The Renegades

by P. R. Paige

  "Not yet."

  "Come again?"

  "You heard me."

  Episode Seven

  My boss's kitchen smells of Clorox and Lysol as I have just sanitized the kitchen table, countertops, and refrigerator.

  It's 3:30 o'clock in the afternoon when Perrin struts into the kitchen wearing a soft grey leather jacket and grey helmet. For months, he has talked about purchasing the Harley Davidson motorcycle, and by the way that he is dressed, it seems that he finally bunkered down and made the buy.

  "So, is it official now? Are you a bona fide biker?"

  "Not bona fide," he says as he removes his helmet and benches down at the breakfast bar.

  I pour him a tall glass of home-made lemonade even without him asking for it. It's one of the things I do best. I anticipate his many wants and needs and fulfill them.

  I set the lemonade in front of him and join him at the breakfast bar.

  "Did you get a chance to see my text?" I ask him.

  "I was going to ask you about that." He studies me with this beady eyes. "Let me see if I have this right," he says to me. "You've decided to move into Rome's house, but it's going to be totally platonic."

  "That's right," I say to him, "totally platonic."

  "Aren't you going to feel left out?" he asks me after washing down his lemonade.

  "No. I'm not into sharing men."

  "Not yet?"

  I scratch my head for a minute. "That's funny. That's the same thing that Rome said to me. Do you two know each other?"

  "No, we don't know each other."

  "Are you're saying that I'm going to change my mind?"

  "Yes. Yes. Yes."

  "Could you be more specific?" I ask him.

  Perrin laughs.

  Now, I'm worried.

  Could Perrin be right?

  Could I actually go against everything that I believe in and stoop to a life of polygamy?

  Of course not.

  "Tell me again," Perrin says to me. "Refresh my memory. Why exactly are you moving in with him?"

  "Because I'm going to write about what it's like living in the House of Rome, and most of all, I am curious as hell as to how this arrangement works."

  "If you write this story, I'll actually finance it for you. But here's the deal." Perrin rises from his chair and grabs his motorcycle helmet. "If you write this story, it has to be the HBO version, not the Lifetime version."

  "I wouldn't waste my time writing the G-rated version."

  Butterflies somersault inside my stomach, and I am all nerves when I awaken Sunday morning. Today is the day that I move into the House of Rome. I'm excited, but then again, there's some fear as well.

  I'm eager to meet India's beagle that she speaks so highly of, and most of all, I can't wait to write about the experience of living in the House of Rome.

  I'm having one of those get-up-and-go moments, and I'm ready to go. After my oatmeal and tea, I shower and opt to wear a simple pair of acid washed blue jeans, blue t-shirt and flip flops. I am already packed, including some of my favorite books and DVDs.

  I smile while I make my bed as this is the most adventurous thing that I have ever embarked on: Sharing a house with two other women and a man. It does not get any wilder than that.

  A little after noon, my doorman rings me. "Your car is ready," he says to me. I head downstairs with my three pieces of bright orange luggage and soon find a stretch limousine awaiting me.

  I am soon disappointed when I realize that the limousine driver is not Rome, but instead a real limousine driver.

  Bummer!

  Once Rome Nicki has been your personal chauffer, no one comes close to channeling that same style.

  While the light-haired driver stockpiles my luggage into the trunk, I climb inside, and seconds later, we are on our way.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I arrive at Rome's four bedroom home in Floral Beach, Illinois, a western suburb, thirty minutes west of Chicago.

  The driver pulls into the driveway of 333 Lost Ranger Drive, where I find Rome awaiting my arrival. He wears his signature Fedora hat and black shirt, looking just a succulent as ever. I step from the limo and inhale the summer air. The smell of fresh-cut grass salutes me. Rome accosts me and adorns me with a sweet kiss. "Good afternoon," he says to me, the faint smell of his aftershave teasing my senses. "Welcome."

  "Good afternoon to you, too."

  "You're looking just as sexy as ever," he says to me in his ever so cute sounding voice.

  He slides his hand into his shirt pocket and plucks out a large, sterling silver, old-fashioned key, which is inscribed with the words The House of Rome.

  I gloss over it with sparkles in my eyes. It is just so distinctive. "This is for me?"

  "That's right," he says, "and it will always be yours whether you live here or not."

  I place the limited edition key into my clutch purse. This unique gift will be with me always.

  So far, things are off to a marvelous start, and this is just the opening act.

  As soon as I cross over into the House of Rome, I am welcomed by the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon, emanating from the scented candles on the small table near the door. His spacious house is decorated with beige carpeting and a chocolate brown sectional sofa which is stationed precisely in the sunken living room.

  With several huge stuffed elephants positioned in every corner of the room, I have stumbled upon the hidden workings of Rome's personality. Those elephants obviously mean something.

  But what?

  I don't see India, and I don't see Storm, which surprises me. Those two follow him everywhere he goes. Even more noticeable is the fact that I don't see the much-anticipated Beagle, which India speaks so highly.

  I absorb my huge surroundings. Rome has definitely made the big time When we dated many years ago, he owned a small condo on Lake Shore Drive, minus the limousine and the driver.

  He has come a long way.

  Rome helps me with my bags upstairs, bypassing the sculptured paintings of elephants along the way. He sets me up in a cozy room, which I am told is right next door to India's room. My room has only three items in it: a floor lamp, a five-drawer chest, and a twin-sized bed, which is reminiscent of my clutter-free apartment in Water's Edge.

  I'm all settled in when Rome escorts me downstairs to the dining area where I find Storm and India already seated at a huge honeysuckle white table, decorated with lavender Martha Stewart china. The dining area is exploding with bright track lighting, which I like. It is very inviting. From the look of things, Rome will dine on one side of the table and the three of us on the other. Already this dining arrangement feels strange to me but in an exciting, I-can't-wait-to-find-out-how-this-is-going-to-play-out kind of way.

  On the menu today, are burgers and salad, prepared by our very own Rome himself. I eagerly join Storm and India at the table while Rome remains standing across from us.

  The multitude of gold-studded earrings in India's ears jumps out at me, and I need to count them, five in one ear and six in the other. It is a little too busy for my tastes, but India pulls it off quite spectacularly.

  "Before we get started, I want to thank Thursday for agreeing to join us in our special home," Rome says to us all.

  Both Storm and India clap their hands, and direct their attention towards me and smile.

  "Before you know it, you'll be in synch with India and me, and we'll all three be having our period at the same time," Storm says to me.

  "That's the same thing I was thinking," India says.

  I don't even think about touching that statement. Instead, I ask, "Where's the sweet doggie you spoke so highly of?"

  "She ran away again," India says to me.

  "Again?" I question her.

  Rome interjects and drops down in the chair on his side of the table. "Every once in a while, she just up and leaves."

  "I'm not trying to be funny, but is that typical behavior for a dog to just leave?"

  "It is if
she's temperamental like her mother," Storm says.

  I have to wonder. Are we talking about a dog or a person?

  The smell of the sweet French salad dressing invigorates my appetite, and I bite into my hamburger, topped with lettuce, tomato, onions, and pickles. As I enjoy my lunch, Storm has cut her burger into two pieces, discarding one-half inside a napkin.

  "You might as well know now, Thursday," India says. "Storm is preoccupied with her weight and is currently on the fast track to anorexia, which means more food for us."

  Nibbling at her salad, Storm remains silent, seemingly unaffected by India's opinion of her.

  "Last night I was listening to this instrumental tune by Dan Siegel and Oh was it pretty," India says. "This song was just so beautiful. I am sure that if a place like heaven exists, this is the song that you will certainly hear when you arrive at the pearly gates."

  "I was thinking I might hear salsa music," Storm says. "That's what I would want to hear."

  "How do you know you will hear music at all?" I question them. "Maybe there is no music playing when you make your entrance."

  "I doubt that," India says. "There has to be some kind of music playing. Otherwise, you won't feel welcomed."

  "What do you think, Rome?" I question him.

  "I never really thought about it," Rome says. "I'm not sure I'm wanted in heaven."

  "Of course, you are," India says to Rome. "Besides, I'll vouch for you."

  "Come again," I say to India. "You'll vouch for him? You mean like give him a reference?"

  "Yeah, something like that," India insists.

  If tonight is a glimpse of the conversation to come, I am in for a real treat.

  "I thought you could only be accepted into heaven on your own merits," Rome insists. "What makes you think that references are allowed?"

  "Please," Storm screams. "Everybody stop talking about heaven. Can we please?"

  "You didn't seem to have a problem when we were talking about salsa music," India says.

  "Well, I have a problem with it now," Storm insists.

  This is my opportunity to change the subject, and I do just that. "Rome, I couldn't help but notice that there's only a twin-sized bed in my room. What's that all about?"

  Rome sets his fork salad aside and directs his attention to me. "It's the same for Storm and India as well. There's no need for anything bigger than that because everyone sleeps with me anyway."

  "But I won't be sleeping with you," I remind him.

  "I am quite aware of that, but that is your choice."

  Storm intervenes. "What's the point of all of us living together if we can't all sleep together?"

  "Call me old fashion, but you would have to get me pretty high to share a bed with a man and two women."

  "That can be arranged," Rome says.

  I witness a sneaky eye exchange between Storm and India as if they know something that I don't.

  In the thick of our unusual lunch conversation, the doorbell rings.

  "Nobody answer that", Rome says with his hands in front of him. "We are in the midst of a welcoming lunch for Thursday, and I do not want us disturbed for any reason."

  A minute passes, and I am finishing off my savory hamburger and salad when a woman in her 60s mysteriously creeps into the kitchen out of nowhere. She struts with a forceful military stride like she's ready for a fight.

  All eyes turn to her, and everything stops.

  She wears a floor-length white dress, dark curly wig too big for her head and possesses a four-day-old beard.

  "Well, well, well, what have we here?" the woman says, pivoting around the kitchen table. She carries a large bright red purse engraved with the words: Recovering Cat Lady.

  "Mother," Rome announces as he stands to greet her with a kiss. "I wasn't expecting you for another six months."

  "Well, it's a good thing I came back when I did because I don't like what I am seeing here this afternoon."

  Ms. Nicki continues her circular pivot around the table, examining all of us with an eagle eye. It's as if she's the lion and we're all her prey.

  "Everyone, this is my mother. Mother, this is India, Thursday and you know Storm."

  I am first to rise from my seat and approach Ms. Nicki. "Hello, Ms. Nicki. It's great to meet you."

  "Please, I won't have any of that Ms. Business. You call me Momma Nicki."

  Momma Nicki eyeballs me from top to bottom and from left to right, disapproval oozing from her eyes. "Pretty girl No. 1."

  "Come again," I question her.

  "I said you're pretty girl No. 1."

  I quickly resume sitting and gravitate towards India, and we both exchange one of those what's-going-on looks.

  Momma Nicki then turns her attention to India, gives her a glance over. "And you must be pretty girl No. 2."

  India bolts to a standing position and wraps her arms around Momma Nicki. "It's great meeting you, Momma Nicki."

  Momma Nicki does not waste time showing her dislike for India's embrace. "Now, you can stop all of that hugging business. I didn't come over here for all of that."

  With my eyes focused on Rome's mother four-day-old beard, there is a massive amount of laughter bubbling up inside me, but I dare not let it show. It might be offensive to Rome and his mother. Instead, I maintain a straight face and hope that not so much as a chuckle escapes from my mouth.

  After a few seconds pass, Momma Nicki pivots over to Storm, stops, and examines Storm with the same careful eye as she did with India and I. "And of course, pretty girl No. 3."

  "It's nice to see you again, Momma Nicki," Storm says, saturating her lips with lip gloss.

  "Is it? Is it really that nice?" Momma Nicki questions Storm.

  "Of course, it is," Rome says, smiling. "It's always great to see you."

  Momma Nicki backs away from the table, her eyes never leaving us as if to collect a wider view. Her eyes travel from Storm to India, from India to me, and from me to Rome.

  "Tell me, Rome, what exactly did I interrupt here?" Momma Nicki asks Rome.

  "We were just having some lunch. Can I get you a chair, some food maybe?"

  Instead of answering Rome's question, she says, "I should have known something obscene was going on over here. When I stepped off the plane this morning, I knew my chest was tight for a reason. At first, I just thought it was my brazier, which has always been a little too small, but now I realize it was because of my son's foolish ways."

  "Mother, you know it probably was your brazier," Rome says and resumes a sitting position at the table.

  "You shut up," Momma Nicki says to Rome. "It was not my brazier. It was you."

  While twisting my fingers in my lap, I witness a stilted smile on Rome's face, and I realize something. Rome is tickled by his mother's antics and does a terrible job of trying to hide it.

  India, Storm and I can only watch, listen and perhaps learn something. It's obvious Rome's mother has something she wants to say, and it is my intention not to miss a word.

  Momma Nicki continues her amusing roam of us, her hands on her hips, not saying a word, but instead showering us with dirty looks.

  "I'm not going to mince words with you son. I'm just going to ask you straight out," she says to Rome. "Now, I know who Storm is, but what I want to know is, who are these other two pretty girls?"

  "They're my friends, mother," Rome says.

  "And that's all," Momma Nicki questions him.

  "Yes, that is all."

  "And nothing else?"

  "No, nothing else."

  As I continue to listen to Rome flat-out lie to his mother, I close my eyes and drop my head, struggling to contain my laughter. Though I may appear composed, I'm actually rolling over on the inside.

  "Is he telling the truth, ladies?" Momma Nicki asks us, looking at me possibly because I am the closest to her.

  "Yes, he is," I say to her, my eyes drawn once again to her four-day-old beard.

  "Good, because this kind of sinful behavior elev
ates my blood pressure. It's probably already elevated." Momma Nicki rolls up the sleeves of her white dress. "Rome, honey, go grab the blood pressure monitor for Momma so that Momma can check her blood pressure."

  Rome is about to exit the room when she stops him. "Never mind," Momma Nicki says, "I'll check it when I get home."

  Momma Nicki nudges Rome from his seat, let Momma sit down now. Momma is tired and Momma is stressed."

  Rome relinquishes his seat to his mother fast and stands at the distance of us.

  "Ladies, I might as well tell you girls right now so you don't hear it on the street or see it on the news," Momma Nicki says to all of us girls.

  "Tell us what?" I ask her with enough curiosity to kill many cats.

  "Rome once strayed away from traditional values and was trying to have more than one woman in his life, if you know what I mean."

  "And we do," I assure her.

  Rome shoots me a cute smile, seemingly still amused by this. It's obvious that he knows he's in trouble with his mother, but oddly enough, he appears unfazed.

  Momma Nicki continues. "Now this was a while ago, and Rome has since then gotten all of that silliness out of system, right Rome?"

  "Right, mother," Rome agrees with her.

  I drop my head again. I can't risk laughing even though I am dying to.

  "But just in case he hasn't gotten that silliness out of his system," Momma Nicki continues, "don't you ladies let him talk you into that sinful heathenism."

  The room goes silent while India, Storm and I all exchange one of those is-she-for-real looks.

  "Is that understood, ladies?" she asks us.

  "We all understand, Momma Nicki," I say, "and we appreciate you sharing all of this with us."

  "Now, run and get Momma some water because Momma is thirsty," she says to me.

  "I'll get it," Rome says.

  "No! I want one of the pretty girls to get Momma some water."

  I hurry to the refrigerator and pour a tall glass of water for Momma Nicki, then hand it to her.

  "Thank you, pretty girl," Momma Nicki says to me when she accepts the glass from me. "Now, which pretty girl are you?"