«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 Für Elise in the talent segment of Country USA pageant at the Lee Greenwood Dinner Theater in Sevierville, Tennessee, the previous fall. After that night's events, from the other side of a freezingly air-conditioned banquette table at the Best Western lounge, Marilyn, drinking a double vodka tonic alone, had heard Lindsay's unmistakable TV-smoothened voice say: «I am so goddammed sick of these wind-up-toy midgets and their goddammed robotic renditions of Beethoven Lite. I hear them play that fucking tune so much that it feels like I'm in a purgatory engineered by whatever asswipe it is who chooses the on-hold music for the Delta Airlines ticket line.» Marilyn was taken aback neither by his language, nor the sentiment. But she was deeply surprised to hear such a blatantly truthful expression of the dark thoughts that lurked in the hearts of panel judges. She had wondered herself if Susan's Für Elise was maybe getting a bit thin, and by then had already initiated proceedings to have Susan perform a Grease medley.
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 ragged »). Although Eugene was a weatherman in everyday life, Marilyn knew that when he died, he'd likely land himself the biggest Ford dealership in heaven. Eugene went through life like a Great Dane or a speeding ambulance, exacting the unfettered awe of whomever he passed. He did the nightly weather on an Indiana NBC affiliate, and was hooked into the pageant circuit through his wife, Renata, a mail-order-gown specialist for the generously proportioned, who also sidelined in hairpieces.
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 line here.»
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.»
«Is this something nasty again, Mom?»
«Susan!»
«Then it is, because you haven't said “sweetie” once yet, and whenever you fib, you drop the nice stuff.»
«Oh sweetie.»
«Too late.»
Marilyn pursed her lips and looked at her daughter, swaddled in track pants and a gray kangaroo sweater. «Well then. Come along.» Marilyn brought two pairs of gardening gloves, a box of trash bags and two flashlights. They drove out into winding residential streets of a repetitive stockbroker Tudor design, the type that, when she was younger, Susan associated with the walrus-mustached plutocrat from the Monopoly board. Now she more realistically associated this sort of neighborhood with car dealers, cute amoral boys, sweater sets, regularly scheduled meals containing the four food groups, Christmas tree lights that didn't blink, the occasional hand on the knee, cheerful pets, driveways without oil stains, women named Barbara and, apparently, weathermen for regional NBC affiliates.
«That Lindsay guy lives here?» Susan asked, looking out at a colonial with a three-car garage, as colorfully lit as an aquarium castle, surrounded by dense evergreens that absorbed noise like sonic tampons.
«Shhh!» Marilyn had killed the car's lights the block before. «Just help me out here, sweetie.» They sidled over to the cans and Marilyn removed the lid from one. «Beautifully bagged. Like a Christmas gift. Susan — quietly now — help me lift the bag out.» The bag made a fruity, resonant fart sound against the can's inner edge as Susan hauled it out, and she laughed.
Five beautifully wrapped bags of trash made their way into the car's trunk and back seat. Marilyn squealed away from the house, with her lights out for the first, almost painful, nervous puffs of breath. «Where now?» Susan asked.
«A Wal-Mart parking lot.»
«A Wal-Mart lot? Isn't that kind of public?»
Marilyn turned on the lights. That's pre cise ly why we're going there. We'll look like two lady lunchbucket losers sifting through their own crap, most likely in pursuit of an eleven-cents-off coupon for house-brand bowling balls.»
And Marilyn was correct. She parked within ten stalls of the store's main entrance, and not a soul gave a second glance to the mother-daughter team purposefully ripping through deep green plastic umbilical cords and placentas like industrial midwives.
«What are we supposed to be looking for?» Susan asked.
«I'll know when I see it. One bag at a time. Spread the contents evenly on the trunk floor. Good. Now hold open your bag and I'll put things into it, piece by piece.» Marilyn hawkeyed the items, which afforded a glass-bottom boat tour of the home and lives of la famille Lindsay. «Bathroom,» she said, «bloody Kleenexes, three; Q-tips, two; bunion pads, four, five,six; prescription bottle, contents: Lindsay, Eugene, Stellazine, a hundred milligrams twice daily, no refill.»
«What's Stellazine?»
«An antipsychotic. Powerful. Diggety-dawg, this is a keeper. » Marilyn's elder sister, a fellow escapee from their yokel origins, was a schizophrenic who, before jumping off the I-5 bridge in downtown Portland, had been a pharmaceutical bellwether for Marilyn. «Let's go on. Disposable razor, one.»