Becoming Mona Lisa

by Holden Robinson

  I checked the time again. I had five minutes. I stood, did the jumping thing a couple of times with no results, and crammed my feet into my shoes.

  “Ugh.” I was absolutely miserable. The pumps felt like a vice, and the pantyhose were causing a sudden onset of circulatory disease.

  I checked my image in the mirror and found my sobbing jag had done less damage than I'd expected. A little mascara on my nose, a little lipstick on my chin. Not quite ready, but not quite a Picasso. Spit and a tissue righted the mess in thirty seconds, and with no time to spare, I grabbed my black trench coat, and headed out the front door.

  I backed out of the driveway, nodded to Thurman, who glared at me from his front yard, and took off like a bat out of hell. The last thing I needed was to have to deal with that idiot.

  I dialed Tom.

  “Hi, babe,” he said, and I smiled.

  “Hey.”

  “You holding up okay, honey?”

  “So, so. I'm actually on my way to meet Beth now. I know this might seem disrespectful, under the circumstances, but I wondered if you'd want to do something tonight.”

  He paused for only a moment. “How about Teddy's? We haven't been there in ages, and the newspaper says they have karaoke tonight,” Tom suggested, sounding excited.

  Teddy's Bar & Grill had been a staple in our town since I was in diapers. It didn't have a grill, and barely had a bar, but nobody minded. It was a nondescript dive that could be found in every small town in America, but it was ours, and we loved it.

  “Teddy's sounds great,” I agreed.

  “You keep your chin up until I see you, okay?” Tom said warmly, and I started to cry.

  “Thanks. I have to go. I'm at WalMart, and Beth's already here,” I said softly.

  “Okay. I love you, Mona.”

  “I love you, too,” I whispered.

  I hung up the phone and cleaned off the passenger seat while I waited for Beth to lock her car. There were four Fudge Round wrappers, and I shoved them in the trash.

  Four Fudge Rounds and a funeral.

  Sounded like a movie.

  I smiled through my tears.

  Twelve

  A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.

  A bird in the house is a gigantic pain in the ass.

  I have always been amazed by the life lessons that come in death's packaging. The morning and early afternoon passed in a blur of murmured prayer, muffled sobs, wadded Kleenex, and ham and potatoes served on mismatched dinnerware in a church basement that reeked of Mr. Clean and old-lady perfume.

  By two o'clock, Edith Purnell had found her final resting place beneath a massive oak, without a wheel in sight, and I was home. I spent about an hour nursing a cup of cocoa and my emotional misery, then shook off the sadness and focused all my energy on planning a second attempt at a romantic evening. I'd distanced myself significantly from romance, so this took some serious thinking. With the daunting task at hand, I proceeded to my closet and spent two hours on an archaeological dig in search of a push-up bra I knew I had, but hadn't seen in eons.

  Successful in my quest, bra in hand, I back-hoed all the shit into my closet, and headed to the bathroom to get ready. Four hours later, I was just about done.

  “Come to Mama,” I whispered to my reflection. I had boobs to kingdom come, and the black sweater from Kohl's was bursting at the seams, compliments of my enhanced bust line.

  “You ready, hot stuff?” Tom asked from beyond the closed bedroom door.

  “You have no idea,” I whispered. “I'll be right out!” I called. Well-worn Levis hugged my butt, and I slipped my feet into some Dominatrix-style black boots I'd discovered forty-five minutes into the dig. They hurt like hell, but the five hours I'd spent in the satanic nylons had upped my pain threshold, and as a result, the boots bordered on comfortable.

  “Mona? Were you talking about going this Friday?” Tom called from the hallway.

  “Coming!” I yelled, crossing the room to the door, which I opened slowly. “Worth the wait?” I asked, as I leaned against the door frame.

  Tom didn't speak. He stood there with his jaw slack. “Oh, my God,” he whispered, and I spun around like a runway model.

  “You like?” I asked suggestively.

  “Very nice.” He reached for me, pulled me to his chest, and kissed me in a way that sent heat rising from my boots to my bottom, at a rate of speed that rivaled a Space Shuttle launch. “We should go,” Tom said through a moan.

  “Okay.” I switched the light off in the bedroom. The kittens watched us from the end of the bed. “Perverts,” I said, and Duke yawned.

  Tom stood in the doorway. He was bathed in shadow, and looked like the budding rock star I remembered from my youth. He'd paired his favorite jeans with a crisp white shirt, and a black suit jacket he normally reserved for wrapping up the sale of a used car. He looked young and handsome, and my heart raced as I looked at him.

  “Something wrong?” he asked, but the look in his eye said he knew the opposite was true. Finally, we were getting something right.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Let's go,” he said, reaching for my hand. He led me through the house to the porch, and we took off at a run. I didn't see any birds, and didn't hear them, but like a predator that lurks in a dark alley, whether or not he was visible, you knew in your soul he was there.

  Halfway to the Jeep, my heel caught in the pitted sidewalk. I flopped to the ground, and my left boob popped out of my bra. “Fuck!” I shouted, and Tom shot me a scolding look. “Sorry,” I mumbled. Before I could recover, I found myself in the beam of a monster flashlight.

  What the hell???

  “You kiss your mother with that rotten mouth?” Thurman yelled, and I had the urge to stab him with my stiletto, but was too busy correcting my boob debacle. “Or, did your husband kill her, too?”

  “Shut up, Thurman!” Tom yelled. “I haven't killed anyone. Yet!” he added for good measure, as Thurman waddled back toward his house with the chihuahua at his heels.

  My husband offered me his hand, which I accepted, and we got me back on my feet.

  Although it repulsed me, I figured Thurman and I were even. I'd seen his pecker, he'd seen a boob. I was content with the competition ending there.

  Tom flashed me a dissatisfied look when we got into the Jeep. “Uh, oh. I'm in trouble, aren't I?”

  “We need to talk about that word,” he said, and I knew what he was talking about.

  “Okay,” I said, sounding like a disobedient child. “Can we substitute it with something else?”

  “I guess.”

  “So, I can't ever use it again?” I asked, and Tom smiled.

  “Maybe just on special occasions.”

  “Okay. Like 'that's a nice fucking Christmas tree?'” I offered, and my husband rolled his eyes.

  “You're too beautiful to talk like that. Let's reserve it for special occasions, rare moments of rage, and when I think you're banging the neighbor.”

  “Deal,” I said. “How's duck?” I asked, and Tom glanced at me from the driver's seat.

  “Duck for what?”

  “Duck as a substitute word.” My suggestion lacked creativity, but I felt it would do.

  “Duck is good.”

  “Let's get the duck out of here,” I said, and Tom laughed.

  Teddy's was positively hopping when we arrived. The bass thumped with enthusiasm, and the wood-frame dump shook on its foundation. “Wait here a minute,” Tom suggested, and I looked at him.

  “Why? Do you think the crows followed us?” I asked.

  “No. Humor me. I'm going to go to the bar. I want to watch you walk in like that first night you came to see my band. I never thought you'd come, and when you did, I knew nothing would ever be the same.”

  My eyes filled immediately. “Okay,” I said with a slight tremor in my voice.

  “See you in a few,” he said, disappearing into the night. He walked away, and I sent him a quick text.

&nb
sp; You should have walked slower. I was looking at your butt the entire time.

  I pulled down the visor, opened the mirror, and slicked up my kisser. The lip gloss looked great, and I felt like a million bucks, which was a good bargain for only thirty-two.

  My cell phone buzzed, and I flipped it open. Tom had responded.

  Sorry about that. Hurry. I miss you already.

  I stepped out of the Jeep and made for Teddy's back door. It wasn't that I intended to sneak in; Teddy's front door didn't open, which was fine as long as the Fire Inspector didn't drop by.

  I knew I was in the right place when I saw the sign that said, Enter at your own risk. I pulled the door open, and heard a familiar voice. There was my Tom, standing on the makeshift stage, belting out Bon Jovi.

  I stumbled to the table closest to the stage. My knees were trembling, and my feet were killing me, but I didn't care. Fifteen years disappeared. Fifteen years of lost hopes, and forgotten dreams, and there I was, back at the beginning, at the moment when I had first fallen in love with Tom Siggs.

  I unbuttoned the top button of my black sweater, and my husband smiled, and momentarily forgot the words to Livin' on a Prayer. He finished the song, took a bow in response to the thunderous applause, and jumped off the stage in front of me.

  “I was hoping you'd come,” he said, reaching for my hand, and kissing my fingers. “Thirsty?” he asked, and I nodded, unable to speak.

  He walked away, and returned half a song later with two bottles of Corona, and two slivers of lime.

  “I'd like to propose a toast to the prettiest girl in the bar,” my husband said, lifting his bottle.

  “To rock star husbands,” I toasted, to the top of my husband's head. “Up here, Tom,” I said, and he looked into my eyes.

  The bottles clinked, and over the next thirty minutes, we emptied them. Tom switched to Ginger Ale, and I had another Corona. He sang three times over the next hour or so, and once I'd had enough liquid courage, I sufficiently butchered an old Bangles song.

  “That was magnificent, honey,” my husband said with an enthusiastic chuckle, once I'd returned to our table.

  “Why, thank you,” I said with a little curtsy. He pulled me to his chest, and I grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him with everything I had.

  “Disgraceful,” someone muttered behind me, and my blood chilled as if I'd stepped into a meat locker. It was like driving past a car accident. I didn't want to look, but I couldn't stop myself.

  I turned. There was Thurman Pippin, glaring at us over a Genny Cream Ale.

  “How you doin', Thurman?” I asked, trying to be neighborly.

  “I'd be better if I didn't have to see public displays of affection. There's a place for that, and it's not here,” he complained, and I felt Tom tense beside me.

  “I'm sorry if we've offended you, Thurman,” Tom said politely. “You happen to hear my wife sing?” Tom asked.

  “I did. I might suggest you not think about leaving WalMart, Mrs. Siggs,” he said, and although I should have been pissed, I wasn't. Despite the otherwise crappy ambiance, Teddy's had a pretty good sound system, including a monitor. I'd heard myself. I knew I sucked.

  “I'm pretty content there at the moment,” I said, amazed we were having a civilized conversation.

  “Well, alrighty then. You kids enjoy yourselves,” Thurman said, before walking away.

  “Thanks, you do the same,” my Tom said, and I exhaled the breath I wasn't aware I'd been holding.

  “Who the hell was that?” I asked, and Tom laughed.

  “I don't know. He kinda resembled our neighbor, don't you think?” he said.

  “That was NOT our neighbor.”

  “Didn't seem like it, did it?”

  “No. Maybe it's the Genny Cream Ale. Usually turns guys into assholes, but maybe it has the opposite effect on someone who starts out as one.”

  Tom laughed. “Maybe, but he's right. This isn't the place to be affectionate, so you wanna head home to our bed?” Tom asked, and my body responded, overriding any alcohol-induced numbness.

  “Yeah.”

  By the time we got to the Jeep, I felt as though I'd walked over coals without the proper meditative preparation. I pulled my boots off and hurled them into the back seat.

  Tom climbed in and looked at me. “Wanna make out?” he asked.

  I didn't.

  I was pretty revved up from the whole experience with my lead-singing husband, but my feet hurt, and the zebra bra was digging a trench across my back. I wanted to go home.

  “Okay,” I whispered. “On one condition.”

  “What's that, honey?” Tom asked, and I jumped. Our faces were inches apart, yet I hadn't seen him move.

  “Take my bra off.”

  “Here?” he asked through a chuckle.

  “Yes. The damn thing is killing me,” I begged. Tom looked uncertain, and frankly, I couldn't wait. “I'll do it.”

  Now, the act of removing one's bra without removing one's clothes, is in and of itself, an art. I tried to get my hands behind my back, and managed to slug Tom in the chin. He groaned, I apologized, and the bra was still hooked, and growing more painful by the minute.

  I tried again, and this time Tom dodged the bullet by leaning back against the driver's side door. I grunted, and groaned, and twisted painfully in the small space. Believe me when I say, there was nothing romantic about what was happening in that Jeep, although the windows were fogging up nicely.

  “Let me,” Tom said softly into my left ear, and that's when things got heated. He reached around me, and unhooked the instrument of torture in less than two seconds. “Better?” he whispered. I turned my head, and locked lips with my savior.

  “Better,” I said through a slight gasp, and we sat there for a long time, making out like two teenagers with less than ten minutes to curfew. His hand slid beneath my sweater, and I felt his fingers on my bare skin. Even in my altered state, with my libido at full throttle, I knew it was a bit much for the parking lot. “Can we go?” I asked breathlessly, and he released me, and settled himself into the driver's seat.

  My unbridled boobs bounced along as we drove, and we were home in less than fifteen minutes.

  “You see anything?” I asked, as Tom stared out the window.

  “It's so damn dark, I can't tell,” he complained, and I impatiently flung the door open.

  The noise and sudden movement served as a “crow activation system,” and I could hear thunderous flapping overhead.

  “Run!” I shouted, forgetting I wasn't wearing shoes. “Oh, my God, they're on the porch!”

  “Just one, babe. There's only one on the porch,” Tom reassured, as I stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring into the black eyes of the winged assailant. It sat on the porch railing leering at us.

  “What is it looking at?” I whispered.

  “I have no idea, honey,” he said, and I practically threw myself at him. Tom held me tightly, and I started to shake. I knew a two-pound bird was no match for three-hundred pounds of Siggs, yet I was scared shitless. The thing looked positively evil, and I had no desire to get any closer to it.

  “I have to pee, Tom. What do we do?” I asked, but before he could answer, I heard the splatting of crow shit all around me. “We're under attack!” I yelled, tearing for the porch.

  I didn't care if there was a whole army of crows on the railing. I was going in!

  “Run right past it,” Tom suggested, keeping pace with me. He reached for my hand, and pretty much dragged me the last couple of feet, and finally we were at the front door.

  The crow never moved, and I wondered if it was stuffed, and maybe Thurman had put it there to torture us. Suddenly it moved its head and screeched, and I almost peed myself.

  “Come on,” Tom said, holding the door for me. I moved too quickly, stumbled against the door frame, and tumbled to the ground. The ruckus startled the bird and it flew into the house.

  “Oh, my God, it's inside!” I wailed, and Tom to
ok off running. I struggled to my feet, and followed. “Where did it go??!!”

  “I don't know. It's gotta be here someplace!” Tom yelled, sounding far away. “Are you sure it came in?”

  “Yeah, it flew right over me,” I said, feeling tendrils of fear pick at me. I charged to the bathroom, knowing full well if I ran into the thing on the way, I was gonna piss my pants.

  Thank God I made it, and I slammed the door so hard the house shook.

  “Was that you?” Tom yelled, and I laughed, although the situation was hardly funny.

  Did he think crows slammed doors?

  “Yeah. I'm in the bathroom!” I yelled, yanking up my jeans.

  “Stay there!”

  “No, I'm coming out,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. I opened the door, then had second thoughts. Aunt Ida once told me it was a sign of death to have a bird in the house. Given my clumsiness, I was already more likely to die in a bizarre household accident than the average person. Maybe I'd be better off hiding in the bathroom.

  “Screw it,” I whispered, flinging the door open.

  I glanced down the hall, one way, then the other, and the coast was clear. I heard some clamoring coming from the living room, and I crept down the hall with all the precision of an FBI agent stalking a perpetrator.

  “The cats are chasing it all over the place!” Tom yelled, and I almost returned to the safety of the bathroom. “I need to try to catch it!”

  “What are you going to catch a bird with?” I asked, as something else crashed in the living room.

  “DUCK!” My husband yelled, and although it was the code word of my own suggestion, I wondered if it was being used in this fashion, or if I should take it in the literal sense. A moment later I got my answer. I saw something flying toward me and I hit the deck like a soldier.

  I laid there, nose to shag rug, assaulted by the filth beneath me. “Dear God,” I groaned.

  “Can I get a little help here?” I heard Tom yell, and I wasn't sure what the hell he expected me to do. I was scared shitless, and as much as it disgusted me to be lying belly to filthy shag, I was pretty content staying where I was until the situation was under control.