He looked at her, as he had throughout. At last he spoke. “I understand your problem, Miss Moran.” He stood up, walked around the table he used as a desk. Gently, he touched her under the chin, raised her head, turned it, first left, then right.
“Flesh isn’t stone, Miss Moran. It’s not predicable. It moves, it drapes, it scars. Your face lacks definition. There are no planes here”—he touched her cheeks—“and here”—he placed his finger under her nose—“there is no decisiveness. Your brow is too protruding. Your chin is weak. Your nose joins your upper lip without the recess we define as beautiful. Of course, the chin and nose present few real problems, but surgery can’t really alter the shape of the face, or the head itself. And beauty depends on the relationship of so many of these separate parts.” He paused. “Certainly I can make improvements. But I’m not sure I can promise you beauty. And I’d caution you to avoid any surgeon who tells you otherwise.”
She thought of Collins’ words, licked her lips, took a breath, and spoke. “Doctor, I’m not looking for a magician, but I’m also not here for a little profile-contouring. I don’t want a cute little snub nose. I don’t just want some ‘improvement.’ I’m looking for an artist. I’ve heard about you. I’ve seen your work. I think you can do what I want.”
“Thank you. I’ve seen your work, too. You were brilliant in Jack and Jill and Compromise. You are very good.”
“But can I look good?”
“There is a very narrow standard of beauty in the commercial sense,” Brewster said, looking out the gray window at the gray day beyond it. “There is an aesthetic intolerance in this country for the ethnic, for the imperfect, for the unusual. Although, of course, beauty actually is unusual. That is why we venerate it, I suppose.” He sighed, as if he were tired of thinking about a very old problem, one he had reviewed a thousand times before. He turned back to her. “I worked with cadavers all through my internship and residency. I dissected almost four hundred noses, trying to determine what the magic formula was. What made a nose beautiful? What magic proportion, what relationship to the rest of the face, what line, what curve was responsible? Then I reconstructed each one, striving to achieve that perfection.”
Had he achieved it? She wanted to ask him, but she was far too afraid to, afraid that she’d hear that he had failed.
He turned back from the window. “In my opinion, society is sick. They have created a false, an almost impossible vision of female beauty and then induced women to attempt to achieve it. All of them fail. I have some of the most beautiful women in the world in this office, and they’re frightened because they feel they aren’t quite beautiful enough.”
“That’s hardly my situation,” Mary Jane said dryly.
“No, it isn’t,” he agreed bluntly. “But most plastic surgeons feed off this sick society. Women who have been made neurotic, who feel their breasts should be bigger, their noses smaller. Or who have husbands that believe that. Or who want husbands who believe that. The medical profession’s fed off the illness of society for years: we are banishing the natural, creating the supernatural.”
“Why do you do it, then?”
“Well, it isn’t my main practice. Mostly I do reconstruction. But there is a fascination in the work. I’d lie if I said there wasn’t. And, of course, the money is very, very good. I can charge what I like. It is, after all, elective.”
“For some people,” Mary Jane said flatly.
“Well, for my face-lift clients, for example. Seven thousand dollars, and I can do it in under two hours. That might buy faces for two of my clinic kids. Or a new operating room for our little Honduran hospital.”
“You work in Honduras?”
“Yes. Lots of gunshot wounds. I prefer impoverished, underdeveloped countries. No face lifts in Honduras. There, living long gains you respect, and surgery is only for important issues, not breast enlargement and nipple placement.”
“No silicone-breast cancer cases?” Mary Jane asked.
Brewster Moore shook his head. “Dow has always been an enemy of the people. Clearly disturbing data on silicone implants were already published in 1979. But it appears that women in America would rather risk cancer than live with small breasts. And doctors would rather collect fees than be scrupulous. The deadly search for beauty.”
“All right, doctor,” she said, looking directly at him. “Now we both understand the situation. So. What would it take to make me truly beautiful?”
The doctor looked out the window. “There would be a great deal of surgery involved,” he began. He turned back again and looked at her. “And there would be body scars. Scars that would never fade and couldn’t be disguised. Keloids might form and disfigure you. I don’t do body work, but I can recommend those who do.” He paused. “And there would be discomfort. No, pain. Real pain. Undeniably. And it would take time. Time for multiple procedures, and healing in between. There are no guarantees. Work on this scale is difficult. And costly.”
“But you could do it?” she asked. “It would be possible?” Her voice caught for a moment. She stopped there, took a breath, and continued. “They all told me you were the one. That you work miracles. You can make me beautiful?”
The doctor folded his hands over the file on the otherwise barren desk. “Too soon to tell. I need to see preliminary X-rays and the results of a complete workup.” Gently he touched her head, moved it left to right, right to left. “But it may be possible.”
She sighed, then drew her breath again. “Would it take more than two years and sixty-seven thousand dollars?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps. That’s assuming, of course, that it can be done at all. Why do you ask?”
“Because that’s how much time and money I’ve got,” she said, and pushed her purse across the desk to him. He looked at the battered bag. Then back at her. For the first time in the interview, he almost smiled.
“I’m glad you have the money, though it’s a bit premature. I don’t consider this frivolous surgery, Miss Moran, but the clinic would never underwrite it. And it will be expensive. And you will be incapacitated for periods after the procedures. You certainly couldn’t work.”
Mary Jane laughed. “I don’t get to work now.” The laugh sounded almost as bitter as she felt. “But it won’t cost more than I have?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know. But we can cross that bridge when we come to it. For now, I’d like a series of detailed X-rays, as well as your dental records. And I’d like you to think about the seriousness of what you’re proposing. Then we can meet again.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome, Miss Moran.”
“So, you want a deposit? I mean, should I give you a check or something?”
He looked across the table at her, another appraising look. “Give me forty pounds,” he said, and for a moment she thought he was talking about English money. For the first time in the interview, Mary Jane felt the color rush to her cheeks as she blushed hotly. “We can’t even see what we’re working with until you lose that weight,” Dr. Moore told her. “Then we’ll get a better idea.”
Forty pounds! She knew she had always been chunky, thick through the waist, fat thighs—but forty pounds! She’d really let herself go. The misery over losing the part, over losing Sam. Forty pounds! That would bring her down to about 115. She hadn’t weighed that even back in high school in Scuderstown. Christ, it was hard to face ten—how would she lose forty?
Still, if that’s what it took, she’d do it. She’d quit eating, she’d exercise, she’d fast if she had to. She’d show her commitment. She was going to change herself, her life. She nodded, and rose from the chair.
“Forty pounds. Miss Moran. Then we’ll be able to see what you’re made of.”
Mary Jane nodded again, and managed to stumble out of his office.
18
“Where’re we going?” Dean asked, excited by the surprise Dobe said he wanted to show them.
“You’
ll see, young feller. It’s just a few miles more.”
Sharleen sat forward, leaning both arms on the back of Dean’s seat. “Now, what do you and Oprah have up your sleeve today, Dobe?” she asked, and smiled. She was sad that she and Dean would be going their own way tomorrow, when they got to Bakersfield. Dobe had been a perfect gentleman for the whole trip, and never once asked her to lie or behaved improperly toward her. But Sharleen knew that what Dobe did wasn’t right, and, anyway, it was time she and Dean stood on their own two feet. She wasn’t sure how they were going to do that exactly, but the good Lord would provide. Hadn’t He gotten them to California?
Of course, they were sinners. They’d broken two commandments that Sharleen knew of for sure, and she prayed to Jesus every night that they’d be forgiven. But she also remembered her momma’s last words—and she had to take care of Dean.
She didn’t know how she would have managed without Dobe. He’d broken a few of the commandments himself, she felt sure. She thought of the story of the traveler who fell among thieves and was rescued by the Good Samaritan. But what did the Bible say when the Samaritan and the thief was the same person?
“Up my sleeve?” Dobe was asking her now with exaggerated surprise. “Why, young lady, would you think I have something up my sleeve?” he asked, looking at her in the rearview mirror, his eyes wide.
“Sharleen, that ain’t right. Now, you apologize to Dobe. He’s been mighty good to us,” Dean said, half-turning in his seat. “Anyway, Oprah don’t have no sleeves, do she, Dobe?”
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, Dobe,” Sharleen said. She patted Dean’s shoulder and smiled. Dobe brought his eyes back to the road and slowed down. “Here we are,” he said.
“Look at all them cars!” Dean cried out. The glittery sign over the building read “Honest Abe’s—Ten Acres of Used Cars.” Dean jumped out of the car after Dobe, and Sharleen followed.
Dobe waved to a man behind the picture window and started to walk down the long rows of cars, the multicolored pennants flapping in the warm California breeze over their heads. Dobe came to a stop in front of a car that had “Special—$1,999” scrawled in white paint on the left side of the windshield. “Seems it’s time to buy a car,” Dobe said. “This looks like a California model.” It was sporty—a Datsun 280Z, and it was silver.
Sharleen stood by Dobe’s side as he and Dean studied the car. Dean walked around it in circles, patting the roof, kicking the tires.
“It’s a beauty, Dobe,” Dean said. “And it’s silver. Like your car. Like the Lone Ranger’s horse.”
“It sure is pretty,” Sharleen said. “It’s one of them foreign cars, isn’t it?”
“But what do you want with another car, Dobe?” Dean asked. “The one you’ve got is real good. There wouldn’t be much room for more’n you and Oprah in there.”
“It’s not for me. I was thinking maybe you would like it.”
Dean’s eyes opened wide. “Me?”
“Sure, why not? Oprah and I wanted to get something for you and Sharleen here as a going-away present, seeing as how you been good enough to keep an old man company.” Dobe turned to Sharleen. “And you’ll be needing a car in California. I hear they arrest people out here that don’t own one.”
Before she could speak, before she could refuse, “Welcome to Honest Abe’s,” they heard a voice behind them say, and they turned to see a short, pudgy man with a big belly walking toward them, wearin’ an Abe Lincoln stovepipe hat on his head. “If I can’t help you, I won’t hurt you. Oh, it’s you again, Mr. Samuels. And is this the son you were telling me about?” Honest Abe asked Dobe, pulling his eyes away from Sharleen.
Sharleen went over to Dobe and touched his shoulder. “You’ve been so good to us already, Dobe,” she said softly. “We’ve been living like rich folk since we met you, and eating better than at a country funeral. And you’ve been a perfect gentleman. You don’t need to give us no present. You give us enough already.”
Dobe looked down at his boots. “It would make me very happy, Sharleen,” he said. “This has been a real nice time for me. It’s like you’re my own kids. And you’ve been a big help. You earned the money.”
“Sharleen,” Dean said, “this here car’s a beauty. You know, I could put her into top shape if anything goes wrong.” She could hear the yearning in his voice.
“But if I’m overstepping my bounds,” Dobe continued, “just say so, and no hard feelings.”
Tears filled Sharleen’s eyes. Not since Momma left, not for such a long time, had anyone been this good to her, taken care of her. After a moment, Sharleen said, “Thank you, Dobe. We’d be grateful. And we’ll pay you back someday.”
Dobe turned back to Abe. “This could be the one,” Dobe said, as he took Abe by the arm and walked him away from them, talking into Abe’s ear as they strolled.
When he came back, he tossed the keys to Dean and said, “Well, son, let’s take her for a ride.” Dobe opened the front passenger door for Sharleen, then got in the tiny back seat with Oprah and leaned forward. “How’s she feel?” Dobe asked Dean as they turned onto the main drag.
Dean floored the accelerator, then let up. “She’s a beauty, Dobe. Great pickup.”
“And she’s all yours now, kids. Makes sayin’ goodbye a bit more cheerful.”
Sharleen wondered if they did some kind of police check when you bought a car. She wondered if the Lamson sheriff had put their names in one of them computers, the kind that tracked you down. But as Abe went over the car with Dean, Dobe took her aside.
“Seems to me, Sharleen, from the first time I saw the two of you, that you was on the run.” He put his hand up. “I don’t know nothin’ and I don’t want to know. But I know how it feels. I truly do. Anyway,” he continued, “I put the car in my name. Well—in the name Dobe Samuels. Clean as a whistle. Consider it a loan. Someday I may ask you for a favor. I’m sure you’d do it for me. And keep your own nose clean, huh?”
Sharleen swallowed and nodded silently. Then she leaned over and gave Dobe a big kiss on his sunburned cheek.
When they got back to the motel, Sharleen and Dean loaded their suitcase into the back seat of the Datsun. Dobe stood with his hands in his back pockets, while Dean fussed over the car, proud as a coon with a catfish.
“Sharleen, could I give you a little more advice?” Dobe asked, his voice quiet so it wouldn’t carry.
“Why, sure, Dobe. You’re a smart man. And a good one, too.”
“Well, you’re more than pretty, Sharleen. You’re beautiful. And life can either be too easy or too hard for a beautiful girl. Now, you ain’t the type to make it too easy for yourself. But don’t make it too hard, neither.” Dobe looked into Sharleen’s eyes. “If you got to say yes to somebody someday, Sharleen, just make sure it’s for the right reasons.”
Sharleen nodded, not quite sure what Dobe meant, but figuring that, like some of the Bible’s meaning, it would come to her later. She stepped on tiptoes and kissed Dobe again on the cheek, then hugged him tight. “Thank you, Dobe, for being so good to us.”
Dean came over and put his arms around Dobe. “I’m sure going to miss you. Now I got no one but Sharleen to talk about license plates with. And thank you for the car, Dobe. And for the food. And the beds.” Dean’s face got red, and he knelt down to Oprah and put his arms around the big dog. “You take care, hear?” he told her. She licked his face.
Then Dobe called to the dog, and she got into his car next to him. Dean shut the door, and Dobe turned the big silver Pontiac out of the motel parking lot onto the street. Sharleen turned around and waved a kiss to him. Dean blew his nose.
“He been real good to us, Sharleen,” Dean said. “I was going to ask for some pills for the gas tank, but since he never offered, I thought it would be greedy. Right, Sharleen?”
“Right, honey,” she told him, and put her arm around his shoulders.
19
Mary Jane sat at the battered desk before her front window, looking out
onto West Fifty-fourth Street. Since she had met Dr. Moore, two days ago, she had hardly managed five hours of sleep. She had unplugged her answering machine and had spent the time both pacing and lying flat across the old double bed in the back bedroom, staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.
How, she kept asking herself, how could she do this thing? That she would do it, or die in the attempt, she knew. But how could she manage to survive the transformation she was contemplating? And not just the physical one. Plain, almost homely, all her life, how could she learn to act the part of a beautiful woman? For without action, she knew, no role could be successfully played. How many pretty girls had she seen who never believed in their own beauty, and couldn’t make anyone else believe in it, either? And how many unextraordinary women had she seen who could project an aura of beauty despite only average looks? It wasn’t enough to get the exterior right, the costumes, makeup, and posture. She would have to perfect the persona of a beautiful woman. How could she, a female who had had absolutely zero faith in her looks, act the part of a beauty? Would she be ridiculous? Would she fail? Once again she stood up and paced the tiny front room. What misgivings did a fat old caterpillar have as it started to close itself into its cocoon? Did it have a genetic script for its upcoming role as a butterfly, or did it ad-lib? Well, she had no script, and since she’d never been good at improvs, she’d have to create one.
She walked back to the desk and stared down at the spiral-bound notebook in front of her. On the first page she had written four headings: “Financial Plan,” “Social Plan,” “Career Plan,” and “Physical Plan.” She had determined that she wouldn’t leave the dark apartment until she had considered all the problems of each category and come up with solutions. She had always been good at observation and imitation, the tools of an actor’s craft. And she would use visualization, the tricks she had learned in therapy, to feel her way to her new role. But how you went about becoming a new, successful, beautiful person when you were an almost middle-aged, unattractive failure wasn’t going to be so easy to visualize.
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