The Last Bathing Beauty

by Nathan, Amy Sue

  “I’m sure Nancy’s family is happy to have her back. She was gone for what? Six months? For no reason? Meshuga!” Zaide said. “It was an opportunity, they said.”

  “What farkakteh opportunity?” Nannie said. “There is only one reason a girl goes away for six months.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Betty waved her hands in the air to attract her grandparents’ attention. “Who’s back? From where? And what does it have to do with me?”

  “Nancy Green is back from Europe,” Zaide said. “And she’s entering Miss South Haven. Her uncle told me.”

  Betty plopped into the captain’s chair across from her grandfather’s desk. “I’m doomed!”

  “Don’t overreact,” Nannie said. “We just wanted you to know, since we knew it would be a surprise. There’s no reason you can’t win.”

  “No reason? She’s won two years in a row. Why should this year be any different?” Betty asked. She would never win now. Nancy Green was perfect.

  “You haven’t won because you were too young to enter,” Zaide said.

  “I should just drop out, because I can’t compete with a girl who looks like Lana Turner.”

  “You’re not dropping out,” Nannie said. “With that fancy swimsuit Zaide bought you, those judges won’t have a choice but to reconsider their favorite contestant.”

  Betty bit her bottom lip and Zaide chuckled. “Can’t hide anything from this one.”

  “It’s time for someone new to win that sash and crown,” Nannie said. “Someone who didn’t need to go to Europe.”

  No one needed an extravagant excursion, but how glamorous it must have been for Nancy. How grown-up she must seem now, full of continental flair and sophistication. Why would she even want to be Miss South Haven?

  Betty swung around and faced the small hanging mirror Zaide used to check his tie. She was a pretty girl with classic features. “A knockout,” some said. She stepped back enough to see part of her chest. It was ample compared to her friends’, but smaller than Nancy’s. A smile tugged at the sides of her mouth and she willed it away.

  “I do have some advice,” Nannie said.

  Betty swirled around. “Anything.”

  “If this is as important to you as you say, be sure to get your beauty sleep. I’m sure Nancy Green has had plenty of problems, but I’m betting she doesn’t have circles under her eyes from late nights on the porch.”

  Betty’s cheeks burned. She swallowed hard but didn’t glance away. She wasn’t sorry she spent hours in the middle of the night sharing stories and dreams and kisses with Abe.

  “What am I missing?” Zaide asked.

  “Seems Betty has taken up with Abe Barsky.”

  “You said I could date him.” Betty prayed her cheeks didn’t look as red as they felt.

  Nannie waggled her index finger. “I meant a date, not a steady—that’s what you kids call it, right? I see how you look at him but he’s not the one for you, Betty.”

  “It’s summer, Yetta, let her be. You’re embarrassing her. She’ll go away to college and meet a nice Jewish doctor. If not, you can play yenta and find someone suitable.”

  “He’s a nice boy, Nannie. You’d like him if you got to know him.”

  “I never said I didn’t like him, just that he’s not the boy for you.”

  Zaide walked around his desk and reached out his hand. Betty grasped it and he pulled her into an uncharacteristic hug. “Socializing is fine. We trust you. As for the pageant, if you don’t win, there’s always next year.”

  Betty’s rush of relief was sidelined by worry. Nannie and Zaide knew she might not be back next summer. Or any summer. Didn’t they? Were they in denial? They’d nourished her potential throughout her schooling and then they’d set her future into motion by encouraging her to attend and graduate college—and to graduate with more than an MRS degree.

  They knew. If they wanted to pretend, who was she to stop them?

  But Barnard College and New York City—these places would change practically everything for Betty. Her relationship with Abe would change whatever was left.

  She was counting on it.

  Chapter 17

  BETTY

  Betty had never disappointed her grandparents and she wasn’t about to start then. For the next week she walked around the property with her shoulders pinched back and her head held straight. After calisthenics Betty would stride around the women with her pageant walk to applause and good wishes.

  At home, Betty slipped on high heels and an old swimsuit and walked toward the cheval mirror in Nannie’s bedroom. Then she repeated. And repeated. She inhaled to compress her stomach and project her chest.

  Better.

  She smiled at herself in the mirror, trying to see what the judges would see, and gauge how she might stack up against the other girls.

  Her complexion was fair and blemish-free, her eyes symmetrical—bright blue rimmed with dark lashes and groomed brows. Her nose and mouth were small and feminine, and the Strawberry Kiss lipstick was the perfect shade that said “look at me” but didn’t invite leering. Betty’s hair tumbled in waves past her shoulders, like someone was pouring caramel. She was proportionate but her figure wasn’t showy.

  Maybe she could win after all.

  For Betty, celebrating Independence Day was more figurative than literal. After a day of organizing children’s games of checkers, ring-around-the-rosy, and badminton, judging the resort’s blueberry-pie-eating contest, and timing the annual beach run, she grabbed a pail full of sparklers from the supply shed. Holding the bucket by its metal handle, she was careful not to swing it too high behind her as she scampered across the grass toward the kitchen. The last thing she needed was to gather up dozens of spilled sparklers and delay her getaway.

  Betty strode through the dimmed kitchen, its cleared and cleaned surfaces streak-free and shining like mirrors. The dishwasher, mixers, and electric knives were silent. No pounding of dough against the stainless-steel worktable, no banging of pots and pans on the burners and into the oven, no splattering of soup. The only hint that this room served as a bustling kitchen producing thousands of meals per week were the hooks hung with lonely aprons and chef coats that jostled as Betty moved past them. They wouldn’t be worn again until morning.

  That night there would be no midnight buffet, despite Mrs. Gallbladder’s annual petition. Mabel and Chef Gavin were off to enjoy the holiday. An empty kitchen meant there was no one to slow her down with comments or questions, although it also meant there were no warm cookies, sips of soup, or ends of brisket to snatch from the fleishig—meat only—cutting board.

  Betty ran from the kitchen, around the naked tables in the dining room, then diagonally across the lobby. She sidestepped the center marble table and did not topple Nannie’s grand display of white hydrangeas and American flags. At last, Betty leaned with her back and pushed open the elephant-size doors that led to the beach side of the main house. “The money side,” Zaide called it in private.

  Betty exhaled as she stepped onto the veranda. Nannie forbade them to call it a patio. A patio was plain—a veranda you could charge for! Whatever name they called it, this location on her family’s property overlooked a giant slice of North Beach and the expanse of her lake. Any spot on it offered unobstructed views of the South Pier and the lighthouse, and therefore of tonight’s fireworks.

  Betty tossed her hair back over her right shoulder, then her left.

  Someone tugged at the bucket. “Can I help you with those?”

  Betty turned to Marv. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.” She twisted the bucket from his grip. He reached in and withdrew a handful of sparklers. She pushed images of Marv and Eleanor on the dunes, in the sand, with their clothes off, from her mind. It was their business, not hers, but she couldn’t help but think he could do better.

  Betty and Marv spread out the sparklers across one side of the table, next to a plate piled high with vanilla-frosted star-shaped sugar cookies and a bowl of red licoric
e whips. The other end of the table was set with pitchers of lemonade and iced tea, along with a full bar. It was the one night every summer Zaide acted as bartender. Betty grabbed a swizzle stick and twirled it in her fingers like a miniature baton.

  Marv leaned on the balustrade and looked out toward the beach. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”

  She thought back to the night on the dunes. I’ve seen plenty of you. “I’ve been here. Just busy, I guess. Where’s Eleanor?”

  Marv jutted his chin toward the beach. “With your boyfriend.”

  Betty sneered. “She’s not with him; they’re playing volleyball.”

  “Things okay with you two?”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “I don’t know, the night he didn’t show up, I just assumed . . .”

  “He did show up, so don’t assume.” Betty tossed the swizzle stick back onto the table and walked away. Why was he needling her?

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.” Marv was following her. “I care about you. That’s all.”

  Betty looked at Marv. “Do me a favor and care about your girlfriend. Not me.”

  “She’s not really my girlfriend.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.” Betty marched forward, alarmed by Marv’s arrogance. She might not be crazy about Eleanor, but if he was willing to have sex with her on the dunes, the least he could do was refer to her as his girlfriend. Betty pushed through the doors and stopped quickly, before colliding with Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield.

  “Oh my.” Mrs. Bloomfield laughed. Even flustered, Tammy Bloomfield glowed with rosy cheeks and sparkling green eyes.

  Mr. Bloomfield’s glasses fell askew from the near collision.

  “I’m so sorry,” Betty said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  Marv stood next to her.

  “Rushing away from the best seat in town for the fireworks?” Mr. Bloomfield asked.

  “A bunch of us are going up to the dunes,” Marv said. He looked at Betty and raised his eyebrows.

  The dunes? Really?

  “Getting away from the adults for a little privacy, I suppose.” Mr. Bloomfield chuckled.

  “Sam, don’t tease them.” Mrs. Bloomfield patted her protruding stomach. “You kids have fun while you can.”

  The three Bloomfield girls barreled past and out onto the veranda. That seemed to signal to the swarms of guests walking through the lobby. People migrated in their direction, eager for fireworks and Zaide’s cocktails.

  Mrs. Bloomfield pointed toward the doors. “I’d better go make sure they don’t burn the place down. Sam, are you coming?”

  “I’m right behind you.” Mr. Bloomfield stayed in place as his wife walked outside.

  Betty didn’t know what to say or how to extricate herself from this awkward moment. Marv should have been looking for Eleanor, and Mr. Bloomfield should have been looking after his wife.

  “I’m going to check on some things for my grandparents.” Nannie and Zaide stood on the far side of the lobby, chatting with some of the guests. Betty needed to skedaddle before they saw her. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “She’s meeting her boyfriend,” Marv said.

  “And I don’t want to be late. This only happens once.”

  “Go,” Mr. Bloomfield said. “Tammy was right. Enjoy it all while you can.” He slapped Marv’s upper arm. “Before you know it, you’ll have a wife and kids, and fun won’t be so easy to come by.”

  Mr. Bloomfield was a rat. Betty walked away and ducked out the front door. Twilight had set the sky alight. She wasn’t sure fireworks could make any improvements.

  Abe was right where he said he’d be—perched atop the hood of his car. Betty exhaled as if she were blowing out a hundred birthday candles.

  Though Abe had dressed unpatriotically in his short-sleeved white shirt and tan trousers, his style made Betty’s knees wobble. She’d always been mad for the best-dressed boys at South Haven High. Maybe because Zaide always wore tailor-made suits, or because the times she’d seen Joe he’d been decked out in the latest menswear she’d recognized from the Sears catalog. The rough-and-tumble appearance of a day’s manual labor or the odorous remnants of fruit farming didn’t turn her head, as it did for some of her friends. To each her own.

  Abe’s narrow collared shirt and cuffed-hem pants, along with his combed-back hair, resembled the men in Betty’s favorite magazine’s advertisements for cigarettes and luncheon meats. Her heart pattered.

  When Betty stepped closer, she’d smell the sandalwood notes in his aftershave. Abe smiled at her, unleashing his dimples and those crinkles around his eyes she loved to smooth beneath her fingers. Betty clapped her hands to her sides. She would not make a fool of herself by running or waving.

  Instead, she raised her hand waist-high and wiggled her fingers with surreptitious zeal.

  Betty hoisted herself next to Abe and slipped her arm around his waist. She pressed against him, and as she moved in to kiss his cheek, he turned his head and kissed her on the lips. She giggled that she’d fallen for that one. Still, Betty pushed him away but left her hand on his chest. “Not here.”

  Abe looked around. There were couples necking and groping in plain sight. “It’s up to you, you know that.”

  Abe had better not think she was a prude. They’d gone to third base, almost. Betty leaned so that the weight of her breast pushed against his arm. He wouldn’t mistake that for an accident. She was new to most of this, but she wasn’t stupid. She stretched to kiss him intentionally, but with closed lips, and then pulled back slowly. “I’m just private.”

  “Too bad we rarely have any privacy.”

  He was right. The one place they could rely on for privacy had been tainted by Marv and Eleanor, at least for Betty.

  Her thoughts tumbled. Her house was empty. Her grandparents wouldn’t leave that veranda for another hour, at least. If they noticed she was missing, who would they ask? What would they do?

  Who was she kidding? That night they wouldn’t notice.

  Betty slid off the car and stretched out her hand. Abe clasped her fingers. “Come with me,” she said. “I know the best spot to see the fireworks.”

  Abe landed on the ground next to her. “And where might that be?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  He nodded. Betty tugged and Abe followed.

  Anyone who noticed them would think Betty and Abe were headed toward South Pier or to a viewing spot on the beach. If anyone saw them go inside the house, they’d reason that Betty was grabbing a sweater or a headscarf or fetching something for Nannie. Betty quickened her step, then slowed. The more nonchalant she and Abe seemed, the better.

  At the last moment she led him to the back door instead of the front. A little caution couldn’t hurt.

  “Are you nuts?” he asked.

  Betty turned and looked up into Abe’s eyes. She swore she saw glitter sparkling around the damp edges. The words I love you echoed in Betty’s ears as if someone had bellowed into a cavern. If other sounds punctured the night air in those moments—the boom of the first fireworks, laughing children, meowing cats, slamming doors—Betty didn’t hear them.

  “Yes. I’m nuts about you. We’ll be alone for at least an hour, maybe more.” She raised one eyebrow, so Abe would understand what she’d intended the moment she’d slid off the hood of his car.

  She’d also been sure of her intentions when she’d hurriedly gathered the sparklers, when she’d dressed that morning in new undergarments, when she’d fallen asleep last night, and when she’d fallen asleep every night for the past two weeks.

  Betty opened the door and scurried inside, and Abe followed her into the kitchen. Without another spoken word, but with clear intention, she guided Abe through the living room and they climbed the stairs without pause.

  When Betty tapped her bedroom door ajar, the sky visible through the open window sparkled with the first pops and sizzles of fireworks. Oohs and aahs drifted inside.

 
; Abe embraced Betty and whispered into her ear, “I will always love you.”

  Shivers traveled down her neck and landed in her middle. Betty was grateful, giddy, terrified, and relieved. Abe scooped up her hand as if it were a delicate baby chick and kissed it. This was the right decision. He was the right boy.

  “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  Betty swallowed hard but nodded.

  “And you’re sure we’re alone?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Then I’ll be right back.”

  Abe ran out of the room and down the steps so quickly Betty didn’t have a chance to stop him. Her heart twanged like she’d been pelted with ice. What had she done wrong? Was she too forward? Not forward enough? Did the idea of being in her childhood bedroom bother him? Then she heard the back door shut. No!

  Betty slipped on her shoes, not sure if she should follow him and if she did, what she would find. Then the door shut again, followed by heavy, pounding footsteps on the stairs—he was running up two or three steps at a time. Abe was coming back. Back to her room and back to her. And there he was, standing in her open doorway. He was breathing fast but wasn’t panting or out of breath. He held a white piece of cloth—his handkerchief—wrapped around the stem of one of Nannie’s biggest in-bloom fuchsia-and-coral-colored climbing roses. He set it on Betty’s nightstand with the blossom facing the bed.

  “You deserve a whole dozen,” Abe said. “But this was the best I could do on short notice.”

  “How?” Those vines were strewn with thorns.

  Abe patted his pocket. “Pocketknife.”

  Betty stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. They walked farther into her room and headed away from the window but toward the foot of her bed. It was needless to waste time with more banter or flirting; they were in love and making fireworks of their own.