Becoming Mona Lisa (21 page)

“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 playing 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.”