Marilyn Monroe!” Tom hollered back, and I watched in horror as he was loaded into the police car, wearing only his underpants and the handcuffs.

Twenty-Four

If you plan to take a walk on the thin line between what is lawful

and what is not, you might want to think about wearing pants.

I stood in the yard until the cruiser's taillights had blinked from sight, then sprinted toward the house. I launched a search for Tom's cell phone and finally found it in the pocket of his jeans, which were half-shoved under the couch. I selected the entry for Marilyn, and held my breath while the call connected.

“Robbie!” I nearly yelled, and my voice disappeared into the booming of loud music. “Robbie?” I whimpered, and the call disconnected. “Shit.”

I stumbled down the hall, intent on dressing myself properly. Tom was headed to jail wearing only his underwear, and while it was his plight foremost in my mind, I was reminded that I wasn't wearing any. I intended to rectify that immediately.

I slipped off my jeans, pulled on pink panties, stepped back into the jeans, and took a deep breath to steady myself. I shrugged out of my sweatshirt, grabbed the zebra bra - thanked God and all the saints, my husband wasn't wearing it - made numerous attempts to hook it with trembling fingers, and slipped a sweater over it once I had. Just as I forced my feet into my shoes, Tom's cell rang. I answered it immediately.

“Robbie?” I whimpered, sounding panicked.

“Mona, what's wrong?”

“Tom's been arrested. Can you come home?”

“I'm twenty minutes away. I'll be there in twenty-one,” Robbie blurted, without asking for details. I relaxed, but only slightly.

While I waited for Robbie, I packed a bag for Tom. It was bad enough he'd been hauled off to jail in his underwear. I couldn't see him coming home that way. I grabbed his jeans, and stuffed them in his gym bag. I did the same with his sweatshirt, running shoes, and socks.

I carried the bag to the foyer, and grabbed Tom's coat from the rack. I could feel the velvet box in the pocket, and I took it out. Despite the dim lighting, I could clearly see the beautiful ring. I closed the box, hugged it to my chest, and then shoved it back into the pocket.

As I did, my fingers brushed an envelope.

It was addressed to me. Tucked inside was a letter and a scrap of purple paper.

My quote.

I reread it, and was again moved by its poignancy.

We are not invisible because the world does not see us. We become invisible when we can no longer see ourselves.

“Wow,” I whispered.

Although I felt like an intruder, I decided to read Tom's letter, and I moved into the living room, flipped on the light, and settled myself into the corner of the couch.