I offered no support. It wasn't that I couldn't, or didn't want to. I'd been rendered incapable. I just sat there sobbing, and rocking Robbie back and forth.
I'd always thought my Tom had a pretty normal childhood. Marcus Siggs had been president of a local bank. He'd supported an upper, middle-class home. Doris Siggs stayed home, baked cookies, went to PTA meetings, chaperoned field trips, and helped out with the Drama Club. She was the closest thing to real maternal perfection I'd ever seen.
I swiped away any lingering tears, and sighed. “Can we go inside and talk?”
“I'm gonna go in my room and call Jason first,” Robbie said, as we walked. “Don't say anything, Tom. Just let me be for a while.”
I sat at the kitchen table for thirty minutes thinking about the dynamics of family.
I'd grown up, without pretension, in a little salt box house with few luxuries and no secrets. The Harrisons were an open book, and I was reminded not to judge one by its cover. I knew things were rarely, or never, what they seemed. The Siggs had lived inside a stately colonial, covered by white brick – regal stone that separated the outside world from the lies within.
I heard a low murmur down the hall. Robbie was holed up in his room, talking to his lover, someone who accepted him for exactly who he was. Tom had gone for a walk, in the opposite direction of the mannequins. Although they may not have been what we expected, they were working. I didn't see a crow anywhere.
Eventually I heard my husband's footsteps on the porch. I gave him a few minutes, then went to join him. We sat across from each other at the table. I looked at him; he looked away.
“I should have protected him,” Tom whispered, and I felt a sob in my throat.
“It's okay,” I said, reaching for his hand. He pulled away, and I inhaled sharply.
“Mona, look at me,” he asked, and I did. “You used to seem repulsed by me. Was there something in you who saw the monster in me?” I started to answer, but Tom went on before I could. “I should have helped him. He was just a confused kid.”
“You're not a monster,” Robbie said from the doorway. “Neither am I.”
Tom was crying, something he rarely did.
“We're just different, Tommy. You love Mona. I'm different because I love Jason, but I'm also the same, because I love you, and Mom, and I loved Dad, too.”
“When did Dad find out?” my husband asked, as Robbie took the seat between me and Tom.
“Senior year. Mom was at PTA, or something, and you were at college. Dad came home unexpectedly, and I had a friend at the house. Let's just say we weren't knitting when Dad interrupted us.”
“Holy shit,” I whispered. Tom groaned, but said nothing.
“That big check he gave me after graduation wasn't for college. It was so I'd leave.”
“I'm sorry, Rob,” Tom said softly, and I could hear the pain in his voice.
“I talked to him once while he was sick. He was so bad by then he didn't seem to know who I was. I think, in his mind, he only had one son. I decided that day to stay away for good.”
“He was so sick, Robbie. He may not have known what he was saying,” Tom said.
“I heard him loud and clear,” Robbie said through a whimper. “I stayed away as long as I could, but it's not fair to Mom, or to you. I still need you and Mom. I don't care if you accept this, but don't shut me out. Not like he did.”
Tom was unable to speak. “We accept you, and you're always welcome here,” I told Robbie. “Now, look. Sometimes things have to get really screwed up before they can get better, and that business in the field – that is pretty screwed up.” Tom laughed, and eventually, Robbie did, too. “I know you were mad when you saw it, Tom, but look at us now. We're talking about this, and it's important. It's important to Robbie, and me, and I know it's important to you, too,” I said, looking at my husband. This time when I reached for his hand, he didn't pull away.
“And, one more thing,” I said, and something in my tone made my husband flinch. “Tom, if you ever say anything like that to Robbie again, I will kill you in your sleep, bury you in that field, and mark your grave with one of those mannequins. You get that?”
“Got it,” Tom said, without a hint of humor in his voice. “You still wanna go to Mom's?” he asked his brother.
“Might as well,” Robbie mumbled. “I need to see if she still has any flannel shirts of Dad's.”
“What for? I don't see you in flannel, sis,” Tom said, and I tensed for a moment, until I realized my Tom was joking. There began the acceptance, the understanding, served up with a side of comedy, in true Sigg's style.
“You want those things to stay dressed like that?” Robbie asked, and Tom laughed and shook his head. “Then we need flannel.”
“Where in the world did you get all that crap they're wearing?” Tom asked.
“From my suitcase,” Robbie quipped, and I giggled. “Okay, from the thrift store. Some of it's really nice. Anything I don't want can be donated to your theater group. Unless you want it, bro.”
“Don't push it,” Tom growled, although he was smiling.
“Okay, I'm going to shower quick and change. I sweat my ass off making those things and lugging them out there,” Robbie said, and Tom looked momentarily worried. “Don't worry. I'll wear man clothes.” Robbie clapped his brother on his back, and disappeared into the house.
Tom looked at me. “I was proud of my dad,” he said, and I squeezed his hand. “Now I'm ashamed.”
“He was probably ashamed of himself,” I said, and my husband sighed. “You have the chance to fix this, Tom.”
“I know. I let Robbie down once. I'm not going to do it again,” Tom promised.
“I believe you.”
“Come here,” Tom said, pushing his chair back. I stood and my husband pulled me onto his lap. “I don't want this to come between us,” he whispered into my hair. “I want this to bring us closer. I want to use this to become a better person, a better person like you.”
“Oh, Tom.”
He kissed me softly, and wrapped his arms around me. “I learned something tonight,” he said, and I could hear his heart pounding. “You are going to be a great mom.”
Nineteen
It's all fun and games until someone loses a head.
By seven o'clock, the outside world had turned a dusky gray and I was home alone.
Tom and Robbie had gone to eliminate any hope Doris Siggs had of ever having a normal daughter-in-law, and I was left to sort out the jumbled mess in my head.
I sat for quite a while, staring out the window, until Daisy jumped on the table.
“What?” I said.
“Meeeoooow,” Daisy responded, in what I recognized as the “feed me,” call.
“Gotcha,” I said.
I opened a can of cat food, and my stomach growled. “Wow,” I whispered. If cat food smelled good, I was on the cusp of starvation.
I'd fully accepted my lack of culinary expertise, and was happy with a nice, nutritious bowl of microwave Mac & Cheese. I was hoisting a cheesy glob to my mouth when I heard the first pop.
“What in the world,” I whispered.
Pop!
A few seconds passed.
Pop!
I couldn't identify the sound. It wasn't like anything I'd ever heard before, and I ran through some possibilities in my head.
Crow shit hitting the sidewalk? No.
Thunder? Nope.
Fireworks? Now, this was a remote possibility.
Perhaps they were throwing a party over at the Super Store to celebrate the free publicity they'd gotten earlier in the day.
POP!
“What the hell?” I said out loud. The sound was getting louder and attracting the attention of two interested felines who had left the feeding trough in favor of the windowsill.
I faced a conundrum. I could turn on the television or radio and drown out the sound. I could call Tom, which I knew was a bad idea. I could grab a flashlight and investigate on my own.
I found this idea to be best, yet least desirable. I gobbled up half the Mac & Cheese, set the rest on the floor for the kittens, and extracted a heavy-duty flashlight from the pile of junk under the kitchen sink.
“Sonovabitch,” I grumbled. I didn't want to investigate. I'd already played psychologist to two royally screwed-up brothers, and while I loved them both, I was drained. What I desperately needed was a hot bath, and a good hour of zoning in front of the television.
I pulled on a sweatshirt, and hit the switch by the back door. “Dammit,” I whispered, when the world remained dark. I left the house, armed with nothing more than a flashlight and a bad case of the heebie jeebies. It was one of those nights where you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. The sky seemed to be plastered with peanut butter, and no stars winked through the fattening coverlet.
I scanned the backyard with the flashlight. Nothing was out of place. I gazed at the sky, and saw no fireworks piercing the darkness. Damn! I was no closer to solving this mystery than I'd been two minutes ago, and it was cutting into prime time TV.
I was just about to go back inside when I heard another one.
POP!
This time I almost peed myself. This one was close, and it sounded like it had hit something. I had no idea what I was hearing, and tried to piece it together in my head. The pop, was really more like a pffunnk sound, and this particular pop was followed by a distinctive splat. As much as I hated to, I moved toward the field, knowing if I swept over it with the flashlight and saw mannequins moving around, I was gonna drop dead on the spot.
GONG!
The sound reverberated through the night, and I swear the house shook. This one had hit the dumpster.
I was scared shitless. If this thing could hit something, it could hit me, and I wasn't sure what might happen to me if I got hit. Would I die? I didn't want to die. I wanted to live.
There was some good stuff on television later.
Against my better judgment, I scanned the field. The drag queen party was in full swing, but at least nobody was moving. They were frozen in time, dressed in their finest. I panned across the field one last time, and - POP!!! - Marilyn Monroe's head exploded.
That was enough for me! I ran like hell toward the back door, and had gained so much momentum by the time I reached the kitchen, I had to use the door frame to stop myself. My shoulder painfully engaged the mottled woodwork, and I spewed forth a string of expletives that would have landed me a job as a late-night comic. I'd forgotten to use the substitute word, but figured this was a special occasion. Marilyn had been murdered, and I'd damn near broken my clavicle.
I pulled the phone from the wall, and willed my hands to stop shaking. Once I'd regained sufficient control, I pounded out 911.
“911, what's your emergency?” a pleasant female voice asked.
“SOMEONE IS SHOOTING MY MANNEQUINS!!” I roared.
“I'm sorry, ma'am, did you say mannequins?” the woman asked.
“Yes. My husband's brother made scarecrows out of mannequins, and someone just shot one. Okay, scrap that, can we just say someone is firing a gun outside my house?”
“Ma'am, I'm sorry, did you say mannequins?” the operator repeated, and I found myself getting pissed.
“This is not about the mannequins! SOMEONE IS SHOOTING A GUN AT ME!”
“Stay on the line, ma'am, I'm sending help.”
“Don't you need to know where I live?” I asked, as I tried to shoo the kittens away from their post on the windowsill.
“I have you at 1400 Pleasant Hill Road, Oxford Valley, is that right?” she asked.
“Yes!” I barked, although my present predicament could hardly be categorized as pleasant.
“And this is where you're hearing the gun shots?” she asked, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Now we were making progress! Three consecutive sentences had NOT included the word mannequins.
“Yes,” I said.
“What's the closest intersection?” she asked, and I couldn't quite think.
“Hell,” I said, not realizing I'd spoken out loud.
“Ma'am?”
“I'm sorry. I'm really confused. I was out there, and it was dark, and whoever is shooting blew the head right off Marilyn Monroe,” I rattled.
“Who?”
“Never mind.”
“Ma'am, have you taken anything tonight? A controlled substance or other narcotic?” the woman asked. “Do you need an EMT?”
“You know, that's funny,” I blurted. “It just so happens, this is the one time I do NOT need an EMT, unless, of course, I get SHOT before you can get someone here!”
POP!
“Oh, my God, whoever it is, they're still shooting out there!”
“All right, ma'am, please stay on the line. I've dispatched a patrol car to your location.”
Five minutes later, I had taken refuge in the corner and was clutching the phone as if it were a life preserver. I had killed the lights and the kitchen was black as ink. I didn't need to be on display with some gun-wielding psycho outside my house.
“I hear sirens,” I announced, a mere second after I did.
“All right, ma'am. I've confirmed with the deputy that he's on the scene. Good luck!” the 911 operator said, before disconnecting.
I heard pounding at the front door, and made my way there by flashlight. I opened the curtain and looked into the face of Deputy Ed Mulpepper. Although I'd have preferred to invite a stranger into the evening's mayhem, I found comfort in the sight of a familiar face.
I threw the door open, and myself at the deputy.
“Easy ma'am,” Ed said, releasing me from the embrace.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“I didn't expect I'd be seeing you anytime soon,” Ed said.
He didn't know me that well.
“What's happening out here tonight?” Ed asked, but before I could answer, we heard another enormous POP, followed by a crash on the porch.
“Holy shit, they're shooting at the house!” I yelled, dropping to all fours.
“I'm calling for backup,” Deputy Ed advised. I heard the crackling of Ed's doohickey, the thing he used to summon some much-needed backup. I wasn't sure if it was a radio, or phone, but I didn't care if it was a soup can, as long as it drew the troops.
Ed returned to the porch, and I stayed where I was. I began praying, not only for Ed, but also for my friend, Beth. If the one kid who flew right, at least as far as I knew, got killed, how would the poor woman ever recover?
“This is the police!” Ed yelled. “Drop your weapon!”
“I'm performing a public service,” a voice responded, and I sat upright.
Thurman?
I crept up the door like a mime and peeked out the window. “Dear God,” I whispered.
Thurman Pippin stood in the middle of the road, holding some kind of weapon.
“Sir, drop your weapon!” Ed demanded.
Thurman did as asked, as two additional police cars arrived. I flew to the kitchen and grabbed my phone from the counter. The lights from the police cars danced across the field, illuminating the drag queen extravaganza. It looked like a hell of a party, with a macabre touch.
One guest was missing her head.
I sent a quick text to my husband, shoved the phone into my pocket, and sprinted back to the front door. Thurman Pippin stood in the road, surrounded by law enforcement.
Relatively certain I would not be shot, I left the safety of the house and headed toward them.
“These people are a menace to society!” Thurman shouted. “Look at that field! There's a Home Owner's Association that prohibits the use of mannequins.”
“Mr. Pippin, there are six houses on this entire road. There is no Home Owner's Association,” I retorted.
“I'm startin' one. Look at that insanity! It's enough to drive an old man crazy.”
“My brother-in-law did that as a joke,” I explained to Ed, who was the only one paying any attention to me. The other officers were all pl
aying with their doohickeys. “You could have killed me, Thurman!” I told him, and he snorted.
“Was only potatoes,” he said, and I just looked at him.
“It was what?” I asked.
“It's a potato gun,” Deputy Ed explained.
“What the hell is a potato gun?” I inquired.
“A potato gun shoots potatoes, and is normally used to deter pests,” Ed Mulpepper explained.
“That's what I was doin',” Thurman whined. “Deterring pests.”
Ed wore an expression that meant business, and turned to Thurman. “Mr. Pippin, you cannot be shooting at the Siggs, for any reason, with any type of weapon,” Deputy Ed said. “No matter how much they may annoy you, and I'm suspecting your annoyance level is pretty high, you cannot take the law into your own hands. If you have a legitimate complaint, you need to call the station and ask an officer to take a report.”
“You might want to beef up your staff,” I mumbled.
“They killed an old lady,” Thurman blurted, and I rolled my eyes.
About this time, Tom arrived. He parked amidst the cop cars, and walked toward us. Robbie stood in the driveway, admiring the men in uniform.
“What the hell happened?” Tom asked, looking at me and avoiding Thurman's angry glare.
“He killed her,” Thurman said, pointing at my husband.
Tom had been through this before, and didn't need to ask who her was. “Thurman, I've told you a hundred times, I did not kill Ida. She was dead when we arrived. She was almost a hundred years old for chrissakes. She died of natural causes.”
“And, when was this?” Ed asked.
“Ten years ago,” I explained.
“Ah, then this thing's been brewin' for a while, eh?” Ed asked, and I nodded.
“It needs to stop,” Tom said.
“All righty, then,” Ed said, in true county-sheriff style. “What did you want to do, Mrs. Siggs? You can file a complaint, and we can take him to the station.”
“That will not be necessary,” I said, and Thurman's mouth twitched. I swear to God, I thought he was going to smile. “He's an old man, and I can't imagine him spending the night in jail. The...., uh...., drag queens will be disassembled tomorrow, and we will do our best to reside here peacefully. You think we can do that, Mr. Pippin?”
Becoming Mona Lisa Page 15