Lindsay's mail fraud scheme, but her body was obviously now awash in stress chemicals. Susan felt like the young wolf who's just discovered the tender, delicious underbelly of the porcupine.
The next afternoon they checked in to the hotel in St. Louis, whereupon Susan stayed up in the room to read comics while Marilyn confabbed with some other pageant moms, learning that Eugene was staying alone in the same hotel because Renata was stuck in Bloomington coping with demand for the following month's Big 'n' Proud convention in Tampa, Florida. With almost no effort, Marilyn determined Eugene's room number, and shortly after she knocked on his door. He answered, clothed only in argyle socks, striped boxers and an unbuttoned oxford cloth shirt. He was holding a scotch and Marilyn could see he had little hairs bleached gold by the sun on the tops of his fingers. Marilyn knew that Eugene was used to opening doors and letting in exactly whomever he wanted
when
he wanted. He saw Marilyn and said, «What is this — some kind of joke?»
«No joke, Eugene.» She barged into his room. She took it by storm.
«What the fuck? Lady — get the fuck out of my room. Now.»
«No, Eugene.»
«Did the guys at the station set this up? Is this a gag?»
«It's no gag, Eugene, and I don't know any guys from any station.» She coquetted her head and sat with her legs crossed on the bed.
Eugene gulped his scotch. «I'm not into mutton, lady. Out.»
«Oh, Eu
gene
— you've mistaken my intentions.»
«You're a show mom, aren't you? I can always tell you show moms. You're all nuts. You're all freaks.» He poured himself a new drink.
«Is drinking a smart thing to be doing?»
«I beg your — fuck it — I'm calling the hotel cops.» He moved to the bedside phone.
«I'm not the one on Stellazine, Eugene. I'm not the one who's insane here.»
His finger froze on the phone above the zero button. «You know, lady, I ought to — »
«Oh, shut up, you talking hairdo. My name's not Lady, it's Marilyn, which doesn't mean much. What
does
mean something is that my daughter wins tomorrow's title. She's going to play
Für Elise
and it doesn't matter if Miss Iowa cures cancer on stage, or if Miss Idaho gets stigmata, my daughter wins. Period. And
you
will make sure this happens.»
«This
is
a joke.» Eugene's face relaxed. «The guys at the station
did
set this up.»
«No joke.»
«You're
good.
»
«There's nothing for me to be good
at,
Eugene. This is for real.»
Eugene's face clenched and his voice assumed the cool metered speech of TV reason. «This is so totally Gothic, isn't it? You'd kill for your little proxy to win. I bet you and your little Miss …»
«Wyoming.» The family still had yet to move to that state, but Marilyn had already begun creating technical citizenship by renting a small storage locker on the outskirts of Cheyenne under Susan's name. At the present moment she wanted to unbalance Eugene's thinking. «You're wearing a beef bikini, Eugene.»
«Wha — ?» He reflexively reached for his privates, which had perhaps escaped containment.
«Read these.» From her handbag she removed a bundle of photocopies and slapped them onto the bedspread, and from where he stood, Eugene could tell what they were. «How do we spell “mail fraud,” Eugene? We spell it F-B-I.» Marilyn walked to the door and yanked it open. «You're a big fish in an itty-bitty pond, Hairdo. But it's
my
pond. Give me what I want and it doesn't go beyond these walls.» She stepped outside and looked in. «I could otherwise care less about you. Turning you in would be like spraying sewage onto a burning house. It'd get a job done, but — well, you think it over. Good-bye, Eugene.» She shut the door.
Onstage that night, the pageant flowed like soda. Susan made semifinalist, then finalist, played her
Für Elise
and then stood with the other finalists on the stage directly before the judge's stand. She felt lovely. She had learned to work with the new all-angle
The next afternoon they checked in to the hotel in St. Louis, whereupon Susan stayed up in the room to read comics while Marilyn confabbed with some other pageant moms, learning that Eugene was staying alone in the same hotel because Renata was stuck in Bloomington coping with demand for the following month's Big 'n' Proud convention in Tampa, Florida. With almost no effort, Marilyn determined Eugene's room number, and shortly after she knocked on his door. He answered, clothed only in argyle socks, striped boxers and an unbuttoned oxford cloth shirt. He was holding a scotch and Marilyn could see he had little hairs bleached gold by the sun on the tops of his fingers. Marilyn knew that Eugene was used to opening doors and letting in exactly whomever he wanted
when
he wanted. He saw Marilyn and said, «What is this — some kind of joke?»
«No joke, Eugene.» She barged into his room. She took it by storm.
«What the fuck? Lady — get the fuck out of my room. Now.»
«No, Eugene.»
«Did the guys at the station set this up? Is this a gag?»
«It's no gag, Eugene, and I don't know any guys from any station.» She coquetted her head and sat with her legs crossed on the bed.
Eugene gulped his scotch. «I'm not into mutton, lady. Out.»
«Oh, Eu
gene
— you've mistaken my intentions.»
«You're a show mom, aren't you? I can always tell you show moms. You're all nuts. You're all freaks.» He poured himself a new drink.
«Is drinking a smart thing to be doing?»
«I beg your — fuck it — I'm calling the hotel cops.» He moved to the bedside phone.
«I'm not the one on Stellazine, Eugene. I'm not the one who's insane here.»
His finger froze on the phone above the zero button. «You know, lady, I ought to — »
«Oh, shut up, you talking hairdo. My name's not Lady, it's Marilyn, which doesn't mean much. What
does
mean something is that my daughter wins tomorrow's title. She's going to play
Für Elise
and it doesn't matter if Miss Iowa cures cancer on stage, or if Miss Idaho gets stigmata, my daughter wins. Period. And
you
will make sure this happens.»
«This
is
a joke.» Eugene's face relaxed. «The guys at the station
did
set this up.»
«No joke.»
«You're
good.
»
«There's nothing for me to be good
at,
Eugene. This is for real.»
Eugene's face clenched and his voice assumed the cool metered speech of TV reason. «This is so totally Gothic, isn't it? You'd kill for your little proxy to win. I bet you and your little Miss …»
«Wyoming.» The family still had yet to move to that state, but Marilyn had already begun creating technical citizenship by renting a small storage locker on the outskirts of Cheyenne under Susan's name. At the present moment she wanted to unbalance Eugene's thinking. «You're wearing a beef bikini, Eugene.»
«Wha — ?» He reflexively reached for his privates, which had perhaps escaped containment.
«Read these.» From her handbag she removed a bundle of photocopies and slapped them onto the bedspread, and from where he stood, Eugene could tell what they were. «How do we spell “mail fraud,” Eugene? We spell it F-B-I.» Marilyn walked to the door and yanked it open. «You're a big fish in an itty-bitty pond, Hairdo. But it's
my
pond. Give me what I want and it doesn't go beyond these walls.» She stepped outside and looked in. «I could otherwise care less about you. Turning you in would be like spraying sewage onto a burning house. It'd get a job done, but — well, you think it over. Good-bye, Eugene.» She shut the door.
Onstage that night, the pageant flowed like soda. Susan made semifinalist, then finalist, played her
Für Elise
and then stood with the other finalists on the stage directly before the judge's stand. She felt lovely. She had learned to work with the new all-angle
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