Pretty Ugly: A Novel

by Kirker Butler

  “Oh, my God, just tell me how much.”

  “Somewhere in the neighborhood of ninety-two thousand dollars.”

  Silence.

  “Miss Daye?”

  It was more than she’d expected, a shit ton more. “Astonished” was the biggest word she knew to describe how she felt. In fact, she wouldn’t have been more surprised if Mr. Waxflower had called to tell her he was in love with her.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she asked.

  Mr. Waxflower squirmed. “Um. No. I am not.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Miss Daye, please.”

  “Sorry, but that’s … that’s a lot of money. I wasn’t expecting it to be so much.”

  “Well, apparently several of your grandfather’s neighbors had been trying to purchase the property for years and the bidding escalated quickly. The winner, a Mr. Jim Ed Gaither, is planning to expand his farm, and——”

  “I don’t care. When can I get a check?”

  Again, Mr. Waxflower cleared his throat. “I can have a cashier’s check to you probably by the end of next week, provided everything goes smoothly with the sale.”

  “So, by Friday then?”

  “If everything goes smoothly with the sale—”

  “Awesome.”

  Courtney hung up without saying good-bye. Politeness was for the poor. She was rich now, and she wasn’t going to waste her time being well mannered to Mr. Waxflower, who technically worked for her. Money changed everything, including what she was going to say to Miranda. Taking out her notebook, she started rewriting the Confession. Forget the apology. Forget the friendship. Ray was hers now and she was going to take him, buy him if she had to. If Miranda had a problem with that, then she could kiss Courtney’s rich white butt.

  * * *

  Ten minutes before her meeting with Caroline, Miranda was a wreck. She had packed only three outfits for the entire weekend, and two of them were Target maternity dresses. With every change of clothes, Ray insisted she looked great, but Miranda wouldn’t hear it.

  “You just don’t understand television, Ray.”

  “And you’re an expert?”

  She thought for a moment. “Yes. Somewhat. I watch a lot of it. And I know that no one is going to take me seriously if I show up dressed like a Southern housewife with four kids.”

  “But you are a Southern housewife with four kids. That’s why they want you for the show.”

  She ignored him. “Do you think the network would buy me a new wardrobe?”

  “Probably not.” Football was on TV and Ray was having a hard time not being drawn to it even though he didn’t really care about it. “You look fine in the clothes you have.”

  “I don’t want to look ‘fine,’ Ray. I want to look good.”

  “You do look good.”

  “I look housewife good, but I want to look TV good.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She gave him a withering look as if to say, You poor, poor ignorant man.

  “Remember when Sarah Palin was picked to run for Vice President? The first thing they did was take her shopping because it is important for a woman to look good in front of the cameras. No one would’ve taken her seriously dressed like an Alaskan housewife.”

  “People never took her seriously anyway.”

  “Don’t be mean. She and I have a lot in common.”

  “How?”

  “Well, we’re both former pageant queens, we’re both from small towns, we’ve both been persecuted by the media, and we both have a special needs child.” Miranda looked over at Brixton, who was sleeping soundly on the other bed, and smiled.

  “Well, maybe the two of you could become pen pals or something.”

  Miranda rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  Then again, why not? It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that someone like Sarah Palin would watch a reality show about beauty pageants, especially one featuring a special needs child. A surge of giddiness rippled through her body, and she made a mental note to ask Caroline if she knew how to get the former governor’s e-mail address.

  Settling on her one pair of nonmaternity jeans, a black sweater that did a decent job of masking her baby weight, and the pair of sequined Chuck Taylors she found forgotten in one of Bailey’s old bags, Miranda gave herself one last look in the mirror and felt as satisfied as she was going to feel.

  “Okay … do I look like I should be on TV?”

  After overreacting to a fumble he cared nothing about, Ray turned from the TV and did a double take.

  “Wow. You look fantastic.” Not that Miranda didn’t normally look great, but there was something different about her tonight, a brightness in her eyes that had been absent for a long time. What was it? Satisfaction? Confidence? Hope? Whatever it was, it suited her. This was the woman he’d fallen in love with, and all of a sudden he realized how much he’d missed her. A feeling he hadn’t known in a very long time overcame him, warming him like a favorite quilt. If he didn’t know any better he’d swear it was happiness, but that couldn’t be right, could it? His wife was about to go off and sell her family for a fleeting taste of celebrity. However, seeing her smile somehow made all that other garbage fall away. Ray took her hand, pulled her onto the bed, and kissed her hard.

  “I love you, Miranda. I really do.”

  “Well, I love you, too,” she said, thrown by his sudden affection.

  “No. I mean I really love you. And I’m going to make everything okay. I promise.”

  She was on her feet like a shot. “What do you mean? What’s not okay?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s not okay. Everything’s … fine. I’m just … I’m going to work very hard to make our lives better.”

  Miranda gave him a curious look. “Okay,” she said, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “I do look pretty good, don’t I?”

  They smiled.

  “You look great.”

  “All right, I’m leaving. Don’t eat anything. When I get back, we’ll go have a nice dinner somewhere to celebrate. I think I saw a Black Angus down the road.”

  “Sounds good. Break a leg, or whatever they say in a situation like this.”

  Halfway out the door, Miranda turned back and carefully picked Brixton up off the bed. “Almost forgot our little meal ticket.” She laughed nervously, hoping Ray knew it was a joke, then strapped her sleeping baby daughter into her sling and danced out the door.

  With at least an hour to himself, Ray thought about masturbating, but he was completely flaccid and working one up would take too much effort. Instead, he unzipped his garment bag and fished around his suit pockets for his biohazard bag of pills. And that’s when he saw it: the wrinkled, bloodstained envelope bearing his name, Marvin’s letter, waiting patiently for the perfect time to show up and shit all over his life.

  “Goddammit,” Ray moaned.

  The envelope felt heavy, like it was filled with a lifetime’s worth of bad karma. The old bastard always did know how to spoil a mood. Knowing he probably wouldn’t be in a better frame of mind anytime soon, Ray popped something he hoped was Lexapro and fell onto the bed. He took a deep breath and opened the envelope, half expecting to hear Marvin’s ghostly voice escape. The letter was nearly a page, which was something akin to a miracle considering the old man’s condition at the time of its writing. It must have taken him days. Each word was carefully crafted and nearly illegible, as if written by a vibrating child.

  Ray,

  Firstly, I want to thank you for taking care of me in the final weeks of my life. You did a good job even though I died anyway. However, that does not excuse what you did to Courtney (intercourse). She is a 17 year old child. A child! How would you feel if a grown man did that to your

  daughter? Shame on you. God will punish you harshly, so I do not feel that I need to. I also wanted to tell you that whatever Courtney tells you, she is not pregnant.

  Ray leapt up off the bed and read that last sentence again. “
Holy fucking shit.” Ray could barely breathe.

  I know she told you she was, but it is not true. I heard her talking to a friend on the phone and she was happy to not be pregnant. When she thought I was asleep, she told me everything. She said she was afraid of me dying and she wanted someone to take care of her. I think she wants that person to be you. I am not telling you this because I think you are a good person. You are not. I am saying this because my first wife tricked me into marrying her by saying she was pregnant. Thank God for Korea and annulment. No man deserves that even if that man is you and the woman is my granddaughter. I am not proud of her behavior, but she is a scared little girl. You are an adult. I know this gives you reason to push her out of your life forever, but even though she is lying she likes you. She may even love you. Please be kind to her. That is my dying wish. You owe me that. See you in hell.

  Marvin

  Ray ran to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet, and then with equal enthusiasm he tore open the minibar and downed a tiny bottle of vodka followed by a tiny bottle of Jack Daniel’s. After a series of deep breaths, he texted Courtney with the nimbleness and fury of a tween girl. MIRANDA GONE. NEED 2 C U ASAP. COME 2 MY ROOM!!!

  Ray could feel what he hoped was Lexapro coursing through his body as he read Marvin’s letter again, relishing every misshapen word. Everything started to make sense. This was why Courtney was so anxious all the time, why she’d cut him off from sex even though pregnant women are infuriatingly horny, and why after nearly four months she didn’t look fucking pregnant! Because she wasn’t fucking pregnant!

  His phone sang “Evil Woman” by ELO—Courtney’s newest text tone. I NED TALK 2 U 2. BAILEY SLEEPN. B RITE THER.

  Before he could respond, Courtney was standing in his room, an eager smile plastered across her lying face. “I’ve got some great news, Ray!”

  “Save it. We have to talk. Sit down.” His coolness was almost sinister. For the first time since she’d known him, he didn’t act afraid of her. If she hadn’t been so freaked out by it she would have found it sexy.

  “What’s going on? Are you drunk?”

  “That’s my business. Sit down.”

  “Okay.” She crossed to an easy chair by the window and tried to be cool as the oversized chair swallowed her up, making her look—and feel—like a child. “So … what should we talk about?”

  “Let’s start with this.” Ray slammed the letter onto the table in front of her.

  “Oh.” The sight of Marvin’s shaky handwriting made her voice crack. “It’s from Granddaddy.”

  “Read it.”

  “What is—?”

  “Read it,” he insisted.

  “Okay. Jeez.”

  Ray hummed like he’d been freebasing espresso. Every cell in his body wanted to scream, “You lied to me you little bitch!” But that wouldn’t be as satisfying as hurting her. It was important to Ray that Courtney knew her grandfather, the one person she’d loved most in the world, the last person who’d loved her unconditionally, had died disappointed in her. When she got to Ray’s favorite part—the part about her not being pregnant—her face went white.

  “Oh, God.” she whispered almost imperceptibly.

  Ray cackled. “That’s right.” It was without question one of the top five most satisfying moments of his life.

  Courtney’s eyes turned pink as she continued to read. Her mouth hardened, turning in on itself into a puckered frown. Her head shook involuntarily as if her body was finally rejecting all of the lies. When she was done reading, Courtney placed the letter neatly on the table, sank deeper into the chair, and cried into her chest.

  “So, what the fuck is going on?”

  Eighteen seconds passed before she was able to speak. “What?”

  He jammed his finger at the letter. “What is this? At the very least you owe me an explanation.”

  But there was nothing to explain. He wouldn’t have believed her, anyway.

  “I don’t owe you shit, Ray,” she murmured, her embarrassment adding a deeper hue to her already scarlet face.

  “Are—are you kidding?” he stuttered. “You’ve got to be kidding. Do you have any fucking idea what you’ve put me through? Do you even realize what you could’ve done to my family? Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  There was a lot she wanted to say: that despite everything she truly loved him and only wanted them to be together; that they could get past this … misunderstanding; that they really could have a future together. But he wouldn’t have heard it. He was done listening, and she was done trying.

  “You’d have been a terrible father, anyway,” she said quietly. Pulling herself out the chair, she slapped Marvin’s letter against Ray’s chest and walked out the door. “I’m done.”

  But Ray was not done. “Come back here, goddammit! You don’t get to just walk away!” He chased her into the hall, slamming the door behind him. “You lied to me! You lied to my family! What the hell were you thinking?!”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Courtney?”

  She still didn’t answer.

  “Courtney!” Fueled by anger, adrenaline, and what he hoped was Lexapro, Ray grabbed the girl by both arms and shook her like Humphrey Bogart would shake women in movies back when that sort of thing was okay. “Answer me!”

  “Ray? What’s going on?” Turning toward his wife’s voice, a bright light hit him in the face like a fist. Next to Caroline and two expressionless cameramen was Miranda with Brixton attached to her breast, mortified that her husband was already embarrassing her in front of her new show business friends.

  Throwing on an easy smile, Ray let go of Courtney and casually waved to his audience. “Hey, hon, Caroline. How was your—your meeting?”

  But before they had a chance answer, Courtney turned to Ray, and wiping a fresh tear from her cheek asked, “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

  * * *

  Joan lurched awake when she heard the door slam. For nearly two and a half hours she’d been asleep in the closet and had forgotten where she was. The blanket over her face made her think she had been presumed dead and was lying on a coroner’s gurney being prepped for an autopsy.

  “I’m alive!” she screamed, pulling off the blanket and finding herself on the floor of a closet.

  “Oh, right.” She sighed once she’s gotten her bearings. Dazed but ready, Joan quietly opened her Diet Coke and took a long pull. The caffeine and lukewarm sugar substitute gave Joan enough energy to pull herself up off the floor. Her knees cracked like dry bamboo, but she didn’t complain. When this was over, Jesus was going to fix her knees and build her a closet.

  The room was dark except for the TV, which was turned up so loud Joan could feel it in the floor. She inhaled deeply until she made herself dizzy.

  You okay?

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I know you will. Now, go get ’em, kiddo.

  With this final blessing as motivation, Joan tiptoed across the room, clutching the down-filled murder weapon with trembling hands. Mere inches in front of her, the harlot Courtney was asleep on the bed. Her back was to Joan, but even in the ambient glow of the TV the old woman knew it was her. The trampy hairstyle was unmistakable.

  Are you ready?

  “Yes,” she whispered, the pillow shaking more with every step.

  Remember, you will be forgiven for what you do here tonight. This kind of evil must be vanquished, and since I can’t do it myself, it’s up to people like you, Joan. My true believers, my soldiers.

  Joan blushed. She thanked Jesus for trusting her with such an important mission and took her position behind the sleeping whore. Marshalling every ounce of strength in her one-hundred-sixty-six-pound body, Joan brought the pillow down with a righteous vigor and held it over the girl’s face as tightly as she could.

  Nice job! Just a few more seconds and it’ll all be over.

  There was, however, a complication that Joan had not considered. The girl was fighting back. The
would-be murderer had assumed that when a person was smothered in her sleep, she just stayed asleep until she was dead. But that was not the case, especially since the girl wasn’t actually asleep. Joan had also failed to take into account that a healthy eighteen-year-old girl was a lot stronger than a sixty-year-old grandmother. Dodging kicks and fists, the old woman pushed harder as the muffled screams of a familiar voice seeped through the pillow. The voice didn’t even sound like Courtney’s, but Joan knew that was just the devil trying to trick her.

  Scratching and clawing for her life, the girl dug her fingernails into Joan’s forearms, tearing her skin like tissue paper.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Don’t let her go! I will heal thy wounds!

  Blood ran from the scratches, soaking her fingers and causing the pillow to slip. But Joan was not about to let a little blood prevent her from completing her mission. Jesus bled, too, and He didn’t quit. Leaning on the pillow with her forearm, Joan wiped her hands on the bedspread and attempted to get a better grip. However, the shift in position was just enough to give the girl an opening, and she let out an audible scream.

  “Grandma, stop! What are you doing?”

  “Bailey?!” Turning toward the door, Joan hoped her granddaughter hadn’t seen too much. It would be difficult to explain, to be sure, but Bailey was a smart, Christian girl. Ultimately, Joan believed, she would understand. “Where are you?”

  “Get off of me!” Bailey kicked hard, hitting her grandmother squarely in the knee. Joan collapsed to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been clipped.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” Bailey jumped out of bed and ran to the door. “Mom! Dad!”

  “No! Oh, my goodness! Bailey, wait! I thought you were somebody else!” Joan struggled to lift herself up off the floor and hobbled after Bailey into the hallway.

  “Do you want to tell her, or should I?” Courtney asked Ray, who stood in the blinding lights of the cameras.

  Just then, Bailey ran from her room screaming, “Mom, Grandma just tried to kill me!”