Season 20, Episode 9 “Shawn of the Bed”
“Shawn of the Bed”
Guilt is an endless tidal wave. No matter how far you run, it washes after you until your whole world is water.
You can improvise a raft or hunt for land, but eventually you learn there’s only one way to survive.
You have to swim. I’d seen Shawn dive in his ocean to face what he’d hid from me, and now I was suddenly considering what I’d always believed was impossible, what I could only do in front of these people, these cameras: tell the whole truth.
“You know, you’re not a bad producer,” Zara said, interrupting my racing mind on the drive back. I laughed half-heartedly, but now was my opportunity.
“Zara, can I ask a favor? Without being too cryptic, I need to get something on camera. I’m not sure when, but I’d like it to be with you. Not Troy. It’s sensitive.”
Her eyes cut to me before returning to the road. “Yeah, we can figure that out.”
I smiled, relieved she didn’t press the subject. “And can you promise it’ll make the broadcast edit?”
“There are a dozen other people who approve cuts, but I’ll do my best.” She gripped the wheel, hesitating now. “Does it involve Barnes?”
If I ever attempted this confession, Barnes couldn’t be around when I did. He’d instantly swoop into the aftermath to carve up what remained of me and then pick my bones clean in court the minute we got home. “Not if I can help it.”
When I arrived at the house, the vulture himself awaited me in the kitchen, sipping broth from a mug. “Thanks for prepping the kids,” he grumbled, gesturing to his darkened bruise. “This was fun to explain, though your sister’s never looked so happy to see me.”
I glared, any empathy gone after the appalling words he’d said to Shawn. “They okay?”
“They moved past it after about thirty seconds,” he responded, clearly hurt they hadn’t made a bigger scene. “You miked?”
I shook my head grimly, and he held up his shirt, proving the absence of wires. “Then I’m guessing you want to discuss whatever happened to Baby Shawn?”
“The shit you said to him was revolting,” I answered. “Even for you.”
“Well, he’ll probably get a GLAAD Award for clocking me,” he muttered. “The truth is he was a distraction. You’ve practically been wandering the moors in a black veil since Greta blew things up. The longer he stayed, the more likely you were to go home.”
“Don’t pretend this was about my game. Not that you’ll be impacting it much longer.”
“You think I can’t beat PB in a Trial? Your little scheme isn’t so subtle, Generalissimo.”
I warred to keep my tone even. “Doesn’t matter if it works.”
“You always do this. You get fixated on one thing and lose all perspective. It’s exactly what happened last time.”
“When? In the game or our marriage?”
“You said it, not me.”
“Please tell me what I lost sight of in our marriage? Aside from your harem.”
“Me!” he exclaimed abruptly. “You lost sight of me!”
“I spent every day building a life you could say was perfect.”
“Don’t pretend that was for me,” he fired back. “You were building the perfect place to hide. I was just providing you the real estate to do so.”
“You think I used our kids to hide—”
“I don’t mean the kids. I mean the house, the Christmas cards, those damned hedges—”
“Was all because you had to be the perfect fucking politician!”
“Please, you wanted a certain life. It’s not my fault I only knew one way to deliver it. I might have failed as a spouse, but I was one hell of a coping mechanism—”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you try looking at your husband’s face for ten years after he becomes a shell—”
“You’re back!” Imogen appeared, striding up before I could add to Barnes’ bruises. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”
“Just Dr. Frankenstein having a fireside chat with his monster,” Barnes answered.
“Actually, I always considered you more a Dracula type,” she replied mirthlessly.
“You’ve gotten funnier, Imogen. I’ll give you that.
” He tossed the dregs from his mug into the sink as he made to exit.
“And you’ll never believe me, Luke, but I did you a favor getting that kid removed.
Even your best pal here won’t tell you different.
Hate me all you want, but as long as I’m around, you’ll have someone to beat. ”
“So, how should I address Barnes once he’s eliminated?” PB asked the next night. “I’m leaning toward ‘leprechaun,’ but only because ‘lepre-cunt’ will obviously be censored.”
“Watch us both end up on a plane home instead,” I muttered as we entered the Arena. The Trial was still on, and thanks to missing my last bell at the cliff when Shawn flipped out, I’d DQ’ed myself into elimination. At least Imogen and Erika were safe alongside Fortune.
“With Shawn gone, they’ll only send one of us home tonight,” PB reasoned. “We just have to outlast Barnes… and hope Greta doesn’t quit.”
Indeed. It was entirely possible Barnes had convinced her to take a fall as penance for revealing his past with Shawn.
“Fingers crossed there aren’t any sprints,” Melange added pertly from her crutches.
“They don’t want you exiting like that. Boring television,” PB replied. “Besides, we haven’t had a pure endurance Trial in a while. Women statistically do better in those.”
“Lucky me,” she sighed. “Well, gentlemen: let’s hope, pray, and beat his lepre-cunt ass.”
We were rigged with GoPros while Troy ushered the three safe players to a tent. Imogen emerged first, discreetly whispering, “They’re weighing us, no clue why.” Soon enough, Zara summoned us to the scales too, after which Troy positioned us below suspended wooden troughs.
“You’re probably wondering why you were each weighed tonight.
Momentarily, you’ll grab your handle to support an amount of water equal to half your body weight, which is contained in the baptismal fonts above you.
That’s Round One.” Ecklund loftily indicated Imogen, Erika, and Fortune.
“After fifteen minutes, our Tribulation winners will each assign the water they would have carried to one of you! The first person to spill leaves us.” I actually felt a rush of relief.
Who wouldn’t direct their water to Barnes?
We just needed to endure fifteen minutes, and somehow I was now rooting for Greta Hendricksen.
At the horn, we took our handles, and Melange stayed stunningly calm supporting the water weight, no matter how compromised her legs were. She and PB kept glancing at me in solidarity; as the night’s heaviest player, I definitely had more water sloshing in my trough.
“Round Two! Here comes Imogen!” Ecklund proclaimed eventually. Water rushed down into Barnes’ trembling trough, but if he felt additional grief, he didn’t budge, even when Erika’s gallons gushed down next.
“Barnes is now holding all his own body weight, plus fifty pounds, but… who did our big boy put his hit on?” Ecklund looked to Fortune, and I felt an improbable stab of regret.
Once Barnes was gone, this really would be over.
We’d return to America, detangling the threads of how to raise our children.
No dunk tanks and boom mics, or Texas socialites and Russian installation artists.
After Barnes left, the only thing punching either of us in the face would be reality. Well, real life.
And then Fortune’s tsunami crushed down… but not on Barnes.
PB was thrown into immediate agony, clinging to his handle with all his might as the trough swayed. I was stunned. How had Barnes endeared himself to Fortune of all people? “I think someone’s getting payback for PB’s attempted strike in China,” Ecklund noted smugly.
“I never fire the first shot,” Fortune answered. “But I will fire the last one.”
“You myopic bowling ball…” PB slurred through gritted teeth.
He had to be shouldering over two hundred pounds of water at this point, his eyes bulging so painfully I thought they’d burst out of his skull.
My pulse raced as I realized I wasn’t just about to lose my shield—I was about to lose the only man who’d ever tried to simply be my friend.
“Hold it, come on,” I pleaded, as much to him as the Endeavor gods. “You can do it!”
But all he did was grimace, his inability to brandish a cavalier comeback unnerving me most of all. My eyes darted to Imogen and Erika in the observation deck, their expressions clearly telegraphing our straits were dire.
In confirmation, two gulps of water teetered out of his shaking trough, landing like tiny gunshots at his buckling feet and forecasting his imminent and total collapse.
“PB! Have you got this?” Melange demanded, her voice steel. The Arena slowed to a deadly stillness as the resolve settled across her face. I realized what she was offering.
“Think that’s your best play, Melange?” Barnes choked out, still struggling himself. “You really want to hustle back to collecting pennies from a clan of rednecks who won’t even dignify your existence? Listen to the right people, and you could be a star…”
She flinched, legs wavering, and I saw he’d touched a nerve. What did he know about her or her family? Her eyes narrowed, flitting from Barnes to PB until landing firmly on me.
“Yeah, I’m no star…” With a toss of her platinum mane, she dramatically threw her handle away, gallons of water showering her as she struck a defiant pose. “I’m a motherfucking icon.”
“It was very Flashdance.” Erika grinned.
“No one can say the bitch doesn’t know how to make an exit,” Melange sighed.
Imogen enveloped her in a tight hug. “No one can say the bitch isn’t a badass.”
PB stopped massaging his dead biceps to open his arms. “Thanks for the save.”
“You know that wasn’t just for you. Finish the job,” she said, crisply clapping his back. He made to follow Imogen and Erika to the bus, but Melange swiftly snatched his wrist, not done yet. “And if you screw over either of those girls, I’ll cut your balls off.”
She turned to me, the last soldier remaining. “This is where I leave you, Scarecrow.”
“I wish you were staying…”
“You need an assassin now. With this ankle, that’s not me.” Her face darkened as Barnes skulked to the bus. “Especially when your ex plays like he’s gambling with house money. Keep your eyes open. Don’t let him pull another trick like with Shawn and Tatianna.”
I nodded, unable to resist the question. “Was that one of his tricks, the stuff about pennies from your family? Don’t you have Mason oil money gushing as far as the eye can see?”
“Funnily enough… I’m not a Mason,” she exhaled.
“Though once upon a time, I was a lovely fifth alternate at Miss Texarkana Belle and the second best hairdresser in Shreveport. Until the fateful day a producer tracked me down to reveal my mom’s mystery one-night stand back in ’89 was none other than the late Buck Mason.
A little TV magic later, I’m stomping into the will reading in bedazzled boots, and Melanie Angelica Sanderson became Melange Mason. ”
“I thought you were the star of the show?”
“I know, which I love you endlessly for, but if you think Chrissy despises me… That whole cast hates me, their resident bastard child. Still, the ratings skyrocket when the producers bring me in, which means I’m able to support my mom.
Plus I have some influencer endorsements, so if you like tummy tea, have I got discount codes for you. ” She smirked feebly.
“But is this what you want? You could do fashion, costume design.”
“We both know it’s not that easy, Luke. If I quit, do I go back to the beauty parlor?
What about my mom? Aside from waiting tables, her only skill is making stuffed toy armadillos called Shreveport Sammies that she tries to force on tourists.
Shockingly, the Shreveport tourism industry isn’t exactly booming… ”
She sighed, gazing across the empty Arena.
“I thought reality TV was my chance to run away with the circus. I didn’t even know where I was running.
I just sprinted into the dark,” she chuckled, but her voice betrayed the fatigue.
“On the plus side, Mason Dixon started filming the new season last week, and the producers usually smuggle me into the first big family party. Last year, I keyed #BigBitch on Chrissy’s Hummer. ”
“Melange, you’re one of the brightest, most compassionate people I’ve ever met. You deserve more than waiting around for other people’s crumbs.”
“Yet here we both are, Kettle.” She handed me her phone, freshly returned by Zara. “Address, please. Your kiddos have Shreveport Sammies coming their way.”
Her van soon pulled up, and she hugged me so hard I thought she might snap a rib. I’d had no idea what to expect when this lightning bolt of a woman shot into my life, but now I was even more unprepared for her to be ripped out of it.
“Don’t forget I still owe you one,” she said, climbing into the van.
“Melange, you’re long in the clear.”
“Nah, I like owing you one. How else will I lure you back for next season?”
I rolled my eyes affectionately. “I’m never coming back on this show.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls. Also, you’re flying to LA two days before the Reunion for wardrobe triage. I’m not letting you go on live television in whatever sad piece of plaid you rustle up from the Pentagon City mall.”
“Why two days before?”
“Jesus, you animal,” she groaned as the van door shut. “Tailoring.”