by Kris Radish
And it always worked and was one of the most empowering memories of her childhood.
“You can do this, Stephie,” Emma said now, believing every word that she was saying to her niece. “We are all here for you, but you know what? You could do this standing on your head without anyone you know for support.”
“Okay,” Stephie said timidly. “And …”
“And what, sweetie?”
“Remember that night I was drunk and you saved me?”
“How could I forget?”
“I remember what I said to you. I’m sorry. It was something I needed to get bombed to say. You were rescuing me and I wanted you to know that it was okay to be rescued yourself once in a while.”
“Stephie, it was just what I needed to hear. My sisters did the same thing for me that I did for you. That’s how life works. It’s a very cool circle.”
“And one more thing, Auntie Em.”
“I’m afraid to ask. What?”
“Tonight is for you, too. You always make me feel beautiful, like a winner. I couldn’t be who I am without you.”
Emma is so touched she can barely squeak out a “Thank you, baby.”
By the time Emma made it back to her seat the pageant was under way.
And it was pretty much the last place most every Gilford in attendance ever thought they would be on a weeknight in the middle of summer just days after they had let loose at the family reunion, which had turned into a wedding and an almost all-night-long bash. Especially as they sat through the introduction phase of the contest where each one of the twelve girls gave an opening statement that talked about her purpose in life.
Emma turned and saw Rick jab his knee into Bo’s thigh when a cute little contestant in an aqua blue gown that glittered as if it was on fire, who also had on so much makeup it was impossible to see what color her eyes were, declared, “I want to make as many people happy as possible,” and Bo replied, not so quietly, “You can start with me, baby.”
This is how it went.
One of the contestants would say something and one of the Gilfords, mostly those under the age of sixteen, would say something curt, hilarious or rude, and be kicked, jabbed or looked at with such disgust that it’s a wonder none of them fell out of their chairs and landed on their heads.
But then Stephie would come onto the stage to answer a question, or do a group dance number, and no one would move, and when she was finished Marty’s brood would raise their signs and whistle and clap. Then Stephie would throw them and the rest of the audience, who seemed to like her quite a lot, a huge kiss and wiggle off the stage sideways.
“She’s adorable,” one of the gay guys who was sitting behind Emma commented. “She’s classy and beautiful and I can see she belongs to this wild Gilford group. I’m thinking of asking them to adopt me.”
“Consider it done,” Marty said while they put down their signs and waited for the next contestant.
Even Joy, who actually did not have a purse large enough to carry a mini liquor bottle, was mostly behaving and when Emma turned to look at her it was more than obvious from the constant flow of tears that Joy was proud and, for the time being anyway, sober.
It was also obvious that the talent competition was going to be the highlight of the pageant. Debra and Erika and their husbands, the other gay guy, and Robert Dell were passing a piece of paper around that had each contestant’s name and number on it and they were guessing what each one would do. Susie Dell was looking at the sheet as it came across her lap and would occasionally snort into her arm as if she was trying to stifle a sneeze.
When the paper passed by Emma she could not resist, and it’s a good thing she looked when she did, because Marty snapped it out of Robert’s hand on the next go-around and tucked it into her purse without so much as taking her eyes off the stage.
Britney Sue, Number 1—Flute playing and head bobbing at the same time.
Ardis, Number 2—Naked tap dancing.
Paulette, Number 3—Makeup application.
JoEllen, Number 4—Bowling skills.
Maggie, Number 5—Flower arranging to rap music.
Emma wondered for a brief moment if any other families were engaged in these sinister pageant antics. Then she quickly erased that thought because obviously the Gilfords were one-of-a-kind.
When it came time for the talent, everyone had already witnessed one unfortunate contestant tripping, another one stumbling over her one chance to answer a random question from a judge that went something like “… with declining high school test scores, what would you do to motivate today’s students to want to learn more?” another contestant being so terribly shy it seemed ridiculous for her to even be on stage, and yet another girl turning in obvious view of just about everyone in the building to reapply her lipstick during a brief moment of wild applause.
“At this rate Stephie will win this damn thing,” Rick whispered to Emma.
“She’s already won,” Emma told him. “But Marty will yell at us if we don’t shut up.”
They did get a sideways look and Emma stuck her tongue out at her mother and grinned just as the talent competition began and one of the contestants, not Britney Sue, did play the flute without actually moving her hair.
There was the requisite fabulous singer, two dancers, one photographer who gave a rambling talk about light and how to enhance color when touching up photographs, and this is when the bus driver rather appropriately fell asleep and gently landed against the arm of the man who got on the bus with his wife and kids.
Then, if the program was correct, it was time for Stephanie Gilford to do something that was called “Pageant Poetry Perfection” that had everyone looking at their programs and then the stage and back again in anticipation and partial wonderment. Poetry? The last time a pageant contestant had done a poetry thingamagig she had simply stood in one spot under a glaring white light and recited a poem someone else had written.
Emma knew that was not going to happen. And from the moment every light in the community center went out for at least a minute, as a brilliant mixture of spotlights converged on stage to form what looked like a real rainbow, and Stephie stepped out onto the stage and began speaking, the crowd was mesmerized.
This was not just a poetry reading; it was a performance unlike anything most of Higgins had ever seen. And Stephie was brilliant.
She started with her almost naked back, which looked like the back of a gorgeous white swan about to take flight, turned to the audience. Her legs were together and the first several lines of the poem seemed to float past the soft music that was playing, something new ageish but not whiny, and her head was bent as if she was speaking into her toes.
“beauty then
is surely in the eye of the beholder …
it is in the brilliant smile
of the seemingly ancient man
hands knotted from his life in the shop
who tenderly places those hands
on the still soft white glowing lips
of the woman he has loved
for fifty-three years and who now now
why now
is slowly dying …
beauty then
is surely in the eye of the beholder it is the way a mother bends
like a perfect dancer
to lift her baby
breast to breast
dancing to music
that no one else alive
could ever hear …
beauty then
is surely in the eye of the beholder
the tall sad lonely teenager
who looks not like those girls
in glossy magazines
who stands alone
in between classes
who keeps her head low
when she passes them
but a girl
almost woman
who looks
not like them
but
like
herself …”
And this is when Stephie turns around and the light explodes into dozens of circles that start fanning themselves out into the audience and creating a ripple of “ohs” and “ahs” and that not just startle and surprise the audience, but make them also feel as lovely as the poem.
The poem was a statement about the real truth of beauty, about how so many people succumb to the societal norms, and how someone who wears a lime green dress and feels comfortable enough to dye her hair pink can be just as beautiful as a thin model, as the so-called perfect woman, as the girl in a thousand dreams.
When Stephie finishes her poem, every single light in the community center goes on and what the crowd finally realizes is that Stephie has removed all of her makeup and jewelry, has taken off the pink wig that everyone, including Emma, thought was her own hair, and there she stands in all her magnificent plainness, with her hair dyed back to its natural color, as she closes her eyes, raises her hands and says, “… beauty then is in the eye of the beholder.”
And the crowd does go wild as the Gilfords jump up and down and holler and wave their signs as if the end of yet another war has been announced and as Emma turns to catch her mother’s eye and smiles and sees Marty mouth the words, “You are wonderful,” and then it doesn’t matter that Stephie will not win. It didn’t matter to begin with, or last Friday, or right this moment, and it will not matter next Thanksgiving.
It doesn’t matter that the pretty girl with the professionally trained voice will be the new Miss Higgins. It doesn’t matter that Stephie, much to her amazement, was named Miss Congeniality, which is a title that is voted on by all the other contestants. It doesn’t matter that Stephie will become a local celebrity and much called upon to do poetry presentations at just about every civic and private function in South Carolina for the next ten years.
What matters, everyone tells her, as the pageant ends and the crowd swarms the stage, is simply that she did it and she did it well and with class and with every inch of a heart that is already outlined in gold and most likely glittering as if it is a diamond-studded tiara.
What matters they tell her, as they carry Stephie to the bus on their shoulders and pass her like a queen to the first step where the shaky bus driver takes her hands and escorts her into the first seat, is that you were brave and lovely at the same time.
What matters, they say, as Stephie kicks off her shoes, places them in her mother’s lap, and is happy to discover that Joy will not fall out of the seat, is that for the rest of your life you will have this, and many other remarkable things, to remember.
What matters, they say, as the bus driver promises not to drink anything but apple juice and that he will deliver everyone, even the gay men and the lovely family with three children and the woman who says she hopes she can stay out all night, back home after the party at Emma’s house if only he can stay too, is that your family was there for you.
They were there for you.
And they are definitely also all over the garden and gazebo and Emma’s kitchen, where Stephie’s post-pageant celebration tangoed itself after the bus driver pulled the Gilford chariot up onto the sidewalk and almost took out three bushes and a tough old creosote-coated telephone pole while the entire bus sang “Moon River” because the summer moon was rising like a ripe melon over the rooftops just behind Emma’s yard.
Stephie had taken off the lime green dress and it was hanging on a long pole in the middle of the garden, as if it was the new Gilford family flag, and she was more than relieved to be finished with the pageant business even as she proudly wore her Miss Congeniality banner over her bib overalls and a T-shirt that looked as if it had popped out the side of a lawnmower.
Susie Dell and her apparently new boyfriend, Uncle Mike, came up with the hilarious and magical idea of playing Kick the Can with the teenagers who were too busy with their iPods and Game Boys growing up to have learned yard and alley games. Robert and Marty opted out of the game, as did the bus driver who was sleeping like a baby on the porch swing, but everyone else—all the sisters and brothers-in-law as well as the two gay guys, the nice old lady, and the family of four—was playing.
Emma forced them out of the yard and into the wide alley to protect her plants and flowers, and after less than an hour of the joyful madness each one of the adjoining neighbors came out and asked if they could also join the loud fun. Some of their children were in bed but the adults really, really, really wanted to play Kick the Can like they did when they were kids and they opened up their yard gates so that the game extended into their backyards as well.
Joy, of course, instituted a rule that required a pause every twenty minutes to get drink refills, and knowing what was about to happen the following day, no one said a word or tried to stop the breaks.
Robert cranked up the outdoor fire pit and when they ran out of food Marty had pizzas and sandwiches delivered and absolutely no one cared that it was not a weekend evening, that it was unlikely that the bus driver would actually be able to drive them home, or that someone might laugh at them if they found out what they had been doing for three hours in Emma’s neighborhood.
Just after midnight Rick had the good sense to start the coffee machine and sit with the bus driver who kept assuring him that he’d be fine as long as someone could point him in the right direction. He was, of course, lying through his fake teeth. The man had not stayed awake past midnight since 2001.
Emma’s yard and house were finally depressingly quiet just before two a.m. One of the gay guys finally admitted that he could drive the bus and dropped everyone off and then graciously allowed the exhausted bus driver to sleep in their guest room.
And then Emma was alone.
She did not bother to lock the front door, which she rarely locked anyway. She turned off all the lights but the one above the kitchen sink, which she always thought of as the heart light of her home, poured herself a lively glass of earthy Chilean carmenère, and went out to survey her now quiet, but rather debris-lined, yard.
Emma stepped down from the porch and saw paper plates in little clumps as if they had gathered together for protection, and noticed that one pile was dangerously close to the brazen red hot pokers, there were discarded beer cans propped up under shrubs, a pizza box sat gently on top of one birdbath, someone’s shirt straddled two lawn chairs, and there in the middle of everything was the lime green dress that made Emma laugh out loud every time she saw it.
Where was the rock-laden can that was used during the game? Emma moved off the steps and walked up one row and then down another in her garden, trailing her fingers through cool leaves and flowers as she looked for the magic can as if her hand was dangling off the edge of a boat and skimming the water.
The can was not in the yard and Emma walked towards the gazebo and felt a swell of loneliness that took her breath away because of the quiet, because when she closed her eyes she could still hear everyone laughing, shouting, and screaming with unexpected pleasure and surprise. Her eyes were closed when she stopped under the gazebo and tucked the memories of everything that had happened during the past few hours, days and weeks inside of her heart. And when she opened her eyes she saw the can and it was right where Marty had placed it moments before she had left and kissed Emma on the lips and said, “I love you, babygirl.”
The can had already become a new Gilford memorial object that would never be auctioned off but that would be used again and again and always kept in a place of honor at Emma’s house. That undisputed fact had already been decided.
When Emma went to pick up the can she realized it was sitting on top of the huge Gilford Family Reunion bible that had rarely left Marty’s table for years but now appeared as if by magic and was partially hidden by a stack of dirty dishes. She noticed an envelope tucked under its first page and she quickly picked it up, saw her name written in the bold cursive that she knew as her mother’s, and she smiled.
Marty had known she would come back here to say good night to her gardens. She had known Emma would walk aro
und and then come look for the can. She had known Emma could not simply go to bed.
She had known.
Marty had anticipated this night, this moment, the second Emma would close the front door, wave good-bye and then switch on that soft light above the kitchen sink.
She knew.
My darling daughter,
After all these years there is nothing that I can give you, beyond my forever and always love. You have always had everything you need. You have always been true and soft and kind and the one—the one that I have needed more than the others. Remember when I asked you if you could choose? I think your family, your friends (and just a few plants!) helped you get where you need to be. And I hope you also know that even as my life has changed and expanded to include Robert and the wonderful Susie Dell—that nothing really has changed.
Sometimes family is a horrid burden. I realize this and I know that you, and I, and every woman alive have struggled with this notion. When I get to that place—and I still do, believe me—I think of what the other side looks like. I think of that wide river of aching sadness that swept through me when your father died and how alone I would have been without the arms of all the people who share my last name.
Be happy, my sweet Emma. There are some things that I know you know that you need to do. You can quickly get back to all the gardens of life that are waiting for you, and you have already created one of your very own.
And this huge mess of a reunion bible? It is your family legacy and it is now your turn. I know with all certainty that it is in the right hands.
With love,
Mom
When she finishes reading the letter, Emma picks up the envelope and a photograph flutters to the top of the table. She holds it up to the neighbor’s yard light and immediately smiles. It is a photo of her and Marty taken just days ago at the wedding, arms linked, similar smiles, heads turned in the same direction.
Emma picks up the letter and the picture, grabs two blankets and a pillow off her porch swing, and strolls through her gardens until she decides on the gracious and extraordinarily lovely ferns. The hardy perennials have never let her down, are always one of the last to fold inside themselves when the temperature dips, are the ones, so she thinks, who spread the word to the other plants about how important it is to thrive on organic fertilizer.