Miss Wyoming Part 2

"I'm looking. I'm looking."

"No you're not. You're looking for a way to get rid of me andfly back into s.p.a.ce again."

"Okay, okay, you're good. But do you blame me? I don't wantto go back down there to my c.r.a.ppy little life."

"Your life is c.r.a.ppy?"

His body stopped where it was, his feet inside the atmo-sphere, his head out in s.p.a.ce, as though he were wading in the planet. "It's not what I would have wanted, no."

"What would you have wanted, then?"

"Like I keep that information at the top of my 'To Do' list, orsomething?"

"What would be wrong with keeping that at the top of your 'To Do'list?"

This gave John pause. "Nothing, I guess." He looked east,toward the seaboard. "Hey, look at New York! You can see thelights! It's night there now." The view was indeed splendid.

"Sure, John, the world is beautiful. But you were telling mewhat you would have wanted to do differently in your life."

"I dunno. Be one of those guys who buy short-sleeve golf shirts with olive checks at the pro shop-the ones who drivetheir kids to judo lessons and then to the pancake houseafterward."

"You?"

"Well, it'd be a start. I see these guys on the San Diego Free-way on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. They're married to soccer momsand they don't have affairs."

"John, let's be serious. Stop wasting my time."

"Okay, okay. Take a sip of water, fer Chrissake. Let me think."

"Oh Johnnnn," the vision cooed, "I'm not a table full of suitsfrom Disney."

"You know what?" John said. "I'd like to simply stop beingme.I'd like to be somebody anonymous, without any luggage. Iwant a clean slate."

"So then go clean your slate. Enter your own private witnessrelocation program."

"It's too complex. You can't do it anymore. Too many com-puters and stuff."

"It's not complex. It's the opposite of complex. What couldbe simpler?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm not the issue here."

"I know you from somewhere. Sundance?Tristar?"

"You're wasting your time."

"So what happens now?"

"Back to the hospital."

"Oh."

"You sound disappointed."

John went quiet as an empty room. And then he said, " I want to see you again."

3O.

"I don't know, John."

"Please?" John'sbody began zooming down to California attelescopic speed.

"I have a call on another line, John."

Whamp!

He felt as though he'd fallen onto concrete.

Two days later, he was lying on his hospital bed, wide awake, and his confidant-madam, Melody, was sitting across his darkprivate room watching Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the TV screen.

"You're awake! h.e.l.lo!" Melody shouted. She pushed themuteb.u.t.ton and scampered toward him, kissing him on theforehead.

"Melody-s.h.i.t-what day is it?"

"It's Sat.u.r.day, you brute. You had the flu. And pneumonia.The doctors said they thought you had AIDS because you havealmost no immune system left." The sun had nearly set outside.A supply trolley rolled past the door.

"You've been here all this time?"

Melody looked guilty. "Well, only about ten minutes, really."

John flopped his head sideways, caught a glimpse of his facein the mirror. He closed his eyes. "Jesus."

Melody was rustling about in her purse and found somemints. "Want a mint?"

John's stomach turned. "No."

"Spoilsport."

Melody popped a mint and then stared at John, who closedhis eyes and tried to recapture the face and voice he'd just seen.Instead he heard Melody tell him what had happened and how sick he'd been, then bridge into s.n.a.t.c.hes of gossip. The captive nature of the sickbed reminded him of his childhood illnesses.

He didn't want to remember that, and he brusquely let Melodyknow it."Excusez-moi. I'm just trying to be friendly. I didn't have tocome down here, you know. Ivan called from Switzerland and put me on sentry duty. Me and all none of your friends."

"Mel-"

"Oh s.h.i.t." Melody felt she'd gone too far. "I'm sorry, John.For what it's worth, your mother's been camping out here forforty-eight hours. I sent her home to sleep."

"Forget it."

"No. I feel terrible for being so mean when you're so sick."Her eyes became frantic. "I know-I've got some wonderfulwelcome-back p.u.s.s.y for you-twins!"

"I don't want twins, Mel. s.h.i.t, I don't want anybody. Oranything."

"How about a bit of toot, John?" Melody removed a pinkplastic h.e.l.lo Kitty heart-shaped box from her fetal calf leatherhandbag. "Straight from Miss Bolivia's falsies. Yummie, yum-mie." She held out the box to John, and he slapped it with awave that was just forceful enough to read as purposeful. The box fell onto the floor and exploded.

"John! That was really stupid."

"Mel, please. I don't feel so good. I want to be alone."

"Oh cute-like a Simon and Garfunkel song. You rememberwho your friends are. And remember-twins! From Floridano less."

John stared at her.

"I'm going to leave now, John, before you go and say some-thing else stupid. I'll tell Nurse Ratchet outside that you'reawake.Au revoir , Johnniepoo."

Chapter Four.

Susan's earliest memory was powerful and clear. She was four and a half, and she was in the elevator of the Benson Hotel,Portland, Oregon, wearing a beaded strapless evening gownpaid for with the proceeds of rabbits her mother Marilynsold from hutches adjoining the double-wide trailer back inMcMinnville.

Marilyn had toiled for umpteen hours on each of the gown'sbeaded filaments, in between furtive glances at walls paperedwith gown photos ripped from ladies' magazines and special-ized pageantry publications.

Marilyn had also recently purchaseda glue gun and she had had great plans for fastening sparkly ob- jects to belts and accessories.

Susan's face was heavily pancaked in a manner calculated to add fifteen years to her age. She was wearing a diagonal rayonsash across her chest readingpet.i.te miss multnomah county -first runner-up, and her face was so moist from tears it felt like an unsqueezed dish sponge. She remembered pushing a b.u.t.ton for each of the floors. The doors opened sixteen timesfrom penthouse to bas.e.m.e.nt, each time revealing the absence ofMarilyn.

Earlier, just before Susan had gone onstage, Marilyn had clasped her shoulders, looked her dead in the eyes and said, "Only the prettiest and the best-behaved girl gets to win, and if you don't win, I'm not going to be here waiting for youafterward. Do you understand this? Is this clear?" Susan hadnodded and gone onstage with the fluid military precisiondrummed into her on a mock catwalk Marilyn had chalked ontothe concrete at the cul-de-sac's end back in McMinnville. Andyet she hadn't won, and had no idea what mistake had causedher to lose.

Once the elevator reached the lowest level, Susan pushed allthe b.u.t.tons on the pad again, and rose upward. When the doorson the main floor opened, she saw dozens of the mother-daughter molecules specific to pageantry, milling their way outthe front door. Marilyn was speaking to the concierge. She looked at Susan exiting the elevator and, cool-as-you-will, said,"Oh my, a runner-up." As Susan came closer she added, "I have adaughter, yes, but she's a winner, and you couldn't possibly beher because your sash saysfirst runner-up, which means the same thing as losing."

Susan burst into tears.

"Oh, shut up," said Marilyn, and she gave her daughtera handkerchief. "You'll stain the dress. Come on.

Let's walk tothe car."

Susan followed, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with the shameful grat.i.tudeof a puppy in training. The night was cool, on the brink ofdiscomfort.

"Oh Susan," began Marilyn, "You know how long we workedon this one. It's been weeks since I've touched a bingo card withElaine or even watched TV. I think of the time I spend trying to make you the winningest little girl in Oregon and I start to feel-ing like those inmates in orange jumpsuits picking up litter onthe sides of the Interstate."

b.u.ms heckled them as they walked through the town center.

Marilyn looked their way and said: "They can't pave this city fastenough. Put a ten-lane freeway right through these old heaps,call it a mall, and gas those wretched winos."

Susan sniffled and her heels clicked on the sidewalk like asous-chef's cutting knife on a board.

"Don't you have anything to say?" asked Marilyn. "You'reso quiet, like a Barbie doll, except Barbie wouldn't have m.u.f.fedher lighting cue on the 'Spirit of Recycling' dance routine." Marilyn breathed a sigh like a deflating parade balloon. She lit acigarette. "You could at least show a bit more s.p.u.n.k with me- fight back-a little bit of give-and-take."

But Susan remained silent. Susan was going to be Barbie.She was going to be more Barbie than Barbie, and in having made this decision, she unwittingly followed Marilyn's danc-ing lead.

They reached the car, the sunroofed Corvair Susan consideredthe one truly glamorous aspect of her family's life. It appearedthat Marilyn was not going to a.s.sist her, so as she got in, she carefully lifted and folded her dress so as not to damage it whenshutting the door.

Marilyn started the car, and they pulled out of the downtowncore. "Okay then, Susan. Your ramp walking was pretty good. Agood stride. And the makeup worked well under that lighting.A bit too tarty, maybe, but good."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"What's 'tarty'?"

Marilyn deemed it inappropriate to discuss tartiness with her four-and-a-half-year-old. She ignored the question. "Next timeyou're going to have to approach the fore-catwalk more natu-rally, and I truly think those bangs of yours are going to have togrow out some." She looked over at her daughter. "Susan, your

eyes look like two cherry pits spit onto the floor," but Susan wasdrifting off to sleep. A gentle rain was falling and the wipers were slapping. "I was never able to enter pageants myself, Susan.I could only dream of them. The excitement. The dresses. Thewinning. I was stuck out in the boondocks with my wretchedfamily." She pulled onto the highway back to McMinnville. "Inever had what you have now-a mother who cares for youand who wants you to win. And certainly not what you're going tohave-a big success in life-and trust me, you're going to haveit. Me, I'll never be the prettiest or the purest or the best, butyou-you will."

Susan, sleepy, hoped Marilyn's good mood would stretch all the way home.

"I shouldn't b.i.t.c.h. I did end up getting your father-yourstepfather-but he's as good as a real father."

Her voice relaxed."Don the Swan." She looked kindly over at Susan. "Baby, you'llwin next time, won't you, sweetie?"

Susan looked up at her mother, rain splashing on the wind-shield and her small mouth emitted a calm, clear, and hopefullyBarbie-like "Yes."

Chapter Five.

"Suzie, do be a love and whack this evil little Kinder Egg into theGrand Canyon for me." Chris handed Susan a 5-iron. It was neardawn and she, Chris, two band members and an arty black-and-white photographer named Rudy were sitting atop the tour busin lawn chairs, sipping Benedictine and taking turns trying onsilvery-orange nipple ta.s.sels that Chris, back in Las Vegas andcrashingly drunk, had purchased from an off-duty lap dancerfor $500.

"Okay, guv," said Susan, "but we'll never know what the littletoy was inside the egg."

"That's the point, you evil, evil girl," replied Chris. "Is theeggy-weggy properly teed up?"

"Chris, your London vocabulary is really driving me crazy."

"Be that as it may, I repeat, is the eggy-weggy properlyteed up?"

Susan checked the foil wrapped chocolate egg perched on aMarlboro box. "Ready for action."