Pretty Ugly: A Novel

by Kirker Butler

  Courtney had spent the day before with Geralton Waxflower III, Marvin’s attorney and executor of his will. Mr. Waxflower had been Marvin’s attorney since his original lawyer, Geralton Waxflower Jr., died in a parallel-parking accident ten years earlier. Geralton III was a cadaverous, redheaded yawn who had worked out of his immaculate home office since being self-diagnosed with agoraphobia in the late ’80s.

  His “condition” was more of a reaction to his utter dislike of people than any real fear of leaving his house: But since his insurance didn’t cover misanthropy, he convinced one of his clients—a dermatologist whose wages were being garnished for unpaid child support—to make it official. The formal diagnosis allowed him to work from home, which provided a healthy tax deduction. The federal disability check he received on the first of every month further legitimized his condition, at least in the eyes of the U.S. government.

  A compulsive nose blower, Mr. Waxflower had strategically placed boxes of tissues on every available surface of his home, ensuring he would never be more than an arm’s length away should he feel the urge to blow. His office, which resembled a midcentury New Orleans whorehouse, was spotted with dozens of white, billowy tufts haunting the room like tiny, mentholated ghosts. Additionally, dozens of antique porcelain dolls, a collection his beloved mother willed to him (and that he’d coveted since childhood), populated the dusty shelves.

  To prepare for his meeting with Courtney, Mr. Waxflower placed his one and only visitor chair four feet away from the front of his desk. His profession dictated that he often deliver bad news, and the distance provided a much-needed buffer between himself and a client’s undignified emotional outbursts. If it were not for his clients, Mr. Waxflower’s job would be perfect. He often found himself wishing that porcelain dolls needed attorneys, since their company was infinitely more comforting.

  As Mr. Waxflower droned on through the monotonous details of Marvin’s last will and testament, Courtney’s mind drifted to other things—primarily Ray, to whom she hadn’t spoken since returning from Gatlinburg. She had texted him a couple times, and he’d responded promptly enough, which was fine … for now. He was busy. Apparently, his baby was retarded or something.

  Then Mr. Waxflower said something that jerked her back to the present.

  “… so, it appears you owe the state $12,735.63, which must be paid within the next sixty days to prevent foreclosure on your house.”

  “Wait, what? What are you talking about?”

  Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat and smoothed his soup-stained tie back under his sweater vest. “Well … as I was just saying, it appears your grandfather owed several thousand dollars in past-due property taxes.”

  Courtney spit her gum into her hand and dragged the heavy chair up to the edge of her lawyer’s desk. At the same time, Mr. Waxflower pushed his chair backward in an attempt to maintain an equal distance. He made a mental note to bolt the visitor chair to the floor.

  “But he’s dead,” Courtney protested, “so he doesn’t owe anything anymore to anybody. He can’t. It’s impossible.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Waxflower said, reaching for a tissue. “But the law states that you cannot take legal possession of the house until the debt is paid in full.” He coaxed a tissue from a nearby box and blew his empty nose. “I’m sorry, Miss Daye, but that’s how the law works.”

  “But that’s not right. Granddaddy told me he left me the house and a whole bunch of money. So that’s what I want.”

  “Yes, but as I’ve explained to you, he had not paid taxes on the house in a long time and there is a lien on it.”

  He delicately pulled another tissue from the box with the grace and flair of a sleight-of-hand magician.

  “What’s a lien?”

  He sighed heavily, making no effort to hide his irritation. Even with clients who understood the law, Mr. Waxflower was not a patient man.

  “Again, as I was saying before, when a person doesn’t pay his taxes, the government can put what’s called a lien on the property, meaning that in lieu of the money, they can keep the house as collateral against the debt.”

  “And that’s legal?” she practically shouted.

  “It is, yes. It’s actually how our government works.”

  “Well, that’s stupid. What about the money Granddaddy left me? It’s, like, fifty grand or something.”

  Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat. “It was $25,436.87. Minus the $10,000 that’s been set aside for funeral expenses—casket, burial, etc.—you’re probably looking at around $15,000.”

  “Okay. So then how do I owe $12,000?”

  “The lien on the house and surrounding property is for approximately $27,000. So fifteen minus twenty-seven…”

  Courtney’s eyes moved upward as if she was trying to watch her brain do the math.

  Mr. Waxflower sighed again. “… is twelve. Miss Daye, you owe the government $12,735.63 or they will take your house.”

  All those numbers were making her angry and confused. And who the hell was this weird guy to tell her that she owed the government money when she knew better? Marvin had promised that she would get the house and a bunch of money, and this creep was trying to con her out of it. Mr. Waxflower obviously did not know who he was dealing with.

  “What are you trying to pull?” she asked.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’re conning me. I want a second opinion.”

  “Miss Daye, I can assure you—”

  “You heard me, buddy. I want to talk to another lawyer. Is there another lawyer back there somewhere?” Courtney gestured to a closed door that she imagined was hiding smarter, better-looking men who would tell her exactly what she wanted to hear.

  “No. This is my house. Miss Daye, please. I don’t make the laws, I just study and respect them, and I promise what I’ve told you is correct. Considering the circumstances, the county has agreed to give you sixty days to come up with the money, but that’s it. Do you have family who can help you?”

  “Granddaddy was my only family.” Courtney’s voice was unstable. “He said he was going to take care of me.” She put her head down on Mr. Waxflower’s desk and burst into tears.

  Nothing was as off-putting to Mr. Waxflower as raw human emotion. It was messy and unpredictable, like children or sex, two other things with which the attorney had very limited experience. However, the job—not to mention human decency—dictated that moments like this be acknowledged. Therefore, Mr. Waxflower pulled his chair back up to his desk, reached across, and gingerly patted her twice on the top of her head.

  “There, there,” he said, so empty and hollow the words practically echoed. It was the first human being he’d touched in thirteen months.

  “I’m pregnant!” Courtney screamed.

  Mr. Waxflower reflexively withdrew his hand as if she’d just said she was radioactive, or a peanut—one of the many things the attorney claimed an allergy to. He quickly grabbed another tissue and wiped his hands.

  “How am I supposed to raise a baby without a house?” The question sounded rhetorical, but Courtney looked at him with her red, puffy eyes and screamed, “How?”

  Mr. Waxflower sat like a statue before blurting out the first thing that entered his head. “That is none of my business, I’m sure. Please leave my home office. Our business is done for today.”

  Over the years, Geralton Waxflower III had learned to depend on the comfort that came from setting boundaries. It was considered by many to be a rude and insensitive way to live, but as far as he was concerned his job as Marvin’s attorney did not include consoling his hysterical, pregnant granddaughter. If the girl needed a counselor, she could hire one, but their legal business had concluded and it was time for her to leave.

  Courtney stood up and tried to compose herself. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”

  “I am your lawyer, Miss Daye.”

  “I mean, my new lawyer. My good lawyer.”

  Courtney snatched her copy of Marvin’s will off the desk a
nd stormed out of the room, making a point to slam the door behind her. The lawyer sighed through his lips like an exhausted horse and decided to quit for the day. Rising slowly from his desk, Mr. Waxflower locked his front door, turned out the lights, and hoped his other scheduled appointments would assume they’d made a mistake and go away. Alone in the darkened room, Geralton took a porcelain doll named Laura from a shelf and slowly began brushing her hair.

  On the way to the mall to pick up some strappy heels for the funeral, Courtney tried to figure out how to get Mr. Waxflower fired from being a lawyer. Maybe the police could help her, or the Internet. She’d figure that out later. Right now she had to figure out how she was going to get Ray to give her $12,735.63.

  * * *

  Courtney pulled several dresses from her closet that she felt were both respectful and hot. Her two best friends, Britney and Kaitlin sat on her bed dressed in their sexiest church clothes. Overall, Courtney was arguably the best looking of the three, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. Just because she was burying her grandfather didn’t mean she couldn’t still look cute. Actually, as the bereaved, Courtney had an obligation to look better than everyone else.

  “I like this one.” She shrugged and stepped into her original choice, the cleavage-baring black minidress. She might not have had pregnancy boobs, but she still had perfect ones. Britney, a star volleyball player with long slender legs that made up sixty-five percent of her body, was bare legged in a thigh-high skirt, so Courtney also slipped on a pair of black leggings. She had enough to think about without wondering if people were comparing her legs to Britney’s.

  Scrolling through her phone, Britney twirled her long red hair and tried to lighten the mood. “I know your grandfather just died, Court, but it’s going to be so effing awesome when you start having parties in this house.”

  Britney didn’t swear because of church, so she peppered her conversations with implied vulgarity. She was an R-rated movie edited for an airplane. “I might just move in with you. My stepmother is being a total b lately.”

  “Dude, I cannot wait! I am so ready for a party!” Kaitlin had recently started calling people “dude.” It annoyed pretty much everyone, but if someone asked her to stop, she just did it more. Having an affectation that bugged everyone was empowering. Besides, there was something so un-Kaitlin about calling people “dude” that it had become her favorite thing to do. She was also well aware that her effortless beauty allowed her to get away with pretty much anything. Her fresh, freckled skin was a stark contrast to her shiny onyx hair, and her deep blue eyes were the color of a Blue Lightning Blast Slurpee. If it weren’t for the arm she lost in a car accident five years earlier, she could have been a model.

  Courtney adjusted the tights over her legs and sighed. “Yeah. A party. That sounds fun.” Kaitlin and Britney exchanged dramatically concerned looks.

  Britney tried again. “I saw Kevin Biggins at the movies last night. He said he was coming to the funeral today. I think he likes you.”

  “Dude, he is so hot. He talks about you all the time, Court.”

  “I know he’s only a sophomore, but I’d totally give him a handie.”

  “Britney! Jeez, he likes Courtney!”

  “I didn’t say I was going to. I’m just saying, he’s totally yummy. What do you think, Court?”

  “Yeah. He’s nice,” she said, checking out the dress in the mirror. “But I’m not interested.”

  “Oh, my God, dude, I so wish I had your boobs.”

  Britney nodded, “Me, too. Mine are more like boos.” She and Kaitlin cracked up and playfully fell back on the bed as if they were in a commercial for cotton sheets.

  Courtney wanted to smile, but her face wouldn’t let her. She nodded and went back to checking herself out in the mirror.

  “What’s wrong, Court? I mean, obvi it’s your grandfather, but is it something else, because if it’s something else you can totally tell us.”

  “Yeah, that’s why we’re here,” Britney said sincerely, “to support you. What’s going on?”

  Fighting tears, Courtney joined them on the bed and wailed. Everything came flooding out in long, breathless chunks. She told them about how she might lose her house because her stupid lawyer is stupid, and how she owes the government $12,735.63, and if she can’t get the money she’ll be homeless by Christmas. As she spoke, the girls just stared, mouths agape.

  “But that’s not the worst part.”

  “Oh, my God, what’s the worst part?” Kaitlin asked as if on the verge of orgasm.

  Courtney braced herself, unsure if her friends were mature enough to handle her truth, then closed her eyes and said calmly, “I’m pregnant.”

  There was a silence longer than Britney’s legs.

  “Dude…”

  “OMFG.”

  Neither girl was still a virgin. Well, Britney was technically kind of still a virgin, maybe—but they were smart enough to take precautions despite their school’s abstinence-only stance on the unreliability of birth control.

  “And I don’t know what I’m going to do because the father is older, and…”

  “And what?”

  Her voice got very small, “… married.”

  Kaitlin and Britney almost exploded. They were simultaneously appalled and titillated. “Holy shit!” they said in unison, the magnitude of the situation exempting Britney from her swearing ban.

  “Who is it?”

  “I’d rather not say right now. His wife just had a baby, like three days ago.” Kaitlin’s mouth was a tunnel of disbelief. A string of drool slid down her chin, which she wiped on the shoulder of her good arm. Britney, meanwhile, just kind of blinked and twitched as her brain short-circuited. But Courtney felt better than she had in weeks. Just telling someone made the whole situation more manageable. It was now a common problem shared among friends instead of a secret shame. Plus, she loved gossip even if it was about her.

  “Cool. Thanks for letting me vent, guys. I feel so much better.”

  As the girls processed, Courtney crossed to the mirror and gave her friends a quick once-over and determined that she looked better than they did. She was funeral ready. Then, remembering something important, Courtney turned and in her most deadly-serious voice said, “Oh, and you can’t tell anyone, okay?”

  They nodded like pliant zombies.

  “Cool. Now…” She adjusted her breasts and did a quick twirl in her new dress. “How do I look?”

  chapter fifteen

  For the past nine Father’s Days, birthdays, and Christmases, Ray’s kids had given him ties. Ray never wore ties and, quite frankly, he didn’t understand them.

  “Why is a man wearing paisleys, or stripes, or the Spider-Man logo around his neck considered more dressed up than a man in, say, a nice sweater?” a teenaged Ray once asked his father over steaks at the club. “It makes no sense.”

  “A tie lets people know you’re successful,” his father explained, a fork in one hand, a cigarette in the other. “Look around anywhere. You can always tell who’s the most successful by who’s wearing a tie.”

  Ray looked around. “Only the waiters are wearing ties.”

  Dr. Miller tossed his silverware onto the table. “Look, I’m trying to teach you something. If you don’t want to learn, fine, just don’t be a prick.”

  If success was judged solely on the number of ties a man owned, Ray would, for once, have impressed his father. His collection consisted of two SpongeBob ties, one Darth Vader, four Yodas, three designed by Jerry Garcia, one Harley-Davidson, a green John Deere, a red bow tie, three with medical themes, and six with snowmen—two of which were identical. He also had a skinny tie with a piano keyboard on it given to him by Joan as a joke. What the joke was exactly, he never knew.

  His long-out-of-fashion dress clothes were crushed into a tiny corner of the closet he now shared with Bailey’s retired gowns. It was hard to believe, with as much death as he was exposed to, that Ray didn’t own a single tie appropriate
for a funeral.

  Eventually, he gave up and grabbed one with tiny snowmen on it. From a distance they kind of looked like polka dots. It didn’t match his gray (and only) suit, but it would have to suffice. Checking the pockets of the suit, he found a five-dollar bill, a wedding program from three years earlier he had no memory of attending, and two random pills that he swallowed dry. He slid the mirrored door of the closet until he heard the satisfying fwoomp that reminded him of a coffin closing.

  In the living room, Miranda was on the sofa breast-feeding Brixton, who was “sleating” (sleeping while eating), a cutsie family term they’d coined when Bailey was an infant. The past three days had been emotional, to say the least, but Ray had fallen in love with his new daughter so effortlessly, that first night at the hospital now seemed like a bad TV show he was only half watching. Brixton was no different from any new baby: fussy, sleepy, wet, groggy, quiet, impossibly difficult, and impossibly easy. Miranda had even joked that maybe it would have been easier if all their kids had been born with Down syndrome, a joke that instantly made her break down into crippling, apologetic sobs. The Millers were well aware of the challenges that lay ahead—Joan’s incessant reminders made sure of that—but Miranda was trying to stay positive, and much to Ray’s grateful surprise, she had been.

  “Hey there, handsome,” Miranda said when Ray entered in his suit. “Where are you off to?”

  “Marvin’s funeral. I told you I needed to go.”

  “Right. You don’t ever go to funerals. You must have really liked that man.”

  Ray nodded. “He was … a good family man.”