Becoming Mona Lisa Page 5

  I just needed to silence the Wicked Witch of Frigidness, who had lodged herself in my loins.

  “Okay,” I whispered, and Tom took the bottle and set it on the porch railing.

  “You good now, sexy?” he asked, and that's all it took to get me going. I laughed, and suddenly he was laughing, too.

  I stood and reached for my husband's hand. “Dance with me,” I said, my words so jumbled they sounded like a foreign language.

  “Sure,” he said, standing and pulling me to him. We whirled around, sending an old planter crashing to the porch floor. “Oops,” Tom whispered. “Think I killed it?”

  “It died three years ago,” I said, through a laugh that was interrupted by my husband's lips crashing against mine. His depth perception must have been skewed, because he almost took my teeth out.

  We stood there for what seemed like forever, making out like two teenagers at a rock concert. We tumbled onto the love seat, then slid to the ground. Something else fell, and I heard glass shatter. It sounded like the Jack.

  We both sat up with a start.

  “What the hell is going on over there?”

  “Great! This is exactly what we need,” Tom whispered.

  “You got a problem over there, Siggs?” Thurman hollered, and my husband looked at me with a whiskey-inspired devil in his eyes.

  “Go back inside, Pippin,” Tom yelled. “This doesn't concern you.”

  “You beatin' your wife, you scumbag?” Thurman accused, and my husband made a fist.

  “Don't, Tom,” I said, but my husband was not to be thwarted. He stomped toward the road. “Sonovabitch,” I muttered, feeling sobered.

  “You killed that old lady. I always knew you did. You're the devil, Siggs,” Thurman said, and I wondered if I should call 911.

  “Tom?” I called, sounding frightened.

  “Go in the house, Mona,” my husband suggested.

  “Yes, Mrs. Siggs. Go pick out some sunglasses to wear to WalMart tomorrow so no one will know your husband gave you a shiner tonight,” Thurman said, and suddenly I wanted to hit him.

  “My husband doesn't beat me, Mr. Pippin,” I said, wondering why I felt the need to be so proper.

  “That's what they all say,” Thurman said from the edge of his yard.

  “I don't hit my wife, Thurman,” Tom said, as he approached the road. “I didn't hit Ida, and I sure as hell didn't kill her, and I would prefer not to hit you, but I'm gonna tell you, you're testing me,” my husband said, sounding much calmer than I imagined he felt.

  I was pretty sure Tom Siggs had never hit a man in his life, and I was positive he'd never hit a woman. In fact, I didn't think I'd ever seen him angry, unless you counted our spat in the bathroom, when he thought I was screwing that idiot he was about to slug.

  “Tom? Don't do anything stupid!” I yelled, although part of me wished he would. My husband was about to take on the neighborhood bully and suddenly I wanted him to get on with it, because I wanted to screw his brains out. He was so filled with testosterone he was practically glowing, and I was getting pretty turned on by the sudden peak in his masculinity.

  “Holy schnookies,” I whispered, as Thurman Pippin threw a right punch that landed squarely on my Tom's face. “Oh, shit!” I shouted, running for the garage. I knew where I was going, and what I was going for, and although I knew it was a bad idea, I went for it anyway.

  Ida's old hunting rifle was right where it had been for the last ten years. I pulled it off the wall, amazed by the weight of it. I wasn't sure if it was loaded, but it didn't matter. I wasn't planning on firing it. I staggered through the yard, more unsteady from the rifle's weight, and as I'd seen in old movies, I raised the gun and pointed it at the two men fighting in the middle of my street.

  “STOP!” I screamed, and they both did.

  “Mona?” Tom yelled, and although he sounded frightened, he was smiling.

  “Battered Women's Syndrome,” Thurman Pippin growled.

  “Shut up, Pippin, or I'll shoot you myself,” Tom said.

  I wondered where the cops were. Hadn't I called them?

  “Go home, Mr. Thurman,” I slurred. My immediate surroundings became blurry, and I felt myself wobble as my grip on the rifle loosened.

  “Hang on, Mona, I'm coming!” Tom yelled, and I took a couple of staggering steps and tried to blink away an untimely bout of double-vision. I opened my eyes again and saw my two husbands running toward me.

  “Shoot him, Missus! Serves him right for beatin' ya,” Thurman yelled, and suddenly my world became narrow. I lost my footing and started to fall, as the Toms closed in on me.

  Holy shit!

  The gun fired.

  My head roared, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Tom was beside me.

  “Jeez, Mona,” he whispered, pulling me to his chest.

  “Did I shoot anyone?” I asked, and my husband chuckled.

  “No.”

  “Where's Thurman?” I asked.

  “I'm here, ma'am,” he said, looking horrified.

  “Go home, Pippin,” Tom said, and I tried to nod, but my head had gained weight. I couldn't move it.

  “All right, Siggs, but this isn't over,” Thurman threatened, before walking away.

  Tom helped me sit up, and I felt lethargic. I wondered if I'd shot myself and had lost a lot of blood.

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” Tom asked, sounding concerned.

  “I didn't want him to hurt you,” I whispered, and my husband pulled me to his chest. “Ugh, I need to lie down.”

  “I'll take you inside,” he offered.

  “No. Here,” I said, lying on the soft ground. I looked into the sky, into the trees surrounding our house and Thurman's. My head began to roar, and the sky - lit by the moon only moments ago - became black. “I think I'm gonna die,” I said, and Tom said nothing.

  He stood and looked around the yard.

  “What the hell?” I heard him whisper, and I wondered why he was ignoring me as I faced death alone in the damp grass and soggy leaves.

  “Tom? I'm dying. I need you.”

  He walked away, toward the road, and I began to cry. “Tom?” I called, and he turned.

  “Something's wrong,” he said, or at least I thought he said, since it was hard to hear him over the roaring.

  “I know. I'm about to die.”

  “No, that's not it,” Tom said, and I inhaled sharply. Was there something more important than his wife's imminent death?

  “What is it?” I asked, as he knelt beside me.

  “I don't know. I think it's birds. Don't you hear that?” he asked.

  “I thought it was in my head,” I said, as Tom helped me sit upright.

  “It's not. You okay?” he said, and I shrugged.

  “I don't know. Am I shot?” I asked.

  Tom patted me down. It wasn't sexual, it was more like airport security. “There's no blood. I think you're okay.”

  “Good. Thanks, Tom.”

  “You're welcome,” he said, kissing my forehead, and picking leaves from my hair. “So, what made you go for the gun?” Tom asked, as the roaring grew louder.

  “Damned if I know. Good God! What is that?” I asked, and we both stared into the night sky.

  “I'm not sure. I think we should go in the house,” he said, helping me to my feet.

  “Yes. Let's,” I said, leaning hard against my husband, as he led me to through the yard. “What about the sex?” I asked, and Tom chuckled.

  “Let's get you inside first, and we'll see how it goes from there.”

  “Okay.”

  “You're a hoot, Mona Siggs. I thought you were gonna shoot somebody.”

  “You're sure I didn't?” I asked.

  “Pretty sure,” Tom said.

  Seven

  Tuesday

  Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye.

  Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie.

  —Eighteenth Century English Nursery Rhyme

&nbs
p; Daylight assaulted me as I forced my eyes open, and braced myself for full consciousness. A few seconds passed, as body and brain connected. I moaned in response to the pain of a massive hangover, which was indescribable, no matter how well deserved.

  My bedroom smelled like booze and dirty socks and I took a few cleansing breaths so I wouldn't vomit on my husband.

  “What did I do to myself?” I mumbled, turning slowly to glance at Tom. He was dressed in his favorite pajamas, a gag gift for his thirty-fifth birthday. Hundreds of Little Debbie faces blurred together beneath the tangled bedding.

  I felt like I was at death's door, but at the same time, I felt incredibly blessed. I could have been looking at an empty bed, and instead, I was looking at this man-child, with his tousled hair, and an incredible welt on the left side of his face. “Poor Tom,” I said, leaning

  down to press my lips to the damaged cheek.

  I dropped my feet to the cool floor, and forced myself to stand. “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I prayed, as I staggered toward my dresser.

  What the hell was I thinking last night?

  I passed the mirror over the scarred bureau and felt a magnetic pull to look.

  Not a good idea!

  “Holy schnookies.”

  So much for my makeover! My hair had held up pretty well, but my face was a disaster. Half of it looked like my khaki pants when I was too lazy to iron them, and I had a drool skid mark from my mouth to my right ear.

  “Tragic,” I whispered.

  Evidently Tom and I had only fulfilled one-half of our desired evening. I had no doubt I'd been drunk, but I was pretty sure there had been no sex. As cute as the jammies were, they weren't the kind of thing that got my blood pumping, and I was still wearing my new dress. The tag I'd forgotten to remove dug painfully into my armpit, yet it reminded me what a smart shopper I was. Originally eighty bucks, on sale for twenty-two. Not bad!

  I staggered to the bathroom, started the shower, and sat on the toilet seat while the water warmed. Bits of wallpaper peppered the yellow shag carpeting, and I wondered if I should pick them up before Bathman & Robin came in and photographed the mess for their 2009 catalog. I was pretty sure we'd win for the before photo.

  Three minutes later I stepped into the shower sans all the beauty products I'd purchased from Denise. I'd sworn upon the self-help bible I'd begin taking care of myself immediately, but I couldn't possibly tow a hundred bucks worth of beauty products into the tub. I had to hang on with both hands to avoid collapsing into a heaping pile of naked Mona.

  I stood under the hot water until I'd washed away any remnants of the ruined makeover. I was weaker than hell, but managed to shower, dress myself, and dry my hair without passing out.

  “Hey,” Tom said, once I'd made my way to the kitchen. He had replaced the Little Debbie pajamas with worn Levis and an Old Navy sweatshirt. He looked youthful and cute.

  I looked like a worn out rag doll.

  “Morning,” I said, half dragging myself to my favorite chair.

  “You okay?”

  “I have a pulse,” I moaned, and Tom smiled.

  “That's good to hear. Bathman & Robin are coming at eleven. You still up for that?”

  “Yeah. I could use a superhero right about now,” I said, as he handed me a cup of coffee. I wasn't sure what happened to Henry's cup, but this one said, My friends went to Myrtle Beach and all I got was this crappy mug. I mentally added a new set of dishes to the list of things to buy in the near future.

  “I need to get a dumpster,” Tom said.

  “For what?” I asked, wondering what we'd have left if we got rid of everything dumpster-worthy.

  “Well, for one thing, the living room rug,” he said, sitting across from me.

  “What happened to that?”

  “You don't remember, do you?” he asked, looking amused.

  “Evidently not.”

  “You had a little accident last night, Mona.”

  “What kind of accident?” I asked, trying to remember.

  “The kind involving vomit,” Tom said, and I groaned.

  “Sorry about that. I suppose it was time for that rug to go anyway,” I said.

  “Well, good news. It's gone.”

  “What did you do with it?” I asked.

  “I rolled it up and dragged it to the porch.”

  “I hope Thurman was inside by then.”

  “If he hadn't been, I'd have tried to get the rug into my trunk, just to get a rise out of the old bastard,” Tom said.

  I laughed at the visual. “That's hysterical,” I said breathlessly, once I'd regained the ability to speak.

  “Isn't it?” Tom asked, obviously delighted with himself. Twenty-four hours ago, this would have riled me. Now I thought he was cute.

  “How do you feel, Tom?”

  “I feel hopeful. I feel like we might make it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I think yesterday was a turning point.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  “We're getting new carpeting out of the deal.”

  “So I hear. How's your face?” I asked, reaching to touch the ugly bruise. Tom took my hand from his cheek and kissed my fingers. He held my hand tightly and squeezed it.

  “It's okay. I'm gonna go talk to Thurman, man to man.”

  “I don't know if that's such a good idea,” I said, and Tom shrugged.

  “We have to work something out, Mona. If we're gonna dump a lot of money into this old house, I'd hate to think we be driven out by a psychotic neighbor.”

  “I'd imagine he thinks we're the psychotic neighbors right about now.”

  “I should have left the rug in the yard with your boots sticking out the end,” Tom said, and I laughed so hard my head nearly exploded.

  “You're a crazy man, Tom Siggs,” I said, leaning forward as far as I could. I pressed my lips to his. He winked at me and I giggled. Maybe he was right. Maybe we'd be okay.

  “I love you, Mona. You know that, right?”

  “I know, Tom. I love you, too,” I whispered, and my husband smiled. I couldn't imagine why I'd stopped saying it. It was so easy, this spoken reminder of the vow I'd once made, of the love I still felt. What kept me silent for so long?

  “That place we were. Let's not go back there,” he said.

  “I can't.”

  “Me either.”

  We looked at each other for a long while.

  “We need to figure out how we got there, Tom. That's the key to making sure it doesn't happen again.”

  “We will,” Tom said. “I promise.”

  “I promise, too.”

  “Why don't you come to Lowe's with me later,” he suggested, opening the morning paper.

  “For carpet?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Paint, too.”

  Something flashed through my brain to my lips in one fluid motion, and my filtration system - heavily damaged by the hangover - failed. “You know, we can't paint and carpet over our problems, Tom,” I said, instantly regretting my words.

  “I know that. I'm not trying to.”

  “Okay,” I whispered.

  “It's gotta be a gradual thing. I know this, Mona,” Tom said.

  “I never stopped loving you,” I whispered, and he met my eyes.

  “Me either. I didn't like you for a long time though, if we're being honest here. Are we, Mona?”

  “Might as well.”

  “You ignored me, and avoided me like I had the plague, and although I was a first class asshole for asking such a thing in the bathroom last night, I admit I was starting to wonder if maybe you were a closet lesbian.”

  “Jeez,” I hissed through a breath, although I understood.

  “I thought maybe with that Beth person.”

  “Beth Mulpepper?” I asked incredulously.

  “You always talk about her.”

  “I know. She's my boss.”

  “So, you don't like her?”

  “Not enough to want to sleep with her.” I tried
to maintain a serious demeanor, but images of an intimate evening with Beth Mulpepper started running through my mind, and I started laughing. I imagined Beth ogling me through her tortoise shell, coke-bottle glasses, and for a moment, I was afraid I might wet my pants. My laughter increased with a fervor bordering on hysteria. I tried to calm myself with a mouthful of coffee which I spat all over Tom's paper.

  “Jeez, Mona. You all right?”

  “If you met Beth, you'd understand,” I said through my tears.

  “So, you're not gay?” Tom asked, and I shook my head.

  “Not gay.”

  “Good, because I was a little worried last night when you had to get drunk to wanna be with me,” Tom said, sounding wounded.

  “It wasn't what you thought,” I said.

  “Oh? Then what was it, Mona?” My eyes were still moist from my bout of hysteria, and I wiped them on my sleeve.

  “I don't even know you anymore, Tom,” I admitted, and he winced.

  “I don't know you, either.”

  “I don't know what you think about, because you never tell me. I don't know what you think of me, or our life, because you don't say anything. I know how you feel about the world, because you read the newspaper out loud, and you gripe about everything you don't agree with, but that's not communicating, Tom. Talking about the living room rug isn't communicating, Tom.”

  “I know.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  “I suppose fixing it will be similar to how it went bad,” Tom said.

  “How do you figure?” I asked.

  “Well, I can't remember the day it started, but there must have been that one moment, that one day, when we stopped talking, when we stopped trying. One day stretched into two, then three, then weeks, then years. If we make today good, and carry it into tomorrow, and the next day, maybe we can fix it, Mona. I want to fix it. I still love you.”

  “I still love you, too. I just don't really know you anymore.”

  “I know, and that makes me sad,” Tom said softly.

  “I don't even know me anymore,” I admitted.

  He reached for my hand again. “Then we'll figure it out. We'll figure out who we are.”

  “When I look in the mirror, I don't know the person looking back at me,” I said.