The Beautiful-Ugly (The Beautiful-Ugly Trilogy)

by James Snyder

  When Suzy came home from her friend’s house, she saw the new doll sitting in the chair beside her old bed where Connelly had placed her.

  “That’s not fair,” she said. “I wanted the new chatty doll—that’s not fair.”

  “You can play with that one,” Connelly told her. “I don’t care.”

  After a while, Suzy came and carried the doll to her bed, and laid her down among the other dolls. “There you go, Ruth,” she said. “I’m going to call you Ruth.”

  Connelly watched her, moving about, arranging her things.

  “I think she likes my side better,” Suzy finally said. “I think she should stay with me instead.” She looked over at Connelly, who was softly smoothing down the remaining strands of Priscilla’s hair, and said, “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  Smiling, she continued on, arranging her dolls here and there, making them just so.

  *

  Rebecca, who told her the first day she was sixteen, was happily nice to her at first, and then seemed to pull back, growing quiet again, as if that were her normal way. Watching her, Connelly thought she was the saddest person she had ever known. It was Rebecca who removed her cornrows her first evening there, before dinner, and took the gold hoops from her ears, telling her to put them away somewhere.

  She said, “Father told me to do this, Connelly. I’m sorry. But he doesn’t allow things like this in the house. Actually, I think it’s all kind of cute on you. You’re a very pretty girl.”

  Connelly sat there, wishing she could keep her hair plaited, and keep the hoops. It reminded her of Yolanda and Anne. But she didn’t want to be rude. She remembered how Anne had told her every family would probably have their own little rules that were different from what she had before, and to try and follow them. Try and get along. Because being a foster parent was not easy to begin with, and if there were misunderstandings, that only made things worse. So she sat there, feeling Rebecca unravel the tight links of her hair, and feeling her long hair falling familiarly about her shoulders again, when she suddenly felt her lean down, whispering in her ear, “One day, I’ll bet you’re gonna be a real heart-breaker.” Before kissing her on top of her wavy-haired head.

  There seemed to be some kind of problem between Rebecca and Mr. Cardswell, Connelly saw, but couldn’t understand. They always seemed to be a little angry or upset with each other, even when they were being nice about it. Rebecca seemed to try to avoid him, avoid everyone in fact, spending most of her time in her room, unless she had to come out. But she did have to reveal herself more often than not, because Mr. Cardswell always wanted everyone together for meals, and for saying prayers, which they did a lot.

  At meals, Connelly observed everyone mostly quiet, except Mr. Cardswell, who asked them all questions in turn: how they were coming with this or that, and questions about the Bible. She was amazed how much each of them knew about that: who was the father of such-and-such; and who killed such-and-such, and why; and who said such-and-such, and what did it mean to them. What did God mean by saying it? And did they truly understand that in their heart, where God had placed it? It made her dizzy, listening to them, since she could hardly answer a single question he asked her, except those simple things she remembered her mother had told her about.

  “So your mother was a Catholic?” Mr. Cardswell asked her once at dinner.

  She nodded. She had already told him that, she remembered, during one of their interviews.

  “And your father? What about your father? What was he?”

  “He was nice to me,” she answered without thinking. Then she caught herself, looking down, and then back up at Mr. Cardswell. “He made me laugh.”

  He looked at her a moment, then turned and asked Rebecca something about one of the deadly sins instead.

  One night after dinner, out of nowhere, Rebecca grabbed her and pulled her into her bedroom, which she jokingly called her sanctum, asking her what kinds of music she liked, and what all the girls talked about at the home, and did they talk about boys and things? They were sitting, facing each other, on the carpet floor, near the bed; and seeing her face, the way she leaned forward, excited and secretive, Connelly had the impression of some kind of very hungry lost animal, ready to eat her up, if necessary.

  Rebecca seemed amazed, hearing how at Mercy they could listen to pretty much whatever kind of music they wanted, which was a little of everything, since everyone seemed to like something different; and they could wear whatever they wanted, or could find to wear, including makeup, as long as it was not, what Anne called, demeaning to them; and sometimes they talked about boys, and sometimes not.

  “Mostly, we just talked about girl things,” Connelly told her. “Things that bothered us, and our problems and things. There were lots of problems, I remember.”

  Rebecca listened to her and then said, “Well, here you can’t do any of that, and you need to understand that. Everything has to be sanctioned—music, clothes, talking, thinking—everything.”

  “What’s that—sanctioned?”

  “Well, our church has these strict rules of conduct that everyone is supposed to obey. You’ll see, since we go to church at least three times a week, you’ll see. School too. You’ll go to their school, and most of the teachers are members of the church. They’ve got all the bases covered, little girl.” She saw Rebecca seemed upset now. Her face was upset, and she was wringing her hands, as if something was on them she was trying to get off, but couldn’t. She leaned toward her, whispering, “He even follows me on the web sometimes.”

  “Who?”

  “Father. You see, only certain web sites are sanctioned, Christian chat rooms and stuff, and he knows I’m Jesus’ Valley Girl, and he tries to catch me. He calls himself Dark Disciple 3280, which—duh—is his social security number, and he pretends like he’s this mysterious young spirit, looking for a soul mate or something, and he tries to arrange meetings and things. Of course, I knew it was him right away, because I know exactly how he thinks and says things, so I just play along. I always tell him I’m not that kind of girl and to leave me alone, and that satisfies him, I guess. Anyway, the chat rooms are as boring as those sanctioned Christian concerts, which are the only ones I can go to, with everyone swaying back and forth with their eyes closed, and those stupid grins on their faces, and silly hands in the air. So I just pretty much avoid all of it now.”

  She sighed, seeming sad about all of it; but finally they started talking about music and clothes and boys again, and she began to relax, when suddenly the door flew open, and Mr. Cardswell was standing there, smiling down at them. “So what’s going on, girls? What are we talking about?”

  “The Gospels, Father,” Rebecca said, sweet-voiced, smiling back at him.

  Mr. Cardswell stared at her now. “And the particular lesson?”

  “The law of Christ, Father,” she replied. “Matthew 5:44. ‘But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.’” She continued smiling sweetly at him.

  Slowly, Mr. Cardswell backed out of the bedroom, shutting the door after himself.

  Rebecca looked back at her, again leaning curiously and excitedly toward her, reaching out and taking up her hands into her own, whispering: “So have you ever heard any Snoop Dog?”

  *

  The twins were something entirely different. And they were different from each other, as well. Noah reminded her a little of Eric, the way he liked to read, and how quiet he was, unless Mr. Cardswell asked him something, telling him, “Sit up straight, Noah, and stop your mumbling.”

  Which seemed to only make him slump down lower, and mumble even more.

  “You need to learn to be more decisive,” Mr. Cardswell told him one night at dinner. “Of course, Timothy tells us that piety is good and acceptable before God; but remember as well that our Lord of hosts sends lean among the fat, and under His glory
He shall kindle a burning fire. God wants His soldiers strong and ready for the coming battle, Noah. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Yes sir,” Noah mumbled, slumping even lower.

  Matthew, meanwhile, always sat up straight, and didn’t mumble at all, but Mr. Cardswell reminded him that God also hated too much pride and arrogancy and the froward mouth, causing him to slump down a little as well.

  Connelly observed how that they both seemed determined to please their father, especially Matthew, who always told him about something he’d done well, and waiting, when Mr. Cardswell would only shrug and remind him of something he had recently done not well, leaving the boy to promise he would certainly try and do better in the future, as both boys’ chins dropped down against their chests.

  As taken as they were with trying to please their father, Connelly noticed that her presence among them didn’t seem to matter either way. Occasionally, she would try and talk with one of them, only to be ignored. If anything, they seemed a little embarrassed by her, as if she wasn’t really supposed to be there, she didn’t really belong there. And she so wished they would just talk with her like Eric used to do. It was their boyness that attracted her, especially Noah, who did small boy things in a quiet thoughtful way, especially when his father wasn’t there, criticizing him, telling him to try and be better. Sometimes, in fact, the way he moved or looked at something or said something was exactly how Eric would have done it or said it. And her heart ached, seeing that, hearing it. But one time when she just went up to him and asked him something, Noah told her to leave him alone.

  “You’re just some stupid foster kid,” he said. “You’re something my parents want to do, because it makes them feel better; but don’t try and be part of our family, because you’re not.”

  That was the most he had ever talked to her, even though he was mean about it, and she told him she was sorry, and went to lie down on her bed with Priscilla, thinking about Eric, wondering where he was right then, and what he was doing and thinking at that exact moment. That was something she did a lot, even though nothing ever happened. She never knew what he was doing or thinking, or anything about him. But she still did it. She couldn’t help herself.

  Chapter 12

  Learning to Pray

  One of the first things Mrs. Cardswell did was to buy her her very own half-sized Bible, with her name—Miss Connelly Pierce—inscribed inside the front cover. It was white imitation leather, with a zipper to close and open it, and all of Jesus’ words in red. It was very pretty, and Mrs. Cardswell sat with her at the kitchen table the first evening she had it and explained it to her, the difference between the Old and New Testament, and how they were divided up, and what they were trying to tell her.

  “My favorite books are the poetical ones,” she whispered to her as a secret. Connelly noticed that Mrs. Cardswell whispered things a lot, especially when she talked about God, or when Mr. Cardswell was around, as if talking in a normal voice might bother them. She whispered: “Before she died, my mother was an English teacher, and we always had poetry around. But Ron thinks it’s pure sinful to call the word of God pretty, as if that might interfere with its true purpose. But I don’t think so—do you?”

  Ron was Mr. Cardswell, just like Beth was Mrs. Cardswell; and Connelly could always tell when they weren’t getting along, or disagreed about something, because they called each other those names then, instead of Mother and Father, when they seemed to like each other more; or, as Mr. Cardswell would say, “Mother is behaving herself now.”

  “Father would like you to learn your verses,” Mrs. Cardswell whispered to her. “That’s the way we hide God’s word inside our hearts, and help protect us against the enemy. And Father wants you to hide lots of verses there, and be a good little soldier for God. Do you think you can?”

  She nodded, not really understanding what she was talking about. “Who’s the enemy?” she asked her.

  “Oh, the enemy is everywhere,” Mrs. Cardswell said, speaking a little loud and breathless now. “But you’ll learn all about that in Sunday school. And that’s where you’ll learn how to be a soldier of God, just like the early Christians were against the Romans. Do you think you can do that too, Connelly?”

  “Yes,” she told her, because it seemed so important for her.

  *

  Actually, it seemed important to everyone in the family, and especially to Mr. Cardswell, who seemed to watch them all so carefully when he was around, as if one of them had already made a mistake about something, and now he had to find out who and what it was; or they were about to make a mistake, and he was there just in time to stop them and correct them.

  Connelly noticed that as well: How everyone in the family was one way when Mr. Cardswell was not there, and another when he was. How no matter what they had been doing before—watching TV or reading or listening to music or just talking among themselves—as soon as he arrived home from work (where, as Rebecca mentioned, he was a manager in some sort of machinery factory), everything changed. She saw it was the exact moment his car turned into the driveway, and the garage door opened. No one said a word, but they all immediately stopped what they were doing, and became quietly involved with something else instead.

  Once, Mrs. Cardswell explained to her, “When Father gets home he likes to get settled in without interruption. So you go with Suzy to your bedroom, and wait there.”

  So that’s what she did, following her there, where she played with Priscilla, while Suzy decided which of her dolls she would play with; and they waited, sometimes until dinner if, according to Suzy, “He must have had a bad day.”, or sooner if he came into the room, whistling and smiling and questioning them about what “my girls” had been up to.

  If he had had a bad day, dinner was always quiet and almost sad, she saw, with everyone’s head down, and answering his questions as quickly and quietly as they dared. Or if he was having a good day, everyone laughed at the jokes he told (which she never did think were that funny at all), and said “Yes, Father” this, or “Yes, Father” that, seeming happy and excited just to be noticed by him.

  Then every evening, at eight o’clock exactly, everyone would gather in the living room for what they called Family Bible. That’s when Mr. Cardswell would say a prayer, and one or more of them would be chosen to read something from the Bible, and they would talk about it awhile, and finally Mr. Cardswell would say another prayer; after which, they could go back to whatever they were doing before, depending.

  Connelly usually enjoyed these little meetings, because everyone always seemed so excited about being chosen to read, and then having Mr. Cardswell tell them all what it meant, with everyone leaning forward intently, and sometimes raising a hand after to ask a question, which, she saw, Mr. Cardswell enjoyed very much answering.

  In fact, it was at Family Bible one evening that she first learned, amazingly, of the coming Apocalypse, which, according to Mr. Cardswell, they were certainly all prepared for at a moment’s notice.

  “That’s when everyone in this room—that is, if their house is still in order at that moment—will be raptured from the face of this sinful earth,” Mr. Cardswell said, leaning toward her, his dark eyes filled with the bright hopeful light of the table lamp beside him. “And those that remain—and you’d better pray and confess you sins with every breath you take, you’re not among them—will endure seven long painful years of tribulation beneath the hands of the Antichrist. That is, until our Lord returns to lead us in the battle of Armageddon, and begin his thousand-year rule, finally casting that agonized, teeth-gnashing bunch into the burning lake of fire—forever.” Then he straightened himself in his armchair, relaxing, and said, “Meanwhile, those of us, select and wonderful, will get to abide, also forever, in the house of the Lord.” Now he looked at only her. “Those are the two roads, Connelly Pierce. And you have to choose which one you’ll be on, and stay on, when the feathers finally hit the fan, as my dear mother was fond of saying.”

  L
ater that evening she went to Rebecca’s room and asked her more about the rapture. She did that whenever they talked about something in Family Bible she didn’t understand, which was almost every day; and she saw that asking too many questions kept Mr. Cardswell from talking about what he wanted to talk about, which seemed to frustrate him; so usually she just sat there and asked Rebecca about it afterward.

  They both lay stretched out on her bed, where Rebecca told her, “Sometimes I imagine it’ll be like this giant Hoover vacuum cleaner nozzle coming out of the sky and sucking up all the true Christians, and then these big drums will roll, and horns will blow, and the Antichrist will walk the earth, wreaking havoc among the sinners.”

  “But won’t that hurt? I mean, being sucked up into the sky.”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s still kind of scary, imagining it.”

  “Rebecca, if I get sucked up, do you think I can be with my mother and father again?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie—were they good Christians?”

  She thought about it. “My mother maybe, but I don’t think my father.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “Then he might have to deal with the Antichrist.”

  “Even if he was nice?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “It’s not about nice, it’s about confessing your sins, and hoping God and Jesus know you’re on their side.”

  “Oh.”

  Then Rebecca softly patted her head, lying beside her. “Don’t worry, little girl, everyone’s scared about it. Even the Pope and all the preachers in the world. They’re all scared silly, ‘cause no one really knows who’s getting sucked up at that moment of reckoning, and who’s not. There’s no way to tell, really, because then you’d presume reading Jesus’ mind, you’d be second guessing him, and that’s sort of a sin itself; at least, according to Reverend Billy. So everyone prays and prays and waits for the moment, and they’re all just scared nearly to death. Of course, they pretend they’re not, everyone smiling and full of Jesus’ love, but they are. Actually, it’s really kind of weird, if you think about it too much.”