by Inman Majors
“I know the move stunk, Theo. I’m asking what SMH means.”
Theo smiled at her and shook his head in an irritating fashion. Smack talk was the norm in their games, but lately Penelope was starting to regret teaching him some of the jive talking moves she’d learned while playing Tetris against her friends at Starlight Arcade back in the day. He was getting better at the Wii games she used to dominate him in and turning into a real smart-ass in the bargain. She’d been spending too much time on stupid online dating sites and not enough time staying keen on the Wii. This was a wake-up call, though. No way she was passing her gaming crown to Theo without a fight.
“Just tell me. I see it online sometimes and have no idea.”
Theo continued to shake his head and smile.
“Smeh?” Penelope asked. “Like bleh? Like if you saw something that was bland or boring, you would say, this movie is just smeh?”
Theo collapsed into his beanbag chair laughing. “That makes me want to LOL.”
“Theo, what does SMH mean?”
“I am shaking my head that you don’t know what SMH means.”
“Shaking my head? Wow. Seriously? That might be the dumbest one yet.”
Theo sat back up, still smiling. He reset the game and looked at Penelope for confirmation that she was up for a rematch.
“Wait, Theo, are you texting or something? How do you know all this stuff?
Theo looked sheepish for a moment, then pretended to be engrossed in the pregame selection of characters and vehicles, as if he’d ever be anything but Toad in the Tiny Titan.
“Answer me.”
“Dad got me an iPod touch this weekend.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Just so we could Facetime when I’m over here. Plus I can Facetime with you when I’m at Dad’s. It will be really practical.”
Penelope got up from the beanbag and went to the kitchen for a drink of water, trying to collect her thoughts. On one hand, there were the countless sermons she’d had to endure from James about how technology was ruining childhood in general, and Theo in particular. These oratories usually happened during some epic mother/son Wii game. Usually there was some historical documentary on at the same time that James thought would be good for Theo. When Penelope reminded him—as she galloped around the den swatting imaginary tennis balls—that most people considered television to be technology, he went into a long monologue about not all television being equal. In short, The Bachelorette was television, the History Channel food for the mind.
So this was playing in her mind as she downed the water and poured a glass of milk for Theo. She also wondered how much an iPod touch cost and how James was so flush. Sandy and Rachel’s insistence that James was squirreling money away before the divorce, likely well before it, was gaining credibility with her as she considered his new house, new window treatments, and new garden gnome.
She came back to the den, trying to keep herself from boiling over. She couldn’t afford to take Theo out for Go-Karts or mini-golf or the cheesiest pizza in the history of cheese pizza. Okay, whatever. She had a job now. No need to get in a sour mood and spoil the good time she and Theo were having.
“I got you some milk, honey,” Penelope said.
Theo took the glass and gulped down about half of it, chugging heartily and noisily. Then he looked at Penelope and said: “I mustache you a question.” Smiling at this, he wiped the milky residue from above his lip with his arm and added: “but I’ll shave it for later.”
Penelope smiled and then laughed and then laughed hard. She dove at Theo on his beanbag and began to tickle. He squirmed, laughing himself, and gasping for breath, and bragging about how funny his joke was and how he couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard it because the kids at school did it every day.
She really had missed the little dude.
When they calmed down, Theo said: “You’re not mad about the iPod touch, are you?”
“No, I’m not mad.”
“Good. It’s got all these games we can play. It’s got a camera. It can do a million things. It really is sick. Let me show you.”
The use of sick reminded her of the horny Christians from the night before, unfortunately. It had been nearly an hour since she’d obsessed about the naked photo of her making the rounds on the Internet or the likelihood of Theo somehow coming across it.
“Hey,” Penelope hollered to Theo, who was back in his room retrieving his new gizmo. “Does your iPod touch have Internet access?”
“As long as you have wifi. Grandmom and George do. And so does Dad, so yeah, it’s got Internet. I can look up anything you need. I can find all sorts of stuff. It’s sick, I’m telling you.”
He came dashing back into the den and took a flying leap onto the beanbag, his fingers never ceasing to punch at the device even as he ran and jumped. It had been a while since Penelope had seen him this excited. She was less so. She didn’t know how to childproof a device, but she’d have to learn. And one way or another, she had to make that photo disappear. If Theo were to come across it, his head would explode like something in Gorzomo’s dream.
He was now shoving the iPod in her face, blathering about games, apps, and all the assorted doohickeys that came with it in a way that would have been music to the ears of BrettCorinthians2:2.
“See, and look at all the pictures I took. I’ve got an Instagram account and everything. Pretty good, aren’t they?”
“Instagram? You’re like a teenager, Theo.”
Penelope was imagining a pubescent Theo as she thumbed through the photos on his iPod with his milk breath hovering next to her. He’d scooted close in his excitement and now they were sharing one beanbag. The photos were all at James’s house, mostly of Pokémon figures and her ex-husband smiling to beat the band. As Penelope ran through the seven hundred or so shots of Pikachu, she found her interest waning. Then from nowhere came a new subject of Theo’s photographic eye.
“Theo, did your dad get a dog?”
“No, it belongs to some friend of his.”
“Which friend?”
“I don’t know. The puppy was at Dad’s when I got there Friday. Dad dropped me off early at the baseball game for warm-ups, then took the puppy back to the owner on Saturday. Raisin’s a really sweet dog. I thought I might get to see her again and that’s why I wanted to stay an extra night at Dad’s. She is so cute, Mom. You’d love her.”
Penelope looked closer at the canine in question. Yes, yes, yes. It had to be the running pup as recently featured on James’s Facebook page. Ms. Dunleavy’s puppy, if James’s Facebook clues pointed where she thought they did. She couldn’t be absolutely sure though. Both photos showed a black puppy, but the one on Theo’s Instagram had a prominent all-white ear. The running Facebook pup was in profile and only one ear was showing, and that ear was black.
“Isn’t she cute, Mom?”
Penelope nodded, then forced a smile. She continued through Theo’s photos, getting more steamed by the second. So James was buying their son expensive presents even when it wasn’t Christmas or his birthday and now he had access to a puppy as well. His place sure sounded like a lot of fun.
“Theo, you’re not unhappy living with George and Maw-Maw, are you?”
“No. It’s fine.”
“You know we’re going to have our own place soon. And you’ll have your own room that you can decorate however you want. I know it’s weird sleeping in a guest room without all your stuff.”
“It’s fine, Mom. I don’t mind.”
She handed the iPod touch back to Theo and grabbed him in a bear hug.
“Honey,” she said, “I hate to bring up a sore subject, but this has been on my mind all weekend. What do you think will happen tomorrow morning on the bus?”
Theo, who’d not resisted her hug, now squirmed to get free. She loosened her grip but wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Are you still ripping them to make people
laugh?”
“No. I haven’t done that in a long time.”
“But those kids still mess with you?
“They mess with my hair sometimes. Maybe flick my nose.”
Penelope felt her heart racing. She didn’t want to overreact, but people were putting their hands on her boy.
“Honey, we’re going to see those kids around town all summer. And you’ll be on the bus with them again next year. We need to take care of this or it’s going to keep hanging over your head. Do you agree with that?”
Theo shrugged, then wiggled free from her embrace. For a moment, she considered telling him about the meeting with Ms. Dunleavy, then thought better of it. She hated to add tattletale to the list of insults he could worry about in the future.
“Why don’t you let me show you some moves?” Penelope said. “Then tomorrow when a kid says something, you can just take care of it yourself. Just the basics. Headlock, arm bar, Nelson. I used to wrestle all the time when I was a kid.”
She realized she was smiling a little. The Coonskins episode would be a good story one of these days—maybe even this week—for Rachel and Sandy. She wasn’t even that mad anymore, about the softball woman or about getting fired. It was surely for the best. And now she was in the proper spirit to show Theo how to handle a bully.
“Come on, Theo.”
“I’m not wrestling with my mom.”
“We used to all the time when you were little. You can learn a few moves and take care of those jerks on the bus. Who’s the main one again?”
“Alex.”
“Okay, just defend yourself one time. You stand up to the leader, and the rest will leave you alone. I guarantee it.”
“I’m not fighting Alex.”
“Is he a lot bigger than you or something?”
“No. But I’m still not going to wrestle him.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll get in trouble.”
“No you won’t. I’ll back you up. And if you get in trouble, so what? They’re not going to kick you out of school for defending yourself.”
Theo shook his head.
“Okay,” said Penelope. “If he just called you names and then you popped him, I could see you maybe getting in trouble. But if they muss up your hair or flick your nose or give you an Indian burn or anything else where they put their hands on you, then you can physically defend yourself, right?”
“How did you know about the Indian burns?”
“That’s a classic bully move. One of my cousins from Manassas used to give them to me all the time. They hurt. So does getting your nose flicked. Wet Willies don’t, but they’re gross and irritating. You get Wet Willies too?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, that’s it. You’re learning some stuff.”
Theo again shook his head, but there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes. Deciding there was no time like the present, Penelope yanked the beanbag he was sitting on out from under him. She kicked it and the other one out of the way, then scooted the coffee table to the other side of the couch. The floor was clear.
Theo looked up and said: “Don’t.”
But Penelope had already pounced.
22
On Monday morning Penelope dropped Theo at the bus stop with reminders about leverage, reversals, and headlocks. When she shouted Tower of power, too sweet to be sour out the car window, the other kids looked strangely at Theo, as if they now understood that the Weird Turd didn’t fall far from the weird turd tree. She didn’t care. Theo had enjoyed their bout the night before and shown marked improvement, especially when she’d riled him up by threatening a Wet Willie. She wouldn’t have, of course—Theo knew that—but he fought hard at the thought of a sticky finger in his ear. She told him that if he wrestled just like that he’d be fine.
Oh, it was just stupid boy stuff, as James called it—just minor, routine daily humiliation.
Now she was all fired up. She concentrated on ignoring the oil light on the dashboard, which taunted her in its yellow gaudiness. Asshole light. Now she was ignoring the oil light. It was time to calm down and imagine, in the most positive way possible, what her job would be like. Missy had given no idea about the dress code, and she’d chosen a nice skirt, blouse, and heels, thinking it better to be overdressed than too casual. She could always change outfits on the second day to better mesh with office ambience and style.
En route to the manufactured-home park, she passed Southside Speedway, where she and the HHR had spent more than a few Saturday nights watching the locals race and occasionally smash into each other in demolition derbies. Try as she might, she couldn’t envision herself attending such an event in her current incarnation. The gal in the waterbed beneath the thrashing largemouth bass? Yes, she could imagine her there, but she was game for just about anything.
Obviously.
Penelope drove on, trying to reconcile the good student and college girl she had been with the co-owner of Jack and Jill Lawn Service, which she had also been. Maybe that was just life in a small town, a little of this and a little of that, but always some part of you Hillsborian, some part familiar with fishing and drag racing and country boy field parties no matter what college you attended or what profession you entered. She drove on absentmindedly, wondering where the years went and what essence remained and what was discarded as the complexities of life were navigated.
Pulling into Rolling Acres Estates, she was pleasantly surprised by how nice and neat everything was. It looked more like a neighborhood than she’d expected, or perhaps a retirement community. The homes were arranged like spokes off the wheel that was the office, each little road having four to six lots on it before ending in a cul-de-sac. The yards were small but well kept, and here and there an elderly lady was out front tending to a bird feeder or flowerbed. It was the kind of place Penelope envisioned in Florida.
She pulled up to the office, which was itself a mobile home. The lot was otherwise empty, and a CLOSED sign hung on the door. It was quarter to nine. She was early, she guessed. Missy hadn’t told her what time work started. Deciding to get out and stretch her legs a bit, in case she’d be sitting most of the day, she popped out of the car, excited by a job that didn’t involve Cobb salads.
She was thinking about her image of trailer parks versus the quaint little community before her and about how often life challenged preconceptions. You had to be careful about forming opinions built on stereotypes. She walked around the side of the office in a philosophical frame of mind, thinking that life would surprise you time and time again, and also that her heels were hurting her feet.
She was standing next to a vending machine, wishing it had Dr Pepper instead of Nehi Orange, which she’d never seen anyone over the age of six drink, when she noticed an unusual dwelling.
It sat atop the lone sharp rise within Rolling Acres and looked to have nothing in common with its neighbors other than its hypothetical mobility. It seemed to have grown out of the soil like a rusty weed decades before. If a dwelling could look like a troll, then this one did as it loomed over the tidy neighbors below. The only access was a gullied road of cracked red clay guarded on either side by grubby flags. One was the stars and bars of the Confederacy. The other showed a curled snake. Penelope couldn’t read the words but knew what they said from history class: Don’t Tread on Me. The flags had been fastened to green metal poles meant to hold bird feeders. The effect of this was that the banners were just barely airborne, and it would be a rare day when they could whip proudly in the breeze.
At the foot of the drive was a sign scrawled in Magic Marker that said To Heck with the Dog, Beware of the Owner.
She was wondering if she’d ever before come across crackery of this caliber and depth when Missy whipped into the driveway at interstate cruising speed, tires barking before the stop.
“That’s Dewitt’s place,” she said, popping out of the car like a jack-in-the-box and pointing up the hill. “Or Dimwit if you prefer. And I think you will. Now come on in
and let me show you the original Taj Mahal.”
Penelope was glad she’d erred on the side of caution and worn business attire as Missy was dressed in similar fashion. Entering the neat little modular building, she felt the first signs of a blister developing on her big toe and cursed the inventor of high heels, a man obviously. She’d have to look for another pair of work shoes when she got home.
Once inside, Missy swung out her arm and said, “Behold, the nerve center of Rolling Acres Estates.”
Penelope surveyed her new workplace: a small lobby area with a desk toward the back. Several leather chairs situated in waiting room fashion in front of a coffee table laden with magazines. An Ansel Adams print. A couple black-and-white photos of Hillsboro back in the 40s, and a high school football schedule. A bathroom was located just beyond the desk, and then another door that led, she assumed, to Missy’s office.
“This is the Log Cabin model,” said Missy, “which is the smallest trailer—excuse me, manufactured home—that we have. We also offer the Rancher and, swear to God, the Cape Cod model. That’s for the fancy-pants, as you can guess.”
She plopped down in one of the chairs.
“God, I think I’m still hung over from Saturday night. It took me forever to get rid of Gary. He was crying again. You’d think a cop would have a little pride, but he bawled like a baby lamb. Again. And then Damien’s father, that asshole, dropped Damien back home at nine Sunday morning even though he was supposed to have him the whole day. Thank God Gary ran those hot little Scientologists out of there or Damien might have busted in on Mommy teaching Braxton a naughty lesson or two.”
Missy cackled her strange, choking bird laugh at the thought.
“Oh, by the way,” she continued, “did you know Theo hit the ball last game? I meant to mention it, but by the time you saw me I was knee-deep in margaritas. It was pretty cool though. He was smiling like crazy and everybody made a big deal about it, especially the coach. By the way, have we talked about how hot the coach is? All I can say is I’m definitely volunteering for team mother next year. Oh, and get this. I think I saw your ex-husband at the game. I didn’t connect the dots until yesterday, but after we hung out, I think I put two and two together. Is he a tall, lanky dude with good hair? Kind of walks around with a constipated look on his face like he’s about to solve the riddles of the universe? Frankly, if it’s the guy I saw, it’s hard to imagine him getting BJs in the school parking lot. But if he’s with Ms. Dunleavy, that’s what it is. I’d bet Dimwit’s trailer on it.”