by Inman Majors
“Should we go get her?” Penelope asked.
“Oh, she’ll be back directly. And then she’ll shoot off again. I been studying that one for a while, yes I have. She’s ready for what comes. I kind of believe you two might be birds of a feather.”
Penelope considered Theo’s many allergies and weighed this against his love of animals. She recalled that James’s last girlfriend had a puppy that Theo loved playing with and that he’d not broken into hives afterwards. A cute, adorable kitten for him to come home to? They wouldn’t even need an Xbox.
“I’d love a kitten, Mr. King. I love this kitten. And my son will too. It will be a great surprise when he gets home from camp.”
“I am so glad to hear it. And this place will suit her to a tee. Just to a tee. Room to roam and places to explore.”
He gave her his friendly, whimsical look, tipped his Stetson, and started for the truck. When he was seated, he handed out a package of dry cat food and then a small potted plant. “Here’s you a little catnip. You can plant it over there by the fencerow and before you know it, you’ll have a whole passel. That is, until that little imp eats it all up.”
He chuckled and started the engine. He put the truck in gear and then back into Park. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Our skunk friend that gave us the juice? She’s still with us. Never seen one that pretty, or that smart neither, in all my years of trapping. Anyway, I reckon she’s roaming around my farm these days and won’t be troubling y’all no more. Let’s just hope the authorities don’t hear about this.”
“You know I won’t tell.”
“Oh, I do know that. Well, I best see about the squirrels in the attic. Those rascals can go to town in a confined space.”
With a wink and a finger to his hat, he backed his truck out of the driveway and was gone.
Penelope left the chaga, cat food, and catnip on the stoop and went around back to watch the new kitten. If it were up to her, the new addition would be named Curious K, which conjured thoughts of a cat rapper. Theo would probably like that handle as well, but the final call would be his. What a break this was! No matter how badly his two weeks at camp had gone, how lonely and friendless, or how infected his bites or peely his skin, he’d have a cute little fur ball waiting on his return. That would be a nice tonic for what ailed him.
Thinking of how this all came about, she realized a text was in order.
Thanks for sending the Critter Catcher over with the chaga.
I appreciate it.
A moment later she got a reply.
Hope you aren’t as stinky for your date.
Date got postponed. Should smell like my old self, for better or worse, on Monday.
If you’re free, come watch Dimwit get busted. Gary’s got a search warrant he’s serving in about an hour. NO JUDGE WYATT, FYI.
Tempting but the Whisperer brought me a kitten. That cute one that was following the goat around. I’m just gonna chill with her today.
Got you. Also, Gary promised me he didn’t share the photo of you-know-what (i.e. a huge green dildo with your name on it) with anyone else. I told him if he did, he’d never have a chance at my hot tub again.
Thanks.
Of course. He also said that this sort of thing never goes to trial. They just plea bargain them out. Dimwit probably won’t even go to jail. Somehow he has no priors. Gary will talk to the DA to make sure you don’t have to testify.
Perfect. And now you can move to the new place. Congratulations.
Only downer is now I have to meet Gary for drinks at Applebee’s on Tuesday.
Penelope offered a weeping face emoticon. Then another text.
I’ll see you Monday.
I’m glad to hear it. Thanks for putting up with me.
Of course.
Penelope weighed whether to send the text she wanted to or not, then decided what the heck. It would give Missy something new to worry about, now that Dimwit would soon be out of the picture.
The Critter Catcher said he didn’t have to the heart to kill such a smart and unique animal, so the lead skunk is still on the loose. Hope she’s not looking for revenge.
Then, laughing, she turned off her phone and went in search of the new kitten.
Thirty minutes later, she heard the low rumbling of the mail truck and leaped from the screen porch couch, Curious K in hand, and race-walked to meet him. They exchanged greetings and he handed over what looked like a pile of bills and flyers for oil changes and grocery coupons. Walking back to the house, she set the kitten down and riffled through the daily load of junk. At the bottom of the pile was the correspondence she’d been waiting for. She tossed the irrelevant crap like so many crap Frisbees onto the stoop and ripped open the letter from her brave camper. In a racing, sloppy hand that all but told the addressee that what followed was written with a sharp guilt knife at neck, she read the following:
Dear Mom,
A counselor told ghost stories at the campfire the other night that were pretty good. Do you know the one about the hook hand ending up in the window? This one kid cried and he was in the oldest cabin. #lame. It wasn’t that scary.
I have to go now. My friend Justin who is from Asheville wants to go to the pond. It’s free time. He’s launched like every Plinky but ten! Which is hard to believe for just a kid. We’re going to catch tadpoles and then let them go. Tadpoles are #sick.
Also, you will probably get a note from the camp. I have impetigo but just on this one part of my leg. Don’t say I told you so. Half the kids here have it too.
Love
Theo
Ps: Do you think there was anyone with the last name English who couldn’t speak English? I bet Justin there was.
She read the letter over, and then once again. Theo had a friend! Good old Justin from Asheville, a PlinkyMo-launching, tadpole-loving wonder of a boy who talked about ridiculous stuff like people named English who didn’t speak English.
Granted, the deployment of hashtags and the word sick to mean cool—the stupidest usage of any word in the history of the English lexicon—was all but a declaration of war. What a little smarty he was. Well, two could play that game. Her return post would be chock-full of smiley faces, LOLs, OMGs, and maybe even some throwback lingo like #totally awesome. Or #gnarly. She might even throw a #stoked in there, which was popular during her two years of college among the richer kids who went snow skiing.
She plopped down in the recliner and breathed in the warm summer air. Theo had a camp friend. What was a little bacterial infection on the leg when you had true-blue Justin from Asheville around? The lyrics of the nightly campfire song popped into her head and she tried, but failed, to picture Theo earnestly singing them by the light of a toasting marshmallow.
Along the banks of placid lake
Among the dewy dells
Oh, Sycamore, Camp Sycamore
Where friends I’ll surely make
Curious K now came snuggling and purring against her ankles. It occurred to her that she still had a week in the house by herself and that she could do whatever she pleased the rest of today and Sunday. She had to run to the store for cat supplies and while she was out, she might as well get that mural. Theo’s PlinkyMo fixation wasn’t going anywhere soon. She could hear the credit card whimpering from her purse, its flimsy back about to be broken by the heavy load, but so what? A decent raise was likely coming her way. And if not, she’d find something else. Definitely.
She nodded to this and smiled at Curious K who was leaping after a moth well overhead. Then she texted Sandy and Rachel.
Home girls. I have a free house and a new kitten. About to load up on wine. Dump the kids with your fellows and hang out over here tonight. Want to show you what I’ve done with the place. Also, Dimwit stole the dildo you gave me, and I met a new guy. Fitzwilliam’s mansion had a bidet, which I used ineffectively. Dimwit has a craft room like the one you wish I had. I discovered it when Missy and I broke in last night. Come over if you want to hear the juicy details.
>
If that didn’t entice them, she didn’t know her married friends.
She smiled at how easy the suburban gals were to titillate, then picked up her new kitten, her letter from Theo, and went inside to run herself a long chaga bath.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As they say, it takes a village to raise a writer. And mine is, and has always been, a village full of kind, wonderful people.
The first word of thanks goes to the man to whom this book is dedicated, my editor and friend, Michael Griffith, whose fine eye for the superfluous word or phrase helped implement the very lean prose style you see here. There simply aren’t adequate words to describe how much Michael has meant to these books and to my career in general. He is editor nonpareil, and I’m blessed to have worked with him on these Penelope Lemon novels.
I am so very grateful for LSU Press, a first-class operation who treats
writers as colleagues, partners, and friends. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to work with people like Alisa Plant, the director of the press, who had to sign off on this unusual arrangement not long after taking the reins at LSUP. It would have been an easy thing to say no to, and I appreciated the moxie and the faith to roll the dice on me and the book. Not everyone would have. James Long, the acquisitions editor, has been a stalwart and a shoulder to lean on during the long, arduous process of getting both these books off the ground, and I’m thankful for his equanimity, his encouragement, and his patience.
Michelle Neustrom is the best book designer I’ve ever worked with, and her feel for how these Penelope Lemon novels should look has greatly enhanced the reading experience, and the comedy too. The books are funnier for her keen eye and design creativity. Neal Novak, the senior editor, has also been a joy to work with. His easy manner and understanding of how the book should be laid out on the page is the sort that every author hopes for. He and Michelle are a formidable team on the production side of things and I’m lucky to have had them as partners on this endeavor. Laura Gleason has been a friend and ally and I appreciate the many emails she answered of mine and the good advice—“be patient”—that she offered on more than one occasion. Frankly, every single person at LSUP has been a joy to work with. I’ve known from the start that it was my good luck to have landed with the fine folks in Baton Rouge.
My collaborator on these books is my wife, Christy. She is my sounding board for plot and character, my first reader, my best and most honest critic. If books were like movies, she’d be listed as executive producer. I couldn’t have written these Penelope Lemon novels without her creativity and support, and I’m fortunate to share a house with one of the best editors in the country.
Reid Oechslin read early and very rough drafts—as he has on a number of my novels—and offered thoughtful and insightful feedback, especially as it related to big-picture issues such as heightening tension and the balance between comedy and pathos. Jason Hottel read an early version of the manuscript as well and gave the kind of encouragement that keeps a writer plowing ahead. Mark Parker and Ray Murray also chipped in by reading early pages and offering a kind word.
My brother Frank is a lifer, God bless him, when it comes to my writing career, offering kudos when things go well and an ear to bend when they don’t. The impact he has had on me and my family cannot be overstated. He has kept the train on the tracks for a long time now and is the brother to top all brothers.
Thanks to the gentlemen of the Hung Jury, my fellow Charlottesville writers John Hart, John Grisham, and Corban Addison, who have been there throughout the six years it took to write and publish these Penelope Lemon books. Their insights into the publishing business and their encouragement and advice have been invaluable, as is being able to “talk shop.” I’m proud to know all of you.
The following have all helped in some way or another that I’m thankful for: Chris Vescovo, Allen McDuffie, David Jeffrey, Rose Gray, Angela Carter, Dabney Bankert, Bryan Di Salvatore, Richard Gaughran,
Jean Cash, Allen Wier, Robert Stubblefield, Boris Dralyuk, Brehanu Bugg, Margaret Renkl, Wayne and Skip Carter, and Kristi Cross.
As always, my mother and stepfather, Nancy and Stan Braun, have been there for me. It’s been a nearly thirty-year grind in the writing business for me now and their never-wavering support has meant the world. The same may be said for my 101-year-old grandmother, Nina Winton.
Lastly, I need to thank my kids, Tess and Maxwell, for being so sweet,
so funny, and so easy. No matter how anything else is going with the writing or the career, at the end of the day I had my children to eat supper with, to laugh with, and to remind me of what really matters in life. You guys were there, along with your mom, during the dark days when I was ready to pack it in. I appreciate you all hanging in there with me. It did the trick.
