Becoming Mona Lisa

by Holden Robinson

  “That's good news,” I said, feeling encouraged.

  “Well, not so much. Nobody at Animal Control answered the phone, but the recording was helpful. They recommended a company called Burt's Bat Removal, so I called them. Burt can come out on Saturday.”

  “That's three days away, Tom.”

  “I know. I also called Ray. He had some ideas.”

  “What about the Internet?” I said, a bit agonized over being the only idiots on the planet who didn't own a computer.

  “Checked the Internet, too,” Tom said. “I found a good site that suggested a CD called Bye Bye Birds. It's supposed to be great.”

  “Did you order it?” I asked.

  “No. Ray has one. He's dropping it off at the dealership tomorrow.”

  “Cool. Anything we can do in the meantime?” I asked.

  “Ray said noise may drive them away. He also said flood lights.”

  I groaned. I could already tell relocating the birds was going to come with a high price.

  “Wow. Thurman would love that,” I remarked.

  “I know. But if you think about it, they must be bothering him, too. If we can drive them off, he should thank us.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, through a mouthful of pizza.

  Something clanged against the old metal cabinet and we both turned. The kittens were beating the hell out of each other on the rug in front of the kitchen sink, but at least they'd left the windowsill.

  “So, what are we gonna try, Tom?”

  “We need to find out where Thurman is. Doesn't he go out on Wednesday night?”

  “How would I know?”

  “He's an Elk or Moose, or something, isn't he?” Tom asked, and I shrugged. “Hmm. Well, he goes out of here once a week dressed in uniform and he's too old to be a Boy Scout,” Tom added, and I chuckled, although I was horrified.

  I couldn't imagine Thurman leading any type of boy's organization, unless it was Future Assholes of America.

  “Is his truck there?” I asked, and Tom went to the front door to check.

  “Nope,” he said.

  “All right, so Thurman's not there. What are we going to try?”

  “Wanna try noise?” he asked.

  I hesitated for only a moment. “What kind of noise?”

  “You fire a mean rifle, Mona Oakley.”

  “Tom, I think that's a bad idea,” I said, as my intestines suddenly shifted in my abdomen.

  “Look, the first time those birds took flight was Monday night right after you fired Ida's gun.”

  “No, Tom. I'm not touching that gun again.” A lot of what happened that night was still a blur, but I remembered the feel of the rifle, and my horror when it fired. I was NOT Mona Oakley; I was Mona Lisa Siggs, a spastic klutz who had no business touching a gun.

  “Then I'll do it,” Tom offered.

  I stood at the kitchen sink staring at my husband. “I don't think you should.”

  “You got a better idea?” he asked, and I shrugged. I didn't have a better idea, but I knew his was a bad one.

  “I'm going in,” he said, sounding determined.

  “Not without me, you're not. I'll get my shoes!” I said, disappearing down the hall.

  When I returned, he was gone. “Tom?” I called, sprinting toward the front door. In my haste, I'd forgotten the kittens, and nearly collided with them. I hurdled over them like an Olympian chasing a gun-toting crazy man, and flew out the front door to the porch.

  “Tom?” I yelled, as I headed down the steps.

  No response.

  “Dear God, please don't let that idiot do anything royally stupid,” I whispered, figuring God would forgive me for insulting my husband during prayer. Surely the omnipotent was aware of my present predicament. “Tom?” I called again, and there he was, loping from the garage, brandishing the gun like something out of the Wild West.

  Something crashed in the house, and I was torn between dealing with the kittens, and my idiot husband who'd never held a rifle in his life.

  “Stay there!” I shouted at Tom before turning back toward the house. “Dear God, give me fucking strength,” I muttered, figuring with that request I was more likely to get a yeast infection. “Sorry, God,” I whispered, as I burst through the front door. “What are you doing?”

  The kittens were on the kitchen table, eating the rest of the pizza. Two chairs were toppled over, which explained the ruckus I'd heard. I was royally ticked, mainly because my husband was outside with a gun, and I was pretty sure no matter the outcome, I'd be craving carbs later.

  I grabbed the pizza box, shoved it into the refrigerator, spun around and headed back toward the front door. Tom was in the yard holding the gun. “Don't do it,” I mumbled. He looked at me through the window, and flashed a wicked grin.

  “Sonovabitch,” I whispered.

  He's gonna do it.

  And then he did.

  The gun went off and Tom disappeared. I threw the door open, and rushed onto the porch.

  “Tom?” I called, my frantic voice mixing with the sound of splintering wood. “Where are you?” I whispered.

  “I'm over here. I think I shot myself,” he said, sounding weak and far away.

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God,” I chanted. I'd only taken a step when an enormous limb fell and took out Thurman Pippin's mailbox. “Shit,” I whispered, as I lost my footing and landed on the sidewalk.

  I found Tom in the hedges, flat on his back. “You all right?” I asked, and he looked up at me.

  “I think I shot myself in the ass. I'm bleeding.”

  Now, I have to admit, I laughed. After all, who wouldn't?

  “It's not funny, Mona,” he muttered.

  “It's a little funny, Tom. How did you shoot yourself in the ass?”

  “I don't know,” he said through a moan.

  “How were you holding the gun?” I asked.

  “On my shoulder.”

  “I don't think it's possible you could have shot yourself in the ass. It would have had to ricochet off something, and I don't know a lot about bullets, but I don't think they behave like boomerangs. Just my opinion,” I said, as he glared at me from the ground.

  “Jesus, Mona. Can we debate it out later? I am bleeding!”

  “Sure,” I said. I helped him stand, and sure enough, his ass was bleeding, although not as the result of a gunshot. A large piece of glass from a Jack Daniels bottle was protruding from his left butt cheek.

  “It's glass,” I said.

  “Glass?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I have glass in my ass?” he said, and God help me, if I didn't laugh again. Tom laughed, too.

  “Yeah. It's from the Jack Daniel's bottle. Come in the house,” I said, offering my hand again.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  I helped him up the front steps and into the house. The kittens were in the kitchen sink, licking the pizza plates. We ignored them.

  “You need to get the glass out, Mona,” Tom said, and I groaned.

  “Are there major arteries in the buttocks?” I asked.

  “How would I know? Pull the damn glass out and we'll take it from there.”

  “You could bleed to death,” I said, and although it could have been an amusing conversation, it wasn't. I was genuinely freaked.

  “Just do it,” he demanded, so I did. I grabbed one of Ida's old dish towels, covered my hand, and reached for the piece of whiskey bottle sticking out of my husband's butt.

  “Here we go,” I said. I tugged and the glass pulled free with little difficulty. “It's out.”

  “I don't feel anything,” he said, dropping to his knees.

  Holy Mary Mother of God. My husband is paralyzed!

  This thought was fleeting, as Tom struggled to his feet.

  “Am I okay?” he moaned.

  “Yeah. I think it was more in your pants than in your butt,” I said, exhaling from relief.

  “There's blood, Mona. It must be coming from someplace.”

>   “Drop your pants,” I ordered, and he did. There was a small amount of blood on his pants, and only slightly more on his boxers. “It's only a scratch,” I said.

  “It is?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yup.”

  “So, I'm okay?” he asked.

  “You seem to be.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Imagine trying to explain this to somebody in the Emergency Room.”

  “I'd rather not,” I told him.

  “Hey, did you think to get Little Debbie's? I'm so freaked out right now I could use a couple.”

  “I got some, but first, we need to do something about that gun.”

  “I shoved it under the porch,” Tom said.

  “See that it stays there.” Tom didn't argue, and I grabbed the snack cakes from the cupboard, split a can of cat food between the kittens, and headed to the living room. Tom and I sat like a couple of zombies, staring at the television, and between the two of us, we killed a half-dozen Fudge Rounds in an hour. We tried our hand at some idle chit chat, but neither of us were up for it. Fighting crows was hard work.

  By nine o'clock, he was snoring like Darth Vader, and my head was bobbing. I tried to stay awake for a Criminal Minds rerun to honor Edith and give the kittens some sort of familiarity. As I was about to drift off, I heard pounding at the front door. Tom was out like a light, so I left him and stumbled in the direction of the persistent knocking. I opened the door without pushing the curtain aside, and screamed so loudly the hooded apparition on the porch reacted accordingly.

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whispered, genuflecting for the second time in as many days. Rain pounded the ground beyond the protection of the porch, and I stood face to face with the Grim Reaper.

  And I'd expected a yeast infection!

  “I think this is yours,” Death mumbled, holding out a dead crow.

  “Tom? It's for you!” I yelled. “Wait here, Death,” I said, fairly certain I was dreaming.

  “Why did you call me that?” Death asked in a familiar voice.

  “Thurman?” I said. The apparition removed its hood, revealing the face of Thurman Pippin, who'd evidently donned the black-hooded slicker to protect himself from monsoon season.

  “What the hell happened to my mailbox?” he asked. “Federal offense to mess with someone's mail. Fella'd go to prison a long time for that.” Thurman bitched up a storm that rivaled the torrential downpour, and I decided I liked him better when I thought he was Death.

  “What's up, babe?” Tom said, from behind me.

  “Thurman would like to know what happened to his mailbox,” I said, stepping aside to wait for an answer.

  “I think it was lightening,” Tom said, and I had to give him credit for thinking fast on his feet.

  “Lightening,” Thurman repeated.

  “Bad storm,” Tom said.

  “Hmm,” the Death impersonator said, seemingly weighing the explanation my husband had provided. “Where'd you want this?” Thurman asked, holding up the dead bird again.

  “Jesus!” Tom said, recoiling. “Where did that come from?”

  “Was on my front lawn. Where'd you want it?” Thurman asked.

  “Leave it on the porch. Thanks for bringing it by. Have a nice night!” Tom rambled, closing the door in Thurman's face. “This isn't over with him,” my husband declared.

  Nope. Not by a long shot.

  Eleven

  Friday

  There might be no such thing as pantyhose,

  if Eve hadn't eaten that damn apple.

  By Friday morning, I'd had it. I had redefined happiness. It wasn't a perfect house, a perfect bathroom, a perfect marriage, or a perfect life. It was simply a life without crows.

  I saw crows everywhere I looked. There were crows to the east, west, north and south. Crows on the lawn, in the trees, on the fence, and plastered across the sky.

  “I live in hell,” I growled, over soggy corn flakes.

  “I would have thought it would be warmer,” Tom said, from across the table. I couldn't find anything to stab him with so I mustered a smile.

  “Hang in there, babe,” Tom said. “Ray is sure he can find that CD somewhere.”

  “And if that doesn't work?” I whimpered.

  “Burt will be here tomorrow,” Tom reminded me.

  “I hope he brings a small army,” I said, and against my better judgment, I glanced out the window. There were birds everywhere, and the lawn looked like One Big Fat Greek Crow Wedding.

  I fed my cornflakes to the circular file, and saw Tom to the door. He sprinted to the deer car, which was absolutely covered with crow shit.

  Tom blew me a kiss from beneath the ridiculous antlers, and I waved from the porch.

  Two crows leered at me from atop the mailbox. I flipped them off, stepped into the house, and slammed the door.

  I grabbed a coffee and headed for the bathroom. The demure black dress I'd pulled from my closet hung on the back of the door. An angry wad of nylon, beautifully wrapped in a pink plastic bag, was balanced on the edge of the sink.

  “Awesome,” I said, picking up the pantyhose. I checked the tag. Sure enough, they were made in hell. “I hate these friggin' things,” I muttered, removing the hateful nylons from the bag.

  Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, I stood on my right leg, and forced my left foot into one leg of the pantyhose. That part went pretty well. I then stood on my left leg, shoved my right foot into the nylons, and that's when all hell broke loose. Something got tangled, and I felt myself begin to sway, and when one is swaying in an eight-by-eleven room, there is little leeway, and even less margin for error.

  Before I could right myself, the left cheek of my buttocks collided with the old green sink, and the entire thing crashed to the floor. The faucets hung in mid-air, held there by ancient plumbing.

  “Holy schnookies,” I muttered. I could already picture my husband's expression, but there was a silver lining. Demolition was a sizable part of our bathroom estimate. Maybe we'd save a few bucks since I'd basically gotten the job started.

  I moved the pantyhose party into the hallway, and jumped up and down five or six times. It seemed I'd fallen victim to dishonest advertising. The nylons would not have fit a five-foot-five female with a body weight in excess of one-hundred-fifty pounds. The damn things wouldn't have fit an eighty-five pound Girl Scout.

  I shuffled toward my bedroom with all the grace of a prisoner in leg irons, hoping the discomfort would keep my mind occupied. It didn't.

  “Shit,” I whispered, fighting tears as I stepped into the black dress. Before I could stop myself, I was bawling.

  I grabbed the phone from the bedside table, and punched in ten digits. My mother answered on the first ring.

  “Mom?” I said, my voice thick with emotion.

  “Mona? Is everything all right, dear?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Sweetheart, what's wrong?”

  “Everything,” I whimpered.

  “Oh, honey,” my mother soothed, and I cleared my throat.

  “Edith Purnell died. I'm going to the funeral today.”

  “That lovely lady Aunt Ida was friends with?”

  “Yes.”

  “I'm sorry, honey. She was very sweet.”

  “I know.”

  “Is everything else okay, Mona?”

  I couldn't help it. That did it. The blubbering escalated, and I sobbed with the phone pressed to my ear.

  “Sweetheart, please. You're starting to scare me. What's really going on?” my mother pried, and I took several deep breaths and prepared myself to bare my soul to the woman who had given birth to me.

  I told her everything, and I mean everything. I admitted to the hopelessness, the despair, and I told my mother I didn't have sex with my husband for five years. I figured this was a nice way of keeping her even with Doris Siggs, which could bode nicely if we all spent a holiday together. Tom and I could do a take-out run, and our mothers could stay behind and discuss the
lost years, the years when poor Mona had been frigid.

  “I wish I could go back and fix it,” I admitted to my mother.

  “You can't go back, Mona. None of us can. All we can do is take everything we've learned and do better in the future. That's how life works.”

  “I know. Remember when you used to tell me I was unique? You'd say, 'this is my daughter, Mona. She's unique.'”

  “Of course I remember that.”

  “Was that a good thing, Mom?”

  “Yes. A very good thing. I knew the minute I looked into your eyes. I knew you were one of a kind, sweetheart, and not just because you were mine.”

  “Thanks,” I whispered, as the tears came again. “I've always known I was special,” I said, without a hint of arrogance.

  “You are. You're a treasure worthy of the name I gave you. Take all that goodness and do something wonderful with it. Give something to this world, and not because you want something back, but because it's what makes you feel whole.”

  “I will.”

  “How did you leave things with Tom? Are you going to work things out?” my mother asked.

  “Yes. We're trying.”

  “You still love him, don't you?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from sobbing again. “So much. He's such a sweet man, and he's been so unhappy, too. I've missed him so much. How can you live with someone for five whole years and still be lonely?” I asked my mother.

  “Unhappiness causes us to isolate ourselves. Isolation is lonely.”

  “I know.” I glanced at the clock. “Mom, I have to go. I'm sorry. Thanks for listening, and for always knowing what I need to hear.”

  “You're welcome. I love you, my Mona Lisa.”

  “I know, Mom. I love you, too.”

  “Take care of yourself, dear. Give yourself permission to be happy, to matter. Tell Tom how you feel. Let him share your life.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you, Mommy. Please tell Daddy I love him, and we hope to see you guys in a few months.”

  “We'd love to have you, sweetheart,” my mother said before disconnecting.

  I hopped into a mental time machine, and sat thinking of my childhood. Those were some damn fine years - a good start to what I'd expected would be a nice life. Somehow, somewhere, I'd veered off the path. It was time to fix that.