The Night She Won Miss America

by Michael Callahan

  Marilyn Palma, the pride of South Carolina, sweeps onto the stage and in her answer talks about the warmth and welcoming spirit of the people of Atlantic City.

  Finally it is time for Eleanor Wyatt, Miss Texas, who makes an entrance befitting the belle of the county. She listens intently to Russell’s question.

  “Oh, Mr. Russell! What a wonderful thing to ask!”

  It’s an old pageant trick, Betty knows. You buy time to think with a bridge sentence before actually answering.

  “Well, I would have to say that the event that has impressed me most this week has been our two breakfasts with the judges,” Eleanor continues. “Their probing questions and interest in our lives and goals were not simply conversation, but, I feel, a way for all of us who have competed for the title of Miss America to examine ourselves inside, to dig deep down and to ask ourselves how we might do better to be of the utmost service to our God and our country. Thank you.”

  Wow, Betty thinks.

  As the judges converge to tabulate the final scores, Russell announces a list of dignitaries in the audience—Mayor Bernard Samuel of Philadelphia receives a disproportionately loud welcome—before introducing, for the final time, Miss America 1949, who glides down the runway to suitable fanfare, her ermine-trimmed cape trailing majestically behind her. As she returns to the stage, Betty stands squarely in the middle of the five finalists, and watches as Russell retrieves the notecard with their fate. She wants to see a friendly face—Griff, her mother, Ciji—but keeps her eyes trained on the host, takes the hands of Lydia Fraser and Marilyn Palma, standing on either side, in hers.

  And waits.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I have here the final results of this year’s Miss America Pageant,” Russell bellows like a carnival barker, upping the suspense. “We shall start with the fourth runner-up, who is . . . Miss South Carolina, Marilyn Hortensia Palma!”

  A hand squeeze and Marilyn leaves for the middle of the stage, where a page hands her a bouquet of roses and then hustles her off to the side. If she’s wildly disappointed, she masks it superbly.

  “Your third runner-up in this year’s contest is . . . Miss Arizona, Lydia Ann Fraser!”

  Betty puts an awkward arm around Lydia, but the poor girl has already been swamped in a hug from Mary Barbara, who grabs her by the shoulders and bellows, “You did graaayyyt!”

  Heaven help us.

  With only three of them left, Betty and Mary Barbara are forced to join hands. Mary Barbara’s smile is so tight, she looks as if her face might crack. Betty is in the midst of calculating how much scholarship money she will receive for third place when Bob Russell’s rich voice interrupts her thoughts. “And now, the third runner-up . . . Miss Alabama, Mary Barbara Adair!”

  As a clearly dazed Mary Barbara drifts aimlessly toward the front of the stage and her bouquet of consolation roses, reality slaps Betty square in the face. She is one of the last two girls standing. It is her and Eleanor Wyatt. She wonders if people can discern her utter bewilderment. She feels Eleanor turned toward her, their two gloved hands now intertwined, Eleanor’s head bowed in silent prayer, as a furious buzzing roars through Betty’s ears.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Russell squares himself, as if he’s about to deliver a knockout punch or launch into a Broadway opening number. “And now here we are, the moment we’ve all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen: Your new Miss America 1950 is . . . !”

  A thousand sounds—whooshing air, papers rustling, random whistling, heavy breathing, frantic whispering—sough around Betty’s head. Though she is struck by how quiet the auditorium of twenty-three thousand people is in this one moment. In this unexpected, crazy, heart-pounding moment.

  And then it comes.

  “. . . MISS DELAWARE, BETTY JANE WELCH!”

  It all collapses on top of her: Eleanor Wyatt, pulling her into a sobbing bear hug of both congratulations and bitter disappointment; a gentle push at her lower back from persons unknown guiding her toward the middle of the stage; Eleanor vaporizing off to the side; the outgoing titleholder placing the dark sash across her chest blaring: MISS AMERICA. The cape sliding onto her shoulders. The crown being pinned to the top of her head. The hysterical explosion of noise.

  I’ve done it.

  I’ve won Miss America.

  I’m Miss America!

  Joe Frasetto, the orchestra conductor, swings his baton, and a reprise of “A Toast to Miss America” fills the hall, and Betty goes staggering down the runway, Miss America’s runway, her runway, and as tears of joy and exhilaration and relief begin to leak down her cheeks, she smiles—Smile! Smile!—and turns to the left, and turns to the right, and the flashbulbs go off, and she waves, and she thinks to herself, This is the most amazing moment of my life.

  Twelve

  Too much. Too much noise, too much shouting in her ears, too many flashbulbs going off, blinding her in place. And too many people, pawing at her, clawing at her, spinning her this way, turning her that way, talking to her, barking over to her, waving to her, screaming her name. In the fleeting moments where she has indulged in the covert daydream of mulling what it would be like to win Miss America, nothing she conjured matched this.

  She has stood before the members of the press, answered a few questions, endured the taking of what seems to have been a thousand pictures, and is now at this moment being hustled down some dim corridor in the bowels of Convention Hall. She desperately needs a few moments alone to gather herself, but she is told there is no time, just one more thing and then we can do that, just this and then that and then this. Miss Slaughter, silent and mirthless, marches ahead of her like a prison matron jangling her keys, about to lock her away in a cell.

  And isn’t she?

  Who are all of these women now surrounding her, whispering instructions in her ear, holding her cape, scribbling notes in various small leather-bound books? She looks ahead, where Mr. Haverstick now walks in lockstep with Miss Slaughter. She overhears the two of them talking about her schedule, her travel. About her life, which they now own for the next twelve months.

  They had brought her family backstage to see her, and she had collapsed into her mother’s arms, crying like a four-year-old who’d skinned her knee, all of the anxiety and pressure and sensory overload spilling out in one spontaneous burst. Her mother had admirably struck the right balance of being overjoyed and soothing, stroking her hair like she had when Betty was a little girl, telling her what a marvelous thing she’d accomplished, how proud they all were. But it was not enough. Not nearly enough. Before Betty even knew what was happening, her family had been shuffled away, waving to her as they backed out, her brothers yelling silly, juvenile epithets.

  Where is Griff? I want to see Griff.

  Miss Slaughter abruptly pivots, and the whole ersatz parade comes to a sudden halt. “We traditionally have the new Miss America give the Press an exclusive interview for ten minutes before we go on to the ball, so they can make their deadline for the morning paper,” she says. “So we’re going to have you sit briefly with their reporter. I have details to attend to, so I will be going directly to the Steel Pier, but Mr. Haverstick will remain and escort you to the Coronation Ball. Do you have any questions, dear?”

  A thousand.

  Miss Slaughter places a light hand on Betty’s forearm, tries to summon something akin to maternal regard. “Now, Betty, please do not worry. I know how overwhelming all of this must seem right now. I can assure you it’s perfectly normal. We’ve had girls who’ve practically needed smelling salts after they’ve won. It’s all going to be fine, you’ll see. You don’t have to fret about a thing. You are about to embark on the most exciting year of your life. Now,” she says, “let’s see that happy smile!”

  Another year of smiling edicts.

  Betty does as she’s told. The crown is tight and digs into the sides of her head, which now throbs. They turn into a meeting room, and there at a table sits Eddie Tate, looking exceptionally dapper in what is surely
his best navy suit and silver tie, his notebook already flipped open. He stands up, extends his hand. “Miss Welch,” he says with a formality that might suggest they were meeting for the very first time. “My sincere congratulations to you.”

  She shakes his hand, thanks him, searches his face for camaraderie but finds only perfunctory expectancy. As she sits, out of the corner of her eye she sees Mr. Haverstick, puffing out his chest like a rooster, surveying the two of them, and she understands. Eddie is trying to protect me. He doesn’t want anyone at the pageant to think I really know him. Miss Slaughter and her hens disperse amid suitable fluttering; it’s just Betty, Eddie, and Mr. Haverstick.

  “So . . .” Eddie says, picking up his pen, “I’ll ask you the question everyone in America wants to ask: How does it feel to be the new Miss America?”

  She can answer many things, but she knows she cannot answer with the truth. “Surprising,” she says. At least somewhat truthful.

  But perhaps what is most surprising, to her at least, is how quickly she is able to muster the proper answers, bland and predictable platitudes that have Mr. Haverstick beaming, about how she is looking forward to her year of service, how she hopes she can inspire other young women, how grateful and honored and humbled she is to be given this title, how she hopes to become worthy of the other women who have held it before her.

  She does not mean a word of it.

  She manages to say one thing that is 100 percent true, which is that she is extremely happy to have won this much scholarship money, which might allow her to now go on to pursue a master’s degree if she so chooses. Eddie dutifully scribbles it all down. With every question, she wishes he would drop his mask of professional indifference, see her as she is on the inside, a knot of nerves and doubts, and to speak comfort to her, to be the Eddie from the Boardwalk today, the Eddie she knows cares about Betty the girl, not Betty the Miss America. But he cannot, and she knows he will not.

  Mr. Haverstick places a firm hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I think you should have enough now, Mr. Tate,” he says in his FDR tone. “We must be getting the queen to her subjects.”

  A quiver drops down her spine. He can’t really have just said that, without any trace of the ironic.

  “Of course,” Eddie says, closing his notebook. “Well, thank you, Miss Welch, and best of luck to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tate,” she says, as tears suddenly spring to her eyes. “I’ll need it.”

  As he exits, Betty turns to Mr. Haverstick. “I am so very sorry to be a bother, Mr. Haverstick, but might I trouble you for a glass of water before we go?”

  “Of course, my dear.” He looks around. “Oh my, I think all of the ladies have already gone over. Let me see what I can find. You just stay here for a moment and rest yourself. I’ll be right back.”

  Betty slumps back into her chair. She removes the crown, which catches on her hair. “Owwww!”

  “Careful, careful!”

  Eddie, suddenly back, hovering over her, carefully plucking away myriad strands, smoothing them back in place as Betty finally dislodges the crown and slides it onto the table. She gently brushes his hand away, begins matting down her hair. “I’ve got it. Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “Forgot my hat,” he says sheepishly, reaching over to pick up his navy fedora on an opposite chair. He twirls it around in his hands. “They left you all alone?”

  “Mr. Haverstick is getting me some water.” She smiles. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more quotable answers. I guess not much has changed since our first meeting.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” His gaze bores into her, and the intensity makes her lower her eyes. “Besides,” he says, “everybody just wants to see the pictures, anyway.”

  She looks up at him plaintively. “Oh, Eddie. How did this happen?”

  “You were the obvious choice. Everybody seemed to know that but you.”

  Her face falls.

  “Hey, hey! You’ve just been crowned the most beautiful girl in America! You should be happy. You deserve it. You do.”

  “It’s just a lot to take in,” she whispers. “All of these people everywhere, and . . . I feel . . . alone.”

  He flings his hat onto the table, bends over, and tilts up her chin with his hand. “You’re not alone, Betty Jane Welch. You’re . . . I mean, you’re . . . sensational.”

  And then his face comes closer, and she can feel his breath on her, and he kisses her—softly, so softly, his lips buttery and gentle—and for a moment she forgets herself, places a hand on his cheek, surrenders to his affection and warmth.

  Footsteps approaching.

  She pushes him away just before Park Haverstick enters the room, holding a glass of cold water.

  His eyes narrow. “Mr. Tate? May I ask what you’re doing here? Your interview was concluded.”

  Eddie quickly wipes his lip with the back of his hand, swipes his fedora off the table. “Just came back to retrieve my hat. My apologies, Mr. Haverstick.” He brushes by the scowling pageant president, turns briefly in the doorway to look at her. Betty can clearly see the sorrow in his eyes as he wordlessly mouths, “Not alone,” before he vanishes.

  ༶

  Patsy is being Patsy, whirling around the room like a belly dancer, and it’s worsening the headache that immediately started up again after Betty had to place the crown back on her head. She is in yet another side room, this one off of the Steel Pier ballroom, and it is packed with people: her family, pageant folk, her state pageant folk (one of whom, a shrill, beak-nosed woman named Phyllis, keeps shrieking, in the most offensive decibels possible, “It’s just so crazy!”), and most of all Patsy, who has been peppering her with questions more probing than Eddie Tate has ever queried. In the distance Betty can hear the lilting melodies of an orchestra, the din of conversation, everyone waiting for her.

  “It’ll be just a few more minutes, dear,” a hostess says. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  Yes, you can get me out of here. Just for a minute. I need to find someplace to be alone. To breathe.

  “I need to use the powder room. Can you take me?”

  “I’ll take you!” Patsy says.

  “I’m sorry, but an official hostess must accompany Miss America at all times,” the woman says, appropriately beatific. She turns to Betty. “Of course, Miss Welch. Just follow me.”

  Her departure sets off a chain reaction of concern, as the hostess assures everyone that Betty is simply going for a minute to freshen up. Betty pictures the year ahead, being surrounded by a phalanx of hovering hostesses, like Queen Victoria and her court. How will she be able to see Griff, kept under lock and key like this? Surely other girls before her have had boyfriends, perhaps even a fiancé. There must be some provision made.

  As they reach the powder room, Betty feels a tap on her shoulder, turns to see . . . Ciji.

  “They let you out of the cage so soon!” Ciji says, hugging her. “I’m so glad I got to see you before they whisk you away for good!”

  The hostess purses her lips in disapproval, interjects that time is pressing and that they must be “getting on.”

  Getting on? Who says “getting on”?

  Betty seizes the moment. “I am so sorry, but would it be all right if Miss Moore accompanies me in? It’s just that we were roommates for the week, and this is the only time we’ll be able to say goodbye, and it would mean so very much to me if you could extend me this kindness.”

  The hostess hesitates, emphasizing the irregularity of all of this. She takes a look behind them, confirming the all-clear. “All right, but do be quick about it,” she says. Betty and Ciji sweep into the ladies’ lounge, quickly closing the door.

  Ciji shakes her head. “Well, you’ve really done it this time, Delaware. I have to say, I am impressed. Did you see the look on Mary Barbara’s face?! It was almost as good as the one Eleanor Wyatt had when they announced her as the first runner-up! We’ve won the Civil War yet again!”

  Betty laughs. A
nd then, out of nowhere, cries. And cries.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Ciji says, folding her into an embrace. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s too much, Ciji. I know you were always admonishing me when I said I wasn’t going to win, and it turned out you were right to. Because I am completely unprepared for this.”

  “Honey, anyone would be. One minute you’re playing your harp, the next you’ve got a million people pulling at you. But it’s just for the moment. It’ll all die down soon enough. You should be enjoying this! You’ve earned it. They could not have picked a prettier, nicer, more deserving girl. You’re just overwhelmed, is all. But this is a happy night. This is your night. You need to go out there and enjoy it, so you can tell your grandchildren about this.”

  Betty swallows, nods. “Yes. Of course. Of course, you’re right.” She takes Ciji’s handkerchief, dabs her eyes, blows her nose. “Have you seen Griff?”

  “I have,” Ciji says with a smile. “He’s here, he looks dandy as all get-out, and I am sure he cannot wait to take you in his arms and dance with you.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Betty says, visibly trying to calm herself. Griff is here. Ciji is here. My family is here. Even crazy Patsy is here. People who care about me are here, and this is for me, this is to celebrate something I have done, the beginning of a marvelous journey.

  She takes Ciji’s hand. “Thank you for being my friend,” she says hoarsely, trying not to cry again.

  Ciji’s eyes shine as she gives Betty one big, final hug. “I will always be your friend, Delaware, the girl you can call in the middle of the night to rally the troops. Tell you what: We’ll have a code. You’ll say, ‘Joan of Arc, I need you,’ and I’ll be there.”

  Thirteen

  It feels like her wedding. She walks onto the polished wooden floor of the Marine Ballroom on the Steel Pier, looks at the pennants crisscrossing the ceiling, the orchestra in the front, the throngs on either side, applauding and beaming at her, and she thinks that this is how it must feel to be a bride, to draw the attention of everyone around you as you make your first grand entrance as Mrs. Whoever. But she is not Mrs. Whoever. She is Miss America.