“There you are,” Auntie Maggie said from the patio door.
Uncle Tony was fiddling with the propane tank under the barbeque. Mother sat at the picnic table on the deck. She wore bug-eye sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat that shaded all the way out to her shoulders. Her glass sat beside the fashion magazine she was flipping through. It was empty save for one waning ice cube and a fingernail depth of tawny coloured booze.
She looked over at me and smiled. “Come sit with your mom.” She patted her knee and slurred, “You handsome fellow.”
I joined her. Uncle Tony’s mutterings of “fuckin’ thing” and “bitch-whore of a thing” subsided and shortly there was the smell of cooking meat in the air. Mother and I looked at her magazine.
“Look at this,” she pointed with a free finger, the rest wrapped around her glass. “This is how the year 2000 will look, and it’s happening now. Isn’t that amazing?”
I didn’t say anything but looked as pages flipped by. Space-age materials hugged galactic heroes and space vixens as they strutted down glowing runways. It was amazing. The designer names passing by were as exotic as the models: Thierry Mugler, Azzedine Alaïa…
“Oh, here. Look at this,” Mother said breathily. “Yohji Yamamoto.”
Sharp shoulders, round hips, Lycra and Viscose, two-foot-long spikes of hair and dark racoon-eye makeup. Material that made me think of the woman in the pool. All of this was wrapped in the heady faint chemical smells coming from the ink on the glossy pages and from between Mother’s lips.
I looked over my shoulder at her and smiled. She wrapped an arm around my belly and gave me a limp squeeze.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” she whispered.
I could only nod.
Then she scowled.
“How did you get a splinter in your forehead?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer she spun me into a more accessible position on her lap and pinched at my forehead. She tweezed the end of the splinter between two fingernails and slid it slowly out of the sheath of my skin.
“Come here, Rich.” Father’s voice boomed from near the barbeque.
I looked over and was blinded. The sun was setting and hovered just above the fence. I squinted and saw Father holding a football. He faked a throw and I flinched. I couldn’t tell if he was laughing. I slid off Mother’s lap and wandered down onto the grass.
“Catch the ball,” Father said.
With the sun behind him and no further prompting, he threw the football. A flitting shadow blipped across the sun and then there was a quick pain in my shoulder before I spun around and landed face-first in the grass.
“Jesus, Jack. Be careful,” Mother said.
“You gotta get behind it and cradle the catch,” Father called to me and mimicked the move.
I heard a loud squeak from Leonard laughing on the patio. The noise was silenced by a slap to the back of his head from Auntie Maggie.
“Burgers are ready,” called Uncle Tony.
I pushed up and brushed off my knees and the front of my shirt. My shoulder throbbed deep under the skin. I couldn’t cry anymore today. I wouldn’t, especially in front of Father.
We all made our way to the picnic table. The sun dipped below the fence-line and my mind drifted from my hamburger to the deep pain in my shoulder to the woman in the skin-coloured bikini who had been just on the other side of that fence.
The evening cooled and we gathered around the firepit where Uncle Tony built a fire. The adults drank scotch and chatted against the crackle of burning wood. Uncle Tony got up and opened the patio door.
“Come look at this,” he said to Father. “You too, boys.”
We went into the living room. Uncle Tony took out a small silver disc and put it into a machine.
“Wow,” Father said, “a CD player.”
Uncle Tony, always with the latest gadgets, smiled.
“We just got these in. A Sony CDP-101,” he said. “Two channels. Sixteen-bit PCM encoding at a 44.1 kilohertz sample ratio per channel.”
Father let out a low whistle and ran a finger along the top of the machine. Leonard and I looked at each other. I wondered what Uncle Tony meant and looked to see if Father had understood.
Father let out another low whistle when Uncle Tony held up the case for ABBA’s The Visitors. Uncle Tony turned up the volume and we listened for a minute before heading back outside. Uncle Tony was the last out and he left the door open so we could hear the music.
With every second the future was bearing down on each of us. As we watched the embers from the fire rise into the warm summer night air, all of us in our own stupor, we kids worn out from a long day, Mother floating on Valium, Father and the Auntie Maggie and Uncle Tony floating on scotch, none of us there thought about it. Time would prove The Visitors to be ABBA’s last studio album. Time would push each day from one to the next and the seasons would slip from one to another, all leading toward some end that was yet unclear but already in motion.
In the #713 Fire Hall on the other side of the city, unknown to us, a fireman named Gary Fairway stirred a pot of chili and laughed with some of his co-workers. The shift was just starting and would end quietly. There would be no fires or accidents to attend, the alarm would not sound. In the morning hours, Gary would drive home through the long daybreak shadows. He would chat with his wife before she went to work and he went to bed.
Far away, Margaret Koshushner washed a thin, porcelain teacup with none of the sinister foreboding that she should have. She did not know the role she would play in the eventual death of the six year old who was drifting into a heavy-lidded sleep, lying in the grass surrounded by the smell of earth and wood smoke and the sounds of “One of Us” coming through the patio door and into the night.
Her new car arrived two weeks later.
CHAPTER 4
The Little Miss Beef Cattle Pageant
An organic smell hung in the air. It was a palpable mist, a sticky mixture of dusty hay, fresh mud, and large mammal feces. The air in the big tent was warm and the temperature climbed a little more every minute. It was humid. I felt it on my skin. The red and white canvas walls worked to keep any outside breeze from stirring the stagnant air inside. “Fresh as a cow’s ass,” Father grunted before heading across the hay-covered dirt floor toward the metal bleachers opposite the stage. He blended into the crowd as he climbed into the murmuring herd of spectators.
It was true: the smell and feeling must have been the experience sought by a fly hovering a millimetre over a fresh, steamy cow patty.
After seeing Father off to the bleachers, Mother ushered me toward the long curtains making up the backdrop for the plywood stage. We passed a sign displaying the day’s schedule of events:
11 am – Wal-Mart Little Mister and Little Miss Beef Cattle Pageant
12 pm – Esther Keen Memorial Chili Cook-off and Pickled Goods Competition
2 pm – Wal-Mart Mister and Miss Pre-Teen Beef Cattle Pageant
3 pm – Wal-Mart Miss Teen Beef Cattle and Miss Beef Cattle Pageants
5 pm – The Kentucky Fried Chicken Fry-off and Baked Goods Competition
6 pm – Beef Cattle Judging
7 pm – Steer Judging
8 pm – Beer Garden (Feat. Giddy Up Tiger and the Come Quicklies)
We pushed through the loose weave fabric curtains. A matronly volunteer directed Little Misters to the left and Little Misses to the right.
There were a few screened-off areas in the open cathedral of the corrals behind the beef cattle show floor. The staging area bustled with yelling kids, running here and there along the wood-lined chutes and maze-like fences. The occasional lowing from the beef cattle could be heard from outside, on the other side of the canvas wall. Their show was later in the evening. Large, metal pot-lights hung pendulously from bare power lines that traversed the air ten feet above the chaos of the corrals.
Mother led me across the corrals, took me behind a screen, stripped me and then started to rewrap me in a tuxedo from the t
op down.
“Such a handsome little guy,” she said, kneeling and tugging at my bow tie. “Stop it,” she said to my scratching and pulling of undies away from my ass.
There was hay in my underwear. I was embarrassed, changing behind that curtain with all of those people bustling around on the other side. Every time someone walked too close to the screen it billowed out, offering me a brief glance at the kids and adults tromping back and forth through the hay, around the corral fences and sidestepping errant cow-pies.
If I could see them, they could see me.
We had driven for four hours to get there. We passed nothing but fields and farms for the last three and a half of them.
It had all been Mother’s idea.
In two years, when I turned ten, we would still be making this trip except I would be competing in the Mister Pre-Teen Beef Cattle competition and two years after that it would all be over. After the age of twelve there were no more Misters, only Misses. Miss Teen and Miss Beef Cattle. I guess little boys are no longer cute by then. I guess, behind the veneer of a beauty pageant, little girls grow into something to be leered at by handsome young farmhands mulling over their chewing tobacco cuds, scratching their sun-reddened skins and stretching kinks out of their wiry muscles.
“You said a little competition was healthy,” Mother had said to Father when we loaded into the Pacer.
“I meant sport. Real competition. Not parading around a barn in front of an audience. I meant football. I meant baseball.” Father’s voice strained, almost to the point of whining.
They often talked in front of me as if I wasn’t there.
Father ran a yellow light and we were outside of the city.
“Beauty is nothing to scoff at,” Mother said. “It is the workings of good genes and good morals. This is a real competition, a competition of morals. This is the most important kind of competition.”
Father blinked.
Fields rolled by outside. Little wooden buildings drifted by. Tractors and broken down old cars in fields floated by.
“Ugly people, fat people, pimply people don’t take care of themselves. They are slothful, they are unhealthy, they are dirty. They live poorly,” Mother continued. “How you live your life is a choice. If you choose to take care of yourself, invest a little in your looks, be healthy… well, that’s a moral choice. Those who drink, smoke, slut around, they choose to live immorally and wind up ugly because of it. All of these things leave a mark on your appearance. Inner beauty is mirrored by outer beauty.”
Father sighed and lit a cigarette.
Mother rolled down her window a little bit.
“Football makes you healthy,” Father said quietly through a mouthful of smoke.
“We should all aim for this,” Mother continued, ignoring Father. “I mean healthy, beautiful people are happy. The mind and the body are so tightly linked that what happens on the inside shows up on the outside. It also works the other way around. Beautiful people are happier, they get more out of life, they have more friends, get better jobs, get paid more. Dr. Sloane says that unhappiness is a sickness, a disorder. Sickness can be cured.”
Mother had read a lot lately.
“Most sickness can be cured,” Father muttered.
“Dr. Sloane has studies that show ugly people are less happy than beautiful people. Dr. Sloane says a beautiful mind creates a beautiful body. Richard is a beautiful boy. We should be proud to share that. We made a happy, moral-minded boy.”
We passed a ranch. Cattle slid by, dotting the land to the horizon, grazing on dry grass as we sped along. Fence posts ticked by, the barbed wire between them invisible.
Mother and I stood backstage at Clearwater County Fair in the beef cattle wing of the Livestock Complex. I sweltered in my tuxedo and surveyed the other hopeful little gentlemen in the Little Mister Beef Cattle Pageant. Mother, dressed delicately in anxiety, had an open and hopeful look on her face.
I hadn’t seen her take a pill in a week.
I didn’t remember having ever seen that look on her face.
In the past week, she had read three Dr. Sloane books. It seemed she was always reading his books.
The pageant started fifteen minutes ago with the first pairs of kids disappearing through the canvas onto stage. None of them came back. My stomach knotted each time two new contestants were called.
The Little Misses competing for the Little Miss Beef Cattle crown were on the other side of a splintery corral fence being subjected to last-minute preening and being fussed over by grown-ups. Sheets of fabric had been draped over the fence, seemingly at random, in order to offer a little privacy to both sides. The fencing led from the corrals to the split in the fabric that shielded us from the stage.
“Little Mister Forty-Seven and Little Miss Sixty-Two, please report to the stage,” the call came over the PA.
“That’s you,” Mother squealed.
My stomach flipped.
Mother pushed her way through the crowd to the back side of the stage, dragging me behind.
I was next. I stood beside a little girl in a striped dress that made her look like a bee. Each Little Mister was paired with a Little Miss for their walk across the stage.
From our vantage, through an opening in the backdrop, we could see another nervous Little Mister and Little Miss stomp across the plywood stage. They barely interacted. The Little Mister rushed from one end of the stage to the other, missing the part where you are supposed to face the crowd, smile and wave while the announcer in the auctioneer’s booth read bits about your life from a questionnaire that was submitted with the entry fee. The Little Miss stood alone, front and centre stage, her eyes wide open and her hands clenched into fists by her sides.
“Little Miss Paige Green’s favourite classes include Art and Drama. She enjoys painting portraits of her dog, Princess, and wants to be an actress or dressmaker when she grows up,” the tinny voice of the announcer squeaked though the speakers.
Paige glanced over her shoulder to see her Little Mister disappear stage right and she smiled like a terrified monkey. She grimaced to the audience and hurried off the stage.
“Our next stunning couple,” the PA squealed for a moment, “is Little Miss Abigail Spencer and Little Mister Richard Trench.”
Four judges were positioned in front of the stage at a folding table draped in a white plastic tablecloth. Three women in ball gowns and one gentleman in a suit sweated elegantly onto plastic folding chairs. They made quick notes after brief scrutiny of each contestant. Those chosen from this first round moved on to the talent portion. The winner was crowned after that.
I was not paying attention; I had been watching the judges. Mother shoved me onto the stage, already two steps behind the giant bee. A hollow mix of Kenny Loggins’ “Footloose” and the announcer’s commentary blared over the PA system, keeping a beat that confused the Bee. I caught up to her, my heart racing two beats for each step I took. I made it work; I walked naturally, recovered the distance between us gracefully. The Bee and I stopped at the front of the stage, smiled and waved. I put my arm around the Bee’s waist and she put her arm around my shoulder.
The crowd, dimmed by the spotlights aimed at the stage, was a bumpy silhouette against the red and white canvas stripes. The heat under the spotlights was intense. I thought to look for Father but worried that I would lose my concentration. I was even more worried that I would find a disappointed look on his face were I to spot him.
The judges scribbled on their notepads.
The Bee and I looked at each other and nodded: a consensus was reached. We exited stage right.
Mother met me on the other side of the curtain. I knew I did well because she sported a big smile.
“That was wonderful,” she exclaimed, almost knocking over Bee Girl to give me a hug.
“Thanks,” I said. “It was fun.”
“Next thing you know you will be wearing Ralph Lauren in London.” She beamed with distant eyes. “I don’t know if that girl w
ill make it though.” She cast a critical glance at the Bee.
“I couldn’t see Father,” I said. “The lights were too bright.”
“That’s okay, honey. I’m sure he was there. I’m so proud of you. You were fabulous.”
“I think I messed up a bit at the beginning.” I glanced at Bee Girl.
The announcer had called her Abigail.
“Don’t worry, baby. I think we just need to practise a little. I can see you in Azzedine in ten years, in Paris. Or maybe Thierry Mugler in Milan.” Mother’s eyes wandered toward the ceiling. “Oh, don’t forget your mother when you reach the runway, dear.”
“Okay, Mother,” I said, a little confused, having never seen her like this before.
There was a moment before she said, “I am so happy.”
That’s what it was. I swelled with pride. I made her happy. I wanted that moment to last forever.
Eight more pairs of Little Misses and Little Misters crossed the stage before we were all brought out before the judges for their decision. When it was our turn, Bee Girl and I walked out onstage holding hands, more out of anticipation than nervous support. We stood under the spotlight. The temperature in the tent had risen past hot to stifling. Sweat rolled tickly trails down the small of my back. The Bee glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled. I caught her eye and held it for a moment before smiling back.
“Little Mister Forty-Seven and Little Miss Sixty-Two…” a judge announced to us and started shuffling papers.
In that break, awaiting judgment, I gave the crowd a quick scan. I thought I saw Auntie Maggie waving at me. The judge flipped through papers. Beside Auntie Maggie was a smaller figure that must have been Leonard. The judge continued shuffling, a scowl crossed her face. I couldn’t see Father or Uncle Tony in the crowd.
Imperfections Page 4