Becoming Mona Lisa (6 page)

“Two hundred grand!” my husband said, and I damn near swallowed my tooth brush.

“No shit?” I said, opening the door a crack.

“No shit,” he replied, winking at me. “My grandfather had old railroad stocks he didn't think were worth anything, so he stuck them in a box in the attic. My father found them right before he got sick. Set me and Robbie up with some security for the future.”

“Does Robbie know?” Tom didn't often talk to his younger brother, and I wasn't sure anyone knew where he was. Robbie was a genius who preferred to live as a gypsy.

“I tried to find him on Facebook, to tell him I needed to talk to him. There wasn't a photo, so I'm not sure I got the right guy.”

“You have a Facebook, Tom Siggs?” I asked through the crack.

“I'm a man of mystery,” he said, and I laughed.

“I guess so. I'll be right out.”

“Hurry,” Tom encouraged, and I closed the door in his face, but gently.

“I will.”

Six

The Hatfields and McCoys never solved anything

by shooting at one another.

I emerged about twenty minutes later, and tiptoed to the kitchen. Tom sat at the kitchen table, drinking the last of the coffee. An empty Fudge Round wrapper was tossed on the table in front of him.

“Holy shit,” he said, and I smiled.

“How do I look?”

“You're beautiful, Mona,” he said.

“I'd forgotten I could look like this,” I admitted.

“You look like someone I used to know.”

“I think I used to know her, too,” I said, fighting tears. “You're going to make me cry.”

“Then I'll stop. I'm starving. I don't want to wait another twenty minutes.” He offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

He was shaking, or was it me?

I couldn't tell.

I felt like a woman on her first date, frightened and unsure, yet filled with hope.

How had I lived for so long without this man in my heart? How was it the distance hadn't killed me?

“Damn,” I whispered, wiping my eyes on the corner of the scarf I'd draped over my shoulders.

“Please don't cry, Mona. Not before the sex,” Tom said, and I laughed. He kissed my cheek, and led me to the door.

We opted for Applebee's to avoid the vicinity of the Sheraton. It was pretty dead, as expected for a Monday night, and we were seated almost as soon as we arrived. Tom ordered an ice tea, and I splurged on a margarita, then another. By the time we left, we were both sedate from the food, and I was fairly loose from the tequila.

“Your chariot, madam,” Tom said, holding the door to the Jeep.

“Thanks,” I said, stumbling slightly against his side.

Tom reached to steady me, and I wrapped my arms around him. He pressed his lips to mine, and I kissed him back with all the fervor of a lonely wife. “Take me home,” I whispered, and he helped me into the truck.

“Let's go,” he said, firing up the Jeep.

The drive would have been uneventful, if Tom hadn't reached for my hand. He squeezed it, and I turned to look at him. His face was bathed in shadow, then light, then shadow, as we moved along the parkway. He was beautiful, my Tom. How had I forgotten?

I laid my head against the glass and closed my eyes.

“Thurman's out there,” Tom said, as we pulled into the driveway.

“Gross,” I muttered, and Tom chuckled. “Go get the Jack. I'm gonna get the mail.”

I calculated the distance to the mailbox against the height of my heels, factoring in my Blood Alcohol Level.

“Okay. Be careful, Mona. You look a little unsteady.”

“I am.” I was half in the bag, about to face the neighbor I detested, and whose penis I had seen less than twelve hours ago. Then I was going to sleep with my husband, whose penis I hadn't seen in years. “I'll be damned,” I whispered, steadying myself against the Jeep.

“Evenin', Mrs. Siggs, you have too much to drink tonight?” Thurman hollered from across the street, and I felt tequila rushing through my colon.

“Cold medicine,” I lied, my words sounding something like
code messin'.

“Hope you feel better,” Thurman said, and I forced a smile I was pretty sure looked like something reminiscent of a Fun House.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping off my shoes, and toddling up the sidewalk. Tom was on the porch with the Jack Daniels.

“I got some glasses,” Tom said, handing me a half-full glass of amber-colored liquid.

I slammed mine as Tom watched curiously. I held my glass out and he refilled it.

“I'm gonna hurt tomorrow,” I said, not caring if I did.

“Me, too.”

“I'd hurt worse if you'd left tonight,” I said, and Tom sighed.

“So would I.”

“To husbands who give second chances,” I said, raising my glass.

“To beautiful wives,” Tom said, clinking his glass against mine.

Tom took my hand and led me to an old wicker love seat. I sat beside him, and leaned against his side. “Here we are,” he whispered.

“Yup. Here we are.”

“Do you remember the last time we were truly happy, Mona?” my husband asked, and I shook my head.

“No,” I admitted.

“We were happy when we moved here,” Tom said.

“Once the medics came and the funeral was over,” I said, and I heard my husband chuckle weakly.

“That was a difficult day,” he said, and I sighed.

“It was. I'd never lost someone I loved before Aunt Ida.”

“It's very hard,” he whispered.

“I don't want to lose you,” I said to my husband.

“Then, don't,” he replied, his two lone words carrying a powerful meaning. I said nothing, which for me was some remarkable feat. The night was quiet, and we both stared into the darkness.

“Mona?”

“What?”

“Just for tonight, can we pretend the last five years didn't happen?”

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Can I kiss you?” Tom asked, and I shuddered.

“I'd like that.”

He kissed me, softly at first, then with a passion that was almost frightening. His hands were in my hair, his lips on my neck, and suddenly I felt like someone had set my Victoria's Secret shit on fire. It was amazing, and I hated myself when I pulled away.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“I don't know.”

“You don't want to?” he asked, sounding so hurt I wanted to hurl myself into traffic, which made no sense, since there wasn't any.

“I do want to, Tom.”

“Mona, please. Please can we try?” I looked into my husband's eyes, and sighed.

“Give me the Jack.”

“Why?”

“I need one more shot.”

“You've already had too much,” he said, without a hint of condescension.

“I know. I may need some help to forget.”

“Here,” he said, handing me the bottle.

I took an enormous gulp and felt the burn as the liquor slid into my stomach. I wasn't much of a drinker, and I knew I'd have a hell of a hangover in the morning, but I didn't care.

I just needed to silence the Wicked Witch of Frigidness, who had lodged herself in my loins.

“Okay,” I whispered, and Tom took the bottle and set it on the porch railing.

“You good now, sexy?” he asked, and that's all it took to get me going. I laughed, and suddenly he was laughing, too.

I stood and reached for my husband's hand. “Dance with me,” I said, my words so jumbled they sounded like a foreign language.

“Sure,” he said, standing and pulling me to him. We whirled around, sending an old planter crashing to the porch floor. “Oops,” Tom whispered. “Think I killed it?”

“It died three years ago,” I said, through a laugh that was interrupted by my husband's lips crashing against mine. His depth perception must have been skewed, because he almost took my teeth out.

We stood there for what seemed like forever, making out like two teenagers at a rock concert. We tumbled onto the love seat, then slid to the ground. Something else fell, and I heard glass shatter. It sounded like the Jack.

We both sat up with a start.

“What the hell is going on over there?”

“Great! This is exactly what we need,” Tom whispered.

“You got a problem over there, Siggs?” Thurman hollered, and my husband looked at me with a whiskey-inspired devil in his eyes.

“Go back inside, Pippin,” Tom yelled. “This doesn't concern you.”

“You beatin' your wife, you scumbag?” Thurman accused, and my husband made a fist.

“Don't, Tom,” I said, but my husband was not to be thwarted. He stomped toward the road. “Sonovabitch,” I muttered, feeling sobered.

“You killed that old lady. I always knew you did. You're the devil, Siggs,” Thurman said, and I wondered if I should call 911.

“Tom?” I called, sounding frightened.

“Go in the house, Mona,” my husband suggested.

“Yes, Mrs. Siggs. Go pick out some sunglasses to wear to WalMart tomorrow so no one will know your husband gave you a shiner tonight,” Thurman said, and suddenly I wanted to hit him.

“My husband doesn't beat me, Mr. Pippin,” I said, wondering why I felt the need to be so proper.

“That's what they all say,” Thurman said from the edge of his yard.

“I don't hit my wife, Thurman,” Tom said, as he approached the road. “I didn't hit Ida, and I sure as hell didn't kill her, and I would prefer not to hit you, but I'm gonna tell you, you're testing me,” my husband said, sounding much calmer than I imagined he felt.

I was pretty sure Tom Siggs had never hit a man in his life, and I was positive he'd never hit a woman. In fact, I didn't think I'd ever seen him angry, unless you counted our spat in the bathroom, when he thought I was screwing that idiot he was about to slug.

“Tom? Don't do anything stupid!” I yelled, although part of me wished he would. My husband was about to take on the neighborhood bully and suddenly I wanted him to get on with it, because I wanted to screw his brains out. He was so filled with testosterone he was practically glowing, and I was getting pretty turned on by the sudden peak in his masculinity.

“
Holy schnookies
,” I whispered, as Thurman Pippin threw a right punch that landed squarely on my Tom's face. “Oh, shit!” I shouted, running for the garage. I knew where I was going, and what I was going for, and although I knew it was a bad idea, I went for it anyway.

Ida's old hunting rifle was right where it had been for the last ten years. I pulled it off the wall, amazed by the weight of it. I wasn't sure if it was loaded, but it didn't matter. I wasn't planning on firing it. I staggered through the yard, more unsteady from the rifle's weight, and as I'd seen in old movies, I raised the gun and pointed it at the two men fighting in the middle of my street.

“STOP!” I screamed, and they both did.

“Mona?” Tom yelled, and although he sounded frightened, he was smiling.

“Battered Women's Syndrome,” Thurman Pippin growled.

“Shut up, Pippin, or I'll shoot you myself,” Tom said.

I wondered where the cops were. Hadn't I called them?

“Go home, Mr. Thurman,” I slurred. My immediate surroundings became blurry, and I felt myself wobble as my grip on the rifle loosened.

“Hang on, Mona, I'm coming!” Tom yelled, and I took a couple of staggering steps and tried to blink away an untimely bout of double-vision. I opened my eyes again and saw my two husbands running toward me.

“Shoot him, Missus! Serves him right for beatin' ya,” Thurman yelled, and suddenly my world became narrow. I lost my footing and started to fall, as the Toms closed in on me.

Holy shit!

The gun fired.

My head roared, and I closed my eyes. When I opened them, Tom was beside me.

“Jeez, Mona,” he whispered, pulling me to his chest.

“Did I shoot anyone?” I asked, and my husband chuckled.

“No.”

“Where's Thurman?” I asked.

“I'm here, ma'am,” he said, looking horrified.

“Go home, Pippin,” Tom said, and I tried to nod, but my head had gained weight. I couldn't move it.

“All right, Siggs, but this isn't over,” Thurman threatened, before walking away.

Tom helped me sit up, and I felt lethargic. I wondered if I'd shot myself and had lost a lot of blood.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Tom asked, sounding concerned.

“I didn't want him to hurt you,” I whispered, and my husband pulled me to his chest. “Ugh, I need to lie down.”

“I'll take you inside,” he offered.

“No. Here,” I said, lying on the soft ground. I looked into the sky, into the trees surrounding our house and Thurman's. My head began to roar, and the sky - lit by the moon only moments ago - became black. “I think I'm gonna die,” I said, and Tom said nothing.