Becoming Mona Lisa by Holden Robinson Read Free Book Online Page A

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