Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  Okay. I’ll be right over.

  Seriously?

  Yes. Just need to run home and get my sexiest outfit.

  Awesome. I knew I could count on you. Wait, are you messing with me?

  Not at all.

  Yes you are. And now you’re going to send me one of those stupid winky emoticons.

  Penelope sent the winky face. Seduce Dimwit? Give her a break.

  I guess I’ll do it myself then. Even though it’s your sock he’s getting married to. But whatever. Meet tonight for recon action?

  Can’t do it.

  Why?

  Beg pardon. Don’t WANT to do it. Have house to myself. Talk later. Bye.

  Now that she had the phone out, it seemed a good time to check on her junior camper and see how the packing was coming along. She dialed James’s number, hoping, as happened about half the time, that Theo would answer instead of his father. The phone rang and rang until James answered, sounding a little breathless.

  “Sorry it took me so long,” he said, laughing wryly. “I was down in the den reading about William Wallace. You know, the guy from Braveheart. I must have tuned out the phone.”

  Penelope didn’t take the bait. They were no longer married and she didn’t have to listen to mini history lessons based on that week’s biography. She also no longer had to listen to him apology-brag about his incredible powers of concentration, powers which made it impossible for him to hear anything Penelope said while he was absorbing facts about heroic men of European descent.

  She had noticed, of course, that his reading-tune-out superpowers waned greatly when she was on the phone kibitzing with her friends. His questions afterward were always informed and thorough, showing that he’d well followed the conversational gist while his cranium was supposedly riding the dusty trail with Theodore Roosevelt. One such question he posed after a conversation with Sandy was What were you laughing about right after you mentioned our trip to North Carolina?

  “How’s the packing going?” Penelope said, before James could begin his top ten countdown of brave Scotsmen and their haggis of choice.

  “The packing is all wrapped up,” James said. “I told Theo we’d be hitting the road at oh seven hundred, so I want to get him off to bed as soon as possible.”

  This military time thing was a running joke from their marriage. She’d started calling him Sarge one morning, irritated at his chop-chopping her before a trip to the Outer Banks, and he’d spent the week at the beach saying, I plan on having my first beer at fourteen hundred hours, Penelope, and other such nonsense. It was funny then and it was funny now, and she found that she was smiling despite herself.

  Coming back to the present, she quizzed James about the things she was worried about being forgotten. Per tradition, James pooh-poohed her concern. Her ex was a proud packer and hated to have his abilities questioned. And don’t even think about making a suggestion about how to arrange the suitcases. You might as well tell him Thomas Wolfe was a one-book wonder.

  He’d yelled out for Theo a moment before and was now apparently walking around the house looking for him. She heard Theo say, “Tell Mom I’ll call her back. I’ve got a cool Plinky that’s about to launch.” Then the muffled sound of James snapping at him to get on the phone now. They did have that in common, she and James. Neither would let Theo avoid a parental call for a stupid video game.

  “Hi Mom,” Theo said, sounding a little sullen.

  “Hold on, Theo,” Penelope said. “Can’t talk right now. I’ve got my own Plinky about to launch. I’ve been walking round and round the couch for about three hours now. I have to see how this turns out.”

  Theo laughed. He wasn’t a natural sulker and could never keep up the front of being put out for long. And then—despite just being made fun of for being obsessed with PlinkyMo—he blasted into his nightly recitation of captured Plinkies. This catalog was precise and invigorating, at least to the narrator, and Penelope could feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through the little tracker’s blood as he spoke. It was reminiscent of James’s triumphant summation of how he’d managed—

  through native engineering skills and careful study of plane geometry—

  to pack the cooler in the trunk after all.

  “Dad says I can play on the drive down,” Theo said. “But after that, it’s no Plinkies for a whole two weeks. Camp Sycamore doesn’t allow electronics. Dad’s saying it’s time for bed.”

  “Okay, honey. I’m going to miss you. You’ve got the stationery and envelopes, right?”

  “Yeah,” Theo said, sounding furtive, as if he hoped this topic wouldn’t come up before he’d made a clean exit from the conversation. He generally preferred a mic drop after a PlinkyMo soliloquy.

  “Sweetie, I’m going to miss you like crazy, so you have to keep me in the loop. Will you promise to write?”

  “Okay, but not every day. Like every other day. Otherwise it’s like homework.”

  “Fine. Every other day. And take your inhaler wherever you go. And put on sunscreen. And don’t scratch your bites. Seriously, you’ll get impetigo.”

  “Love you too. But it’s impossible not to scratch mosquito bites.”

  5

  After unloading the groceries, Penelope stood in her new kitchen, trying to decide what to eat for supper. She wasn’t that hungry so settled on an apple. She wouldn’t mention this in mixed company, but fruit kind of bored her, other than as a flavoring for gum, Slurpees, and Starburst. But it was rumored to keep the doctor away, so with a big loud crunch she entered her den and flopped backwards onto the couch, wishing already that she’d taken the time to peel this bad boy before she got skin stuck in her teeth and had to floss before she was ready.

  She turned on the TV. The news was on. She turned off the TV. It was a total shit show out there.

  Munching away on the apple, she looked around her little place, a rented cottage on the back of a hundred-acre farm, which she got to by traveling half a mile down a dusty gravel road. Her landlords were a hippie-ish couple from out West who had vague and flexible jobs, which indicated there was family money and that they’d soon be raising alpacas for their Internet fleece consortium. Her mother had befriended the woman while shrewdly evaluating azaleas at the Mennonite nursery. They’d struck up a horticultural conversation, and her mother was delighted to learn that the newcomer was not a subversive who wanted to install the native dandelion flower alongside the classic iris. None of this fiddle-faddle about blooming weeds. By responding thusly, the woman had come down on the right side of the civil war currently raging in the Hillsboro Garden Club. And when the botanically correct neohippie mentioned she had a place to rent, Penelope’s mom sprang into action. Already the grand matriarch was salivating about what she’d do along the cottage walkway, and soon the trowels would fly.

  Honestly, Penelope felt lucky to have the place. The 1960s-era bathroom she shared with Theo was not the greatest, but the screened-in porch that allowed her to watch the deer gambol was cute as pie. Of course, her preference was to own, not rent, but it would be a long time before that was feasible. She was currently the very definition of living paycheck to paycheck, and one emergency away from financial calamity. What would it take to get ahead? Fifty thousand dollars a year? And what did get ahead mean? Other than the Xbox Theo wanted because none of the good games were on Wii anymore.

  Then again, nothing was accomplished by worrying about money on a Friday night. She was broke, sure, but not as broke as before, and a steady paycheck was coming in. She looked around, eyeing the walls in the den she’d primed the weekend before, more sure than ever that the turquoise paint waiting for her on the front stoop was the right color. Yes, turquoise.

  James and his earth hues could kiss her sweet ass.

  Penelope was about finished with one wall and was enjoying playing music as loud as she wanted. Or at least as loud as her phone would play, as that was the only sound system she currently had. She’d been getting seriously funky with Beyoncé. I
n fact, she had bonded pretty heavily with her on “Single Ladies” and thought the two of them would make a pretty good duet if ever they got the chance. She was doing this—synchronizing perfectly with Beyoncé and dancing a bit as she used the big roller on the wall—when her phone lit up with a message.

  It was a nearly midnight, which was late for a text in her world. Apparently teens were now texting the night away. And sexting too. Even middle schoolers! And politicians—local, state, and national. Was she the only one who had to get up in the morning?

  She was not currently receiving a sext but a question from her employer.

  How do you turn the flashlight thing off on a phone?

  Why?

  Cause I’m about to start Operation Dimwit and it’s glowing like a mother. I had it on so I didn’t bust my ass walking around.

  Where are you?

  Somebody’s yard. Starting to think we’re not handicap friendly. There’s booby traps all over the place here. Pretty sure I slipped a disc already.

  Go home.

  No way. How do you get the flashlight off? Dimwit’s probably already seen me.

  Penelope picked up the roller to touch up a spot she’d missed while doing a little spin move during her duet with Beyoncé.

  Flick your phone up from the bottom then hit the flashlight button.

  Damien usually shows me how, but I got it now.

  Penelope considered, for the umpteenth time, why anyone would name an innocent child Damien. Hadn’t everyone their age seen The Omen? She’d watched it at her friend Debbie’s house during a sleepover and it had freaked her all the way out.

  Where’s your car?

  Down by Mr. Burke’s. The old fart’s yard does look nice. Almost feel guilty for throwing a huge hunk of gum in it. He’ll shit himself.

  Are you drunk?

  Not that much. Come hang out.

  I need to paint.

  Come on. It’s exciting as hell.

  Go home.

  Not happening. Doing surveillance. It’s completely dark up at Dimwit’s. Sock Penelope wore him out. Maybe I can get a photo of something incriminating through the window.

  I don’t like you stomping around all by yourself at night.

  Stop worrying.

  You’re really loud. He’ll hear you.

  You may be right. I overdid it at Tammy’s. I’m crunching like a walking stick of bacon.

  Go home and put some lotion on.

  No can do. Dimwit’s going down. Will report back later. Keep your phone on.

  6

  She was pooped but satisfied as she lay in bed, preparing to check LoveSynch for the bevy of messages she was sure to have received from the thousands of men within her dating radius. She laughed at herself. Had she really become this cynical? She’d have at least one message from a nice, sophisticated local man. So he was a touch older than was ideal. Who cared? More than likely that nose whistle he had working at Starbucks was a one-time thing. Whose nose whistled all the time?

  She yawned and closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the tree frogs outside. She liked sleeping in the country and come fall she’d leave her window open and feel far away from the hustle and bustle of life. This new place was going to work out nicely. The paint job was moving right along and she’d found just the right spot for all her housewarming gifts from Sandy and Rachel, save one.

  That one was going to take some consideration. For the moment, it looked back at her—Cheekily? Guiltily? Forbiddingly?—from atop her dresser.

  Or was it boredly?

  She had no idea, only that she and the gift had entered minute two of their staring contest and all she could think of was her mother. She crossed the room, obtained the gift, and examined it once more. Why had they put her name on it? And why had they chosen an orange font when the inscribed item was green? It was a lurid combination, but maybe that was the point. Feeling more than ever that her friends were perverts, she tucked the orange and green PENELOPE LEMON into the bottom drawer where she kept her cold weather garments. Out of sight, out of mind was a motto she trusted and she dove into bed, clear of conscience and ready for LoveSynch.

  As always, she compulsively read over her Portnal (Portrait + Journal)

  to see if kind Internet fairies had managed to improve, or at least freshen up, all the lame stuff she’d written about herself when she joined the site and had never bothered to change. Unfortunately, it showed the same list of last year’s hot TV shows and a bunch of hooey about traveling, wine tasting, and outdoor adventure. In short, TheosMom75 liked to sniff a rich burgundy while hiking strenuous Costa Rican trails or shooting rapids in her kayak.

  All right, all right, it wasn’t that bad. Harmless insinuations and white lies like everyone else posted on dating sites. Plus, her answer to the Exercise Frequency question—a bald-faced Very frequent—was creeping closer to accurate. Or soon would be once she popped into Fitness Plus in the morning. And she could update her Enthusiasms section as well. There were some new shows she liked and she’d read several of the good books that everyone was talking about. She wouldn’t mention Carnal Liaisons, which was loudly calling her name from the bedside table, because that might give the wrong impression. Plenty of time for that later if some naughty boy proved himself worthy.

  She was smiling at her frisky self when her phone buzzed. Missy again.

  I think Dimwit’s got pet skunks.

  Penelope laughed out loud and replied.

  What?

  I made it about fifty feet up the hill before they started in on me. I’m in the office right now with the ac cranking and I’m spraying OFF everywhere and I can STILL smell them. I think they’re sneaking in through Dimwit’s bathroom. The whole office has gone feral.

  Go home.

  Can you just come down here?

  Why?

  They’ve got me surrounded. I need a bodyguard to the car.

  Penelope smiled and glanced at her LoveSynch messages, a disappointing haul. She return-texted.

  It’s like one skunk who’s probably already gone. They have a really strong scent.

  That’s impossible. I’m choking on skunk. Dimwit’s breeding them up there in his laboratory. Are you coming or not?

  Penelope realized she was thirsty and headed to the kitchen. En route she paused for a moment to savor her paint job. Even with just one coat on a single wall, the wood paneling looked better and brighter. She and Beyoncé had done good and speedy work. She was totally sold on the turquoise but was beginning to second-guess the Soft Linen trim. What else though? The only other sample she’d taped to the wall was Daisy White. Might that be too dramatic? Too bold? Turquoise + Daisy White would be quite the statement.

  Remembering her skunk-addled friend, she wrote:

  Just hold your nose and run to the car.

  Oh thank god. I thought you’d forsaken me. Listen, I can’t feel my nose. What is toxic shock syndrome again?

  Penelope went to the fridge and got half a glass of cranberry juice, then filled the rest of the glass with water. It was what her stepfather George did and she agreed it was just the nighttime ticket. Missy had texted again.

  Because I definitely have it.

  You don’t have toxic shock syndrome. Hillsboro is always skunky this time of year. You’re just not used to it.

  I tell you Dimwit has trained skunks guarding his place. These are super skunks. It’s like the Island of Dr. Moreau. They may be his own offspring.

  You can’t train skunks.

  That’s what I thought. But these were definitely organized. They were on me before I was halfway up the hill. Hold on, I hear something.

  While her boss did God knew what, Penelope stood at the sink, perusing that day’s LoveSynch contacts from the poignantly single men who lived within her forty-mile dating perimeter. But why just forty miles? Was that perimeter enough? Why not a hundred? Why not the whole of the eastern seaboard?

  Smiling at her hyperbole, she headed back to the bedroom, tall
ying LoveSynch icons as she went. Cupid’s mailroom had brought her three flirts, two computer-generated blends, but only one Eiffel Tower, which was the jackpot of icons. She didn’t know what the Parisian landmark signified, exactly, other than earnest Internet love with perhaps a side baguette. Only one person had messaged her, and that was Fitzwilliam. She hopped back into bed, on top of the covers, and started the message.

  My Dearest TheosMom75,

  Or might I call you Penelope now? (I was tempted by the melodious sound of My Dearest Lemon Sorbet but thought that presumptuous). Anyway, a rose by any other name . . .

  I have been counting the days until our appointed tête à tête and can hardly conceive that the time is nigh!

  Penelope’s phone buzzed again.

  First it was a scratching at the front door. Then scurrying in the bushes. Now nothing. Like dead silent. Dimwit’s army is playing with my mind.

  A raccoon and/or wind. You’re like a person in a scary movie—like The Omen—slowly freaking herself out.

  Penelope wasn’t sure about using that specific movie reference. She erased like The Omen and pressed Send. Then returned to Fitzwilliam’s message.

  Like Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, I’ve pretty maids all in a row dusting and cleaning so that fair Pemberley will be just so for your arrival. And it is only by summoning my strongest resolve that I refrain from telling you what delectables the menu has in store for fair Penelope (one hint: fromage and more fromage!).

  Oh, I pray that I do not sound too stuffy, for I want this evening to be as breezy and casual as our enchanting conversation over coffee a fortnight ago. I look so forward to hearing more about that winning young scamp, Theo, and how your charming new domicile is coming along. Delightfully, I’m sure! And I promise to limit my stories about my own scamp, Algernon Moncrieff, to one hand (if the other hand has its fingers crossed behind my back).