by Michael Lund
In the early years of my own marriage, it never occurred to either of us that my husband might clean the bathroom. But my man's blindness to the details of a woman's life went beyond that of most others of his gender.
One ground rule of American marriages after the institution of indoor plumbing, established early if not before the wedding, is that the toilet seat is to be left down when not in use. Although women must clean up the spatterings of men as well as any accidents of their own, their right to have the seat down is nearly universally accepted. Women getting up out of bed at night and visiting the bathroom in the dark do not want to sit in the bowl. The seat should be in place for the feminine derriere.
My husband, however, grew up in a masculine household, with one brother and no sisters. (It's true there was a mother, but she didn't really count in the fundamental shape of the Thornton household, even its bathroom.) His and his sibling's most frequent uses of the toilet were accomplished standing up. (I have reason to believe he washed his hands faithfully after completing his business, a practice not all men follow.) But he habitually left the toilet seat and toilet seat cover standing up, resting against the toilet tank in back.
After a week of being married to me (one-time aspirant for the crown of Miss Route 66), he left both seat and cover down after use, praising himself, of course, for unusual thoughtfulness.
But here's the distinction he never recognized in nineteen years of growing up at home and nearly another twenty married to me: the difference between toilet seat and toilet seat cover. When he first heard me say, "Leave the toilet seat down," he understood it as "leave everything above the bowl down." Seat and cover were a unit to him in this context, even though he divided them when occasion called for him to sit. Who can say why he didn't see two things--a seat and a cover. But he didn't.
While this was not perfect for me (who sometimes bounced her bottom on the cover at night), it was really not bad enough to correct. And we both became accustomed to the practice.
His epiphany about the divided nature of toilet construction came more than a decade after he made the more important discovery, as far as I'm concerned. He volunteered (that's right, volunteered!) to clean our bathrooms once a week for as long as we were married. (This is almost enough for me to stay married to him no matter what other faults he might have!)
If you're a woman, by the way, and you don't clean toilets regularly, there's something you won't see: the bottom of the toilet seat. It's down when you come in (given the considerate husband); it's down while you're there; it's down when you leave.
Without being too graphic, this can be a nice bit of blindness. Anything likely to be on the bottom of a toilet seat is not something you would be seeking. Since there's enough unpleasantness each of us has to confront in life, having a spouse spare you some difficulties is acceptable. (Of course, you have to return the favor in some other regard.)
I went a number of years appreciating the fact that my husband washed the bathrooms, and I came to forget over that long time what his efforts kept from my view. (I'm sure I don't have to tell you about the particular stomach flu that opened my eyes.)
It all goes to show that even thrones have ugly sides, I guess. And the second half of my story will show some of them.
I'm prepared as well to show them to the citizens of Fairfield tomorrow. Yes, I'm now ensconced in a room at the Fairfield Holiday Inn, writing out this account of adventures past and present on yellow legal pads. I'm also reviewing my speech for tomorrow. That's when the town holds its sesquicentennial celebration, which will include an elaborate recognition of the Miss Route 66 Pageant.
Something like a dozen former Misses Route 66 will be there, Blind Bill Martin (still the emcee) will tell of the winners' later successes, and town citizens will cheer this glorious history. They will, that is, until I step forward.
Of course, there have been changes in the pageant since my day. The women's movement did eventually reach even conservative communities like Fairfield, and candidates try to show less skin and more intelligence. But not that much, in my opinion.
The pageant survived for years, adapting to the times but still drawing its strength from men who want to look (and more) at girls' bodies. The winner is put on a figurative throne, surrounded by her court. But she's put there, I now know, to be kept out of the action as much as to be venerated.
The pageant produces an object, supposedly pure and beautiful. But most of the spectators older than the girls themselves know about ugly truths hidden beneath the tinsel, the fanfare, and even the girls' costumes. It's a conspiracy that has changed shape but not substance over the years.
So I say, tomorrow . . . let's flush it all down the toilet!
Volume Three: Discord. Chapter 1
When I told Sandy about Sally's threat at the final rehearsal for the Miss Route 66 Pageant, she was incredulous.
"She said that?"
"I'm not making it up." We were sitting at a booth in Fanny's Dairy Delite one afternoon during the week of the Pageant.
"A kitchen knife? You're sure she said she'd use a kitchen knife?" She held up a plastic spoon as if it were the item in question. We were both working on double-dip bowls of ice cream.
"I was thinking she'd tell me something about the competition, or maybe about Mr. Pierce. But this came out of nowhere. Carve her initials!"
"Well, now you know two things. One, she doesn't like you much. And, two, you must have some chance of winning this thing!"
I hadn't quite realized this second point. From the beginning I had had fantasies of winning. But the possibility that the judges would actually find me the best candidate, the genuine Miss Route 66, was, I thought, remote.
"Here's the real shocker," I told Sandy. She raised her eyebrows as I flipped a folded piece of fancy paper on the table between us.
"It looks like an invitation."
"Read it." And she did.
"A slumber party? On the night before the Pageant? Crazy!"
"I know. Sally's invited all the contestants, fourteen of us."
"You'd better skip this party. She's planning something. Maybe just to get everyone tired and baggy eyed."
That had been my original response. And I certainly wasn't going to let her come after me with a kitchen knife! But then I had begun to wonder. She couldn't do anything with Elizabeth and Mary and all the other girls there, could she? And I didn't really want to miss something big like this, a sleepover of all the potential Misses Route 66.
I looked over Sandy's shoulder and saw, behind the counter, the owners of Fanny's, Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Powers. They had been conferring thoughtfully about something, a business question, I guessed. Several times they had glanced over at us.
There was no separate kitchen at Fanny's, just open space beside and behind the two large soft ice cream makers. Counters, sinks, cabinets, and freezers provided places to work and to store the necessary machinery for this modest operation. Customers could see how things were made, if their orders were progressing, who was taking on which task.
"Now, Susan," said Sandy. "There's something I've been trying to tell you, but you've been so caught up in the contest, so busy. Actually, there are two things."
"Yeah? Is it about Mr. Pierce?"
"It's about Paul, Paul Thornton and your concert."
"OK. I haven't seen him since then, you know. I thought I might, on campus." I'd never worked up the courage to call him. Secretly, I'd hoped he'd call me. That would have confirmed that he was attracted to me. Otherwise I couldn't figure out why he'd been to hear me play the flute.
"Well, I'm the one who asked Paul to come to your house, but it was kind of by accident."
"Accident?"
"Yeah. You see, I really thought Larry might want to be there. He said you were interested in his worm . . . in, um, his science project."
"Oh, I don't know. I answered all his questions. But, after that, I didn't see him." Sandy had wanted me to think about dating Larry afte
r I had successfully drifted away from Randy. I didn't dislike him, but his brother was surely the better looking one. But then I remembered the bracelet. Larry had shown an interest in me.
"Right," Sandy went on. "Anyway, I see Larry at church all the time, and, well, I thought I would invite him to come with me to hear you play."
"But Paul came. How did that happen?"
"See, what happened was this. I mentioned it to Mrs. Thornton, that there was this family flute concert and her son should come. I figured she'd know I was talking about Larry."
"So she told Paul to come? And he did. But why?"
"I guess he was just being polite, doing something for his mom. I don't know how it all got set up. But when I stopped by to get Larry, Paul came out of the house. I was too embarrassed to say anything. I just brought him along. He's nice enough."
Well, this was not encouraging, although it was still possible that Paul had actually jumped at the chance. Of course, the talk since then had been that he and Sally Winchester were definitely together. And he'd not done anything I was aware of to get in touch with me.
"Why are they looking at us, Sandy?" I said. I meant Fanny's two owners.
"Who?" She looked over her shoulder, seeing Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Powers. "Oh. I guess it's because I've started to work here. Actually, I go on in about ten minutes."
"What? Since when?"
"Um, last week, a week ago. You've been so busy with the pageant and all, I didn't have a chance to tell you about it. But I think it's going to be fun. These ladies are a stitch!"
Neither Sandy nor I had ever had a job other than baby-sitting. Our fathers didn't think their daughters would have to work once we were married. So there wasn't any reason to seek regular employment.
"So, what do you do?"
"Some of everything, it turns out. Make sandwiches, wait on customers, clean the booths."
"Hey, will you get free sundaes?"
"I get half-price. But I'll tell you what's neat--those two ladies who run Fanny's."
"Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Powers," I asserted.
"Well, 'Flora' and 'Madeline' to me," giggled Sandy. "They told me they don't 'stand on formalities.'" She poked her nose up in the air with her index finger, indicating stuck-up-ness.
"Your Dad's OK with this?"
"I convinced him the two old ladies would look after me, and he gave in. But I'm also figuring it's another way to see boys outside of school."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Hey, I'll come in to visit you and see the guys, too."
"OK, but I'm the one who's wearing the tight white skirt and bumping my rump!"
I laughed. And then she went through the gate in the counter to get her apron and start her shift. I wasn't due home for another half hour, so I stayed in the booth, musing over what Sandy had told me, what Sally was up to, what Mr. Pierce wanted.
It sure looked like my dreams of Paul Thornton were over. And Larry's pursuit, with bracelet, was something more definite I would have to deal with. Maybe Sally would announce that she and Paul were going steady at her slumber party this weekend. That would seal it for me!
There was also Mr. Pierce, the two-faced pageant consultant. He seemed all smiles and encouragement at meetings and rehearsals. But if he got you alone, another side surfaced. A side I didn't understand and didn't want to confront.
In my imagination I tried to follow through where his glass fingering would lead. I remembered the sensations I felt whenever I followed Juliet's instructions--"Pet me." It made me shiver. He was a grown man, someone like my father, with his own kids.
I saw Sandy now at the counter where orders were placed. She gave me a little wave, holding aloft a stubby pencil and an ordering pad.
She had something here, I realized: a job that would last longer than the Miss Route 66 contest (unless, of course, I won). She could work through the summer, before she went off to college (tiny Tarkeo College in the northwest corner of the state). She might be starting something that would grow and develop throughout her life. What was I doing trying to win one little contest?
2
Whether in the end I won or lost the Miss Route 66 crown, I was still, I found, developing new stature. I felt it most when I was in the presence of Blind Bill Martin, the event's emcee.
Now, you're saying, the emcee of this event couldn't see?! And it's true. Bill Martin had been blind since birth, and the beauty contestants were to him voices and an occasional hand touching his arm or shoulder.
But Blind Bill also had a "photographic" memory (I know it's not the right word!). And, once he had been told the names of the contestants and heard them speak, he began to build an understanding of their personalities that was, it turned out, as sharp as that of any seeing person.
Learning where each would stand at the beginning of the pageant, he could direct each of us through the entire event. His tone and manner made it clear he knew which of us he was speaking to, which of us had spoken to him.
As often seems to be the case, this man who had lost one sense had superior talents in other areas. Bill Martin possessed unusual musical ability. He could play any manner of string instrument by ear, and he sang in a nasal, raspy baritone that had made him a local country and western star for three decades. You could hear his show every weekday morning on KPPR, Fairfield's one radio station.
He'd been announcing winners at this beauty pageant ever since one not altogether sensitive Fairfield mayor had asserted that a blind man was the perfect unbiased host. And he sang our version of "Miss America" ("Miss Route Sixty-Six") with a twang that would probably have destroyed Bob Barker's sensibility, had he ever heard it.
I liked Blind Bill immediately because he never questioned my legitimacy as a Miss Route 66 candidate. Perhaps it was my feeling of inferiority, but, until Sally Winchester made her knife threat, I'd felt that most of the folks involved in the pageant were just humoring me.
"Susan Bell?" Blind Bill said to me when we were introduced by Mary Dunkin. "You're the flute player, right?" he said.
"Um, yes. I am." How did he know?
"Do you play by ear?" he asked, then chuckled. "I--heh, heh--can't read a note." Can't read. Um-hum, I get it.
"Mostly, I just play what's on the page. My Mom, who's teaching me, can play any tune she's heard. But I'm getting better at that too."
"Good for you. Not much flute music in what I do, but I'm looking forward to hearing you play."
I felt a little awkward talking to Mr. Martin. I wondered if I should stand where his eyes, behind dark glasses, would be directed at me. Or maybe, if he seemed to be cocking his head, I should address the ear on the side closer to me.
"I hope you like it. I've . . . uh . . . your music. . . ."
"Now, you don't have to pretend with me. I'm more popular with the senior square dance set than with you young people. But you may be surprised to find out how much we have in common. I mean, we're both musicians. And I guess we're both pretty!"
He laughed, and it made me laugh too.
Later Mary explained that the best way to get along with Blind Bill was to just act as if he was like everyone else.
"He has his ways of getting around," she asserted. He used a cane, which we would hear tapping about behind stage as we walked through our numbers in rehearsals. "And he doesn't forget anything."
"I think I already like him!"
As rehearsals continued, Blind Bill seemed to single me out as a companion, someone to take a break with. Perhaps he sensed my nervousness as a newcomer to the event, wanting to reassure me.
And maybe he shared my uncertainty about Sally.
"I have trouble understanding that girl," he told me one time when we were waiting for a contestant to repair her hula hoop. "Ever since her first time in the pageant--oh, some years ago--she hasn't spoken clearly. There's always some shhh and sss in her speech." He made a hissing sound.
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
"She's got a pretty face, though, right?"
&nb
sp; "Oh, yes." I agreed, but looking more closely from time to time, I wasn't quite as sure as I used to be. There was a certain hardness to Sally's look, a fixed expression. It was disguised by her bright smile, all those clean white teeth. But when the smile ended, her mouth and chin and cheeks seemed to fall back into a peculiar rigidity.
"You and me," said Bill, patting my arm. "We get along."
I'm sure I also liked taking breaks with Blind Bill Martin because that kept me away from Mr. Pierce. These two men had worked together for some years and apparently had had no disagreements. They had separate spheres of responsibility and generally were in different places.
Mr. Pierce was strictly behind the scenes, making arrangements (the small orchestra that provided music had to be paid), getting the stage ready (this year our theme was Paradise, so the set represented the Garden of Eden), choreographing events (where we walked, posed, waited).
