Operation Dimwit

by Inman Majors

  The smell of skunk was stronger now, and she wondered if this would increase her personal stink. She waited, then waited some more. What was Dimwit doing in his car all this time? Trying out new scratchers? Crocheting? It could be anything.

  Eventually a car door squeaked and then thunked softly shut.

  Boots on gravel. A key put into a lock and clicked. A screen door squeak. And then the main door, shutting.

  Penelope, on soft feet, made her silent exit.

  29

  Twenty minutes later they were pulling stealthily out of Tractor Supply.

  In the interim, Penelope had maneuvered down Dimwit’s hill, cautious and sure, only to have the wits scared out of her by a pantsless woman who announced her presence by flying out from the lowest branch of Mr. Burke’s well-loved maple. Once she’d recovered from the shock, Penelope led Missy down the road via corners of houses and tree cover toward the cul-de-sac, where they crossed over Rolling Acres Way and sprinted down backyards till they were behind the office. From there, it had been a dash across the darkest portion of the highway, a leap over a ditch, which Missy nearly cleared, several moments of Penelope fetching her boss out of that wet and weedy culvert, and a final skulk, tractor to tractor, to the waiting car.

  The pilfered ball of yarn, worse for wear after its arduous journey over hill and dale, rested on the seat between them, as did the massacred granny panties. Missy drove with tights bandannaed still around her head. That she was half naked, muddy, scraped, and itching away at her legs and other parts unknown seemed apt and right.

  “Well, that was easy,” Missy said.

  Penelope glanced over, noted the angry rash running down her leg, and looked away.

  “I have one question for you,” Missy said. “Did you or did you not smell skunks tonight?”

  “I smelled a skunk.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “I’m not arguing this again.”

  “No need. We’ve reached consensus.”

  Missy whistled for a while and tapped her grubby hands jollily on the steering wheel. All was right with her world.

  “And you got the shot we need, right? The close-up of the P. Lemon Special?”

  “I got it.”

  “You can see your full name, right? Because it would be just like that wily Dimwit to claim it belonged to another Penelope.”

  “Full name.”

  “Fantastic. Hey, do me a favor and text it to our old cop buddy, Gary. We can get the ball rolling on Dimwit’s future incarceration.”

  What had once been theoretical was now all too real. A personal adult item named PENELOPE LEMON was about to be state’s evidence. Would this evidence also find its way to the local paper? Would she have to testify in court—in front of people she knew—that a twice-divorced woman living out in the country still had needs, man or no man?

  “Go ahead and send that bad boy off to Gary,” Missy said. “He’s so in love with me, he’ll probably get a warrant tonight.”

  She chuckled at this, her hold over a six-foot-three local policeman.

  “Listen,” Penelope said, “I know I agreed, but now that official people are actually going to see it, I’m having second thoughts.”

  Missy turned to face her, the legs of her tights swishing briefly in front of her face as she did. “What? This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. We’ve got him dead to rights. After this, we can move to our new spot and be rid of Yosemite Sam forever.”

  “This is what you’ve been waiting for. A few months from now, I may not even be working for Rolling Acres.”

  Missy slammed on the brakes. In front of them was Skatetown, where Penelope had once roller-discoed in knee-high rainbow socks and white-trimmed gym shorts with her best friend Debbie. It looked run-down, antiquated. Was this really as far as she’d traveled since those carefree, skate-stomping, “We Will Rock You” days?

  “What are you talking about?” Missy asked. “Is it the title thing again? I told you, you’re vice-regent of the office.”

  Penelope frowned but didn’t reply.

  “Archbishop then. Brigadier general. Have your pick.”

  “I’m not talking about a title.”

  “If it’s your salary, I’ve already e-mailed Daddy about a raise. I should know something by Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”

  “Listen, I appreciate it, I really do. It’s just the job isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Too boring? Answering the phone, showing units, et cetera.”

  Penelope looked at her disbelievingly. “No. The opposite in fact.”

  Missy waved her hand as if shooing a not very pesky fly, and again was driving. “You mean this little caper? Pshaw.”

  “I smell like skunk. We just broke and entered. You’re not wearing pants. It’s quite possible someone saw you running down the hill—in the light—and called the cops, who are looking for us right now. I could go on.”

  “It’s me,” Missy said dramatically. “You’re quitting because you don’t want to work with me. I’m too much for some people. I get a little wound up. When I was a baby I was always sticking stuff in the electric socket. It’s nature, not nurture, I tell you. But please don’t quit. Forget the photo. Forget the personalized dildo. I’d rather stay with Dimwit than lose my best friend and best-ever employee.”

  Best friend, what?

  “Let’s just go home,” Penelope said. “I’m tired and irritable. I made a deal and I’ll stick to it, so you’ll get your photo. Dimwit is a pervert and a thief and shouldn’t be able to get away with it. You can send it to Gary, but I can’t do it myself.”

  “I’m not sending it to anybody.”

  “Listen, I said I’d do it, and I’m not backing out now, after what we just went through. If you don’t send the photo, I’ll quit. Monday, in fact. The cops should know about Dimwit. He needs to be on their radar. But I do have one request. Can you make sure they ask someone other than Judge Wyatt to sign off on the search warrant? My stepfather is one of his best friends.” She gave Missy a look that said she meant what she’d just said. “Send the photo.”

  Missy nodded, the pigtail tights bouncing lightly over Ozzy’s maniacal face, then they drove the rest of the way home in silence.

  30

  All through the night Penelope dreamed of sirens and the banging of authorities’ fists on her door. Missy had called her from jail for unknown reasons, but she hadn’t gone to pick her up. At one point, Theo was running down a hill at Camp Sycamore with no pants on and a group of mean boys were throwing balls of yarn at him. Then she was with Active Brad at the gym and he was twitching his nose as if at a sour odor and tapping his Fitbit. It had stopped working and he seemed to associate the funk with his failing health gadget. Then she was running in a marathon but was hopelessly lost and so far behind everyone else she had no idea where the other racers had gone.

  Megan’s voice was the one coming over the race loudspeaker, announcing where the awards ceremony would be held. Earlier, both Mimi and Fitzwilliam had jetted past her. They’d been encouraging and she was glad they were now friends. It was the only thing in the whole day that sort of made sense.

  Dragging herself out of bed Saturday morning after the exhausting dream, she sniffed her arms and then the sheets, but couldn’t tell anything. Maybe her entire house no longer smelled of fresh paint but exactly like Dimwit’s Army of the Night. She had no idea about anything aromatic these days and recalled the Critter Catcher’s permanently compromised olfactory. She’d have to cancel with Active Brad. She stood now at the kitchen sink, downing an instant yogurt and trying not to imagine the many giggling eyes that had seen photos of her personal item at the police station.

  If Missy stuck to the story they’d concocted, she would suffer personal embarrassment but not incarceration. They’d been working late when a tenant called about possible smoke coming from Dimwit’s trailer. They’d investigated—like good landlords and Samaritans—and spotted the stolen dildo in their i
nnocent quest to keep Dimwit safe. He could argue that he never left his curtains open, but so what? They had photographic proof of theft. Basically, either she and Missy would receive an unfriendly visit from the cops today or Dimwit would. Who the accused was depended solely on Missy sticking to the script.

  This notion gave Penelope little peace of mind, so she went to the fridge, grabbed the orange juice, and swigged from the carton. Theo would get scolded for such a move, but she was an outlaw now and could do as she pleased. Speaking of Theo, she was due for another letter from him. The more she thought of his last note, the more convinced she was that Camp Sycamore was a bad fit for a quirky boy. His cabin was probably eating last every single meal because of his slow-moving ways and group derision would be his reward. It would be the school bus bullying situation all over again.

  Her next point of worry was what excuse to offer Active Brad for the last-minute cancellation. She needed one that let it be known she was still interested and would like to reschedule soon. She pulled out her phone, but before she could send a text, she received one.

  Hey. How would you feel about postponing our get together till early next week? A guy in my kayaking club has a race this afternoon but his partner tore a rotator cuff rappelling yesterday. He’s asked me to fill in.

  Then a second one.

  I don’t have to go. No pressure. This dude is trying to qualify for the Wilderness X Games and I feel sorry him. He can get someone else though.

  Penelope had never typed faster.

  That’s fine. I had something come up as well. I’m free all next week. Have fun.

  They traded smiley face icons like middle schoolers and that wrapped things up. Wow. What a break. She could stink the day away now and not have to sweat it. Dancing a little to “We Are the Champions,” which had just popped into her head, she went to douse herself with perfume and then head to the gym.

  She was pumping away on a sitting leg press, trying to exert herself to the point that she’d no longer feel a nagging, unwarranted guilt about being a bad friend to Missy. But who else on God’s green earth could stand a job like the one she had? Who else could live—day in and day out—with a boss like Missy?

  It was the best friend comment that was causing the guilt, but she’d learn to live with it. She couldn’t spend the rest of her life playing javelin catcher for a madwoman. She needed a real job, a respectable one. That would probably mean going back to college at some point to finish her degree.

  She was smiling at the thought of bebopping around a college campus in middle age, with ivy on the buildings and youngsters all about, and enjoying the quietude of the gym on a Saturday afternoon. She’d not seen Mimi, but otherwise things were A-OK. Her playlist, heavy on Queen, couldn’t have been better. And what a stroke of luck with the rappelling fellow and his rotator cuff. The poor guy would probably need surgery, but he’d saved her bacon. She could stink in peace now and not worry about it.

  She felt a tap on her shoulder and pulled out her earbuds. She regretted this decision immediately when she saw Trainer Megan standing there.

  “Hey, I brought you another flyer for that triathlon we talked about. You left the other one. You’re still interested right?”

  That same flyer was being stuck in her face, basically blocking her vision, and she had no option but to snag it. Megan wasn’t wearing her Fitness Plus uniform or name tag and Penelope wondered again why she would be at work on her off day. Shouldn’t she be singing “Oklahoma!” in an Annie Oakley outfit in James’s bedroom right now?

  “Thanks,” Penelope said, taking the flyer and sticking it under her spandexed butt where it belonged.

  “Do you smell something?” Megan said, twitching her nose. “Like skunk maybe?”

  Penelope made a show of turning up her nose and testing the air. “No, can’t say that I do.”

  “Definitely skunk. But anyway, so you’re in?”

  “Oh yeah. I just haven’t had time to sign up yet. I can do it online, right?”

  “Or you can just fill this out and give it to me.”

  “That’s really kind of you, but I’ll do it at home. I’m planning on biking up Wistar’s Knob later today. Just got my new wheels.”

  “You’re biking Wistar? That’s like a twenty-degree incline. Ten miles.”

  “Oh, I know. I just wish there was something steeper around here. I’m used to Telluride and places like that. If you want real biking, you have to go to the Rockies.”

  Megan squinted at Penelope’s leg press, then sat down at the adjoining one. Placing the peg at thirty, or exactly double what Penelope was currently screwing around with, she got to grunting work.

  Penelope smiled to herself. She’d pulled that Telluride thing out of her you-know-what. The lead article in People a while back had discussed Brad Pitt’s fondness for biking in that quaint Colorado town. Others might doubt its journalistic quality, but for her, People had always come through.

  “What about the swimming then?” Megan asked, straining beside her. “That’s usually what gives people the most trouble.”

  “I swam breaststroke at USC. I probably won’t even practice for that. What is it, like a mile and a half or something? I can do that while smoking a cigarette.”

  Megan nodded but didn’t reply. The weight seemed like it might be a bit much for her, but she soldiered on nonetheless. Penelope put her earbuds back in, grinning at the thought of race day. Megan would be searching for her at the starting line, little guessing that she’d be sleeping soundly in her comfy bed, dreaming sweet dreams of not running, not swimming, and definitely not biking. The issue felt settled. Every gym had a Megan or two. There was no need to fall for their lame attempts at bullying. Life was too short.

  Feeling a little sad for the competitive woman beside her, she turned up “Bohemian Rhapsody” and continued her casual pushing of metal.

  31

  She’d felt revitalized while telling triathlon lies to Trainer Megan,

  but now that she was back home, dread and doubt—about Theo, her career, and money, always money—crept back in. She walked to Theo’s room and again weighed whether to surprise him with a mural. One day he’d outgrow his PlinkyMo obsession and be stuck with a little kid’s wall. Would it be a waste of cash?

  She was thinking of penury and Xboxes and how to entertain Theo way out here in the country and how lonely he probably was at camp, when she heard a horn honk in the driveway. She went to the kitchen window, expecting to find her stepfather, George—he was an inveterate horn-greeter—and was surprised to see the Critter Mobile instead.

  The trapper spotted her in the window and tooted a little song as a greeting. Smiling, Penelope bounded out the door and down the front stoop.

  “Well hey there, Mr. King. What brings you way out here on a Saturday afternoon?”

  “Howdy, howdy, Miss Penelope. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “Not a thing. Can I invite you in?”

  “I would, I would. But I got a little job I’m heading to. Some folks in Greasy Cove have discovered squirrels in their attic. Chewed through half the wires and starting in on the insulation. I best not tarry. Your partner over there at Rolling Acres called me this morning and said you might need a little home remedy for your—if I may be so bold—aromatic situation.”

  Penelope laughed at this phrasing and at the Critter Catcher’s sly delivery of it. He was doing the country thing of pretending like he wasn’t trying to be funny when he obviously was. It was a favored trick of local old-timers.

  “Mr. King, I can use all the help I can get. I’m a little skunky.”

  He got out of the truck now with a paper towel in his hand. “I’m guessing you tried the dishwashing recipe on that Internet, but not the tomato juice, potato bath?”

  “That’s right,” Penelope said, walking toward him. “It just seemed like so much trouble. And tomato juice isn’t cheap.”

  “Oh I know, I know. Anyhow, I brought you a little chaga. It’s t
he real secret ingredient. I think you can do without the tomato juice and just add this to the Palmolive and be right as rain afterwards.”

  Penelope took the proffered gift. “Thank you, Mr. King. I really appreciate you coming all the way out here to deliver it.”

  “Don’t think a thing about it. And to be honest, I have an ulterior motive for my visit. I got something in the truck that I just don’t know what to do with. I thought you might have an idea or two.”

  He said this with an especially twinkly eye, winked, then returned to the Critter Mobile. Penelope felt herself smile at the presentation—at the show—as he reached through the open truck window. She felt sure some homegrown vegetables or a Mason jar of Darlene’s clover honey was forthcoming. Anyone who’d ever lived in Hillsboro had seen this ritual before.

  After procuring the item and cupping it in two hands, he slowly crawdaddy-walked toward her, sneaking smiling glances as he came. When he was right in front of her, he opened his hands and revealed a small, alert-looking kitten, which he then passed over. The kitten greeted Penelope with a quiet meow, then squirmed to get free.

  “She won’t stay still long, that one,” said the Critter Catcher. “She’s bound and determined to see what the world has to offer.”

  “Isn’t this the one you call the Curious Kitten? The one that was following your goat around?”

  “Yes indeed, that is the Curious Kitten.”

  “She’s adorable,” Penelope said, setting the black and white ball of energy on the ground. The kitten sprang up the steps of the stoop and tried to launch herself onto the chair. It was too high, but she tried several times before scooting around the side of the house.