by Josie Brown
“Your answers were right on the mark. You’re a natural born killer.”
“I live in suburbia, Ryan. It’s a jungle out there. The instinct is natural.”
“Hmmm. Well, if that’s the case then remind me to stay out of the OC.”
“Aw, what a shame. There are a couple of cute women in the neighborhood – you know, divorcees – whom I could easily set you up with–”
The scowl that darkened his face told me I’d crossed a line.
“No? Oh, um, okay. Well gee, how time flies! I should go pick up the kids . . .”
“Just one more thing. I wanted to tell you that I’ve scheduled you to go to The Farm.”
I grimaced at the insinuation. “Well, I may still be sporting a few pounds of my baby fat, but seriously, Ryan that’s a bit cruel–”
“Donna, ‘The Farm’ is not a chubby club. It’s Langley’s training facility, and it’s a must for all new agents. Weeds out those that don’t have the right stuff.”
“Oh.” While in school I was always top in my class, so I was sure I’d do well down on The Farm. “I think I can get Phyllis to cover me for that weekend–”
“No, Donna. The commitment is for twelve weeks. And you have to live on-site.”
That put me back in my chair. Live away from the kids – for three months? How could I manage that?
They would hate me; perhaps even assume that I’d deserted them too.
“Oh, well. I – I guess that puts an end to that.” I rose to go again.
“Not necessarily. Now that Trisha is doing some daycare, and the kids are in school most of the day, you could have Phyllis move in during your training. And of course you’ll be allowed to go home most weekends.” He looked down at his pad, before breaking into a tentative grin. “In fact, I’ve already asked her, on your behalf.”
“You did?” My jaw fell open in surprise. “You did that for me? Did you also tell her the truth – you know, about Carl?”
“I didn’t have to. All I had to say was that you’ve applied for a research position that allows you to work part-time out of the home, which, actually, gives you close to the same income that Carl was bringing in. I also mentioned that we’d be paying for a childcare stipend during your training, which you’d pass along to her.” He eased back into his chair. “Other than chastising me for having put Carl in a position, as she put it, to ‘run off with one of your office floozies,’ your aunt is a real sweetheart. She says she’s there for you, whatever you need. I know she’s looking forward to more time with the kids.”
“Yes, she’s always there for me. That’s why I love her.” I knew he wouldn’t like it, but I gave him a hug anyway. “Thanks, Ryan, for everything.”
“Save it. If you feel the same way a few years from now, you can tell me then.”
Let me tell you, The Farm was no picnic. More like a college sorority hazing, its instructors just as cruel and cunning as any of the senior house sisters I’ve known.
No, make that a fraternity, as there is nothing feminine at all about the place. It attracts a certain breed of men: cocksure, arrogant, and aimed at turning The Farm into their own private fort, no girls allowed.
Needless to say, any woman masochistic enough to enter this alpha male sanctuary quickly learns that she has three strikes against her from the get-go: two above the waist and one below. The only way to prove she is one of the boys is to successfully jump through any hoops The Farm’s instructors throw her way. Otherwise she’ll join the exodus of pledges, both men and women, whose spirits have been broken while trying.
Not only did I make it through my hoops, I did so with a smile on my face and while enthusiastically asking, “So, what’s next?”
I got through it because I knew I would have made Carl proud.
So here we are, almost five years and some twenty-eight kills later.
Was the first one hard, you ask? That would be Manuelo Cisneros, a kid who had made it up the ranks of a Colombian drug cartel, in town for a little R&R. Still, he was just a kid. Some mother’s son. Perhaps some wife’s husband. Maybe even a father of his own sweet, loving brood.
To do what I do, I can’t think about that. All my missions are shoot to kill, period.
That went for Manny, and the others who followed. What stiffens my resolve is the knowledge that every kill is payback. For some ruthless bastard taking Carl away from my babies.
For taking him from me.
What are the most important skills you need to be a CIA field op, you ask? Perhaps the Japanese martial arts of bujutsu, karatedo, jujitsu, kendo, and laido? How about firearms, or explosives handling, parachuting, or crash-and-burn driving?
If you can keep it from the boys, I’ll let you in on a little secret: it’s none of the above.
In all honesty, the skills you need to be a crackerjack CIA agent are the exact same ones that make a good mommy.
For example, recruiting spies from other foreign agencies is a lot like coercing your son to eat his vegetables: at first he may be reluctant, but as soon as you convince him that it is the quickest route to dessert, he’s ready to jump onboard.
Whereas surviving a prison camp takes the same mindset as enforcing a time-out: Instead of giving in, just tune out. Eventually the other side gives up.
As for losing a surveillance tail, I liken that to getting a toddler to take a nap: When the time comes, your best bet is to get her into a routine that makes her comfortably drowsy. Then, when she zones out, slip away.
Setting up a kill is a lot like planning a dinner party: attention to even the smallest of details guarantees its success.
And finally, in regard to pulling that trigger: I’ve yet to meet a man whose primal instincts match those of a mother trying to keep her child safe from danger.
Speaking of naps, Trisha has awakened from hers, just in time for us to pick up her big brother and sister. Putting my precious locket in the back of the curio cabinet where it belongs, I smother her with kisses as we head for the door with Lassie at my heels –
But I stop when I hear the chirp of my cell phone. It’s the Hilldale Library. Or in this case, Marion, an Acme operative who just so happens to works there at the circulation desk. Although I’ve never caught a glimpse of her, I’d know that timid voice anywhere: “Yesterday you reserved a copy of The Last Tycoon. It’s now waiting for you at the front desk . . . ”
That sentence may sound innocent enough, but it is filled with encryptions to be decoded. For instance, the book’s title tells me that I’m being assigned some very serious mission, whereas the word yesterday means that I need to rendezvous with my Acme handler as soon as possible. And the fact that she used the words front desk indicates that I’ll find him in the usual place: Hilldale Memorial Park.
There’s no time to lose . . .
I’m just about to lock the door behind us when I smell it: the pie, burning in the oven. Damn! Damn! I barrel back through the door, dragging Trisha with me. Of course, there are no oven mitts anywhere in site. Finally I see one on the floor: Lassie is using it as a pillow. She whines as I whip it out from under her head, cram it onto my free hand, and throw the blackened pie into the sink.
It seems that everything is going up in smoke: both the world, and my children’s after-school snack.
Oh, well. Since I have to hook up with the Good Humor Man anyway, ice cream without pie will just have to do.
Chapter 3
Carpool Etiquette
The three most desired traits in a carpool partner are safety, flexibility, and punctuality.
The first is imperative, the second is appreciated, and the third ensures that the other mommies will always include you in their carpool – regardless of how many gunmen their children claim you’ve run over.
I am fully aware that some of my neighbors talk about me behind my back. I can’t say that I bl
ame them. After all, I am a very visible wife with an invisible husband.
At neighborhood cocktail parties there is no man at my side unconsciously stroking my arm or raising a knowing eyebrow at an inside joke, or giving me the high sign that indicates it’s time to say our good-byes and hightail it back home for a more intimate party for two.
I’m the only one who hauls the garbage to the curb, listens to the plumber’s expensive explanation for our clogged pipes, and scrambles up the ladder in order to clean out the gutters.
So, they wonder, what right have I to use the “we” pronoun?
It’s not like I’ve earned their disdain with any actions of my own! Whose gourmet potluck casseroles get the most rave reviews at the neighborhood block parties? Mine, I’m proud to say. And who set up the neighborhood watch program? You’re looking at her. (Admittedly, I did it in order to link the Hilldale network of security cams to my computer.)
And don’t forget: I’m also in charge of the sixth grade class’s phone tree. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to make eleven phone calls with bullets flying past your head?)
And I am certainly not the neighborhood slut. (That’s Nola Janoff, our resident blonde bombshell, who lives two doors down, across the street.)
Still, I hold the awkward position of Hilldale’s odd woman out. And in a universe of desperate housewives, that is the worst thing you can be.
As I maneuver my minivan into the school pick-up line, Hilldale’s Mean Mommies – Penelope Bing, Tiffy Swift, and the unfortunately named Hayley Coxhead – circle around, like tigresses going in for the kill. They sweetly simper out their hellos, but I brace myself for the snarky barbs that will soon follow. Even Lassie, my trusty co-pilot, growls as they approach.
“Long time no see, Donna,” sniffs Penelope. “What’s kept you away from Pilates class?” I can’t see her eyes through her darkly tinted Miu Miu frames, but I can just imagine how she is scrutinizing every pore of my face for signs of lying, not to mention aging.
“Trisha’s had a bit of a cold, so we’ve been out of the social whirl.” I’m wondering if the Tiff-o-meter caught the slight waver in my voice. By the way Tiffy cocks her head to one side I know she did.
“That so? Funny. Then why would you have taken her to the pool yesterday?” I’ve been busted by Hayley, Penelope’s first lieutenant (a rank she’s earned based the number of nip/tuck stitches on her belt . . . well, body).
As she snickers at such a perfect gotcha, Tiffy shifts uncomfortably in her BCBG ankle boots, not because of their narrow width but out of guilt. After all, when she first came to Hilldale, it was me who warned her which of the three sushi restaurants had been cited for ptomaine poisoning (it’s the one backed by a corporate chain), and which PTA committee to avoid at all costs. (Cafeteria volunteers. Trust me, it’s a political quagmire!) But Tiffy’s husband, Rex, is the ultimate social climber, and since a friendship with me holds little caché, he’s nudged her into Penelope’s corner. After all, Penelope’s husband Peter (a realtor with too much money and too little brains) is a perfect golfing buddy for an anxious entrepreneur whose company is on its last legs.
I take Tiffy’s embarrassment as a good sign: there still may be time to break Penelope’s spell over her. I make a mental note to invite her over for burnt pie and coffee later this week.
“Admit it Donna, you’re just being antisocial. Heavens, I don’t know why! We just want to get to know you better. Really, we don’t bite.” The way in which Penelope bares a BriteSmile’d grin contradicts this.
“Of course not! For sure, we’ll pencil something in.” I’m desperate. Where are the kids? Any second now, she will take another turn at the Donna piñata, and before I know it I will have missed making contact with my handler.
Scanning the tsunami of students flowing out from the school’s front doors, I lock onto Jeff. He is winding his way to me, Cheever in tow. Mary is not far behind. Unfortunately, she looks as if she’s been crying. Not good. I’m guessing it’s about the dance. I hope she doesn’t insist on going straight home but allows me to stop for the ice cream. Otherwise, once again I’ll have to choose between comforting my child in her time of need and saving the world.
Realizing that the Bitches of Hilldale have me cornered, Mary rolls her eyes and skirts into the van through the side door, like a wary gazelle in dangerous territory–
Too late. She is fresh meat, already targeted in Penelope’s crosshairs. “Hi, Mary! Aren’t you looking all grown up! And I’ll just bet you’re so excited about the parent-student dance this year! Ooooh . . . wait, my bad! I forgot you won’t be going, what with your dad overseas and all . . . ”
I catch Mary’s glance in the rear view mirror. The pain I see there is reflected in my own, I’m sure. Since Aunt Phyllis’s reality check, Mary has resented the fact that I can’t give up Carl’s ghost. But when it comes to bitches like Penelope, we show a united front, which is why Mary puts on a sweet smile and murmurs, “What do you mean, Mrs. Bing? Who says I’m not going?”
Penelope glares down at her little spy, Cheever, who shrugs at this new turn of events. “Oh. Well. Hmmm. Then we’ll be looking forward to seeing Carl. Finally.”
Her tone says it all: Mary is as big a liar as her mother.
Her frozen smile melts any doubts Mary had that the world sees her as a loser.
Like an alien tractor beam seeking its next probe victim, Penelope shifts her glacial grin in my direction. “Remember, Donna: everyone on the dance decorating committee must be in the gym at nine in the morning, on Friday. No excuses. And don’t forget to pick up the cupcakes. We’ll need twelve dozen. Tiffy has them on order, at Beyond Heavenly Bakery. If you forget them—well, I’d hate to think what a disaster that will be!”
I wince at her inference, that any screw-up will be proof positive that I’m what they’ve suspected all along:
A bad mommy.
If only she knew just how bad.
I’d signed up for this PTA task at the first of the school year, figuring that a few hours of party planning would be easier than nine months of some heavier parent penance—SCRIP management, lunchroom duty, phone tree, whatever.
And I also thought it might be (dare I say it?) fun, too.
It’s been tortuous hell. Because Penelope has conquered it as yet another fiefdom, all my creative ideas have been totally ignored. I take little solace that this has also been the case for the other four women on the committee who aren’t part of that bitchy triumvirate.
I peel away from the curb, wishing for once that my hybrid emitted enough carbon monoxide to take Penelope Bing out, once and for all. Would anyone blame me if I accidentally backed over her, just this once?
Okay, twice. But that’s just to make sure that the job was done right.
“Let’s have a show of hands! Who wants a yummy Sundae Cone?” I ask, as I circumnavigate Hilldale Park in search of the Good Humor truck. Trisha’s hand shoots straight up, and I reach back to give her leg a pat. I can always count on her for support – or more specifically, I can count on her sweet tooth. It’s a shame that Acme’s health benefits don’t include dental. In my job, sugar is an occupational hazard.
“Maybe,” says Jeff, warily. “Do you think he’ll have any A&W Swirls?” Cheever’s loss yesterday means he can forgive me for forgetting to pack his athletic cup.
Wish I could say the same about Mary. Her silence speaks volumes: she has just been being pegged as a delusional nut like her mother, and she’s not too happy about that. Well, at least she’s not begging me to go straight home, so the idea of frozen comfort food must appeal to her too.
“It will be a quick stop, I promise,” I reassure her. Mary’s answer is a shrug.
“There’s the ice cream man, over there, by the swings.” Jeff points to the colorful truck that is emitting a tinny music box rendition of “The Farmer in the Dell” from its overhea
d speaker.
I park right behind it. Jeff and Lassie bolt before I’ve unbuckled Trisha from her car seat. “Go ahead and get in line,” I say as I yank at her harness. ”We’ll be right behind you.”
The letterbox I use to receive my mission directives is Hilldale’s Good Humor Man, a Sikh named Abu. Some parents may find the sight of his long beard and turban above that legendary white uniform a bit disconcerting, and perhaps the neighborhood kids stare the first time they see him. Still, if you like the message (in this case, chocolate-dipped, on a stick), then you’re less inclined to shoot, let alone question, the messenger. In effect, Abu hides in plain sight as we conduct our business.
However, today there is an undercurrent of anxiety rippling through his usual Zen-like calm. It heightens visibly as the neighborhood bully, eleven-year-old Billy Earhardt, shoves Trisha aside in order to be next in line.
In true Stone form, Trisha shoves back. “It’s my turn, bad boy!”
But Billy’s not buying it. “Ya snooze, ya lose, kid.”
He’s fully aware that Jeff is bristling at Trisha’s slight, but I shake my head at our little knight in shining armor. There is no time for retaliation, not with seven other kids behind me impatient for their sugar fixes.
Does that matter to Billy? Hardly. He makes us all cool our heels while he considers the merits of the Chocolate Éclair cone against those of the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup bar. “Hey, how ’bout some samples?” says Billy, fully enjoying his role as spoiler.
His indecision is making Abu a little hot under the collar. After all, his real purpose here is to pass me my orders.
“What, do I look like Ben or Jerry to you?” Abu’s eyes have shrunk into angry slits.
“You know what? Why don’t I treat Billy?” I murmur reassuringly, as Abu slips me a Tamarind Chili ice tube. In this neighborhood, it is an odd flavor, something no one else likes. That’s the whole point.
