Free Cut, Crop & Die by Joanna Campbell Slan

Detweiler admitted. “We got all excited when we found some empty syringes in the trash. But it looks like there’s glue in them.”
    “That’s right,” said Dodie, “Using a syringe keeps the adhesive off your fingers and helps get glue into tight areas. I prefer using a toothpick, but each to her own. Since a tube is nearly airtight, the adhesive won’t dry out like in a bottle.”
    “The empty syringes are being tested,” Detweiler chuckled. “That was a new one on me. Son of a gun.”
    The door minder rang and Mert walked in. Her face was pale under her sun-bed tan, but otherwise she seemed fine. Dressed in her work uniform of white-collared knit shirt, black pants and black Reeboks, she approached with a subdued walk. I met her halfway with a big hug. Her shoulder muscles were hard as rocks, but she quickly relaxed under the warmth of my affection. I pulled back and gave both her hands a squeeze of encouragement.
    “Don’t trust him, Kiki,” Mert stared at Detweiler. “I done thought he was different, but he ain’t. He’s a sleezeball like all the rest.”
    Detweiler turned away. But before he did, I noticed his face was bright red.

    Since I had to pick up Anya at my mother-in-law’s house, I couldn’t stick around. I wasn’t sure I wanted to either. When I left, Mert and Detweiler were glaring at each other. Dodie stood hands on hips and stared off into space. Time in a Bottle had always been my escape. A place I could go and forget my troubles. Where I could get lost in creative activity.
    But that had changed.
    Even so, I touched my lips with my fingertips as I drove. He kissed me. He kissed me. I kept repeating that over and over in my head, dumbstruck with wonder and amazement. As much as I’d hated the scene with Mert, I couldn’t help myself. I was blissed out. And I wanted more.
    Sheila was out in her front yard, pouring a green liquid into mole tunnels. Yellowish stains and blotches of mud splashed the hem of her ivory linen slacks. The ground was littered with empty jars that said “Kosher Dills” on the label.
    Really, I was afraid to ask what she was doing.
    “Pickle juice,” she said. “Two new tunnels popped up overnight. One website said this will scare these suckers off. I saved the leftover dills for you because Anya likes them.”
    I surveyed the containers scattered across what had once been greens fit for a golf course. What on earth would I do with all those pickles? I considered helping, but there didn’t seem to be anything left to do.
    Sheila wore an expression of triumph as she waved a hand over the mess. “I got them this time. Fixed their little wagons good. Did you know moles have three to five pups a litter? And they don’t really dig? They sort of swim through the dirt? Their front paws scrape at the soil. The back legs push it like a back-stroker moves water. Once the animal loosens enough soil, he turns a flip and from his back pushes the dislodged stuff upwards, creating the mole hill.”
    In my best imitation of Butterfly McQueen, I said, “Golly, Miss Sheila, I don’t know nuttin’ about birthin’ no moles, and that’s the truth.”
    Sheila gave me a sidelong look. “I’m surprised at you, Kiki. You love animals.”
    “Animals, yes. Rodents, no. Not real fond of most reptiles, either.”
    “Moles are insectivores, not rodents.” Sheila pointed to the nearly dry pickle bottles. “You can take all those home.”
    Right. We needed twelve bottles of pickles like I needed a fresh set of stretch marks across my stomach. Just to keep Sheila happy, I twisted lids on empty bottles. She shoved a cardboard box with dividers under my nose. Six bottles fit into the spaces. Sheila duplicated my efforts with the other half dozen jars. Without preamble my mother-in-law said, “I want you to come with me to the annual Opera Theatre Dinner this Saturday. It’s black tie.”
    Super. Those were the operative words: “I want you to.” Well, I had a perfect excuse.