Read Online Pretty Ugly: A Novel by Kirker Butler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kirker Butler
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small, sad voice cracking through the phone. “I just … I just really wanted to be on a TV show. I thought it would be a good opportunity. For us. For all of us.”
Ray exhaled the rest of his anger and rubbed his red, tired eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just … really tired.”
“You work so hard, Ray. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
“I know you do. Thanks.” He looked over at Marvin and tried to remember the last time his whole family was in the same room together. Easter? What month was this?
“Just”—he cleared his throat again—“just try to not let it bother you so much, the show. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, right? Maybe this is happening because something better is waiting right around the corner.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’m sure of it. So get some rest and make sure Bailey’s focused and ready for tomorrow.”
There was a sniffle on the other end, then the sigh. “Don’t forget to pick up the boys at Mom’s. Also, check on her knees if you have time. She can barely walk. I don’t think she’s taking her medication.”
“I’ll go by when I’m done here.”
“Okay. Good night. Sorry I was so…” Her voice trailed off, implying a behavior she’d frequently been accused of but didn’t want to validate by saying out loud.
“It’s okay. Kiss Bailey for me.”
“I will.”
“And I’m sorry about your show. I know you really wanted it.”
He could hear her smile on the other end.
“Thanks. Love.”
“Love.” Ray turned off his phone and dropped it on the matted rug at his feet. Letting his head fall back, he focused on a yellow water stain on the ceiling and tried to figure out when his marriage became the most difficult yet least time-consuming of his full-time jobs. Things used to be so much more fun, before the kids, before the pageants. Truth be told, the whole pageant thing didn’t even make sense to him. Before Bailey was born, Miranda had only competed in three pageants her whole life.
When Christie introduced them, Miranda was dating an abusive but charming asshole named Phil Hatfield, who explained away his violent behavior by claiming to be a direct descendant of the famous feuding family.
“Violence is in my blood, and I don’t know a man alive who can change his blood.”
Phil managed a regionally famous restaurant called Mom’s that had no menu and took no reservations. The dining room consisted of six four-top tables on the first floor of a massive plantation home on the bank of the river. Velvet flocked gold-and-burgundy wallpaper perfectly absorbed the natural light that streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows and gave the room a dim romantic hue even at midday. Dinner started promptly at seven, and the first two dozen people who showed up got to eat whatever Phil’s mother chose to cook that night. Leftovers were sent home with the diners free of charge, and latecomers were turned away even if seats were available, no exceptions.
“Nothing makes you feel closer to God than feeding people,” Mom liked to say as she raised her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, “and nothing makes you feel closer to the devil than my jam cake.”
Phil’s job was to greet the customers; tell them what Mom was cooking that night; announce any birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, etc.; then play Jackson Browne songs on his guitar until the food was ready.
Having just graduated from Owensboro Community College with an associate’s degree in humanities, Miranda was eager to dive into the workforce, but humanities jobs were scarce.
“I’ve never waitressed before,” she told Phil during her interview, “but I have eaten in a lot of restaurants, and I like talking to people, so I’m pretty sure I could do a good job at it.” She smiled in a way that showed all of her teeth and none of herself. If those three pageants had taught her anything, it was how to bullshit her way through an interview question.
Sex was
Ray exhaled the rest of his anger and rubbed his red, tired eyes.
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m just … really tired.”
“You work so hard, Ray. Don’t think I don’t notice.”
“I know you do. Thanks.” He looked over at Marvin and tried to remember the last time his whole family was in the same room together. Easter? What month was this?
“Just”—he cleared his throat again—“just try to not let it bother you so much, the show. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, right? Maybe this is happening because something better is waiting right around the corner.”
She smiled. “Maybe.”
“I’m sure of it. So get some rest and make sure Bailey’s focused and ready for tomorrow.”
There was a sniffle on the other end, then the sigh. “Don’t forget to pick up the boys at Mom’s. Also, check on her knees if you have time. She can barely walk. I don’t think she’s taking her medication.”
“I’ll go by when I’m done here.”
“Okay. Good night. Sorry I was so…” Her voice trailed off, implying a behavior she’d frequently been accused of but didn’t want to validate by saying out loud.
“It’s okay. Kiss Bailey for me.”
“I will.”
“And I’m sorry about your show. I know you really wanted it.”
He could hear her smile on the other end.
“Thanks. Love.”
“Love.” Ray turned off his phone and dropped it on the matted rug at his feet. Letting his head fall back, he focused on a yellow water stain on the ceiling and tried to figure out when his marriage became the most difficult yet least time-consuming of his full-time jobs. Things used to be so much more fun, before the kids, before the pageants. Truth be told, the whole pageant thing didn’t even make sense to him. Before Bailey was born, Miranda had only competed in three pageants her whole life.
When Christie introduced them, Miranda was dating an abusive but charming asshole named Phil Hatfield, who explained away his violent behavior by claiming to be a direct descendant of the famous feuding family.
“Violence is in my blood, and I don’t know a man alive who can change his blood.”
Phil managed a regionally famous restaurant called Mom’s that had no menu and took no reservations. The dining room consisted of six four-top tables on the first floor of a massive plantation home on the bank of the river. Velvet flocked gold-and-burgundy wallpaper perfectly absorbed the natural light that streamed in from the floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows and gave the room a dim romantic hue even at midday. Dinner started promptly at seven, and the first two dozen people who showed up got to eat whatever Phil’s mother chose to cook that night. Leftovers were sent home with the diners free of charge, and latecomers were turned away even if seats were available, no exceptions.
“Nothing makes you feel closer to God than feeding people,” Mom liked to say as she raised her glass of Sauvignon Blanc, “and nothing makes you feel closer to the devil than my jam cake.”
Phil’s job was to greet the customers; tell them what Mom was cooking that night; announce any birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, etc.; then play Jackson Browne songs on his guitar until the food was ready.
Having just graduated from Owensboro Community College with an associate’s degree in humanities, Miranda was eager to dive into the workforce, but humanities jobs were scarce.
“I’ve never waitressed before,” she told Phil during her interview, “but I have eaten in a lot of restaurants, and I like talking to people, so I’m pretty sure I could do a good job at it.” She smiled in a way that showed all of her teeth and none of herself. If those three pageants had taught her anything, it was how to bullshit her way through an interview question.
Sex was
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