My Fairy Godmother is a Drag Queen

by David Clawson

  Restraining myself from defending Kimberly was taking such an effort that I began to break a sweat. I cleared my throat, but managed to limit myself to that.

  Kiki continued. “Your best defense for this mess is to go into hiding. Anything else you do will just feel like you’re trying to manipulate people, and you definitely don’t have the savvy to pull that off.”

  “Don’t you even get to tell your side of the story? You were trying to help,” I said to Kimberly. Keeping my eyes on the black carpeting, I held up a finger in Kiki’s direction before she could scold me. “That was a sidebar to her. I said nothing to you.”

  “Her side of the story doesn’t matter,” Kiki said. “The story is out there, and it will forever more be part of who you are in the public’s mind. You’re a bubbleheaded Barbie doll that managed to get her legs around the man they all fantasize about, and you gave them the excuse they need to think you’re the bitch they always knew you were. Do you understand that?”

  When I risked a look over to check on her, Kimberly was squeezing her arms around herself tightly, as if willing her apparently undeserving self into taking up less space, biting her trembling lower lip, and losing the fight to hold back tears.

  Unrelenting, Kiki continued, “You’re every girl who was ever mean to them in high school, you’re every skinny, blonde, rich bitch who ever made them feel bad about themselves, and now they have the proof right there in the papers and on their computers. That’s the great work you managed to do last night. Well done.”

  I’m not sure if it was the sound of her sniffling, or maybe it was the almost mewling sound she made when she took in a halting breath, trying desperately not to sob, but something in Kimberly’s pain-filled sounds as she fought to control herself set me off. I jumped up from my chair and shouted at Kiki, “Look, I don’t know what pain your life has known, or if you are just pissed that she’s skinny and beautiful and you’re not, but there’s no excuse for talking to her that way!”

  “HA!” Kiki shot back at me in what could hardly be called a laugh. “Get out of my office, you little shit! I’m this bubbleheaded idiot’s only hope for salvaging what chance she has, and I’ll talk to her any way I see fit!”

  “She’s not stupid!” I said. Then pointing at the diploma she had framed on her wall, added, “And even if she were, just because you have a degree from Barnard, that doesn’t make you a better person. So just get off your high horse. A good education doesn’t make you a better person. No more than being beautiful makes someone a better person. Or being ugly, for that matter. Or being rich, or poor, or a great athlete, or a total loser, or of a certain religion, or being straight or gay. None of that matters. The only thing that makes you a better person is being a fucking better person.” By this point I’d worked myself into such a crescendo that I suddenly realized I didn’t know what to say next. So, very lamely, I ended with, “So there!”

  Already sensing the extreme wave of embarrassment that was welling up inside me, and really, really, really not wanting to be in the same room as Kiki Cacciatore when it arrived in full force, I spun on my heel, stepped fluidly to the door, and said, “Come on, Kimberly,” as I let myself out without looking back.

  As soon as I reached the elevator, I realized I probably should have told Kimberly I’d be waiting outside, because when she stayed to get the advice which J.J. had sent us there for, which I fully expected her to do once I’d returned to sanity, well, I was going to look like even more of a fool than I already did. See, Buck, this is why there’s a lot of good to be said about being uptight and repressed, I thought to myself.

  But then the weirdest thing happened. Kimberly ran up and threw her arms around me. And although her face was still wet with tears, a huge smile graced it. “That was awesome!”

  Gratitude for her support only briefly tempered the mortification that continued to wash over me as I repeatedly hit the elevator button, as if that would somehow make it come more quickly. I kept checking in the direction of Cacciatore’s office suite, half-expecting her to come blazing out with some sort of automatic weapon trained on me.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “What are you apologizing for? You totally defended me.”

  “But what’s J.J. going to say?”

  The realization only briefly clouded her brow, before she shook it off and said, “Well, whatever he says, it’ll be my turn to defend you, if that’s what needs to happen.” She smiled at me with a pert, determined nod.

  Luckily the elevator came right then, because her response had caused me to feel the first pricks of tears and a tightening in my throat. For maybe the first time in the five and a half years since I’d first met her, I had an inkling of what it felt like to have a sister. Could my timing have been any worse?

  As we rode the elevator down, I didn’t say much, basically struggling to stay afloat while I tried to process everything that had just happened to me in the last fifteen minutes. Apparently oblivious, Kimberly stood beside me humming “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music. At first I found this odd, but when I considered that maybe she was thinking of Kiki Cacciatore in place of, “When the dog bites, when the bee stings,” I suddenly found it very endearing. Being more the type to worry and stew, I admired anyone who could bounce back that swiftly.

  When we exited the building, the Kennerly limousine was still waiting outside for us. Since the throng of reporters and photographers had been so thick outside our house all day, J.J. had arranged for his security people to get us safely to the meeting with Kiki (if only we’d thought to bring them up to her office with us). He usually preferred to take the subway or a cab, not liking the pretensions associated with having a limo and driver, but this day had been far from usual.

  No sooner had we settled ourselves in than the car phone rang, and after the driver answered it, he told us to pick up the back extension. Kimberly and I exchanged uncomfortable looks.

  “Who is it?” I asked the driver.

  “Mr. Kennerly.”

  “You mean J.J.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Caught in a mini Mexican standoff, Kimberly and I each waited for the other to pick up the phone.

  Finally, she said, “Fine,” and reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  I waited torturously through the one-sided conversation of fines, yeses, and mmm-hms until she hung up, her expression unreadable. Her brow furrowed intently as she stared out the window.

  About ready to pull out someone’s hair if she didn’t clue me in on what J.J. had said, I softly said, “Well?”

  “That was J.J.” she said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  And then she went back to staring out the window. Clearly she was trying to induce a heart attack or stroke or any of those other lovely illnesses triggered by impossibly high blood pressure. Although, quite frankly, at the moment, death didn’t seem like such a bad option.

  “So what did he say?”

  She turned her head to look at me carefully, chewing her lower lip. “He doesn’t think we should go home until after the six o’clock news is over, because at least the TV people will probably leave by then.”

  “Okay.” Not quite as informative as I’d hoped, but it was a start. “Did he suggest anything for us to do until then?”

  “Yeah.”

  I waited. Pointlessly, it seemed. I tried to prompt her again. “And his suggestion was?”

  “He wants to talk to us. Both. Together. At home.”

  “But you just said we’re not supposed go—”

  “His home.”

  Clearly I wasn’t hearing her right. “You don’t mean we’re supposed to go to the Kennerly Mansion?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Now?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Maybe it was just being in the backseat of a limousine, but I started to feel nauseous. “Does the driver know that?”

  “Yep.”

  Gulp. Oh my. “Kimberly?”

  “Ye
s?”

  “Is this a good thing, or a bad thing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Those were the last words spoken between us for the rest of the ride.

  CHAPTER 11

  MEETING MAMA KENNERLY

  As the limo pulled up in front of the egregiously intimidating Kennerly home, in an attempt to lower the tension radiating from both of us, I turned to Kimberly and tried to sound causal as I quipped, “What, they couldn’t afford marble curbs?”

  She reached out for my hand and squeezed it painfully. “I think I’d rather go home and deal with TMZ.”

  I couldn’t say I didn’t totally get how she felt, because I was feeling pretty much the same way. But I also was more the rip-off-the-band-aid sort, because I’d learned that as bad as reality might be, it was rarely as bad as what I could make up in my head. “J.J.’s waiting, though.”

  She hung her head, then nodded. “I know.”

  By now the driver had gotten out and walked around to open the curbside door, which was the side I was sitting on. I thanked him as I alighted but had to wait awkwardly as Kimberly was slow to emerge.

  “You are expected, sir,” he said. Then he bent down slightly to look into the car. “Are you all right, miss? Do you need my help?”

  “No, I’m okay, thanks,” Kimberly said. Finally, she appeared, looking pale and wan.

  We lifted our heads in unison to take in the large white building that resembled a hotel more than a private residence. Kimberly made a noise somewhat like a half-laugh and said, “I wonder how many Xanax Mom would need if she were here right now.”

  “That would depend on how much vodka or wine she’d had.”

  “Think I should call and tell her?”

  I checked to see if she was serious, but what I saw was such an odd mixture of fear, resentment, and mischievousness, that for maybe the first time, I considered what had been placed on Kimberly’s shoulders from the moment Iris realized that her daughter was going to grow into a great beauty—the responsibility, the expectation, the desperate need for vindication. It made me wonder if maybe I’d had it easier being more of an afterthought.

  Kimberly took my elbow as she said, “Let’s just get this over with,” and took the first step towards the wide marble stairs that led up to the vast, arching double doors.

  We hadn’t even reached the top step when one side of the doors opened. I guessed that the driver had told the butler, or housekeeper, or whatever the proper names for the staff must be for this kind of house, but instead of a someone standing in the entrance in a black and white domestics uniform like I was expecting, smiling warmly at us in a Chanel or equally as runway-ready suit was the even-more-stunning-in-person Jennifer Kennerly.

  J.J.’s mom! In all the scenarios that had run through my mind on the drive over, meeting his parents had somehow not been among them. I couldn’t see myself, of course, but when I think back on the moment, I’m embarrassed to say that my jaw likely dropped open and hung that way for several seconds before I recovered enough to snap it shut. Luckily, Mrs. Kennerly was graciously ignoring it and welcoming us into the house.

  And, holy shit, what a house. It was like entering the most exclusive museum in the world. The rugs, the chandeliers, the tables, the chairs, the lamps, all of it subtly suggesting its authenticity by its confidence. (If you didn’t know that furniture could exude confidence, take my word: it can.) And if I wasn’t mistaken, there was an original John Everett Millais in the entry hall. I’d done a paper my sophomore year in Honors English about Shakespeare’s influence on other artists, and Millais’s Ophelia painting had been a major component. This one wasn’t quite as stunning as that, but it was about as close as anyone was likely to see in a private home, or most museums for that matter.

  “Kimberly, I am so sorry for what you’ve been put through today,” Mrs. Kennerly said kindly, giving her a warm hug. “Jonas and I have given J.J. a stern talking to, don’t you worry. He forgets sometimes that his life isn’t exactly normal.” Then she turned to a handsome, older woman in a muted yellow cashmere sweater and gray wool shirt who lingered not far away, and said, “Celeste, could you please let J.J. know that his guests are here? Thank you.”

  Celeste disappeared as Mrs. Kennerly turned back, this time beaming the warmth of her benevolence on me. “You must be Chris. I knew your sister was gorgeous, of course, but why do you always seem to be keeping your head down and avoiding the photographers? You’re adorable.”

  Do you ever have three or four thoughts go through your head at seemingly the exact same instant? Well, that’s what happened to me. First off, she knew my name. And she hadn’t called me Christopher, as the press always did, she called me Chris, which meant that she knew about me from … J.J., right? Had J.J. actually been talking to his parents about me? Obviously not about our being in love or anything, surely. Right? Right. Of course. And she just called me adorable. Me. And this from one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. Oh my god, what a great nose. And her eyes. So brown. Those weren’t contacts, were they? No, real. Pretty sure. And, wow, did she even know how rich and famous she was? And the life she had lived, and the history she’d seen. And now here she was not only talking to me but being super, super nice about it. See, Kiki Cacciatore, that’s what class looks like.

  Oh, fuck. Kiki Cacciatore. And suddenly I remembered the events that led up to my standing in front of Mrs. Kennerly, and I realized I’d been shaking her hand and nodding, and I hadn’t said anything while all of that stuff was colliding in my head, and with panic I knew that I needed to say something gracious and complimentary, and even as the words came out, before I had any idea what I was saying but hoping it would sound all right, I heard the tones of awe and desperation drip, “You look like Julia Ormond.” Then realizing how stupid that sounded, I somehow thought I was making it better by adding, “Or, uh, I mean, she looks like you.”

  It was painful.

  But she smiled modestly, even blushing slightly—I swear—and said, “J.J. warned me how charming you are, so don’t think I’m going to fall for that too many times. But maybe just this once.” She winked, then led us further into the house and to a “small” sitting room where a formal tea had been laid out. The weird thing about all of the exquisite surroundings and the precise rightness of everything—from the leather-bound classic books lining the walls to the cut- off crusts of the finger sandwiches—was somehow it all felt unexpectedly casual and comfortable. I thought to myself that this was what self-acceptance looked like. And then I thought about how ridiculously far from that I myself was.

  Apologizing that she had a meeting at the mayor’s office and that she hated to make others wait, she asked us to forgive her for leaving so rudely but indicated that J.J. would be right down. No sooner than she had disappeared from the room, I had a profound certainty that we had just been bamboozled. She was the good cop, making us feel relaxed and welcomed, and J.J. was going to be the bad cop, letting us know that in less than twenty-four hours, we had shown why, in the grand scheme of the universe, the Fontaine-Bellows and the Kennerlys were never really meant to mix. They had salmon finger sandwiches, and we told fat people to take the stairs and Barnard graduates that they weren’t all that smart.

  I will say this about that moment when you realize your worst nightmare has proven to be reality—it can be oddly comforting. After all, once you’ve hit rock bottom and lived, there’s only one place you can go, and that’s up.

  Kimberly leapt from her seat as J.J. entered. She’d fallen for the act, hook, line, and sinker. I mean, was I really supposed to believe Jennifer Kennerly had been making the mayor wait while she schmoozed with us, and then just happened to have to leave before J.J. came in to deliver the bad news? Please. Kimberly at least had enough sense to not throw herself at J.J. as he walked in. She still had enough doubt to wait for him to come to her.

  Although he was doing a pretty convincing job of carrying on the defense-lowering welcoming act, beaming
a smile at both of us, kissing her cheek as he gave her a hug, and looking at me while proudly saying, “Kiki loved you.”

  Kimberly and I made eye contact, both not sure if we’d just heard what we thought we’d heard and looking for confirmation from the other. Not noticing, J.J. let go of her and stepped towards me with his arms wide open for a hug, then catching himself, lowered his left arm and held out his right hand to shake mine.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, “she hates everyone, so whatever you did to impress her must have been amazing.”

  And then I caught on. I’d been right about the good-cop-bad-cop thing, and this was where he tricked us by starting with praise, and just as we started feeling confident, he would pull the rug out from under us by throwing one of the Ming vases against the wall, shattering it into a million pieces, and ranting, “Of course not, you morons! You’ve ruined everything!”

  Now that I was onto him once again, I said, “Oh, really?”

  “Yeah, really. She said Kimberly had such genuine vulnerability that enough people would begin to doubt what the media said, and that if they got ugly with her, you could come to her defense and make another one of your great speeches. Everyone likes a guy, especially a brother, who sticks up for a woman, and that would make people think she must be a good person after all if someone as genuine and all-American as you were willing to defend her.” He cocked his head slightly to one side as he looked at me with amused curiosity. “What kind of speech did you give in Kiki’s office anyway? That seems so unlike you.”

  My eyes flew to Kimberly for help as I said, “I wouldn’t call it a speech, really. Would you?”

  “J.J., he was amazing!” Kimberly said, clapping her hands together and giggling. “Although, honestly, I actually thought she might be kind of pissed.”

  Thanks, Kimberly. Nice show of support. Good to know you’ve got my back.

  “Pissed?” J.J. asked. “Why would she be pissed?”