“Where have you been? Taking attendance in traffic court?” I asked, refusing to look up as Curly Locks appeared.
He pulled his uninvited chair up to my desk.“You are a regular comedian. No, Ms. Phillips, I am capable of more than paint by numbers. So. How do you feel now that your first work of art is in Mr. Hicks’s hands?”
“I feel good, I think.” I was surprised that I felt nervous.“We’ll know tomorrow, won’t we?”
“Yes,my dear,we sure will. Your critics will be silenced, I’m sure.”
“Critics, I have critics?” I asked, thinking he was just trying to get me to react and hating myself that I was.
“Well, maybe skeptics is a better word.”
“Well, they’ve been mighty silent.”
“To you, yes.”
“But not to you?”
He got up from his chair to return to his desk. “Let’s just say, tomorrow they’ll be silenced.”
Poor Marla had been holding my calls since morning, so I went to her desk to thank her and see if I had any messages. She greeted me with a handful of pink While You Were Out notices. There were seven in all, each one from Miss Amber Topaz Cubic Zirconia Rhinestone Childers. She just wanted to make sure that we connected today to make plans for lunch tomorrow.
“She’s a persistent little thing, Savannah,” Marla said with a furrowed brow.“Just a persistent little thing.”
“Yes, she is, dear Marla. I sure appreciate your intervention.”
“Savannah, this switchboard is my domain. What I say gets through, gets through. And what I desire to hold, I will hold. What I say gets lost, well, it gets lost. And may I say, it has been my pleasure to get Miss Amber lost. Actually, I’ve lost her on a couple of occasions in the last fifteen minutes!” she said, trying to control herself.
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t you be sorry, Savannah. I’ll protect you.”With those words the phone rang and she returned to her seat. As I walked away, I heard, “Listen here, young lady. Miss Savannah is taking a lunch break. She needs her nutrition and cannot be bothered. And you have tied up my switchboard long enough. Now, I don’t want to hear from you one more time today. Do you understand me?” I couldn’t help but laugh all the way back to my Styrofoam paradise.
Mr. Hicks had not called me to his office by the time five o’clock arrived. That meant that either he was using my story or he was in desperate search of a replacement. I could only hope for the former.
The pink card underneath my windshield wiper was embossed with the words Amber Topaz Childers, Miss Savannah United States of America. I was being stalked by a crazed former beauty queen. Surely there were laws against women with big hair stalking women who were just trying to do an honest day’s work. The note read,“Sorry I haven’t been able to reach you today, but the lady at the switchboard is an absolute irritant. I’ll just swing by tonight and we can make our lunch plans. Love ya, Amber.” I made mental note to search out a good therapist. I might need one sooner than later. Just two weeks ago I was a healthy young woman. Now it seemed as though my mind was slowly becoming debilitated by mind-warping tales of marimba players and magicians—or was it ventriloquists? See, it was already happening.
I drove home, desperate to find something to do other than go home. I called Paige and asked if she wanted to go to a movie and grab some dinner. She was a go, so I risked a quick stop at home.
When I walked through the door, I could smell dinner. I knew Vicky would be disappointed that I wasn’t staying, but she would eventually get used to this new rhythm of my life. When I walked into the kitchen, she was standing in front of the sink rinsing a dish, and Dad was behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist, saying something in her ear that had her giggling.
Dad noticed me first.“Hey, sweet girl,” he said, coming over to give me a hug. My mother turned around too.
“Well, hey, darling,” she said, walking to the stove to remove what smelled like green beans.
“Hey!” I said and hugged Dad back.
Dad went over to the table, pulled out a chair, then sat down in the one across from it.“Savannah, sit down and tell us what happened today. We want to know all about your story.”
I sat down and went over the same thing that I had determined to tell everyone.“Well, you’ll be glad to know I actually wrote one.”
“Well,we thank the Lord for that,” Dad said, laughing and taking a drink of his iced tea.
I stood up and walked over to survey what good food I might be missing.“But I really want you to wait and read it in the morning. That way everyone can have an objective reaction.”
“Well, Savannah,” Dad said,“we look forward to reading it in the morning then.”
“And, Mother, I hope it’s no big deal, but I really need a mental breather tonight, so Paige and I are going to go see a movie and grab a bite to eat.”
She hid her disappointment, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and told me to have a good time.
Then I remembered I had one item of undone business. “Mother, by the way, your happy little director of tourism will be stopping by. Please let her know that I have been busy and will meet her for lunch tomorrow at The Lady & Sons at noon.”
That night as I was leaving Paige’s apartment, I noticed a small painting lying next to the door.
“When did you do that?”
“The other day. I was just trying something different.”
“I love it . The color is so vibrant and bold.”
“What would you expect?”
“Nothing less from you.”
“Do you want it?”
“I can’t take it.”
“Yes, you can. Consider it a congratulations gift for your new job.”
I scooped it up in my arms before she had any second thoughts.“OK. That sounds good. You hadn’t gotten me anything yet anyway.”
Home was wonderfully quiet. In less than ten minutes my head was on my pillow. My mind tried to run wild with all of the what-ifs that the morning could bring. But I put a halt to that and simply said a prayer of thankfulness that I had been able to write anything at all. Sleep came quickly, and it was the sweetest sleep I had known in quite a while.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
For an instant, I forgot that today was the day that my first article would appear in the paper. But then I was fully awake. Today was the day that Savannah would realize that I was or wasn’t a human-interest writer, was or wasn’t a suitable replacement for Gloria, was or wasn’t any kind of writer at all.
I jumped up, put on some jogging clothes, brushed my teeth, and ran downstairs. I grabbed the leash and attached Duke to it, grabbed the newspaper from the iron console, and didn’t stop running until I reached a bench on the perimeter of the park’s east side. I sat down and slipped Duke’s leash over the arm of the bench so he wouldn’t drag both of us after some fair lab. Opening the paper directly to the local section, there on the front page was my picture with my name under it: Savannah Phillips.
I was shaking so badly, I almost didn’t think I was going to be able to read it. I tried to breathe in about six or seven times and refocus my eyes, but they were getting blurred from sudden light-headedness. I leaned back against the bench and enjoyed the fact that at least Mr. Hicks liked some of it. I mean after all,my picture was there, so he had to have kept at least part of it. Sure, maybe he had edited it to smithereens, but if he used my picture, he at least had to have used my premise.
“Just read the story already, Savannah!” I said out loud. I looked down and began to read the product of my so-called investigation.
I have lived most of my life never quite understanding beauty pageants. Not that there is anything wrong with them; there just doesn’t seem to be anything necessary in them. They don’t solve world hunger; they don’t change the political climate; they don’t even do much to affect a city. But I have recently come to realize that no institution truly changes any of these things either. Hunger organizatio
ns don’t feed world hunger; people giving of their time, money, and energy do. The government doesn’t change the landscape of this nation; people who care about issues, who serve in blood banks and listen to the needs of the elderly in small corner cafés and play with children and repair dilapidated playgrounds, they do. And cities don’t change themselves, but people who love them, who give of their time and care about every detail from the trolley tour to the airport lobby, who build corner bookstores and open up coffee shops, and who raise the next generation to love their neighbor, they do.
So, as unnecessary as beauty pageants may seem, by this standard everything is unnecessary. What makes anything of value are the people who are a part of it. And yes, believe it or not, countless women who enter beauty pageants every year are some of the most productive, viable, and life-giving forces behind the very causes that matter most to each of us.
The time I have spent considering the relative value of beauty pageants has proven enlightening. I will spare you the many horror stories I have been forced to endure over recent days: tales of manufactured cleavage, dresses worn backward, and cymbal concertos. No, today I want to suggest that even though beauty pageants hardly fortify the fiber of a nation, they can shatter the life of an individual. And when a life is so shattered because of pride or greed, when it is thrown off its destined course, the fiber of a nation will ultimately be weakened.
Consider the story of one of the most beautiful women Savannah has ever seen. Today, her beauty is gone. Her glory is such a distant memory that I have wondered if even she recalls it.
Savannah’s jewel once won every pageant, every homecoming, and every heart. Her inner spirit was as beautiful as her physical self. I know, because on one of my more desperate days at the tender age of thirteen, I was the unexpected recipient of her compassion and kindness. But as I stood at her door just days ago and stared at her dirty T-shirt and uncombed hair, as I witnessed her grim outlook on life, I didn’t see how this could be the same person I once knew.
She had a dream too. A dream to be Miss Georgia United States of America. But when that dream was taken from her, the loss was too much to bear.
She came home, married a man who abused her, had four children, and has spent her life since forging a dreamless existence. I went to her home the other day, and as I wiped old Cheerios from the sofa, I tried to force her to see herself as she was, remind her of who she had once been. I wasn’t eloquent. Frankly, I wasn’t really even nice. But I was honest.
After I left her home, my anger at the people who had done this to her began to grow, so I went searching. And what I uncovered was an age-old story of greed, deceit, and lies, all in the name of money.
Some of you may blame her for allowing such a “petty” loss to destroy her own life. But I would challenge all of us to consider our power to affect others’ destinies. When we are entrusted with the life of another—to direct or guide or lead or aid—and we deem anything greater than that life, then we have devalued the greatest treasure any of us could ever have the privilege to bear.
If I could give Savannah’s one-time reigning beauty anything, I would restore her ability to dream. I would wrap up a crown, place it on her head, and assure her she is a princess. I would wash her face and comb her hair and try to help her remember her true beauty. But what’s done is done. We can’t go back. The choices we make to affect people’s lives are done. We can alter the future, but the path is forever littered with reminders of past losses.
I have much more to say, but today, I will urge you to nurture the personal destinies that fall within your realm of influence. Speak life into them, and help them find their wings. Because the life of a city is determined by the destiny and character of its individuals.
Until Friday,
Savannah Phillips
I sat back and realized I’d been holding my breath. I couldn’t believe it. Mr. Hicks had edited me more lightly than I could have hoped. Not only was my story intact, but most of the words were mine too. I grabbed Duke, kissed him square on his nose, grabbed his leash, and took off toward home.
I took the first eight steps of the staircase by twos. “Vanni, if that’s you, Mom wanted me to tell you that Amber is going to meet you at The Lady & Sons at noon,” Thomas said sleepily. I stopped dead in my tracks, took a breath, and continued my climb by twos. Not even Amber would be able to ruin this day.
I showered and dressed in a giddy mood. And I don’t do giddy. I sang every Barry Manilow song I knew. I danced around my bedroom like a woman unleashed. I swung on bedposts, tap-danced on the tile floor in my bathroom, even struck up a chorus of “I Write the Songs.” I’ve never written a song in my life, but by George, I wrote an article. And it was a good article.
I flitted to the closet and picked out something extremely “out of control.” I picked out a dress. Then I actually put it on. A black linen dress, but it was a dress nonetheless. I don’t know what came over me, but something did. And then I picked out a pair of Kate Spade shoes in black, which I had come to adore, that still flipped when I walked, but weren’t technically flip-flops.
“Somebody stop me!” I screamed at the mirrors that covered my sliding closet doors. Then I swirled around and about whipped myself too hard again, but this time I recovered with nothing more than disheveled hair freed from a ponytail holder. Hold on, Hannah. Savannah has let loose and traded her pulled-back do for a straightened mane of dark hair. I had forgotten how long my hair had become. I ran my hands through it, wondering if I could handle an entire day with this flopping around my head.
Well, today anything was possible. With one last gander at myself in the mirror, I took off down the stairs.
The seventh step from the top, my flip-flop-clad feet slid out from under me. The rest of the trip down was endured by my backside, though I tried to stop myself with one hand on the railing and the other descending the stairs beside me. I made such a commotion coming down that I thought surely the neighborhood would come in to check on me. Sitting on the floor in sheer agony, hoping for someone to kiss my boo-boo, it occurred to me that no one in the world would be hailing my latest achievement if they had witnessed my ungraceful fall.
The silence of an absent audience encouraged me to gather my dignity and my bruised behind. I headed out the door and shouted for all the world to hear, “Miss Grace has left the building.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In the mouth of the foolish lies one’s arrogance, but the lips of the sensible will preserve them.” No sooner had I read the words on Dad’s board than Judge Hoddicks walked over, grabbed me by both arms, and pulled me to him in a bear hug. I couldn’t breathe well, but at moments like this, you simply endure.
“Betty, I can’t tell you how wonderful I thought your article was. I laughed. I . . . well, I didn’t cry, but I thought about it. I just thought it was wonderful. I’ll be honest: I loved Gloria. I wasn’t sure you could pull it off, but you did. In fact, you more than pulled it off; you nailed it, baby. Caused me to think about how I treat those ol’ ornery criminals. I can’t wait until Friday. I cannot wait until Friday.”
I waited for more congratulations, but none came. Everyone seemed rather preoccupied with customers and all. Even Duke didn’t offer a lick, a wag of the tail, or a would-you-take-me-to-do-my-business look. I headed into the back to get a Coke and pulled Dad by the arm along with me.“OK. So tell me, what did you think?”
“I got up early to read the paper without interruption, but it was gone and so were you and Duke.”I slapped my forehead and groaned. “I heard your mother get up earlier, around five, and I wanted her to have time to digest whatever you had written by herself.”
“She read it already?” I asked wide-eyed, anticipating some dramatic retelling of every word and sigh and tear.
“Yes, she read it.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“Nothing.”
I considered this.“Well, did you know I was doing something about the pageant?”
I finally asked, nudging his arm.
“That didn’t take an Einstein, Savannah. An investigative journalist you may be; a subtle one you are not.” That made us both laugh. “So, I got ready, told Thomas to bring Duke on his way to the courthouse, and sat here with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. I wasn’t sure what you would say, Savannah,” he said, his eyes more intense than I had seen them in years.“I knew you wouldn’t hurt your mother, but I also knew that you wanted a story that would declare your legitimacy. I wasn’t quite sure how you could protect one and accomplish the other.” He paused for a moment. “And to be honest, I’m not so sure you did.”
Every ounce of my energy left. I put my drink down and tried to speak. “What . . . what do you mean? I didn’t say anything bad about Mother. I didn’t even talk about her.”
“This isn’t about your mother, Savannah. This is about Emma.”
“I didn’t say anything untrue about her. I didn’t even use her name.”
“No, maybe not technically, but you described her according to your opinion. Do you think anyone doesn’t know who you were talking about? And did she ever tell you she wanted to be talked about? Or that she wanted her life told in the paper? Or that she even cared if she had lost the pageant at all?”
I stood there trying to get my taxed brain to register his barrage of questions. I had been through so much. It had been a long week. I had just fallen down the stairs, for goodness’ sake.
“I thought I would be helping her. Trying to find out who did this to her and why. Putting a face to her pain.”
“Savannah, you needed to know that she wanted a face to her pain. Now the only face she might see when remembering her pain is you.”
That was so far from my intent that I hardly knew what to say. “Do you really think this will hurt her? I tried not to even make it about her.”
“But it was, Savannah. The message behind the whole thing was Emma, or a bunch of Emmas. Or not becoming an Emma. Can you imagine someone writing about you, about how horrible your life would be if you became a Savannah?” He stopped, realizing that his words were cutting me to the core.
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