Muppets and sex, two topics that should never collide. Trying not to envision Mrs. R in bed with a six-foot-tall furry blue monster, I pulled a puzzle off the shelf. “Here, this looks cute. I’ll just get this.”
Molly whipped around. “What’s the age range?”
“Uh…” I scanned the box.
“In the corner.” Molly pointed. Then she shook her head. “It says ages eighteen months to two years. It’ll be too hard. Plus, the pieces are too little. Connor could choke on one. You have to read the age ranges, Maddie.”
“Oh. Okay.” I put the puzzle back, then grabbed a plastic truck. “How about this?”
Molly shook her head. “No, we’re allowing only gender-neutral toys into the house. Experts say that social imprinting begins at a very early age, and male-and female-nonspecific toys present them with the best chance for gender-role socialization in a nonthreatening and nurturing environment before they conceptualize gender constancy and their culturally determined roles.”
O-kay. I put the truck back.
“I think this guy’s kind of cute. You sure Connor wouldn’t like him?” Mom squeezed Self-esteem Elmo again.
“Be proud of your uniqueness, ” it told her.
“You know, it’s been ages since I saw Luther, ” Mrs. R said, putting Grover back on the shelf. “Last time was right after we signed the divorce papers. We bumped into each other at the Hometown Buffet. Then ended up back at my place for dessert.” She did another eyebrow waggle. “If ya know what I mean. I tell ya, for a skinny guy, that man could really eat.”
I sincerely hoped she was talking about the pound cake.
“Where is it? The online ad said that Chicken Dance Elmo was ten percent off this week. If they advertise it, they should have it. I need that doll!”
Mom squeezed Self-esteem Elmo again. “Elmo loves you just the way you are.”
“How about this guy?” Mrs. R held up another red monster, this one in a pair of shiny silver pants. She pushed the Try Me button on his hand and he began to gyrate to a hip-hop version of “Old Mac Donald Had a Farm.”
“No, that’s Bust-a-Move Elmo. He’s last year’s model. We need the new one. Connor wants Chicken Dance Elmo!” Molly pushed past the freckle-faced girl with the gun, frantically rummaging through the stuffed toys.
“You know, Luther wasn’t much of a dancer. Unless, of course, you count the horizontal mambo. Man, that guy could mambo all night. He had this huge-”
“How about this?” I asked, quickly grabbing a teddy bear from the shelf, lest the freckle-faced kid get an anatomy lesson right here in the Elmo aisle.
Molly turned around, then blinked her blue eyes at me. “Seriously? Ohmigod, Maddie what are you trying to do to the kid?”
Uh, give him a teddy bear?
Molly grabbed the bear from my hand. “The eyes are made of buttons. Connor could easily pop them off and choke on one. Parenting Today magazine says all safe animals should have embroidered features. And the bow around his neck is secured with an elastic cord, which could get wrapped around Connor’s throat. And look at the tag! The stuffing isn’t hypoallergenic-poor Connor could have a reaction to it-and the fur isn’t even pretreated with fire retardant or Teflon. And to top it all off, it’s made in China, probably by children not much older than Connor in a sweatshop. What kind of message would we be sending him by allowing him to play with this? It should be illegal even to sell safety hazards like this.” Molly’s nostrils flared, and her eyes had a scary Jack Nicholson look to them.
I slowly put the cuddly death trap back on the shelf, seriously contemplating a gift certificate.
“I still like this guy.” Mom squeezed her Elmo.
“You deserve respect and love, ” he squeaked back.
“We’re not getting that one!” Molly turned her attention back to the shelves, knocking boxes off onto the floor now in her search. “All the other kids at Mommy and Me have Chicken Dance Elmo. Connor needs Chicken Dance Elmo. What will the other mothers think if I can’t find Chicken Dance Elmo!”
“Wait!” Mrs. R clapped a thick palm to Molly’s forehead, her underarm jiggling with aftershocks. “Albert’s speaking to me. She rolled her eyes back in her head. “Ohmmmmmmmm.”
“Albert?” Molly asked.
“Mrs. Rosenblatt’s spirit guide, ” Mom explained.
The freckle-faced kid took a few steps back and started calling for her mommy.
I didn’t blame her.
Mrs. R rolled her eyes so far back all I could see was white. “Albert says…he says he thinks he saw Chicken Dance Elmo fifteen percent off at Toy Town with the purchase of a Power Ranger action figure of equal or lesser value.”
“Really, fifteen percent?” Molly asked.
Mrs. R opened her eyes. “Give or take. Albert’s usually correct within ten percent.”
“To Toy Town!” Molly gave the battle cry.
Mom let out a squeak of excitement and hugged her doll.
“Elmo thinks you are a valid human being.”
I thought my ovaries might have shriveled up and died.
By the time Mom finally dropped me back off at home and I was climbing the steps to my studio, we’d been to every toy store in the greater Los Angeles area, looking for a monster in a chicken suit. At the last one, a tiny little place in the Valley with bars on the windows, Molly finally found one doll left. For three hundred dollars. I almost choked when Molly gladly forked it over. Didn’t she know how many pairs of pumps three hundred dollars could buy?
Since there was no way my budget (let alone my conscience-see shoe reference above) could allow me to spend that kind of money on a stuffed monster, I finally bought Connor a pair of baby Nike’s. After making sure they didn’t have any hazardous laces, elastic bands, buttons, zippers, or were made in a third-world country.
I stretched my neck from side to side, working out the kinks, as I trudged up the stairs, the slight hum of traffic two blocks away on Venice the only backdrop to the blissful silence. I made a mental note to wait a few years (decades) before having any little monsters of my own, nursing a whopper of a toy store-induced headache as I pulled my keys out.
I yawned and was about to slip my key in the lock when the toe of my ballet flats came up against something. I looked down at the top step.
Then froze.
Another package. A plain brown box, the top taped neatly down, just like the last. Instinctively I reached into my purse for my canister of pepper spray. Not there. Damn! I’d left it in pseudo San Francisco. Instead I looked over both shoulders and down the street, as if the punk who’d left it here might still be watching, waiting for me to find the remains of another unfortunate victim of speeding on the PCH.
I weighed my options. I could just leave it there. Pretend I hadn’t seen it. I could chuck it in the Dumpster behind the building.
But as morbid as it seemed, I was curious.
Gingerly, I reached down and pulled off the tape.
Grooooooooss!
My stomach churned as I stared down at his present. He’d escalated to dead birds tonight: a pigeon with a bent wing and tire treads through his midsection. Only this time, there was a note sitting on top of the mangled carcass. With visions of bird flu dancing in my head, I reached inside my purse and pulled out an old Taco Bell napkin, draping it over my hand as I held my nose and picked up the paper.
Then I really felt my stomach lurch, white dots dancing before my eyes as I scanned the page.
I should have killed you when I had the chance.
Chapter 8
My gaze whipped wildly from side to side as if I expected the bogeyman to jump out of my neighbor’s agapanthus bushes. I kicked the box of roadkill aside, fingers fumbling as I tried to fit my keys in the lock. I was shaking so badly it took me two tries before I realized I was trying to unlock my front door with my Jeep keys. Finally I got the right one in, but by this time I was in serious panic mode.