Marilyn brought a yellow-handled mirror from the coffee table. Outside in the hallway bandaged figures were being trolleyed by on gurneys. Marilyn held the mirror up for Susan to see her face.
«Ee-
«Such an imagination, young woman,» said Marilyn, whisking away the mirror. «In three weeks it is going to be scientifically impossible for you to take a bad picture. Do you have any idea what that means? I've already lined up a photographer to come up from Mount Hood. An ex-hippie. Ex-hippies make the best photographers. I don't know why. But they do.» She lit up a Salem. «Speaking of JenniLu Wheeler, I heard that the night before the Miss Dixie contest, her eyes puffed up from too many cocktails with a handful of senators, and they put leeches under her eyes to suck out the puffiness. I never told you that one, did I?»
«No. You 'idn't.»
«She bled like a pig for two days, and she missed the title because of it. Or so the story goes.»
«Lovely, Mom.» Susan relaxed and sunk into the mattress. A nurse stepped into the room and asked Marilyn to extinguish her cigarette.
«Excuse me, young lady, but are we in
«It's rules, Mrs. Colgate.»
«Where's your manager?» Marilyn asked.
«This is a hospital, not a McDonald's, Mrs. Colgate. We don't have
«Mom, this is a 'ospital, not the Black Angus. Stub it out.»
«No, Susan — no, I
«It's rules, Mrs. Colgate.» But the nurse lost her will to push the issue, and walked away.
Marilyn took a deep victorious inhale. «I always win, don't I, Susan?»
«Yes, Mom. You always do. You're the queen of drama.»
«And that's a compliment?»
Susan decided the smartest course of action was to shut her eyes and feign sleep. It worked. Marilyn returned to her magazine's personality quiz and smoked her victory cigarette. Susan mentally flipped through a catalog of Marilyn's seamless dramas, such as the time in the changing room she spritzed a tightly aimed spray bottle of canola oil at the swimsuit of Miss Orlando Pre-Teene after a close call in the talent contest. Susan played her Beethoven
Susan won a mink coat and a Waikiki weekend, both of which were exchanged for cash, and used to cover travel expenses and the household bills. The money was nice, but it was by no means the sole reason for pageantry. «Susan, there is no price tag that can be placed on accomplishment and superiority. Even if you were the richest girl on earth, do you think you could simply
Marilyn called the pageant business «shucking bunnies,» even though the hutches in which she once bred rabbits to raise money for gowns were long a thing of the past — since Susan integrated Barbie into her essence and began winning solidly around age seven in the Young American Lady, West Coast Division.
«Hey, sweetie, looks like rabbit pelting season sure did start today. The bunnies are hopping for their lives tonight!»
When things were good, when both Marilyn and Susan were on the road, stoked to win, their systems charged with the smell of hair products, Susan could imagine no other mother more wonderful or more giving than Marilyn, and no childhood more exotic or desirable. School was a joke. Marilyn regularly phoned in and lied that Susan was sick. In lieu of school, she made Susan read three books a week as well as take lessons in elocution, modern dance, piano, deportment and French. «School is for losers,» Marilyn told Susan after spinning another yarn about kidney infections to yet another concerned vice-principal. «Trust me on this one, sweetie — you'll never lose if you learn the tricks I'm teaching you.»
And Susan didn't lose. She reassured herself with this thought as her false sleep faded into real dreams.
Chapter Eleven
Half a year after Susan's cosmetic surgery, Marilyn learned in a pageant newsletter that a judge previously unfavorable toward Susan would be on the panel at the upcoming Miss American Achiever pageant over the Memorial Day weekend at the St. Louis Civic Auditorium. Marilyn knew that this judge, Eugene Lindsay, had blackballed Susan after her performance of
Eugene Lindsay was to Marilyn an almost unbearably handsome opponent, against whom none of the other pageant moms could be rallied («Why, sugar,» said one pageant mom, torn between propriety and carnality, «I'd let that man hug me
The day before the Miss American Achiever pageant, Marilyn insisted she and Susan spend the day visiting Bloomington, Indiana, Eugene Lindsay's home town. «It's research, sweetie. I want to check out Renata's store. It'll be fun.»
Soon Susan would decide her mother was out of control, but on this trip she passively flowed along with Marilyn to Bloomington, the two of them surrounded by an asteroid belt of luggage as they strode through Bloomington's Monroe County Airport, Marilyn ensuring that the little clear vinyl windows on the gown bags faced outward: «So that passersby can know they are in the presence of star magic.»
There were no cabs at the airport. A buzzing triad of fellow passengers from commuter flights stood on the taxi island pointlessly craning their necks as if, Manhattan-like, a fleet might momentarily appear. Shortly a single cab approached, and Marilyn pounced on its door handle, inflaming the triad. «Hey, lady — there's a
Marilyn swiveled, removed her black sunglasses the size of bread plates, looked at her accuser point-blank and charged ahead.
They checked in to their hotel, then visited Renata's nearby store, which was interesting enough. Susan thought that for somebody dealing in large-size pageant wear, Renata herself had about as much body fat as a can of Tab and three cashew nuts. Marilyn spoke with Renata, and Susan browsed through the far side of the store, which was filled to her pleasant surprise with regular craft-shop art supplies.
Later that evening, up in the hotel room, Marilyn suggested they go for a drive.
«We don't have a car, Mom.»
«I rented one while you were in the workout room.»
«Where are we going, Mom?»
«You'll see.»
