He unclipped the phone from his waistband and tried to speak. His tongue was pasty and thick. “This”—he cleared his throat—“this is Ray.”
“They stole my show!” Miranda’s voice was so loud he almost didn’t need the phone to hear her. He slumped a little deeper in his chair.
“What?”
“They stole my show! They just up and stole it!”
Every weekend, Ray got at least one call from Miranda complaining about some perceived slight. The week before she had him paged at the hospital.
“Does Bailey walk like a softball player?”
Ray had just spent an hour in the ER helping remove an arrow from a fourteen-year-old girl’s leg.
“I don’t even know what that means,” he said.
“Yes, you do. They walk with that stride, you know? Like they know how to fix a motorcycle.”
“Are you drunk?”
Miranda produced the sigh that had become their shorthand for moving on from dead-end conversations. A lot of these calls ended with that sigh.
“Who—what show … what are you talking about?” He needed water.
“My pageant show! About me and Bailey? Remember? The one I’ve been working on for five years? How could you forget about that? Someone stole my idea, and now they’re doing my show about someone else!”
Oh. That show.
“Well … I’m really sorry, babe. That really … you know, sucks. It sucks. It does. It sucks. Sorry.”
There was a long silence before, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Um. I…” He exhaled. “What—what do you want me to say?”
“You could try to be a little more sympathetic. Dammit, Ray, why can’t you just support me for once?”
Ray sat up a little straighter. The peaceful, easy feeling of the Dilaudid had vanished, leaving behind a growing haze of impatience and exhaustion—serenity with a hangover.
“You’re right, Miranda. I don’t support you nearly enough. You know what, how about this … what if I quit one of my jobs and only work seventy hours a week so you and Bailey can stay home and we can sit around all weekend and support each other. How’s that sound?”
Silence.
“’Cause I’m happy to try having a family.” He breathed. “I’m already paying for one.”
After another moment of silence, he heard his wife’s small, sad voice cracking through the phone. “I just … I just really wanted to be on a TV show. I thought it would be a good opportunity. For us. For all of us.”
Ray exhaled the rest of his anger and rubbed his red, tired eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just … really tired.”
“You work so hard, Ray. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
“I know you do. Thanks.” He looked over at Marvin and tried to remember the last time his whole family was in the same room together. Easter? What month was this?
“Just”—he cleared his throat again—“just try to not let it bother you so much, the show. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, right? Maybe this is happening because something better is waiting right around the corner.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’m sure of it. So get some rest and make sure Bailey’s focused and ready for tomorrow.”
There was a sniffle on the other end, then the sigh. “Don’t forget to pick up the boys at Mom’s. Also, check on her knees if you have time. She can barely walk. I don’t think she’s taking her medication.”
“I’ll go by when I’m done here.”
“Okay. Good night. Sorry I was so…” Her voice trailed off, implying a behavior she’d frequently been accused of but didn’t want to validate by saying out loud.
“It’s okay. Kiss Bailey for me.”
“I will.”
“And I’m sorry about your show. I know you really wanted it.”
He could hear her smile on the other end.
“Thanks. Love.”
“Love.” Ray turned off his phone and dropped it on the matted rug at his feet. Letting his head fall back, he focused on a yellow water stain on the ceiling and tried to figure out when his marriage became the most difficult yet least time-consuming of his full-time jobs. Things used to be so much more fun, before the kids, before the pageants. Truth be told, the whole pageant thing didn’t even make sense to him. Before Bailey was born, Miranda had only competed in three pageants her whole life.
When Christie introduced them, Miranda was dating an abusive but charming asshole named Phil Hatfield, who explained away his violent behavior by claiming to be a direct descendant of the famous feuding family.
“Violence is in my blood, and I don’t know a man alive who can change his blood.”
Phil managed a regionally famous restaurant called Mom’s that had no menu and took no reservations. The dining room consisted of six four-top tables on the first floor of a massive plantation home on the bank of the river. Velvet flocked gold-and-burgundy wallpaper perfectly absorbed the natural light that streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows and gave the room a dim romantic hue even at midday. Dinner started promptly at seven, and the first two dozen people who showed up got to eat whatever Phil’s mother chose to cook that night. Leftovers were sent home with the diners free of charge, and latecomers were turned away even if seats were available, no exceptions.
“Nothing makes you feel closer to God than feeding people,” Mom liked to say as she raised her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, “and nothing makes you feel closer to the devil than my jam cake.”
Phil’s job was to greet the customers; tell them what Mom was cooking that night; announce any birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, etc.; then play Jackson Browne songs on his guitar until the food was ready.
Having just graduated from Owensboro Community College with an associate’s degree in humanities, Miranda was eager to dive into the workforce, but humanities jobs were scarce.
“I’ve never waitressed before,” she told Phil during her interview, “but I have eaten in a lot of restaurants, and I like talking to people, so I’m pretty sure I could do a good job at it.” She smiled in a way that showed all of her teeth and none of herself. If those three pageants had taught her anything, it was how to bullshit her way through an interview question.
Sex was inevitable. They were young, good-looking, and single. In Phil, Miranda saw a dreamy self-starting artist and entrepreneur. In Miranda, Phil saw a hot twenty-one-year-old with a great ass. Their eventual hookup was so unsurprising that when she blew him after her fourth night at work, it was as passionless as the birthday obligation of an old married couple. After he came, Phil dropped a set of keys on the table and grabbed his coat.
“All right, I’m outta here. Marry the ketchups before you lock up. And don’t touch the register. I know exactly how much is in there.” He pointed at her, “This is a test,” then winked.
Joan did not approve. Phil was a full six years older than Miranda, and she thought the whole relationship was obscene.
“He’s a full-grown man and you’re still a baby,” Joan said.
“I am not a baby, Mom. I’m a woman! And this is none of your business! I have a college degree and I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions.”
“I know, dear, but he just seems so … worldly.”
“Are you saying I’m not worldly? I’ve been to Cancú
n! Twice! I am totally worldly!”
Five weeks on, Miranda wished she’d listened to her mother. Working with her boyfriend was not the lighthearted Meg Ryan rom-com she had envisioned. It was closer to a Tori Spelling Lifetime movie. When anything went wrong at the restaurant, Phil blamed Miranda. If the silverware was dirty, she should have “fucking seen it and replaced it.” If the food was undercooked, she “should have stayed out of the goddamn kitchen and left Mom alone.” If Phil’s guitar was out of tune, she “should have been more fucking careful when you put the goddamn thing away!” Phil’s abuse, while always
verbal, had been escalating. The curt, private reprimands had started to become public admonishments, and Miranda was getting the feeling that he got a perverse thrill out of embarrassing her in front of people.
“Miranda!” he called from across the room. “Could you come here for a minute?”
Her chest tightened as she walked across the creaky wooden floor. “What seems to be the prob—?”
“Taste this.” He shoved a drink at her.
“What is it?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be a Diet Coke, but this customer says it’s regular. Taste it.”
“Phil, you don’t have to—”
“Taste it!” he snarled, thrusting the glass at Miranda and splashing soda across her shirt.
The customer interjected, “It’s no big deal. I can drink regular Coke—”
“Sir, please.” Phil turned back to Miranda and said calmly, “now.”
Trembling from embarrassment, Miranda sipped from the glass. “It is regular Coke. That’s my fault,” she said, turning to the customer, who was now equally embarrassed. “I am so sorry, sir. I’ll bring you another one right away.”
“Yes. You will!” Phil said, then shook his head in disgust and mumbled, “stupid twat.”
From a table across the room, Ray sat with Christie and watched in stunned silence as the scene played out. Miranda first met Christie in their Global History of 20th-Century Clothing class at OCC. Christie’s dislike of Phil was no secret, and she’d set up this dinner so her nursing school friend, Ray, would see how awesome Miranda was and save her from Phil, the unworthy prick.
Ray was not a confronter. Never had been. If, at a grocery store, he was charged the full price instead of the sale price, he didn’t bring it up. If someone cut in front of him in line, he might mumble a passive-aggressive insult under his breath, but he never told the person to get back. It just wasn’t worth it. If Ray called everyone an asshole whom he felt truly deserved it, he wouldn’t have time for anything else. But this was different. He’d been invited there specifically to meet Miranda, and because of that tenuous connection he felt vaguely responsible for her well-being. It was something akin to a date, albeit with a woman he had never met at a restaurant owned by her boyfriend. So Ray tossed his napkin onto the table, walked over to Phil, and got in his face.
“Excuse me. I think you should apologize.”
“Sir, this doesn’t concern you. It’s an issue between me and my employee, and I will handle it. Why don’t you just have a seat and I’ll bring you a free dessert. Okay?”
Ray didn’t move. “I will sit down. After you apologize to her and all these people you offended.”
Phil cocked his head and glared at Ray, his eyes turning black with rage. They were the only two people in the world.
“What’s your fucking problem?”
“Well, for one, I don’t like how you talked to her.”
“Is that right?” Phil took a step closer. “Well, I don’t give a shit what you like. How I talk to her is none of your goddamned business.”
Ray felt a warm rush of adrenaline tear through his body. Holy shit, I’m going to have to fight this guy! He took a deep, nervous breath but tried to disguise it by drawing it in slowly through his nose and squinting like Clint Eastwood. Diners rose from their chairs and moved to the other side of the restaurant where they secretly hoped the argument would escalate into a full-blown fistfight. Even Mom came out from the kitchen to watch.
Christie went to Miranda who, by this time, was on the floor crying, curled up in a ball by the banister that led to the second floor where Mom lived. Earlier, when Christie first pointed Miranda out, Ray thought she was pretty; now—seeing her whimpering on the cold wooden floor, trying to make herself as small as possible, desperate for someone to protect her—he found her irresistible. No one was going to hurt Miranda Ford ever again. Ray would make sure of that. Nodding to his future wife, Ray tried to tell her this telepathically. She nodded back, pretty sure she’d heard him.
Phil was now snorting hot breath like a cartoon bull. It felt wet on Ray’s face, but he ignored it and met Phil’s eye.
“It is my business because I came here to have a nice dinner with my friend, and you’re ruining that by making this young woman cry. Now, either you apologize to her and to everyone else here, or we can go outside and I’ll show you what a twat really looks like.” Summoning every ounce of testosterone in the room, Ray tilted his head and snarled, “I’ll show you my twat!” The room went silent.
As soon as the words left his mouth, Ray knew he’d blown it. I’ll show you my twat? Jesus, that doesn’t even make sense. He stood his ground and waited for Phil to stomp him into a greasy spot. But surprisingly, nothing happened. Faced with having to confront someone of equal or greater strength, Phil backed down.
Nodding toward Miranda, he barked a cursory “Sorry,” then turned to the wildly disappointed diners and brusquely apologized to them as well. Stomping into the kitchen, Phil smashed his guitar on a stack of dishes and stormed out the back door.
Ray grabbed a glass of wine sitting on the nearest table, emptied it in a single gulp, then exhaled for what felt like a full minute.
Getting to her feet, Miranda met Ray in the middle of the room. If it had happened in a movie, everyone else would’ve faded into darkness as a single spotlight illuminated them from above. Her tear-streaked face beamed at the unexpected savior standing in front of her. They would have stood there forever staring at each other if Christie hadn’t finally said something
“Miranda, this is Ray. Ray, Miranda.”
That was thirteen years ago yesterday. Neither of them remembered.
* * *
Ray looked at his phone sitting on the old rag rug that covered the creaky wooden floor. He remembered the days before cell phones, how nice it was being unavailable. Cell phones had made everyone more accessible, which only made the world smaller. Unfortunately, no one realized that the world was already too small to begin with. Now it felt crowded. Bending over would have required more energy than he was willing to sacrifice, so he forgot about his phone and turned his attention to Marvin’s shoe boxes of pills.
“Trouble with the wife?”
Ray jumped. “Jesus Christ. You scared the hell out of me.”
Standing in the doorway was Marvin’s seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Courtney.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not polite to eavesdrop? How long have you been there?” he asked.
She shrugged.
“Well … what’s going on with my wife is not any of your business.”
“Sorry. I was just trying to make conversation. How’s Granddaddy?” she asked, smiling sadly toward Marvin. His shallow breathing rattled like a peach pit in a garbage disposal.
“About the same. Sleeping mostly. Sometimes I think he’ll outlive us all.”
“I wish he would.” Courtney stared at her grandfather for a long time. “He looks so noble. Don’t you think he looks noble?”
“Noble” was not the word Ray would have used to describe the shrunken husk of a man in the bed next to him. “Rotting human jerky” was closer. Marvin’s dark, sunken eyes and hollow cheeks made his skin cling to his face like a gray ribbed condom had been pulled over his skull. Clumps of white, wispy hair turned sickly yellow at the roots sprouted from his head, chin, and ears. And his toothless mouth hung open as if in the middle of a painful, silent scream. Marvin was the closest thing to a real-life zombie Ray had ever seen.
“Sure. Noble,” Ray said unconvincingly. “I can see that.”
“Is he awake?”
“No. He’s been unconscious since I got here.”
Ray pretended not to be bothered by the long silence that followed. Finally, he looked back to Courtney and noticed for the first time that she was wearing a raincoat. “What’s with the coat? Is it raining out?”
“No,” she said, opening the raincoat, revealing her naked body. “But I am pretty wet.”
&
nbsp; The coat slid from her shoulders and fell into a pile at her feet just like she’d practiced in the mirror upstairs. Posing against the doorframe, the teenager stared into Ray’s eyes with a self-assuredness that terrified him and turned him on in equal measure. He melted into his chair and took in every inch of her body. A bit of baby fat stubbornly clung to her face and belly, which was soft and smooth like a memory foam pillow. But her breasts … those things were flawless—the perfect size, the perfect shape, symmetrical, proportional, breathtaking. In California she would’ve been considered overweight, but in Kentucky she was perfect. Tiptoeing across the room, Courtney placed her hands on the arms of Ray’s chair and leaned over him, letting her long blond hair cover his face.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered.
“I, um”—he cleared his throat—“I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “How was that back-to-school dance? Did you go?”
She shrugged. “Yeah. It was fine, I guess. The DJ only played dance music so I left early and got wasted with some friends, so … it was whatever.”
Without realizing it, Ray’s hands had found their way to her hips. He searched his soul for the strength to stop, but his soul was distracted by the perfect teenage breasts in his face. When their lips met, a quivering numbness swept through his body. His breathing stopped and he felt weightless yet helplessly earthbound, a week-old party balloon blown a few inches into the air by an opening door, then settling again with a gentle, almost imperceptible bounce. Why wasn’t there a pill like this?
Okay. This is your last chance, Ray thought. Stop now before something—uhp, well here we go.
Courtney slid Ray’s pants down below his knees and straddled the married male nurse charged with helping her last living relative die with dignity. It was not an ideal chair for lovemaking—the ancient upholstery chafed Ray’s bare ass, and Courtney’s long legs barely squeezed through the armrests—but once they got into position, she rocked his world.
It always took a moment for Ray to wrap his mind around the fact that he was having sex with a minor. I’m smarter than this, he thought every time, fighting the instinct to run his fingertips down the girl’s bare back. But once he was inside her, and the crime had been committed, he figured he might as well go ahead and enjoy himself.
Pretty Ugly: A Novel Page 6
