The Night She Won Miss America

by Michael Callahan

  It had been a spectacularly normal few hours, and that was what had made the whole day so special. They’d gone shopping on Atlantic Avenue, stopped in at the Bayless Pharmacy to buy film for Griff’s camera, then to Ella Packer, where he’d bought her a small bottle of perfume. They’d had lunch at Huyler’s Tea Room (actually, Griff had lunch; Betty was once again too daunted at the prospect of being in swimwear in front of thousands of people to manage a bite), and then gone to the movies, to the Capitol to see Dan Dailey and Anne Baxter in You’re My Everything. Betty had originally wanted to see Joan Crawford in Flamingo Road, until Griff pointed out—correctly, no doubt—that being seen coming out of such a racy picture could possibly engender even further ire from Miss Slaughter. And besides, this movie seemed more fitting somehow: Griff was, rather quickly, becoming her everything.

  Betty gets up and plops down on the bed next to Ciji. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you,” she says quietly, “but your song tonight . . . It was just . . . breathtaking. I can’t even imagine being able to sing like that.” Neither of them won their preliminaries. But Betty is being true; Ciji’s vibrato—full of vulnerability and light with a palpable sense of yearning—brought a piercing fragility to “Some Enchanted Evening” that could have made anyone forget that Perry Como ever sang it. Betty thinks of the odd assortment of judges, dour and intense, sitting in the front row like a college admissions board, and wonders how they could not have heard what she did. To Betty, no one else’s talent even came close, no offense to the night’s winner, Miss Oregon, and her lively tap dancing.

  Ciji smiles wryly. “Too late to butter me up now, kid,” she says. “You’re still gonna owe me. But we’ll make the best of it. At least the boys are taking us someplace swell.”

  Betty’s brow furrows as Ciji slips into her dress. “You don’t think we’re going to get into any sort of trouble, do you?” she asks. “I mean, Miss Slaughter already has it in for me. I don’t need to make any more headlines.”

  “Relax,” Ciji says. “It’s dinner. I mean, they gave us escorts, right? Which means we are supposed to be escorted.”

  “We still have to be in by curfew.”

  “We will be. Stop worrying.” She opens her compact. “You looked like a peach in that swimsuit and you spent the day moony-eyed over your new boyfriend and now you get to see him again. And I’ll be there to make sure nothing goes wrong. God knows I won’t be occupied with my date.”

  “I think you’re being very unfair to Jerry. I mean, if you took away the mole—”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Delaware! Just be happy, will ya? You have the dreamboat! It’s fine. Besides, I didn’t come here for romance.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “That may be,” Ciji says, snapping the compact shut. “But you got it.”

  ༶

  It looks like any of the other captain’s houses in Atlantic City, a white, stately mansion with multiple gables and striped awnings over the downstairs windows, the shrubbery in front of the wide wraparound porch immaculately pruned. They might have been going to a fashionable lawn party. But the house on Iowa Avenue, across from the Ambassador Hotel, is anything but a typical seashore vacation home. Inside it lays the famed Bath & Turf Club, where the continental of Atlantic City come under the cover of night to play. Quite literally.

  On the surface it is a restaurant and cocktail bar offering “famous Chinese cuisine.” But Betty can see no one is coming here for the food. She takes in the heavy gold drapes crisscrossing the high-paned windows, the plushness of the carpet underneath her new narrow-heeled shoes, the tuxes on powerful men, the dresses on slinky women. Griff orders a scotch neat for himself and Jerry, and two sidecars for her and Ciji.

  “Oh, I can’t drink that,” Betty protests. “It’s against the rules.”

  “Look around, Betty,” Griff says with a chuckle. “Being here is against the rules. Relax. I’ve been coming here for two years and have never once seen a pageant hostess in here.”

  “Including your mother?”

  “God forbid. C’mon.”

  He takes her hand, and they walk through the parlor into a larger second room, dotted with gambling tables. She hears the clink of ice in glasses, the satisfied exhale of Cuban cigar smoke, the click of the dice tumbling down the felt craps table. She imagines her mother’s pained visage, how her parents would kill her if they knew she was here. A panicked thought creeps into her brain. She turns to Griff. “Don’t places like this get raided all the time?” A new image comes to mind: her picture on the front page, shielding her eyes as police lead her to a squad car, Eddie Tate spilling all of the scandalous details with his gum-cracking prose.

  “This place hasn’t been raided since ‘Two-Gun Tommy’ Taggart was the mayor,” Griff replies. “That was five years ago. Honey, you have to learn to relax a little bit. You’re only in Atlantic City for a week. Live a little.”

  Now, another image. It’s like a photo album turning pages inside her head. This one is of her packing, of never being with Griff again. Is that what is coming to pass? Never mind being arrested, being talked about.

  What if I never see Griff again?

  A low whistle from Ciji interrupts her thoughts as the four move toward a blackjack table. Jerry and Griff sit down. “Dang! Have you ever seen a place like this in your life?” Ciji whispers. “I’ve heard of some spots like this back in Newport, but I’ve never actually been in one. This place is absolutely lulu.”

  “Miss Slaughter will have me on the first bus to Delaware and you on your way back to New England if she finds out we were here.”

  “How is she going to find out we were here? Oh, for Pete’s sake, Delaware, what’s eating you? For a girl, you’re a total fuddy-duddy. It’s okay to slip out of the pew once in a while. Lightning ain’t gonna come and strike you down, I promise. And neither is Slaughter. I’m sure she’s busy right now having dinner at the Chamber of Commerce, eating goulash and criticizing some contestant’s shoes.” She takes Betty by the shoulders. “Listen: I put on a nice dress and am going to spend my night rooting for the Mole to make some moolah so we can go out after this and have some real fun. The least you can do is get into the swing of things.”

  Betty takes a look around. Ciji is absolutely right. This is an adventure. Wasn’t this whole week supposed to be an adventure? She takes in a deep breath, lets it out, resets her psyche. Half of the girls in the pageant are out on the town tonight, their arms in those of their escorts, watching movies or sharing dinners or walking along the beach. It’s time to stop worrying and start living.

  Betty turns to Ciji. “We need to get the boys to give us some money,” she whispers. “I want to play roulette.”

  Ciji smiles. “Atta girl,” she says.

  ༶

  Where am I? she wonders.

  The room is blurry at the edges, like a memory, and Betty blinks and blinks and blinks, fighting to find her faculties. She has not had that many drinks, but however many it’s been, it’s been too many. She cannot recall the last time she had alcohol. A glass of champagne at that sorority party? Her parents drink—not infrequently—but it has never occurred to her that this is something passed down, like war bonds or diamonds. At some point you just begin.

  They are in the Submarine Room. No, no, no, they were going to the Submarine Room, but there was a last-minute switch. The Mole knew one of the bartenders at the Brighton, who would serve the girls the famous Brighton Punch and not ask too many questions, like, for example, how old they were. It’s coming back to her now. They are in the Brighton, just off the Boardwalk, mercifully in walking distance of the Chalfonte, where she should be right now, safely tucked into bed. What time is it? She lacks the courage to ask. She gets her eighty-eighth image of the night of Miss Slaughter, standing sentry at her hotel, waiting by the lobby doors, slapping a rolling pin into her palm.

  Betty takes a gulp of ice water, joggles her head, as if shaking off a cold. She needs to eat.

&nbs
p; “Can I order something off the menu?” she asks Griff.

  “Of course, doll!” he says. It is the most jovial she has seen him since they’ve met. The orchestra is playing Porter. What tune? Betty recognizes the melody but has to wait for the chorus to come around to identify it. “ ‘Night and Day,’ ” she says to no one in particular.

  Griff cozies up, puts an arm around her. He smells delicious, like vanilla cake. “I’d rather they played ‘Let’s Misbehave.’ ”

  Betty faintly swats him away, not meaning it. She swigs more ice water. The waiter comes and she orders a bowl of snapper soup, with extra crackers, while Griff orders another round for the table. Betty starts to protest but stops. Let it come. She doesn’t have to drink it.

  A half hour later Betty has spooned up the last of her soup, her head beginning to clear. Ciji and the Mole arrive back from the dance floor. “Where’s Griff?” Ciji asks.

  She’s unsure. He went to the men’s room, but it seems like he’s been gone awhile. Now that she thinks about it, a good while, actually. “He’ll be back any minute,” Betty says, trying to appear indifferent and failing.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Can I have your attention for a moment, please?” It’s the bandleader, a tall, angular man with thinning slicked-back hair and a devilish mustache, the kind villains sport in silent movies. “We hope you are enjoying your evening here in the fabulous Brighton. Tonight we have a surprise performance for you. One of our patrons has a very special dedication for a very special lady. Ladies and gentlemen, please extend a warm welcome to Mr. John Griffin McAllister!”

  Ciji clamps down forcefully on Betty’s forearm. There he is, Griff, her beau, strutting across the stage, taking his place behind the mic. Betty’s head swims: with excitement, with alcohol, with embarrassment, with anticipation and pride and . . . love.

  “Like many of you fine fellows,” Griff is saying, “I am here tonight with a very lovely girl. I have not known her very long, but I hope to know her very long indeed. And so I wanted to tell her that, in a little song I wrote just for her. Betty Jane, this is for you.”

  A little song I wrote.

  He wrote her a song.

  Betty places her hand atop Ciji’s, and her heart swells, so big, so quickly, that she actually pictures it like a water balloon being filled by a garden hose. No one has ever done anything like this for her. She tries not to blink, because she doesn’t want to miss a second of it, of this gift. This awe-inspiring, romantic gift. A handsome boy, singing a love song he wrote just for her, in front of a room of all of these fancy people in all of their best bib and tucker.

  The orchestra strikes up a jaunty melody, something you might hear behind the Andrews Sisters. Griff starts snapping his fingers, shoulders moving, smile beaming, as he begins to croon. His voice is surprisingly deep and melodious.

  I was searching, for so long

  Though I kinda didn’t really even know it

  For a girl, and a song

  The kinds you find in the words of the poet.

  Then came you, by surprise

  A dream from which I never will wake

  Because you, I realize

  Are my love, my life, and my fate!

  Baby, I’ll treasure the day we met

  So dance with me my honey, my lady, my pet

  You’re my girl, and I’m your beau

  And I’m never, ever, ever lettin’ you go

  Yes, I’m never, ever, ever lettin’ you go.

  It’s corny. Ridiculous, even.

  Betty worships it.

  He wrote this for me. He wrote this for me, and dedicated it to me, and sang it to me backed by a full orchestra, in a room full of people.

  Even jaded Ciji is impressed. “Forget Miss America, honey,” she remarks afterward, lighting a cigarette. “You’re walking away with the real prize in Atlantic City.”

  ༶

  The Boardwalk is deserted by the time they reach the doors of the Chalfonte. A few showers have passed through; the air smells of rain and wet wood.

  It is well, well past curfew, but Betty doesn’t care. Ciji has dispatched the Mole quickly and efficiently with a kiss on the cheek and a wan thank-you and then scooted upstairs, no one the wiser, but Betty cannot bear for this night to end. She has the preliminary evening gown competition tomorrow, and she cannot even remember what she brought to wear for it. She only knows what is here, right now, which is the brine in her hair and the piercing eyes now staring down at her and how they make her feel.

  “Did you have fun?” Griff asks, mischievously. Because he knows. He knows.

  “I’ve had the most marvelous time—” She wants to say, “. . . of my life,” but she stops herself. There is still something inside of her that is telling her to hold some control, to not show every one of her cards, even as her emotions roil through her like a tempest. The sidecars and the punch have largely worn off, but just enough residue remains to leave her with the most scandalous and shameful thoughts. “I won fifteen dollars at roulette!”

  He laughs. “So you did. Next date, you pay.”

  “Gladly.”

  “You’re a special girl, baby doll,” he says in a heavy whisper. “I know it’s only been a little over forty-eight hours, but you have to know by now I’m mad for you. I mean, I’ve never written a song in my life. I know it was kinda mawkish to get up there and—”

  She puts a finger to his lips. “It was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I was just . . . astonished,” she says. She means it.

  “Dad-blamed,” he whispers, leaning in just a little bit closer, their faces almost touching. “I never thought a girl like you would come along like this. I mean, to be honest, I only did this whole pageant thing because my mother made me. But I’m so glad she did.”

  “You are?”

  He smiles, his lips now mere inches from hers. “I am.”

  And then the kiss comes, and it is so unlike what has come before, a series of polite pecks delivered for all to see. Here, in the long after-midnight shadows of the Boardwalk, this kiss is singular—long, wet, languid, at one point ferocious. Betty feels like she might crumple from the sheer force of it. He tastes of bourbon and smoke. She has heard more than one girl at college, and even Patsy, talk about feeling as if their bodies were “on fire,” describe a kind of passion she has read about in romance magazines but never experienced. He takes her in his arms, and she holds on to him tightly, gloriously surrendering to all of it.

  A few moments later she drifts upstairs on a cloud, lost in her thoughts. She does not see the patrons leaving the bar, or the man moving the sweeper back and forth over the lobby carpet, or the doorman wishing people a good night. And she does not see Mary Barbara Adair, Miss Alabama, who has come down to the front desk to request some aspirin and then proceeded to watch every ardent minute of her long goodbye through the front hotel windows. And she will most certainly not see Mary Barbara at the lobby pay phone the following morning, gently placing a coin in the slot to make the call she is certain will eliminate the girl she has identified as her most unlikely competition, Betty Jane Welch of Delaware, from the Miss America Pageant.

  Seven

  Betty spots him sitting in the back of the restaurant, reading a copy of his own newspaper over a plate of bacon and eggs. He looks more polished this time, better groomed. But then again, this time he’s not sitting on a bench in ninety-degree heat, trying to get pageant girls to talk to him for a story.

  His note, delivered to her hotel room just twenty minutes ago, was terse and foreboding:

  IN HOTEL RESTAURANT. COME MEET ME NOW. IF NOT, I GO TO PRESS WITH A STORY YOU ARE NOT GOING TO LIKE. YOU HAVE 30 MINUTES.

  EDDIE TATE

  The maître d’ escorts her through the dining room to his table. He rises, waves her into the chair across from him. “Can I get you something?” he asks, overly solicitous. She orders some Brazil mate tea, and the maître d’ scurries off.

  Betty takes a peek around the
room. “I could be disqualified just for being seen with you,” she says icily. “Do you know how much trouble I got into for that item you wrote about me?”

  “Relax,” Eddie Tate says, refilling his coffee cup from the silver pot. “Nobody’s going to bust your chops. All of the judges and the big mahoffs are having breakfast at the Claridge this morning. Evidently there was some kind of mix-up in the evening gown scoring last night, and they have to straighten it out. Besides, if anybody sees us together, you can just tell them you were telling me to get lost.”

  “Which, by the way, I would very much like to do.”

  He laughs. “You’ve got spunk, I’ll give you that.”

  “What’s all this cloak and dagger about? I got your threatening note.”

  “It wasn’t a threat.”

  “Then we have very different definitions of the word ‘threat.’ Out with it: what’s this story I wouldn’t like?”

  “I got a telephone call at the paper this morning. About you and Griffin McAllister last night.”

  The tea comes and she ignores it. Her heart thumps, like a bell tolling the hour. She remembers almost everything about last evening—particularly the end—but there is a good half hour at the Brighton that’s fuzzy, like a photograph that’s been left out in the sun. Did someone see her, report her? No. Ciji was with her, as was another contestant—Miss Tennessee?—she glimpsed as they left. No, this is about her and her alone. Did she do something, say something, that someone saw or heard?

  She opts to thrust rather than parry. “I’m sure you’re aware that Mr. McAllister is my escort this week. All of us were assigned one. Hardly cause for stopping the presses.”

  “No, but the two of you groping each other like two high-schoolers in the back of a Packard in front of the hotel, after curfew, might be.”