Imperfections (6 page)

Mother led me across the corrals, took me behind a screen, stripped me and then started to rewrap me in a tuxedo from the top down.

“Such a handsome little guy,” she said, kneeling and tugging at my bow tie. “Stop it,” she said to my scratching and pulling of undies away from my ass.

There was hay in my underwear. I was embarrassed, changing behind that curtain with all of those people bustling around on the other side.
Every time someone walked too close to the screen it billowed out, offering me a brief glance at the kids and adults tromping back and forth through the hay, around the corral fences and sidestepping errant cow-pies.
 

If I could see them, they could see me.

We had driven for four hours to get there. We passed nothing but fields and farms for the last three and a half of them.
 

It had all been Mother's idea.

In two years, when I turned ten, we would still be making this trip except I would be competing in the Mister Pre-Teen Beef Cattle competition and two years after that it would all be over. After the age of twelve there were no more Misters, only Misses. Miss Teen and Miss Beef Cattle. I guess little boys are no longer cute by then. I guess, behind the veneer of a beauty pageant, little girls grow into something to be leered at by handsome young farmhands mulling over their chewing tobacco cuds, scratching their sun-reddened skins and stretching kinks out of their wiry muscles.

“You said a little competition was healthy,” Mother had said to Father when we loaded into the Pacer.

“I meant sport. Real competition. Not parading around a barn in front of an audience. I meant football. I meant baseball.” Father's voice strained, almost to the point of whining.

They often talked in front of me as if I wasn't there.

Father ran a yellow light and we were outside of the city.

“Beauty is nothing to scoff at,” Mother said. “It is the workings of good genes and good morals. This is a real competition, a competition of morals. This is the most important kind of competition.”

Father blinked.

Fields rolled by outside. Little wooden buildings drifted by. Tractors and broken down old cars in fields floated by.

“Ugly people, fat people, pimply people don't take care of themselves. They are slothful, they are unhealthy, they are dirty. They live poorly,” Mother continued. “How you live your life is a choice. If you choose to take care of yourself, invest a little in your looks, be healthy… well, that's a moral choice. Those who drink, smoke, slut around, they choose to live immorally and wind up ugly because of it. All of these things leave a mark on your appearance. Inner beauty is mirrored by outer beauty.”

Father sighed and lit a cigarette.
 

Mother rolled down her window a little bit.

“Football makes you healthy,” Father said quietly through a mouthful of smoke.

“We should all aim for this,” Mother continued, ignoring Father. “I mean healthy, beautiful people are happy. The mind and the body are so tightly linked that what happens on the inside shows up on the outside. It also works the other way around. Beautiful people are happier, they get more out of life, they have more friends, get better jobs, get paid more. Dr. Sloane says that unhappiness is a sickness, a disorder. Sickness can be cured.”

Mother had read a lot lately.

“Most sickness can be cured,” Father muttered.

“Dr. Sloane has studies that show ugly people are less happy than beautiful people. Dr. Sloane says a beautiful mind creates a beautiful body. Richard is a beautiful boy. We should be proud to share that. We made a happy, moral-minded boy.”

We passed a ranch. Cattle slid by, dotting the land to the horizon, grazing on dry grass as we sped along. Fence posts ticked by, the barbed wire between them invisible.

Mother and I stood backstage at Clearwater County Fair in the beef cattle wing of the Livestock Complex. I sweltered in my tuxedo and surveyed the other hopeful little gentlemen in the Little Mister Beef Cattle Pageant. Mother, dressed delicately in anxiety, had an open and hopeful look on her face.
 

I hadn't seen her take a pill in a week.

I didn't remember having ever seen that look on her face.

In the past week, she had read three Dr. Sloane books. It seemed she was always reading his books.

The pageant started fifteen minutes ago with the first pairs of kids disappearing through the canvas onto stage. None of them came back. My stomach knotted each time two new contestants were called.

The Little Misses competing for the Little Miss Beef Cattle crown were on the other side of a splintery corral fence being subjected to last-minute preening and being fussed over by grown-ups. Sheets of fabric had been draped over the fence, seemingly at random, in order to offer a little privacy to both sides. The fencing led from the corrals to the split in the fabric that shielded us from the stage.

“Little Mister Forty-Seven and Little Miss Sixty-Two, please report to the stage,” the call came over the PA.

“That's you,” Mother squealed.

My stomach flipped.

Mother pushed her way through the crowd to the back side of the stage, dragging me behind.

I was next. I stood beside a little girl in a striped dress that made her look like a bee. Each Little Mister was paired with a Little Miss for their walk across the stage.
 

From our vantage, through an opening in the backdrop, we could see another nervous Little Mister and Little Miss stomp across the plywood stage. They barely interacted. The Little Mister rushed from one end of the stage to the other, missing the part where you are supposed to face the crowd, smile and wave while the announcer in the auctioneer's booth read bits about your life from a questionnaire that was submitted with the entry fee. The Little Miss stood alone, front and centre stage, her eyes wide open and her hands clenched into fists by her sides.

“Little Miss Paige Green's favourite classes include Art and Drama. She enjoys painting portraits of her dog, Princess, and wants to be an actress or dressmaker when she grows up,” the tinny voice of the announcer squeaked though the speakers.

Paige glanced over her shoulder to see her Little Mister disappear stage right and she smiled like a terrified monkey. She grimaced to the audience and hurried off the stage.

“Our next stunning couple,” the PA squealed for a moment, “is Little Miss Abigail Spencer and Little Mister Richard Trench.”

Four judges were positioned in front of the stage at a folding table draped in a white plastic tablecloth. Three women in ball gowns and one gentleman in a suit sweated elegantly onto plastic folding chairs. They made quick notes after brief scrutiny of each contestant. Those chosen from this first round moved on to the talent portion. The winner was crowned after that.

I was not paying attention; I had been watching the judges. Mother shoved me onto the stage, already two steps behind the giant bee. A hollow mix of Kenny Loggins' “Footloose” and the announcer's commentary blared over the PA system, keeping a beat that confused the Bee. I caught up to her, my heart racing two beats for each step I took. I made it work; I walked naturally, recovered the distance between us gracefully. The Bee and I stopped at the front of the stage, smiled and waved. I put my arm around the Bee's waist and she put her arm around my shoulder.

The crowd, dimmed by the spotlights aimed at the stage, was a bumpy silhouette against the red and white canvas stripes. The heat under the spotlights was intense. I thought to look for Father but worried that I would lose my concentration. I was even more worried that I would find a disappointed look on his face were I to spot him.

The judges scribbled on their notepads.

The Bee and I looked at each other and nodded: a consensus was reached. We exited stage right.

Mother met me on the other side of the curtain. I knew I did well because she sported a big smile.

“That was wonderful,” she exclaimed, almost knocking over Bee Girl to give me a hug.

“Thanks,” I said. “It was fun.”

“Next thing you know you will be wearing Ralph Lauren in London.” She beamed with distant eyes. “I don't know if that girl will make it though.” She cast a critical glance at the Bee.

“I couldn't see Father,” I said. “The lights were too bright.”

“That's okay, honey. I'm sure he was there. I'm so proud of you. You were fabulous.”

“I think I messed up a bit at the beginning.” I glanced at Bee Girl.

The announcer had called her Abigail.

“Don't worry, baby. I think we just need to practise a little. I can see you in Azzedine in ten years, in Paris. Or maybe Thierry Mugler in Milan.” Mother's eyes wandered toward the ceiling. “Oh, don't forget your mother when you reach the runway, dear.”

“Okay, Mother,” I said, a little confused, having never seen her like this before.

There was a moment before she said, “I am so happy.”

That's what it was. I swelled with pride. I made her happy. I wanted that moment to last forever.

Eight more pairs of Little Misses and Little Misters crossed the stage before we were all brought out before the judges for their decision. When it was our turn, Bee Girl and I walked out onstage holding hands, more out of anticipation than nervous support. We stood under the spotlight. The temperature in the tent had risen past hot to stifling. Sweat rolled tickly trails down the small of my back. The Bee glanced at me out of the corner of her eye and smiled. I caught her eye and held it for a moment before smiling back.

“Little Mister Forty-Seven and Little Miss Sixty-Two…” a judge announced to us and started shuffling papers.

In that break, awaiting judgment, I gave the crowd a quick scan. I thought I saw Auntie Maggie waving at me. The judge flipped through papers. Beside Auntie Maggie was a smaller figure that must have been Leonard. The judge continued shuffling, a scowl crossed her face. I couldn't see Father or Uncle Tony in the crowd.
 

“Ah,” the judge exclaimed, “you have both passed on to the talent round.” She smiled at us.

With that, the Bee and I rushed offstage. There was still a crowd of kids to be judged but I couldn't see how they did because Mother whipped me back into the corral and behind one of the screens. My clothes were gone again and I was being wrapped in leather pants, a white T-shirt, and a black and red leather jacket with colours that made a
V
on my chest.

“You were so good. I knew you were going on to the talent part,” Mother fussed. “I can't believe that girl made it though. You really pulled her through.”
 

Someone walked by the screen and it billowed out. A boy milling about outside pointed at me and poked his mother to get her attention. I flushed. The curtain fell back.

“Do you remember the routine?”

“Yes.” We had only practised it every spare moment for two weeks.

“Remember it's not just about going through the steps. You have to feel the moment, make it yours. Those judges have to see your character, you, shining through. Make them fall in love with you. Want them to fall in love with you and they will. You can perform perfectly and not make that connection. You need to connect with them. Let them know you. Let them in. That's the way to win.” Mother fussed over the leather jacket.
 

My outfit cost $300, a fact Father wouldn't let us forget for an hour after we bought it.
 

“Coulda' got a full set of hockey gear for that much,” he had puffed.

I nodded as Mother sat back on her heels for a final look. She finger-combed my hair a little, avoiding the divot the haemangioma had left in my skull once it had disappeared.

“This is important, you know.” She wouldn't make eye contact with me; her gaze wandered every part of me but my eyes. She was tearing me down and rebuilding me.

“I know,” I said.

She contemplated me for a moment. “I don't know if you really do.”

There was a pause where I wondered if she would tell me or if I would remain ignorant.

“Good people win, they deserve to,” Mother continued. “Good people do well in life and I want you to do well. This is so important, it's your first big test.” Her eyes began to well up. “This is an early test as to how you are going to do, how your life will turn out. I think I have raised a good little boy who will turn into a good man. A man who will succeed, who will be happy. I want you to be good at life because I lo…” Her chin dimpled and her lip wiggled. She forced a smile through her emotion.

My chest felt like it was going to explode. In eight years, those first eight of my life, I had never experienced such love from her. I felt that I was responsible for her happiness and at that moment she was happy with me. I felt I had already succeeded. I felt what she was about to say before becoming so choked with emotion. I truly felt it. She loved me and I loved her in return.

She sighed an uneven breath. “…because I longed for this so much. I have put so much into this. I have sacrificed… make it worth my while. Win this contest.” Her hand flew in front of her mouth and she darted out from behind the curtain. It flapped as she ran past and I stood there confused.