The Queen of Sleepy Eye (31 page)

I thanked him for his time and rose to leave.

“Daughter, one more thing. There never lived a perfectly good saint, but true saints learn to enjoy the goodness of God because of their imperfections. Let him love you as he made you and lavish you with his grace.”

* * *

MOM AND CHARLES walked hand in hand down the front walk toward his orange Pinto station wagon. He opened the door for her.
Just friends? I don't think so.
This was the third night in a row they'd gone out. They waved as the car lurched away from the curb and putt-putted around the corner.

With my bedroom door closed, I thumbed through my Bible, using the concordance to find all of the verses that mentioned brides. When I read “You have made my heart beat faster, my sister, my bride” from the Song of Solomon, I lit a candle and knelt beside the bed.

I prayed, “I don't know what this will be like, being your bride and all, but I don't ever want to be in this place again. I'm sick with remorse. It's all I can think about. I ask you again, pl
eee
ase forgive me … for … you know I hate to say this … well, you know …
for settling for much, much less when all the while you wanted to be my bridegroom, the Prince of Peace. So here goes.”

I held a plastic ring I'd bought out of a gumball machine between my fingers.

“With this ring …”

I slid the ring onto my finger.

“… I thee wed from this day forward, even though you seem to want me to stay in Cordial for a few more months, and even though …” A sob rolled from my gut, plowed over my heart, and exploded out of my mouth. It was better than throwing up, so I let the crying fit run its course while I allowed my worst fear to play out in my imagination—me, an unwed mother, just like Mom. “Even though I may be carrying another man's baby.”

The crying I'd done up to this point was just a warm-up. When I imagined myself facing the dean of students at Westmont, and collecting welfare checks, and waving any hopes of a husband good-bye, an artesian well of tears opened.

“Are you sure you want me?”

How beautiful is your love, my sister, my bride!

“Then I'm yours.”

Sitting at a small table on the porch, I stared at a blank piece of Clancy and Sons letterhead. I dated the letter and wrote, “Dear Mrs. Brown.” Then I looked to Logan Mountain, hoping another way to help Lauren came to mind and resenting Lauren for putting me in the position of finking her out. As annoying and flighty as Mrs. Brown could be, she was the only person to entrust with the stuff Lauren had shoplifted, except the brooch that I'd given to Miss Bigelow, of course, and the Mexican blouses I'd thrown away. I put pen to paper.

I wrote an overview of Lauren's larcenous history and signed the letter. After sealing the envelope, I pried it back open to add the cross necklace. I attached an address label in care of the furniture store to the package.

“I'm sorry, Lauren.”

I finished just as Tommy turned into the driveway. His wife and daughter stayed in the truck, wide-eyed yet smiling. “Where's this giant package you want me to take to the bus station?” he asked.

“Thanks for doing this, Tommy.”

* * *

THE SALES CLERK AT Fabric Depot cleared her throat for the hundredth time. “The store closes in five minutes.”

Mom held a length of translucent fabric to my face and turned me toward the mirror. “See, this is perfect. Gold will emphasize your eyes.”

“This is a huge mistake,” I said, pushing the fabric away. “I'm not pageant material, Mom. Look at me, really look at me. I have a nose that could pass for a dinner roll. I'll only humiliate myself. The other contestants, who, in case you haven't considered, have lived here all their lives, right next door to the judges and have parents who do business with the judges. There's no way I can win.”

“You make this sound like a conspiracy. Beauty is an attitude. If you believe you're beautiful, you're beautiful.”

The salesclerk cleared her throat again. “That shade is all wrong for your daughter. It bleeds her face of color. Try this one.” She draped a shimmery jade fabric over my shoulders.

“Oh,” I said, surprised at the effect.

“Finding complementary colors is my specialty,” the clerk said, cocking her head to study my reflection.

Mom met my gaze in the mirror. “I can't think of another way to make $250 in one week. It's worth a try. If you win, you could fly to Los Angeles to start classes with your classmates.”

I pushed the fabric away and walked out of the store.

“Where are you going?” Mom called, following me onto the sidewalk.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I'm fine with waiting. I have a job and everything.”

“Because
I'm
not fine with you waiting. I got you into this mess, and I'm going to get you out. Amy,
fofa
, we're going back into the fabric store to buy that fabric.” Mom dug a flyer for the pageant out of her purse. “It says right here: ‘The contestants are judged on poise, their ability to answer questions on current events, and an exhibition of their talent.” Mom held me at arm's length. “Poise isn't a problem; your height makes you regal. You can talk about anything. You were captain of the debate team two years in a row. Did you think I forgot about that? I was so proud of you. I probably don't tell you nearly enough, but here is your chance to get what you want. And no one has to tell you how beautifully you sing. When you sing, you're true self shines like a beacon.”

I sat on the curb. I was beginning to believe I had a chance at winning the pageant. I ached to rid myself of Cordial. The town represented my failure, but what unnerved me was Mom's determination to get rid of me. I didn't care for her enthusiasm one bit.

“Amy, listen, please don't make me say all of the ways that I've been a terrible mother. Let me do this for you. I want to get you to college. It's very important to you, so it's very important to me.”

Mom banged on the fabric store door until the salesclerk let us in to buy the jade fabric.

Mom eased the iron along the length of my hair. “Try to hold still. I don't want to burn you again.”

I sat on a step stool with my head tilted toward the ironing board. “I can't sit like this much longer. My neck is killing me.”

“We're almost done.”

Charles spoke through the bedroom door. “Francie, do both ends of the cans have to be removed?”

“Keep the iron moving, Mom.”

She leaned to whisper in my ear. “Can you believe how helpless men are? That's why we must be nice to them, or they'd fray like an old sweater.” She yelled toward the door, “Yes, sweetie, that's exactly right.”

“Keep the iron moving, Mom.”

“Wait till you see how lovely your hair looks. And don't you worry. A little makeup will cover the burn on your forehead.” Mom parted my hair and smoothed another strand down the ironing board. “Are you sure you don't want to wear my tiara?”

Never!
“That would seem a bit presumptuous on my part, but thanks.”

Of all the men Mom had marched in and out of our lives, I'd never asked her about her relationships. I supposed I'd learned that Mom and men collided, dusted themselves off, and went their separate ways. No one like Charles had ever entered our lives. He didn't collide with Mom so much as he slid into place.

“So what's the deal with you and Charles?” I asked.

“Charles? Well, he's nice. He makes me feel safe.”

“And?”

“And I think I might love him.”

“Is that my hair I smell?”

* * *

THE PAGEANT TOOK place in two parts. In the morning, the contestants ate brunch together at the Moose Lodge before being interviewed by the judges. The other contestants, seven of them, huddled together, exchanging nervous giggles. Once I noticed how uniform their hair and dresses were, I looked for similarities between them like an exercise in a
Highlights
magazine. All parted their hair on the side with a single barrette over their left ear. Their flowered dresses with matching short jackets could have been sewn from the same pattern. Every last one of them possessed a tiny ski-jump nose. I wanted to scream.

Someone with a mean streak had prepared a spinach quiche as the main entrée with a broccoli and almond salad on the side. After each bite, I ran my tongue over my teeth, searching out errant pieces of dark-green vegetables. A girl across the table used the blade of her knife to check her teeth.
Very clever.
With know-how like that, this couldn't have been her first pageant. I sat up straighter.

Mom had dressed me for the interview in her green and white dress with the wide collar and plunging neckline. At my insistence, she'd added a snap-in piece of fabric to raise the neckline, giving the dress a sailor-gone-tropical look. To avoid being mistaken for a figure skater, she lowered the hem two inches. My hair? In a word, my hair was
big
—a true navigational hazard to low-flying airplanes. Two cans of White Rain had turned my hair into a flammable helmet of immense proportions. I feared flames like the brainless scarecrow in
The Wizard of Oz.
Nevertheless, I smiled constantly—even while chewing—as my mother had coached me. Knees together. Shoulders back. Pinkie up.

Bring 'em on!

A woman in a broad-brimmed hat and navy suit, tapped on the microphone. “Girls, welcome to the 53rd Annual Ranch Days Pageant. I'm Mrs. O'Dell, chairwoman of the Ranch Days Pageant committee. I can't remember a more qualified or gracious group of girls vying for the title of Miss Ranch Days.”

I looked around to see if the other contestants had found her pinched-nose voice entertaining. The woman held the girls' rapt attention. Even though my cheeks ached, I licked my teeth and smiled.

“Any one of you would represent our community with distinction,” she said. “Shall we get started?”

She introduced the judges, Miss Hickman, the Cordial High School home economics teacher for forty-two years. Her skin hung on her like part of her was missing. Doubtless, the other contestants had sewn their first aprons in Miss Hickman's sewing class. Okay, so one of three judges probably had a favorite, a teacher's pet. The next judge served as the president of the bank. From the bulk of him, he performed most of his business at the Stop-and-Chomp during breakfast,
lunch, and dinner meetings. Odd, but he had the same last name as one of the other contestants, Ebersbacher. Nothing like a little nepotism to spice up a pageant. The third judge evened the playing field a bit. Pastor Ted winked at me when he stood to take a bow.

When the applause faded, Mrs. O'Dell continued. “Girls, I have a special surprise for you this year. Mrs. Tammy Martin, our local Mary Kay representative, will walk you through a complete makeover from a facial to beautiful-new-you makeup. Let's give Mrs. Martin a huge round of applause for being here today.” The applause from the contestants was tentative at best. “We'll call you in random order to be interviewed by the judges.”

For our makeovers, Mrs. Martin passed around bobby pins to hold our hair away from our faces and draped us with pink fabric to protect our clothes. When she came to me, she said, “My, you have a lot of hair, don't you? Do the best you can. I'll leave you a few extra pins.” Hairpins proved unnecessary. My hair mimicked granite.

A brunette in a dress covered with daisy bouquets left the room to talk to the judges. Mrs. Martin gave us tiny paddles to smear makeup remover over our faces. “Gently girls, gently. You're going to have this skin for a long, long time. Keep your skin looking fresh and lively with feather-light fingers.”

Forget that.

Mom had smeared my eyelids with limeade eye shadow and painted Cleopatra eyeliner on my upper and lower lids. I'd complained about looking like the creature from the deep until I saw tears had welled in her eyes. I applied the remover to each eyelid—
thank
you, Jesus
—and rubbed vigorously.

Mrs. Martin bent to inspect a blonde wearing pink. “Oh, honey girl, you'll never get your makeup off like that. Be indulgent.”
Mrs. Martin scooped a generous portion of the makeup remover onto the girl's cheeks.

The brunette returned from the interview room looking self-satisfied. Mrs. O'Dell called for Debbie Bishop. The blonde wiped fiercely at the black smudges of mascara around her eyes before she walked toward the interview room like she was headed for the firing squad.

Mrs. Martin clapped for our attention. “Now that all of that life-sucking drugstore makeup is off your beautiful faces, the next step is a deep-cleaning mask to remove any remaining impurities.” Her voice dropped an octave. “Girls, deep cleaning is the key to healthy, blemish-free skin.” She delivered more paddles and jars to each contestant. “Cover your faces completely, but leave a good margin around your eyes.”

The girls around the table exchanged glances.

“Go ahead. Don't be shy,” Mrs. Martin urged. “We leave the mask on for five minutes. Your faces will glow with health when you're done.”

We obeyed like sheep, slathering our faces with a green oatmeal-and-mint facial mask, each of us, I was sure, praying that someone else would be called next for their interview. We stared owl-eyed at the clock.

“Are you ready for the unveiling, girls? I have moist towels for you. Now, remember, don't rub. Pat those impurities away.”

I used the hand towel to swipe the oatmeal goop off my forehead, cheeks, and chin, folding and refolding the towel.

Mrs. Martin wrung her hands. “Oh dear, I guess I should have brought more towels. I'll be right back. There must be paper towels in the restroom.” Once she left the room, the girls started talking.

“I spent an hour putting my makeup on. What is this?”

“What did the judges ask you, Jeanette?”

“I'm not supposed to tell.”

“They don't ask political questions, do they? How old does a senator have to be? I keep forgetting.”

“They're not going to ask you civics questions, stupid. They want to know how you think about current events. Sorry, Cammie, but it looks like you're sunk even before you've been called.”

“Shut up, Laurie. What do you know?” said the chestnut-haired girl.

I looked in the mirror. Green oatmeal streaked my face. A thought as surprising as a wasp sting popped into my head.
You're damaged.
You don't belong here.
I believed it.

The chestnut-haired girl turned to me. “Hey, you with the big hair, who are you, anyway?”

“I've seen her at the library,” Cammie said. “She's always reading some old book.”

“You're the girl who lives at the funeral home, aren't you? You dated H, and you hang out with those dirty hippies.

I stopped smiling.

Mrs. O'Dell called, “The judges would like to see María Amelia Casi … Casi … meero—”

I stood up. “María Amelia Casimiro Monteiro. That's me.”

Besides having flecks of green oatmeal in my hair, the interview went flawlessly. I listed the qualifications I hoped to see in the next president and made the judges laugh when I added, “We should elect someone with a nice, straight fairway shot to safeguard the American people.” I enumerated the reasons the Equal Rights Amendment was superfluous, and when asked if art imitated life or life imitated art in
Hollywood, I came down on the side of life imitating art, complete with references to specific films and television programs.

The bank president rose to shake my hand. “Thank you, Amy, you're quite astute.”

* * *

ALTHOUGH MY MOTHER nearly stroked out, I washed my hair before the evening portion of the pageant and let it dry in the sun. No Dippity-Doo. No hair spray. No bun. I showed up just the way God had made me—the queen of fuzz.

The evening pageant was held in the park. A tangle of electrical cables snaked from generators to carnival rides and food booths. Cotton candy and hot grease. Screams and laughter. Tinny music from the carousel. Thousands of light bulbs twirling and blinking. The bark of booth operators inviting, cajoling, and shaming participants to lay their money down.

I tiptoed over the cables in my jade evening gown. The princess-line dress floated weightlessly over my skin. Carnies turned to whistle, but really, who would consider that a compliment?

Me, that's who.

The pageant stage—a flatbed trailer attached to a tractor—was set up in the rodeo arena. A skirt of crepe paper covered the wheels, and a well-worn backdrop gave the contestants a place to stand unseen to gather their courage before stepping through an arched cutout. Workers were still assembling the runway platform when I arrived.

My gown shimmered like water under the floodlights. The other contestants—and this may sound unkind, but it's the honest truth—looked like Little Bo Peeps with all their eyelet pinafores and dotted-swiss dresses. We stood behind the backdrop until our names
were called. Once we walked to the end of the runway and back, the contestants scattered to prepare for the talent section of the pageant.

Mom found me sitting on the trailer hitch tuning my guitar. “You looked gorgeous walking down the runway. Oh, the memories. Just remember to keep your chest up. Think of a puppet—”

“String attached between my boobs. Yeah, I think I've got it.”

“What are you going to sing?” she asked.

“I don't know yet.”

“You don't
know
? How can you not know? Sing a Patsy Cline song. That will show them what you're made of.”

“Too sad.”

“Elvis?”

“Too trite.”

“Something Motown? ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine'?”

“No Pips.”

“Amy!”

“Go sit down, Mom. Something will come to me. In fact, I'm considering a John Denver song.”

“Perfect!” She kissed my cheek and spat on her finger to rub away the lipstick. “The judges will love a John Denver song. This is Colorado after all.”

Once she left I picked through the chords of “Leaving on a Jet Plane” while Cammie performed “The Star-Spangled Banner” as an interpretive reading. The crowd went wild.

Something patriotic?
I strummed through “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” but realized I only knew the words to the first verse.
Be original!

Laurie dazzled the crowd with her baton twirling. Debbie took her Sheltie through his paces. Sit. Down. Roll over. Play dead. The irritable brunette introduced her piano piece. “It is my pleasure to
play ‘Waltz in D-Flat Major' by Frédéric Chopin. You will recognize the piece as the ‘Minute Waltz,' although Chopin never intended the waltz to be played in sixty seconds, so put away your stopwatches.” She paused to allow the audience time to laugh.
A pro.
“Picture, if you will, a small dog chasing his tail, for such was Chopin's inspiration for writing this waltz.” Another grateful laugh from the audience. She played the flighty piece flawlessly.

Elvis wasn't trite so much as seasoned, like last year's blue suede shoes.
How about Patsy?
This crowd would love “Crazy.”

* * *

WHEN THE EMCEE slaughtered my last two names, I wiped my hands on my dress and took the stage. I spotted Mom already crying several rows back, and Feather and her family cheered wildly. I closed my eyes to pick the introduction. Tears flowed and my voice caught when I sang,
“Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,”
but I didn't care. The song was a promise and a prayer.

When I finished the song, the audience sat perfectly silent. Mrs. Clancy dabbed at her eyes, but so did Charles. Finally, the emcee clapped beside me, waking the audience to join in. Into the microphone, he said, “Lovely, Miss Monteero, just lovely. Thank you.”