The Night She Won Miss America

by Michael Callahan

  “Let’s take it inside, kids,” Ciji says, hustling the three of them into the room and quickly closing the door, “before the pageant police come and bust up the party.”

  “Betty, I don’t know—”

  “Uh-uh!” Ciji interjects. “No talking until I’m gone. Okay, you two, I’ve done my part. But I am not risking my hard-earned scholarship money by staying to listen to this episode of Life Can Be Beautiful and having a hostess find me in here. I’ve got to get back to my hotel.”

  “Oh, Ciji,” Betty says, stepping forward to hug her. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Don’t you remember? I’m Joan of Arc. Just be happy, Delaware. You deserve it.” She takes Betty by the shoulders. “Now talk it all out, but make sure to get some shuteye. Tomorrow is a long day, and you’ve got to be in the surf in the morning. I’ll see you there.”

  Betty smiles. No, you won’t, she thinks.

  “Yes, ma’am. You’ve been an angel. I’ll never forget it.”

  Afterward, Griff takes Betty by the hand, follows her into the living room, flinging his hat onto the table as he topples with her onto the couch. He withdraws a silver flask from his jacket pocket. “Want some?” he asks.

  “As a matter of fact,” she says, “I do.”

  She takes a swig, choking softly from the earthy bite of the whiskey, hands the flask back to him. “How did you manage to get up here, anyway?”

  “Jerry helped us a bit.”

  “The Mole?”

  “Don’t call him that. It’s ungenerous.”

  “Sorry. How did he help?”

  “He walked into the lobby first, went to the front desk and up to the night manager, started asking him a bunch of questions about nothing. Ciji and I came in a few seconds later, pretending we were a married couple. I even had her wear my class ring backwards so it looked like a wedding band. And while the manager was busy dealing with Jerry, we sailed right on by to the elevators.”

  “I’m sure you two made a very convincing young married couple to the elevator operator.”

  “Well, she is an actress.” They both smile. It feels good to smile, to not be twisted and tortured with emotion. To pretend the last six hours have not happened.

  “Betty, I—”

  “Don’t, Griff, please don’t say another word,” she says, practically diving into his lap. “Not yet. There’s—there’s something you must know. I . . . I love you. And I know I told you that tonight, but you don’t understand. I love you so much, so much that it hurts all over inside. The thought of being without you, even for a day, it’s just unbearable. I know what you said and I just never imagined I would win, that was all, so I didn’t really think about it, and then there was all of this craziness and I got swept away by it. But I’m here now, sweetie, I’m here and I’m not letting you go ever again. I can’t. You must see, you must. I don’t want to be Miss America. I only want to be with you.”

  He touches her face with his thumb, wipes away her falling tears. “Betty, you can’t just walk away from all of this. And I would never ask you to. It would be terribly unfair. You’ve worked so hard—”

  “But that’s just the thing, I haven’t worked at all. Don’t you see? I never wanted any of this! I did it to appease my mother!” She tells him about how she was counting the days until Atlantic City was behind her and then she met him, marvelous him, and everything changed. How she doesn’t care about her parents or the pageant, any of it. Only him. “Oh, Griff, please. Please tell me we can be together. Take me home and let’s forget all of it.”

  “You don’t understand. They’ll never let you do that, Betty. And neither will my mother, for that matter. You signed a contract. It’s legal. You work for them for the next year. They’ll take everything from you: your scholarship money, they might even take you to court.”

  She drops her head onto his chest, threads her fingers tightly into his. For a while they simply sit in silence, wrapped in each other. “Can’t we just go somewhere?” she whispers finally, in the plaintive voice of a little girl. “Just for a little while? I can’t breathe. I just need to get out of Atlantic City. Let’s go somewhere. Someplace where they can’t find us. We don’t have to go forever, just until we can figure everything out. Together.”

  “It would mean an enormous scandal.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You really mean that?” His voice is grave, serious.

  “I do.” She looks up at him, the longing pooling in her eyes. “Will you help me?”

  His face is a plane of shifting shadows: indecision, fear, passion, protectiveness, determination, then back again. His brain is on overdrive, which he knows is risky. It’s when trouble happens. He thinks back to two nights ago, the terrible voices screaming at him . . . He knew that the stress of being Miss America’s beau would bring them back on a regular basis. But what if she is not Miss America after all? He strokes her hair. He does love her. So very much. He mulls telling her the truth. Doesn’t she have a right to know his secret? He suspects she does. And yet he cannot bring himself to mar this image she has of him, this perfect, unspoiled love she feels. “I love you so much, Betty.”

  “Then help me,” she says, leaning up and kissing him fully on the mouth. He leans into her and this time the kiss goes deeper, smoldering then fiery, then ferocious, animalistic. She wants him to devour her, to engulf her, to mesh their souls, to leave nothing behind. She slides the undone bow tie dangling from his neck, drops it onto the carpet, then begins slowly unbuttoning his shirt, sliding her right hand over his smooth chest. She feels the labor of his breathing, can make out the unvarnished lust in his eyes, now unlocked, set free. His left hand is on her, gliding up her slip underneath the robe, his right fingers sliding underneath her bra, circling her nipple. She gasps, and he tilts his chin up slightly, just away from her face, teasing her, wordlessly asking her to submit to her own desire.

  “Take me to bed,” she whispers.

  “Are you certain?”

  She does not recognize herself: not her voice, not her thoughts, not her commands. She doesn’t know this girl now taking control of her body. She only knows what she wants in this moment, and that she must have it. “Now. Please, Griff. I need you now. All of you.”

  He swoops her up in one seamless motion, the belt of her robe cascading to the floor, and once again locks his lips atop hers as he carries her into the bedroom.

  ༶

  In the milky predawn light, the sky is a swirling mix of pastels: blue, pink, purple, lavender. Griff awakens first, his arm still around her. He squints at the bedside alarm clock, tries to make out the time. Five twenty? He knows the hostess will be in at seven, maybe even earlier, to get Betty up and dressed for her appointment with the photographers, frolicking in the surf.

  He disengages from their entanglement, quickly dresses.

  I should leave. I should just write a note and leave her. It’s the right thing to do. She doesn’t mean what she was saying. Doesn’t understand what she’s giving up.

  Doesn’t know the truth.

  But then he looks at her, her angelic face resting on the pillow, and he knows he cannot abandon her again. If she has changed her mind, sees life differently in the light of day, so be it. But he loves her. He needs her, as much as she needs him. Maybe more. He wonders, selfishly, if she and her love could be the tonic he has been searching for all of these years, the remedy to what ails him. He feels strong now, in control, his head quiet. How can he ruin not only her happiness but what may be his only chance at his own?

  He kneels by her side of the bed, gently nudges her awake. “Hi de ho, my love. Good morning.”

  It takes her a minute to snap out of the haze of slumber. She reaches out, caresses his cheek. “My prince,” she says.

  He kisses her palm. “It’s time, Betty. It’s very early, but the hostess will be in soon to get you and then our chance is lost. If you want to do this, you have to decide for sure now. And if you do, you need to trul
y understand what it is you’re doing. What you’re giving up.”

  “But I’m not giving anything up,” she says. “I’m gaining everything.” The conviction in her voice is as clear as a classroom bell. “But where can we go?”

  His face beams. “Somewhere they’ll never look for us.”

  Fifteen

  If she is admitting it—and she isn’t, to anyone—Ciji is here only half for Betty’s benefit and half for her own. She does want to be supportive and, perhaps more than that, to find out how the summit with Griff turned out in the wee small hours of the morning. A clandestine meeting of lovers, secretly arranged in the middle of the night, in the penthouse of a seaside hotel—it was like a dime novel. And since she was the one who’d made it happen, she figured she had as much of a right as anybody to find out how it had all turned out. Though how she will ever get Betty alone long enough to tell her anything is a pickle.

  The other half of her motivation for hauling herself out of bed and walking down to the Claridge at this ungodly early hour on Sunday morning, she knows, is selfish, common, and more than a bit calculating. She justifies it by saying that her counsel to Betty all during the week surely contributed to her victory last night. And so if she is quoted as Betty’s roommate for the week, what harm can come of it? And if one of the photographers, tired of snapping pictures of Betty frolicking in the surf, decides a nice portrait of Ciji, her best contestant pal, would make a nice augment to his story, what could be the harm? So she has spiffied up just in case, in a white dress embellished with olive French embroidery, with of course matching suede and mesh peep-toes and a beret with a cocarde. She is ready for her close-up.

  She sits in an armchair in the lobby of the Claridge, spies two contestants—she thinks one of them is Pennsylvania—walking out, accompanied by their parents and bellmen wheeling what appears to be an obscene number of suitcases. Back to real life for all of them. Except, of course, for one of them.

  Where is she? Ciji wonders, glancing toward the cluster of photographers there to follow Betty and her various handlers as they trek down to the beach.

  She spies Miss Slaughter, obviously flustered, waving her hands by the elevator bank, and gets up and creeps closer, trying to figure out what’s going on. She stops a few yards away, pretends to examine a vase holding a huge potted fern, which now partially obscures her.

  “. . . don’t understand. Where is Maude? They were supposed to be down fifteen minutes ago. Grady, can you please tell me what’s going on? The photographers are waiting!”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Slaughter, but neither Mrs. Hodges nor Miss Welch is answering her phone. We’ve sent Georgette and Lois up to find out what’s keeping them.”

  Miss Slaughter unloads another dump truck’s worth of invective, which all seems to come back to how she has to do everything herself if she wants it done at all. She is in the midst of a fresh batch of nattering when the elevator doors open and a mousy, heavyset woman walks out, a look of panic plastered on her ruddy face. Ciji recognizes her: Maude Hodges, the pageant hostess who is to accompany Betty through the first leg of her tour as Miss America.

  Maude begins jabbering as the pageant officials all close in, making it difficult for Ciji to hear what’s being said. She inches closer.

  “. . . no sign of her. Most of her clothes are still in the room, but it’s an awful mess. Her gown is in a heap in the middle of the sitting room. Very untidy, very unlike Miss Welch. And I found a gentleman’s flask behind one of the sofa cushions. I think someone may have broken into the room!”

  “There is no sign of Miss Welch, anywhere?” Miss Slaughter, looking ashen.

  “No!” Maude is becoming hysterical, her voice piercing. “I think something terrible may have happened to her! We must contact the police at once!”

  Ciji dashes back down the hall, pauses to catch her breath against a lobby pillar. Oh Lord. What’s happened? She flips through the possibilities. Betty decided to run off with Griff. She was so distraught at losing him, but to do something that rash? It isn’t like her at all. And hadn’t she told Ciji just a few hours ago that she would see her for the splash in the ocean at nine? That left the other possibility: Griff had taken her against her will. But why? He was the one who had broken it off with Betty at the ball. Did something change, something happen between them that convinced him he had to have Betty solely for himself?

  What if she’s in danger? What if I’ve done something terrible?

  She peers back down toward the elevators, now a hive of activity. Ciji can see two hotel security officers conferring with Miss Slaughter. Surely the police are on their way. It won’t be long before the news spills out all over the Boardwalk: Miss America is missing!

  She should tell them. Of course, her scholarship will be lost. She may even be charged as an accessory if it turns out Griff has abducted Betty, and, however unwittingly, she helped him do it.

  Dammit, Delaware, you and your midnight phone call!

  She needs time to consider her options. Perhaps the police will find Betty within the hour—and if that happens, what has she achieved by throwing away her scholarship? A wave of nausea roils through her.

  I need to go somewhere and figure out what to do.

  She takes in another deep breath, strides confidently toward the Boardwalk doors of the Claridge.

  She’s about to push through when she feels a hand on her arm.

  “Hold on there, Miss Rhode Island.” Eddie Tate, the Press reporter. “Not so fast.”

  ༶

  He is not sure what wakes him: the commotion outside or the voices inside.

  His dream that being with her might cure him seems to be over before it has even had a chance to blossom into form. Griff looks over at Betty, curled up underneath the blanket on the floor of the boat. Oh, to be able to sleep so soundly.

  The voices grow louder. They tell him all sorts of things—that Betty is bad, that the FBI is watching them through the decal on the port side, that there is a shark sent by a Nazi regime in exile that carries a bomb in its teeth, and which will swim up in five minutes to destroy them—and he closes his eyes, accesses his exercises. Does he have time to get back to Longport to get his medicine? He shouldn’t go without it. But how can he go home?

  The boat bobs gently in the water. The sun is bright overhead, morning in full bloom. He opens his eyes, looks at his watch. Just after ten. His bones feel heavy, sore. How long have they slept? Not long. He is supposed to make sure he gets enough sleep. He must make sure of it going forward.

  He’d dashed down the hallway of the top floor of the Claridge, entering the fire stairs and flying down the twenty-four flights as quickly as his feet would take him, the small bag she had hastily packed swinging in his right hand the entire way down. She would be coming behind him in a few moments, but it would certainly take her longer to descend all the way to the ground floor. Which gave him enough time to retrieve his car, circle around to the back of the hotel, and whisk her away.

  He’d worn his fedora so low on his brow, in case he found company on the stairs, that he could barely see where he was going. But everything had gone shockingly smooth. He’d wheeled into the loading dock, deserted at daybreak on Sunday, and found her waiting and ready, a silk head scarf around her head, dark sunglasses hiding her eyes. They’d driven straight for the marina, where he’d quickly dashed in to the men’s changing room to retrieve fresh clothes from his locker, and they’d clambered into his boat just as the sun was rising. Safely away from any prying eyes, they’d moored two hundred yards off of Steel Pier—just a pleasure boat resting in the ocean on a sunny September day—allowing themselves to at last plummet into the safety of slumber.

  He is halfway out of his tuxedo when her eyes flutter open. Betty stares at him a moment, his features momentarily obscured by the sun, and hoods her eyes to get a better look at him. He is on his knees, smiling down at her. He wears no shirt, shoes, or socks, only his formal black pants.

  “You
caught me,” he says, smiling. “I was changing.”

  “Then it seems I awoke at exactly the right moment,” she says.

  “You’re rather feisty for a girl who’s just run away.”

  “I’m a girl who’s free.” She rises to her elbows. “What time is it?”

  “After ten. We need to go soon.”

  “I’m just so very tired. And hungry.”

  “I know. We’ll stop somewhere.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Still moored off of the Steel Pier. But there seems to be a lot of activity on the Boardwalk. I think our secret’s out.”

  A flash of worry sweeps across her face. “Do you think they know we’re here?”

  “No. They’d already have the beach patrol out to get us if they did. We’re lucky the weather’s so on the beam. This boat looks like a thousand other pleasure boats out on the water. But we haven’t much time. My parents will be looking for me soon.”

  “They’re probably frantic. I’m sorry.”

  “Now don’t go into a decline. They probably think I stayed with a friend last night. I told them I might. They won’t expect me until dinner. And by then—”

  “By then?”

  “We’ll be gone.” He stares at her gravely. “That is, if you still want to go. This is it, Betty. This is your last chance to change your mind. I’ll take you back. We can fix things in a jiffy. You can still be Miss America if you want to.”

  Her eyes are steely, brimming with resolve. “I only want to be with you.”

  He slides over to her, takes her hand in his. He turns it over. “You cut yourself.”

  She nods. “I was in such a rush throwing those few things together, I grabbed my razor by the top. I had tissue around it for a while.”

  He leans down, kisses her wound, takes her hand in his own. “But what about your family, Betty? They’re probably already worried sick about you. You didn’t even leave a note.”