There's a (Slight) Chance I Might Be Going to Hell - v4 (32 page)

“HA!” Rowena bellowed, bending her arms and throwing her palms up when she saw Maye. “I did not think you would really do this. I have to give you credit, Maye Roberts. Do you have a thirst for public humiliation? Well, I feel a little sorry for you, about to get beaten into the ground by a perfect rendition of Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria, one of the most difficult anyone can perform. My girl is going beat you.”

Her coal eyes flicked down to Mickey, who was panting patiently in his little white suit and gold lamé vest.

“She’ll beat you and your little dog, too,” Rowena threatened with a smirk. “And just where is your sponsor?”

It took everything Maye had to contain her hatred for Rowena and not let it leak out all over her. She wanted to punch her. She had never in her life wanted to sock anyone before, but she could feel her fingers curling up into her palm just from want. Her rage had become that solid and real, not because of what Rowena had done to Maye, but because of what she had ground Ruby into. Maye knew just where she would hit her—slightly above the cheekbone so she’d be sure to provide a nice, fleshy black eye with all the trimmings. More than anybody, Rowena deserved it. For all she had stolen from Ruby, for all that she had assumed, it was only proper that Maye hit her and hit her hard.

“She’ll be here,” Maye lied, retracting her fingers up tighter in her hand, not wanting Rowena to know that she had indeed struck fear into Maye about what might happen to Ruby if she did come.

“She’s not curled up underneath the stage swigging from the cheapest bottle of gin she could find, is she?” Rowena shot, the grin still pinned across her yellow teeth.

Maye leaned in closer to Rowena and put a sweet smile on her face.

“That’s not very nice talk,” she whispered loud enough for Rowena to hear her clearly, “from a runner-up.”

Rowena pulled back slightly, the smile sucking back into the folds of her face. “We’ll see you out there on that stage,” Rowena hissed. “We’ll see what you’re made of
then
. I’m afraid we’re going to clean you up with your own little mop skirt by the end of the evening. Melissabeth! Come, dear, you have a hair out of place.”

Melissabeth turned toward Maye and, without a word, was whisked away.

The music coordinator, who wore a laminated badge with the name Merlin on it, pulled out a white cloth that almost looked like a surrender flag and pressed it against his forehead.

“It must have taken acid to get the green color out of her skin,” Maye remarked. “But then again, for her that only entails spitting into a napkin.”

“Well,” Merlin fudged, “she’s taken a lot of her protégées to the top. She’s got more wins under her belt than anyone else can claim. You must be Maye Roberts. You’re the last one to check in. You’re also the last one going on. Where’s your music?”

“Right here,” Maye said, handing over the CD that held the version of the song one of Charlie’s computer-guy friends at the university had managed to wipe the vocal tracks from. “It’s the only song on there.”

“Any special instructions?” he asked quickly.

“Do you have a clip-on mike?” Maye asked.

“You’re singing?” Merlin asked.

“If you can call it that,” she replied. “I’ll be dancing, too, so I’ll be moving around a lot.”

“I’ll track down a clip-on for you, but in the meantime, you’d better get over to the side stage,” the sweaty bald man advised. “The show is going to start any minute, and you’ll need to walk out when they call your name.”

Maye and Mickey walked over to the holding area, where Maye was able to size up her competition. There was Melissabeth, looking like the real winner right out of the gate; the tiny pageant girl with so much makeup on it was entirely possible that she’d been held by the ankles and dipped into a vat of Cover Girl, accompanied by her equally cosmetic-laden, hair-spray-cocooned mother; the scarecrow, whose jingly staff produced a constant, slight hum of tiny chimes; the marionette and his equally creepy master who whispered to each other in low mumbles; and a young man wrapped in a red-sequined dress sitting in a wheelchair that was manned by a middle-aged lady who looked nervous.

Standing there, with all of the contestants and their sponsors hidden off to the side, Maye second-guessed her decision that Ruby shouldn’t come. She wished she was there, standing off to the side with the other sponsors, farting, belching, coughing, and setting herself on fire, especially if she was standing next to Rowena. It would have made Maye feel a little protected, in a sense, and definitely not so all alone. In the days before the pageant, the two of them had spent long hours together, putting the finishing touches on the act, figuring out where to hide a special treat pouch inside of Maye’s slut skirt to lure Mickey to come, walk backward, and stay in their dance-off, and working the routine into a perfect symphony of shaking totties, finger snaps, and dramatic looks that were sure to get a laugh.

Sure, she realized, Ruby had her rough spots—on an average day, she was like a case of eczema: red, swollen, bumpy, and irritated. On other days, though, she could be eczema with salve applied—a little smoother, not so inflamed, and not quite as crusty. In fact, a day spent without trudging out to Ruby’s or trying to walk through a herd of dogs or coming home with the aroma of Ruby’s cigarettes lingering on her clothes would seem a little strange, somehow lacking. She would still see the old woman, she was sure of it, but they had spent so much time together, particularly within the last couple of weeks, that it now seemed like habit. Not a particularly good or fun habit, but one that Maye had grown fond of nonetheless.

The more she thought about it, the more she knew she was wrong; she should have let Ruby come. Like Rowena was going to start anything, especially in front of the whole town where someone might see her acting like the real Rowena and not in the socially pristine role of Mrs. Spaulding. Maye began to fill herself with regret, and with guilt for even stepping foot on that stage without Ruby there to see it. It was, after all, her work, too.

She remembered the words the old, wrinkled woman had said to her before she’d left the night before with finished costumes for herself and Mickey and the assurance that the act was as polished as it was going to get. Ruby had handed her the rag skirt and shirt, smiled, and said with a Viceroy hanging from her lips, “You’ll look adorable. Now go out there and be so swell that you’ll make me hate you.”

A burst of loud, recorded pageant music suddenly blared from the speakers on either side of the stage, making Maye jump. Through a sliver in the curtain Maye got a glimpse of the stage, and she saw something she hadn’t expected. A vast, buzzing audience. The crowd there to witness the pageant swelled all the way into the town square, past the grassy park that surrounded it, and almost onto the street. It was amazing. Maye knew that a good number of spectators turned out for the event, but to her, it seemed like the whole town was there. It had to be, unless they were bussing people in from outlying areas that were desperate for entertainment. And somewhere out there, she knew, was Charlie, probably getting ready to cringe at his wife’s behavior as he had never cringed before.

The crowd suddenly erupted in a sea of applause, and then Maye heard a loud, booming voice bellow from onstage.

“Welcome, welcome to Spaulding’s annual Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant!” the announcer boomed to even more applause.

Backstage, the level of charged electricity in the air quickly spiked as the contestants were gathered by a handler to walk onstage for their introductions. Maye and Mickey took their place at the back of the line.

“Our first contestant is Melissabeth Nipkin,” the emcee nearly sang.

As the line began to move out into the bright lights of the stage, another blinding white one forced Maye to squint and cover her eyes with her hand.

“And one, two, three! Action! What are your thoughts about getting ready to compete for the Sewer Pipe Queen title?” a familiar voice buzzed into Maye’s ear like a big, bothersome, bloodthirsty bug.

Titball.

“And next we have Kaytlynne Brytanni Syznowski, also known as the reigning regional Miss Teeny Royalty Universe!” the emcee announced.

“Dick Titball is a liar,” Maye said into the camera despite the retinal damage incurred in her eyes by its light. “Dick Titball makes up stories.”

“Our next hopeful contestant is…Pinky Tuscadero? Is that right? Yes? Pinky Tuscadero, ladies and gentlemen!”

“One comment, come on!” the reporter insisted, still walking next to Maye as her turn to be introduced approached.

“The next contestant for the Sewer Pipe Queen Pageant is Frankette, it says here. Is that a last name? No, no? That’s the whole thing? Okay, then, welcome, Frankette!”

“Leave me alone, Titball,” Maye warned, taking another step forward. “I’ve already been your victim once.”

“And next, the marionette team of Lord Karl and Little George!”

“One comment!” the reporter insisted. “Can’t you give me one thought?”

“I think Dick Titball has a fleshy, fat ass that flops around in his pants when he runs and everyone on TV can see it,” she said just as her name was called and she walked out into the glare as the sun, although still burning brightly, was beginning to slide into the horizon.

Maye smiled brightly and waved to the audience as Mickey walked beside her perfectly and they took their spot on the far side of the stage.

“And here they are, people of Spaulding!” the emcee announced. “One of these contestants will be your new Sewer Pipe Queen!”

All six and a half contestants stood there, beaming on cue, waving to the audience, hoping that when the sun rose the next day, the townspeople of Spaulding would have become their loyal subjects.

“Now that we’ve met the contestants, let’s meet our panel of celebrity judges!” the emcee called, making a wide, sweeping motion with his arm to the opposite side of the stage.

“You know her as Sequoia,” he said with a grin. “But you can also call her Mayor! Ladies and gentlemen, Mayor Sequoia Montoya!”

The audience whooped it up as the mayor stepped onstage, her waist-long jet-black hair clipped neatly into a ponytail by a silver-and-turquoise barrette. The fringe on her leather vest swung vigorously like the fringe on a flapper’s dress as she walked over to the judge’s table, smiling broadly, then took a seat.

“Please welcome our next judge with a warm round of applause, Spaulding’s own State Champion Hot Dog Eater, Kenny Hicks!”

Chowing down like the incarcerated at feeding time, overall-wearing Kenny Hicks sauntered onstage with his trademark food in his hand, his choppers voraciously feeding off it as chunks of bun and wiener tumbled from his mouth. On the seesaw of judgment, this tipped heavily in the favor of obscenity.

“Now may I introduce one of Spaulding’s Old Queens, Her Royal Highness Sewer Pipe Queen Louise Taylor!”

It was the friend of Maye’s Realtor, Patty, whom she had met the fateful night of the I Have My Period but She’s Eating Meat Incident with Bonnie and Vegging Out Bob. It had been Louise who had encouraged her to enter the pageant to begin with.

Maye smiled as they made eye contact, and Louise winked at her kindly, putting Maye at ease. Somewhat.

“And our last but far from least celebrity judge, may I introduce Balthazar Leopold, Spaulding’s Letter Carrier of the Year!”

With a flash, the silver fox jumped onstage, ran to the judge’s table, and without hesitation leaped over it and took his seat. Maye hardly recognized him without numerous packages strapped to his torso like ammunition à la Pancho Villa.

Mickey, however, smelled him immediately, and although he had been sitting patiently next to Maye as she fed him his favorite liver treats as a bribe to stay put, the dog’s eyes abruptly widened when the mailman, the very mailman who had sent him to doggie reform school, began his gallop across the stage.

Maye lightly tugged on the leash to get Mickey’s attention, and he stayed. As she and Mickey left the stage with the rest of the contestants, Maye looked over at the judges’ table, where Balthazar Leopold was not merely staring at the two of them, he was glaring.

Melissabeth herself was ready to put on a show.

Not only did she arrive in a tailored, perfectly fitting evening gown worthy of Gwyneth Paltrow at the Oscars, she brought friends with her. Four of them to be exact, all musicians in tuxedos and black dresses, with their own seating as well, all arranged behind her.

Melissabeth had not brought a CD; the singer had brought her own orchestra.

The girl who had rejected Maye as a weekend friend politely and elegantly stepped out onstage and clasped her hands in front of her; after the orchestra played a few notes, she opened her mouth, and heaven came out. On hearing the first notes of the Queen of the Night aria, Maye thought, well, opera shmopera, she’s trained to sing that way; I bet there are a couple of opera tricks you need to learn and anybody with an untrained ear wouldn’t know the difference between a novice and a pro. Kind of like ice skating. You see someone at the rink do a jump or a forward spin really fast and you are blown away, you think, Wow, that is talent! And then you watch the Winter Olympics and realize the goddess of the skating rink is really a hack in leg warmers and what’s probably just a swimsuit.

And then, in the next moment, Melissabeth ditched her forward spins and went straight into opera’s version of the Death Drop, the portion of the aria known for its extreme difficulty, and the generator of its fame.

Each peck of a note that rocketed from her lungs was like a perfectly tuned bullet that exploded as it hit the air, filling the entire town square with her booming, crystalline voice and eventually landing—whether Mozart intended it or not—where it was to do the most damage: in the center of Maye’s self-confidence. When Melissabeth hit the F6 note, a note that always makes people gasp when they hear Mariah Carey reach it in “Emotions,” even Maye, with her bread-crumb knowledge of opera, knew was a pretty accomplished feat. She prayed from where she stood backstage that the singer was pulling a Milli Vanilli and that the tape would slur, then snap, leaving the flying monkey with a gaping, mute mouth.