by Inman Majors
Penelope had been smiling at the thought of Theo’s hit, then had gotten irritated again that she’d missed it while wrestling in Coonskins, then got even more irritated about the sexual gymnastics that Missy described, fabricated though they might be.
“Yeah, that’s him,” Penelope said. “Did he happen to have a dog with him?”
“You know, I think he did. We had to get there early as hell to warm up, you know, since it’s Major League Baseball, and I think I saw Theo messing around with a dog before he went out on the field. But this was a puppy. Wait. Are you talking about that dog you showed me at Applebee’s?”
“Yep.”
“That’s Ms. Dunleavy’s dog. I’d bet Baxter’s chastity belt on it. Get me to your ex’s Facebook page lickety-split, and we’ll wrap this little caper up once and for all.”
At this, Missy sprinted to the computer, turned it on, sat for half a second in the swivel desk chair, then raced to the waiting area and yanked over one of the leather chairs. She’d definitely received her full dose of morning coffee. She was foaming at the mouth with energy and swirling round and round in the swivel chair.
“Come on,” she said, patting the chair arm beside her. “Let’s look at the little lovemaker’s page. I want to know this fucker inside and out. Wow, and what about that Ms. Dunleavy? Blowjobs and puppies? Talk about the whole package.”
Penelope would have preferred to find out more about the job she was expected to do—hours, responsibilities, etcetera—before reopening the investigation of James and his Very Special Lady. She was also quite interested in the specifics of her salary and how often a paycheck would come: weekly, biweekly, or—heaven forbid—monthly, which would not work at all if she was to beat Doozy and his sheepdog out the door.
But now her new boss was scrunched against her as Facebook came up on the screen. Missy was breathing hard in her ear, a light wheeze that spoke of allergies or a too-rapid heartbeat. Penelope was beginning to wonder about the general health and heartiness of the woman next to her. She seemed hastily glued together, as if a hard wind might send her flying in multiple directions.
“Oh, look at this freak,” she said, gawking at the screen. “Be uncooler if you can. Myers-Briggs results? Who in America gives a rat’s ass that you’re a ISTJ?”
“James loves all those Internet quizzes,” Penelope said. “You should have seen him when he took one to see which Harry Potter character he’d be. He got Dumbledore! Seriously, Dumbledore! He was unbearable for a whole week, pacing around and stroking his chin, like he was figuring out how to defeat Voldemort. The only good thing was that he finally decided not to get a toddler leash for Theo. He said, direct quote: Albus Dumbledore would never leash Harry.”
Missy leaned back to consider this. The Myers-Briggs test posting had thrown her, but not like the bombshell about Dumbledore and the toddler leash. She recovered after a moment and was soon hungrily perusing all that James had revealed about himself on Facebook.
“I see it now,” she said. “He’s like a ten-year-old with all these clues. Will you go with me? Yes or no, circle one. Except now he’s moved on to, Will you chalk my Willie, Ms. Dunleavy, yes or no?”
Penelope said nothing, letting Missy gasp and moan at all of James’s postings until she came to the photo of the mystery dog running happily past the camera.
“I don’t know if that’s the dog or not,” said Missy, squinting intensely at the screen. “It’s hard to tell with this shot.”
Penelope pulled out her phone and went to Theo’s Instagram account. It took about three hours to get through all his Pokémon figurines, but eventually she came to the photos he’d taken of the puppy at James’s house.
“Was this the dog you saw at the game?” she said, sticking the phone in Missy’s face.
“Yep, that’s definitely the same one I saw Theo petting on Saturday. I remember that white ear. Anyway, what a little cutie. Hey, listen, you can’t hold it against the dog. It’s not his fault he was adopted by the BJ Queen. But if that pooch could talk, imagine what he’s seen from the backseat. Talk about gnawing on a bone. Poor little pup. He’s an innocent bystander to this whole tawdry affair.”
“Do you know if Ms. Dunleavy has a dog?”
“I do not,” said Missy. “But if you find the puppy with the white ear, you find who Dumbledore is bopping. That’s 100 percent certain. But back to this Myers-Briggs thing. What’s an ISTJ? Never mind. I don’t care. Let’s just say that no matter how drunk I was, or how hard up, you can trust me around your ex-husband. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a bigger tool. Now let’s talk about those hot Jehovah’s Witnesses from the other night. Namely, can you hook me back up with Bristol? I’ve got some spiked lemonade with his name on it.”
“Don’t we need to get to work?”
“Work, smerk. Let’s check and see if our hotties are back in touch.”
“Let’s not.”
“What? Why?”
“Brett’s not my type. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Okay, fine. But I wouldn’t mind another shot at Beauregard’s abs. When am I going to come across another Chippendale in Hillsboro? Help a sister out.”
“I don’t think so,” Penelope said. “Brett sent me an inappropriate message afterward. I think he got the wrong idea about me for some reason.”
“What did he send?” Missy said, a smile creasing her face. “Was it just dirty as hell?”
“It wasn’t so much the message as the photo that came with it.”
“No! He didn’t. A dong shot? Really? Wow. I didn’t think he had it in him.”
Penelope nodded. Dong wasn’t a word she typically used, but if ever there was a dong, that was it.
“So let’s see that bad boy,” Missy said. “Let’s see what young Billy Graham is swinging.”
“No way.”
“I can tell you’re a little traumatized. But just go to the page, turn your head, and let old Missy have a good look. Your virgin eyes won’t have to see a thing.”
“No,” said Penelope, smiling.
“Was it bigger than a breadbox?”
Missy hopped off the chair as she said this and now held her hands about three feet apart from one another.
Penelope smiled but didn’t reply.
“Listen,” said Missy. “I’d take a dong shot over Fitzgerald’s cardigan every day of the week. I guarantee all that old coot does, night and day, is eat crumpets and whey and watch Downton Abbey reruns. You know I’m right. So trust me on this one. Go with the young guy. That’s just good common sense.”
“I’m definitely not going with Brett. He’s either super-immature or a straight-up perv, and I’m not interested in either. I probably won’t do anything with Fitzwilliam either. I may be done with men.”
“Yeah, right. Anyway, I’ve got to jet.”
Saying this, Missy lunged out of her chair and stalked to her office. She returned with a handful of unopened bills, which she plopped on the desk beside Penelope. Motioning for Penelope to stand, she sat down at the computer and went to the website for the Hillsboro Savings and Loan.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve got you set up here to pay all these bills that I’ve been putting off. You know how to do online banking, right?”
Penelope nodded.
“Well, knock this out for me if you don’t mind. Answer the phone if anybody calls. I usually get a few deliveries, so you can sign for those. I’ll have some more stuff for you to do when I get back, but that’s all I can think of for now. I really do have to motor. Have to meet with the mayor about this zoning thing. We’re looking for a new location.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’ll tell you later. But listen—if you need to go to the bathroom, use mine. It’s right through that door and on the left.”
“That’s okay. I can just use the one here in the lobby.”
“No. Don’t ever go in that bathroom. Ever. You’re fired if you ever go in that bathroom. Not really, but just don
’t. I’ll explain when I get back.”
With that, she was out the door, leaving Penelope alone in the solitude of the modular Log Cabin.
23
Penelope knocked out the banking quickly. The phone rang once, some elderly man calling to say the lawn service had run over two of his irises and asking what Missy planned to do about it. Penelope took down his number and promised to have Missy call. Another tenant, a woman around sixty who walked with a limp, dropped in to introduce herself, saying that she’d seen Penelope driving earlier and figured she just had to be the new office gal. They had a nice discussion about the weather, and life in Hillsboro, and how you just can’t find a decent caramel cake anymore. The woman, Estelle, promised to return tomorrow to finish up where they left off, but right then she had to give Pepper her medicine. She was having a bad run with hairballs and Estelle was tired of the hacking.
Other than that, Penelope was left to her own devices. The office was cool, the air conditioner humming soothingly along, and she luxuriated with her feet up on the desk, thinking that when she got her own place she’d run the AC day and night after living these past months with people whose blood ran thin as prison gruel.
She was eating the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich she’d packed for lunch and thinking—as always—just how underrated the PB&J was as a food source. If she’d only had a cold glass of milk to go with it, her lunch would be perfect. As she ate, she studied, once again, the Myers-Briggs results that James had posted on Facebook.
According to James, despite only taking fifteen minutes to complete on the Internet, the Myers-Briggs quiz could accurately determine the very essence of personality. The results came back in four handy initials. James’s were ISTJ. In a quarter hour, a computer had decided the following adjectives summarized him accurately and to the core: Introverted/Sensing/Thinking/Judging.
The test also came with a narrative summary, but Penelope couldn’t remember much, other than the ISTJ was noted for his punctuality. When James insisted she take the test as well, she’d come back as an Extrovert-something. James shook his head knowingly at this result and went on about how much she, as an extrovert, liked to socialize, whereas he preferred the company of a challenging book.
She knew what he was implying and said she’d bet a thousand dollars that Teddy Roosevelt was an extrovert. Then she said that she’d bet ten thousand dollars that the old Rough Rider would rather hang out with her than him. You know, since they both liked people.
They’d not spoken for nearly twenty-four hours afterwards.
And now here he was again bragging about the ISTJ. He was such a proud man. Proud Tarheel. Proud Scot. Proud Introvert. Proud Albus Dumbledore.
Penelope sat steaming at the computer, the thought occurring to her that maybe his joy at the Dumbledore ruling was that it confirmed his robe fetish. Of course Dumbledore’s came to the ground, and James’s not quite to his knees.
She was back on that stupid kimono.
Feeling she would soon need a psychologist who specialized in poly-blended obsession syndrome, she bounced over to LoveSynch, badly in need of distraction.
She glanced through the flirts, blends, and Eiffel Towers she’d received, hoping that the most awesome man in the world had moved just yesterday to Hillsboro and wanted to meet her pronto. But it was the same old same old. Somewhat reluctantly she reread Fitzwilliam’s message. She should reply soon. It was rude not to. She read the note a third time. What was a billet-doux? She Googled the phrase. He wanted to write a love letter to Hopefulness, capital H. Well, that had a nice ring to it. ISTJ James would likely prefer a billet-doux to Moping, capital M.
For a moment she considered dashing off a response to Fitzwilliam. She wouldn’t accept his date, but would like to keep the pen pal thing going, at least until she had more time to consider his lunch proposal. But that moment was gone with the Myers-Briggs wind. Weren’t extroverts supposed to spend their days happily planning family reunions and talking to any stranger who happened by? Then why couldn’t she get out of her own head about everything that had to do with her ex-husband and his happy new life?
Since she was already annoyed, she might as well check Divote. She needed to erase the photo of BrettCorinthian2:2’s penis selfie before Missy came back and asked to see it again. One look at that pale lump had been plenty for her.
To say that her Divote account had blown up was like saying Sonshine Funk rocked Christian hard. She’d received twenty tiny angels and fifteen boxes of chocolate. Good thing she’d had her ringer off overnight, or those church bells would have chimed right out of the belfry. Perplexed by the sudden bounty, she raced through the photos, almost all of which were of young clean-cut guys, some from as far away as Richmond.
She reached into her purse for the Starburst she’d bought last week when still employed and feeling flush, and unwrapped the first one. She was enjoying her sugar reverie when the epiphany came. Yes, there could be no other explanation for all those virtual Russell Stovers. Word was out on the Christian street and in every sanctified chatroom that those looking to stray from the path with an experienced MILF, if only briefly, could find just what they were looking for in PenelopeGenesis2:1.
Damn it to hell. If the straitlaced guys in the area knew about Paybacks Are Heaven, then who didn’t? Thinking it much too long since she’d given the HHR a thorough cursing, she reached for her cell phone. Just as she did, the door to the office opened and a man walked in.
The man was small, gray, and stained. He wore coveralls begrimed and only halfway zipped between his shoulders and navel. His intent, it seemed, was to give plenty of fresh air to the bountiful, curly gray chest hair that sprang from his chest like hungry vines searching for good soil. Looking at his dirt-colored baseball cap, Penelope felt that the chest vines might find good purchase and a pleasant home atop of it. She was transfixed.
“Hello there,” she said. “May I help you?”
The man seemed stunned by the question. He’d been in midstride when she’d asked it, en route to somewhere else in the office. He creased the bill of his cap with one hand, though the cap looked incapable of further malleability. When he moved his hand, Penelope could just make out the words crudely stitched on the cap, which were Why Don’t You Make Me? Beneath the slogan stood a poorly rendered image of Yosemite Sam. This Yosemite Sam only had one of his legendary six-shooters blasting into the air, not the two Penelope was accustomed to seeing; his other hand was occupied with flipping a bird to one and all.
The stranger was standing just past her desk, still with the appearance of arrested motion. He’d not spoken, but Penelope could tell he had places to go. He was looking her up and down, then took a few steps to get a side view, lingering longer than was socially acceptable on her stockinged legs.
“Were you looking for Missy?” she asked.
“Who are you?” the man said, not taking his eyes from her legs, which she now tried to stuff farther under the desk.
“I’m the new receptionist, I guess,” Penelope said. “I’m not sure what my official title is, but this is my first day on the job.”
“Where’s Doris?”
“I don’t know Doris. Did she used to work at this desk?”
“What’s your name?”
“Penelope.”
“I like your shoes.”
Penelope realized she should be fearing for her safety, but for some reason she didn’t. Perhaps it was all the wrestling practice she’d had lately. If it came to an office throwdown, she liked her chances.
Any self-defense moves she might have been contemplating were rendered moot, for after memorizing her legs, and especially her shoes, the man continued in his original direction. Which, it turned out, was the bathroom Missy had forbidden her to use. He shut the door behind him with a gentlemanly click.
Then there was silence.
24
Penelope had been sitting for thirty minutes or so, hoping that the phone would ring or that someone would c
ome in, anything to distract her from the fact that only ten feet away a man was doing something behind a closed bathroom door for a really long time. She was thinking about medical emergencies the man might be experiencing when Missy launched herself up the steps and through the door as if just hurled by an unseen giant down in the parking lot.
“Well, the mayor’s an idiot, I can vouch for that,” she said.
Penelope didn’t reply and must have had an odd look on her face because Missy said, “What? Why are you looking like you ate a sour pickle?”
Penelope motioned to the bathroom door via a quick jerk of the head. Then she pointed with her thumb, hitchhiker fashion, and mouthed: Someone’s in there.
Missy nodded, then mouthed something back that Penelope couldn’t understand.
“What?” she said silently, raising her palms.
Missy frowned as if Penelope was slow, then crashed around the desk and jerked open several drawers at once till she located pen and paper, which she could have found in the top drawer if she’d just bothered to look before opening the drawers below. Penelope was beginning to realize that her new employer was a trifle impatient.
She was now standing over the desk, scribbling in a jabbing, aggressive motion. Then she violently pushed the notepad over to Penelope before needlessly gesturing for her to begin reading.
The note said: That’s Dimwit.
Penelope took the pen from Missy and wrote: Dewitt? The guy who lives on the hill?
