The Cotton Queen

by Pamela Morsi

  I put up with it as long as I could. The subject matter was not all that unfamiliar. I still read the magazines from the drugstore. What was so annoying was how the doctor thought it was all so important.

  “I just don’t see why we must speak in such descriptive terms,” I told him.

  “Prudishness hinders,” he said.

  “I am not prudish,” I assured him. “I am merely formal.”

  The doctor’s typically indecipherable expression faltered and he gave a slight laugh. He was laughing at me.

  It was at that moment that Acee broke his promise to me.

  “Back before we were married,” he said, casually. “A man forced himself on Babs.”

  Dr. Hallenbeck immediately showed interest. I was stunned into silence. Acee had said that we would never discuss what had happened, the circumstances of Marley’s conception. Then, right in front of me, he’d told it, all of it, to Dr. Hallenbeck.

  I was so sickened and hurt, I could not respond.

  The doctor began explaining in his calm, matter-of-fact manner how for some victims the traumatic event can translate its long-term effect into an aversion to sex.

  I tried not to hear him. I tried to ignore what was being said. He droned on and on. I remembered the stained-glass window with the Good Shepherd and determinedly focused my attention on those details, not the clinical facts, which the good doctor was trying to acquaint me with.

  “Why don’t you tell me, in your own words, what happened,” he asked finally.

  “No,” I said firmly.

  “I think you need to share it,” he said. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

  “I won’t feel better remembering,” I informed him tartly. “It was a long time ago. I hardly even remember. And I prefer it that way.”

  “Well, your subconscious hasn’t forgotten,” he told me. “It’s keeping you from experiencing the kind of normal pleasure and satisfaction that you deserve.”

  “Pleasure? Satisfaction? What is wrong with all of you people?” I asked them both angrily. “Why is the whole world obsessed with sexuality? It permeates the TV and movies, the music. It’s all the talk shows chatter about. Have we become animals that this rubbing up against each other is now the meaning of life? It’s sick.”

  “No,” he corrected me. “It’s not sick. Being able to maintain a loving, physical relationship with your husband is the definition of marital wellness.”

  I refused to go back after that. Acee pleaded with me. I wouldn’t budge.

  “You say I betrayed you all those years ago,” I told him. “And now you’ve betrayed me. It seems that we’re even.”

  He tried to get me to talk about it more, but I was finished with talking about sex and I told him so.

  “If I never have to do it again as long as I live, that would be fine with me.”

  That shut him up.

  Which freed me up to concentrate on the other giant argument in my home. After no small effort on my part, Laney was chosen for Cotton Queen.

  I was thrilled.

  Laney was dismayed.

  She continued to argue and complain long after it was too late to change anything. I’d assumed that her reluctance to be Cotton Queen was based on some misguided stubbornness.

  “You can only be Cotton Queen once in a lifetime, Laney,” I told her. “And even then, most girls are never chosen.”

  “Yes, and they get along just fine,” she answered me. “I don’t need this or want it. It’s a stupid custom, it demeans women.”

  “Demeans women? It glorifies women. It makes them royalty, to be admired and worshiped.”

  “I don’t want to be worshiped,” Laney argued. “Look, this is something that Gussie Goodwife has in her memory book to remind her that she once had a life of her own. I’m going to be an independent woman, a woman with a purpose, a woman of value.”

  “Of course you are, sweetheart,” I assured her. “And Cotton Queen is the perfect place to start. It gets you the attention of the community. When you’re in the back of that convertible, you are front and center in the heart of McKinney and every eye is upon you.”

  “You really don’t get it, do you?” she said. “The world has changed. Beauty queens are passé. They’re a joke, a stereotype. Wearing that silly rhinestone crown will be an unforgettable embarrassment.”

  I thought that was probably the most absurd comment that she’d ever made. I repeated it, in jest, at Aunt Maxine’s house. We were putting up summer pickles. The twins were there, helping. Or at least Jolie was. Janey had a new baby, fat as a sausage, that clung to her teat constantly.

  She was sitting on a kitchen chair next to the yellow table of chrome and Formica. The little fellow she’d named Jeremy was sucking noisily.

  “You’re going to ruin your figure,” I warned her. “Once you’ve nursed a baby, your bosom is saggy for a lifetime.”

  Janey chuckled and shook her head. “I’ll worry about that later,” she said. “Right now I’ve got all this milk coming in. It seems a shame to let it go to waste.”

  Aunt Maxine agreed. “If a woman keeps working, she always keeps her figure, more or less. And it’s certainly more thrifty to feed with what nature provides than buying that expensive formula.”

  “The formulas are all scientifically designed to provide the right nutrients,” I told her. “You have to keep up with scientific advances, Aunt Maxine.”

  “Actually, they now say breast milk is best,” Joley piped in.

  I waved that comment away. “That’s just silly,” I said.

  “It sure is hot in here,” Janey chimed in, changing the subject.

  She was right about that. The kitchen was hellish. Aunt Maxine had turned off her new central air-conditioning so that she could prop the back door open.

  “I’ve been doing that for twenty years and always prided myself on the quality of my canning,” she admitted. “I’m worried that if I start doing the work in comfort, the food just won’t taste as well.”

  It was a foolish superstition and we all laughed, but she still didn’t cool the place off.

  That’s when I told them about Laney’s comments about the Cotton Queen. I fully expected all three of them to see the humor in the teenager’s warped view of things and agree with me that nothing, not Football Queen, Yearbook Princess or even Senior Sweetheart would do as much to insure her future happiness as being chosen Cotton Queen.

  The response I got was an uneasy silence with each of them shooting glances at each other.

  “Things are changing,” Joley commented eventually.

  “Yes, even Dear Abby thinks that it’s time for women to be more involved in the world,” Janey said.

  “Laney is a lovely girl,” Aunt Maxine said. “But her prettiness is not her best feature. She’s the smartest girl in her class and a top-notch worker. She’s going to be someone successful in business someday and you should be more eager to help her do that.”

  “Successful in business?” I was appalled at the suggestion. “I only hope she’s clever enough to marry a very successful businessman.”

  I was genuinely surprised that none of them could understand. But, then I realized the problem. Neither Aunt Maxine nor either of her girls were ever in contention for Cotton Queen. Of course, they had to believe that it wasn’t so important.

  But I knew the truth. Being in the Queen’s Court had been the most important thing that I had ever done. It had more effect on my life than anything else. Both Tom and Acee had fallen in love with me that day, and I’d only been the runner-up. If I’d been chosen queen...I could not even imagine what great things I might have accomplished. I might have married someone else, stayed in McKinney my whole life. Nothing bad would have ever happened to me.

  Laney was going to have that crown. I was going to insist upon it, whether she wore it voluntarily or not.

  LANEY

  IT WAS AT LEAST a thousand degrees in downtown McKinney and I was swathed in a million yards of scratc
hy crinoline and sweat-soaked tulle. I looked like an idiot and I felt like a fool. I was sitting on the back of a baby-blue Plymouth convertible. My hair was piled on top of my head into something resembling an ash-blond squirrel’s nest, adorned with a sparkling rhinestone tiara. The large silver-and-blue umbrella with the Dallas Cowboys logo that I held over my head was not some kind of weird Texas affectation, but a very real concession to the summer heat. Unfortunately, I would have to give it up once the parade began. That’s what I had to look forward to, sunblisters on my bare shoulders.

  “Whoa! Shade my eyes, I’m being blinded by the sight of the queen.”

  I turned to see my cousin, Ned, standing beside the car. He was looking very Ned-like with his greasy hair hanging loose down his back, a Black Sabbath T-shirt atop ragged blue jeans, and his girlfriend, Judy Bykowski, hanging on him like a body part.

  “No disparaging comments today, please,” I told him with a fakey smile.

  He waved away my concern. “Baby, I wouldn’t think about...ah...raining on your parade, so to speak.”

  Judy giggled.

  “It’s not my parade,” I assured him. “It’s my mother’s. Whatever that woman wants, she gets. Even when it’s me, dressed up like a cake and driven through town in a half sexist, half surreal motorcade.”

  Ned grinned. He looked a lot like my daddy. At least Granny Hoffman said he did and she obviously remembered my father better than I did.

  He stepped closer to the car and held out an expertly rolled cigarette that he’d been keeping close to the palm of his left hand.

  “Take a couple of tokes,” he said. “Things will start looking a lot better.”

  I shook my head. “You’d have to make me comatose to get me through this happily,” I told him.

  He raised his eyebrows. “That can be arranged,” he joked.

  “Hey, Ned, what’s happening, man?” Brian Wellman called out to him from Nicie’s convertible, just in front of mine.

  Nicie had actually wanted to be Cotton Queen. It had been one of her goals for high school. Now never to be realized. She was just basically much more traditional than me. And she was genuine beauty-queen material, natural blond, tall, leggy and with the sort of naive sweetness that could declare with complete sincerity that all she wanted was world peace.

  Ned and Judy sauntered up that way. He high-fived Nicie’s boyfriend and said something to her that caused her to giggle.

  Nicie was happy. She always seemed happy. Even now, when my mother had pushed me between her and her goal. She still seemed completely content to play second fiddle or, more accurately, first runner-up.

  And, of course, having Brian her steady boyfriend as her driver didn’t hurt. He was tall, good-looking, athletic. He was also rich. His father owned a grocery business that seemed to be expanding all the time. Brian drove a brand-new Mustang Cobra, the flashiest car in town. With his neatly trimmed hair and button-down shirts, he appeared to be the ideal Texas teen. Of course, he was a wild hell-raiser. He drank lots of beer and bought drugs from Ned. But his parents didn’t know it yet, nor did Uncle Freddie and Aunt LaVeida who were extremely pleased by his romance with their only daughter.

  My driver, Stanley Kuhl, came around the corner with a couple of soft drinks in paper cups. He was a strange choice for the parade. Quiet, bookish, the rusty-haired freckled-faced guy had a reputation for sober seriousness that was unmatched at McKinney High.

  “Soda pop?” he asked.

  I nodded and he handed me one.

  “It looks like they’re about ready to start,” he said. “I sure hope we don’t have to wait out in this sun much longer.”

  I don’t know how I got Stanley as my driver. Or actually, I knew exactly how I got Stanley. My mother had decided that I should spend more time with him. Toward the end of junior year, most of the kids in my class had started pairing up. Babs was desperate to see me do the same. Her machinations made me crazy. They were the frequent source of arguments between us.

  “She just wants you to be happy,” Acee had explained more than once in an attempt to play peacemaker between us. “Her high school years were very important to her. She met your dad there and he was the love of her life. She wants you to be as happy as she was.”

  I knew my stepdad meant well. And there was truth in what he said. But it was weirder than weird to have a woman’s husband tell you that some other man was the love of her life, even if that man was your real father.

  So Babs continued, without my permission, to try to find my Mr. Right among the motley crew of seniors ’76. Stanley was her latest choice. And I’m sure she figured that driving my bow-bedecked vehicle would be a great opportunity for him to see me at my best. In truth, it was probably Stanley’s only opportunity to see me at all. If my mother hadn’t been paying him to ease the blue convertible along the streets he probably wouldn’t have bothered to attend the parade.

  “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Kuhl,” Ned called out to him. “Those are pretty impressive wheels you’re driving today. Don’t let ’em get away from you.”

  “That’s not Mr. Kuhl,” Brian piped in. “That’s Mr. Uncool. Listen, Dorkface, don’t be tailgating my baby and me. You may be driving the queen but, anytime you’re following me, you better keep a respectful distance.”

  From Stanley’s behavior, I would have thought that he hadn’t heard what had been said to him. He didn’t indicate by expression or gesture any response at all. Somehow that made it worse.

  “Come off it, guys,” I told them.

  “Oh, it’s a request from the queen,” Ned said facetiously.

  Stanley glanced back in my direction. “You don’t have to defend me,” he said. “I’ve been fending off sticks and stones from Ned Hoffman and his friends since grade school.”

  “I’ve been at it longer than you,” I told him. “You forget, Ned’s my cousin. I was still a chubby-faced preschooler when he started giving me grief.”

  Stanley smiled. It was a great smile, one that I didn’t remember seeing before.

  “I thought all you Hoffmans stuck together like glue,” he said, still grinning.

  I shook my head. “I’m from an offshoot branch of the family,” I joked. “If the rest of the family could get away with it, they’d be delighted to either send us off or shoot us.”

  “We’re moving. We’re moving,” Brian called back to us as he hurried to get behind the wheel of the red Cadillac convertible that was carrying Nicie.

  I could already hear the sound of the drums from the McKinney High School band leading the procession.

  Ned and Judy wandered up the street to get ahead of the action.

  I put down the umbrella and tossed it into the floorboard.

  “See that strap,” Stanley said, indicating a strip of inch-wide material lying down the length of the upholstered seat back. “I tied it off on the spare tire and ran it up through the back of the trunk lid. It’s not exactly seat-belt safety, but if you start to slide off the back of the car, it’s at least something to grab on to.”

  “Oh great, thanks.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take it slow,” he assured me.

  “Not on my account,” I told him. “I want to get this over with and behind me as quickly as I can.”

  Stanley’s stoic face twisted into what might have been a grin. “All right then,” he said. “Why don’t I just pass all these slowpoke drivers ahead of us and we’ll be through town in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sounds pretty tempting.”

  We didn’t do it, of course. Two very dutiful teenagers, we headed down the parade route at a snail’s pace. Me, smiling and waving, as if I was enjoying myself. He, looking straight ahead, pretending he was somewhere else.

  It was amazing that people turned out for such an occasion. It either said that small-town folks were very easily entertained or that nobody could resist the sight of people making complete fools of themselves.

  I smiled and waved and tried to relax as I put on my
best queenlike behavior, but it was a challenge. The crowds along the McKinney sidewalks were no faceless, nameless audience, awed by a fancy dress and a snazzy car. They were all people whom I knew. And people who knew me. They knew me yesterday when I was a gawky teenage girl trying to navigate everyday life during a cultural meltdown, a world oil crisis and a population bomb. And they’d know me tomorrow, when I’d be right back down there on the street, messing up and acting odd, too much of a bookworm for the town of my birth. I didn’t want them looking at me, judging me. But there was nothing I could do about it.

  As we turned onto Virginia Street nearing the downtown square, I caught sight of my mother and Acee. Acee had his Instamatic covering his eyes as he snapped shot after shot. Babs was holding a huge bouquet of yellow roses. When the car paused at the corner, she stepped into the street, her back straight, her smile bright and she walked up to the convertible as if it were a planned point in the festivities. Stopping to pose for the camera, she handed me the flowers.

  “Why don’t you just climb in here with me, Babs,” I suggested sarcastically.

  “Oh, don’t be silly, sweetheart,” she said. “This is your big day.”

  It was all I could do not to groan aloud.

  As we moved on, I called out to Stanley.

  “How am I supposed to wave, hang on to the safety strap and hold these dadgummed roses at the same time? I’ve only got two hands.”

  The question was rhetorical, but he answered anyway.

  “You have to make your own choices in life,” he told me. “But I’d give preventing a broken neck a high priority.”

  We managed to make it through the parade without that happening. The end of the route was a chaos of people, floats, bicycles and horses.

  “Follow us!” Nicie called as she climbed over the seat to get beside Brian. They turned right and were gone.

  “You want to go where they’re going?” Stanley asked.

  “I don’t know, I guess so. Sure.”