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

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.
    He stood and looked around the yard.
    “What the hell?” I heard him whisper, and I wondered why he was ignoring me as I faced death alone in the damp grass and soggy leaves.
    “Tom? I'm dying. I need you.”
    He walked away, toward the road, and I began to cry. “Tom?” I called, and he turned.
    “Something's wrong,” he said, or at least I thought he said, since it was hard to hear him over the roaring.
    “I know. I'm about to die.”
    “No, that's not it,” Tom said, and I inhaled sharply. Was there something more important than his wife's imminent death?
    “What is it?” I asked, as he knelt beside me.
    “I don't know. I think it's birds. Don't you hear that?” he asked.
    “I thought it was in my head,” I said, as Tom helped me sit upright.
    “It's not. You okay?” he said, and I shrugged.
    “I don't know. Am I shot?” I asked.
    Tom patted me down. It wasn't sexual, it was more like airport security. “There's no blood. I think you're okay.”
    “ Good. Thanks, Tom.”
    “ You're welcome,” he said, kissing my forehead, and picking leaves from my hair. “So, what made you go for the gun?” Tom asked, as the roaring grew louder.
    “Damned if I know. Good God! What is that?” I asked, and we both stared into the night sky.
    “I'm not sure. I think we should go in the house,” he said, helping me to my feet.
    “Yes. Let's,” I said, leaning hard against my husband, as he led me to through the yard. “What about the sex?” I asked, and Tom chuckled.
    “Let's get you inside first, and we'll see how it goes from there.”
    “Okay.”
    “You're a hoot, Mona Siggs. I thought you were gonna shoot somebody.”
    “You're sure I didn't?” I asked.
    “Pretty sure,” Tom said.
     
     
     
    Seven
    Tuesday
    Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketful of rye.
    Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie.
    — Eighteenth Century English Nursery Rhyme
     
     
    Daylight assaulted me as I forced my eyes open, and braced myself for full consciousness. A few seconds passed, as body and brain connected. I moaned in response to the pain of a massive hangover, which was indescribable, no matter how well deserved.
    My bedroom smelled like booze