Poor Little Boy. No wonder he’d run into the house last night. How long had the python been out there? I suddenly thought of the van. Had the snake come from the van? And had the driver sabotaged my downspouts? But no, I’d had a feeling I was being watched hours earlier when I’d been outside. I didn’t know what to think. There were too many possibilities and each of them a stretch.
One thing was for certain though. I should have been careful about closing the doors when I ran back and forth from my house to the garage to the patio. I’d probably never catch Little Boy again. There went my opportunity to get him neutered.
When Hank returned, he was carrying a four by four about ten feet long. There was no way I’d be able to lift that piece of wood up and use it to shove a python off a tree. Once again I was reminded of the differences between the sexes or at least the one that mattered when it came to saving my property: strength.
We settled in to wait, but it didn’t take long. Apparently a python elicited a quicker response than a hissing opossum. Four county workers came sloshing through the wet grass toward us a mere twenty minutes later.
I was suddenly aware of my appearance. No make-up, hair stringy wet, and worst of all, my soaked pajamas stuck to me like a second skin, one that unfortunately didn’t include a bra. I glanced over at Hank, who was just as wet as I was, but the shirt clinging to him only served to show off his washboard abs. Darn him, he looked even better wet than dry. In my next life, I wanted to be a man.
Trailing behind the animal control workers were a couple of guys with video cameras, and they weren’t wearing county arm bands. It took a few seconds for that to set in. Press. A giant python was big news for reporters. The fact that it was in my yard was just gravy. I heard a distant hum, one which quickly turned into a swish-swishing sound, and I craned my head to see a news helicopter circling. That seemed a little over the top.
I turned to tell Hank that I was going to sneak my half-naked body into the house, leaving him to point out the snake, but he was gone. How rude was that?
Before I could make my getaway, a flash blinded me. When I opened my eyes it was to see a couple of microphones in my face.
“Ms. Jansen, is that your pet python on the loose?”
“Ms. Jansen, how do you think that python got here? Was it living in those woods?”
“Ms. Jansen, having a bad hair day?”
It took an hour to catch the snake and all four of the county workers to maneuver it into the cage. I had sidled up close enough to watch that part because I had this morbid fascination thing going. One of the worker’s hands slipped, and the python took advantage of the opportunity, lunging out in a strike, his powerful jaws separating to reveal a gigantic, gaping throat surrounded by long, curved teeth. Everyone close enough to witness the performance yelped and jumped back. Thankfully, the python missed his mark.
By the time the excitement was over, my backyard was filled with jovial reporters, friendly police officers, horror-struck neighbors, and thrill-seeking lookie-loos. Meanwhile, video was rolling, cameras were flashing, helicopters were flying, and reporters had a best headline contest going. I had a sinking feeling Python Mistakes Romance Writer for Drowned Rat was going to win.
I shouldn’t have offered it up, but I needed the fifty bucks.
Chapter 9
They converged on me at precisely one o’clock. Four sisters driving four cars. My mother rode with Katherine.
I was in for another lecture on family reputation; the Sunday newspaper had carried the python story along with a photo of me in my sodden, bedraggled state of undress. I thought about turning the hose on my visitors, but they each carried a covered dish. Since there was nothing good in my refrigerator, I decided to let them in.
Mom, five feet two inches tall and still trim at sixty-two, was in her church clothes, a cornflower blue polyester pantsuit that complemented her short, permed, strawberry-blond tinted hair. For most of her life, she’d staunchly refused to wear pants to church because of a remark made thirty years ago by an elder who said pants on women was the devil’s work. A few months ago the new pastor’s wife wore a pantsuit to church, and that made it good enough for Mom.
“Since you don’t cook,” said my sister Hilary with a wink to me that no one else could see, “and you’re probably hiding out from reporters, we figured we’d bring lunch. And I’m dying to hear about the python. How frightening!”
I smiled at Hilary. “How thoughtful of you all.” The wink told me no one cared whether I starved to death or not, but I was hungry and I didn’t cook, so I played along. “What did you bring?”
They had brought plenty. Ribs barbecued with Katherine’s delicious sweet and tangy sauce, Nicole’s famous potato salad—famous because it had won the potato salad contest at the county fair every year since Nicole started entering nine years earlier—Hilary’s scrumptious green bean casserole, and Marci’s chocolate chip brownies. Mom carried a bag of rolls, but I knew they’d been purchased by Katherine. Otherwise, Mom would be fretting that with all these unexpected expenses, she would never make ends meet.
There was an unspoken rule that dinner not be marred by bickering. That hadn’t been the rule growing up since we never sat down to dinner back then. Mom only cooked for Dad; he expected a meal when he got home from a hard day’s work. She would have preferred that he’d fixed a sandwich like the rest of us, but she would never have dared suggest it.
The rule about bickering being tabled until all food was consumed came up once we girls were adults of a certain age. Prior to the rule, every time we got together for a family picnic or dinner the meal was ruined by an argument. Alcohol was always involved, though it wasn’t always a known factor since some of us—namely Hilary, Nicole, Marci, and me—drank before we showed up or, depending on who was doing the hosting, we took turns leaving the room for a quick nip. Katherine didn’t drink, and that was the reason we couldn’t do it out in the open. None of us wanted to be branded an alcoholic by Katherine. She had a way of seizing onto an idea and then haranguing everyone else until they gave up and went along.
There was no drinking today though. The only alcohol I had on hand was the bottle of tequila Sue had left, and I could hardly lay out shot glasses in the guest room. None of my sisters would admit to wanting a shot. They would only admit to wanting a delicious drink, like a frozen piña colada or strawberry daiquiri. That the frozen drinks would have three times the amount of liquor over what the recipe called for was information we kept under wraps. Until the arguments started, that is, and everyone found out who had been talking about whom behind their backs—information usually spilled by Mom. Then we were only too happy to blame the alcohol since the alternative was admitting to being a bitch. Accept no responsibility ever. That was the family motto.
I made sure to sit at the opposite end of the table from Mom with the centerpiece between us because she had a nasty habit of remarking on the amount of food I consumed. It didn’t make any difference if I took less than every other person in the room—or in the country, for that matter. She would wait until I had a mouthful and then say loudly, “Oh my, you certainly have a healthy appetite, don’t you?” or “My goodness, would you look at the amount of food on your plate.” Everyone else seemed immune as the object of these observations; I was the chosen one. I had learned it was better to feign deafness because protesting only served to gain everyone’s attention.
Dishes were cleared and coffee and brownies were placed on the table. I struggled with myself over whether or not to have a brownie. The thing about Marci’s brownies is that they are just about the best thing you ever put into your mouth. They are so fudgy you’d swear they have icing on them, and they are riddled with chunks of dark chocolate. It’s almost impossible to resist Marci’s brownies.
Everyone oohed and ahhed their way through their first brownie, and then they all took a second before I gave in and reached for one too. The instant I touched it, Mom giggled. Her giggle is the same as the smirk I�
��d grown up with. Mom has simply learned that a nervous giggle can be pulled off with less criticism than a self-satisfied smirk.
“Oh my,” she said with that giggle. “You’re having dessert after eating all that food?”
“Everyone else is on their second or third brownie and I haven’t even had one,” I whined. There I was, on the defensive, and I hadn’t done a damned thing.
“I know, dear, but they don’t have to watch their weight, do they?”
Now what the hell did she mean by that? We all had to watch our weight, even Katherine, who at different times in her life had been twenty pounds too heavy. Hilary and Nicole both gained weight more quickly than I did, and Marci, who hadn’t come up with the world’s best brownie recipe for nothing, would have been an oinker long ago if she didn’t periodically have all her fat sucked out by the cosmetic surgeon.
I‘d really been looking forward to that brownie, and Mom had spoiled it for me. I should have been used to the disappointment since Mom had been stealing my joy since I’d been old enough to have any. I looked around the table. Neither Katherine nor Nicole would meet my gaze, Hilary gave me a pitying look, and Marci smirked and made a big show of biting into another brownie. She was probably glad I’d been discouraged; it meant more brownies for her.
“So, what are you here for anyway?” I asked a bit too sharply. I had a million things to do and if I couldn’t enjoy my dessert, I wanted to get to work.
“Whewie, whewie, whewie!” said Mom. This is a sound she makes whenever she’s nervous. It’s sort of a cross between letting all her air out with a whistle and saying whew.
Marci rolled her eyes at the sound and Hilary bit back a smile, but the fact that Mom had gone from giggling to whewie told me the conversation would take a nerve-racking turn.
“Just jump on in,” I said to no one in particular though I was looking at Katherine.
“Well, here’s the thing,” Katherine said. “We know you haven’t asked any of us for money to pay this fine, but we’d like to all go in together to take care of it for you. It wouldn’t be a loan; it would be a gift. And you—”
“I’m sorry,” I said, bristling at the thought of Katherine fixing things for me, “but I really have to just go ahead and say no right here so we aren’t wasting time. I’m not paying the fine. Can’t you see how stupid that would be? The first fine comes up at the ninety-day mark, but after that, until the yard is cleaned up, I have to pay the same fine every thirty days. It would be ludicrous to consider paying it even one time.”
“I know! Ten percent of the property value!” said Marci. “That’s outrageous!”
I gave her a squinty-eyed look. “How did you know it was ten percent?”
She made a few quick, desperate glances around the table, but everyone else seemed fascinated by my décor. “I don’t know. Isn’t it ten percent? I must have heard it somewhere. And what difference does it make? I remember David had to pay a fine once, and it never would have happened if he had only listened to me. Why, he—”
Nicole groaned, cutting Marci off before she could finish the story. Marci managed to bring her ex-husband, David, into every family conversation. She acted as if he’d broken her heart and she couldn’t get over him when she was the one who’d done the heartbreaking. Bringing him into the conversation was a ploy to turn talk around to herself, making her the victim with David as villain. It had nothing to do with David’s actual behavior or her ill feelings toward him. It was just that we all knew him, so he was the best scapegoat.
With narrowed eyes, I turned my gaze from one sister to the other, waiting to see if someone caved and blurted out how they knew the exact amount of my fine. No one did.
“I have two options,” I said, “and you all must know what they are: sell the house or clean up the yard. Before the fine comes due. And I’m not selling the house.”
“Why not?” asked Marci. “Mr. Carlson said they offered you much more than its value. What’s the problem?”
Mr. Carlson? Mr. Carlson had been talking to my family? Well, that just burned me up. My financial affairs should be confidential, and as the president of a bank, Carlson ought to have known better.
“Now, Jane,” said Nicole, “don’t get upset over Mr. Carlson calling us in to meet with him. The poor man is just trying to do what he thinks is best for you.”
“He called you in to discuss my business?” I blew out my breath and counted to ten.
“We really wanted you to make a success of this place, Janie, but you just haven’t been able to do that, have you?” Katherine asked in her I’m the big sister and though I hate it that I’m always right, I really do know so much more than you voice. And she called me Janie to make me feel like a kid again, one who didn’t know what all adults knew. “We warned you that you were biting off more than you could chew by buying this place, but you didn’t listen to us, did you?”
I gritted my teeth because if I didn’t, there was a good chance they would take a giant chunk out of Katherine when I lunged at her, as I might do any minute.
Sure, I knew they thought I’d been foolish to buy the house, but not because they’d told me so. In my family there is an unspoken but virulent rule that if the truth is negative, it should only be said behind one’s back. The trick is in how to get the person to hear what was said behind her back, because otherwise, what was the point of saying it? Sometimes the news is delivered with an accidentally forwarded email. Other times they spread the news around until some poor fool, mistakenly assuming it’s common knowledge, inadvertently drops the bomb. In my case, they made sure I overheard the conversation as they were having it; there hadn’t been enough time to set somebody else up.
I hadn’t really cared since I didn’t expect anything different. The only thing that would have surprised me was if they’d voiced their concerns out in the open, to my face.
“I’m not moving,” I repeated, this time with a growl. “I love this house. I love what I’ve done with the inside, and I love what I will do with the outside eventually. If Mr. Carlson really had my best interests at heart, he would help me find another solution or he would talk the board into giving me more time. So don’t you dare sit there and tell me he’s only looking out for me. Because he isn’t.
“Just look around at this place and think back to when I first moved in, the condition of everything then.” I took in my surroundings with pride. From the new oak floors to the warmly painted walls that were a deep yellow glaze above the white chair rail paired with wainscoting below, to the trimmed-out windows and doors … it was all mine and all a result of my hard work. And Mark’s and Sue’s, though Sue had done more cheerleading than work. It irked me that my family would expect me to give up my house just so their problem regarding me and the unwanted publicity would go away.
“And now that I’m finally getting things the way I want them, Mr. Carlson comes along and wants to buy my house. Well, that’s just too bad. He’s not getting it!”
“If you’re sure you won’t sell,” said Nicole, “then we’re prepared to give you whatever amount of money it takes so you can hire some men to clean up your yard. Even if we have to borrow the money.”
“Nope. That’s never gonna happen.” No matter how quickly I paid the money back, they would never let me—or anyone else—forget about it. In twenty years they would still be speaking in hushed tones about that situation with Jane and by then the financial hardship they’d endured would have reached monumental proportions. Nicole would say she and Steve had been forced to forgo a much-needed vacation, the lack of which would be blamed for causing Steve’s poor health, as if his two-pack-a-day cigarette habit had nothing to do with that. Katherine and John would lament the money they could have put away for retirement, as though they were capable of not spending every cent they made.
The other thing that irritated me was that my family cared more about what everyone else thought than they did about my happiness. They weren’t offering to loan me the money to hel
p me out. They only wanted their embarrassment to go away.
“Jane, for once in your life, think about someone else. Maybe you hope these articles will help your writing career, but we’re tired of putting up with the humiliation.”
That was it. I’d had it. The nerve of them telling me to think of someone else when they were only thinking of themselves. The nerve of them pretending to have my interests at heart, of pretending to bring food to help me out, and then letting Mom make me feel guilty about what I ate.
I marched over to the brownies, grabbed two, and shoved them, one after the other, into my mouth. Uh-oh. I had lots to scream about, but no screaming could happen while I had a mouth full of brownies. I stared, bug-eyed, at my mother and each sister in turn as I chewed and swallowed as fast as I could. Everyone was staring bug-eyed back at me.
“You think I like having reporters write all this crap about me?” I choked out after my last swallow. I looked from one to the other again and I could see it in their eyes. They did.
“I’ve been going along, minding my own business since I moved back, and then suddenly I’m in the paper. Yes, I put a sign in my yard advertising for a husband, but I had nothing to do with the classified ad.” Katherine raised her eyebrows at Nicole, who shrugged. No one would ever believe I didn’t put the ad in the paper, so I moved on.
“And Mom is the one who told all those stories about my past to the reporters. If she hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had to sneak out of the doctor’s office, but somehow, once again, I’m the one who gets the blame.”
I was letting off some steam and it felt pretty good. No, it felt about damned time good. Maybe I would change the way I dealt with family. Maybe I’d let everyone know exactly how I felt every time they did something that pissed me off instead of keeping it inside and simmering with anger. There was a lot to be said for clearing the air.
Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) Page 8