If You Could See What I See (13 page)

9

L
acey, Tory, and I met at my tree house on Sunday evening. It was a clear night, the moon gold and orange, the leaves hugging my house starting to turn butter yellow and scarlet red.

We drove out to Tory’s ex-home. I took my dull gray car and Tory took her car, a Porsche like Grandma’s, in case Lacey became tired and needed to leave. Tory’s home is on an acre plot in the country with white flowering cherry trees lining a long drive to the front door. Her ex, Scotty, was not home, but he would be in a few hours. He was on a business trip and his plane was arriving late.

Tory’s yellow home with white gingerbread trim all over, the one she’d slammed out of months ago, was true country style, down to the white picket fence. A white deck surrounded the front of the house, with five rocking chairs and a porch swing. She had a polygonal tower, a red front door with a glass oval cut out in the middle, and three dormer windows.

We squished into Tory’s Porsche in the driveway as she declared, “I hate Scotty.”

I held her hand.

“It was Scotty who wanted to live in the country. He loves the smell of his lavender and his tomatoes and carrots and lettuce and corn and stupid cucumbers. He loves that vegetable garden. We could have fed half of Asia. I married a farmer. Farmer Scotty, I called him. Mean man. And look at my house! I don’t get to live in my house anymore!”

“You left him and the house,” Lacey said.

“Are you sure you want to take revenge on him?” I said. “Maybe you should take him to dinner.”

“He’s already dating some other slut girl. Of course I’m sure!”

“By the way, Tory,” Lacey said. “How did you even know he had a date?”

“Because.” Tory had that stubborn expression on her face.

“Because . . .” I prompted.

“Because I know these things.”

“Someone told you?” Lacey said.

“I know these things, spiritually. I’m a Pisces. We’re intuitive. Almost prophetic. We feel things in the air, in others’ auras.”

“Ah.” It clicked. “You knew he was going out on a date because you’re a spiritual Pisces. That explains it perfectly.”

“You’re still stalking him, aren’t you?” Lacey said.

“I’m not
stalking
him.” She slammed a hand on the steering wheel. “I drive by the house sometimes to make sure it’s okay and to make sure no other woman is cooking in my kitchen.
My kitchen,
my copper pans. I designed it and I don’t want her in there.”

“I think he asked you to stop stalking him, didn’t he?” I said, but I knew the answer.

“He said if you’re going to stalk me, come home. He should be begging me. And what? He’s the boss of me? My revenge will make him think twice before he goes out on another date with a bimbo slut doctor.”

“How do you know she’s a doctor?” I asked.

Tory glanced away. “I already said. I know because I’m a Pisces and smart with auras.”

“And the truth is?” Lacey said.

Tory tried to appear self-righteous, then gave in grumpily. “I introduced myself to his date at the French restaurant.”

“You what?” Lacey asked.

I sucked in my breath and pictured that pretty little scene. Scotty and the woman sitting down in some fancy candlelit place. Tory appearing, like a squawking bat out of hell. “You must be joking. No, of course you’re not. You stalked him. You waited for him to leave his house, you followed him to the restaurant, you watched him meet another woman, and you went and sat down at their table and said hello.”

“I’m friendly,” Tory said, chin out.

“Ah, yes. That’s the word we would all use to describe you,” Lacey said. “Along with demure and shy. Did you do anything else at the table?”

“I ordered shrimp. I like shrimp.”

“You sat at their table, with them, and ordered shrimp,” I confirmed. “Did Scotty ask you to leave?”

“Yes, he did.” Her brows drew together.

“And you didn’t,” Lacey said.

“No. His eyes were sad and I didn’t want to leave him sad. Plus, I wanted to tell the bimbo slut doctor what I thought of her.”

“Oh. You. Didn’t.” Lacey slapped a hand to her forehead.

“And you told her . . .” I said.

“I told her that Scotty was still married, and the stethoscope Barbie nodded and said she knew that we were separated. I told her that I thought her boobs were fake, that mine were much better, that her nose went off at a slant, she seemed uptight, and I didn’t like the color she was wearing.”

“What color was she wearing?” I asked.

“Red. It wasn’t her color. She looked like a blood clot.”

“You didn’t tell her that.”

Tory nodded. “I did.”

Lacey and I sat in silence for a sec, absorbing that tidbit.

“What did Scotty do?”

“He was angry,” Tory mused. “I liked seeing the anger. Some passion is still there. He hauled me out of the restaurant and I didn’t even get to eat my shrimp. So now he’s getting this”—she spread out her manicured nails—“gift. I had it specially made for him.”

At that moment, our friend Lola D’Andreau drove up in her roaring blue truck. We went to high school with her. She’s a renowned wood carver. Coming up behind her was her friend Keeter in his cement truck. He brought a couple of muscly friends with him. One was named Trucker, the other was named William.

We all stood around, chatting under the gold and orange moon, until Keeter said, “Let’s get this baby up.”

Tory took them to a spot in the front yard and pointed. While the men went back to the trucks for their equipment, Lacey, Tory, and I went around to the back of Lola’s truck to see the “gift.” Lola threw her arms out, as if presenting a work of priceless art. In fact, she even singsonged, “Ta da! Ta da!”

“It’s not . . .” I asked, almost breathless.

“It couldn’t be . . .” Lacey said, then covered her mouth and laughed.

“It is.”
I laughed, oh, how I laughed. It was mean and naughty, and Scotty didn’t deserve it, but I bent over double I laughed so hard.

“I think that Scotty will understand the symbolism,” Tory said. “He’s a Sagittarius. They’re quick, decisive, literate. Scotty likes literature. He’ll link the two. Good job, Lola.”

“Thank you.” She put a hand to her chest. “I’m proud of it.”

First, Lola, Keeter, and company set up lights outside so they could see. Then they dug a hole in the front yard. Next they poured in quick-dry cement. Finally Lola, Keeter, Trucker, William, Tory, and I carried the wood carving to the cement. It was very, very heavy. We put the “stub” of the wood carving, about two and a half feet of wood, in first. The stub would hold the “art” steady in the ground into the next millennium.

When we were done, the gold and orange moon had moved, the stars were bright, and Tory spread her arms out wide and shouted, “We now have an artistic masterpiece! A modern art symbol of my relationship with Scotty, the overgrown, bubble-butted squid!”

Lola glowed with pride, her hands together as if in grateful prayer. She bowed slightly. “Thank you, Tory. I worked so carefully on it, every inch, every curve and groove, to make it realistic.”

“It’s impressive, Lola,” I said. “It’s good to take pride in your work.”

“You should win an award,” Lacey said, in all seriousness, then she laughed.

Keeter said, hands on his hips, “I feel inadequate. Small.”

Lacey said, “That’s what got me knocked up.”

William said, “The moon shines upon it, glowing, ethereal, soft and gentle, illuminating its inner core of natural tree beauty and the secrets of the ages within.”

Lacey raised her eyebrows.

“William’s a poet,” Lola said helpfully. “In touch with his manhood.”

Trucker said, “We’re gonna be famous. Ain’t nothing done like this before.”

Tory danced around it, arms out. “No one would have the balls to do this except for me.”

I stroked Lola’s masterpiece.

The wood carving was seven feet tall.

The wood carving was
a penis.

Lola had carved on the penis, “My name is Scotty. I am a dick.”

Yes, a dick. Lola had carved a dick, commissioned by Tory.

It was now cemented into the middle of Tory and Scotty’s front lawn, glowing under the lights, as William, the poet, had noted.

“Moonlight, starlight, blue jays call, majesty, royalty, it has no balls,” William intoned.

We heard sirens in the distance.

We didn’t think they had anything to do with us.

We were wrong.

A neighbor had called the police. Her name is—this is not a joke—Gladys. Gladys is eighty-two years old. Tory is friends with her. Tory kept an eye on her when she lived here and continues to check on her. Gladys has no children and a small home she’s lived in all her life. This whole area was once owned by her family, who were farmers, before she sold part of it to a developer. I don’t know what she’s done with the cash, because her house isn’t it great shape, but she’s a multimillionaire.

Her vision isn’t good without her glasses, so that night when she peered across the street to Tory’s house, seeing the lights off inside but people outside, she thought she was seeing, as she put it to the 911 operator, “burglars standing around in a circle on the front lawn, having a séance and building a rocket ship.”

The police came to stop, I’m sure, the séance.

Gladys said to us later, “Dears, I’m so sorry. Had I known you were installing impressionistic body art in your yard I would have come to help. You know I’m an artist myself. Oh, by the way, I love your new bra, the Squish and Squeeze. It really does squish and squeeze, doesn’t it? Look here. Tory brought me the magenta one.” She pulled up her shirt. Lacey and I admired how our Squish and Squeeze bra squished and squeezed.

Gladys showed two of the police officers her Squish and Squeeze, too, after introducing herself as the woman who reported that the rocket ship had landed in front of the burglars. We think there may be a tiny slice of dementia moving into Gladys’s brain. She called the police officers “dears,” too. They were surprised at being flashed, but they were gentlemen.

“They made the Squish and Squeeze!” She pointed at Lacey, Tory, and me.

Not only did the police come, the police chief of Portland came, too. As I understood it, the chief likes to go out on calls with his officers to keep himself up to date on what’s going on in this fine city of Portland.

Eventually there were six police cars on Tory’s property. Six. Word spread.

I later learned the words from headquarters were: Giant penis on the loose.

And “Man’s yard attacked by penis.”

And “Penis Invasion. All cars report.”

And “Approach with caution. Penis response: unpredictable. Be ready to take down penis.”

One more: “Consider the penis to be armed and dangerous. Taser first, no live shots.”

The police, between laughing, were quite kind, once they found out that Tory was the owner of the house. They took photos with their cell phones. Tory posed in front of the penis at their request, her arms wrapped around it, one high heel kicked in the air, smile bright, black hair blown by the wind.

Tory said things like, “Husbands shouldn’t be dicks,” and “I’m a Pisces and we don’t take any fish crap,” and “I adore modern art.”

The cops laughed again.

I put a hand to my head. I felt a headache speeding on, like in one of Gladys’s rocket ships.

 

I like to learn new things. It’s the academic nerd that lives within me. I like learning about new cultures, new insects found in jungles, new information about space and infinity, the history of the universe, etc.

I learned something new that night.

I learned Blake’s occupation.

What is his occupation? What does the blond giant with the muscled arms and friendly smile do for a living? Blake Crighton is the police chief of Portland.

Yes, the chief.

 

Getting to work after only three hours of sleep was a torture. I didn’t get in until nine.

Lacey wasn’t there, and neither was Tory or Grandma. The production floor was humming louder than normal. I heard people laughing, the chatting loud. I skittered up the stairs because I did not want to talk, and poured myself a cup of coffee. I ate peanut butter and pecans for breakfast. My head was banging.

Abigail knocked and entered my office. “Heard you had an interesting evening.”

“How did you know?” I dipped a pecan in the peanut butter.

“Word flies around town.” She mimicked a bird flying, then burst into laughter, which she tried to suppress with no success.

“You make for a poor bird.” I rolled my shoulders under my sweatshirt. Grandma would hate that I was wearing a sweatshirt to work. I hoped she would not come in today.

“It’s on YouTube, you know.”

My head whipped up, my hand jerking my coffee cup over. “You must be joking.”

“Nope. It’s getting more and more popular.” Abigail stood on her toes, she was so excited. She bopped up and down.

“It’s also online in different newspapers. Lace, Satin, and Baubles is mentioned many times, as in, ‘Tory O’Rourke stands next to a seven-foot-tall wood penis’—is it actually seven feet tall, Meggie?—‘that she planted in her estranged husband’s front yard.’ You have to read the rest, it’s the best fun. Fantastic fun! Says she was mad at her husband for going on a date with a doctor who did not wear the color red well. There are people who can’t wear red?” Abigail seemed baffled by this. “Should I not wear red?”

“You look good in red.”

“I’ll ask Tory,” she said, my opinion clearly not counting. “She knows about fashion.”

I groaned and placed my banging head on my desk.

“On a money note, it’s great publicity, Meggie. The phones are ringing off the hook, people are calling, reporters, bloggers, even two talk shows here, and one in San Francisco, Los Angeles. . . . You have to call all these people right away. It’ll help our sales.”