Becoming Mona Lisa (12 page)

“Glad you're enjoying it,” I said.

I straightened up the kitchen and washed the coffee mugs, turning occasionally for an update on my new friends.

I heard the front door a few minutes later, and the cats flew off the windowsill.

“Whoa,” I heard my Tom say. “Guess we got some kitties, eh?” he called from near the front door.

“I couldn't resist,” I said.

“They're cute, babe,” he said with such familiarity, it was as if the last five years hadn't happened.

“
Babe
?” I said, and he smiled. “You used to call me that.”

“I know.” Tom crossed the kitchen, and stood before me. He brushed the hair from my forehead, and held my gaze.

“What?” I whispered.

“It's coming back,” he said softly.

“What is?”

“The light in your eyes.”

“Tom,” I said, as he pressed his lips to mine. He lingered there for a moment, and I felt the warmth of him, the comfort in his presence.

“I waited for you. I knew you'd come back.”

“I can feel it,” I admitted. “I feel myself coming alive again.”

“I've missed you so much.”

“This might sound weird, but I've missed me, too.”

“Doesn't sound that weird to me.”

What did sound weird, was the excited mewing coming from the windowsill. “The kittens like the birds,” I said, and Tom chuckled.

“Glad someone does,” he said from near the window. “They seem to be multiplying,” he added, and I could see his horrified expression reflected in the glass.

I crossed the kitchen and stood beside him. “Jeez, I think you're right,” I agreed.

“I think there's crap on that towel over there,” he said.

“What towel?”

“The one I used to cover the pizza box.”

“Ah, gotcha,” I said. “Good thinking, Tom.”

“Thanks. Let's eat, and I'll let you know what I found out about this crow business.”

I grabbed some paper plates, and we set up shop at the kitchen table.

“So, what did you find out?” I asked, once we'd both inhaled a slice in record time.

“
Well, we have some options,” Tom said. “I asked around at work, and I guess this crow thing is a fairly big problem. One of the guys suggested I call Animal Control, which I did.”

“
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.