by Michael Lund
Late one night after a school dance, she and some other friends had been riding in a car driven by Billy Rhodes that got caught by a train coming through town. She'd been banged up pretty badly and never really regained her popularity with boys.
Her Dad, the storeowner, was a powerful citizen, in with the mayor and other civic leaders. A lot of kids said he couldn't stand anyone dating his daughter, at least more than once. Some even said he had it in for Hugh Noone, who was going out with Patti when she got hurt. But Hugh got in some trouble with Linda Roy and ended up, I think, in jail or something for it.
Anyway, I could see right away Mr. Simpson had a good deal supplying dresses to Miss Route 66 Pageant contestants--no competition for him. This was my first clue about the inner workings of things surrounding the competition, though I little understood then how far this network of powerful people extended. Mary did give me a hint before she left the store.
"This is going to cost even more than last year," she whispered to me as I examined myself in the three-way mirror.
"Cost?" I had assumed, I think, that there were no costs beyond the initial $20 application fee, which I'd saved from summer baby-sitting.
"Simpson makes a killing on the pageant. He can charge whatever he wants for the gowns, and we have to pay."
"How much . . . what do you think this is going to be?" My baby-sitting earnings had gone down with the start of school.
"This will be a hundred dollars," she says, lifting and dropping a piece of the dress on my hip. "There's no money in swimsuits," she adds.
I suck in my breath, realizing I'll never come up with that kind of money. I'll have to ask my parents, and I'm not sure they'll go along with spending so much on just a "sweet" girl.
Mary's choice of dramatic reading, by the way, is interesting, perhaps even an eerie forecast of what is to come for her. When Viola speaks to Olivia for the Duke in Shakespeare's play, she is disguised as Cesario, a man. Olivia becomes enraptured with Cesario/Viola, but Viola/Cesario has fallen in love with the Duke, whose spokesperson she/he was. Things get sorted out in the end, as generally happens with Shakespeare's romantic comedies, but in the meantime, what a mess!
The mixups that would occur in our little pageant that year in Fairfield were in their own way just as strange, but they were never really straightened out. At least they weren't that year. My imminent return to Fairfield, however, is intended to accomplish that long-called-for resolution.
5
The day of the duo flute performance came more swiftly than I'd anticipated. School had resumed in September, of course, so my days were busier. And, in addition to baby-sitting, I had regular bird-sitting duties.
"Come here," Juliet would say to me, especially after a day alone. "Pretty bird," she'd add, and her greens and yellows were impressive. She generally appreciated company, so I took her "Hello there" as heartfelt. When she said, "Pet me," I tried not to be led astray.
I wondered if a mate for her was truly on his way from Africa, a life partner to share the cage with. Perhaps Juliet's owner would get them a larger cage. And, if Tricia was right, Juliet had the run (flight?) of the apartment in Springfield, so the two lovers might even have a sort of freedom.
There could, then, be another generation of parrots later on, I assumed. Eggs, then what?--parrot chicks, chickadees, parakeets? I didn't know. But, now that she was a regular companion, I wanted Juliet to have a good life, to feel she'd fulfilled her destiny.
Her destiny did not include being among the guests for our recital, of course. A less exotic assembly had been invited: my parents were hosts; Sandy was best friend; my most regular customers, the Robinsons, and their twin girls (aged four) were there with our minister and his wife; Tricia was home for the weekend.
This wasn't a crowd, and they were all friendly. So the recital wouldn't be a severe test of my performance ability. Still, it was another significant step along the way to the Miss Route 66 competition.
My parents had been less surprised that I wanted to do this than they'd been that I purchased my own flute. I guess the one unanticipated act prepared them for a second. And, with less resistance than I'd expected, my Dad said he would pay for the dress and any other incidental expenses I incurred along the way.
On the day of the performance, I spent a lot of time choosing what to wear rather than practicing my pieces . I don't suppose that was good musicianship, but, new to appearing in public like this, I found the distraction calmed my nerves.
Tricia and Mom had offered to review outfits with me, but I especially wanted not to be guided by them at this point. It wasn't that I was resentful of my mother's experience or jealous of my sister's success. But I needed to make my own decisions, for better or for worse.
I had hoped Sandy might drop by to help me, but she was busy on some project and I couldn't catch up with her by phone. So it was me and a closetful of options. Whatever I wore, it had to feature my flat stomach.
Holding up a dress on its hanger, I wondered if my flute playing could really equal Sally's baton twirling or Mary's rendition of Shakespeare. I had to stay still when they had numerous moves to choose from. Sally would even have music just like me, a recorded march song or popular tune. All I could do was stand and blow.
It struck me that, dramatizing or marching in place for this beauty pageant, none of us girls could be as ambitious as boys in their endeavors. Sixteen and with a driver's license, a boy could picture himself journeying Route 66 to adventure. We could drive too, but our future travels were likely to be more restricted--trips to the grocery store, the pediatrician, the dry cleaners.
Along the stretch of old Route 66 that came through Fairfield there were many businesses--tire shops, automobile repair places, construction companies--run by men and catering to a masculine clientele. Only one establishment was run by a woman, Fanny's Dairy Delite.
Boys and men came there too, of course, as ice cream, milk shakes, sundaes, and sodas are universally popular, especially in summer months. Even during cold seasons, Fanny's stayed busy by offering sandwiches, french fries, and hot drinks. It was located a few blocks from the famous Banner Hotel, a stopping point for wealthier, out-of-state travelers on their way east or west.
Sandy and I often met at Fanny's after school rather than at one of the downtown drugstores. It was on our regular cruising route through town, a convenient place to stop. Somehow we felt freer to explore unconventional ideas in this roadside dessert shop. I think it was the place we talked most openly about sex.
"Are you nervous about your performance?" she'd asked me earlier.
"Some, I guess. But it's just going to be friends. And I need to practice playing in front of people for the pageant."
"Fanny," by the way, was a fictional character, represented in the outline of a motherly figure on the sign mounted above the door. A slightly stout, cheerful matron sporting an apron and waving a welcome, she was visible to anyone driving down Kingshighway.
"I bet you're going to wet your pants," she teased.
"Hummph. That's not going to happen!"
The Delite was run by two older women. One, Mrs. Hamilton, had been a nurse at Phipps County Hospital for years. The other, Miss Powers, had taught sixth grade in Fairfield to several generations. Running their own business had been a dream for them when they were growing up on neighboring farms south of town.
"What if you mess up? Do you keep on, or start again?"
"My mom says you keep playing. Don't let on you've played the wrong note or skipped a measure."
That is, of course, good advice. No performance is ever absolutely perfect, so carrying through to the end is important. Most people will remember the whole, not isolated parts.
"Randy coming?" asked Sandy.
"No, no. We're not seeing each other."
"Um-hum. Any eligible guys?"
"Hey, I'm not nervous, but I might be if there were guys I was interested in there."
"So there are guys you're interested
in now?"
"Maybe. What about you?" I'd decided it was time to change the focus of this conversation. "Anyone watching your rump-jiggling walk?"
She chuckled. "I think I'm getting some good looks."
"What do you look at with guys?"
As I asked this question of Sandy, I wondered what I looked at myself when boy-watching. The allure of female breasts and behinds was known and acknowledged in those days. But a girl's attraction to a boy was more general, more diffuse.
"Me? I go for the big-shouldered ones."
Broad shoulders? Yes, they mattered. Square jaw? I suppose so. Trim build, above-average height, good muscles? All these things were important, but none was compelling to me.
Yet I knew which boys were attractive. I knew which boys I could fantasize about being with. What drew me on?
Mentally I scanned the male body, examined it from the front, the side, the back. Initially, it was dressed in slacks, white dress shirt, and a tie. Then that figure dissolved in my imagination and a boy in bathing trunks appeared. This one was not overly tall, a bit stout, a lot like Randy.
I discarded my old boyfriend's figure and began to watch another take shape in my mind's eye. When I saw it clearly, I blushed and told Sandy I had to go. Not only did I not say whom I had pictured, but I gave no hint that my attention had been powerfully drawn to the area of his mouth organ!
My mother had proposed we stay out of sight while Tricia welcomed and seated guests at the recital. The flutists were to stay in the kitchen, composing themselves for the performance.
I saw no reason why this wouldn't work, and during the time the doorbell was ringing and people were greeting each other I stayed quite calm leaning against the stove, imagining my fingers doing what they should be doing.
I remained calm, that is, until I stepped into the dining room, saw the faces of my assembled audience, and recognized, sitting beside Sandy, none other than the man of my dreams, Paul Thornton.
6
After the performance, which did have gaffes (but nothing major), I was so excited I'm not sure I even spoke with Paul, the college guy who'd come to my recital! Tricia had put out cookies and punch, and in the buzz of the reception I don't remember much specific conversation with anyone.
There was, I must admit, rather enthusiastic applause after my playing, and seemingly sincere congratulations. Some of it was for my mother, since no one except my father had known of her past training. But she was gracious in turning attention away from herself and over to me, the fledgling musician.
The pieces I played were pretty much standard for beginning and intermediate flutists, things like (if I remember correctly) Nelhybel's "Scherzo" and Bizet's "Entr'acte." But I played them (mostly) with precision and with, as my mother said, "a real feel" for the music. She and I played a Kohler and Moyse sonatina together and two very short pieces.
Just as encouraging to me as the praise for my musical ability was the fact that everyone seemed to accept me as a viable candidate for the Miss Route 66 crown.
"Honey," said Mrs. Robinson, "we're going to be so proud of you. Our girls will be in the audience to watch you put on the crown."
Mrs. Taylor, the minister's wife, was also encouraging. "After that contest now, Susan, you keep on playing the flute. You're a natural."
Having played the flute for some decades now, I can acknowledge being blessed with a reasonable talent. This date of my home recital figures not only as a stage in my beauty contest career but also as important in a lifetime of musical performances. The pieces my mother chose for me to play were part of a repertoire that continues to expand even now.
All that was good, of course. But what sent my blood racing was Paul Thornton's obvious interest in me. He'd come to hear me play!
Sandy had to be given the credit for snagging him and bringing him along. That must have been why I had trouble catching up with her earlier in the day. She was seeing to my love life!
When I took her aside for a minute to ask how she'd pulled this off, she tried to apologize for surprising me. "I can explain . . . ," she began.
"No, no. It's OK. I don't mind. It was great."
"But there's one thing I should tell you. . . ."
"We'll talk later," I said as Tricia tugged at my elbow. She was insisting I pose for a picture with Mom, each of us holding our instruments.
Sandy and Paul got away from the house before I could thank him properly for coming. But, flushed with my overall success, I knew I would follow up on this opportunity. Before I caught up with Paul again, though, I unexpectedly spent some time with his brother, the worm farmer.
Several days after the concert, I was hiding out in my escape hammock, indulging in some self-congratulation for my past efforts as well as fantasizing about future successes. It was another beautiful fall day, crisp enough for a heavy sweater, but warm in the sun.
Once again a nearby voice drew me out of my reverie. "Is it time to harvest these, Susan?"
I pulled my head up over the edge of the hammock and looked in the direction of the voice, which came from across our backyard fence. There I saw Larry, tossing a pear the size of a tennis ball in one hand.
"Hmm, I'm not sure. It could be." I paused. "Um, what are you up to, er, over here?"
Larry was standing in the corner of Old Man Simpson's back yard. I sat up in the hammock, swinging my feet out on that side. He rubbed the pear, sniffed it.
"I was over at Billy's. He's got some chores to do, so I thought I'd come across the street and check out the crop." Of course, there were pear trees on Billy's side of the street, so I suspected that his inspection tour was an excuse.
Now that I thought about it, he could have been the third guy in that group I'd spotted some weeks earlier. I hoped he wasn't going to start pestering me, especially now when his brother was showing interest.
"You're sure you're not stealing our worms out from under our feet? You know, they're important for growing, for the soil." I was trying to be catty, recalling things I'd learned from his science fair project.
He laughed, taking no offense. "Well, I am their champion. Spokesman for the underground underdog! You'd better hope that my earthworms' cousins haven't gotten into your pears. Pear worms!" He put the one he held to his mouth and started to take a bite, then stopped. "Whoo! Hard as a tree limb."
"That would have been my guess," I chuckled. "There will be a day soon, though. Couple of weeks and we'll have great ones, more than you can eat."
"Yeah. Billy says it happens that way every year. Say, I understand your flute recital was great. Paul told me."
This was nice to hear, not just the compliment, but that it was from Paul. "I'm just learning. My Mom made me look good."
"I didn't know about it, or I might have been there."
"It was mostly just family. I didn't want a big enough crowd to make me nervous."
"Are you going to study music?" He lobbed the pear he had been holding off into some bushes in Old Man Simpson's lot.
"Study . . . ?"
"You know, at college."
All the seniors at Fairfield High would take the Scholastic Aptitude Tests around this time and then apply for admission to colleges. I had thought for a long time that I, like Tricia, would go to Drury, a fine little liberal arts school only 100 miles from home. But more recently, as I've said, I'd come to realize I didn't necessarily want to follow in her footsteps.
"I don't know. Where are you applying? I guess you'll go here, like your brother?"
"Maybe. But this campus is pretty much all engineering."
Now Larry held something else in one hand. I guessed he'd pulled it out of his pocket, but I hadn't seen him do it. He was inspecting it the same way he'd been checking out the pear, but it lay in his cupped palm where I couldn't see it clearly. All I could tell was that it was silver colored.
"I thought, with all your science projects, that's what you'd want. More knowledge about worm waste and its importance to agriculture."
>
I shouldn't have been making snide comments like this about "worm waste," but they just seemed to slip out of my mouth.
"Yes, I used to think that I would study science, worm castings and all." He stressed the proper word. "But I've gotten interested in other subjects, too, government, for instance."
A lot of the girls in my class would study Home Economics, if they went to college at all. A few were thinking about nursing school, but that required a significant commitment. Marriage and a family would have to be postponed.
"Well, guess I'll head back over to Billy's," Larry offered.
"Yeah, I've got to go . . . um . . . practice." I wondered if he knew I was now practicing for the Miss Route 66 Pageant.
