Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  Penelope felt herself smiling. How often had she played the referee, the judge, the game show host during a coffee table colloquium at the HHR’s?

  “Sure,” she said. “Have at it.”

  With this, the HHR hollered, “Hey dipshits, Penelope agrees that it’s much more likely that Area Fifty-One is an extraterrestrial reanimation project than it is the original spot where aliens first began breeding with humans. Isn’t that right, Penelope?”

  Penelope agreed that it was.

  “And Shiflett,” the HHR hollered anew, pressing his advantage.

  “Penelope also says that everybody knows that alien breeding took place in Egypt thousands of years ago. That’s why all their artwork has those people with pointy heads. She suggests you read a little history before you starting talking out the side of your ass.”

  Penelope smiled wider at this, thanked the HHR again for the name, and hung up, fighting the vaguest of urges to head over and join the ridiculous roundtable.

  9

  “I knew you’d come through,” Missy said when Penelope got out of the car at the Rolling Acres office. “You’re like the fixer in this town.”

  Penelope could tell she was being buttered up and offered an insincere smile in return. Where she wanted to be was in her den, taping the trim in preparation for good old Daisy White. Or getting mentally prepared for her first real date in years via a long candlelit bath and soothing music. Or just lounging on the couch, seeing how Miranda was making out at Spa Helvetica. What she didn’t want to be doing, not at all, was hanging out at her workplace on a Saturday afternoon, waiting on a skunk catcher.

  “So your first ex-husband came through for you, huh?” said Missy, smiling below her massive sunglasses and Wayne’s World baseball cap and standing so near the car door that Penelope couldn’t get out of the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Missy said. “Let me move my leathery ass out of your way so you can get out. I’m telling you, Tammy fried me up like a skinny little catfish yesterday.”

  Penelope climbed out of her car and checked her watch. It was 1:45. Cousin Buford, or Uncle Buford, or whatever he was to the HHR, was supposed to arrive in fifteen minutes. Once introductions were made, she planned on hitting the road. Was she even getting overtime for this?

  “You’re getting overtime, by the way,” Missy said.

  It was obvious Missy had picked up on her nonverbal clues and Penelope dialed back her aggressive gum chomping a notch. She was no longer quite as irritated, either, which kind of irritated her. Why couldn’t she stay peeved? It was embarrassing.

  “Yeah,” Penelope said, smiling for the first time, “the HHR came through.”

  “He’s just hot as hell, isn’t he?” Missy said, all but licking her lips. “Country catnip for the ladies, like a young Carl Junior. But speaking of hotties, did you talk to that dude at the gym?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you give him your number?” Missy asked, drumming on the hood of Penelope’s car in a way that suggested one too many espressos.

  For some reason—Fitzwilliam maybe—she felt sheepish about responding. Her reluctance must have been telling because Missy said: “Good for you, sister. Good for you. Let’s just go ahead and move on from Fitzhugh Milligan.”

  “Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “He’s not that old.”

  “How old?”

  “Sixties. Like sixty-three probably.”

  “Old.”

  “What about Carl Junior then?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Missy said, stopping her drumming in the middle of a powerful solo. “That’s apples to heirlooms. That’s coveralls and cardigans. Give me a break, would you? Carl Junior is probably fighting Dolly off as we speak. She’s clogging her little heart out for him in her secret mountain getaway. And underneath that coat of many colors? Nothing but a rhinestone garter belt. You’re out of your mind to compare Carl Junior and Fitzduncan McDuncan. That’s absurd.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Listen, I guarantee you that right now, down in her gold-plated holler, Dolly and Carl Junior aren’t listening to a Ted Talk while pondering tomato cross-pollination. Which is absolutely the best you can hope for tonight on Fitzgilligan’s Island.”

  Before Penelope could respond, Missy held up a hand to stop her, a placating smile beneath the very tan drumsticks that were her hands.

  “Let’s venture,” she said, “into more neutral waters. So, the mystery guy at the gym, what’s his name?”

  “Brad.”

  Missy nodded at this, as if her instincts had been correct. The name pleased her. “And what does slightly sweaty Brad do for a living?”

  “We talked for like ninety seconds.”

  “What if he’s a fry cook at Waffle House or something?”

  “I don’t know. If the guy’s cool, I don’t worry too much about what they do, or how much money they have.”

  “It’s all about the sack time, huh?” Missy said, resuming her drumming in a languorous Latin beat. “Getting the freak on? Yeah, honey, I’m right there with you. At the end of the day, money comes and goes, but orgasms are forever.”

  Penelope felt like a few faulty assumptions had been made during Missy’s spiel about the primary traits she was looking for in a man, but let it slide. The time for her date with Fitzwilliam was drawing nigh and she felt, more clearly than ever, that she’d prefer to spend the night painting and rocking out in her den. Why hadn’t she suggested lunch—at a restaurant—instead?

  “What about that chick at the water fountain? Did you show her who was boss?”

  “No,” said Penelope, “I did not show Megan the trainer who was boss. In fact, she barked at me for taking too long on a thigh machine.”

  “Maybe I’ll go down there with you next time,” Missy said, setting her tiny, tan jaw. “And bring like a seventy-two-ounce jug. And when I see her heading to the water fountain, I’ll make her wait for about an hour and half while I fill it up. And the whole time, I’m just pausing now and then to take tiny little sips. I’m not joking. I could stay there forever. Till they locked up the place. Staring means nothing to me.”

  Penelope liked the sound of that. Confrontation wasn’t her thing, but for Missy it was truly mother’s milk.

  “I think she might be dating James,” Penelope said, grinning in anticipation of the effect this would have on the little drummer girl before her.

  “No,” said Missy, snapping fully alert. “First he dates your son’s teacher, and now a trainer? Who does this little Romeo think he is?”

  “Beats me. But I’m pretty sure this woman Facebook-stalked me last night.”

  “Oh, sister, she’ll be hiding in the bushes if you don’t get this under control. Taking photos and framing you for crimes you didn’t commit. I wouldn’t put anything past this wacko. Give me a little time to get a dossier going and then a plan. I’ve had about a thousand stalkers in my day and not a one of them came back for seconds after I got through with them, I can promise you that.”

  Penelope grinned, doubting this trainer thing was anything serious. Over James? Had she seen him in his karate outfit yet? Or perusing Modern Robin Hood, his archery magazine, and sighing over arrow quivers? Had she heard him use the word opus about one of his longer-is-better favorite books? If not, she would soon enough, and from that day forward stalking in his honor would be laughable indeed.

  But now Missy was yanking her Wayne’s World cap in all directions, like someone afraid of being snuck up on.

  “Do you smell something?” she asked, twitching everywhichway.

  “Yes,” Penelope said, loudly sniffing the air. “I smell an army of trained skunks.”

  “You’re being sarcastic.”

  “You think?”

  “You weren’t here for Skunk Armageddon. If you were, you wouldn’t be quite so smug, I’ll tell you that much.”

  So saying, she turned and stared up the hill at Dimwit’
s trailer.

  Penelope couldn’t tell if the look was meant to be more forlorn or more determined, only that it was super dramatic, like a cowboy about to take a stand against long odds. You could hear the lonesome prairie whistling in her eyes.

  “One skunk,” Penelope said. “One normal, regular Hillsboro skunk.”

  “I’m just telling you that there is no way that funk came from one skunk. And I’m telling you, further, that they maneuvered themselves such that I was all but rounded up there at the bottom of Dimwit’s hill. And further still, that they surrounded the office perimeter after I’d surrendered the hill. For all practical purposes, I was a prisoner of war until my daring escape. No thanks to you, by the way.”

  “Did you see a skunk?”

  “No,” Missy said, head still swiveling side to side, tan, worried nose stabbing the air.

  “I’m telling you, it was just one. Their smell—even from really far away—is super strong. And it lasts for a really long time. That’s just how Hillsboro smells in the summer.”

  “Listen, I have no idea how Hillsboro smells at night, other than the inside of Applebee’s, which smells like fried onions and love. But this was a skunk army.”

  Penelope was not going to give in. Her country girl common sense was being challenged, as was her knowledge of local wildlife. Had one of Missy’s ex-husbands rescued a bear cub and spent the night in a tree? She thought not.

  “All right, listen,” Missy said. “When he gets here, you do the talking

  at first. You’re magic with these yokels. They all think I’m a satanist or a Yankee or something. I’m just not naturally good with them.”

  Penelope felt this went without saying, but before she could offer a smart retort, a pickup truck ever so gently drove through the trailer park entrance.

  10

  The truck was an older Chevy, very old but well maintained, and it paused at the entrance to admire the curvy, fancy lettering that spelled out Rolling Acres on the brick sign in the median. The truck stayed where it was, idling softly, for fifteen seconds, thirty, a full minute. A thin wisp of smoke wafted from the open window, a leisurely, satisfied plume, as if the occupant of the vehicle was pleased by the neatness of the sign, and the median so meticulously tended by Carl Jr., and the whole of the Rolling Acres Estates. It was pipe smoke, a smell Penelope had always liked, and she wondered if Missy with her psychosomatically injured nose could smell it as well.

  When the truck was again in motion, it made its languid way toward the office before pausing again to watch two squirrels chasing each around a Bradford pear tree. Even after the squirrels frolicked out of sight, the vehicle stayed where it was, as if contemplating the memory of fluffy tails madcapping like Shriners in their funny little cars. Penelope wondered how long it would take the pickup to make the full one-hundred-yard drive to the office, and whether it ever would. She could read the sign on the door, painted in an elegant royal blue script: The Critter Catcher.

  For reasons she couldn’t explain, the unhurried truck and the placidly spiraling smoke that emanated from its window held her rapt. She and Missy and the modular office were all plainly in sight. Why would anyone drive that slowly or pause that often when the goal of the journey was so clearly in sight? And who in this day and age had so little regard for time, its measurement, and its passage?

  “It’s the skunk man,” Missy whispered.

  Penelope nodded but didn’t reply.

  A large, rectangular compartment ran horizontally behind the cab. Penelope assumed this was where captured critters were kept.

  Eventually, impatience got the best of Missy. She waved her arms and shouted, “Hey there! Hey! Hey! We’re over here.”

  The driver gazed for a bit longer at the spot where the squirrels had played, then turned slowly to face the woman hailing him. Penelope could see him now, his trim, white beard and the same weathered, rugged look as Carl Jr. He was capless, an odd sight in this town considering his line of work, and his white hair was longish and came past the collar of his denim work shirt. He smiled now at Missy, and nodded, then did the same to Penelope. Still the truck didn’t move.

  “Is he stoned or something?” Missy whispered out of the side of her mouth. “Why’s he just sitting there looking at us?”

  “He’s not stoned,” Penelope whispered back. “He’s just not in a hurry.”

  “He looks like an Old Testament prophet,” Missy said quietly, while still waving her arms in a beckoning motion and smiling idiotically. “What if he’s here to make me repent for my ways? Or to smite me for my wickedness? I’ve got a bad burning bush feeling about this.”

  “Maybe he’s just letting you think about your transgressions for a while. Like harassing your employees with texts all night and making them come in for harebrained jobs on the weekend.”

  “I’ve done a lot worse things than that. And this skunk man can tell. Look at him. He’s staring right into my soul. He’s reading me like the dirty little book that I am.”

  This made Penelope laugh and in response the Critter Catcher laughed as well, pleased that his presence was bringing such mirth. Or perhaps it was the squirrels’ mirth. Or the mirth of the day. Anyway, he was mirthful, and once again in motion.

  Pulling into the lot, he nodded and beamed again at both of them, then took about three minutes backing in—and then out—and then in again. That there were no other cars in the seven available spots affected his precision not at all. He paused once to adjust the mirror on the passenger side for a better look at a painted line. And twice to take casual puffs on his pipe. Penelope felt like she might as well have been watching the HHR tie his intricate fishing lures, a process that could only be done perfectly and exactly and with a plethora of smoke inhalation.

  Parked, with eighteen inches from the lines to spare on each side, he smiled warmly to himself at the notion of equidistance, then rooted in his glove box for several moments, engine idling softly, farm report reciting bushel prices on the radio. Penelope could feel Missy squirming with impatience and nervous energy behind her but refused to indulge her with a wink or eye roll, as Missy doubtlessly was beseeching her to do. The trapper could take his sweet time as far as Penelope was concerned.

  Her boss was making a strange, dry sound beside her, as if trying to clear a throat that didn’t need clearing. She was dying to talk, Penelope knew, but now the skunk man had paused in his door opening to give full attention to the farm report. Beef cattle were bringing eleven hundred dollars a head and this news elicited an appreciative whistle. He seemed to find it a tidy sum.

  Then he stirred. First he switched off the radio. Then the truck. Then he closed the glove compartment, several times actually, as it didn’t seem to want to shut with as soft a touch as Buford King was applying. Three, four, five times he cautiously and tenderly pushed the door closed until it caught. Giving the glove compartment a friendly pat and a nod, he placed a felt Stetson on his head and exited the truck. The hat was grey and well worn, and he looked like a sheriff of yore. He stood before the women and extended a business card

  to each.

  “You’re Penelope,” he said. “The one who likes honey.”

  Penelope did like honey, but just in the normal way. Then she caught on. “I think you’re talking about my ex-husband.”

  “That’s right, that’s right,” the Critter Catcher said, chuckling. “Hagi. He ate it like a bear. I remember it now. Used to tickle Darlene when he did that. More honey than cornbread. Well, I’m Buford. Buford King. Good to see you again, Penelope. And this must be your friend who’s worried about the skunks.”

  He turned his fond gaze on Missy, who was making a show of studying the business card in her hand. Summoned, Missy snapped up her chin and set eyes a-gleaming. Her mouth was twisted at the pending release of extended speech after the long drought of silence. Penelope could see the flood of words building in her face and knew her twitchy tumult would soon come to an end. Just then, Buford King noticed somet
hing in the nearby woods behind the office, some fifty yards away, and started a crisp trek in that direction. En route, he pulled a small implement from his belt and wiped it once on the multipocketed legs of his Dickies. Beside her, Missy let out a faint groan and Penelope looked for the first time at the business card she held.

  The Critter Catcher

  Wildlife Removal Expert: Skunks, Raccoons, Rodents, Snakes, Opossums, Coyotes. Hedgehogs, Moles, Voles, Squirrels,

  Flying Squirrels, Bobcats, Muskrats, Beaver, Other

  Professional Forager: Ramp, persimmons, mushrooms,

  wild honey, mountain pears, dandelion greens, assorted nuts,

  natural teas (black birch, sassafras, ginseng), chaga,

  cloudberries, purple dead nettle

  Penelope noted the inclusion of both kinds of squirrels, not sure if she’d ever seen one of the flying variety. She’d also never seen a bobcat in the wild, or a muskrat. Nor had she heard of cloudberries, which sounded delicious, or purple dead nettle, which sounded painful. Maybe she wasn’t quite the country girl she supposed.

  In the woods, the Critter Catcher was down on one knee, digging around some unidentifiable vegetation, before pulling it up in a bunch. He shook dirt from the roots then reached into one of his many pockets for a handkerchief, which he used to sort and clean what now appeared to be individual stalks and not just a clump. He wiped off his tool, restored it to the belt, and walked back toward the parking lot, peeling the stalks as he came.

  During all this, Missy had circled twice around Penelope, bugging her eyes and mouthing words that Penelope couldn’t make out even if she wanted to. The silent words and the circling were both occurring too swiftly for any sort of deciphering to occur. Penelope had seen caged monkeys act similarly at the zoo in Richmond, though they were perhaps not quite this frenzied.

  “Ramp,” said the Critter Catcher when he stood before them again. He took a bite of his recently discovered treat. “I bet you didn’t know you had ramp back there, did you?”

  “No,” said Missy, reluctantly taking what Buford King had just peeled and handed her. “I didn’t know that.”