The Last Bathing Beauty

by Nathan, Amy Sue

  She flipped a curl behind her shoulder and sucked in her breath one more time. She held it and inhaled again, but no matter how hard Nannie tugged at Betty’s waist, that zipper was not sliding up the back. Across the room, Betty’s friends’ lips sealed in tight lines, their cheeks puffed like chipmunks.

  Betty set her hands together as if in prayer. “Please breathe. If you die, I’ll have lost part of my cheering section.”

  The girls exhaled, their concern settling around Betty. She shrugged it off.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have encouraged you to eat so much,” Nannie said. “Or I measured wrong.” She shook her head. “That can’t be it. I had the girls in the laundry room do the sewing. That must be it.”

  “Try again,” Betty said.

  “It’s no use. You’ll have to pick another dress.”

  “But I don’t want another dress. You said this one matched my eyes. And it cost eleven dollars.”

  “I’m not a magician, Betty. I can’t fix things that are unfixable.”

  Two weeks earlier the dress, with its long, narrow torso and dropped waist, had fit Betty as if it had been custom-made for her hourglass figure. The boatneck had showed off her clavicles and accented her bosom enough to interest the judges but not enough to mortify her grandparents. Two weeks ago was also the last time she’d seen Abe.

  Betty looked down. “I’ll try a different brassiere.”

  It didn’t help.

  The next day, eight hours before the start of the contest, Betty readied herself in body and spirit. She stood in the middle of her bedroom with the dress pulled up and zipped to her waist with the bodice seams opened and splayed like drooping flower petals around her stomach, hips, and buttocks.

  When Georgia and Doris walked in, Betty pointed to her dresser. Atop it sat a spool of blue cotton thread with three needles poking out. Draped across the back of her vanity stool were thin scraps of fabric in shades of blue. An avid and thrifty seamstress, Nannie always kept leftovers.

  “What are you waiting for?” Betty asked. “Sew me into it.”

  An hour later, the blue dress of Nannie’s and Betty’s dreams lay in segments on the bedroom floor.

  “We tried,” Georgia said.

  “I want to know what you’ve been eating,” Doris said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the only thing that’s bigger about you is your chest.”

  Betty glanced down, uncertain Doris was right, but uncertain she was wrong. Then she spun around and looked at her alarm clock. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

  Georgia laughed. “I sure do. It’s time to choose a different dress.”

  Chapter 22

  BETTY

  Betty smoothed the “Miss Stern’s Summer Resort” sash along her torso. She pulled it taut—wrinkles were unacceptable—even though that meant the word Resort was hidden at her hip, under her left forearm.

  She held up her head, her shoulders straight. No slouching. Arms at her sides, wrists slightly crooked outward to give her hands the subtle angles of a ballerina’s. Betty inhaled to fill her lungs and calm herself. As she exhaled, the line she stood in started moving forward. Fourth in a procession of twenty swimsuit-attired girls, Betty followed instructions and entered North Shore Pavilion two paces behind Miss Glassman’s Resort and two paces in front of Miss Mendelson’s Atlantic Hotel, whose sash lettering was stitched indecipherably close together.

  When Betty reached her designated spot on the stage, she smiled and turned forward to face the audience. She’d watched this contest every summer before this one. Had the pavilion always been this crowded?

  Women fanned themselves with leaflets. Children fidgeted. Men watched and waited, also glancing at wrist and pocket watches. Mrs. Martha Bookbinder, the mistress of ceremonies, tapped the microphone. It was time.

  Mrs. Bookbinder introduced the five judges from B’nai B’rith, which made sense to Betty, since the Jewish service organization was the contest’s sponsor and the most active community group in South Haven. Betty didn’t know how these men snagged the coveted assignment. Her destiny was in their hands. Literally. The judges held pencils and clipboards where they’d record impressions of the girls, along with their scores for the swimsuit and afternoon dress categories.

  It would be better not to be caught staring, so Betty looked straight ahead toward the back of the pavilion, where people stood behind the last row of seats. She kept her gaze fixed above the heads of the crowd. She knew Abe wasn’t there. If he had come, she wouldn’t have to look for him, she’d know. But the hollowness inside her was certain. It wasn’t laced with anticipation; she wasn’t buzzing with glee. He wasn’t coming.

  The microphone screeched. “Welcome to the annual Miss South Haven pageant,” Mrs. Bookbinder said. The crowd clapped, some boys whistled. “Now, now. Hold your applause. Today we’ll be naming our Miss South Haven 1951.” Mrs. Bookbinder continued with cursory announcements for all the B’nai B’rith committees and events, times for Shabbos services at First Hebrew Congregation, and a reminder about the meeting on the new Israel Bonds. Then Mrs. Bookbinder leaned into the microphone. “You can clap now.”

  It was as if permission had turned a switch. The mostly genteel crowd erupted in a standing ovation. Some boys and men whooped and hollered. The contestants hadn’t done anything. It was as if the room full of spectators had been cooped up all summer, when in fact, summertime in South Haven was synonymous with activities, opportunities, and beaches full of bathing beauties.

  Pretty girls made fools of grown men.

  It was something Nannie would say, but Betty thought of it herself.

  Still, beads of sweat trickled down Betty’s back. As long as no one could see, she didn’t care how she felt. It only mattered how she looked.

  Alma Goldberg, Miss Fidelman’s, was called first. She walked to the middle of the stage, stopped, and then proceeded to walk down the runway, which extended about ten rows into and above the crowd. She stopped, turned, and walked back to her place in line, all while her name, measurements, school, and ambition to be a homemaker and mother were announced, though Betty doubted any of it was heard over the ruckus in the room.

  The judges glanced and scribbled whatever judges scribbled. Then they glanced and scribbled again. Betty’s heart pounded. She hadn’t expected to be nervous, but her eagerness drowned out most of the introductions for Miss Kellman’s Cabins and Miss Levin’s Resort. Each girl walked in peep-toe pumps, their swimsuits accentuating their bustlines and curves. They wore ordinary suits—one yellow gingham, one with nautical stripes. Betty’s lustrous purple suit might have been too fancy for this off-the-rack runway.

  Miss Stern’s Summer Resort was called. She heard the words. Then her awareness faded into a faraway echo. Nausea hit her stomach like a punch from out of nowhere. Deep breath. Deep breath.

  Miss Levin’s Resort whispered as she reclaimed her place in line. “That’s you,” she said. “Go.”

  Betty stepped forward.

  In a bingo-hall-turned-dressing-room on the west side of the North Shore Pavilion, the girls were allowed ten minutes to change from swimsuits into their afternoon dresses and freshen their makeup. Betty pulled on her gloves and slipped on the junior prom pink satin pumps she’d dug out of the back of her closet. The shoes coordinated with Betty’s dress as if they’d been dyed to match.

  “Do you want me to tie your bow?”

  Betty turned around to see Nancy Green, Miss Grossinger’s Resort—also the reigning Miss South Haven—in a pale-green taffeta dress with a dropped and curved waistline. The hem touched just below her knees. The scoop neck was trimmed in gold, highlighting the copper flecks in Nancy’s brown eyes. Her complexion was creamy and clear, her eyeliner precise, her coral lipstick flattering. Nancy’s not-so-subtle cleavage would sway the judges.

  Nancy was not only sexy, but also glamorous and sophisticated. And she was nice. Betty groaned but disguised it with a cough.

  Betty
lifted both strands of ribbon at her waist. “Thank you.” There was no way she could tie a proper bow behind her own back. “I didn’t think it through.”

  Nancy stepped behind Betty and tugged and pulled at the wide ribbons. “There. You look lovely in pink.”

  “It wasn’t my first choice, but thank you,” Betty said. “Had a little mishap with a blue one.”

  Nancy leaned in. “I’ll tell you a secret. This dress wasn’t my first choice either. I had a lovely little peach number I picked up at a boutique in Paris.”

  Betty leaned in, ravenous for a story about Paris fashion. “Why aren’t you wearing it?”

  “Little is the issue. Even months later, it still doesn’t fit. I got full up top too,” Nancy whispered and glanced down at her bosom.

  Betty hadn’t known Nancy was so good-natured, or why she would be so personal.

  “Time to line up again,” she said.

  The girls stood in the same order as before, except for Nancy, who scooted next to Betty. They all readjusted their sashes. “I’d wish you good luck, but I want to win,” Nancy whispered. “It’s my last chance.”

  “Mine too.”

  “Right. I heard you’re going away to college.”

  “I am. In New York City.”

  “I know other girls who’ve said they’re going to college.”

  “I am going to college,” Betty said.

  “Well, good for you,” Nancy said. “I hope it works out for you.”

  For some reason, Betty believed her.

  Nancy sighed. “You know if I win tonight I’ll be the only girl to take the title three times. It would be the best day of my life.” Her voice was wispy and longing.

  Betty wanted to win, but even with the sash and crown, her best days were yet to come.

  Nancy looked at the floor, then wiggled her shoulders and leaned closer to Betty. As close as she could get. “The nausea goes away,” she whispered. “Try soda crackers.”

  “Okay,” Betty said, but she didn’t have the time or interest to decipher Nancy’s meaning.

  When her turn came to walk the runway again, Betty looked side to side and chose audience members and then smiled right at them, the concentration keeping her tears at bay. With each step, her legs weakened. He wasn’t there. It had been silly to hope. But what if he never came back? With each step she thought, He loves me.

  Marv sat between his mother and Eleanor. He was a decent guy, a good friend even. He deserved a nicer girl than Eleanor, one without a sharp edge. A girl who didn’t want someone else. She smiled at him and before she pivoted at the end of the runway, he smiled back.

  As Betty glanced at each of the judges, she smiled and nodded just a bit. Then she copycatted Nancy, and winked.

  Back in line, and to the sound of applause, she noticed her grandparents at the end of the second row on the right, clapping and smiling wide. Next to them sat Betty’s parents, also smiling. They came! Everyone was proud of her, just as she’d imagined. And just as she’d hoped, the day was almost perfect.

  Mrs. Bookbinder shuffled papers, glanced at the judges, and grinned. She stood to the right of all the contestants, and four bouquets of red roses, one bigger than the next, lay on the stage, tied with pink ribbons. She lifted the first bouquet.

  “Our third runner-up is . . . Miss Glassman’s Resort.”

  The crowd applauded. All the girls clapped as they’d been instructed, and the third runner-up collected her roses and stood next to Mrs. Bookbinder. Betty thought she might throw up. She’d wanted this for so long, the possibility of it becoming a reality was making her dizzy.

  “Our second runner-up is . . . Miss Fidelman’s.” Betty clapped and smiled but the sound faded away, as if she’d stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door and all the windows.

  Her arms full of at least a dozen roses, Mrs. Bookbinder said, “Miss Grossinger’s Resort is our first runner-up.”

  Nancy didn’t win!

  The crowd cheered. Betty squeezed Nancy’s hand. Was it a congratulatory squeeze or one of sympathy? Betty didn’t know, but she leaned over and kissed Nancy’s cheek. Nancy smiled and waved to the audience. Betty knew it was a fake smile and the wave a rote gesture.

  But this meant nothing. There were seventeen pretty girls on the stage, all of whom had practiced and primped. All of whom wanted the title for any of a hundred valid reasons. Should Betty have stepped away? She had so much—devoted grandparents, a boy who loved her, friends who cherished her, and her education and future ripe for the taking. She inhaled a deep breath and swelled with gratitude for her good fortune. No matter what happened next, she would remember this sense of peace and gratitude for the rest of her life.

  Then, without fanfare—or a pause—Mrs. Bookbinder tapped the microphone. She loved tapping the microphone. Then she clapped like a teacher demanding attention from an unruly brood. The hurly-burly of it all settled Betty into a moment of unencumbered hope—yes, she wanted this as much as, if not more than, the other girls. She had the right to be here. Betty swept her hands around to the back of her dress and crossed her fingers.

  Mrs. Bookbinder cleared her throat. “I’m so pleased to announce that our Miss South Haven 1951 is—” She turned and smiled at Betty then returned her attention to the audience. “Miss Stern’s Summer Resort—Miss Betty Stern!”

  Cameras flashed. Betty saw only bright lights. She was shocked—but was she really? She was rendered speechless as someone removed her Stern’s sash—wait! Maybe she’d wanted to keep it—and laid another sash over her head, onto her shoulder, and across her body, and smoothed it over her chest and hips. She had no idea who was touching her, but she supposed it didn’t matter. She’d won.

  Betty was Miss South Haven.

  Someone placed a bouquet of at least two dozen red roses into her arms, and someone else set something on her head. Oh! A tiara! She lifted her chin just a smidgen, so it would stay on for all the photographs. The photographs that would be published in all the newspapers. All the newspapers that would mention her grandparents’ resort. She wished she could see their reactions.

  Betty walked to the middle of the runway. Was this what it was like to be a movie star, or Princess Elizabeth? Her thoughts zoomed to Nancy Green in Europe, or the Europe Betty imagined from films and books. Ice water surged throughout Betty’s body, leaving her cold, and woozy, and wondering. Another flashbulb popped just as she turned to look at Nancy.

  A swirl overtook Betty’s stomach and moved into her throat. The nausea goes away. How did Nancy know Betty was nauseated?

  She’d also been light-headed, and her new dress hadn’t fit. Come to think of it, most of her blouses had become tight across the bust.

  No, please no!

  “Excuse me, I have to go,” Betty said. She whirled around. The microphone stand wobbled as she pressed her bouquet onto Nancy’s chest, not knowing or caring if it had fallen to the ground.

  When were her last monthlies?

  Betty jerked herself away from random hands trying to hold her back. “I have to go.” She was going to vomit. Betty pushed aside a burgeoning crowd of well-wishing girls. She dashed down the stage steps. Her tiara slipped off, but she didn’t stop to retrieve it. Yes, she was going to throw up.

  “Betty!” yelled either Zaide or Joe. She couldn’t tell. Their voices were the only way they were alike.

  Betty kicked off her pumps and ran down the aisle toward the front of the pavilion. As she reached the door and strode outside, she heard the fuzzy thuds of someone tapping the microphone.

  Betty ran to the edge of the beach, stopping short. She vomited onto the ground. Empty, she moved with ease and without a churning stomach or spinning head and stepped onto the sand. It wasn’t pale and warm and soft, no longer able to cradle her if she lay upon it. It stretched out in front of her, cold and wet like she imagined quicksand to be, ready to drink her in and swallow her up. The lake ahead was calm, but ominous, not wondrous. Betty stared toward the lighthouse,
a beacon not only for ships. If she stared at its immense sturdiness, perhaps the ground would stop shifting beneath her feet. She swayed, legs like spaghetti, so she lowered herself to the ground, sand sticking to the vomit on her hem. Nannie would be mad. Betty heard the echo of Abe’s voice faraway behind her while the lighthouse faded into pieces as if she were looking at it through the broken colors of a kaleidoscope. The bright blue day dulled to ominous gray.

  Then everything went dark.

  Chapter 23

  BOOP

  Boop wore white linen pants and a deliberately wrinkled lavender tunic. The crinkly cotton prompted her ironing instinct, but pressed, smooth, stiff fabric wasn’t the style. She had swiped a pale-pink color across her lips, just enough to be summery but not so pale as to match her lips to the skin on her face. She’d seen that look in a magazine and thought the models looked washed out.

  “You look so pretty,” Hannah said as she walked into the living room. Her hair had been trimmed into a long blunt cut, and she’d let it dry with its natural wave, but it didn’t look messy. Her loose knit navy T-shirt dress had no holes. Boop wouldn’t say it aloud, but Hannah already looked like someone’s mommy.

  “You’re all dressed up,” Hannah said.

  “This isn’t dressed up. Not really.” Boop thought back to the days of hose and heels, satin and silk. “I was thinking you could drop me off to see Georgia and then hightail it out of here and go home to Clark. He’s back in Kalamazoo, I take it.”

  Hannah smiled. “Yes, he is.”

  “Well, you were right. The good outweighs the hurt with Georgia. And I have lost enough people I loved.” Nannie, Zaide, Marvin, and too many friends. When she was a little girl, she’d lost Tillie and Joe. Boop wasn’t going to lose Georgia. Not while she had a choice.

  “That’s one bit of good news this morning. Here’s another.” Hannah placed a small pink tissue-wrapped bundle onto Boop’s lap.