Giant Men and Violent Women

She's Such a Liar

PRESLEY ANN

"Oh, Presley Ann. What a pleasure to see you...yet again."

One need not be observant to decipher the meaning in that phrase, but I expected as much from The Widow.

As Boxer drove Jewels and me, I filled Jewels in about the widow of Governor Wheat, the owner of Boston Society. Jewels wondered if the same person who had finished Governor Wheat finished Chap. Was it the same person? I don't think so. What would be the common motive? I went on to tell Jewels that not only does The Widow hate me, but she also has told me that she wishes that I were dead.

"But I am blackmailing her," I told Jewels.

"That might explain her death wish," Jewels said to me.

I agreed.

There was no judgment in his statement, just a lighthearted acknowledgment of me committing the crime of coercion that could carry a sentence of no more than one year in prison. He thought the whole thing was funny. He and I laughed while Boxer showed not the smallest hint of emotion.

Boxer does this masterfully when I speak of delicate matters in front of him, behaving as though he were deaf at all the right times. Not that he would say anything with Jewels around. Jewels treats prisoners as one treats the boys who mop up the sweat on an NBA court during time-outs. He knows they're there but never acknowledges them. For Jewels is from the conservative side of Vermont and acts accordingly. There will be no scruffy-faced reggae folk living for him.

So, he and I laughed at my Widow problem, and it was liberating to do so with him.

Jewels and I are embarking on a different level of our friendship, and the shift has been climatic. It's only been a few weeks since I've known Jewels, so before today, our relationship was in that I'm-perfect-I-swear-Iam stage. But, now, we've both decided that we need each other—and not in the way that makes you call someone at midnight in the most seductive and dramatic fashion, but in that desperately political way that New England society operates on. He and I instantly entered a level of comfort once we told each other what we truly needed in a relationship—that we didn't need a relationship at all. There is so much transparency between us now. Jewels even knows why I'm blackmailing The Widow.

The Widow is the owner of Boston Society. Usually, I agree with the idea of freedom of press but not when it comes to me. So, once Ashley took up with Louisiana after nearly proclaiming his undying love for me, I had to clean up my own mess. Because, if there's one thing that gets under my skin, it's women waiting around for a pioneer to slay her Indians. I had to help myself.

My first stop, after leaving Darling and heading to Wild Hare, was to visit The Widow. I walked right into her office building in downtown Boston and asked for security to phone her for me. She eagerly told the guard to let me up. Whatever could I want? If she knew then what she knows now, she wouldn't have been so eager to meet me.

I exited the elevator on Boston Society's floor and noticed that the headquarters looked like the loft of the typical vegan-only Boston painter— high ceilings with exposed beams, red brick walls, oversized couches, and paintings that looked like they were upside down...or were they sideways? Or were they—oh, whatever. They were lovely.

The Widow's secretary escorted me to her office. Can't remember her name, but she was nice. The office was a further extension of the rest of the building—a wall clock that used a spoon and a fork as the hour and minute hands, a painting of a naked woman who refused to shave.

The Widow stood from behind her glass desk, dressed like she normally does. In other words, she looked like a brilliant artist who was also a madwoman, so she wore every color the rainbow had ever reflected. She also wore necklaces that were so chunky, it looked as though her neck would rather pop off than to hold them up any longer. And, of course, her glasses were red and as round as magnifying glasses, though it was up for discussion if she even needed them at all.