The thing about being the murdered pageant girl is you set the plot in motion.

The mothers will say oh, she was so pretty. Say she was like a doll, just like a little doll. They'll say doll, they'll say princess, they'll say perfect. They'll look at their own ruffled-skirt, teased-hair daughters, Becki Sue sneaking an alley cigarette between tap routines, Jazmyn redoing her lipstick in the reflection of another girl's eyes, Karen and her dimpled-knee pirouettes, say who could have done such a thing.

They'll buy every tabloid, every magazine with your rouged face on the cover. They'll watch every made-for-TV movie with their dissatisfying motives, insubstantial conclusions.

They'll say I want to know, I have to know.

Your mother will be on television. Your mother will be in demure dresses and low heels, your mother will have photographs of you that she'll hand to talk show hosts, wasn't she beautiful, petticoats of yours that she'll clutch and clutch and clutch.

Your mother's hands will always be reaching for something.

An actress will win an Emmy for her portrayal of your mother. She'll be asked how did you embody the character. She'll talk about channeling, about feelings, about connections, but what she'll really remember is her auntie, after her oldest cousin died in a car wreck, the way she grabbed and grabbed and grabbed at people's arms, as if she was trying to keep from drowning.

The actress will remember the marks on her own forearm from when her auntie took hold of her at the funeral, shaken-kneed peering into the casket, take care of yourself, oh take care.

Your mother will turn off the television whenever the actress comes on.

There's something about her I don't like, she'll say, wind a dishtowel in her hands, unwind it, wind it again.

Your basement windows will be broken out with rocks. Your parents will replace them and replace them, paint over the scrawl of graffiti on the side of the house, your parents will put up a taller fence. Your father will get hang-up calls at work. Your mother will quit checking the mail, watch it spill out of the box onto the ground, dishtowel in hands. Your brother and sister will go into each other's bedrooms at night, hide beneath the covers, hold hands tightly, muffled-breath whisper, I miss her, do you miss her, I'm afraid, are you afraid, eat soggy cold cereal with your unblinking parents in the mornings, spoon hands trembling up to their mouths.

Your mother will wash dishes with her back to the rest of them, suds-full sink, busy hands. She'll clutch knives into her fists, she'll break a cereal bowl, say dammit, dammit, oh goddammit. Her fingers will sting and bleed, and she'll tuck them into the water, watch it pinking red and, underneath, her hand will be moving, as if she is trying to grab something, as if she is trying to wave goodbye.



.

Cathy Ulrich is the author of GHOSTS OF YOU, a collection of stories.

Read her postcard.

Read more of her work in the archive.

Detail of art on main page by Andy Warhol.





W i g l e a f               02-22-20                                [home]