The Last Bathing Beauty

by Nathan, Amy Sue

  Betty poured bleach and Cheer into the washing machine before adding the morning’s white cotton napkins and tablecloths.

  Francine fed a folded flat sheet through the decade-old rotary ironing machine, then she looked up. “How’s your fella? That handsome waiter. Abe, isn’t it?”

  Betty wanted to say Abe was wonderful, caring, gentle, and loving, but didn’t want to be a braggart. Or come off as smitten and silly. “He’s swell, thanks for asking.”

  “Some girls have all the luck,” Francine muttered.

  Was it luck she was feeling? The upwelling that compelled Betty to skip instead of walk, hum lively tunes, daydream through hours? No, that wasn’t luck; that was love.

  Mabel barreled into the laundry room, apron covered in the morning’s flour and butter stains. “Your grandmother wants to see you in the office, Betty.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m just delivering the message and hoping the shnecken don’t burn or I’ll need to bake another type of cookie for tonight’s dessert plate.”

  Betty wouldn’t shirk her duties. Not while Francine and the other laundry girls watched for her reply. “I’ll head over as soon as I’m finished.” What could they want now? Betty’s heart thudded as she rifled through her ruminations about Abe. What she could say. How she could say it.

  Mabel turned to walk away. “Make it snappy.”

  There was nothing snappy about hanging the laundry to dry, but her grandparents condoned the use of the electric clothes dryer only if it was too cold or too wet outside, and today it was neither. Betty knew they bragged about owning one of the first commercial dryers, but that didn’t mean they used it. She loaded the sheets into a basket, and lifted the basket into her arms.

  “Go,” Francine said. “You can owe me one.”

  “You’re a doll,” Betty said. She set down the basket and resisted the urge to hug Francine, who seemed more like a handshaker than a hugger.

  The kindness was undeniable, but Betty wasn’t sure she wanted to hurry. Nannie couldn’t be summoning her for a good reason, could she? Had she and Abe been too public? Too brazen? Too reckless? Or did this have something to do with Barnard? Miss South Haven was two weeks away—was there news about Nancy Green? The legacy of Miss South Haven thrilled Betty. If she won, she’d be part of South Haven history apart from her family’s famous name and resort. Wherever Betty studied, traveled, and lived in her lifetime, she’d be Miss South Haven 1951. The free publicity? The nachas? That would belong to her grandparents.

  When Betty looked up from her daydream, all the laundry girls were staring at the door.

  There stood Nannie in a clover-green shirtwaist, her hair up in a tight bun with brown-gray tendrils loose at the sides, by an accident of wind or walking quickly, not due to style. Not on a weekday. She crooked a forefinger at Betty. Her expression was staid—not a smile nor a frown—but that meant nothing. Nannie didn’t bubble with emotions.

  Betty’s heart felt heavy and she swayed with a bit of wooziness, in a premonitory kind of way. Something was wrong.

  Nannie might have been less than five feet tall, but she strode across the lawn with giant steps.

  Betty scurried to keep up, but her legs wobbled from fear. What was the hurry when Nannie could yell at her right then? Unless she wanted privacy. “Nannie, please. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Just hurry along.”

  Nannie said nothing as she pushed open Zaide’s office door. He sat behind his desk, and Abe stood in front of it, dressed in the shirt and tie he’d worn the first time Betty had seen him. A worn suitcase sat on the floor next to Abe.

  Betty fell to her knees, her legs unable to hold her upright.

  Where is he going?

  What’s going on?

  This was a mistake, a mix-up, an egregious error in judgment. Betty would take the blame for anything her grandparents were pinning on Abe to make him go. She’d stay away from him so he could keep his job. He needed his job.

  “Don’t be dramatic, Betty,” Nannie said.

  Betty stood.

  “We’re going to leave you two alone,” Zaide said as he walked around his desk and shook Abe’s hand and patted him on the back. That was odd.

  “We’ll be right outside,” Nannie said.

  After the door closed, Abe reached out his hand and Betty flung herself against him. They’d fired him, she was sure of it. But they hadn’t been accusatory or angry.

  “Tell me what’s going on. Do they know?” Betty pushed herself away from Abe. “I’ll tell them it was my idea—or better yet tell them you love me; tell them we’re getting married.”

  “This has nothing to do with us, Betty. Or your grandparents.” Abe held both Betty’s hands and looked into her eyes. He’d been crying. He was crying again. Betty reached and touched his face and the boy she loved sobbed into her hands.

  “I have to leave. It’s my brother,” he said. “He was killed.”

  Abe climbed into the driver’s seat. Betty closed the door, and he rolled down the window.

  “I’m so sorry about Aaron,” she said. “Please drive safely.” She leaned into the window opening and kissed Abe’s cheek. “I love you,” she whispered, and didn’t care if anyone saw or heard.

  “Me too,” Abe said. He looked toward Betty but not right at her, his voice heavy, his words slow and laden with worry.

  She omitted “come back soon” and “I’ll miss you”; it wasn’t the time. It was time for Abe to tend to his mother, to make arrangements, to be the man of the family. She swelled with pride at his sense of responsibility, though it was likely the wrong reaction for such a solemn day.

  As Abe drove away, Betty inhaled the same deep breath as when she surfaced from under the lake, air in her lungs a new, lifesaving sensation—a welcome burn. Amid that familiar feeling, displaced facts tumbled together.

  Boys on staff at Stern’s hadn’t been drafted because they attended college. Most of the housekeeping staff were women. The visiting husbands were either too old or they’d served in the war, which meant they weren’t required to register for the draft. That much she knew, because the kids her age talked about it sometimes.

  Betty didn’t know why President Truman had sent troops to Korea or how long this conflict, as she’d heard it called, would last. Did Zaide know? Did the husbands talk politics between games of pinochle, or were they all too distracted by their weekends of glamour and gluttony? What about when they went back to their jobs and homes?

  And why didn’t the wives Betty saw at every meal, at calisthenics, on the beach, at every Stern’s event, discuss politics in addition to bragging about their children, their figures, and their homemaking prowess?

  Because they lived in a bubble of educated ignorance. As did Betty. She shuddered at her narrow range of concerns. She could care about fashion and family and current events. Couldn’t she? Good fortune should heighten her interest in the world, not limit it. She had time. In New York, Betty would detach her halo of privilege and stay fixed outside her insularity—with Abe by her side.

  Four days later, Abe telephoned the resort. Betty pressed her ear to the receiver, as if his words could otherwise slip away.

  She learned that Aaron Barsky had been in the 24th Infantry Division, but she didn’t understand other details, another example of being unaware. It wasn’t the time to ask Abe to explain. It wasn’t time to ask him anything. But that didn’t stop Betty from hoping he would return soon.

  “I have to take care of some things. More than I realized,” Abe said. “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  What did that mean? Another week? Two? The words stayed inside but selfishness tore a little hole in Betty’s thoughts, just big enough for worry to seep through.

  “I’ve got to hang up now,” Abe said. “I love you.”

  Betty gulped and released her bottled-up fear. Blood rushed around inside her chest. Had she really thought he’d stopped loving her in a few days?
She wanted him to say it again and again. She missed their carefree “I love yous” that had been filled with hope and promise and kissing. She missed the three weeks of fervent, clandestine lovemaking. She gulped away an inappropriate twinge of desire.

  Betty opened her mouth to reply with affection, to ask if he’d received the letters she’d written, to offer regards to his mother—but before she spoke, the line went dead.

  “I love you too.” Betty finished the conversation even though only the operator was listening.

  Chapter 21

  BETTY

  Betty pushed cooked carrot medallions around her plate with her fork. It was the tactic she now employed to make it look as if she had eaten.

  At any moment Nannie would tell her to stop playing with her dinner, but that was all Betty could do. It had been days since Abe’s only telephone call, and while she’d written to him every night, Betty had received only one postcard with eight words on it.

  Eight words she’d read a thousand times.

  Rec’d your letters.

  Will telephone soon.

  Love,

  Abe

  Betty continued playing with the carrots until they lined up like little soldiers. Oh God. Anything but soldiers.

  Nannie placed her hand on Betty’s forearm. Here it comes. Nannie is going to tell me to forget him.

  “You’re not doing Abe any good starving yourself. Or hiding away from your friends.”

  “I want to be alone,” Betty said. “And I’m not hungry.” She hadn’t been hungry in days. Rye toast went down okay when Mabel stopped balking that Betty wanted it dry, without butter or jam, and obliged her.

  Nannie rubbed Betty’s arm. “He’s with his family, Betty. Where he should be.”

  Betty wanted to say she was Abe’s family, but she swallowed the words. Nannie’s kindness was proof she didn’t hate Abe. That would be enough for now.

  “That swimsuit won’t fill out itself, you know,” Nannie said.

  Betty needn’t be told again that the Catalina suit had cost four dollars. She lifted her fork and scooped a clump of mashed potatoes. She opened her mouth and pushed the fork inside and clamped her lips around it. Betty pulled out the fork and stared at the clean tines as she swallowed. Her stomach churned, threatening to retch.

  “I know the swimsuit and dress cost a lot of money,” Betty said. “I’ll find a way to pay you back. But I don’t think I can do it—I can’t be in a beauty contest. It seems silly now.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. There is nothing silly about a time-honored tradition,” Nannie said.

  “Oh, we’re so looking forward to the whole event,” Mrs. Levin said from the far side of the table. “We’ve never been. And your being in it makes it extra special.”

  Betty resented how her life had become dining-room fodder. Where was Zaide when she needed him to distract a busybody with one of his stories? Betty looked at Mrs. Levin, who’d already gone back to picking the meat off a chicken thigh bone, as she ignored her two boys who were picking at each other.

  Betty leaned toward Nannie but spoke toward her plate. “I can’t.”

  Nannie whispered in Betty’s ear even though Zaide was across the room shmying around with the guests. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I know you’re smitten with each other. And with summer half over, I know you wish he were here.”

  Betty’s cheeks heated as if she were feverish. They must have been beet red. What else did Nannie know?

  “By carrying on with your life, it shows him that you can take care of yourself. Don’t make that poor boy worry about you when his brother has just died.”

  Nannie was smart. That was good advice. She hadn’t asked Betty to break it off or forget him, but to change her behavior on Abe’s behalf.

  “I’ll get back to acting more like myself,” she said. “You’re right.”

  Nannie tilted her head. “And this surprises you?”

  “No.” She didn’t dare say yes. Nannie was being receptive to the idea of them together. For the first time that week, Betty was able to smile.

  Days came and went with the usual bustle of resort activity, and a return to normal behavior for Betty. Every swipe of lipstick, curl of her hair, and jumping jacks count-off meant she’d again look like the girl Abe loved. She knew more important things were happening in the world—in Abe’s world too—but this was something she could control. She’d have pink cheeks even without rouge, a smile that reflected the mood she wanted, and a skip in her step that meant she had faith in the future. She would not be that Betty’s dowdy twin. Staring into her bedroom vanity mirror, Betty brushed her hair again and again along the same silky path. She wondered if shiny hair and a smart appearance truly disguised how she felt. Zaide said doubt and fear seeped out of one’s pores like garlic. Betty sprayed English Lavender into the air and scampered through the perfume cloud as it floated to the floor.

  “I wonder why he hasn’t written to you,” Doris said, leaning to gather crumpled paper from Betty’s bedroom floor.

  Betty dropped her hairbrush onto the vanity table as she leaped from her chair. “What makes you think he hasn’t?” She snatched the wads of ink-flecked paper from Doris’s hands.

  “I wouldn’t read them.” Doris clasped her hands in front and pivoted away, as if offended. She sat sideways on the window seat. The light outside was fading from crisp to muted. “It was just a question.”

  “His brother died, you know. I don’t want him worrying about me.”

  “We don’t want you to get hurt,” Georgia said as she stepped into view in the doorway. Too late. “Betty, it’s been two weeks.”

  Georgia’s unspoken meaning settled onto Betty. She didn’t want Betty’s heart strewn aside the way her and Abe’s clothes had been on the Fourth of July.

  Betty remained on the vanity stool, turned toward the mirror, and resumed brushing her hair. One. Two. Three. Four. The bristles massaged her scalp and then scratched her shoulder. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. “I don’t want to hear anything negative. It upsets my stomach.” Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. “His brother died serving our country. Abe had a memorial service to plan, and then they sat shiva, and now he’s the man of the house . . .” Betty clamped her lips. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. She’d said too much. Abe’s home and family were private. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

  Doris gasped. “He doesn’t have a father?”

  “His father is a louse. Abe is a mensch.”

  Betty opened the middle drawer and placed her silver-plated brush inside. She pushed the drawer shut with a thud. “I’ll thank you not to go spreading rumors. And he has sent two postcards, I’ll have you know.”

  Georgia and Doris looked at one another and shrugged.

  “If I can’t have the support of my two best friends, then what’s this world coming to?” Betty’s throat burned. Tears threatened to belie her confidence. “He loves me.” A solid statement, but her voice was on the verge of cracking.

  “I should hope so,” Georgia said.

  “I thought you might be in love,” Doris said, tapping her temple with her forefinger. “I have a sixth sense about these things.”

  Betty wished Doris would go so she could talk about everything to Georgia. Sure, Georgia knew what happened on the Fourth of July—she’d practically walked in on them—but Betty hadn’t told anyone their plans for New York and marriage and children, and right then she thought she might burst if she didn’t.

  “As a matter of fact,” Betty said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s here in time for Miss South Haven.” The contest was next Sunday.

  Doris placed her arm around Betty’s shoulders. “If you love him, then we love him.” Doris tittered. “You know what I mean.”

  Georgia peeked out the bedroom window. “Everyone’s starting to gather by the pier. Let’s go watch the sunset like the summer people. C’mon, it’ll be a blast. Get your mind off things.”

  Georgia was right—focusing on her friends wo
uld get Betty’s mind off herself for now. In just a few days she’d be preparing for Miss South Haven in earnest, and she’d make her grandparents proud.

  The girls bopped down the stairs, Doris yammering about her perfect boy. Everything from temperament and favorite food to eye color. Too many musts for Betty to keep track. On her way out the door to the porch, Georgia said, “I want someone intellectual and sophisticated.”

  “Is that so?” Betty elbowed Georgia in the ribs.

  “Knock it off,” she said.

  “Well, I think that happens after you marry them.” Doris laughed; her romanticism, it seemed, was mixed with traces of realism.

  The girls skittered down Lakeshore Drive, skirts swaying, hair bouncing. For a few hundred yards they chattered over and around one another; then they intentionally linked arms and fell in step. Comfort and safety enveloped Betty. It was a feeling warmer than the midsummer breeze, and more reliable than the beacon on the lighthouse. She’d felt it so many times before. This, too, was a type of love. Love from two people who didn’t have to love her. They’d chosen her—with her penchant for theatrics, her attention on Abe for the past month, her impatience the past two weeks. And she’d chosen them right back.

  Though they’d said it many times, it was that night’s sky casting her friends in a majestic purple glow, when Betty knew for sure—in well beyond a pinkie-swear or cross-your-heart kind of way—they’d be friends forever.

  “We won’t make it to the pier,” Betty said. “Let’s just sit on the beach right here so we don’t miss it. We can look for boys later.” She leaned to Georgia. “Though I don’t really think you want to.”

  Georgia looked as if she were about to speak, but she didn’t. Betty watched the movement in her throat as she swallowed hard.

  Then Georgia reached for Betty’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry about before,” she whispered. “If Abe loves you, he’ll be back.”

  The only word Betty heard was if.

  Betty convinced herself that even though Abe’s next postcard didn’t mention Miss South Haven, he would be back for it. She didn’t want him to shirk his duties at home, and she didn’t want to be bossy or needy—but oh! How she wanted him to be there.