“Come on, give me a shimmy!” Ruby screeched from the couch as she ground out one cigarette and then lit another. “You’re fighting a battle of good and evil with your dog pimp! Your only weapon is the shimmy! There is power in the shimmy! Make him fear your shimmy! Now, goddamnit, show me your war shimmy!”
“I’m trying,” Maye wailed pathetically as a drop of sweat the size of a nickel flew from her forehead. “My back hurts, my arms hurt, my shoulders hurt, and if I shimmy any more, I’m going to need a boob lift. I think I’ve shaken the joy out of them.”
“Go ahead, then, stop,” the old woman said, taking a gulp out of her tumbler and ashing her cigarette. “Give up, surrender. What do you think Melissabeth is doing right now, huh? She’s singing, is what. Doing her scales, drinking tea with lemon, holding her breath, whatever those opera people do. If you wanna let her win, go ahead and stop, be my guest, I could use the rest.”
“I don’t want to stop,” Maye gasped in midshimmy. “I just want a break!”
The music abruptly halted after Ruby quickly hit “stop” with her warped, barnacled finger.
“There,” she said as an exhaust pipe’s worth of smoke shot from her mouth. “There’s your break.”
“Release, Mickey,” Maye said, breathing heavily, and stopped as her dog ran off to tackle Puppy, who had been watching the rehearsal from Ruby’s recliner.
“Now, I’ll let you have a short break, but hard work will pay off when you’re up there on that stage,” Ruby reminded her as she pulled a paper towel from her sleeve and handed it to Maye to wipe her sweaty and, thankfully, healing scab brow. “When I’m down there looking at you doing this number for real, don’t make me wish I hadn’t given you this break, Girl.”
“Ha-ha,” Maye said. “If you want, though, I will have Charlie videotape it so you can see it later.”
“What do you mean, see it later?” Ruby asked, duly offended. “What kind of coach would I be if I didn’t show up? I’ll be there, all right. I wanna take the credit when you win! I wanna rub it in!”
Maye sat down on the couch next to the old lady. “Ruby, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come into town,” she said as gently as possible. “I’ll come out here as soon as the pageant is over, I swear, whether it’s good or bad news. But I—I just think it’s better if you don’t go. I would love to have you there, but I’m sorry.”
“You can’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” Ruby warned harshly. “I have just as much right to go into that town as anyone does.”
“I think you do, too,” Maye said, trying to comfort her. “And I wasn’t going to tell you this, but one of the times I went to Hopkins to get you a malted, I saw Rowena. She was being her typical nasty self, and she got me into a huff. I mentioned that you were my coach, and she replied that if you tried to step foot into town, you’d be lucky if you didn’t get lynched. I’m afraid she’ll start something there and that you might get hurt.”
“That’s what she thinks!” the old woman cried. “She thinks she runs it all! I go into town whenever I please, and no one says anything!”
“I know,” Maye said. “But this time is different. This time she’ll be looking for you. This time she’ll know you’re there.”
Ruby looked lost and defeated. She shook her head, which caused little singed bits of hair to tumble from the ends.
“But I want to go,” she said weakly, almost sounding like a child. “I was the queen, remember?”
“You’re still the queen,” Maye replied, patting Ruby’s gnarled hand. “And that’s why Rowena is so horrible. She knows that’s not her crown, she knows she didn’t win. But look at what she did to get it, and that woman still has that in her. She’ll do anything to get—or take—what she wants. Particularly from you.”
“My crown is not all she got,” the old woman mumbled quietly.
Maye took a deep breath. “I know, Ruby,” she said, finally forcing it out. “I know about what Rowena did.”
Ruby shook her head again. “No, you don’t,” she said tiredly. “No, you don’t.”
“I know about Dean Spaulding,” Maye reiterated. “I know about Minty.”
Although Ruby took a deep breath, it seemed like she had suddenly deflated. The old woman’s shoulders dropped and fell, as if she had just tossed off a load she never wanted to be carrying.
“You shouldn’t think poorly of him. He was only doing what he thought was right,” she said, not so much to Maye but in a mantra that she had ingrained in herself for the last fifty years. “Anybody would have done what he did. He thought I burned down his family’s factory. They lost everything, everything his family had built up. The town lost jobs, they weren’t even sure if that place would survive. Any man would have done what he did. He had no choice. He had to…he had to send me that note. I understood. I did. I thought he did the right thing, too, if I had to make that choice.”
Suddenly, Maye realized what she hadn’t been able to connect since the first day she pulled up into the dirt driveway of Ruby’s tumbledown gray shack. How a vibrant, fiery, beautiful young woman had drifted away, away, away, until a weathered, acidic, and turbulent recluse finally took her place.
Ruby Spicer blamed herself.
She blamed herself for nearly ruining a town she never touched with a badly intentioned hand, she blamed herself for losing the opportunities that had been stolen from her. She blamed herself for getting a note that said the kindest man she ever met could not spread that kindness to her. Even if Ruby Spicer didn’t set that fire, she might as well have; she had even convicted herself.
“Have you seen him?” the old woman asked, not looking at Maye. “Can you tell me what he’s like now?”
Maye nodded. “He was very nice to me,” she said. “He came over and talked to me at the faculty mixer when no one else would. He remembered my name. And he insisted that I come to the holiday party because I think he knew I was too embarrassed to go. And they always have the most beautiful flowers at the house; they’re usually out of season.”
“That’s Minty,” Ruby said, nodding slightly. “Did he seem happy to you?”
Maye winced, then shook her head. “I don’t know, Ruby,” she answered honestly. “He always seemed happy when I saw him, but he is an excellent host, he made sure everyone always had what they needed, and that they felt welcomed. I do know, though, that Rowena attempted to order his favorite pastrami sandwich from Hopkins but had no idea what he liked on it.”
“Oh,” Ruby replied.
“Are you all right?” Maye asked, to which Ruby nodded.
“You know, I’m a little tired,” the old woman said, finally looking at Maye. “I think I’m going to pop in a good movie and relax in the chair. You can go on home. The act is as good as gold.”
“Well, I have some more strips to sew to my skirt, anyway,” Maye said. “The backside is a little bare. Are you going to be okay?”
“I’ll be fine, I’m fine,” Ruby replied, waving her away. “I’m in the mood for a little Johnny Guitar. The idea of Joan Crawford playing piano in a flowing white gown as everything burns down and a lynch mob is coming at her sounds very appealing.”
“I can stick around, Ruby,” she said. “I can call Charlie and tell him I’ll be a little late.”
“Nope,” the old woman said adamantly, with a cigarette dangling from between her teeth. “Go on and work on your costume. You’ll look adorable. Now go out there and be so swell that you’ll make me hate you.”
Maye looked at her quizzically.
“42nd Street,” she offered, smiling.
“Okay then,” Maye said hesitantly as she got Mickey’s leash and hooked it to his collar. “I’ll go.”
She turned off the CD player, picked up her purse, then headed for the door. She had her hand on the doorknob and was about to pull it open when she stopped.
“It’s very simple, really,” Ruby called out to her. “On rye with lots of mustard.”
15
When Maye arrived at the Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant check-in table at the back steps of the town square stage in her Pat Benatar slutty rag outfit and her dog dressed like a Huggy Bear, no one even came close to asking where her sponsor was, despite the fact that it was listed on the entrance application that she’d filled out months ago. The pageant director, a nervous-looking fifty-ish woman, gave her a badge with her name on it for backstage access, told her to be ready at 7 P.M. sharp for the contestant introductions, where to find the music coordinator, who needed her musical selection if she had one, and what place she had. Then she plucked the thirty-five-dollar entry fee, in cash only, from Maye’s hand without so much as a “Thank you very much.”
And Maye was in. She and her pimp dog walked up the whining wooden stairs to the backstage area, which was hidden from view by a large, heavy canvas curtain. Backstage was a buzzing little community of its own, with sponsors rushing back and forth and contestants siphoning the last minutes of practice in before the pageant started.
Maye was amazed at how many contestants there were shoved together between the canvas curtain and the stage itself. She wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, since in Ruby’s day, the competition had been more formal and traditional. Over the years, it had lost all traces of conventionality, and in turn, it had become a free-form contest. In order to compete, the competitors needed to meet only three qualifications: they had to be a citizen of Spaulding, they needed a sponsor, and they needed a talent routine. That was it. Gone were the pageant gowns, the swimsuit segment, the host in a tuxedo. Instead, Spaulding’s modern-day Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant was open to anyone who had a spare thirty-five bucks and a hankering to get onstage.
With Mickey by her side, Maye set off to find the music coordinator and hand over her CD. She passed by a five-year-old dressed in exquisitely frilly pageant wear, dutifully practicing dance steps; she skirted by a man mumbling out of the side of his mouth while operating a dangling marionette dressed in what looked like a baby unitard; she stood behind someone dressed like a scarecrow holding a staff with jangly bells attached who was blocking the hallway, shaking her stick at no one; and just as she reached the man who looked harried enough to be the music coordinator, she saw the back of a young, slim woman dressed in an elegant, floor-length silver evening gown. She was speaking quietly and calmly to the harried, sweat-drenched man.
It was Melissabeth.
Maye took a deep breath, attempted to smile, and waited. She couldn’t make out exactly what it was that Rowena’s flying monkey was saying, but she did see the music coordinator pat his brow several times with a hankie from his pocket as he compulsively nodded in agreement. It took less than a minute for Maye to feel a chill against her back, but she already knew it was coming by the sound of determined, furious pumps rushing toward her as they clipped the worn wooden floors.
“HA!” Rowena bellowed, bending her arms and throwing her palms up when she saw Maye. “I did not think you would really do this. I have to give you credit, Maye Roberts. Do you have a thirst for public humiliation? Well, I feel a little sorry for you, about to get beaten into the ground by a perfect rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria, one of the most difficult anyone can perform. My girl is going beat you.”
Her coal eyes flicked down to Mickey, who was panting patiently in his little white suit and gold lamé vest.
“She’ll beat you and your little dog, too,” Rowena threatened with a smirk. “And just where is your sponsor?”
It took everything Maye had to contain her hatred for Rowena and not let it leak out all over her. She wanted to punch her. She had never in her life wanted to sock anyone before, but she could feel her fingers curling up into her palm just from want. Her rage had become that solid and real, not because of what Rowena had done to Maye, but because of what she had ground Ruby into. Maye knew just where she would hit her—slightly above the cheekbone so she’d be sure to provide a nice, fleshy black eye with all the trimmings. More than anybody, Rowena deserved it. For all she had stolen from Ruby, for all that she had assumed, it was only proper that Maye hit her and hit her hard.
“She’ll be here,” Maye lied, retracting her fingers up tighter in her hand, not wanting Rowena to know that she had indeed struck fear into Maye about what might happen to Ruby if she did come.
“She’s not curled up underneath the stage swigging from the cheapest bottle of gin she could find, is she?” Rowena shot, the grin still pinned across her yellow teeth.
Maye leaned in closer to Rowena and put a sweet smile on her face.
“That’s not very nice talk,” she whispered loud enough for Rowena to hear her clearly, “from a runner-up.”
Rowena pulled back slightly, the smile sucking back into the folds of her face. “We’ll see you out there on that stage,” Rowena hissed. “We’ll see what you’re made of then. I’m afraid we’re going to clean you up with your own little mop skirt by the end of the evening. Melissabeth! Come, dear, you have a hair out of place.”
Melissabeth turned toward Maye and, without a word, was whisked away.
The music coordinator, who wore a laminated badge with the name Merlin on it, pulled out a white cloth that almost looked like a surrender flag and pressed it against his forehead.
“It must have taken acid to get the green color out of her skin,” Maye remarked. “But then again, for her that only entails spitting into a napkin.”
“Well,” Merlin fudged, “she’s taken a lot of her protégées to the top. She’s got more wins under her belt than anyone else can claim. You must be Maye Roberts. You’re the last one to check in. You’re also the last one going on. Where’s your music?”
“Right here,” Maye said, handing over the CD that held the version of the song one of Charlie’s computer-guy friends at the university had managed to wipe the vocal tracks from. “It’s the only song on there.”
“Any special instructions?” he asked quickly.
“Do you have a clip-on mike?” Maye asked.
“You’re singing?” Merlin asked.
“If you can call it that,” she replied. “I’ll be dancing, too, so I’ll be moving around a lot.”
“I’ll track down a clip-on for you, but in the meantime, you’d better get over to the side stage,” the sweaty bald man advised. “The show is going to start any minute, and you’ll need to walk out when they call your name.”
Maye and Mickey walked over to the holding area, where Maye was able to size up her competition. There was Melissabeth, looking like the real winner right out of the gate; the tiny pageant girl with so much makeup on it was entirely possible that she’d been held by the ankles and dipped into a vat of Cover Girl, accompanied by her equally cosmetic-laden, hair-spray-cocooned mother; the scarecrow, whose jingly staff produced a constant, slight hum of tiny chimes; the marionette and his equally creepy master who whispered to each other in low mumbles; and a young man wrapped in a red-sequined dress sitting in a wheelchair that was manned by a middle-aged lady who looked nervous.
Standing there, with all of the contestants and their sponsors hidden off to the side, Maye second-guessed her decision that Ruby shouldn’t come. She wished she was there, standing off to the side with the other sponsors, farting, belching, coughing, and setting herself on fire, especially if she was standing next to Rowena. It would have made Maye feel a little protected, in a sense, and definitely not so all alone. In the days before the pageant, the two of them had spent long hours together, putting the finishing touches on the act, figuring out where to hide a special treat pouch inside of Maye’s slut skirt to lure Mickey to come, walk backward, and stay in their dance-off, and working the routine into a perfect symphony of shaking totties, finger snaps, and dramatic looks that were sure to get a laugh.
Sure, she realized, Ruby had her rough spots—on an average day, she was like a case of eczema: red, swollen, bumpy, and irritated. On other days, though, she could be eczema with salve applied�
�a little smoother, not so inflamed, and not quite as crusty. In fact, a day spent without trudging out to Ruby’s or trying to walk through a herd of dogs or coming home with the aroma of Ruby’s cigarettes lingering on her clothes would seem a little strange, somehow lacking. She would still see the old woman, she was sure of it, but they had spent so much time together, particularly within the last couple of weeks, that it now seemed like habit. Not a particularly good or fun habit, but one that Maye had grown fond of nonetheless.
The more she thought about it, the more she knew she was wrong; she should have let Ruby come. Like Rowena was going to start anything, especially in front of the whole town where someone might see her acting like the real Rowena and not in the socially pristine role of Mrs. Spaulding. Maye began to fill herself with regret, and with guilt for even stepping foot on that stage without Ruby there to see it. It was, after all, her work, too.
She remembered the words the old, wrinkled woman had said to her before she’d left the night before with finished costumes for herself and Mickey and the assurance that the act was as polished as it was going to get. Ruby had handed her the rag skirt and shirt, smiled, and said with a Viceroy hanging from her lips, “You’ll look adorable. Now go out there and be so swell that you’ll make me hate you.”
A burst of loud, recorded pageant music suddenly blared from the speakers on either side of the stage, making Maye jump. Through a sliver in the curtain Maye got a glimpse of the stage, and she saw something she hadn’t expected. A vast, buzzing audience. The crowd there to witness the pageant swelled all the way into the town square, past the grassy park that surrounded it, and almost onto the street. It was amazing. Maye knew that a good number of spectators turned out for the event, but to her, it seemed like the whole town was there. It had to be, unless they were bussing people in from outlying areas that were desperate for entertainment. And somewhere out there, she knew, was Charlie, probably getting ready to cringe at his wife’s behavior as he had never cringed before.
There's a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell - v4 Page 25