How Hard Can It Be

by Robyn Peterman

  The “bastard” box was filled with unopened letters from the Internal Revenue Service and the state of Minnesota Treasury Department. There must have been forty or so sealed envelopes there, dating back almost twenty years. WTF? That was odd, but even more strange, they were addressed to Walter Garski. Who in the hell was Walter Garski? Did Poppy Harriet file with her husband? Wait, she’d said she was never married. Had she lied? Maybe he was an abusive son of a bitch and she pretended he didn’t exist . . . maybe he was a serial fornicator like my Uncle Fucker and she refused to acknowledge their union . . . maybe she’d filed illegally with a friend named Walter. Why in the hell would she do that? Had to be a husband.

  “Guys, what’s Poppy Harriet’s legal name?” I asked, searching her desk for more clues.

  “Garski,” Shoshanna said, while shushing me with her hands. “Jerry’s about to reveal the baby daddy.”

  “I think it’s Carlos,” Joanne whispered, eyes glued to the television.

  “No,” LeHump insisted, “it’s Sean. He has a lot of tattoos.” The silence, while Jerry took his time opening the paternity test, was killing the ladies. “Open the fucking thing,” Shoshanna hissed at the TV. “No goddamn way,” she shouted, “I didn’t think Billy Bob was even in the running.”

  “I feel taken advantage of,” Joanne huffed.

  Oh my God. They’re crazy, but at least my suspicions were confirmed. Poppy Harriet had been married. I was a little stymied as to why she didn’t want to tell me, but we’d cross that bridge over coffee. Maybe he was dead. I felt uncomfortable opening a strange, possibly deceased man’s mail, but if I was going to help, I needed to see what the hell the IRS wanted. Opening someone else’s mail was a federal offense. Hopefully my crime spree would be limited to only this.

  Envelope after envelope contained checks. Refund checks made out to Walter Garski. And there were letters, inquiring why the checks had not been cashed. I wondered if there was a statute of limitations on the checks. There had to be close to a hundred thousand dollars in undeposited checks there. If Poppy Harriet wanted to live a far more comfortable life, she would have to acknowledge her marriage to Walter Garski. And if he was dead, I’d need a death certificate and a marriage license. This might turn out to be a no-brainer.

  “Poppy Harriet could have saved herself a lot of stress if she had opened these.” I held the wad of envelopes up to the couch potatoes.

  “She never opened anything?” LeHump sounded surprised.

  “Nope, she just assumed the IRS was after her.” I grinned, happy to have figured this out so quickly. “Can you guys tell me anything about her husband?”

  “Her husband?” Joanne choked out, looking as if I’d asked to skin her alive. Clearly this Walter Garski was a very bad man. No wonder Poppy Harriet wanted to pretend she’d never married. “Um . . . well, she ahh . . .” Joanne yanked violently at the newly grown fuzz of her eyebrows.

  “Hey, it’s okay,” I said, letting her know I suspected the worst of Poppy Harriet’s ex or current husband. “I’m assuming this Garski guy was or is a class A fucker. Poppy Harriet pretends she’s never been married. I get it. I just have to get her to admit to their union so we can cash these checks. There’s around a hundred thousand dollars here. Is he alive?”

  “Um, yes.” Shoshanna’s eyes were wide.

  God, is he as awful as Evangeline?

  “LeHump”—Joanne bounced with excitement—“that sounds like enough for the operation.”

  “Not now,” Shoshanna told her.

  “Oh my God,” I gasped, “does Poppy Harriet need an operation?”

  “Not exactly,” Shoshanna muttered vaguely.

  Jesus Christ in high heels, what in the hell was going on here? Were they hiding Poppy Harriet’s illness from me because they thought I couldn’t handle it? My hurt and worry dissolved into anger. The ladies needed to cough up the info, or I was out of here.

  “Then who needs an operation?”

  “Walter Garski does.” LeHump refused to meet my eyes.

  “Her husband?” I asked, determined to get an answer.

  “He’s not her husband,” Joanne whispered, trying to find more eyebrow fuzz to pull out.

  “Then who in the fuck is Walter Garski?” I shouted.

  The crash in the kitchen was loud, but the shrieks were louder. A freaked-out Poppy Harriet trailed by a wild-eyed Nancy came barreling into the room.

  “What have you done?” Poppy Harriet sobbed, pacing the room like a caged animal.

  “We haven’t done anything,” Shoshanna snapped. “Now sit your ass down. This IRS crap ends today.”

  “And so does my life,” Poppy Harriet wailed.

  “You’re fine,” Joanne shouted so she could be heard over the ear splitting blubbering. “We trust her. You trust her. She’s going to save us from the Viper Bitch Whore from Hell.”

  I was fairly sure she was referring to me and of course Evangeline. It was nice to know they trusted me. But what secret could be so awful that Poppy Harriet found it necessary to moan and rock as if the world was ending? They all started talking at once. I was this close to having an aneurysm.

  “Everyone be quiet,” I bellowed. The chatter ceased. Wide eyes peered at me. They looked like naughty toddlers and I bit back inappropriate laughter. “I’ll start . . . Poppy Harriet, the IRS is not after you. You are not going to jail, at least not for tax evasion.” I did wonder if maybe she had killed or maimed Walter Garski and that’s what all the fuss was about. Maybe they all had something to do with it. Fuck, not going to go there. I was going to stick to the facts I’d found in the IRS Bastard box. “Apparently your husband or brother or some kind of relation, Walter Garski, hasn’t cashed his refund checks for almost twenty years . . . to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars. I’m not sure if the checks are still good, but I’m sure they can be reissued with proof of backup tax returns. I’m going to take a guess he’s not dead because his last refund check is from this year, which means he filed. Am I correct?”

  A very pale Poppy replied with a slight nod.

  “All right, good,” I continued in a businesslike manner. “Are you related to this Walter Garski?”

  Even paler, she gave me another almost imperceptible nod. God, this dude must be one awful son of a bitch. Poppy was terrified.

  “You’re going to have to tell me who this Walter Garski is if you want me to help you,” I told her gently.

  “No.”

  “Does anyone else want to jump in here?” I looked around the room at the tight-lipped group.

  “It’s not our tale to tell,” Nancy said, taking Poppy Harriet’s hand in hers. “Tell her, Poppy dear, she will understand. She won’t judge and she will still love you, just like we do.” Nancy gave me a warning look, indicating I would behave exactly as she said. I nodded and Nancy’s face relaxed.

  Poppy Harriet expelled a giant, tragic sigh and began to untie her smart little neck scarf, revealing a huge Adam’s apple. WTF? How could Poppy Harriet have an Adam’s apple? Only men have . . . holy fuck.

  “Um . . . Walter?” I asked Poppy, tentatively.

  “I’m not Walter,” she shrieked. “I’m Poppy Harriet. I hate Walter.” She clutched her throat, hiding her Adam’s apple.

  “Poppy Harriet,” Nancy admonished gently. “Rena is here to help you.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Rena,” she sniffled. She inhaled deeply and popped all her knuckles. “Yes, I was born Walter Garski, but I always knew God made a mistake. I was in the wrong body.”

  Her tears fell unchecked. Nancy lovingly rubbed her back. “Go on, dear,” Nancy urged.

  “Twenty years ago, after my mother died, I decided to live as a woman. I am a female with the wrong plumbing fixtures.” She smiled weakly.

  “Do you have any other family?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she hesitated, “I do, but they think I disappeared years ago. I assume they think I’m dead by now.”

  “But you’re living in your moth
er’s house,” I shook my head in confusion.

  “Walter sold it to me.”

  “I see,” I answered as if that made a modicum of sense. “Did your family know about your, um, other half?”

  “Oh, dear heavens, no. And they can’t ever know. They’re Polish.”

  I had no idea what that had to do with anything, but knew far better than to ask.

  “Poppy Harriet, you have a hundred thousand dollars and . . .”

  She cut me off, “No. Walter Garski has a hundred thousand dollars. I am not Walter Garski.”

  “No,” I agreed, “you’re not, but without Walter Garski, there would be no Poppy Harriet . . . and the world wouldn’t be quite as nice.”

  She wrapped her sporty scarf back around her neck and placed her hands primly in her lap. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Well, I think if you could, um . . . you know, make friends with Walter and ask him to, um, sign the checks, I could have them cashed for you and we could stop freezing our asses off.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that. It would be illegal . . . I’d be impersonating a man,” she calmly and logically explained.

  I was speechless.

  “Goddamn it, Poppy,” LeHump groused, “sign the checks. It’s your money. We’re the only ones who know about Walter and . . .”

  Joanne cleared her throat loudly. Nancy punched her in the arm and shushed her. “Not now, Joanne.” She was using her “don’t fuck with me” voice.

  She didn’t need to say anything; I had already figured it out. Evangeline knew Poppy Harriet was a man and that’s why ten of Poppy’s books were sitting on the O shelf at the bookstore. I didn’t think my hatred could grow, but my contempt for the Viper knew no bounds.

  “We won’t look,” I told Poppy Harriet. “Just go over there and sign the checks. Next week we will legally change Walter Garski’s name to Poppy Harriet or whatever the hell you want. You will keep his social security number, so you will be legal, and next year you’ll be able to sign your tax returns as Poppy Harriet.” I gave her a gentle push.

  “It’s that easy?” Shoshanna asked.

  “I’m pretty sure.” I smiled. “Everyone look down or turn away so Poppy Harriet can have some privacy.”

  She grabbed my arm in a vise-like grip and swung me around like a rag doll to face her. Damn, she was strong. I don’t know how in the hell I didn’t guess her secret: the big hands, hairy lip, the low voice . . . “I don’t think I can do this.” She was getting hysterical and her grip tightened.

  “Poppy Harriet, if you don’t let go of my arm, I’ll have to get it amputated.” I winced, but tried to keep my voice steady. Riling her up more could be unintentionally life-threatening.

  “I’m sorry.” She let go, puffed out her silver curls, ran her hands over her hips, and adjusted her breasts. Having to sign checks as Walter was fucking with her femininity.

  “Think of it this way,” I said, vigorously trying to rub the circulation back into my arm. “Soon Walter will be gone forever. Let him give you this parting gift. It would be a shame to let all this money go to waste. Maybe you could make an anonymous donation to a transgender support group.”

  “Or you could have your penis removed,” Joanne volunteered.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Joanne,” Shoshanna groused, “if you put your foot any further into your mouth, it’s going to come out of your ass.”

  “That’s just mean,” Joanne huffed, giving Shoshanna the bird.

  I fully expected a slapping bitch fight to start any moment. I ran my hands through my hair and backed up into the corner. Getting in the middle of an old lady brawl was not my idea of a good time.

  “No. Wait,” Poppy Harriet shouted, stopping the smackdown before it could start. “She’s right. With that money I could become who I really am.”

  The window of opportunity was open and I climbed through. “You could think of it as Walter’s present to you. Proof of his love and approval . . .”

  “You’re right.” Her smile broadened and her entire body tensed with excitement. She paced the room again, but it was different this time. Her energy and joy bounced off the walls.

  “You just need to, um, bring Walter back long enough for him to sign the checks. Can you do that?” Crossing my fingers behind my back in hopes that the drama was over, I waited for the other shoe to drop, for Poppy Harriet’s head to start spinning or for a tantrum about hating Walter to destroy the progress we had made.

  “I can do that,” she sang with intense pleasure. “Give me those checks.”

  I love being wrong. I handed her the checks and she signed every one of them. “I’ll deal with the statute of limitations. There’s a tax specialist at my firm that will be able to get this done quickly. Do you have copies of your, um, I mean Walter’s past returns?”

  “Yes, I do.” She grabbed a large box from beneath her desk and shoved it into my arms. “I’d be delighted for you to get this shit out of my house,” she said with a grin.

  “I’m on it.” I grinned back. “Poppy Harriet, do you mind me asking how Walter made so much money over the years?”

  “Not at all. He owns a chain of hardware stores. You know, the garden-variety kind.” She winked at me and pointed to the gnome sitting on top of her upright piano.

  I rolled my eyes and wondered again how the smiling gnome figured into sex and decided I never wanted the answer to that one. Wait a minute . . . “Poppy Harriet, if Walter has so much in refunds, he must have one hell of a bank account.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “Then why in the hell are you living in the tundra?” I demanded, completely confused.

  “It’s Walter’s money, not mine,” she said.

  “I think it’s time you and Walter had a little talk. Who’s been managing all these stores over the years?” I asked.

  “People I hired,” she said sheepishly. “I work for Walter and receive a small salary to keep all the stores in line. He travels quite a bit and can’t actually do the day-to-day.” She smiled as if what she said was reasonable and sane.

  “Have any of the people who work for Walter ever met him?” I had no idea what would come out of her mouth next, but I knew it would be memorable.

  “Oh dear God, no, he’s agoraphobic.” She shook her head in disgust. All the ladies stared openmouthed. My mouth followed suit.

  “Um, Poppy Harriet, would you mind terribly if I had Walter’s accounts changed to your name?” I waited for an explosion . . .

  She was quiet for several long moments. The girls and I held our breath.

  “That would be lovely,” she said. “It would make everything so much easier. I’ll just let everyone know Walter died and left me everything.”

  I expelled the breath I’d been holding. “Okay, great.”

  “Well now you can turn the fucking heat up and leave it that way,” Shoshanna grunted.

  I smiled and watched all my little ladies hug and cry with each other. A stranger morning I’d never had, but in the end it turned out . . . strange. Good, but definitely strange.

  After eating a small amount of cheese log and chili, Shoshanna and Nancy insisted on car shopping with me. Dread ripped through my stomach at the thought of Shoshanna cussing out someone at the dealership, or it could have been the chili. My fears were unfounded. Nancy turned out to be a shark negotiator, and I ended up with an icy blue SUV for well under list price. Nancy could have a lucrative side business as a car negotiator. She’s so damn nice the poor car guys didn’t realize what they had agreed to until it was too late. There were some tears, but shockingly enough, they weren’t LeHump’s fault. They were Nancy’s. She hugged all the car salesmen she’d bested and told them how wonderful they were and how proud she was of them. By the time we left, everyone had stopped crying. Except for the general manager. He would be crying for a week or so.

  I knew I’d chosen the color of my brand spanking new car because of Jack’s eyes. That pissed me off some, but what’s a girl i
n lust to do?

  After hugging my gals, I drove away in my new wheels, heading home to worry about the evening ahead. Everything had gone so well today that I knew my evening would more than likely blow up in my face. Oh well, two out of three ain’t bad.

  Chapter 13

  Driving my new car to my childhood home felt good. Really good.

  Thank God for that, because the evening ahead filled me with angst and was making my eye twitch. I need to relax. I certainly didn’t want to show up at my folks’ and be questioned about my new tic. I would have enough thrown at me without the addition of a neurological disorder.

  “Why in the fuck did I eat Jack’s card?” I asked my steering wheel. It didn’t answer. The card-eating disaster kept biting me in the butt, hard. I wanted to talk out our history and get our lies straight. I was used to winging it on my own, but winging it in tandem scared the hell out of me. Of course, I couldn’t call him because I didn’t have his number. I didn’t even know his last name, for Christ’s sake.

  Stepping out of the car, I adjusted my rockin’ hot flannel miniskirt and pulled my knee-high boots up. I’d dressed with care, but not because I gave a damn what Jack thought. I didn’t want my family to think I wasn’t serious about my fake boyfriend because I’d showed up in sweatpants. Who was I kidding? I adjusted my cashmere sweater with more force than necessary and admitted I’d worn a very formfitting top on purpose. I wanted him to suffer. Jack would be punished for making me use Vinnie the Vibrator the other night.

  I stared up at my parents’ home and wondered what Jack would think. We lived in Hennepin County, one of the ritziest suburbs of Minneapolis, but our home wasn’t a nouveau riche McMansion. It was a pretty, classic Hampton design home, bought by my parents long before Edina had become so popular. I sucked in a large amount of oxygen because I knew my sister Jenny would be hogging it inside. I forced my feet to move and walked up the path, prepared to lie my ass off.

  “Rena, you look gorgeous.” Mom grinned and raised her eyebrows, waggling them suggestively. Shit, this was going to be more painful than I’d thought. “Your boyfriend is lovely. I hope you don’t mind me inviting him to dinner.” She gave me her pouty face, daring me to answer her truthfully.