Pretty Ugly: A Novel (31 page)
“Let’s go, boys. First round’s on me,” Caroline said, waving two fingers in the air like a Marine signaling his team back onto the chopper. The cameramen fell in line and followed her down the hall, laughing as if Ray couldn’t hear them.
When they were out of sight, Ray pulled the biohazard bag from his pocket and popped two of what he hoped was cyanide. Marvin’s letter was still at his feet. He looked at it for a long time, not sure if he should burn it or frame it. He picked it up and read it again, a faint smile forming as he let it sink in one last time, a death row inmate’s stay of execution. He didn’t even realize Joan was still in the hall with him. It looked like she was staring off into space, but her eyes were closed. Dried blood had caked on her arm, and the skin around the scratches had started to turn purple.
“That could get infected,” Ray said as he tore Marvin’s letter into ten thousand pieces. “You want me to take a look at it? I am a nurse, you know.”
Joan shook her head and tried hiding her shame by folding her arms in the pillow. “No. I’ll be okay. Jesus will take care of me.”
Ray sighed. “All right, well, let me know if he doesn’t. Make sure you at least wash them before you go to bed.”
She nodded. “I thought she was bad, Ray. I really did.”
Ray nodded. “Yeah,” he said more to himself than to her. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think probably she was just young.”
He turned and opened the door to his room, which was filled with the cries of his daughter, wife, and infant.
Alone in the hall, Joan looked upward, trying to get through to Jesus.
“What happened?” she asked. “How could we have made such a horrible mistake? Are you disappointed in me?”
After three failed attempts to reach Him, it was clear He was not going to answer.
Limping back to her room, Joan wrapped a clean towel around her mutilated arm and lay on her bed, as the boys dreamed nearby. She tried one more time to contact her Lord and Savior, but again there was no response. She had embarrassed Him, and He was ignoring her. Closing her eyes, the exhausted old woman pulled a pillow tight over her head and wished herself invisible. And as the sound of her granddaughter’s muffled screams echoed through her head, Joan wept.
Miranda’s new Nissan Murano barreled into the parking lot of the Opryland Hotel and stopped with a lurch. She smiled apologetically at the family she nearly ran over, then shook her head as she watched them drag their bags the fifty yards to the hotel. Poor bastards. Nissan had given her the car only a few weeks earlier, and she still wasn’t used to the power.
“Murano is the only midsize SUV fit for a queen … and maybe a princess or two” is what she said in the commercial, and after driving it for a little while she was actually starting to believe it.
Miranda had been in an exceedingly good mood lately. Her reality show,
A Special Kind of Beautiful,
had debuted to record numbers. “The biggest nonscripted pageant themed debut in women eighteen to forty-nine in the history of the network!” Caroline breathlessly announced in an early-morning phone call the day after the premiere. By the end of the third episode, the Miller girls were a full-blown phenomenon.
Season two was to begin filming this weekend.
Miranda turned to Bailey, who was staring out the window. “You okay, sweetie?”
Bailey nodded, oblivious of her mother’s near vehicular homicide. She was focused on remembering her new choreography. The success of the show had made Bailey realize that maybe retirement wasn’t what she’d wanted after all.
“How can you just quit competing? Pageants are who you are. If nothing else, you owe it to yourself to see how much farther you could go.” At least that was Caroline’s convincing argument.
Additionally, Bailey’s therapists believed the familiarity of competing might help her overcome her persistent night terrors and fear of being alone. Caroline and the network were in negotiations with Miranda and her lawyers to tape Bailey’s therapy sessions for an upcoming holiday special.
Bailey’s return to pageanting (and sanity) would be the primary focus of season two, and there was no better venue for her comeback than the Central Tennessee Prettiest Girl in the World Pageant (Nashville, Tennessee). She had been crowned Little Miss Pretty at the age of seven—the second youngest in history—and was going back to reclaim her crown. No one had ever won two nonconsecutive Little Miss Pretty titles before. Not even Starr Kennedy, who had been MIA since Theresa’s indictment for kidnapping after trying to move the girl to Los Angeles without her father’s consent. But none of that mattered. If anyone could recapture her old glory, it was Bailey Miller. And even if she couldn’t, it would make great TV.
“No!” Brixton screamed, throwing her water bottle, which bounced off the back of Miranda’s head and rolled under the seat. At thirteen months she was already outearning the rest of the family thanks to her ebullient personality and full-time publicist. Talk shows, magazines, local morning programs—Brixton had done them all. She’d even taken her first steps on
The Tonight Show.
Something about her story had struck a chord with Midwestern Christian housewives: “the demographic G-spot for TLC advertisers,” Caroline crowed.
Brixton had become the role model her mother dreamed she’d be. Even Sarah Palin sent a letter “congradulating” Miranda and her family for giving hope to the millions of families touched by special needs children. The letter hung proudly in a gold-plated frame in Brixton’s growing corner of Bailey’s awards room.
Of course, Miranda was not without her critics: The Family Research Council sent out an e-mail claiming that “this kind of ‘tolerance’ and ‘inclusion’ is all well and good, but where does it stop? Does this mean a child who claims to be gay should be allowed to compete? We certainly hope not.” Fox News claimed that while they had no problem with Brixton being a role model, they were concerned that publicizing her condition might become a rallying cry for government subsidized health care. And MSNBC called for Child Protective Services to investigate if Brixton’s media exposure was a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act.
“Who cares what those people think?” Miranda told
People
magazine. “It might not be what other families would choose to do, but we’re not like other families. Brixton is my daughter, and I can tell you, Down syndrome is
not
the most interesting thing about her. She is special for many, many reasons. No one knows what’s better for her than I do. My daughter’s transformation from special needs child to self-assured princess is
not
exploitation. It’s a miracle straight from God, and I’ll fight anyone who says otherwise. Trust me.”
* * *
When Joan finally got through to Jesus, He could not have been more apologetic.
I am so sorry, Joan. From that angle Bailey looked just like Courtney. I’m terribly embarrassed. Can you ever forgive me?
Humbled by the request, she instantly forgave the one true Son of God and acted like the whole thing had never happened.
With everything safely behind her, Joan was eager to get back into her routine, especially homeschooling the boys. However, Miranda thought it might be better if the boys were taught by Bailey’s on-set tutor.
“The show’s paying for it, so it’s like they’re going to private school,” Miranda explained. Joan was disappointed, but she didn’t argue. The boys needed structure. And besides, Joan was going to be very busy with her next project: writing a book based on her conversations with Jesus. It seemed like the logical thing to do. No one else on the planet had access like she did. The idea made her dizzy.
“So many stories,” she gushed with a smile. “No one’s going to believe it!”
That’s true, Joan. They probably won’t.
* * *
Ray sat in the nurses’ lounge staring blankly at his locker. Ten minutes passed before he could summon the strength to mutter “Percocet.” The success of the reality show, and the myriad endorsements that came along with it, had given the family enough financial freedom for Ray to stop working double shifts, but he chose not to. Season One had almost killed him, and hiding out at the hospital was much more appealing than dealing with the bullshit that came with being a reality-level celebrity, which like it or not he had become.
Just like they did with Starr Kennedy, the network had used its most outrageous footage to promote Miranda’s show. Unfortunately for Ray, that footage consisted of him vigorously shaking, then being slapped by a cute teenage girl in front of his wife. He looked like a criminal and a pervert. The
Hollywood Reporter
called him “one of the creepiest TV dads of all time.” Every show needs a villain.
Eventually, Miranda summoned the courage to ask Ray if he’d had an affair with Courtney. The question came weeks after Chattanooga, when he was least expecting it—after some unusually spirited sex. His awkward pause before answering told Miranda everything she needed to know. Overcompensating, Ray fiercely denied any wrongdoing, then forced a mocking laugh to imply that his wife’s query was both ridiculous and insulting. So she let it go. Knowing the truth wasn’t going to make her love Ray any less, or make things any better, so what difference did it make? Besides, it couldn’t have been too serious if it hadn’t disrupted their lives at all. Although, she thought, openly confronting him
would
make for a pretty great sweeps episode.
Soon after Chattanooga, Ray quit working hospice despite it being the only unselfish thing he had ever done in his life. Rummaging through an elderly patient’s medications for something to take his mind off her labored breathing, Ray looked up to find her watching him.
“Are you … waiting … for me to … die?” the old woman wheezed.
He gently took her hand and nodded. “I suppose I am, yes.”
Closing her eyes, she painfully exhaled. “How sad for you.”
He’d never really thought of it like that before, but she was right. It
was
sad for him. Really fucking sad.
“I spend my nights sitting in strangers’ living rooms waiting for them to die. And when they do, I just move on to another living room,” he told Miranda later that night. “I really am the Angel of Death. I’ve got to find a healthier way to spend my time.”
The next night on the way home from work, Ray stopped at Walmart and bought a Wii Fit. A week later he exchanged it for an Xbox.
Ray texted Courtney thirty-seven times, but she never responded. It was maddening. Not because he wanted to talk to her, or even know how she was doing. He just didn’t want to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder like a mob informant in witness protection. He went to see Mr. Waxflower, who agreed to speak to Ray only through his closed front door and claimed to have no knowledge of Courtney’s whereabouts. He even tracked down her hot one-armed friend, but she hadn’t heard from her, either. It was spooky. It was like she’d never existed at all.
Maybe there
was
a God.
* * *
Courtney pushed her secondhand stroller out the door of the photography studio and slapped on her sunglasses. “Bitch,” she thought out loud. “It’s hotter than a mug.”
The southern Indiana heat was cruel and unrelenting. Pulling the sunshade down over the face of her daughter, Twilight Marvinia Daye, Courtney shuffled through the contact sheets, trying to pick her favorite shot. “Three months, Twi,” she said to her daughter. “Can you believe it’s already been three months?”
It had been a difficult year, to be sure, but Courtney felt like she was finally coming into her own. The cashier’s check took a little longer to arrive than Mr. Waxflower said, but it was also slightly larger than expected, so she didn’t yell at him too much. Blowing town with close to ninety-five thousand dollars in her pocket, Courtney considered her options and determined that they were infinite. She was free to go anywhere in the world and do anything she wanted.
On her way to Las Vegas, she stopped for gas in Evansville, Indiana, and noticed a For Sale sign in front of a small two-bedroom craftsman a few blocks from an elementary school and a Hardee’s, and with a backyard big enough for an above ground pool. Courtney circled the block four times before calling the number on the sign. Something inside her said that maybe she hadn’t gone far enough, but then something else reminded her that she wasn’t running from anything, so why not just do what made her happy?
She thought about texting Ray, just to let him know she and Twi were okay, but she never did. She was still pissed at him for believing Marvin’s letter.
“I mean, toward the end there, Granddaddy saw monsters and shit,” she told a new friend in her GED class. “He thought we lived on a boat. He did
not
have his wits about him.”
But Twi
was
Ray’s daughter. What if he wanted to meet her? Maybe someday she’d show up and surprise him. It was always a possibility.
But a reunion would have to wait, at least until Courtney wasn’t so swamped. The Most Beautiful Little Hoosier Pageant (Evansville, Indiana) was less than three weeks away, and Twi hadn’t even settled on a gown.
A big thank-you must go out to the people of Kentucky, my people. I hope you take this book in the spirit in which it was intended. I love you and I miss you. But I’m probably not moving back any time soon.
Even though I dedicated the book to Karen, I feel like I should thank her again here. She is my first reader, and over the years has figured out a way to tell me when something sucks while still being fiercely encouraging. Without her I would probably still be working at Dillards in Louisville.
I have had many teachers over the years who have encouraged my love of reading and writing: Linda Elmore and Pam Bradley; Jeffrey Skinner, who let me take his creative writing workshop, where I met my wife, and who has become a valued friend; Joe Keefe, my Level 3 teacher at Second City, who suggested I write because the acting thing definitely wasn’t going to happen. I should also thank Judy Blume, Stephen King, and John Irving for writing the books that defined my childhood and made me love reading.