by Inman Majors
“How’s the view on the back side of your place?” Penelope asked. As she did, she made a quick movement around him toward the far corner of his home. She was past the bathroom window before he could recover, and the propane tank lying on its side, and the uncovered charcoal grill and plastic lawn chair, and the binoculars that lay beside it. She nearly asked if the binoculars were for bird watching but decided against it.
“View’s same back there as out front,” said Dimwit, rushing past her with keys jangling.
She was behind the trailer now, where he parked his old Nova. From his hilltop redoubt, he could see 360 degrees around him. If he was home, sneaking up was out of the question. And even if he was out on his mystery midnight errands, the place looked impenetrable. The back door was padlocked like the front and every window painted shut. The whole time she was appraising the place, Dimwit kept himself between her and the trailer. He seemed to fear a sudden attempt at forced entry.
“I’ve already said I ain’t got no sweet things for you. And look there, your boss just got back. Why don’t you go see if she’s got a goody and let me go about my business?”
Missy was indeed pulling into the office parking lot, and doing so with tires squealing. They watched her spring out of the car, slam the door, and stomp up the stairs to the office, already talking.
Penelope faced her adversary and said, “You can see everything that goes on from up here, can’t you, Dewitt?”
Dimwit shrugged. “Not much to see, other than old people and grass. I haven’t given it much thought.”
With as sweet a voice as she could muster, she said: “Okay Dewitt. I guess I better get back to work. If you come across any candy, please let me know.”
Dimwit gave a noncommittal nod and took a step toward the direction she was heading, hoping to prompt her to quicker movement she surmised. When he moved, Penelope noticed something she’d missed in her earlier assessment, a door with a flap on it, like a small animal would use to come and go as it pleased.
She took a hard, long look at that flap, trying to commit its measurements to memory. It looked like a cat door, if anything, or maybe something for a dachshund or other small dog. No way on earth she could squeeze through there. But someone smaller and skinny and really tan?
Maybe.
She smiled and nodded good-bye then started down the hill, concentrating as she did on walking as nonchalantly as possible, though she very much wanted to run.
18
She burst through the office door in Missy-esque fashion and shouted, “Dimwit just stole my brand-new pack of Starburst!”
The head honcho was pacing the reception area, anxious and distracted. She said: “I’m all confused. That meeting with the tax assessor isn’t till tomorrow. I missed a day somewhere. I’m not getting enough sleep. Dimwit is in my head.”
Penelope approached her employer and put hands on both shoulders in an attempt to stop the rambling. It was tempting to pretend that—for her own good—slapping her silly was the only way to go. Penelope looked into her eyes and said, very slowly: “Did you hear what I said? Dimwit stole a pack of Starburst right under my nose.”
Missy nodded dumbly.
“I was just up at his place. I’m pissed now. This is the last straw.”
“Huh? You did what?”
“I went up to his place on the pretext of wanting to bum some candy. But once I was up there, I cased the joint pretty good.”
Missy nodded at the detective jargon and her right eye blinked quickly for several seconds in a row. It looked as if she were reentering the world she normally inhabited after a brief foray into doubt and inertia. Her visage cleared and she was once again the ferocious tan dachshund that Penelope knew so well.
“Oh yes, oh hell yes,” she said, wiggling her shoulders out of Penelope’s clutches and sprinting to the desk recently rifled by Dewitt. She opened every drawer at once and said, “Do they make home fingerprint sets?”
“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t matter. You just touched every surface over there.”
Missy waved a dismissive hand and circled the desk several times, as if looking for a damning chest hair follicle or mislaid Yosemite Sam cap. The search proved fruitless so she plopped down in Penelope’s chair with a sigh.
“Dimwit’s gone full klepto,” she said. “He’s definitely keeping totems from his victims. It’s like every serial killer movie ever. Cute little socks turned into puppets one day, Starburst the next. I wonder what he does with those little sticky squares.”
Penelope shook her head in disgust.
“He could literally wedge them anywhere,” Missy said.
“You can’t gross me out more than I already am.”
Missy cackled. “I bet I could. But what exactly did you mean when you said This is the last straw?”
“I’m over Dimwit. I’m on a mission to take him down.”
“Now, my friend, you are talking. I still like Operation Dimwit better, but Mission Dim-possible isn’t bad either.”
“I’m not calling it Mission Dim-possible.”
“P is for Pendetta?”
“What?”
“P as in Penelope.”
“No.”
“Operation Dimwit it is.”
“I probably won’t call it that either. But anyway, like I said, I got a pretty good look at what we’re up against. His place is a fortress. Windows painted, padlocked doors.”
“But?” said Missy, tilting her head.
Penelope smiled. Without realizing it, she had done that thing they do in buddy movies, where the kicker line is left off in order to build drama. Missy was playing her part perfectly.
“But I did notice a flap at the bottom of the back door. A cat door. Or maybe a doggie door. But it would have to be a pretty small dog.”
“Cats and dogs, my ass. That’s a skunk door!”
“You keep getting sidetracked. Stop obsessing on nonsense and focus on proving Dimwit’s a thief.”
Penelope watched Missy take a deep breath, all but counting to ten before speaking. It was an admirable show of discipline.
Gritting her teeth, Missy said, “How small?”
“Very. Are you flexible?”
As an answer, Missy dove on the floor, rounded herself into a tiny tan ball, and rolled under the desk where Penelope’s chair usually sat. “How’s that for flexible? And if you need further proof, I’ve got a list of guys you can call who can vouch for me. I’m practically double-jointed. I could roll through that skunk door and into Dimwit’s dungeon, no questions asked.”
“The door’s shorter than that.”
“G.I. Joe,” Missy said, flopping down on her belly and sliding like a brown snake from under the desk. She then crawled ten feet across the carpet, her high heels flopping behind her.
“I think you’re still too wide,” Penelope said, smiling. At this point she was just putting her boss through the paces. “Can you scrunch up your shoulders a little more?”
Grunting, Missy tried to kick off her heels. Her dress was hiked up nearly to her waist and a run in her hose was making its way all the way around one thigh. Penelope took out her phone and snapped several photos. Missy was impossible to incriminate, but Penelope thought she’d enjoy looking at them from time to time when feeling a little down. Shoes finally off, Missy hunched her neck and shoulders down and scooted awkwardly forward on her elbows. She looked like a cross between a turtle and an uncoordinated inchworm.
“Like this?”
“I don’t know. Keep going for a little while.”
“I’ve got rug burns like a mother, but okay.”
Penelope started to laugh.
Missy looked over one hunched shoulder and said, “Damn it to hell, can I get in that door like this or not?”
“I don’t know.”
“But maybe?”
“It’ll be close.”
Missy stood up and dusted lint balls from her dress, face, and hair. Her eyes were bugged and she pa
nted freely. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
Penelope smiled and nodded.
“How big is the door? Show me with your hands.”
Penelope made an imaginary box with her hands approximately eighteen inches by eighteen inches.
Missy offered two thumbs up. “Piece of cake.”
“It’s a tight squeeze.”
Missy shooed this skepticism as one does a slow-moving fly. She came closer now, hand extended, and said: “But you’re really on the team now? Operation Dimwit? One for all and all for one?”
Penelope shook the offered hand.
“You wanna try out the walkie-talkies?” Missy asked.
“Are you a rank amateur? I saw binoculars up at Dimwit’s. He’s watching us nonstop. I’ve already tipped our hand by going up there. We can’t give anything else away.”
“Oh man, oh man. I knew he was spying. Well listen, country girl, I know you aren’t worried about skunks, and likely rode one to school when you was but a young’un. But I am. And I won’t be breaking into Dimwit’s until we show those skunks who’s boss. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to check the Whisperer’s traps.”
Penelope had planned to go to the gym after work but couldn’t quite talk herself into it. She was now walking up the front stoop of her house, mail in hand—all of it bills—when she saw the note stuck in the screen door. The lavender stationery was the first clue that the note was from her mother, the sprawling, elegant script that swirled the last E of her name the second. Standards might come and go, but her mother was not one to skimp on style, no matter how small the occasion. Penelope snatched the note with a grin.
Just dropped by to take a look at the walkway.
I think I took a photo with my phone but can’t be sure. These new phones are more trouble than they’re worth.
I have a good mental picture regardless and know just what I’ll do to pretty up the place. Tell me a good day to drop by and discuss. I can’t wait to get my hands in your dirt (or red clay as is likely the case). Call me.
Love Mom.
PS: Have you heard from Theo yet? I’m sure
he’s made plenty of friends and is having a great time. Stop worrying.
Penelope tucked the note under her arm, threw the bills on the counter with a disdainful flourish, and reached for the cold bottle of wine that had been calling her name since she’d left Rolling Acres. She reminded herself again that it was only Monday and that the absolute earliest she’d get a note from Theo would be Wednesday.
She stepped onto the screened-in porch and sat on the glider she’d been gifted from George, the one she’d grown up swinging on. She took the first sip of wine and it did not disappoint.
Seated, she realized how tired she was. Other than the hour she’d wasted on Dimwit, skunks, and Starburst, she’d gone nonstop. Still, maybe she should have worked out. Was she really that beat, or was she just trying to avoid a trainer named Megan? If so, that was weak. Yes, she was nonconfrontational by nature. Her kindergarten teacher had sent a note home, worried because she smiled all day long at school. She couldn’t help it if she was naturally happy and didn’t like getting into tiffs. She was a grown woman now, not a five-year-old insanely grinning during Duck, Duck, Goose.
To heck with James’s new girlfriend. She was not going to be intimated by her or anybody else. She’d go to the gym tomorrow and every other day this week. Doing so would likely mean an encounter with Bald Brad, whom she’d yet to reply to. And why hadn’t she? Was it the bald thing? She wasn’t twenty anymore and couldn’t expect every man to have hair like Eddie Van Halen, as sad as that notion was. And even thinking of him as Bald Brad seemed shallow and immature. Why not just Brad? No, he was too active for a single syllable. Active Brad. That was better, more positive. It wasn’t his fault he was bald.
Then again, he did have a good body and looked like he might know his way around a Penelope Lemon. She tried to imagine having sex with Active Brad but could only conjure a flushed pink dome, workout clothes, and a Fitbit. Even if she could picture him in a conjugal state, she wouldn’t know the full scope of things. According to her erotic novels, all sorts of individualistic things were going on below the belt. Having been married for the better part of the last two decades, she’d thankfully escaped most of that.
There was that one overzealous foray by James. This was either just before or just after his brief journey into the world of competitive Ping-Pong. The timing was fuzzy. What wasn’t fuzzy was James. All she knew was that when he dropped the shorty robe for the first time after slashing away with razor, scissors, and possibly tweezers, it looked exactly like a pink salamander recently startled from the deepest underbrush. She hadn’t known where to look. He hadn’t warned her, and then there it was, the frightened albino salamander. On closer inspection, it might have looked more like plucked chicken under Saran wrap at the grocery store, but that was splitting hairs that were no longer evident.
That was five years ago, at least. Who knew what was current now? It could be crop circles for all she knew. It could be little Hitler moustaches. She truly had no idea, only that she’d find out one of these days, and maybe with Active Brad.
The thought of having sex again put her, fittingly, in the mood for it. Maybe later—after a dose of Unchaste Places—she’d check out Sandy and Rachel’s special present.
It dawned on her that she’d never called the gift by any of its widely used monikers, even in her own head. They just all sounded so stupid. That’s what it was. She couldn’t get past the names. Implement was about the least embarrassing, though she still wanted to put the word farm before it. Plus, her own name was emblazoned on the thing, which kind of drove home the point that—no matter how strong her imagination—PENELOPE LEMON would be doing Penelope Lemon.
This realization was both funny and sad and she turned back to her glass of wine, laughing to herself about the strangeness of sex, of desire, and of good ole Penelope Lemon, alone on a screened-in porch, looking out lustfully over the farmland and the rolling hills before her.
19
It was Thursday after work and Penelope was trying not to fret that she’d yet to hear from Camp Sycamore. She was currently in the front row of a rocking Dance Fusion class at Fitness Plus. The day before she’d made the mistake of being in the last row and had felt distinctly like a backup dancer to the women up front. Not only that, but her view of the instructor was often blocked and she’d missed or been late on several snappy moves. Lesson learned. Today, wearing her fuchsia spandex and her best sleeveless workout top, she was dead center, mirroring Cheryl, the twentysomething dance leader. The music was a mix of hip-hop, techno, and old-school funk, and she was shaking her groove thing like nobody’s business. In the mirror she could see her backup dancers behind her and didn’t fight the notion that she and Cheryl were basically co-teaching the class.
While she stepped, boogied, shook, thrust, and spun, she forced herself not to think of skunks after five full days of hearing nothing but at work. The Critter Catcher had yet to snare anything and Missy had spent most of the day on the Internet researching skunk bait. She was doubting the marshmallows and doubting them hard.
Okay, maybe she was thinking about skunks, and Dimwit too, and now she’d been late on that fun little knee-kick and spin thing. The old lady beside her, every bit of seventy-five, smiled and said: “Don’t worry, honey, you’re doing great. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough.”
Penelope smiled and was back in the groove now. She watched the old woman in the mirror and had to admit she was shaking it, not faking it, in her white leotard and pink tights. She was kicking her legs up nearly as high as Penelope and not even breathing hard. Wow. First springy Fitzwilliam and now Fusion Granny.
She’d done a good job during this last song of not looking at herself too much in the mirror despite how awesome she was dancing, but as they segued to “Hey Ya!,” she couldn’t resist a quick peek. The fuchsia spandex was absolutely the bomb, one
of her all-time best investments. She was admiring her sparkly, shiny self when she noticed someone outside the class staring in. The dividing wall was clear, and men on the track often slowed to rubberneck as they passed. But she’d never seen anyone just set up shop out there. It was strange. Dancing bodies were moving back and forth in front of the Plexiglas wall, so Penelope couldn’t be sure at first who the brazen onlooker was.
And then she was sure. It was James’s new love, the dragon trainer herself, and she was staring intently at the reflection of Penelope Lemon. And even when they caught eyes in the mirror, she didn’t look away. Distracted, Penelope twirled a half beat behind Cheryl. Okay, whatever. Now she was back on time. Then the door opened and people with surprised looks were making room for a very late arrival.
Baffled and discomfited, Penelope watched as someone darted and weaved through rows of dancers.
“Can I squeeze in please?”
Penelope was still hoofing it, though she was hopelessly lost in her steps. She surveyed the lay of the land in the mirror. There was no room to be had on the front row, or really any row. The class was jammed. Without waiting for a response, Trainer Megan danced into the narrow gap between Penelope and Fusion Granny.
“Hope it’s okay, Cheryl, that I just popped in,” Megan said, while swaying her shoulders in a way that made Penelope move three feet to the left. This forced eviction left Penelope crammed into the woman in green shorts. Penelope mumbled an apology and the woman responded with an irritated shrug, whether at her or Megan, she couldn’t tell.
Cheryl smiled and gave a big thumbs-up to the trainer.
“And how are you today, Mimi?” the shoulder-throwing Megan asked the funky old lady.
“Still here, baby. Still kicking.”
Penelope continued with the routine, but her heart had gone out of it. Had her personal space ever been so overtly invaded by someone not named Dimwit? No, it hadn’t. She couldn’t fully extend her kicks anymore or spin properly. Who barged into a class—half an hour late—and muscled her way to the front? Common courtesy for late arrivals was to stand near the door and make themselves small.
