Becoming Mona Lisa (31 page)

“You don't say,” I remarked.

“Where do you think it goes?” Robbie asked.

“Well, assuming there is a tunnel, and I can't confirm that, it might not go anywhere if the outbuildings it led to are gone. Or, it's possible that the tunnel connects your house with the house across the road,” Ed said.

“Pippin's place? Lord give us strength,” I muttered.

“If you want my advice, and I assume you do since you asked me out here, if the room and tunnel bother you, seal it off. It would certainly keep you warmer, and you could do it as part of your remodel. Or, you could use it for storage, or if you're conspiracy theorists, the secret room would come in especially handy as a bomb shelter,” Ed said, chuckling at his own wit.

“Well, if anyone should have a bomb shelter, it's probably these two,” Robbie said, slapping his thigh enthusiastically.

Personally, I was for sealing it off. I really didn't need to know our house might be connected to Pippin's by some secret passageway. It opened the door, proverbially and literally, to a lot of really bad possibilities.

Maybe we could buy a cement mixer. That way we could bust down the door, fill in the tunnel, and build a Great Wall of Bucks County, separating us permanently from the asshole across the street.

“All right, folks. I think I've done about all I can for you. If you need anything else, just give a shout. I can be out here in ten minutes or so,” Ed offered.

“Sorry to bother you on a Sunday,” I said.

“I'm on duty,” Ed replied. “Thanks for the coffee.

Tom saw Ed to the door.

“So, tunnels and secret rooms and shadow people are normal,” I said to Robbie. “Who'd have ever thought that?”

“You know, I wouldn't worry about this much if I were you, Mona. I'd be willing to venture a guess that you haven't known a normal day in your life,” Robbie remarked.

“Good point,” I said.

“So,” Tom said, returning to the kitchen, “who's up for some secret room exploration?”

Robbie and I looked at each other.

“I'm gonna have to pass,” Robbie said.

“Don't look at me,” I said.

“Who's up for steaks, beer, and a bonfire, and forgetting about the damn room all together?” Robbie said.

“That sounds great,” I said. “Although, I intend to find out what's going on with it,” I said, and Robbie just stared at me. “Without actually going down there,” I added.

“Rob, let's get that fire started. I agree we need to address the problem with the secret room, but I think the number one slot on the problem list has to go to these birds. Hopefully a bonfire will drive the damn things off. If
it doesn't, we'll try something else,” Tom said.

“
What?” I asked.

“
I don't know. Maybe we could buy an RV and drive to California,” Tom said.

“
What's there?” I asked.

“
The crow CD company.”

“
I could use a vacation,” I said.

We all dispersed. Tom and Robbie headed out back and began carrying old wood and rotten cupboards to the bonfire pile. I begged off to take a thirty minute nap to try to quiet the “holy shit, my house might be connected to Pippin's,” migraine that had begun to pound behind my eyes.

The nap left me feeling refreshed, and I found Tom in the kitchen with his head in the refrigerator.

“
Can I help you?” I asked.

“
I thought you were sleeping,” Tom replied.

“
I am.”

“
Smart ass.”

Tom pulled me against him, squeezed my butt, and kissed me. “Hell of a day,” he said.

“
No kidding,” I agreed.

“
I could make you feel better later,” Tom teased.

“
You could make me feel better now if you grab me one of those Heineken's.”

“
Deal,” he said, handing me the beer.

“
Fire smells good,” I said. I could hear the gentle crackling through the window. It was peaceful, and calming, and miraculously controlled.

Robbie threw some steaks on the grill, and I scooped out some store-made potato salad and plopped it into a bowl. We ate enough for an army, and washed it all down with Heineken. The fire hadn't completely scared the crows off, but I was enjoying it. Tomorrow was another day, and if the birds were still skulking about, we could go to California, or Mexico, or maybe Iceland. Iceland sounded nice.

By dusk, the fire had died down, and the boys staggered across the lawn to get another load to burn. Robbie returned with a pile of wood from behind the shed, and Tom held a huge Fangerhouse box.

“
What's that?” I asked.

“
Garage liberation,” he slurred, then threw the whole thing into the fire. The box burned quickly, and the contents tumbled out and caught fire. “Uh, oh.”

I sobered almost instantly. “What's 'uh oh?'” I asked.

The Siggs had their own early warning system, and the words “uh oh,” served as an alarm that sounded right before something went horribly wrong.

“
I don't think I should have thrown that in the fire,” Tom said, as Robbie returned with more wood.

“
What stinks?” Robbie asked, and Tom started poking the fire with a stick.

“
I'm not sure, but I think it might be cans,” Tom admitted reluctantly.

“
You threw cans in the fire?” Robbie asked.

Tom looked panicked. “I didn't mean to.”

“Well, where'd you get the cans from?” Robbie asked.

“They were in the Fangerhouse box,” Tom said, defending himself.

“You didn't look in the box first?” Robbie asked his brother, and I started inching my lawn chair farther from the fire.

“I admit, I did not,” Tom said, and I groaned.

“You know, bro, for a smart guy you're a dumb ass. You don't throw anything in the fire unless you know what it is.”

“I've been drinking all day. I just didn't think, Rob. Jeez, it doesn't even smell weird anymore. I'm sure it's fine.”

Bang!

I flew out of my chair and ran for cover. I didn't know what the hell was in the fire, but whatever it was, it didn't seem happy to be there, and was staging a revolt.

Bang!

“What is that?” I yelled, and Robbie took the stick and started fishing around in the fire with it.

“It is cans, and they look like aerosol!” Robbie yelled.

Sonovabitch!

BANG!

“RUN!” Robbie screamed, and he and Tom hauled ass toward me. I was gonna have to recycle for four-hundred years to make up for what my husband was doing to the environment in one day. I was committed to the long-term effort, with one problem. I didn't expect to live through the night.

“Jeez, Tom. Why the hell couldn't you have looked in the box?” I roared, turning toward my idiot husband, who looked scared shitless and genuinely embarrassed.

A red hot can began its dance in the flames. “All systems go,” I whispered, as the can took off like a flare toward the garage.

“Oh, my God,” Tom groaned.

“You're about to get that garage liberation,” I said. Tom covered his face with his hands.

“I'll call 911,” Robbie offered, and I wondered if I should fix a plate for Ed. It was the least I could do, and there was plenty of food left.

Robbie returned a moment later, looking totally freaked. He shook his head.

“Nobody answered?” I asked.

“Fireworks,” he mumbled, and I just looked at him.

“They're out watching fireworks?” I asked, wondering if “connect the dots in the sentence,” was an old Siggs tradition.

“Fireworks in the garage,” Robbie said, and suddenly all the dots were connected and there was a picture of all three Siggs in the county lockup.

“Please tell me there are not fireworks in the garage,” I said, and Robbie looked at his feet.

“Can't do that, Mona,” he whispered, and I groaned. “I bought them for the party I planned to throw as soon as the house was done.”

“Well......, party date's been moved up,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on things.

I liked fireworks, and when it came to jail, Tom was an old pro. I was sure he could show me the ropes. Robbie normally lived like a gypsy, so I figured he could survive as a fugitive.

The garage became fully engulfed, and the night's sounds blended with the roar of a massive fire. Suddenly a rocket blasted through the flaming roof. One after another, the fireworks went off, illuminating the night sky with every color of the spectrum.

I flopped down on the ground and watched the show. Thurman's chihuahua was yipping up a storm, and I barely made out the words “I'm calling the cops,” over the thunderous booming of fireworks, the crackle of burning garage, and Princess's persistent barking.

“Relax and enjoy the show, Mr. Pippin, the cops should be here any minute!” I hollered.

Tom had grabbed a garden hose, and it hung flaccidly by his side. “I don't think that's gonna do it, Tom,” I said, and he released the hose and let it drop to the ground.

“Have a seat, bro, the finale should be starting,” Robbie said, sitting beside me on the moist ground.

“There's a finale?” I asked excitedly, and even Tom perked up a bit.

“Yeah. There's a huge box of big ones in the back corner. Flames should be hitting it any minute,” Robbie said, clapping his hands like a little kid.

Somehow the sirens penetrated the symphony of sound, and I saw flashing lights in the distance.

“Oh, boy!!!” Robbie said, squealing with delight. “Maybe they'll make it for the finale.”

They did. The police and firemen arrived just as the finale began. Fireworks went off in rapid succession, and the sky lit up like the Fourth of July. Finally the last
boom
echoed away into the distance, and the police and firemen applauded. The sound died down, but only momentarily. The night was suddenly filled with the roar of flapping wings, as hundreds of crows took off to make their home elsewhere.

Epilogue

Four Weeks Later

As it turned out, we only spent a few hours in jail. Tom went fully dressed, I was still glowing from the fireworks show, and Robbie decided against becoming a fugitive.

We were arraigned the following morning on a variety of charges, including disturbing the peace and reckless endangerment. The railroad stock money was coming in handy; it covered our bail and paid a healthy retainer to a local lawyer who specialized in handling cases for idiots.

We pleaded guilty to reduced charges and avoided jail time. The court doled out enough community service hours to keep us out of trouble for a long time.

Tom was assigned to the drama department at Oxford Valley High, and all the surviving mannequins were rehomed there.

Robbie was tearing things up, quite literally, in service to the Bucks County Senior Home Repair Project.

I was volunteering at a women's shelter, and some time later when I would reflect on the experience, I would find it changed my life forever. I discovered the positive ripple effect of empathy and caring.

As it often does, life delivered me – although by a strange and chaotic roadway – to exactly where I was supposed to be. The women needed me, but as it turned out, I needed them even more.

The need to be needed is a basic human desire, and Tom satisfied his by returning to college to pursue a career in education.

I remained committed to procrastinating life's big choices, and was still manning the express lane at WalMart.

Robbie resumed the remodel on our house, and finished a half-dozen for the blue-haired citizens of Bucks County, even more than the law required. His reasons, however, weren't entirely altruistic. He was on the hunt for secret rooms in every house he entered. So far, he'd come up empty.

The mystery of our secret room remained. We'd sealed off the staircase with a makeshift door, primarily to keep Daisy and Duke out, or so my boys said. I believed it until I saw the sign painted in large red letters.

KEEP OUT! THIS MEANS YOU, MONA!

Subtle.

The whole idea of the underground world had left me baffled, but I was no longer as frightened as I once was. Where there was once sheer terror, there was now a sense of mysticism and intrigue, although not yet enough to drive me into the cavern, but I knew it was only a matter of time. And, so did the Brothers Siggs. They knew I loved a good mystery, and this was one I planned to solve.

Other mysteries remained. The garage revealed one of its own. The structure was a burned out shell, a scarred wooden carcass of a thing, with a single survivor.

A very charred mannequin named Marilyn Monroe.

She'd lost her head to a potato, yet her body had survived a several-hundred-degree inferno. I didn't get it, but that was a mystery I was willing to leave unresolved. I wouldn't be retesting the power of fire any time soon.