Penelope Lemon

by Inman Majors

  Penelope took no pleasure from her coronation as Ms. Paybacks Are Heaven. She’d listened to his non sequiturs plenty back when they were married, but didn’t have to now. She found that her anger had returned.

  “How did it get on there, if you didn’t do it?”

  “Oh yeah. I zoned out for a second. I got broken into about three months ago and the dude took all my money, all my girlie magazines, and all the weed he could find.

  “I don’t care about your stupid weed. What about that photo?”

  “The guy was a perv. He left one magazine on the waterbed opened up to the centerfold. Like he was trying to embarrass me or something. I felt a little violated.”

  Penelope would have liked nothing better than to violate the HHR with a hookah to the head. She was about to let him have it when he whispered huskily, smoke break.

  Penelope could do nothing but wait. The HHR moved at his own maddening pace. How had she ever been married to this guy? Granted, nearly all her friends had an HHR somewhere in their past, a fun, good-looking guy who was relaxing to be around. Of course she was the only one who’d felt compelled to walk down the aisle with hers.

  The HHR announced his return from the incommunicado state by declaring:

  “The perv who ripped me off sent that photo in, I guarantee it. I had it with my other erotica. He’s a weird dude, I’m telling you, and likely sexually stunted. I could see him sending it in just to be spiteful.”

  “You really got ripped off?”

  “Since when have I lied?”

  This was true. The HHR got a lot of things wrong—facts, history, just about everything having to do with metaphysics—but he wasn’t a liar. Up till now.

  “You lied about burning all the photos.”

  “And I’m ashamed of myself for that. That was out of character.”

  Penelope could tell that the HHR was about to quote something about character or forgiveness from Duane Allman or Blue Oyster Cult.

  “Okay, I believe you. But what am I supposed to do now?”

  “I’ll get Weasel on it.”

  “Weasel? I thought he was out in Colorado being a river guide.”

  “No. He hit his head on a rock and fell in the river. Ended up with hypothermia. He’s only got like six toes now, Penelope. You should see him in flip-flops. He looks like a bad ear of corn. Anyway, he’s fine. He’s one of my mowers now.”

  “What’s Weasel gonna do? One of his stupid prank calls?”

  “Exactly,” said the HHR, as if the problem was not only solved but trifling to begin with. He had the air of someone disappointed that his abilities had been so lightly tested.

  “That won’t work.”

  “Do you remember that lawyer he used to impersonate? Where he’d get all worked up and start saying affidavit and deposed and mess like that? He’s still watching all those Law & Order shows. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten how good his aggrieved attorney is. It might be his best persona.”

  It was an idiot’s plan spun by an idiot. Yes, back in high school they’d spent many an afternoon drinking beer and listening to Weasel make prank calls to local businesses. To their ears, he’d sounded like the greatest character actor and voice impresario of all time.

  Penelope could see this was the best she was going to do for the time being. And now, despite it all, she was feeling nostalgic for high school, and picturing the HHR with his Cupid locks and thinking about how free and easy things had been way back when. Soon he’d ask if she wanted to come over, and she knew that it would be fun and relaxing and that the sex would be good. Time to get off the line before she agreed to something she’d later regret just because she was feeling lonely and vulnerable.

  “Okay,” she said. “See what Weasel can do.” And with that she hung up.

  She took one last glance at her young self lying on that waterbed. She did look fairly smoking hot back then. A bit untamed, granted, compared to her mother’s splendid sheen, but those were Afro times, weren’t they? Nodding to this, she stood up and tightened a few of her more important muscles. She was a bit thicker, perhaps, than the gal on the waterbed, but she was still firm where it counted, still strong in the right places. She still had it. Definitely. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t like to kill the dude who posted that photo on the Internet. Seriously, what the hell?

  She left George’s office with a jumble of emotions running through her, but desperation to get out of the basement was paramount. It was time to get going, time to find that next awesome job in Hillsboro for a woman without a college degree. Cash was what she needed, and cash was what she was going to get. She could use her phone for that and not have to worry about any more surprises on George’s debauched computer.

  She entered the bedroom and roughly swept aside the Coonskins T-shirt she’d flung on the coverlet earlier. Underneath the shirt was something she hadn’t seen before in her mad dash to rid herself of everything having to do with frontier roadhouses, another note typed on official Hillsboro Garden Club stationery. Serious business was again afoot.

  Honey,

  I was afraid I’d miss you if you worked a double tonight, but I talked to June again this afternoon and thought I’d pass on some information. The very good news is that Doozy is hardly snoring now, so the earplugs might not be an absolute necessity after all. The not-so-good news is that he has cured himself by use of something called a Neti Pot. Doozy saw an ad for it in Modern Maturity a few years back and had one sitting in his closet all this time (don’t get June started on all the doodads he buys and never uses. QVC is no longer welcome in their home). From what June says, this is some device you use in the shower to clear your nasal passages. A saline solution, I think. June says it sounds like an angry flock of geese when Doozy is going at it in the shower, but it’s worked miracles. June slept through the night for the first time in years.

  June was so excited about this development that I didn’t have the heart to ask about the shower cleanup afterward. We’ll figure something out. Thanks for being a sport.

  Xxxxoooo

  Mom

  Thirty minutes later, Penelope was still lying on her bed, trying her best not to fret about Uncle Doozy and his flock of geese in her shower.

  Or about some concerned citizen who’d called social services about a local unfit mother who enjoyed posing in the nude for amateur photographers.

  Instead, she was daydreaming about what life would be like with a sophisticated gentleman, perhaps one from Pemberley at Derbyshire, when she heard noise from the floor above her. Her mother or George was laughing. And then one of them must have leaped for the bed, because there was a harsh squeak, followed by a scuff that might indicate legs of a bed moving unwillingly across a floor. Penelope froze. For a moment there was silence. She waited for the sound of gunfire and stomping horses, hoping against hope that the Western Channel could save the day. But then there was a loud clunk, as if a high-heeled shoe had roughly been flung from foot. And then another clunk, louder and cockier and sluttier than the first. There was no doubt about it now. Shoes were being flung willy-nilly in the room above her. Penelope fought against it as hard as she could, but her mother’s elderly stockinged legs came firmly into focus. Still she held out hope. She could not be about to hear what she thought she was about to hear.

  But hear she did, her ears as alert as a deer on the HHR’s back forty during hunting season. Poor ears. Poor unfortunate ears. For now the bed was squeaking forcibly as one person above grunted softly while the other shouted orders like a captain on the bridge during a heavy storm.

  “Right. Right. Right there George. Yes George. You are doing it George. You are doing it! Steady now. Steady Georgie Porgie. Steady.”

  Whether it was catuaba or yohimbe or some special blend just for seniors, George was definitely hitting the penis bark, and hitting it hard if her mother’s vocalizations from ten feet above could be trusted. Who would have guessed she’d be so vocal, or so bossy, or so particular about tempo? In the l
ast minute, she’d moved from storm-tossed sea captain to square-dance caller:

  “Slower. Just a little slower. Yes. Yes. Like that. Now harder George. Harder. Harder and faster. Faster and harder. Yes George. Yes, yes, my curious George. Yes, yes, yes.”

  Penelope realized she currently inhabited some dystopian universe where sex-crazed fogeys gave full play to their bark-induced libido while their woebegone children were forced to listen.

  Throwing on jeans, sandals, and the first T-shirt in the drawer to hit her hand, she left the premises like a scalded dog as her mother urged George down the homestretch like the seasoned jockey she apparently was:

  “Attaboy, attaboy, attaboy George!”

  14

  She was sitting in the Target parking lot after killing an hour looking at cute clothes she couldn’t afford. She wasn’t sure where to go next. All she knew was that further exposure to the geriatric Summer of Love was out. Her car was getting hot, so she rolled down the windows and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel for a bit. She had complete freedom of movement and seven dollars to her name. She looked at her purse, sitting lumpy as a dissatisfied Buddha across from her. Including all the contents and even the purse itself, the whole bundle was worth about twenty-one bucks. Then again, if you counted the overburdened credit cards the purse contained, it was worth approximately negative six thousand dollars. She reckoned this was the brokest she’d ever been, and that was no small statement.

  A family arrived and started to enter the car next to her, all of them pausing to gawk at her a bit, as if they found it odd for someone to be hanging out in a Target parking lot on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. She smiled and gave a little wave, then started her engine back up to give the impression of places to go and people to see. As soon as the family pulled out, she turned the motor off again, feeling ridiculous but smiling at her self-consciousness. Was this the same devil-may-care woman reclined on the HHR’s waterbed? She thought not.

  Now she was thinking about that stupid photo again. What were the odds of Weasel working his lawyer persona and getting that thing removed? Could you have a less than zero chance of success?

  Not knowing what else to do, she reached for her purse, hoping she still had a piece of gum left. She didn’t. But in her scramble, which ultimately included dumping the whole purse on the car seat, a phone number came fluttering out. Oh yes, she’d forgotten, the mother reading the smutty book at baseball practice. She said to call sometime. Well, this was sometime.

  Penelope picked up the phone and dialed.

  Penelope sat at the bar at Applebee’s with Missy, mother of the individualistic second basemen. Missy was again wearing jean shorts and a rock T-shirt. In fact, she and Penelope were wearing the exact same Nirvana shirt, the one with the screwy-looking smiley face. They’d both had a laugh about that when meeting up at the hostess stand. Now she nursed a beer, painfully aware of her finances and nervous about agreeing to Missy’s proposal of a running tab. Penelope had ordered a water in addition to the beer, thinking her costly beverage might last longer if she alternated sips. She concentrated on not being hungry, but in her heart of hearts, she wouldn’t have turned up her nose at a complimentary peanut basket.

  “Oh yeah, your husband is definitely dating a teacher,” Missy said, slurping audibly at her frozen mango margarita. “All the evidence points to it.”

  Penelope nodded. She’d just laid out the Facebook case against James and hadn’t spared the details. It was as she figured.

  “Whose homeroom is Theo in, anyway?” Missy said. “That’s where I’d put my money.”

  “Ms. Dunleavy,” Penelope said, though she felt weird saying it out loud.

  “Oh, I know that little floozy. She’s one of Damien’s teachers.”

  Penelope took a sip of water before replying. She was still a little freaked out about Missy naming her son after the Devil in The Omen. Her new friend hadn’t actually said that her son’s namesake was the cloven-footed one, but surely she’d seen the movie. Why not just name him Satan or Beelzebub? It’d be the same difference.

  “Is she really a floozy?” Penelope asked. “She seemed kind of shy and withdrawn when I met her for the parent conference first of the year.”

  “Don’t let looks deceive you. I’ve seen her in here about fifty times in the last two years. She’s on the make, trust me on that. She’s definitely Suspect Number One. Those glasses of hers aren’t fooling me for a second.”

  Penelope did recall the glasses, but not much else about Ms. Dunleavy. She and James had just filed for divorce when they had to go to the teacher conference together. It was just one of those perfunctory things, where the teacher meets with about twenty parents in two hours’ time. They were told that Theo’s work was fine, though he spent too much time drawing Pokémon figures on his math homework and seemed to relish attention any way he could get it. Ms. Dunleavy hadn’t mentioned it, but Penelope now surmised that his gastric shows for an audience had started way back in September.

  Frankly, Penelope hadn’t paid much attention to Ms. Dunleavy after she said Theo’s grades were fine. She’d been too distracted by James’s cowboy boots and western-style jeans shirt. It was too hot for either, but James liked to seem down-home and capable when meeting authority figures in Hillsboro, which he considered rural and beneath him. He was a Tarheel, after all. He was talking deeper than normal, and kept saying, yes, I understand, or yes, that sounds like our boy, in a way that touched her last nerve. He seemed to be posing as a well-educated artisan, the type who’d recently decided to quit the rat race and raise free-range chickens. He often did this when talking to people who wore glasses. The end result was that she’d been so distracted by James and the eco-friendly chicken coop he was going to build that she’d paid scant attention to Ms. Dunleavy.

  “I know where she lives,” Missy said. “We should drive by to see if your husband is there.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s over there tonight. He’s got Theo this weekend.”

  Missy shrugged. “Maybe all three of them are doing something together. Watching a movie or making Sloppy Joes. You know little boys always have crushes on their teachers.”

  Penelope didn’t like the sound of that. It was too soon for Theo to witness parents on a date. Especially if the date was a teacher he liked. James’s place was already too much competition without throwing in that x factor. First the zipline, now this. Theo would want to stay over there all summer long. Making this possibility even more irritating was the thought of James using his person-with-glasses voice as he patiently explained to Theo and Ms. Dunleavy: Of course, Anna Karenina is an opus in every sense of the word.

  Oh, she was being ridiculous. Missy had no idea what she was talking about. They weren’t all watching To Sir, with Love together. That was crazy talk. Who knew if Ms. Dunleavy was even the teacher James was seeing. There were tons of teachers at that school. It could be anyone.

  Now Missy was motioning to the bartender for another round. Penelope hadn’t finished her beer yet and could hear the credit card whimpering from her purse. The villagers had raised the wooden stake and were about to plunge it through the Visa’s dark and wily heart once and for all. Well, it’d been a good run.

  As the second round was put on the bar, Penelope ventured into the neutral territory of motherhood, outlining Theo’s recent troubles on the bus with bullies without going into the specifics of the names he was being called. Missy had seen his Shakira dance on the baseball field: no need to explain more.

  “What are their names?” Missy asked. “I bet I know the little shitheads.”

  “It’s several kids apparently. But the main one is Alex, I think.”

  “Oh hell yes. Alex Greer. And I bet Ty Turner is with him too.”

  “I think the other kid’s name was Ty, now that you mention it. How’d you know that?”

  Before replying, Missy took a long, aggressive sip from her margarita and spent several seconds savoring the salty residue o
n her lips. Penelope had to admire the relish with which she enjoyed her cocktail, and wouldn’t have minded a frozen concoction herself.

  “Damn that’s good,” Missy said. “So anyway, this little Alex shithead and his assface friend, Ty. Everybody in our neighborhood knows them. Damien rides that same bus.”

  Penelope was shocked at nine-year-old boys being the subjects of such frank analysis, but was hard-pressed to defend them. They’d turned her son into a laughingstock, after all.

  “I know where they live too, both of them,” Missy said. “If you want to go by there right now and confront their parents, I’ll go with you. But before you do, you should know that their parents are shitheads and assfaces too, all four of them. One dad’s a lawyer, and the other’s on the school board. And their mothers sit around the country club pool all day drinking mimosas and making up stories about other women. Usually divorced women. So that ought to tell you something right there.”

  Penelope wasn’t sure how much of this was fact or opinion, but nodded anyway. Sometimes the apple truly didn’t fall far from the tree.

  “I’m from Hillsboro,” Penelope said. “And I’ve never even heard of these women.”

  “Well I’m not from here, and neither are they. We met through a mom’s club when we’d all just moved to town. What a crock. All the married mothers would segregate themselves from the single ones and the divorced ones. It was basically class warfare every other Tuesday at Fort Funigan.”

  Penelope laughed at this, unsure if Missy was joking or not.

  “I’m dead serious,” Missy said, though she was cracking a smile. “They were too good to eat corn dogs like the rest of us. So they’d bring this olive loaf and salami and make muffulettas. Just this one little group of married Stepford wives, Sarah Greer and Blake Turner and all them. Muffulettas! Can you believe it? Like that’s the height of classy or something. Like that’s way better than a corn dog. Oh, and get this, they wouldn’t let their kids have slushies either. Something about the artificial coloring. And God forbid one of them should sneak into the ball pit. Alex, Alex, come to Mother, come to Mother. You’re crawling in the poor kids’ germs. You’ll get tapeworm, Alex. Their mothers are divorced, Alex. You’ll get head lice. And then the hand sanitizer would just fly. Literally. Like just pouring the whole bottle on his head. It’s no wonder he’s the way he is. Seriously. He probably has some kind of sanitizer toxicity condition that hasn’t even been discovered yet, and that’s what makes him so mean. I’m just telling you, if you met Sarah Greer, all your questions about shithead DNA would be answered. Her and her olive loaf. Give me a break.”