Penelope Lemon

by Inman Majors

  Penelope was laughing at all of this, believing hyperbole was surely at play.

  “So anyway,” Missy said, “do you want to go by their houses right now and have it out? Just tell them where they can stick their mimosas once and for all. Trust me, it won’t be my first rodeo with them. Those kids used to give Damien the business too until I raised absolute holy hell.”

  “I am definitely not going by their houses tonight,” Penelope said.

  “You could wait for those brats at their bus stop on Monday, then grab them by the scruff of the neck and just shake the hell out of them. You listen to me, you little sons of bitches. Do you hear me? Do you hear me, assfaces?”

  The bartender came over now and looked at Missy as if accustomed to such behavior from her.

  “Missy,” he said, “you can’t just be screaming profanity. There’s a lot of kids in here. You’re going to get me in trouble with the manager.”

  “Gotcha, Super Steve. My bad. My friend here just got divorced last week and I’m trying to cheer her up. Penelope, this is Steve. Steve, this is Penelope. And for the record, Super Steve, her boyfriend is a muscle-bound cop who’s crazy jealous. So don’t be getting any of your big ideas about a little of the you-know-what.”

  Penelope gave her a look.

  “Steve’s super horny,” she said.

  Penelope could feel herself blushing, but the bartender simply said nice to meet you, Penelope and walked off, smiling and shaking his head.

  Missy was chittering that wrenlike laugh of hers now and waving off Penelope when she claimed embarrassment.

  “Don’t worry about it. Look at him in those khakis. He’s about as horny as a tube sock. He knows I’m joking. I’m here all the time and I tip like a mother. Don’t think a thing about it. This place would go out of business if I stopped coming in.”

  “Okay, I’m not worried about it,” said Penelope. “But back to Damien and those kids on the bus. Were they just calling him names?”

  “Lord no. Wedgies. Wet Willies. Indian burns. You name it. They had their hands all over him. That’s what got me so pissed.”

  Theo hadn’t mentioned anything other than name-calling, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. That settled it. She would have to take the bull by the horns next week or this would be hanging over her head all summer.

  As if reading Penelope’s mind, Missy said, “What about this? Contact Ms. Dunleavy and set up a conference to talk about Theo’s situation. She can alert the principal or the parents or however they’re supposed to handle shitwad kids. And the whole time you’re just checking her out. If she’s really nervous and fidgety, you’ll know she’s the one who’s banging the hell out of your husband.”

  “I didn’t say they were banging.”

  “Oral then. Whatever. They’re doing something, I guarantee that. She’s a spicy little thing. Don’t judge a book by its cover. I’d bet my last dollar she’s banged a couple of dads right there under the multiplication tables.”

  Penelope was skeptical but didn’t say so. Meanwhile, Missy had her phone out and was typing away. Then she was thrusting the screen at Penelope and saying: “There’s her email. Go ahead and contact that spicy little piece of ass and let’s see what she’s made of.”

  “I’m not contacting her right now.”

  “Hot for Teacher. Mr. Holland’s Opus. You’ve got the clues. Now you just need hard evidence. Face-to-face proof. If she’s doing what we think she’s doing—blowjobs in the parking lot—she’ll be jumpy as hell. Plus, don’t forget, you’re handling Theo’s deal. You’re being a good mom and also getting the dope on your sex-addict husband. It’s a no-brainer.”

  Penelope weighed the e-mail address being wiggled inches from her face. She’d already decided to contact Ms. Dunleavy, but did she have to do it now?

  “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” Missy said. “You know why? Because it makes perfect sense. Two birds. One stone. No more bullies and we solve the hot-for-teacher mystery. Or at least rule out one as a suspect. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  Penelope thought any solution hatched by Missy was unlikely to make perfect sense, but why put off the inevitable? She took out her phone and composed a short, formal e-mail to Ms. Dunleavy requesting a conference at her earliest convenience to discuss a bullying situation on the bus. Beside her, Missy nodded aggressively and sucked on her mango margarita, murmuring, Now you’re talking. Now you are talking.

  15

  “All right, I’m starving. What say we order some food?”

  “I’m not really hungry,” Penelope said.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Don’t believe what?”

  “That you’re not hungry.”

  Missy pushed herself back from the bar and turned until she was facing Penelope. Penelope sat where she was, trying not to be unnerved by the wild woman’s interrogating gaze.

  “Let’s see,” said Missy. “You’re living with your mom like a recently graduated philosophy major. Nursing two beers and looking at my margarita with lust in your eyes. Drinking about a gallon of water, likely trying to fill up. Yanking head toward kitchen every time the door opens. You’re broke, honey, aren’t you? Come on, you can tell me. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I’m just not hungry.”

  “Liar liar pants on fire. You’re broke and I’m buying dinner.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “The hell you can’t. You’ve got no pot to piss in. Why don’t you tell ole Missy all about it?”

  Penelope shook her head, but she could feel the words welling up. Then they came tumbling out in a torrent.

  When she finished the summary of her last day at Coonskins and the depths of her financial straits, Missy reached over the bar and grabbed a couple of menus. She passed one to Penelope.

  “Honey,” she said, “I can get you a job. In fact, you’ve got a job. I just hired you. You start Monday. Now what are we going to eat? It’s my treat, and I won’t hear another word about it. But first things first—Super Steve, get this gal a margarita. She’s got some catching up to do.”

  Penelope was sipping on a fresh mango margarita, her head spinning from the recent turn of events. They’d spent the last few minutes surveying the menu and getting their orders in, so Penelope had not yet ascertained the exact nature of her job, other than it was some kind of office work.

  “Are you sure I’m qualified?” she asked.

  “Overqualified if anything,” Missy replied.

  “But you haven’t seen me do anything but watch little kid baseball and drink beer.”

  “Exactly. You’re perfect.”

  “Okay, but what kind of job is it?”

  “Receptionist, mostly.”

  “Where?”

  “At a trailer park.”

  Penelope’s face must have shown surprise, for Missy sighed deeply and pushed her margarita away with no little drama.

  “All right. I was gonna wait till Monday to give you the lowdown, but I can tell you’re not going to let me drink in peace until you get every last scrap of information about your pending employment, so here goes. My dad owns or manages a string of trailer parks, or, as he prefers to call them, mobile home communities, though I’ve never seen any of these fuckers get up and hit the road. But whatever. Actually, I think I’m supposed to call them manufactured homes now. They change the name about every two weeks, but they’re trailers. I’m vice president of the company, and I move around every few years when we start a new community to troubleshoot until it gets up and running. Anyway, my dad just wants me to prove that I can work before I inherit the company in a few years. He doesn’t want me to be a spoiled little rich girl, which is unfortunate because I think I could really grow into that role. Just sitting around eating muffulettas and chatting with some friend named Bridgett about bronzer and tennis skirts all day.”

  “Wait. How many manufactured-home communities are we talking about?”

  “
Around eighty.”

  “And your dad owns or manages all of them?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you’re going to inherit all of it?”

  “The whole enchilada, yep. I’m a trailer park heiress is what I am. I’m the hillbilly Paris Hilton. So yeah, honey, I’m richer than God. Now can I get back to my mango marg?”

  “Last thing. What will I do in the job, and—”

  “How much will you get paid?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. How much do you need? Pitch me.”

  “At least as much as I was making at Coonskins.”

  “That’s your salary pitch? That’s how you negotiate? Come on, sister. Show some sack.”

  “I don’t know how much I need. Wait, yes, I do. I need to make enough so that I can move out of my mom’s house before June 28th.”

  “Why that date?’

  “That’s when my aunt and uncle come, and if I’m not out of there by then, we’re all roommates down in the basement and sharing the same bathroom. Can you imagine a seventy-year-old man using a Neti Pot in the shower? Cause that’s what I’m looking at. I’d have to use galoshes in there for the rest of my life.”

  Missy sucked thoughtfully on her straw. She seemed to see where Penelope was coming from. “So,” she said, “while your dear hubby is out nailing every teacher at Jackson Elementary, you’re watching Matlock reruns and drinking warm buttermilk with the folks.”

  Penelope hated to interrupt but felt she had to. “It’s much worse than that.”

  “Wow. That’s all I can say. Worse than drinking buttermilk on a scratchy sofa while watching Matlock and it’s about 150 degrees in the house? I’m imaging my grandparents now, but regardless, I see your situation loud and clear, and the heart bleeds.”

  Penelope was about to go into a few of the less graphic details about her mother, the randy square dance caller, but Missy cut her off.

  “All right, I’ve heard enough,” said Missy. “Actually, I haven’t heard much, but I’ve imagined a lot, so same diff. I’ll have to okay the salary with the old man, but I think I can safely say that you will make at least as much as you did at Foreskins. As for your job, I don’t know yet. Probably taking checks from the tenants and logging them in and answering the phone so that I don’t ever ever have to talk to another tenant with a drain problem for as long as I live. Oh, and you’ll have to go to lunch with me. Now for the love of God, can we stop talking about work? It’s Saturday night, for crying out loud, and we don’t have our kids. We should be bopping half the bar by now.”

  Smiling, Penelope took another delicious sip of the margarita. Soon, food would be coming her way, both an appetizer and an entrée. She could hardly believe her luck. What a reversal of fortune after the day’s rough start. And to think that Rachel and Sandy had been questioning her ability to find solid friends without their guiding hand. She considered sending them an in-your-face text, but they didn’t deserve even that after abandoning her for their families over the weekend. They’d just have to wait to hear the good news. It would serve them right, the proud marrieds. And humming the tune “Proud Mary,” but substituting “Proud Marrieds,” she dove headlong into her icy-cool cocktail.

  They’d just finished dinner and were contemplating whether to stay at Applebee’s or try one of the other options a hopping little burg like Hillsboro had to offer middle-aged women out on the town. In other words, should they stay put or check out the hordes of interesting, available men across the interstate at Outback Steakhouse?

  Missy excused herself to go to the bathroom and Penelope pulled out her phone. She planned to see if Fitzwilliam had replied to her message, but somehow, without meaning to, found herself on the Facebook page of her ex-husband.

  Shaking her head at her obsessed and disobedient fingers, she began scrolling through James’s timeline. She noted two new photographs. The first was a shot of her son’s bat making actual contact with a thrown cowhide sphere. The fact that his eyes were closed and his mouth twisted in gargoylian recoil couldn’t alter the fact. He’d hit the ball. She felt pride coursing through her, a lot more than she would have thought possible if you’d asked her about this only the day before.

  And she’d missed it. Damn it to hell, she’d missed it.

  Meanwhile back to her detective work. The second addition to James’s timeline was a photograph of a black puppy running past the camera in profile, as if chasing a recently thrown object. The caption read: Not sure who is more tuckered, me or my new buddy.

  Penelope stared long and hard, her instincts alive and twitchy. A puppy was better—a ton better—than a zipline as an inducement for Theo to spend more time at Dad’s house.

  But something was off. James’s run-ins with Hillsborian canines were a matter of public record. You could ask anyone in their old neighborhood. This battle between man and dog was worthy of Jack London and stemmed from the fact that no one in the universe could find a dog’s leavings and then step in them like her ex. The crux of his ire was that the leavings that he continually stepped in were in their yard, yet they owned no dog.

  It became his obsession to find the culprit, the owner who allowed his charge to use James’s beloved fescue as a public lavatory then refused to clean up afterwards. Penelope couldn’t begin to count the hours he spent standing at the window at dusk, armed with flashlight and binoculars, hoping to catch the owner/dog in the act. He’d considered night-vision goggles, but found the cost prohibitive.

  Penelope had laughed and laughed to herself about this obsession, as she could run across the yard all day long and never once soil her shoes. How James always managed to find the pile and she didn’t was one of the delightful mysteries of their married life. When Theo was a toddler and making his first forays onto the lawn, James’s obsession had turned truly mad. There simply weren’t enough sticks for James to clean both his shoes and Theo’s. Frantic, he decided to shame the negligent dog owner by chalking a poem in the road. The letters were three feet high and the completed lyric stretched from curb to curb.

  DEAR LITTLE DOG,

  IN YOUR YARD

  THEO DOESN’T POO

  SO WHY IN HIS YARD

  DO YOU?

  Penelope was smiling about the whole ridiculous affair when Missy returned. When her new friend was seated, Penelope displayed the photo of the mystery pooch.

  “What do you make of this? James doesn’t own a dog.”

  “That’s the teacher’s dog,” Missy said, glancing at the photo for all of one second. “The BJ Queen. You can bet your bottom dollar on that. They’re not just banging, though. They’re a dog-at-the-park couple. They probably took a picnic basket too. I told you Ms. Dunleavy was a hot number. But what do you say? We staying here, or do you want to hit Outback?”

  Penelope didn’t like either choice. What she wanted was to lie in her bed in the guest room and stew about romantic dog-boy James and how much fun Theo had staying at his nice new house, then close out the day with a healthy dose of The Stranger Within. Unfortunately, she couldn’t bail this early in the evening on the woman who’d just bought her supper and offered employment.

  She was weighing the chain restaurant options when a tiny tinkling church bell sounded on her phone, the Divote app announcing that someone had just sent a virtual box of chocolate. In other words, she’d been candied for the second time.

  Her suitor was none other than BrettCorinthians2:2. He still hadn’t located a shirt, and he was still young, young, young. Penelope held the phone up to Missy.

  “I have two questions for you,” Missy said. “Who’s the hottie, and where do we meet him?”

  Penelope offered a brief overview of her new app, then explained how it was much better suited for Christians on the go than two divorcées in Nirvana shirts bellied up at the bar.

  “I need a better look,” said Missy. So saying, she snatched the phone out of Penelope’s hand and put it as close to her face as she could.

  “I just
want to lick the screen right now. I want to rub anointing oil all over him. Look at that six pack. Praise Jesus and hallelujah, that is one hot Christian boy.”

  Penelope took back her phone and had another look. He was handsome, there was no disputing that. Athletic with broad shoulders and a good head of blondish-brown hair, though he kept it a bit shorter than she’d have liked. His grin was definitely cocky and Penelope thought of pride going before the fall.

  “How old do you think he is?” Penelope asked.

  “Old enough. Look at the grin. Tell me he’s not begging to be corrupted. Send him some candy and let’s see what happens.”

  “I don’t think so. I haven’t even been on a date since the divorce.”

  “What?” Missy said, her eyes practically bugging out of her head. “What are you waiting for? Time to get back on that horse and ride, ride, ride.”

  Penelope shook her head no.

  “Do you have any other prospects right now, my picky, celibate pal?”

  “Not really. Well, one guy did send me a message on LoveSynch. He seemed kind of interesting.”

  “Let’s see him,” Missy said, motioning for the phone. “Let’s compare your suitors. I won’t steer you wrong. You can trust old Missy when it comes to men.”

  Reluctantly, Penelope found the LoveSynch page, and then Fitzwilliam’s Portnal, before handing the phone over with a sheepish smile.