How Hard Can It Be

by Robyn Peterman

  Evangeline turned the most unattractive shade of purple I’d ever seen on a human. Of course her humanity is debatable . . . “My plastic surgeon is a woman,” she shrieked.

  “I find that hard to swallow,” my sister shot back. “A woman’s touch is far less heavy-handed than the business you’ve got going on there. I’d be curious to take a look at the scarring under your wig. May I?”

  My sister was forevermore going to be my hero. If Evangeline could have split in two like Rumpelstiltskin, she would have. “My hair is real,” she screamed, shaking with fury. She clutched her bosom as if it were a life line to sanity; too bad it was just Bulgarian silly putty. I worried a little bit about her coming at us. After we’d seen her handiwork on Cecil, who knew what she was capable of. I half expected her to pull an AK-47 out from between her knockers like Eviline had.

  “I’m going to my boudoir,” she ground out. “I expect you to be gone in five minutes. And take that pathetic fag with you.”

  “Just because he’s a cross-dresser doesn’t mean he’s gay,” I said, sticking up for poor passed-out Cecil.

  “Oh, please,” she laughed, “any boy who’s worn girls’ panties since grade school is not a boy.” She turned on her stiletto bedroom mules and wobbled out.

  “That’s the famous writer?” Jenny asked in disbelief.

  “Famous? Yes. Writer? Debatable,” I said.

  “Rena?” Cecil called weakly from the couch. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I told him softly. If he hadn’t heard that exchange, he never needed to know about it. “Cecil, you have to go to the hospital. You could have internal bleeding and my sister’s risked her career and her medical liability insurance to come here.”

  Cecil lay silently on the couch while we watched. He raised his hands to his head and tried to sit up. His tortured gasp when he saw his shirt open tore at my insides. I hadn’t seen a grown man cry in anguish since my grandma’s funeral. My dad’s heartbreak had been an awful thing to watch. Somehow, even though death wasn’t involved, Cecil’s breakdown was equally as painful.

  “Cecil, it’s okay,” I said putting my hand on his arm.

  He turned away to hide the tears. “I’m so ashamed,” he whispered brokenly through his sobs. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Cecil, my Uncle Fuc . . . Carlton wore my aunt’s underwear for years. It’s not a sin,” I said, gently closing his shirt to give him back his dignity.

  “Cecil, we have to get you to the hospital,” Jenny said. “If you won’t let us take you, I’ll be forced to call an ambulance. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ll go,” he said, “but Rena, would you . . .”

  “Yes, I will.” I walked to the desk, got a pair of scissors, and cut him out of the teddy. His head slumped in embarrassment. It was devastating to think that he felt he’d committed a heinous and unforgivable crime by wearing some ladies’ underthings. What had happened to him in the past?

  “Thank you,” he said. “Please don’t . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Cecil, this goes nowhere. Ever. I promise.”

  “Nowhere,” my sister agreed. “All right, let’s go.”

  Cecil checked out at the hospital okay. Miraculously, no broken ribs or internal bleeding. A concussion and severe bruising were the major issues. He was a very lucky man, although lucky is a relative term. When Jenny filled out the report, Cecil firmly insisted he’d tripped and fallen.

  “That’s bullshit,” I said. “Cecil, you can’t let her get away with this. She could have killed you.”

  Cecil stared at his hands and repeated his lie. After twenty more unsuccessful minutes of trying to pull the truth out of him, I gave up and drove him home. He lived in a cute little house in an older section of Minneapolis. The tree-lined streets were well maintained and the homes were charming.

  “We’re here,” I said, waking him up. He was exhausted from his injuries. It was also two in the morning.

  “If you could help me in, I’d greatly appreciate it,” he said, looking away. Clearly he didn’t like asking for help and no doubt he could feel my anger about the stupid lies he’d told at the hospital.

  “Of course,” I said.

  After a very slow walk through the house, I got him tucked in. I set six alarms to go off hourly. I was worried about the concussion. I made him promise to text me each time he woke up. I threatened him with coming back over and raiding his underwear drawer if he didn’t. He blanched and promised he’d text.

  As I turned to leave I noticed something odd. A picture of a young Cecil, about twenty, with two women. One was clearly his mother and the other bore a striking resemblance to a pre-surgery Evangeline. “Cecil, how long have you been working for Evangeline?”

  “Twenty years,” he answered sleepily. “Why?”

  “No reason. Get some sleep,” I said. When he turned over, I slipped the photo into my bag and left. Of all the freaking puzzles I had to piece together, Cecil’s was the most difficult. Logic puzzles were one of my favorite things, but time was running out and this one defied reason. Shit.

  Chapter 29

  Monday was a clusterfuck. Cecil, of course, didn’t show up. Evangeline was nowhere to be found, and no one had any idea how to format and upload the book.

  “Shoshanna, you’re a world-renowned professor, for God’s sake. How can you not know how to work the computer?” I groused.

  “That’s what graduate assistants are for,” she said.

  “I can do it,” Joanne said, with more volume than confidence. She smeared some kind of gel into her ever-blooming eyebrows and sat down in front of the computer. She resembled a deer caught in the headlights with shiny eyebrows.

  Poppy Harriet, in a knuckle-popping frenzy, paced the room like a caged tiger. “We’re fucked. If we don’t get this right, we’re fucked. We are totally fucked. Fucked.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shoshanna laughed, “I’m not sure I understand. What are we?”

  “We’re fu . . .” Poppy Harriet stopped, realizing how many times she’d just dropped the F-bomb. “Well, we are,” she giggled.

  “No, we’re not. If we can’t figure it out, we’ll go to Cecil’s and get him to help us,” I said. Give me a bunch of numbers and a spreadsheet and I was brilliant. This stuff, not so much.

  “Nancy could do it,” Joanne informed our group.

  “Do you see Nancy?” LeHump asked irritably.

  “No,” Joanne answered, looking around the room. “Do you?”

  “Joanne, I was being sarcastic.” Shoshanna shook her head and laughed.

  “You know I don’t pick up very well on irony.” Joanne wagged her finger at LeHump, who, in turn, flipped her the bird. “Now that I understand,” she chuckled, returning the gesture.

  By three-thirty, after a lot of middle finger salutes and an absurd amount of swearing, we agreed we were fried. In a majority rules vote, it was decided I would go to Cecil’s and figure out how in the hell to upload. I thought it was unfair, considering I had been up half the night, but nobody wanted to hear my bitchin’, so I went. I didn’t tell them I had been planning on going anyway to check on Cecil. It was way more fun to bitch and complain.

  “Holy crap, why in the hell couldn’t we figure this out?” I flopped back on Cecil’s couch and closed my tired eyes.

  “Because you all spend too much time coming up with rude names for male genitalia and making obscene gestures at each other.”

  I laughed. He was right.

  Cecil looked like hell. His eye had practically swollen shut and the gash over his eyebrow appeared red and angry. He moved like an old man and his speech was labored. On the flip side, his home was lovely—warm and comfortable, with cushy armchairs and lovely art, mixed with beautiful Oriental rugs and cut-glass vases overflowing with fresh flowers. I was so at ease, I wanted to curl up and sleep for a week.

  “Hello dear, you must be Rena,” an exquisite old woman said. Her eyes were riveting, a beautiful blue, almost turquoise. “I’m De
lona, Fred’s mother.” She smiled and held out her frail hand. “Fred said you were lovely, but he didn’t do you justice.”

  I was so caught up in her magic, I didn’t even notice how delicate her health seemed. “Um, thanks,” I said, feeling self-conscious heat crawl up my neck. “I’m Fred’s friend from work.”

  “I want to thank you for taking care of him last night,” she said, seating herself next to me. “He is so clumsy,” she chuckled and smiled lovingly at him.

  “Does he fall often?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.” She shook her head. “Last summer he fell at work and broke his arm in two places, and he’s forever getting black eyes from running into file cabinets.”

  “Really?” I glanced sharply at Cecil/Fred, who was looking everywhere except at me. My face felt hot and flushed. It was no longer from embarrassment; it was rage.

  “Yes, I never knew being a stockbroker was such dangerous work,” she said.

  It took everything I had not to scream. She didn’t even know what her son did. Why in the hell all the secrets? And what in the hell was that photo about?

  “This is the first time I’ve met anyone from Fred’s work. What is it that you do, dear?” she asked kindly.

  “I’m a numbers girl,” I said, thankful I didn’t have to lie. “I do internal audits, financial planning, corporate taxes . . . boring stuff,” I laughed.

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound boring at all,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I love a smart independent young woman. It’s so different now than when I was young, of course. My si . . .”

  “Mother, it’s time for you to lie down.” Cecil cut her off and gently aided her up from the couch. “I’ll help you.”

  “No sweetheart, you’re a mess. I can make it to my room all by myself,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I’m a big girl. You spend time with your friend.”

  She slowly made her way out of the room. I inhaled deep breaths to calm myself. My desire to rip Cecil a new one was intense. I tried to quiet my inner fury so I wouldn’t scare his mother when she was safely in her room. I kept reminding myself not to yell. That was going to be fucking difficult.

  When I was sure she was gone, I felt free to start ripping. “Would you like to explain yourself, Cecil?” I hissed.

  “Please call me Fred here,” he said, not meeting my eye.

  “How about Lying Sack of Shit?”

  “That would work, too,” he muttered, straightening papers and nervously rearranging his desk.

  “Spill it,” I ground out.

  “There’s nothing to spill,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink or eat?” he asked. “You probably didn’t get a chance to eat lunch and I don’t want to be a bad host. So if you . . .”

  “Fred, shut up.” My heart was hammering in my chest. “I’m not hungry or thirsty, I’m pissed. At you. You have let that skank beat on you for probably years, you’ve lied to your mother about what you do . . . what are you waiting for? For Evangeline to kill you? Because it will happen; it could have happened last night.” I glared at him. “What will happen to your mother if you’re dead? And how in the hell could Evangeline tell your mother your secret? She doesn’t even know your name is Fred, for fuck’s sake.”

  Fred’s body sagged. “Rena, I can’t.” His voice was low and tormented. “This disgusting and shameful compulsion I have . . .” He paused, white knuckling the chair as his body shook. “My mother can’t know.” He sighed heavily, his voice full of anguish. “It would kill her.”

  “Fred, I find that hard to believe. She adores you.”

  “She adores her son, not the freak who can’t function unless he’s wearing women’s undergarments. I can’t leave the house without. . .” He stopped; his face was bleak. “I’m not gay,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t think you were. In fact, when I first met you, I thought you might be boning Evangeline.”

  The shock on his face made me laugh. Hard. So hard, it was contagious. Fred tried not to join me, but it was impossible. He held his bruised ribs as he belly-laughed and moaned in pain at the same time.

  “That is the most repulsive thing I’ve ever heard pass your lips,” he groaned, clutching his ribs, “and I sat through two weeks of Pirate Dave.”

  “When you’re good, you’re good,” I giggled. “Fred, will you please talk to me?”

  He sat quietly on the couch. I could feel him weakening. I waited, praying he would help. I knew he had the key to getting the goods on the viper whore. The question was, would he give it to me?

  “I’m sorry, Rena. I can’t.”

  “Fine.” I stood up and shoved my arms into my coat with far more force than necessary. “Just think about this: your silence is ruining the lives of four wonderful women. And”—I held up my hand when he tried to interrupt—“you’re underestimating your mother’s love for you. You’re a fucking idiot to think your taste in underwear would make any difference to her at all.”

  “You don’t have the whole story,” he said quietly.

  “No duh, and I suppose you’re going to enlighten me.”

  “No.”

  “Well, Cecil or Fred or whomever, it was nice knowing you. I hope your life turns out peachy. With or without your help, I will bring the Viper down and I will clear all my friends . . . including you.”

  I turned and left the broken man on the couch. I was so tempted to go back and comfort him, but I had work to do. Fuck, fuck, fuck, why was it all so hard?

  Chapter 30

  Tuesday morning rolled in with a vengeance. Six inches of snow blanketed the ground. The utter depressing grayness of the day matched my mood perfectly. Nancy had called Shoshanna’s and I went ahead and filled her in on what I had found out about salmonella-gate. At first she tried to deny she was Nan Sorenson, but as my story unfolded, she admitted everything. The sucky thing was, I still didn’t have any evidence to clear her. She didn’t care. She was so overwhelmed by the news that she hadn’t caused salmonella-gate, she let loose with a string of swearwords that almost burned my ears off. We hung up after I promised her I’d do everything in my power to get proof.

  “What are you going to do?” Shoshanna asked, eating cling peaches from the can with her fingers.

  “I have no idea. Is that your breakfast?” I inquired as I watched her drip peach juice all over her Minnesota Vikings flannel pj’s.

  “Yep, want some?” She offered me the can.

  “Um, no. I have a better idea.”

  We met Kristy at a diner not far from my old apartment. Apprehension danced through my tummy at the possibility of running into Jack, but Kristy assured me that after he’d banged on our door this morning for the umpteenth time, he went to work.

  “You really need to talk to him,” Kristy said, smearing cream cheese on a bagel. “He keeps coming up at all hours looking for you.”

  “He’s got it bad,” LeHump said as she stole the bacon off my plate. Her manners never ceased to amaze me.

  “No, he doesn’t,” I said, slapping her little hand as she went for my toast. “Why in the hell didn’t you order anything?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Shoshanna said. I rolled my eyes and handed her my toast.

  “Why didn’t you butter this?” she asked. “Now it’s too cold for the butter to melt.”

  I held up my three middle fingers and smiled. “Read between the lines, LeHump.”

  “Very high school, Rena,” she laughed. “Kristy, are you going to finish your bagel?” Kristy considered her bagel for a moment, then handed it over to the human vacuum.

  “So what else has Mr. Sexy Buns done?” LeHump asked with a mouthful of Kristy’s former breakfast.

  “He knocked so long yesterday, our reclusive little neighbor came out and threatened to call the police,” Kristy laughed.

  “Oh my God,” I giggled. “What did he do?”

  “Flashed his badge and apologized.”

  I pondered my scrambled eggs, which I had put way too much salt on, an
d wondered if I was making the hugest mistake of my life by not seeing him again. I pushed my eggs over to Shoshanna, who took a bite and pushed them right back.

  “I can’t see him. I know Cecil wants to help me make a plan, but he’s going to be laid up for a while and I don’t like him right now anyway.” I ran my hands through my hair and sighed. “I’m moving to Iowa and I’ve grown up a lot in the past two weeks. Mostly against my will, but getting blackmailed by a soulless set of boobs can do that to you. The old me would have run back and begged Jack for another chance, and I would have tried to change for him. I would have tried to be what he wants instead of being me. It would work for about a month or so and then he’d realize I was a fraud. I’d be so in love with him by that time that when he dumped me again, I’d have to stay in bed for three months to recover. He doesn’t like who I am. He thinks I’m nuts.” Any appetite I had was gone. Going out for breakfast was a bad idea.

  “A man who bangs on the door eight to ten times a day likes who you are,” Shoshanna said. “You should at least hear him out.”

  “If it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be,” I said.

  “What are you? A fucking fortune cookie?” Shoshanna chuckled. “Sometimes what’s meant to be doesn’t happen unless you help it along.”

  “She’s right,” Kristy agreed.

  I stared at my old best friend and bizarrely enough, my new one. “I agree with you, too.”

  “You do?” they said in unison.

  “Yep,” I said, “but not about Jack. I’m going to apply that little nugget of wisdom to something else. I’ll see you guys later.” I dropped some money on the table to pay for the breakfast I’d ordered and Shoshanna had eaten, and I left.

  “Listen to me, Fred, if you don’t help me, everybody goes down. Including you. If you think for one moment she’s not going to sing like a fucking bird after we destroy her career, you’re an idiot,” I said, sitting across from him at his house.