Betty takes her place next to Miss Ohio, who gently grazes her with a cheek kiss, and she continues staring into the bright stage lights, able to see no one but trying to breathe and imagining what her mother must look like at this moment, what her father is saying, what her brothers are doing, out there amid the yelling throng. Poor Patsy must be hoarse from screaming. And Griff. Griff! Griff must be so thrilled for her, so proud of her. She knows he is.
The smiling comes naturally now.
Miss Oklahoma sidles up next to her, squeezing her hand, and Betty realizes that she has missed the last semifinalist announcement. Next, Arizona.
There is only one more girl to be selected to move on. She thinks it must be Minnesota, who won her talent, too. Betty turns her attention back to Bob Russell as he draws out the suspense.
“And our fifteenth semifinalist, and the last girl with a chance to be your new Miss America . . . is . . . Miss Rhode Island, Catherine Grace Moore!”
Ciji. She and Ciji, semifinalists for Miss America.
This is nuts! Betty thinks as her heart explodes with joy, and she watches Ciji walk confidently to the middle of the stage.
Surely it can’t get any crazier than this.
༶
In the communal dressing room, Ciji finds Betty and throws her arms around her neck, as if Germany has surrendered all over again. “Delaware, we made it! Can you believe it?! Holy cow!”
“Four minutes, ladies,” a hostess announces.
The fifteen girls dash and fumble and squeal their way through their collective change into evening gowns, the first of tonight’s competitions. The hostess has gravely announced that any one not ready when the radio broadcast comes out of commercial will be automatically disqualified. No one believes her.
No one’s willing to risk it, either.
“Gee willikers, I can’t find my shoes!”
“Arizona, could you be a darling and let me have a touch of that lipstick? Mine is terrible under these lights!”
“Zip help, somebody, please!”
Miss Oklahoma wipes lipstick from her teeth with a handkerchief; Miss New York City, the first one dressed, paces the floor as if waiting for a jury verdict. Miss Texas sits serenely on a settee, still in her slip, wanly looking into a compact for confirmation of her beauty, rather than fighting it out elbow to elbow with the other girls in front of the big mirror. It’s as if the whole thing is a foregone conclusion, and she’s just trying to visualize how the crown is going to look with her hair.
“Betty!” Adelaide Carson, Miss Virginia, sidles up beside her, a trail of red taffeta following, and embraces her. “I’m so glad you made it!”
“Oh, Addie, isn’t this simply a blast? I never even fantasized about what this would be like, because it never occurred to me in a million years I’d be here.”
“Me neither. I think most of us felt that way,” Adelaide says, before shooting a side-eye to Texas and California, now exchanging fake pleasantries as Texas shimmies into her voluminous gown. “Of course, some of the girls in here think they’ve already won.”
“They probably have,” Betty says, pulling yet another set of satin gloves up her arms. “Oh, fiddlesticks to all that! Let’s just go out and play dress-up and have a hoot!”
The hostess, louder now. “Thirty seconds, ladies!”
And so they line up in alphabetical order by state, Mary Barbara at the front, Adelaide at the rear, to be judged for their appearance in evening gowns. Betty has never experienced a sensation like this in her entire life.
“I think I’m going to topple over, right here on the spot,” Miss Chicago whispers back to her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll catch you,” Betty replies. “Assuming I don’t hit the floor first.”
Bob Russell’s voice echoes in the distance from the front of the stage. “And our first contestant in evening gown: Miss Alabama, Mary Barbara Adair!”
༶
And off they go, round and round, a carousel of distinctly American femininity, the only thing missing the lilting melody of the calliope. First in evening gowns, floating down the runway to polite applause and the occasional catcall, each girl carrying a bouquet and trying to sneak a glimpse toward the seating section where her family is stowed, unable to make out anything but shadowy figures. Then the first half of the remaining thirty-seven girls is called out for a final “presentation,” followed by the bathing suit competition—Betty silently says a prayer of thanks to Jesus for giving her the willpower to eschew the coffee roll she was craving this morning—and then more banter from Bob Russell, then the second half of the non-semifinalists comes out to take their final bows. Betty sits next to Ciji in the dressing room, waiting for their respective turns at talent. Mary Barbara’s aria from La Traviata was, Betty must admit, far superior to poor Miss New Mexico’s Bizet last night, although Betty still does not understand the pairing of this with Mary Barbara’s showing afterward of several ceramic vases she has made. Arizona has also finished her talent, a demanding, dramatic piano concerto Betty recalls from the preliminaries.
“So, whaddya think?” Ciji whispers.
“About what?”
“About the Top Five! Who do you think’s going to make it?”
Mary Barbara glances over, delivers a look that is simultaneously withering and sanctimonious. It’s as if she’s just discovered two filthy urchins from the local orphanage hiding backstage.
“I hope not her,” Betty replies.
“Yeah, I already know that. So does she, no doubt. Hey, maybe we will!”
“Don’t be silly. You might, but my road stops here. Half of these people are going to be asleep during my talent. Who wants to hear a dull harp solo?”
“You won your prelim! And Miss Slaughter went cuckoo for it. You said so yourself.”
“Miss Slaughter is an old fuddy-duddy from Florida.”
“Who do you think’s judging this thing? Most of those judges probably have records by Margaret Truman at home.”
“Margaret Truman doesn’t have any records.”
“You know what I mean. C’mon, tell me. I think it’s going to be Texas, definitely.”
Betty nods. “Definitely.”
“I saw New York State’s talent. She went on right before me the other night. The girl can twirl a baton, I’ll tell you that. She won her prelim, too, and the crowd went loony. So I think her, too.”
“That’s two.”
“Hmm. It’s tough, because the only girls in this fifteen who were at my breakfast table were Chicago, who was a chattering mess, and Oklahoma. And I don’t remember her saying anything to the judges at all. I don’t know. You can’t rule out our friend Mary Barbara over there, though. She may be a fake, but she’s gorgeous.”
“Ugh. I cannot imagine having to congratulate her if she becomes Miss America. But I agree with you about Texas. I think it’s going to be her, California—are you hearing her song right now? She’s pretty nifty. New York State, Virginia—because I am rooting for Adelaide—and . . . Rhode Island.”
Ciji nudges her with her shoulder. “Oh, Delaware. I love it when you talk sweet to me.”
They sit, looking mischievously at each other, as the applause in the hall swells once more, signaling the end of Miss California’s kicky rendition of “(I’m in Love with) A Wonderful Guy” from the new musical South Pacific. Across the room, Miss Chicago rises with her book—she’s doing a dramatic reading of poetry by Elizabeth Barrett Browning—and strolls purposefully toward the stage.
༶
Back in their matching Everglaze gowns, the fifteen semifinalists stand ramrod straight, lined up, glove to glove, like a collection of porcelain dolls standing on a little girl’s bedroom shelf. The evening gown contest is over, the swimsuit contest is over, the talent contest is over—Betty feels she didn’t render Hasselmans as well tonight, but lets it go—and now the divertissement is done (an adorable six-year-old playing Chopin) and the Miss Congeniality award has been formally presented�
�how giggly and lovely Miss Nevada looked when they announced her for the audience!—and it is time to learn the identities of the final five girls who will compete for Miss America 1950.
“I know all of these ladies must be very, very anxious,” Bob Russell says, holding the card with the names of the finalists in his hand. He saunters down the line and stops in front of Miss New York State. “How are you feeling right about now, sweetheart?”
“I don’t know. Am I still breathing?” she replies, setting off laughter in the audience.
“Hang in there, girls! Well, the time has come, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, turning back to the crowd. “In no particular order . . . your first finalist for the title of Miss America 1950 . . . is . . . Miss Alabama, Mary Barbara Adair!”
Mary Barbara steps forward, waving to the crowd as the boisterous Alabama contingent engages in a collective and suitably earsplitting rebel yell. Betty closes her eyes. What are these judges thinking? She’s a bad apple if ever there was one.
“Our next finalist . . . Miss South Carolina, Marilyn Hortensia Palma!”
The South, rising again. Betty exhales. Three more to go. Three more to go.
“And your next lovely young lady who still has a chance at being America’s queen is . . . Miss Arizona, Lydia Ann Fraser!”
A breathtaking rendition of Tchaikovsky’s jaunty Piano Concerto no. 1 in B-flat Minor. Very difficult to play something that quickly. I’m glad the judges noticed.
“Your fourth finalist for the title of Miss America . . . is . . . Miss Texas, Eleanor Patricia Wyatt!”
I knew it! I knew it. We all knew it. She’s going to win. She’s going to win. Oh, please, let her win over that terrible Mary Barbara.
“And this is it, ladies and gentlemen. The name of our last finalist for the title of Miss America 1950. And she is . . .”
Miss Florida clutches Betty’s hand tightly. Betty instinctively lifts her chin up, silently rooting for Ciji.
Catherine Grace Moore! Say it! Catherine Grace Moore!
“. . . Miss Delaware, Betty Jane Welch!”
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Oh. My. God.
She does not swear, does not ever take the Lord’s name in vain—her parents have been very vigilant on this point her entire childhood—but the only thing Betty can hear inside her head right now is herself screaming, over and over, Oh my God! As she untangles from embraces from Chicago and Florida on either side, she steps toward the front of the stage, daring to sneak a glance sideways down at Ciji, who is crying, her white-gloved hands alternating between covering her mouth and clapping.
Betty feels like she is moving slowly, so very slowly, as if her feet were trudging through a vat of glue, but in a few seconds she is in her place in line, next to the gorgeous and formidable Eleanor Wyatt, Miss Texas, who takes her hand with a grip equal to Miss Florida’s and whispers, in the twangiest whisper Betty has ever heard, “We made it!”
And as the spotlights swirl down from the rafters and the crowd whistles and cheers and screams, Betty looks out. And for the briefest of seconds the spotlight catches him, twenty rows back on the right, and Betty feels her face burst into a brilliant, genuine beam as she captures the image of tuxedoed Griffin McAllister on his feet, hands above his head, clapping for his favorite finalist for Miss America.
His warning is forgotten, her nerves are forgotten, everything she said or has done or wished or hoped or worried about this week is forgotten, as Betty stands under the hot, shining white lights and thinks, for the very first time, about what it would truly be like to be Miss America.
༶
“How can you stay so calm?” Lydia Fraser, Miss Arizona, asks Betty as they wait in a small anteroom backstage. The door is closed, and it is now just the four of them, along with a mousy hostess named Geraldine, each waiting for her turn to answer the “personality” question that will determine which of them ends up with the crown. Mary Barbara is first, already onstage, and Betty has little doubt she is well on her way through a monologue about how surprised and humbled she is to be here and all sorts of other steaming horse manure shoveled onto the judges.
“I’m actually scared to death,” Betty replies. “I never considered I might make it this far.”
“Well, I certainly did, and it’s much worse than I ever dreamed of,” Marilyn Palma, Miss South Carolina, interjects in her ladylike southern lilt. “What I wouldn’t give for a shot of whiskey right now.”
Geraldine arches a penciled brow but says nothing.
“I’d settle for a smoke right now,” Lydia says, shaking her body, trying to expel the nerves.
“I don’t know what y’all are fussin’ about.” Eleanor Wyatt, the ever-statuesque Miss Texas, crosses her legs idly, no small feat in a gown that looks like it came straight from Marie Antoinette’s closet. “I mean, somebody’s gotta win. It might as well be one of us.”
“I think you really mean it might as well be you,” Lydia says, laughing.
“Well, that tiara would look so good with my coloring . . .”
There is a knock at the door; Lydia is summoned. There is cheering in the distance. They will all be asked the same final question. Betty wonders how well Mary Barbara answered. She pictures her, answer completed, now standing on the stage, looking to see how the four who follow her fare and secretly hoping each and every one of them spouts incomprehensible gibberish.
“Well, it’s just us three now, chickadees,” Eleanor says. “The two southern girls and the girl from the smallest state.”
“Actually, Rhode Island is technically smaller,” Betty interjects. “But Delaware was the very first state.”
“Well, good for yeeewwww,” Eleanor says. “You sound like you’re ripe and ready to give an answer to those judges. Of course,” she says airily, standing up, “I get to go last. That’s the advantage of being from a state that starts with a T.”
“I guess you’re lucky Miss Wyoming didn’t make the top five,” Marilyn says.
“Honey, did you see her? Or West Virginia, or Wisconsin? Oh no, darlin’, I had my eyes on those girls from the start, just because of this moment right here. I wasn’t worried at all. At all. I’ve seen prettier faces at the rodeo. And I don’t mean in the stands, neither.” She rustles toward the mirror, analyzes her reflection.
“I think that’s rather unkind, Eleanor,” Marilyn says. Betty looks over at Marilyn’s face, serene and placid, and can easily picture her in the crown and sash. Despite Betty’s grudge about her gossiping with Mississippi, there is something intrinsically regal and ladylike about Marilyn. She seems gracious and genteel in a magnolia-scented way that she suspects both Mary Barbara and Eleanor can imitate but not intuit.
Eleanor takes a seat in front of the mirror, begins brushing the back of her hair. “Didn’t mean any offense,” she says. “I do apologize.”
Marilyn is about to say something when the door opens again, and Betty rises. As she gathers her skirt and walks through the doorway back toward the stage, she can barely make out Geraldine whispering, “Good luck, dear.”
༶
Betty has not been this close to Bob Russell the entire week, save for a brief moment when she collected her talent trophy during her preliminary. But now she stands, desperately trying not to fidget, desperately trying to appear easygoing and relaxed, as if she were stationed by the refreshment table at a lazy summer picnic. Inside a hot current roars through her body, like a downed electric wire hissing and flailing about a shallow pool of rainwater. It is terribly warm under the lights, but she feels clammy, as if she might begin shivering. Several times this week, she has noted how she has never experienced such nerves before. Now she knows that, in this moment, she has surpassed all of those occasions.
“Miss Delaware,” Bob says, “everybody here wants to know: How are you feeling right about now?”
“Oh, just fine, thank you, Mr. Russell,” Betty says. “Just another dull Saturday night.”
The audience laughs
. Betty feels some of the tension dissipate from her aching shoulders.
“Well, if this is a dull Saturday night for you, I need to get to Delaware pronto!” Bob says. More laughs, a smattering of applause. “Seriously now, though. I’m going to ask you the same question I am asking the other four finalists. You will have thirty seconds to answer. If you go over your time, you will hear this sound”—a pleasant bell tings. “Please direct your comments to the judges.” He flips up his card, begins reading. “Miss Delaware, please tell us: What person or event has impressed you most since you’ve been here in Atlantic City?”
Betty’s thoughts whisk together as Russell thrusts the microphone at her face. But there is no time to ponder the best answer. The best answer, she decides, is simply the one she feels is true. “I would have to say,” she begins, squaring herself slightly, “that the person who has impressed me the most during my stay here in Atlantic City has been my escort, Mr. Griffin McAllister. As you know, all fifty-two of us were assigned young men from the area to keep us company during this week away from our homes and families. Many of us were justifiably nervous about this prospect, because so many of our young men are held suspect in their motives. But the care, warmth, and generosity of spirit I received from this noble gentleman did more than simply allow me to pass the time here comfortably. You know, this week has been all about us girls. But Mr. McAllister has reminded me that a most elusive quality—gallantry—is still very much alive in our often-maligned young American men.”
The bell tings.
The cheering is quick and thunderous, and as Betty scans the shadows and shapes of the audience beyond the klieg lights, she thinks she sees several people actually on their feet. As Bob Russell thanks her and waves her over to her spot next to Lydia, Betty meets Mary Barbara’s dead-eyed stare. I have no idea what answer she gave, Betty thinks, but now I know that it wasn’t as good as mine.
The Night She Won Miss America Page 11