Once, she had even taken two strands of plastic pop-beads and spray-painted them silver, creating a magnificent Indian necklace. That was the beginning of the spray paint epidemic, which culminated in Milan’s discovery of the color “celadon.” She liked the idea of pushing a button and watching all the dirt and grime of your life evaporate into a clean, happy, brightly colored cloud. It required forty-one cans of “celadon” to cover the exterior of the Laniers’ house, and even though people of lesser vision criticized it, her parents never said a word. When it came to taste, Milan was king.
The walls of the bedroom she shared with her three sisters were covered with tear-outs from all the latest fashion magazines, which had been donated by Claire Cutsinger, the woman for whom Milan babysat. Claire was one of the most sophisticated women in Paris. She drank martinis with little onions in them before dinner, had her own Neiman Marcus credit card, and ordered individual false eyelashes from a beauty supply house in New York City. She even showed Milan how to hike up her breasts with full-strength packaging tape, as well as how to lower her voice by yawning with her mouth closed (“Tits up, voice down” was one of Claire’s mantras).
From the magazines and Claire’s tutelage, Milan absorbed all the latest cutting-edge makeup techniques until she was good enough, at age sixteen, to get a job at Cotrell’s Funeral Home. It wasn’t long before she was wowing mourners with her ability to make the dead women of Paris appear far more sexy and come-hither than they ever had in life. Everyone said Naomi Kimble, a bony, pale-faced spinster, went to her reward looking a lot like Cher-when-she-was-still-with-Sonny. Other patrons favored, at least in hairstyle, the Charlie’s Angels, a popular TV show at the time. Some thought Wanda Tarkington resembled a very old Raquel Welch, including Wanda’s breasts, which looked enormous from the panty hose Milan had stuffed inside her suit jacket to give it just the right shape. Pretty soon the general complaint was that all the female corpses at Cotrell’s Funeral Home had been made up to look like a bunch of chesty hookers with raccoon eyes. And when business began to fall off, Milan received her first warning from Mr. Cotrell. Small towns were like that. What initially seemed new and exciting almost always gave way to whatever the consensus opinion had been that brought about the original status quo in the first place.
It was around this time that the movie Annie Hall came out and all of a sudden the bodies at Cotrell’s began appearing at visitation with no makeup at all. Mrs. Viola Belford, an eighty-year-old grandmother of twelve, had to be quickly whisked away after family members questioned why she was wearing a man’s oversized shirt, vest, and tie. As soon as visitation was over, Milan was fired.
Her tenure at Cotrell’s was the only time in her life that she had ever lost control of herself—becoming completely intoxicated with the notion that she had the power to transform people into something genuinely, permanently, better. She delighted in the thought that not a single one of her clients would ever again be made to feel insecure by the unimaginative opinion of small-town relatives and friends. She knew she had sent them on their way looking the best that they would ever be, each frozen visage providing that final, pinnacle Kodak moment for loved ones to cherish forever. Or not.
Lots of folks thought that working with dead people was depressing, but Milan, who disliked surprises, found it downright reassuring. It was completely unlike being at home where her daddy, who, after hauling other people’s garbage and firewood all day, often got drunk and howled incoherently into the dark Ozark night.
If Tom Lanier had any dreams at all, he had long ago surrendered them to liquor. But every so often, when Milan entered the room, he would lift his head and narrow his eyes in an attempt to squint his firstborn daughter into focus. For a brief moment, it always seemed there was something he had to say, something uncertain and vague, that would then just as quickly recede into the evening haze of tobacco and whiskey.
Of all his children, Milan was his favorite. When he was sober, he laid before her the finest treasures culled from the residue of his head-down, low-dog life. While all the Lanier children had received some kind of toy or scrap from the Paris dump, it was Milan who was given the two cracked but genuine tortoiseshell hair combs, an apple red faux-leather belt, a cherub pin, a mirror framed in seashells, because, as Tom said, they “went with her.” He could see, even for a man of his humble station, that his eldest daughter had not only beauty, but a certain presence that was lacking in his other offspring.
That was why everything fell to Milan after Tom died, well, to tell the truth, put a gun under his chin and blew his brains all over the celadon-colored wall of the Lanier front porch. After that, Milan had to redouble her efforts toward excellence and self-improvement, not only because she had been the sole star of her father’s ragged dreams, but also because the shame of his suicide, the sheer overwhelming weakness of it all, set against the landscape of a family living among other people’s garbage—well it was just too much—and since no one else in the Lanier family ever seemed to have a plan about much of anything (Tom Jr. and Frank regularly said “I dunno” even to questions like “How are you?”)—Milan knew it would be up to her to remove the stigma.
She was suddenly jolted back to the present by the worrisome thought of her two brothers being a part of this funeral procession. She had seen them along with the rest of her family at the church and had specifically instructed them not to drive in their souped-up, rusted-out 1977 Trans Am with fire painted on the hood. They had said they would try to ride with someone else. Milan turned around and peered out the rear window of the limo. Sure enough, about four cars back were Tom Jr. and Frank, sitting in the front seat, their heads framed in giant metal flames. Plastered across the bumper was a long row of stickers, all with the same dated message: “Honk if you’re horny.” Sometimes she just wanted to strangle them, like she had when she was only fourteen and they sold tickets to their friends to peek at her naked in the shower. Milan constantly had to remind herself that they were never taught any better and that it was up to her to fill the space where Tom Lanier had never stood.
Wood had seen right away that she was a victim of mistaken identity, that none of the stuff surrounding her fit with who she really was. Not the toile hunting-scene curtain she had sewn for the back window of her father’s garbage truck, or the carefully crafted secondhand clothes or the repainted celadon cinder-block house or any of the people in it. He had been her shining knight on horseback, the person who had finally provided her with her real identity, the one that matched the imaginary driver’s license Milan carried around in her head. Screw the feminists if they didn’t like it, she was not Milan Lanier—she was Mrs. Dr. Wood McIlmore, wife, mother, professional shopper, and Paris socialite.
The limo came to a halt, then lurched forward again, turning right toward the Main Street of Paris. Milan reminded herself there was no need to think about these things right now. This was a time for mourning the man who had made all things possible—had given her her husband and even her nickname, calling it out wherever she arrived: “Well, look who’s here! How you doin’, Italy?” Dr. Mac had been nothing but kind to her and she had reveled in this chance to have a real father. He had even bought her a horse and taught her how to jump. And when she got thrown off, he had come running and lifted her up and held her tight against his barrel chest, like she was his own little girl—all the while cussing the horse a blue streak. And Slim was good to her, too, passing along some beautiful winter coats and showing her how to set a proper table. Amazingly, neither of Wood’s parents had ever spoken a harsh word about where she came from. For her sixteenth birthday, they had all gone to Little Rock in Slim’s station wagon with Milan at the wheel. When Wood hollered that she was missing the exit, she brazenly shot across four lanes, barely making the off ramp. Dr. Mac had turned to Slim in the backseat and said, “Well, looks like ol’ Wood’s got his hands full.” He said it like she was really somethin’. Like the McIlmores were darn lucky to get her. And now she was determin
ed to repay that acceptance by giving him the greatest funeral Paris had ever seen.
She pulled out her compact and began checking her face. She had cried alone in the church vestry and now needed a touch-up. People stared as the procession passed, some bowing their heads, others removing hats. Now Milan saw the reflection of the slick black car in the empty store windows and was pleased to see that her family did indeed look important sitting inside. For a moment, she wished she could have a picture of it. She loved to get pictures of things when they were at their absolute peak best because you just never knew what might happen next. The only thing you could really be sure of was that something would happen and whatever it was, Milan was going to be ready.
“Well, that was a beautiful service. Just beautiful.” She could stand the silence no longer. “And some of those floral sprays from Dwight and Denny’s Secret Garden were incredible. I think your dad would’ve loved it, don’t you, Wood?”
“What?”
“The funeral, the flowers, everything.”
Wood appeared to think for a while, then said, “Right.”
Elizabeth threw an arm around her brother. “Charlie-horse, you need to get hold of yourself.” She turned to the others, “He’s been crying nonstop for two whole days.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I could hypnotize you and make you stop. I learned that in my college psych class.” She nudged him playfully, getting in his face. “I can also make you think you’re a chicken who can really dance.”
Slim laughed a little in spite of herself.
Milan admonished, “Well, don’t do it here.”
Elizabeth answered, “It was just a joke, Mims. Thank you, Grand-mère. At least you get me.”
Wood gave his daughter a wink.
Milan studied Elizabeth’s face. “Elizabeth, what is that on your—come here.” Milan opened her purse and removed a Kleenex. “You know, people should have the common decency to air kiss so they don’t leave one of those awful imprints.” Milan moistened the Kleenex with her own saliva and began scrubbing Elizabeth’s face.
Elizabeth protested, “Mother, I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, hush, I gave birth to you.” Milan said hush so sweetly and so often that her children called her “the Husher.”
“I’m not sure that gives you the right to spit on me.”
Milan was pleased. “There, I got it.”
The air in the limo was growing stale. She attempted to fill it. “Well, I just think everything’s gone really well, don’t you, Wood?”
There was a long pause as Wood decided not to answer.
CHAPTER 4
Somewhere between the El Presidente limo and the Lanier brothers’ flaming Trans Am was a van carrying the three best friends Wood and Milan McIlmore would ever have. It wasn’t just any old van. It was a late model, immaculately detailed, commercial vehicle with Olde English–style calligraphy on each side, spelling out the words “Brundidge Beer and Beverage Company.” The company’s founder and CEO, Earl Brundidge Jr., was driving. He was of average height and build with a round, pleasant face and thinning hair. Today Brundidge was wearing his two-button Armani suit and his soft black loafers, the ones without tassels. In spite of his pronounced redneck accent, he had been voted best dressed in high school and college, a title he accepted as seriously as if it had been bestowed by an international panel of fashion arbiters.
Sitting across from him in the passenger seat was Mavis Pinkerton. She was redheaded, overweight, and as unkempt as Brundidge was impeccable—the kind of woman who lets her arm fat flap in the breeze out a car window. An accomplished cook, Mavis owned Doe’s Bakery and Catering Service, which had evolved from a once-popular diner on Main Street. She was known not only for keeping up with the edgiest ideas in gourmet cooking, but for adding her own unique artistry to the latest craze. For example, when southwestern became all the rage, she knocked everyone’s socks off by marrying buffalo tamales with Asian spices. And for dessert, she was a master at turning American classics like bananas Foster into homemade bananas Foster ice cream. Best of all, Mavis wasn’t a snob about food, either. She still maintained that someone named “Little Debbie” made one of the finest cupcakes in America (with Milan concurring in this). For Mavis, there was no specific comfort food. All food was a comfort. That’s why today she was eating a package of corn nuts as tears ran down her cheeks.
Behind Mavis and Brundidge, strapped to a wheelchair in the rear section of the van, was Carl Jeter. Right now he was sitting in the middle of stacks of liquor cases and a perfectly arranged CD collection. In spite of the fact that all three friends, like Wood and Milan, had been out of high school for over two decades, Jeter still looked like a kid. A quadriplegic since he was seventeen, he was miraculously still able to move the little finger on his right hand, a feat he saved for special occasions. Despite many years of physical therapy, his body had gradually atrophied, giving his head an abnormally sized “Mr. Potato Head” look. And somehow, the once boyishly handsome face, made large, had translated into an even more lovable appearance, an advantage that Jeter neither used nor appreciated. He especially hated it when Mavis said in front of people that he looked just like a big ol’ baby, so cute that all his pants should have feet in them. Because Jeter’s parents had passed away, he lived at the local nursing home. Most of his time was spent writing poetry and short stories on the computer Wood had bought for him. The fact that he typed with a stick in his mouth had not stopped him from turning out a considerable volume of work, including several poems that had been published in the Oxford American.
Wood, Milan, Brundidge, Jeter, and Mavis had been friends for as long as anyone could remember. Wood and Milan had married and provided the house where everyone liked to gather. Brundidge was the divorced slave of two preschool angels named Cake and Lily, of whom he had custody. But Mavis and Jeter had remained single. Throughout all their friendships, there had been variations of emotional intimacy between one and the other, depending on the year and the circumstance. But the basic dynamic of the quintet went like this: Wood was to the group what Frank Sinatra was to the Rat Pack. In fact, it was not unusual when they had a party and everyone was drunk—except for Milan, who never got drunk—for Brundidge to throw on “Here’s to the Winners.” Then he and Wood and Jeter would sing it over and over, their voices cracking and their tears falling as people left in droves, while the men only increased their volume, especially on the part that said, “Here’s to all brothers, here’s to the battle whatever it may be.”
Once there had been six friends, but no one talked about that anymore. In fact, no one had spoken of her in years. At least not in front of Milan. The few times it had happened, Milan had given the offending person a look that was almost comical in its attempt at evilness—the kind mothers give when they want to discipline their children, but lack the ability to pull off. But the feeling behind it—that was enough to discourage anyone in the group from ever mentioning her name again. And then after she moved away, in spite of the fact that some in the group missed her, not talking about her became a lot easier.
Brundidge removed “What Becomes of the Brokenhearted” from the CD player and punched in Placido Domingo’s rendition of “Ave Maria.” He was the proud owner of the largest, most eclectic music collection in west Arkansas. And he instinctively knew that today, following on the heels of the jazzed-up church hymns, a religious classic would be right on the money. Brundidge was a stickler for matching just the right song with the right occasion. That’s why he had convinced Milan to hire the Blue Notes Jazz Ensemble as a surprise for Wood and Evangeline. Because Dr. Mac loved jazz and nothing else would have been as right. Frankly, he was a little disappointed that Mavis and Jeter had not even mentioned it, despite the several openings he had given them to do so.
Brundidge decided to try once more. “I’m glad I suggested that band. Hell, they made the service!” Mavis wiped her nose on the hem of her dress. “I’m really gonn
a miss that man.” Brundidge looked at her, disgusted, then forged on, “I mean, the youth choir’s fine for regular stuff, but not for Dr. Mac—”
Mavis grew impatient. “Would you please stop bragging about the damned band? The man’s dead. Who cares about the music?”
Brundidge reacted, “I care. And just for the record, when I die, I expect some really boffo tunes.” He gestured toward the back of the van. “Not that stuff back there. I’m talkin’ about some of the mint vinyls I keep under lock and key in my closet.”
Mavis put in another mouthful of nuts. “When you die, we’ll probably just throw you in my pond.”
Brundidge leaned toward Mavis, scanning all the bare storefront windows. “Would you look at that? Damn Fed-Mart vultures drove another one out.”
Jeter’s voice, coming from the back, was worried. “Who is it this time?”
Brundidge replied, “Tillman Electric. They must’ve been there fifty years.”
There was a long pause before Jeter said softly, “Longer.”
Just thinking about everything being gone made him tired.
Brundidge was wondering whether this news might have upset Jeter, whose family grocery store had been next door to Tillman’s. He said, looking in the rearview mirror, “I’m sorry, buddy. That’s rough.” Then, unable to stand the crunching any longer, he finally turned to Mavis, “Do you really think now is a good time to be eating corn nuts?”
Mavis pretended to ponder. “I don’t know. I don’t know when corn nut eating time is.”
Two fortysomething men in a Cadillac, wearing golf hats, pulled up next to the van. Smith Dunlop, whose daddy was rich and who still mentally resided on the third floor of the KA house at Ole Miss, stuck his head out the window, yelling, “Mavis Pinkerton! I hear you’re lookin’ for a baby. You don’t have to pay some ol’ boy for that. Clay here will be a direct donor for free.”
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