by Anne George
“They must be burying him in New Orleans,” I said.
“What?” Fred didn’t look up from the Reviews and Comments section.
“They’re having a memorial service later for Ross Perry. Mary Alice won’t have to worry about wearing her new black suit three times the same week.”
“Good.”
“I wonder where she is this early on Sunday.”
“Absolutely,” Fred agreed.
“I broke both legs while I was walking Woofer.”
“You’re right.” He flipped the section over to the back page and continued reading.
I sighed, put my section down, and went to take a shower.
“Amazing how well you can walk,” Fred called after me.
Smart-ass.
Fifteen minutes later, showered and shampooed, I came back into the den, where Fred had graduated to the Business and Money section of the paper. He has a small magnifying glass with a light on it that he uses to read the stock results. He bought it the same day he bought some Wal-Mart stock, so it’s his good luck charm. He wouldn’t admit that it is, but I know this man. And I wouldn’t dare tell him I use his magical magnifying glass to get ticks out of Woofer’s ears.
“How are we doing?” I asked, pointing toward the paper.
“Wal-Mart’s up.”
“I’ve been thinking maybe we should diversify. Sell our thirty shares of Wal-Mart and invest it in something safe like utilities.”
Fred clutched the paper to his heart. “Safe? My Lord, Patricia Anne, it was Sam Walton himself told me to buy Wal-Mart.”
It was true. Fred had flown from Dallas with a nice old man who said he had invested everything he had in Wal-Mart.
“Everything?” Fred asked, worried about the old man.
“Just about. I think it’s going to do okay.”
Two weeks later, Fred, who had missed the man’s name, was startled to see Sam Walton’s picture on the cover of Time.
“It’s a sign. A portent,” Mary Alice said when he brought the magazine in to show us. “Sell the house and business and invest the money. Make Sam proud. Make America proud.”
He bought thirty shares, which, for Fred, was a bundle.
“Utilities?” he gasped now. “Are you serious?”
“Just wondering if we want all our eggs in one basket.” I went into the kitchen. “You want some cereal?”
“We got any bagels?”
“In the freezer.”
“That’s what I want.”
“You know, Lender’s might be a good stock.”
But I had gone far enough.
“Shut up, Patricia Anne,” I heard from the den.
It was a quiet morning. I wrapped Christmas presents and put them under the tree. I addressed Christmas cards. Several times I tried to get Mary Alice but was greeted with “We cannot come to the phone now, won’t you ple-ease leave a message.” I sang a couple of messages back, but it was too much trouble to leave one every time. Fred had disappeared into his basement workshop with the admonition that I was not to come down as he was working on my present. Since I had designed the plant stand he was working on, one to hang all my ferns on so they could be rolled outside when the winter weather was nice, I figured he just wanted to be by himself. Which suited me.
We had Patricia Anne’s Cafeteria for lunch (everything left in the refrigerator), and Fred headed back to the basement. I collected my library books, a couple of which were overdue, and headed downtown to see a collection of Eudora Welty’s photography.
The Birmingham Public Library system is an amazing network of over forty libraries. Usually I go to the nearest branch, but if I have time, or if something special is on display, I’ll go to the main library. This consists of two buildings: the new, very modern structure that houses the materials that can be checked out; and the classical old building across the street with its three-story-high lobby decorated with murals depicting mythological scenes. The latter, which was the main library for fifty years, is now the research library. The two buildings are connected by a crosswalk over the street.
I love the new building with all the airiness and light, but the old one has a special place in my heart. This was where I had my first job. My title was Readers’ Assistant, a fancy title which meant I had to go to the stacks dozens of times a day to find books for people. I also shelved books, filed catalog cards, and helped people look things up. The main perk was that I got to read the new books as soon as they came in. The main problem was permanent calluses on my feet from all the walking.
The libraries were, and are, used extensively, which seems to surprise people who are not from the South. “You are so well read to be from Alabama,” a woman told me once at a dinner party. I probably would have belted her one if Mary Alice hadn’t elbowed me and whispered, “Common as pig tracks, Mouse.”
I found a parking place in the lot behind the new building, decided it wasn’t raining enough for my umbrella, and darted toward the back entrance. This leads down a wide corridor open to a reading room on the right and lined with glass cabinets on the left. Eudora Welty’s photography was on display in the cabinets. Several people were looking at the pictures and reading the captions, which were quotes from her books. I would look at them, I decided, on my way out.
The overdue books cost fifty cents, money well spent. I paid up and headed toward the new fiction. Current newspapers are kept in the same area, so several people were sitting in comfortable chairs reading them. The Ross Perry story had made the front page of the Montgomery Advertiser, too, I noticed. The newspaper was being read by a man who reminded me of Ross. Probably the way the light shone on his bald head.
So many questions, I thought.
“Lord!” I actually slapped the palm of my hand against my forehead. There were answers to a lot of my questions right here. I had been overlooking a perfect source of information. I turned and hurried toward the escalator. The research library was full of material about the Bedsoles. Ross Perry, too. All of his columns would be there. Even the record of the Needham trial. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. I almost gave a little skip as I entered the crossover.
I started with the Ross Perry columns since they didn’t take any research. They usually appeared in the Friday section of the paper known as Marquee, which lists things to do for the weekend as well as an extended calendar of events for the month, lists new movies with a critique, TV shows, concerts, readings, and art exhibits. I took the tape of the newspaper for the year before, put it into the machine, and started scanning through the columns. Many of them I had read. Some exhibits got better reviews than others, but none were totally panned.
I skipped back five years and again scanned Ross’s columns. The man could write. As an English teacher, I had to give him credit for that. As for his art criticism, I didn’t know. That particular year everybody got rave reviews. It was either a remarkable year for Birmingham art, Ross Perry needed his glasses changed, or he had just found Prozac. I rewound the tape and inserted the one from ten years before.
And hit pay dirt! In the January fifteenth Marquee, Ross Perry had reviewed the opening of a new gallery in English Village. The gallery was attractive, three of the artists were fine, but the fourth artist, newcomer Mercy Armistead, had produced paintings that were dull, lifeless, amateurish. Obviously derivative, to name their derivation would be an insult to the originals. She, Mercy, ruined the whole show with her utter lack of talent.
After that, the review got worse.
“Wow,” I said out loud. “Wow.”
I located a librarian to find out how to copy the review. So ten years later, Mercy threw a can of Coke at him and pushed him into a pool. He had it coming. When Ross wrote this, Mercy was in her early twenties, just starting out. Regardless of how bad her work was then, and it probably wasn’t bad if she had gone on to gain an international reputation, this was cruel and must have been devastating to her. I ran the tape forward but found no more reviews
like this. Obviously, even ten years earlier, Ross had had it in for Mercy. I saw nothing that gave me a clue why.
I typed in the name “Bedsole, Betty,” and retrieved the tape of newspapers for 1956, the year she was Miss America. There were pictures of her getting on the train for Atlantic City, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. There were pictures of her winning the swimsuit competition (“Strutting,” Mama would have said) with rigid funnels for breasts and at least fifteen more pounds than any self-respecting Miss America would carry now. There were pictures of her winning the talent competition as Scarlett, clutching a carrot and swearing she would never go hungry again. “Not a dry eye in the house,” the reporter noted.
“Very possible,” I muttered. But I had to admit that Betty Bedsole had been beautiful, with long dark hair that she wore down for Scarlett and up for the swimsuit. Her smile was dazzling, and her eyes had the same slight slant that made Claire Moon’s so spectacular.
There were pictures of her victorious arrival back in Birmingham, the crowd at Terminal Station and the flowers again. I was glancing at this page of the paper when something caught my eye. I switched to magnification and looked closely at the young man to whom she was handing a rose. It could be Ross Perry. I held the eraser end of my pencil over his head to cover his hair. But I still wasn’t sure, and he wasn’t identified in the story. I called the young librarian over to see how I could get a copy on magnification.
“I hope you’re wearing comfortable shoes,” I said.
“I am.” She smiled. I looked down and saw army boots that must have weighed a ton. Still better than three-inch heels.
“She’s the one whose daughter was murdered, isn’t she?” the librarian said, pointing to the picture.
I nodded. “Betty Bedsole.”
“Well, if you’re doing research on her, there’s a whole clipping file up in the Southern History Department. It would save you having to go through the papers.”
“Thanks.” Why hadn’t I remembered that?
The girl nodded. “I think they’re trying to get all the stuff copied, but right now, it’s still in manila folders in file cabinets.”
“That’s great. Thanks.” I put my two photocopied articles in my purse and headed up the steps.
The Southern History Department is an incredible resource for scholars. Partially funded by a wealthy Birmingham family, and ferociously guarded and added to for over forty years by a no-nonsense librarian aptly named Miss Boxx, it is a treasure trove for historians. The genealogy section alone brings people in by droves. Today, even this close to Christmas, was no exception.
I requested the Betty Bedsole clippings from the young man at the desk. They were in my hands in about one minute.
“She would be proud of you,” I told him, pointing to a portrait of Miss Boxx in which she glared down at the people taking advantage of her life’s work. “Mess it up and you’re dead meat,” she seemed to be saying.
He smiled, genuinely pleased.
I found a place at a table and opened the folder. The clippings weren’t in any order, which didn’t matter. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, anyway.
The first one was from the fifties. It was a picture of Betty and her father, Amos, at the Camellia Ball. There were two other debutantes and their fathers in the picture, but all you saw was the Bedsoles. Almost as tall as her father and dressed in a strapless white sheath, eighteen-year-old Betty flirted with the camera. Or the photographer. Head slightly tilted, lips slightly parted, she seemed much more sophisticated than the other two girls in their frilly dresses who were dutifully saying “Cheese.” Amos Bedsole, a handsome man in his early forties, smiled at his daughter instead of at the camera. His delight in her was so evident, it brought tears to my eyes.
The next clipping was of her marriage to Samuel Armistead. Underneath a picture of the wedding couple taken as they came down the steps of the Independent Presbyterian Church was the caption MISS AMERICA MARRIES. Betty was a traditional bride, bouffant everything. I scanned the story. Well-known movie producer. Ten bridesmaids. Blue dotted swiss dresses. Seated dinner. Birmingham Country Club.
The story was so long, it was continued on another page. I removed the gem clip and saw pictures taken at the dinner. One of them was of Ross Perry holding up a champagne glass, giving a toast. And this time, he was identified. It was the same man to whom she had given the rose as she boarded the train for Atlantic City.
“Hmm,” I murmured. I glanced hurriedly through the rest of the clippings. The birth of her daughter, Mercy Louise, was announced. And the birth of her son, Andrew. For a while, Miss Boxx had clipped notices of Betty Bedsole’s trips home. But not for long. Other people became more newsworthy. The last clipping was dated January 1969 when Betty had been a judge at the Miss America pageant and had posed with a Miss Alabama who didn’t even make the top ten. Well, nobody could accuse Betty of showing partiality.
I rested my elbows on the table and stared up at grim Miss Boxx’s portrait.
“So?” she said.
“I think Ross Perry was in love with Betty Bedsole and she dumped him and that’s why he hated her daughter so.”
“Mary Alice said he was gay.”
“She said ‘maybe’ gay. Maybe he was ‘bi.’”
“I like people who can make up their minds,” Miss Boxx said. “‘Bi’ is so indecisive. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t know anything. I don’t even know what I’m doing here. None of this is any of my business.”
“Business is as business does.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have no idea.” Miss Boxx pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger. “I hope you didn’t have ten bridesmaids dressed in blue dotted swiss in your wedding.”
“Just my sister, and she wore royal blue velvet.”
“Ma’am. Ma’am.” The young librarian tapped me on the shoulder.
“What?” I opened my eyes and raised my head from the table. Dear God, I had drooled on the clippings.
“We close at five on Sundays.”
“What time is it?”
“Quarter till.”
“Good Lord. Okay. Thanks.” I got a Kleenex from my purse, wiped the drool from the clippings and the newsprint from my face.
“Sorry,” I said, putting the damp folder on the librarian’s desk. He was eyeing it with distaste as I left. I didn’t dare look up at Miss Boxx.
I called Fred from the phone downstairs and told him I was running late. I didn’t tell him I had just had an hour’s nap and felt like hell, groggy and cross. Or that I had missed seeing the Eudora Welty photographs, the reason for my trip. I headed for the parking lot through the same light drizzle that had been falling all day. The coolness on my face made me feel better.
It was almost dark and the lights had been turned on in the parking lot. Several people were coming from the library, and one security guard was at the door and another at the exit from the parking lot. When I heard footsteps behind me, I didn’t even turn, assuming it was a library patron like me who had stayed until the last minute.
I was wrong.
“Mrs. Hollowell had a good nap, didn’t she, Lynnie?”
“She drooled on the folder, Glynnie.”
I turned and saw the Needham twins had come up behind me. So close to me that I backed up.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Research.”
“Yes. Research.”
“Well, I hope you found what you were looking for.”
“We did,” they said together.
“Good. Well, I’ll see you later.” I turned and started toward my car, but they were right beside me, one on each side. They hadn’t said anything threatening or done anything to make me nervous, but I was not at all comfortable with them sandwiching me in this misty, half-empty parking lot, lighted and guarded though it was.
“Betty Bedsole is a slut,” one of them said.
“She doe
sn’t wear underpants,” the other said.
“Oh? I’m sorry to hear that.” That was a ridiculous answer, but what was I supposed to do? Argue with them? I kept walking toward the car, my keys in my hand.
“Mercy was a slut.”
“She didn’t wear underpants?” I ventured.
“See, Glynnie? Claire said Mrs. Hollowell was smart.”
I slowed down. The drizzling rain that had emphasized smells for Woofer that morning was helping me out now. Over the odor of exhaust from cars leaving the parking lot, I could clearly smell alcohol.
“Dania was a slut,” one twin said.
The other laughed hysterically. “Dania. Did Liliane tell you about our grandmother? She was a slut.”
I stopped, backed up, and looked at them. They were skunk drunk. Sloshed.
“Did you drive down here?” I asked.
“Our car is here.”
“Our car is somewhere.”
“Well, I don’t think you should drive. I’ll take you home. Just let me tell the security guard we’re leaving your car. What kind is it?”
“A Mustang.”
“No. It’s a Mercedes.”
“Slight difference,” I said. I led them toward my car and unlocked the door. “Here, get in and I’ll go explain to the man he’s going to have a car here all night.”
“Good for you, Mrs. Hollowell. Glynnie is drunk. I am the designated driver.”
“And the designated driver is drunk, which is morally wrong,” Glynn said. “Morally wrong.”
“Get in. There’s a towel back there on the floor. If you think you’re going to throw up, use it.”
By the time I got back from explaining to the guard, who didn’t seem to understand at all and insisted there was no twenty-four-hour parking here, the twins were both asleep.
I poked the nearest one. “Where are you staying? Your aunt Liliane’s?” My question was answered with a snore. “What am I supposed to do with you?” A snore.
Damn. I hit the steering wheel and accidentally blew the horn. The security guard walked toward us. I started the car, gave him a wave, and drove through the exit that had the arm propped up for all the late leavers. If it had slammed down on my car, I don’t think either of the twins would have known the difference.
