“Not think. I know. I’m completely focused on it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Completely. You know, in 1988 Gretchen Carlson won. That’s C-A-R-L-S-O-N. I’m K-A-R-L-S-E-N. But we’re both from the Midwest, and both Scandinavian, and have that kind of drive and determination that Scandinavians have, and I’m following her program.”
“Uh-huh.” Billy signaled to the waitress for the check.
“Do you know about Gretchen? First of all, we both have this very serious talent that we’ve been working on since we were little girls. She played the violin. I play the harp. She graduated from Stanford in Organizational Behavior, and I’m following right in her footsteps. Organizational Behavior is a very handy major to have if you’re dealing with people all the time. That’s what the pageant world is—people, people, people.
“And, just like Gretchen, I came in first runner-up in Miss TEEN—that’s Teens Encouraging Excellence Nationally—a couple of years ago. That gave me a taste for pageants and made me realize that I had the basics: the talent, communication skills, discipline—”
“Excuse me. I’m going to have to—” There was only so much a man could listen to. Especially if there was no reward.
“So I went on to Stanford, and every year I’ve tried for state. I made ten each year, and next year’s mine.”
“That’s—”
“For interview, I’ll start six months ahead this time, and do about seventy-five mock ones for practice. I’ll get people from all walks of life to be on my interview panels—you’d be surprised how much people are willing to help—because Miss America needs to be able to reach out to everyone. We’ll videotape every last one of those interviews, and I’ll study them.”
“Do you—”
“I’m practicing how to walk and stand and sit for my interview. If your hands are fidgeting, you can forget what your mouth is saying, because they’ll just be staring at your hands. For the content part, I study current events about two hours a day. And I’ll work out about three hours a day with a body trainer, starting in January. Right now, I do about two hours.”
She’d gotten his attention now. Four hours? Five? Six? When did these girls live?
“Oh,” Jennifer laughed. “That’s just for starters, isn’t it, Mama?”
Mama nodded.
“After I win state, I’ll go down to Texas and have Chuck Weisbeck put me on an Olympic athletes training program. I do other stuff too.”
“Like what?” Billy was fascinated despite himself.
“Well, every single day I watch videotapes of Miss America and other pageants. I watch everything they do. Like right now I’m concentrating on the way the girls react when their names are called for the top ten. When they’re walking across the stage, they always say thank you to the judges, and do this little motion of extending their hands out to them.”
“I’ve always said to thank people,” said Mama. “They may not always remember it if you do, but they sure do if you don’t. You don’t ever want anybody to think you’re rude.”
That was a pretty long speech for Mama, whose mouth clamped right back into a tight line. Billy examined her face to see if, yes, maybe, way back there in the distance she’d looked a tiny bit like Jennifer. Yes, maybe 25 years and 100 pounds ago. It was frightening.
“I’ll use the same exact preparation immediately before the pageant that I do for performing the harp. I read that Gretchen Carlson had a ritual, too. What I do is pray that God will be with me. Then I visualize myself going through the performance. Every single moment of it. I take myself through every step.”
“Including walking down the runway with the crown?” Billy had done something like that, imagined himself on “The Big One,” right up to giving out the prizes, before he got the job.
Jennifer’s eyes shone. “Especially walking down that runway. But only after I’ve gone through every other step. It takes enormous discipline, you know. The main thing is to give them exactly what they want. It doesn’t matter what you want. But each pageant is different, so you have to figure out what they’re looking for, and then you make yourself over in their ideal image.”
“It takes sacrifice,” said Mama, nodding. “Discipline and sacrifice are what’s important in life.”
Billy bet Mama loved Michigan winters, trudging five or six miles through the snow, lugging a stranded cow over her shoulders. And then building a fire. No, building a house and then building a fire. Jesus, these pageant people were weird.
Though he’d bet Miss Lana didn’t know the meaning of the word discipline. In fact, he’d bet Lana had never even broken a sweat.
“We’ve got to be going.” Mama was pushing off, pulling Jennifer along with her. “Got to get to bed. Get up early. Do our calisthenics.”
“Hey, I wish you luck. Hope to see you here next year. Here, let me get your check. Be my pleasure.”
Mama was a little flustered, as if their $12 tab were going to compromise Jennifer somehow.
“I insist. Go on. Get out of here. Go get your beauty sleep. Both of you.” He gave them the wink. He’d learned how to say smooth things like that doing “The Big One.”
Darleen would love these two. He’d have to tell her about them, if she was ever speaking to him again. If she ever got over her change-of-life pout. Of course, when he told her, he’d have to say he talked to them backstage or something. Coffeeshop, late at night, well, Darleen had a very suspicious mind.
“Very nice, very nice.” The gravelly voice was right behind him. “You want to buy my coffee, too? Or maybe I ain’t cute enough.” Billy turned, but he didn’t have to. He’d know Angelo’s voice anywhere. It played in some of his worst nightmares.
Angelo Pizza leaning on him. Angelo holding a gun to his head. Angelo taking his Rachel Rose, saying, We’re just going to borrow her for a little party. You don’t mind, do you, Billy boy, let her work off a little of what you owe us?
But this time, he was glad to see the man. “I was gonna call you.” He slapped Ange on the back, carefully.
“Uh-huh.”
“No, really. You know, I’m doing this gig, this Miss America thing, emceeing it, that Gary Collins got sick—”
“I know,” Ange said.
“You do? Really!” Billy was amazed. It didn’t seem like the kind of info Ange would keep up with. Except, these guineas, if you’d owed ’em money, they knew every time you went to the bathroom.
“Yeah, I sawr you this evening.” Ange had that kind of New York accent.
“You did? You were at the Miss America show?”
“Yeah. Miss California won talent. Miss Florida won swimsuit. Nice rack on that girl. What else you want to know?”
“I’m just surprised you were there, that’s all.”
“You think I never leave Tommy’s?”
“Hey, I’m not saying that, Ange. Actually, I was going to call you because I got good news. This gig is paying me a bundle. I’m gonna be able to pay you off—”
“When?”
“When I get my check.”
“The vig don’t wait for checks, Billy. You know that.”
“No, man, really. I’ll give you the whole thing.”
“I’ll means I will, Bill. In the future. Vig don’t want to know about no will. Vig keeps ticking till money is now. Vig plus the loan.”
“So that’s why you’re here? To bust my chops?”
Billy could feel himself getting wet under his armpits. He hated that. He’d have to go take another shower before he checked Uncle Pennybags. He couldn’t go in there stinking. If he went in there. If Angelo didn’t decide to give him two in the kneecaps right now. You could never tell with these guys. They’d as soon cripple you as look at you.
“I’ll tell you, Billy.” Angelo had walked him out into the lobby now. He wouldn’t blow him away in the lobby, would he? In the middle of old folks looking to make a quarter, a dime. Big spenders, thought they were having a great time, dentures smiling.
<
br /> Oh, Jesus. Please, let him live that long. Collect on his Social Security. Angelo saying, “Reason I went to the Miss America thing tonight, I was looking for another guy who owes me. I thought maybe he could do me a favor, but he wasn’t around. Kind of missing in action, you know what I mean?”
Billy laughed nervously.
“But then I saw you up on that stage, doing your singing and dancing—”
“Yeah? How was I?”
“You stink. But, anyway, I said to myself, you know, Ange, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”
Billy really wished Ange wouldn’t say things like that. He could just see himself, like Saint Whatsit, flayed, walking around with no epidermis to speak of. Guys like Ange knew people who did things like that.
“I watched you real close up there, and I said to myself, Billy, who owes you, would be more than happy to do you a little favor.”
“You’re right about that, Ange. You are sure as hell right about that.”
“So, Billy—”
33
Michelangelo didn’t know what the hell was going on.
First, he gets a call from his mother saying she has a bone to pick.
“Mama,” he said, “what’s the matter with you? Is your arthritis acting up again? Call the doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor for what ails me, Mikey. I want you to come over here.”
“I will, darling. But later, if you’re not sick. If you’re sick, butta la pasta, I’m on my way.”
“I’m not sick. Well, not that kind of sick. What I’m sick and tired of is your butting in my business.”
“Mama! What’s got into you?”
“Nothing, that’s what. Nothing for a very very very long time, and now that something’s about to, you’re standing in the way.”
“What are you talking about?” She couldn’t mean what he thought. His mama didn’t talk like that. Didn’t think like that.
“He didn’t say nothing to me, but I know this is your fault. You said something to Ange, didn’t you?”
“Mama, I—”
“Don’t lie to me, Mikey. I always know when you’re lying. I didn’t live with your father for thirty-five years not to know lying. Where have you been, Sal? Out. Out I know. Out where? Out with the guys. Out with the guys named Malzina the Whore. But that’s water under the bridge, and now it’s my turn.”
“Your turn to what?” He knew he shouldn’t have asked that.
“My time to have a good time. To kick up my heels. To go dancing.”
“I’ll take you dancing, Mama. Just last month you danced at Cappy’s wedding.”
“Cappy’s wedding. I don’t want to sit around with all the other old ladies in black lace down to my ankles. I dance, the kids all say, Isn’t that cute, Gramma is dancing? Forget that. I wanta do the hootchy-kooch.”
“Mama!”
“I’m not talking about getting married. I’m too old to get married. But I’m not too old to have fun. Isn’t that what that Madonna said, Girls just wanta have fun?”
No, it wasn’t Madonna, but what difference did it make, details, when his mama had gone pazza?
“Everybody talks about what a shame it is, a nice Italian girl like her running around in her underwear. I say, Have all the fun you can while you’re young. I never did. I did what every girl in the neighborhood did—got married, got pregnant. Not that I would trade you for anything, Mikey, but, enough already. I read, you know. I read those magazines, I watch the TV. The world has changed. Girls have fun.”
“Mama, you’re not a girl.”
“Don’t talk back to your ma, son.”
*
Then Eddie from Tommy’s is on the phone.
“This better be good, Ed. I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t know if it’s good or bad. Probably bad.”
“Then make it quick.”
“This long tall brunette broad comes into the place a little while ago. Good-looking. Wearing a short black skirt, them black stockings, and a red—”
“This is quick?”
“Sorry, Ma. She’s looking for Angelo. I ain’t never seen this broad before, you know, so I tell her he ain’t in.”
“Was he?”
“Nawh.”
“Great, Eddie. What if he had been?”
“What?”
“Never mind. So, you tell her he’s not in.”
“Yeah. And she starts asking all these questions, like I think the twist is wearing a wire. She’s dropping stuff about what a good gambling town AC is, how she’s bored with the casinos, understands Ange can turn her on to some other action. She don’t know what’s she’s talking about, you know what I mean, Ma?”
“Like she’s humming it?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. So you think she’s a cop?”
“I think so. Except she didn’t have a cop’s eyes.”
“Tell me, Eddie, she have short dark curly hair?”
“Yeah, and a short black skirt. I mean, she ain’t no spring chicken, Ma, but for an older broad, she’s like—”
“An accent?”
“Yeah. Now that you mention it. A little. Kind of like—did you see that movie Steel Magnolias, boss?”
“A Southern accent, Eddie?”
“Yeah. How’d you know that?”
“She ain’t a cop, Ed.”
“No? You know her?”
“She’s a newspaper reporter.”
“Same thing.”
*
That’s not enough, Lana DeLucca’s on the phone screaming bloody murder.
“Lana, calm down. Are you hurt, sweetheart? Can you tell me where you are?”
“I’m standing backstage at Convention Hall in my underwear. And somebody stole my pink Marilyn number! One of these bitches stole it, Ma.”
He didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.
“Your pink Marilyn number?”
“My dress! Somebody lifted my dress!”
Oh, Jesus. Girls. “We’ll get you another dress, darling.”
“You don’t understand.”
Wow, the girl could cut cold steel with that voice. She ought to register it.
“In twenty minutes, half an hour tops, I’m supposed to be onstage singing ‘I Want to Be Loved By You’ exactly like Marilyn in Some Like It Hot wearing my custom-made $8000 nude-colored organza sequined gown, high in front, the back V-cut to my butt. As it stands now, I’m wearing the pink chenille bathrobe some bitch left in my garment bag when she lifted my dress.”
“Start with your bust measurement and calm down before you give yourself a heart attack.”
*
It was Mama again. “Mikey, I been thinking, what you said.”
Thank God. She’d probably forgotten to take her medication and now she had and she was back on keel.
“I’ve been thinking maybe you’re right about Ange. Maybe I’ll wait and look for a younger man. Knows some things I don’t know. Can teach this old bitch some new tricks.”
“Mama, stay right there. I’m on my way.”
“Better bring your key. I’m out of here.”
*
Not an hour later, Lana’s on the phone again.
“Wow! Where did you get this dress? It’s not the same, but—wow!”
“I know a guy.”
“You’re fabulous! And I just wanted you to know, I mean, I was really spazzed there for a while, but I’m gonna be fine.”
“That makes me happy, sweetheart. I want you to be happy. Big John wants you to be happy, too.”
“And, Ma?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Listen.”
The cut-through-cold-steel voice was back again, though this time she’d wrapped a little velvet around it.
“I’m sure it was Miss Louisiana and Miss Texas. Those girls are farting around all the time, acting Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. The next thing I know they’re sucking up to me like they’re my friends. They took my
dress, Ma.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.” She paused for a count of three.
Oh, this girl was good. The real Marilyn had nothing on her when it came to timing.
“And I think Big John would like for you to do something about that. Don’t you?”
34
Who was that knocking at her door? The Big Bad Wolf? Gloria hoped so. If it wasn’t him, it had to be the cops. And what was she going to tell them about Junior?
Mama, they’d say, it’s after ten o’clock. Do you know where your child is?
Well, it was a whole lot easier to ask that question on a bumper sticker than to answer it in real life, especially if you had a teenage son. Gloria’d tell ’em that, if she let ’em in, now peeping through her peephole.
“Gloria? I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Lavert? Lavert Washington, is that you?”
“Me and my cousin Lucinda.”
What was Gloria gonna do? Let ’em stand out there in the dark? Homefolks? Even if she was in her tatty old robe.
“Y’all come on in.” But wait a minute. This wasn’t just any Cousin Lucinda. This was Miss Louisiana. Big Gloria recognized her from her picture. She pulled her robe tighter, feeling fat, saying how she wasn’t dressed for company.
“We’re the ones who ought to be apologizing,” said Lucinda. “Sorry to be disturbing you so late, dropping in like this.”
“Don’t be silly. Come on, y’all sit yourselves down. What can I get you? You want some coffee?”
“Not a thing, Gloria. We know you’re tired. We just wanted to come over and talk with you for a little spell, about some things seemed important,” said Lavert.
Wasn’t it amazing, a man big as that could speak so gently? Just listening to the sound of his voice made Gloria’s mind feel easier. She thought Lavert had missed his calling. He should have been a preacher man.
She told him that, and Lavert laughed. “I don’t know as how the Lord would hold with a man spreading His word who’d served time in Angola.”
“The Lord knows what’s in your heart now,” said Gloria. “He ain’t studying what’s over and done.”
“But that’s what you’ve been doing,” said Lucinda.
Now, Gloria knew that Lucinda’s nickname was Magic. She’d heard Magic could work it, too. Ladies from her church, proud to have a sister in the pageant, had been saying, You seen that Louisiana girl, she gone conjure herself up that Miss America crown, you just see if she don’t. They were Christians, those church ladies, but, like Gloria, they held onto the old back-home ways, too. It’s all mixed up together, Gloria had tried to explain to Junior more than once, if you be from the South. ’Course, that’s what voudou was in the first place, the way of Africans practicing their religion, hiding it from Massa and Miss Ann.
She Walks in Beauty Page 24