“I forgot Van Cliburn grew up here. My piano teacher took private lessons from his mother, who taught him to play. When Sarah and I drove my teacher to a concert in Dallas years later, we briefly met him and his mother,” Bree said. “That was probably as exciting for me as people at the Cooper Club getting to hear such celebrities as Duke Ellington and Ella Fitzgerald.”
They strolled through a campus block lined with large two-story white brick buildings. “There’s the Rangerette Showcase Museum.” Linda pointed across the street. “It’s more straightforward than the oil museum. It has models, costumes, photos, and newspapers, plus videos of their performances.”
Inside, they saw several models of Rangerettes. “The red, white, and blue costume hasn’t changed much over the years,” Bree said.
“Yes. Ann used to say she liked how that big belt felt cinched around her waist. Said it made her feel secure.”
“Ann! When did she ever try on a Rangerette outfit?” Just the mention of Ann’s name made Bree lose some of her connection to Linda.
Linda stared at her. “She was part of the group for two years. I thought you knew that.”
“How would I? That summer after high school when she told me she never wanted to see me again, I went to Colorado with my parents. Then I rushed back home, packed, and moved into the dorm in Austin. Ann never tried to get in touch.”
Linda wrinkled her brow. “Why, that’s when she tried out for the Rangerettes. She was really nervous but thought she had a good chance. She’d taken dance lessons forever and had a fantastic high kick.”
“I know.” Bree had felt like Ann had kicked her right in the gut that summer. “Perfect qualifications for a precision drill team.”
“Tryouts were rigorous, she said, but being part of the team was harder. She seemed to enjoy it a lot, though.” Linda sounded like she envied Ann, or at least had wished she were more like her in some ways. “Of course, that doubled or tripled the number of boys who asked her out and hung around the house, hoping she’d pay them some attention.”
Bree began to understand why her mother had referred to Linda as a type of Cinderella the other day. How must it have felt to grow up in the shadow of someone like Ann?
She stared at a 1963 issue of The Saturday Evening Post displayed in a case. “Hey, there Ann is. Right in the middle of the drill-team line.” She looked closer. “Check out that white Western hat tipped over one eye and her right knee up at exactly the same angle as the other girls’.” Though she felt sorry for Linda, she’d liked to have seen Ann dressed like that. “Those white boots, belts, and hats really set off her red blouse and blue skirt. Simple but classy.”
Linda took a long look. “I remember when that magazine came out. Ann was so excited she must have bought ten copies, and everybody in town talked about it.”
A heavy sense of loss broadsided Bree. “And I never even knew. I wish I could have shared that with her.” Bree realized she was being insensitive, but it was too late to retract her reaction.
“I don’t know if she’d have had any time to spend with you.” And instead of acting hurt, Linda spoke in a sympathetic tone. “She had to keep her grades up and practice practically every day, be at every Ranger football game, and travel to out-of-town events.” She pointed at several other photos in the case. “Look up there. As part of the Rangerettes, she performed at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas and participated in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City.”
Bree sighed. “And I thought she was just being stubborn and ignoring me. She knew what she wanted out of life and went for it, didn’t she?” How could she have acted so crass? And now she’d pushed Linda into second place again behind Ann.
Linda patted her arm. “Don’t feel bad. She made quite a splash, but after those two glory years, she didn’t seem to know what to do with herself.”
Bree reveled in Linda’s kindness. “What do you mean?”
“After she graduated from Kilgore Junior College and couldn’t be a Rangerette any longer, she decided not to go on to a university.”
“Why not? My education got me out of here.”
“Can you picture yourself doing precision high kicks and holding an audience’s attention as successfully as a bunch of football players could?”
Bree winced. “Absolutely not. That’s not my thing.”
“Look.” Linda pointed at a shot of a slender, beautiful woman, who seemed totally at ease in front of a group of girls staring at her in awe.
“Wow. She could make even me want to do a high kick.”
“Yes. That’s Gussie Nell Davis, founder of the Rangerettes. She wanted to help girls be self-confident, disciplined, and cooperative, as well as skilled dancers, like this news clipping says.”
“That’s great. So why didn’t Ann find a way to keep going in the direction this Miss Davis pointed her?”
Linda frowned. “That’s the fly in the ointment.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in this article she says she wanted to prepare young women to be marriage material.”
“Oh. I see. Ann did what Miss Davis said instead of what she did.”
“Exactly like I did,” Linda said, “though I didn’t receive such direct advice. It was apparently in the water around here. Get married, have kids, go to church. Or maybe in the air. We all absorbed these commandments from somewhere. Only a few women, like you and Gussie Nell Davis, escaped.”
Bree sighed. “So Ann did what?”
“She gave up her own ambitions and married the football player she’d flirted with since just after high school. After that she lived through his accomplishments instead of achieving her own.”
“That’s sad. Come to think of it, Carolyn mentioned him and said she wasn’t too impressed.”
They walked around the rest of the museum, talking mostly about Gussie Nell Davis, who’d led the group for almost forty years. But soon Bree said, “I’ve seen enough. Ready to leave?”
It had clouded over during their brief stay in the small museum. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and wind began to whip the tree limbs. Bree felt sad for Ann but torn between her old feelings for Ann and her new ones for Linda.
*
On the drive home, Bree didn’t say much for a long time. But finally she seemed to shake off her stormy mood. “When we were coming back from Tyler the other night, you promised to tell me Lou Anne and Kay’s story. Remember?”
“Oh. Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’m waiting.”
Bree was probably still thinking about whatever Ann had done all those years ago to upset her, but maybe this story would distract her. “Lou Anne was married for almost forty years and raised four children with her husband. He was a successful educator and made a good salary.”
“So?” Bree seemed determined to hang on to her foul mood.
“When she was about sixty, she finally realized she wasn’t happy and asked him for a divorce.”
Bree glanced at her. “Okay. I’ll bite. Why wasn’t she happy?”
“She had a crush on a woman in her Sunday-school class.”
Bree gave a short laugh. “I guess that’s as good a place as any to find a woman you like.”
“I suppose so.” Linda shrugged. She was getting a little tired of Bree’s drama about whatever had happened with Ann so long ago. “Anyway, after a lot of soul-searching, Lou Anne finally acknowledged that she was a lesbian. She even told her husband that’s why she wanted out of their marriage.”
“That took guts.”
“Yes, and that’s not all. She was a very active member of a big Baptist church in Tyler and one of their best Sunday-school teachers for adults. She was also involved in a lot of church and community activities.”
“So? Did she tell any other church members except her ex-husband?”
“A few, but she met Kay at a PFLAG meeting a year or so later and eventually started living with her and taking her to church with her. Then everyone knew.”
“And how did they react?” Bree looked out the window.
“They immediately asked her to resign from teaching her class, insisting she and Kay couldn’t have any type of leadership role in the church.”
“Ha. Guess they thought she’d set a bad example.”
“I suppose so.”
“Did things calm down after that?” Bree turned toward her.
Linda shook her head. “No. Several months later, she and Kay signed up to take part in a weekend camping trip at a nearby lake sponsored by the church.”
Bree shrugged. “Not my cup of tea, but I guess they enjoy that sort of thing.”
“Yes. Especially Kay. They had their small travel trailer all packed and ready for the trip. But at the last minute, they got a letter from the associate pastor.”
“And?”
“He said the members didn’t think it appropriate for Lou Anne and Kay to be part of a family outing. He also returned their deposit.”
“That’s awful.” Bree frowned. “How did they respond?”
“Lou Anne went to see him.”
“Good for her. What did she say?”
“That she was angry and considered his actions unchristian.”
“He certainly deserved that visit, but he probably weaseled his way out of it.”
Linda scoffed. “Yeah. But he left a scar. Lou Anne confided in me that he made her feel like the epitome of evil. Most of us have advised her and Kay to leave the church and find a more accepting one.”
“I sense a but coming.”
“They insist they’ve always been Baptists and have a right to be part of whatever church they choose.”
Bree clenched a fist. “So they’ve taken on the most powerful denomination in the South?”
“Yes. And now Lou Anne’s published a book detailing her experience.”
“That’s great.”
Linda smiled. “And she’s not finished. Kay’s setting up venues for her all over the South and the Southwest. She’s speaking mainly to PFLAG groups and any churches that are interested. It’s not an easy fight, but they’re apparently in it to stay.”
“How old is she?” Bree had been sitting on the edge of her seat, but now she relaxed back into it.
“Seventy-five, though she’s as active as any fifty-year-old.”
“Good for her. I’m not into the church, but I admire anyone who fights for what she believes in. Next time we see her, remind me to buy a copy of her book. She and Kay deserve all the support they can get.”
“That’ll please them.” Linda relaxed her tight grip on the steering wheel, relieved to have diverted Bree from dwelling on the past and on Ann. People like Bree, and Lou Anne and Kay, had enough battles to fight in the here and now. No sense wasting energy on old ones.
Chapter Thirteen
Bree dumped a jigsaw puzzle onto a small lounge table at Silverado, and she and her mother began to turn the pieces over.
“Let’s group them by color, okay?” Sarah said.
“That’s fine, but I’d rather do the border first.”
Sarah reached for a small blue piece. “Tell you what. I’ll focus on the colors, and you deal with the outside part.”
They worked in silence, and then Sarah asked about Bree’s recent excursion to Kilgore.
Bree snapped a piece covered with wildflowers into two others. “The oil museum’s innovative and brings the boom years to life. After Linda and I visited it, we toured the Rangerette museum too.”
Sarah finished picking out all the blue and white pieces. “Never been there. How was it?”
“All the memorabilia interested me, probably because I heard so much about the Rangerettes and Gussie Nell Davis when I was growing up. Did you know her?”
Rummaging through the pile, Sarah found two silver pieces. “No. But I heard she was well educated and beautiful.”
“Yeah. We saw a picture of her when she was young. Fantastic figure, with a lot of style.”
“Ambitious too. Supposedly wanted the Rangerettes to outdo the Rockettes by kicking higher and using more of a variety of routines.” Sarah picked up another silver piece. “I did see the group perform at halftime several times. Their flying splits and rapid-fire high kicks were absolutely perfect. Didn’t miss a beat. And they used unusual props.”
“Like what?” Bree finished a long stretch of the left border, where green trees met wildflowers.
“Lassos and scrubbing boards. Umbrellas and huge Mexican straw hats bigger than the umbrellas. You never knew what they’d come up with. That was part of the fun of watching them.”
Bree spotted some parts of the border that looked like purple and gold clouds and started trying to fit them together. “When did you see them?”
“The early ’50s. Carolyn babysat you and Brett.” Her voice cracked at the memory, even after all these years. “The men stayed glued to their seats the entire halftime. They seemed more interested in the drill team than the football game, if you can imagine that.” Sarah unearthed several more silver pieces and added them to her pile.
“And how did the women react?”
Sarah paused and gazed at her. “Some of them were probably jealous because they thought their husbands wished they looked like the girls on the field.” She finished picking out the silver pieces and started on the bright-orange flowers that dominated the puzzle.
“And the women were probably wishing they still looked that good too.”
“Yes. Those girls were the ideal shape that most of us believed we needed to be.” Sarah looked thoughtful as she sifted through the blue and white pieces she’d gathered. “When I was young I’d look at myself in the mirror and think how ugly I was because I was so skinny and had curly hair and so many freckles. None of the stars I saw on the screen looked like me, and I’d never heard of airbrushing a photo. The Rangerettes set up those types of unrealistic expectations for girls, I’m afraid.”
“That’s what I’m thinking. I even Googled Gussie Nell Davis last night and found an interview. She bragged about being a perfectionist. Said that’s why the Rangerettes succeeded and why she never married. If she had, she’d have devoted herself a hundred percent to her husband, and she preferred to spend all her time and energy on her career.”
“Hmm. Sounds like someone I know and love.” Her mother glanced up from their puzzle and briefly touched Bree’s arm.
Bree had to will herself not to flinch. Her mother touched her so rarely she didn’t know how to respond. She usually froze, but this time she tried to savor the rare gesture. “You may be right. I never wanted to marry a man, and I’ve certainly enjoyed my career. But if I’d openly married a woman, I’d probably never have become a curator.”
Sarah gave her an appraising look, then returned to the reddish-brown pieces she’d begun to sort. “I know why you couldn’t marry a woman when you were younger, but why can’t you now?”
Bree had just finished putting together a short strip of bright-yellow pieces, and she stopped and stared. “I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Why not? Women received the right to vote just five years before I was born. It’s not too late for you. You’re only as old as you let yourself think you are.”
Bree kept staring. “Did you ever regret giving up your dreams of moving to New York and becoming a famous painter?”
Sarah idly sorted through the reddish-brown pieces she’d grouped together. “I can barely imagine it now. I’d probably have enjoyed it, but the war was in full swing when I graduated from high school. And then I met your father.” She sighed. “I fell in love and put my ambitions on hold. At least I graduated from junior college before you and Brett came along, then finished my four-year degree.”
“And that satisfied you? You could have been in New York with Jackson Pollack and his cronies and participated in all the excitement of the abstract expressionist movement.” Bree joined a long section of green to one of purple sky.
Sarah’s eyes gleamed as
she picked up a couple of hunter-green and dark-brown pieces. “My life here gave me more than enough. Oh, it was hectic with your father, and you two, and school, but I loved everything I did and was. I don’t regret my choices, and I don’t want you to ever regret not doing what you care for.”
Bree swallowed the lump in her throat that her mother’s uncharacteristically personal words caused. “So you aren’t sorry you weren’t a Rangerette?”
Sarah laughed. “No. I finally accepted my imperfections. I’ve always managed to have everything I wanted, with all the heartbreak that went along with it. Now I truly want the same for you.” She reached over and squeezed Bree’s hand as she moved a long strip of wildflowers into place. “Find a woman who’ll make you as contented as your father and you have made me, and I’ll die happy.”
Bree quickly brushed away a tear with her other hand. “There. The border’s done. Now let’s fill in the pieces you’ve sorted so well, and I promise to think about what you’ve said.”
*
Linda pushed through Sarah’s door after knocking. “Hello. Anybody home?” she called.
Sarah stood at her easel painting a bright autumn scene, filled with green leaves on one side and blazing oranges, yellows, and reds in the center.
“Sorry I’m so late today. Looks like you’ve been busy,” Linda said as she enjoyed the energy and warmth radiating from the painting and from Sarah. “Who’s in the center of your painting?” She pointed to the figure of a woman wearing a red coat and black boots and standing in the middle of the deep woods she seemed to be entering.
“Someone about to find her bliss, though she hasn’t recognized it yet. I’m just trying to help her visualize it.”
Linda set down her bag, puzzled by Sarah’s cryptic words. “It’s beautiful, and I hope it achieves what you want. Now how about letting me look at your leg?”
As Sarah sat down and pulled up her pants leg, she said, “Bree stopped by earlier.”
Linda’s heart stuttered. “Did she mention our little expedition?”
“She certainly did. She seems to have enjoyed herself quite a bit.”
Autumn Spring Page 13
