The next morning, the Hereticks make the front page of the local paper. LOCAL WOMAN BUYS COMMIE STATUE, INSTALLS IN BACK YARD, the headline reads. Beneath there's a photo of the statue of Vladimir Lenin that Mrs. Heretick purchased on eBay. The Hereticks stand before it. The photographer had to kneel down to get all three faces—Mrs. Heretick's, Mr. Heretick's, and Lenin's—in the picture. Mrs. Heretick feels this made her look jowly. She wears a frozen smile in the picture; Mr. Heretick, a scowl.
Now the Hereticks huddle in their kitchen, all the blinds drawn. Occasionally, Mr. Heretick moves over to the window and lifts a corner of one of the blinds to gaze out at the crowd that has already collected around their five foot fence. The people laugh and point and snap pictures. Strangers engage in animated conversation, then walk off arm-in-arm to breakfast at a nearby cafe. After a moment, Mr. Heretick lets the blind fall with a snort of disgust and moves away. But a few minutes later, he's drawn to the window again.
He's interrupted by a knock at the front door. The Hereticks both turn their gaze toward the door, but neither of them moves to get it. People have been banging on the door and ringing the bell all morning. But this time there's another knock, and Mr. Sharp's voice calls, "Heretick! Are you in there? It's me! Let me in!"
Mr. Heretick throws Mrs. Heretick a despairing glance but heads for the living room. A moment later the house seems filled with Sharps. Mrs. Heretick notices that Mrs. Sharp is dressed to the nines, in a yellow dress and heels and with a yellow scarf tied around her head. A bit overdone for nine a.m. on Sunday, Mrs. Heretick thinks, especially for a woman who hasn't been in church since her wedding.
Mrs. Heretick also can't help noticing that the Sharps are delirious with happiness. They laugh and clap their hands together; Mr. Sharp pounds Mr. Heretick on the back, and Mrs. Sharp swirls around. After a moment she lands in the chair next to Mrs. Heretick's at the table.
"Why don't you get me a cup of coffee and tell me all about it, Hon," Mrs. Sharp says, resting her bejeweled hand on Mrs. Heretick's. Mrs. Heretick knows the rings on Mrs. Sharp's hand were purchased from QVC, in a shopping spree that maxed out the Sharps' credit cards. At the same time, Mrs. Sharp rang up thousands of dollars in calls to psychic hot lines on her cell phone. Mr. Sharp had to take out a second mortgage on their house to pay the bills. He took away his wife's cell phone and credit cards. Their marriage was strained almost to the breaking point.
Yet now all that has been wiped away. Mrs. Heretick looks into Mrs. Sharp's face, and sees gratitude hidden beneath the mirth. Mrs. Sharp is no longer the most irresponsible of wives. Compared to Mr. Heretick, Mr. Sharp now feels that he has gotten off easy. With a single click, Mrs. Heretick has saved the Sharps' marriage.
Later in the day, several hours after the Sharps' departure, the Hereticks' siege is broken once again. This time it's the Jaspers. Without knocking, Mrs. Jasper bursts in through the front door, her husband trailing in her wake.
The living room is darkened, and Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Room plays on the stereo. It's Mr. Heretick's stress music. He reclines in his easy chair with his eyes closed. Mrs. Heretick lies on the couch, a damp washcloth plastered to her forehead. A mug of coffee cools on the table beside her.
"Good heavens, it's like an Irish wake in here," says Mrs. Jasper briskly, snapping on the overhead light. She crosses to the stereo and the music stops abruptly. Mr. Heretick remains immobile in his chair. Mrs. Heretick sits up and rubs her eyes. "Hello, Mother," she says wearily.
"Hello, Dear," says Mrs. Jasper, whisking Mrs. Heretick's coffee cup to the kitchen for washing. "You've done it now, haven't you," she adds rhetorically, raising her voice to be heard over the running water. "Or was it his idea?" She finishes with the cup and returns to the living room. "The papers said it was you, but this seems more like one of his maneuvers. Or am I wrong?" Mrs. Jasper looks expectantly from the couch to the chair, and then to the far wall, where Mr. Jasper has moved in an attempt to stay out of his wife's line of fire.
Mr. Heretick's eyes open, but he makes no other motion, staring unblinkingly up at the ceiling.
"No, Mother, it was entirely my idea," says Mrs. Heretick. The words come out louder than she intended.
"Well, Dear, there's no need to shout," says Mrs. Jasper, moving over to the window. She adjusts the blinds, revealing the crowd that still mulls about the Heretick's fence. They shade their eyes from the afternoon sun to catch a glimpse of Lenin, whose stalwart face points east.
"Whichever it was, and for whatever reason, you've certainly created quite a stir," says Mrs. Jasper, gazing out at the curiosity-seekers. "Aren't you going to greet your guests? Perhaps you could sell refreshments."
"That's enough, Mother," says Mrs. Heretick, and now Mr. Heretick's eyes finally leave the ceiling, as he turns to gaze in surprise at his wife. She's never stood up to her mother before.
"Enough of what, Dear?" asks Mrs. Jasper. There's not even a trace of an edge in her voice. "Have I done something wrong?"
Mrs. Heretick jumps off the couch and paces around. "Enough. Enough of your sarcasm, and your wit, and your insinuations about my husband, who had nothing to do with this. Buying that statue was my idea. I wanted it, and I bought it, and it's mine, and if you want to laugh at somebody about what a horrendous and comical decision it was, I'm the one to laugh at. So go ahead, laugh away. Take your best shot. But direct it at me, because it's my Lenin statue, and frankly I resent the implication that I'm too much of a boring dishrag for it possibly to be mine."
Mrs. Jasper, who was folding a dishcloth when her daughter began her tirade, has frozen in place, the towel hanging daintily in neat halves from her still hands. She holds this position for a full ten seconds after Mrs. Heretick finishes speaking. Her daughter and husband both watch to see what she'll do next. Mr. Heretick, however, continues staring at his wife.
After a long moment, Mrs. Jasper's hands finish their folding motion. "Well," she says, her voice an octave higher than it was a minute before, "I see you're in an unreasonable mood. I only came to help if I could. But I see our help isn't wanted. So we'll go."
Mrs. Jasper's eyelids flutter rapidly. She trembles a bit as she collects her purse. Without a word, Mr. Jasper slips into place behind her as she heads for the door.
Mrs. Heretick watches this performance with wonder. In the past she's always caved long before her mother got this far, offering any apology or self-recrimination necessary to stop Mrs. Jasper from going out the door. Now she can't believe what a sorry little performance it turns out to be after all.
Besides, she'll be back. You can take that to the bank.
When they're gone, Mrs. Heretick turns to her husband, who's beaming at her. "There's one thing she got right," Mrs. Heretick says.
"What's that?" asks her husband.
"We're going out there."
Mrs. Heretick decides to take her cue from Mrs. Sharp. She tosses aside her rumpled pajamas and steps into a steamy shower. When she's finished, she wraps a robe around herself, then peers into her closet. After some consideration, she selects a red dress.
When Mr. Heretick sees her choice, he puts down the jeans he's holding and takes a pair of slacks out of his dresser. He zips his wife's dress and she helps him with his tie. While she applies her makeup, he sits on the bed and watches.
When her hair is done, she turns to him with a brow raised quizzically. "What do you think?"
"Perfect," he says. He crooks his arm for her to take. "So this Lenin," he says, as they stroll through their house, "he was the good one, right? Not the later one who killed all those people?"
"Opinions vary," says Mrs. Heretick. "It used to be he was considered a pure revolutionary. Recently, though, scholars have argued he supported the secret police and laid the groundwork for Stalin's reign of terror."
They've reached the back door. "Let's go see what the neighbors think," says Mr. Heretick, and they step outside into the afternoon light.
Other stories by Dawn Corrigan have appeared recently or are forthcoming at Raving Dove, Opium Magazine, Dogzplot, The Abacot Journal, Wigleaf, Steel City Review, and 3711 Atlantic. Her nonfiction appears regularly at www.TheNervousBreakdown.com.