If You Could See What I See

by Cathy Lamb

  Lacey and I sat in silence for a sec, absorbing that tidbit.

  “What did Scotty do?”

  “He was angry,” Tory mused. “I liked seeing the anger. Some passion is still there. He hauled me out of the restaurant and I didn’t even get to eat my shrimp. So now he’s getting this”—she spread out her manicured nails—“gift. I had it specially made for him.”

  At that moment, our friend Lola D’Andreau drove up in her roaring blue truck. We went to high school with her. She’s a renowned wood carver. Coming up behind her was her friend Keeter in his cement truck. He brought a couple of muscly friends with him. One was named Trucker, the other was named William.

  We all stood around, chatting under the gold and orange moon, until Keeter said, “Let’s get this baby up.”

  Tory took them to a spot in the front yard and pointed. While the men went back to the trucks for their equipment, Lacey, Tory, and I went around to the back of Lola’s truck to see the “gift.” Lola threw her arms out, as if presenting a work of priceless art. In fact, she even singsonged, “Ta da! Ta da!”

  “It’s not . . .” I asked, almost breathless.

  “It couldn’t be . . .” Lacey said, then covered her mouth and laughed.

  “It is.” I laughed, oh, how I laughed. It was mean and naughty, and Scotty didn’t deserve it, but I bent over double I laughed so hard.

  “I think that Scotty will understand the symbolism,” Tory said. “He’s a Sagittarius. They’re quick, decisive, literate. Scotty likes literature. He’ll link the two. Good job, Lola.”

  “Thank you.” She put a hand to her chest. “I’m proud of it.”

  First, Lola, Keeter, and company set up lights outside so they could see. Then they dug a hole in the front yard. Next they poured in quick-dry cement. Finally Lola, Keeter, Trucker, William, Tory, and I carried the wood carving to the cement. It was very, very heavy. We put the “stub” of the wood carving, about two and a half feet of wood, in first. The stub would hold the “art” steady in the ground into the next millennium.

  When we were done, the gold and orange moon had moved, the stars were bright, and Tory spread her arms out wide and shouted, “We now have an artistic masterpiece! A modern art symbol of my relationship with Scotty, the overgrown, bubble-butted squid!”

  Lola glowed with pride, her hands together as if in grateful prayer. She bowed slightly. “Thank you, Tory. I worked so carefully on it, every inch, every curve and groove, to make it realistic.”

  “It’s impressive, Lola,” I said. “It’s good to take pride in your work.”

  “You should win an award,” Lacey said, in all seriousness, then she laughed.

  Keeter said, hands on his hips, “I feel inadequate. Small.”

  Lacey said, “That’s what got me knocked up.”

  William said, “The moon shines upon it, glowing, ethereal, soft and gentle, illuminating its inner core of natural tree beauty and the secrets of the ages within.”

  Lacey raised her eyebrows.

  “William’s a poet,” Lola said helpfully. “In touch with his manhood.”

  Trucker said, “We’re gonna be famous. Ain’t nothing done like this before.”

  Tory danced around it, arms out. “No one would have the balls to do this except for me.”

  I stroked Lola’s masterpiece.

  The wood carving was seven feet tall.

  The wood carving was a penis.

  Lola had carved on the penis, “My name is Scotty. I am a dick.”

  Yes, a dick. Lola had carved a dick, commissioned by Tory.

  It was now cemented into the middle of Tory and Scotty’s front lawn, glowing under the lights, as William, the poet, had noted.

  “Moonlight, starlight, blue jays call, majesty, royalty, it has no balls,” William intoned.

  We heard sirens in the distance.

  We didn’t think they had anything to do with us.

  We were wrong.

  A neighbor had called the police. Her name is—this is not a joke—Gladys. Gladys is eighty-two years old. Tory is friends with her. Tory kept an eye on her when she lived here and continues to check on her. Gladys has no children and a small home she’s lived in all her life. This whole area was once owned by her family, who were farmers, before she sold part of it to a developer. I don’t know what she’s done with the cash, because her house isn’t it great shape, but she’s a multimillionaire.

  Her vision isn’t good without her glasses, so that night when she peered across the street to Tory’s house, seeing the lights off inside but people outside, she thought she was seeing, as she put it to the 911 operator, “burglars standing around in a circle on the front lawn, having a séance and building a rocket ship.”

  The police came to stop, I’m sure, the séance.

  Gladys said to us later, “Dears, I’m so sorry. Had I known you were installing impressionistic body art in your yard I would have come to help. You know I’m an artist myself. Oh, by the way, I love your new bra, the Squish and Squeeze. It really does squish and squeeze, doesn’t it? Look here. Tory brought me the magenta one.” She pulled up her shirt. Lacey and I admired how our Squish and Squeeze bra squished and squeezed.

  Gladys showed two of the police officers her Squish and Squeeze, too, after introducing herself as the woman who reported that the rocket ship had landed in front of the burglars. We think there may be a tiny slice of dementia moving into Gladys’s brain. She called the police officers “dears,” too. They were surprised at being flashed, but they were gentlemen.

  “They made the Squish and Squeeze!” She pointed at Lacey, Tory, and me.

  Not only did the police come, the police chief of Portland came, too. As I understood it, the chief likes to go out on calls with his officers to keep himself up to date on what’s going on in this fine city of Portland.

  Eventually there were six police cars on Tory’s property. Six. Word spread.

  I later learned the words from headquarters were: Giant penis on the loose.

  And “Man’s yard attacked by penis.”

  And “Penis Invasion. All cars report.”

  And “Approach with caution. Penis response: unpredictable. Be ready to take down penis.”

  One more: “Consider the penis to be armed and dangerous. Taser first, no live shots.”

  The police, between laughing, were quite kind, once they found out that Tory was the owner of the house. They took photos with their cell phones. Tory posed in front of the penis at their request, her arms wrapped around it, one high heel kicked in the air, smile bright, black hair blown by the wind.

  Tory said things like, “Husbands shouldn’t be dicks,” and “I’m a Pisces and we don’t take any fish crap,” and “I adore modern art.”

  The cops laughed again.

  I put a hand to my head. I felt a headache speeding on, like in one of Gladys’s rocket ships.

  I like to learn new things. It’s the academic nerd that lives within me. I like learning about new cultures, new insects found in jungles, new information about space and infinity, the history of the universe, etc.

  I learned something new that night.

  I learned Blake’s occupation.

  What is his occupation? What does the blond giant with the muscled arms and friendly smile do for a living? Blake Crighton is the police chief of Portland.

  Yes, the chief.

  Getting to work after only three hours of sleep was a torture. I didn’t get in until nine.

  Lacey wasn’t there, and neither was Tory or Grandma. The production floor was humming louder than normal. I heard people laughing, the chatting loud. I skittered up the stairs because I did not want to talk, and poured myself a cup of coffee. I ate peanut butter and pecans for breakfast. My head was banging.

  Abigail knocked and entered my office. “Heard you had an interesting evening.”

  “How did you know?” I dipped a pecan in the peanut butter.

  “Word flies around town.” She mimicke
d a bird flying, then burst into laughter, which she tried to suppress with no success.

  “You make for a poor bird.” I rolled my shoulders under my sweatshirt. Grandma would hate that I was wearing a sweatshirt to work. I hoped she would not come in today.

  “It’s on YouTube, you know.”

  My head whipped up, my hand jerking my coffee cup over. “You must be joking.”

  “Nope. It’s getting more and more popular.” Abigail stood on her toes, she was so excited. She bopped up and down.

  “It’s also online in different newspapers. Lace, Satin, and Baubles is mentioned many times, as in, ‘Tory O’Rourke stands next to a seven-foot-tall wood penis’—is it actually seven feet tall, Meggie?—‘that she planted in her estranged husband’s front yard.’ You have to read the rest, it’s the best fun. Fantastic fun! Says she was mad at her husband for going on a date with a doctor who did not wear the color red well. There are people who can’t wear red?” Abigail seemed baffled by this. “Should I not wear red?”

  “You look good in red.”

  “I’ll ask Tory,” she said, my opinion clearly not counting. “She knows about fashion.”

  I groaned and placed my banging head on my desk.

  “On a money note, it’s great publicity, Meggie. The phones are ringing off the hook, people are calling, reporters, bloggers, even two talk shows here, and one in San Francisco, Los Angeles. . . . You have to call all these people right away. It’ll help our sales.”

  “No. I will not be calling them. Say I am unavailable.”

  “Meggie, you can’t. You have to take advantage of this.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m leaving the press to Tory. She had a penis made, do you get that? This is now exclusively hers. I suppose everyone here knows? Obviously by your maniacal grin that’s a dumb question, isn’t it?” I needed my morning beer for my nerves. Perhaps I would pour my morning beer over my head.

  “Impressively dumb, but yes! In fact we’re constructing a penis in the middle of the production floor using Styrofoam to celebrate the uptick in sales. Get it, uptick? I made a joke. We’re rising. Get that joke, too? Didn’t you see our art?” She clapped her hands. “In honor of our reuse and recycling policy, we’re wrapping bras we messed up around it. It’s a brassiere penis.”

  “You’ve made a penis?”

  “Sure have. With bras around it. The Petrelli sisters were extremely innovative.” She tapped her temple. “They knew exactly what to do to make it look realistic. Eric carved the Styrofoam. We like it. Makes us laugh. Maybe we should take a photo of the Styrofoam penis and send it to the news outlets?”

  “No. Oh, please. No.”

  I limped to the windows overlooking the production floor and pressed my forehead to the glass. Yep. There it was.

  Ho ho ho.

  The Petrelli sisters, Lance, Eric, Maritza, the Latrouelle sisters, and a bunch of the other rebels waved at me. Ho ho ho. Aren’t they funny? I pushed my hair off my forehead, with both hands, the pain pinging around my cranium.

  “Kalani’s calling in a few minutes via Skype, Meggie, so turn on your computer and look at her smiling face and hear about her gas problems and black magic.”

  “No, nope.” I grabbed my beer out of the mini refrigerator. “Not her. Not now. No way.”

  “You should talk to her. They’re having problems with the Valentine line.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Again.”

  “I think I’ll get Cupid to shoot me.”

  “She’s calling in now, I can hear Skype.”

  Lacey burst into my office, her red curls boinging about. No matter what she does, that red hair saves her. She always looks stylish and cute.

  “Oh, save me! Save me! Have you seen YouTube?” She then went pale, leaned over, and rushed down the hall to the bathroom.

  What would Grandma say?

  It would be head banging, that was for sure.

  “Hello, Kalani.”

  She beamed, waved both hands. “Ah, there you are, Meeegie! Good to see you!”

  “You too. How are you?” As soon as the words “how are you” were out of my mouth I wanted to pound my head on my desk, split it open, and, with blood dripping down my face, excuse myself. I was in for a long report.

  “Oh, I good and I bad.”

  “What’s wrong?” I wanted her to tell me about the Valentine line. I wanted to talk about the output, the materials, shipping . . . But first I had to be nice so I didn’t hurt her feelings. One time she thought I was abrupt with her. She shut down Skype, didn’t talk to me for two weeks, and told Tory I was a “mean blond mermaid.”

  “What wrong, what wrong?” Kalani wrung her hands. “You know I still cursed. That woman witch married to brother. First she give me rash, now I smell bad smells in the air. She do it to me.”

  “Your brother’s wife made you smell bad smells in the air?”

  “Ya. She do something to my nose. At my mother house last weekend, she touch my nose and now I smell bad smells. Yuck. I curse her. She curse me. My curse work. Her noodles too wet at dinner. I tell her. Your noodles too wet.”

  “I bet she didn’t like that. Can we talk about the Valentine—”

  “She so mad I say noodles too wet, she say bad words and leave kitchen. I do whole dinner myself.” She threw up her arms in frustration.

  “I’m sorry, so—”

  “And also that man my boyfriend he tell me I marry him, I say no and we have the big fight. I say you bang bang me, you know that word, Meeegie, bang bang?”

  “Yes.” Oh, I sure knew that word today.

  “But I no want other husband. I had husband. He bad, you know, move my nose wrong place on face—”

  “Yes, I know and—”

  “But boyfriend he bring ring. And he bring the flower. And he beg and cry but I say no. Tory say, you know Tory?”

  “Yes, I believe I know who Tory is.” A tall, wood penis soaring into the sky floated to mind.

  “She say you be the boss of your life, Kalani. I stay free woman. New word: freedom!” Kalani put her fists in the air in victory. “I say liberty. You know that word, liberty?”

  “Yes I do.” I gave in. “Would you be happier married to your boyfriend?”

  “Ah, no. Then he try boss me around, tell me I his maid, I learn that from Tory, too. I no work all day then come home and be maid to husband. He tell me I no maid to him, he cook dinner, he shop food, but I say no. Hurt my heart, though, Meeegie, I tell you.”

  “I’m sorry, Kalani.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” She brushed a tear off her cheek. “How you? You got boyfriend now?”

  I thought of last night. “No. Definitely no boyfriend.”

  “Good thing. You have boyfriend, they beg you marry you say no and then you hurt heart.”

  We chatted more, and I heard about her sister’s neighbor who has warts on her “left butt,” and her mother who is battling with burps. I was finally able to angle her over to the problems she was having with the Valentine line.

  Bras are tricky to make. You’d think we’d have it all down to a science, but things go wrong all the time. For example, bras have about twenty-five to thirty different pieces to them. Cup, wire, the wire channel to cover the wire, the pad, the fastenings, the rings and slides that have to be attached correctly on the straps, the back panel, etc. Also, bras are sewn within millimeters and there is no room for error. Colors can run, colors can bleed, colors may not match where they should, it’s endless. All for a bra.

  “Tell me, Kalani, what’s going wrong?”

  “Going wrong in factory? Oh yes. That. That. Okay, Meeegie. I tell you.” She smiled brighter. “You see. We have small problem. Two small problem. See this pad?”

  She held up a pad that would be in a bra. “Too small. Not right. We start over.”

  I groaned.

  “Oh, Meeegie. No worry! Also one more problem. See, when we put mold on for cup, color slides. Different colors each cup. You see?” S
he smiled even brighter and held up two bra cups. They were different shades of red. She bopped up and down as if in celebration.

  “That won’t work, Kalani.”

  “Ya! I know, I know! Teeny one more problem. See this bra lining that too thin?” She pulled her shirt off and her bra off—one of ours, of course—and put the lining over her small boob. “I put bra lining over my boobie and my nipple poke out still. That not good. See nipple?”

  “Yes, I see your nipple. No, that isn’t good. You have to fix that.” The lining is important, especially if there’s not padding. You have to have enough lining in the bra so women’s nipples aren’t coming first through the door, to put it crudely.

  I put my fingers to my temples. Bang, bang, bang. I grabbed my beer.

  “That all. Small problems, Meeegie. Oh yeah. One more problem.” She poked one finger down toward her crotch. “I got itchies in the ya ya place today. I think too hot here. I put ice on me at lunch break.”

  “Sorry, Kalani.” I was going to die. “Sorry about the itchies.”

  “Ya, but hey! Good news, too! I see that Tory on YouTube this morning. You know that Tory?” I assured her, yet again, that I knew Tory.

  “That tall, you know, doo de doo de da da, what funny. La la funny. You American women. You take that revenge. You get back at the bad men. I like it. Tory, she say you take revenge when man bad. And she did, she did! I proud of you, Meeegie! I show all the ladies here! That our Meeegie and Tory and Laceeey, I say! They like women on the Jersey show!” She put her fists back in the air. “Liberty!”

  I groaned.

  “Freedom!”

  “We have to milk this one,” Tory said, her zebra-striped heels tapping into my office, Lacey following her, clutching her stomach. “I’ve already invited the media here. Want to talk to the media with me, Meggie, Lacey?”

  “No,” I said. I brushed a hand through my hair. Had hardly brushed it this morning. Note to self: Stay out of sight until all media are gone.

  Lacey’s face lit up. “Can I?”

  “Yep. Get in there with me. There is nothing we could have done to raise sales like this, and I wasn’t even thinking of that when I hired Lola. My horoscope was correct: I got a surprise.”