She Walks in Beauty

by Sarah Shankman

  “So how’d you take that title, given your attitude?” asked Sam. She’d learned that Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Mississippi were the biggies. The further south, the stiffer the competition.

  Connors laughed. “You mean ’cause I know this is all bull-dookie? That it is not a ‘strong value’ to think you’re hot shit because you’ve got big bazooms? That winning another pageant really ain’t going to win the war on drugs or do anything to salvage crack babies, stop world hunger?”

  “Exactly. If those girls work so hard, and you just—”

  “Flounced myself around up there like I had good sense? I tell you, I’m not sure. Except they say, you know there’s this pageant consultant named Sally Griffin—”

  “We’ve met.”

  “—well, she came up to me after I won Miss Texas, and she said I was the most natural winner she’d ever seen. Like that was a style of winning. She said you’ve got your Natural, like me, your Obsessive Goal-focused, that’s your nut cases, and your Self-motivated, most girls, who work real hard and hope for the best. I told her I was a Texas woman, and we’re among the most independent women on earth. We just can’t help ourselves.”

  “So why didn’t any of those other Texas women win Miss Texas?”

  “Because they didn’t have bazooms as big as Connors’s,” said Magic laughed.

  Connors pointed a finger back at Magic’s chest.

  “Unh-uh.” Magic shook her head. “That’s not why I won. Honey, I am your David Duke backlash contender.”

  “Explain to the nice lady,” said Texas.

  “Well, those rednecks back home in Metairie and up in North Louisiana have been hollering to that Klansman David Duke who almost won governor, ‘Mr. Duke, those last three Miss Americas wuz nigger or part-nigger. When we gone have us a white Miss America again?’ Well, the two or three liberal-minded folks in the state got together, and they must have all been at the pageant, ’cause the next thing you know, here I am.”

  “Not a thing to do with being pretty or talented?” said Sam.

  “Nope. I’m your dark horse candidate through and through. Only black in the state pageant. Those two or three liberals said, ‘Okay, we’ll show ’em.’”

  “Nothing to do with your blowing them off the stage with your act?” said Connors.

  “Unh-uh. They don’t think magic’s a talent anyway. They think I’m up there doing voudou.”

  “And?” Sam had seen enough of that with General Taylor Johnson, Lavert’s girlfriend, to know it was a possibility.

  Magic just grinned.

  “So what’s this Girlfriend business?” They’d called themselves that in a couple of interviews.

  “We’re just kind of goofing on this whole thing. Having a good time. Fooling around,” said Connors.

  “You took swimsuit. Not too shabby.”

  “An accident if I ever saw one.”

  “What if you win?”

  “Give me a break.”

  “We’re just acting like we’re in junior high school,” said Magic. “Playing dress-up, being fools.”

  “This is just a big yok to you too, Magic? I don’t believe it. I bet all the girls say they don’t care if they win. I’d care if I worked that hard.”

  “Well—if I made ten, it couldn’t hurt my career,” Magic admitted. “Getting the exposure on TV, come Saturday night. So I’m paying a little bit more attention to what’s going on than my friend here. ’Course, if I won, I wouldn’t turn down earning that $200,000 for personal appearances.”

  “Hoping to parlay this into something bigger?”

  “I don’t know if you ever noticed, but it’s not the easiest thing in the world for a black girl with a magic act to get herself booked into gigs. I’m a high-school speech teacher. I do clubs back home when I can get the work. Had a couple of weeks at the Blue Room at the Roosevelt once. But drunks are a tough audience, and most tourists in New Orleans are bound and determined to stay that way till they get back to the airport.”

  Sam knew what she meant. But she wanted to get back to this winning question a minute. “Every time I’ve seen the pageant, after the winner’s announced, all the other girls crowd around and pretend they’re thrilled for her. Were you happy for a winner?”

  The girls stared at each other for a minute. Then Magic shrugged. “Neither one of us ever lost, not in this business. First time either of us tried, and we just sailed through.”

  “Yeah, but losing in general, losing in life?” Connors said, “Don’t believe those smiles for a minute. It’s the same thing as anything else. You try real hard for something, sure you want it. Even if it’s one of your friends who gets it, are you really thrilled? Not unless you’re some kind of modern-day Christian martyr. Which I ain’t.”

  Now, that was the truth. Sam had felt it herself when the journalistic prizes were handed out. And she’d done her share of winning. But you always wanted it. Everybody did. At least, everybody she knew. Maybe they were all competitors

  These two surely were. “Where’d y’all meet, anyway? Here?”

  “Oh, no. Lord. We met at the Miss Texas Pageant,” said Connors. “Magic had already taken Louisiana, and she was doing a guest number at our pageant. After you win state, you have to give up your job or your schooling just to do all the running around to other pageants, opening up supermarkets, laying across the hoods of Jeep Cherokees, ribbon cuttings every other day, talking with the Jaycees in West Armpit, and getting yourself ready to come here.”

  “Yep. You spend your time getting pretty or being pretty and smiling,” Magic agreed.

  Had any of it been fun?

  “Are you kidding?” said Connors. “It’s a hoot. This pageant thing’s just like men, can’t take it too seriously. And some of the other girls are kind of trippy.”

  “Anybody in particular?”

  The two girls looked at each other and said in chorus, “New Jersey.”

  Sam couldn’t remember which one she was. “Why?”

  “Just take our word. You don’t want to miss her.”

  Sam made herself a note. “Now, what did you mean, the pageant’s just like men?”

  “You can’t be yourself—with men or in pageants. You’d scare them to death,” said Connors.

  “Avoid sudden movements of any kind,” said Magic. “Judges and men—they’re skittish and easily frightened.”

  “I practice for being with men a lot,” said Connors. “Same way I practice for the pageant. I pretend I’m a soft, mysterious cat. They eat that stuff up. And I am never sarcastic with men.”

  That sent the two girls off into fits of laughter.

  “Tell me the most interesting thing that’s happened to you since you started this pageant business.”

  “Seriously?” said Magic. “I’ve already had a feature article in a couple of magazines, one in Ebony that got me an agent.”

  Connors thought it was the people. “I make fun, but people really have been nice. They want you to succeed, and they pull for you. It’s kind of heartwarming—I mean their hearts are in the right place even if their brains aren’t.”

  “Especially when they’re millionaires,” teased Magic.

  “Millionaires, Connors? Like the Donald?”

  “Oh, you know. Bunch of guys own oil wells, car dealerships. There’s still lots of money in Texas even with the bust, some of them come sniffing around. Want to buy me another sable. Make sure I have enough Mercedes to get me from one mall to the next. No strings attached, you understand.” And if you believed that, she’d tell you another one.

  “Georgette Mosbacher.” Sam suddenly realized who Connors reminded her of. “You’ve heard that before?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Matter of fact, I’ve got this secret admirer, sends me flowers every day, said that in a note. Of course, he probably sends posies to all of us, hoping maybe one of us’ll roll over.”

  Trolling, like Hoke Tolliver with his line, Wanta do it? Or like Kurt Roberts—?

&
nbsp; “Ever get any offers from the judges?”

  Connors rolled her eyes. “Well, you know we had that mess back in Texas a couple of years back.”

  The Texas pageant director had been accused of making improper advances to the girls. “Either of you see any of that?”

  No. “Lots of the guys in the business are gay anyway, you know?” Magic said. “For them it’s just another drag show, another brand of show biz.”

  “How about here in Atlantic City? Any of the judges—?”

  The hostesses both cleared their throats.

  Connors ignored them. “I see you’ve met the wonderful Kurt Roberts.”

  Did he hit on the contestants?

  “What was that line about that Watergate reporter, whatsiz-name, the one who fooled around on his wife when she was pregnant—he’d screw a Venetian blind? That’s your Mr. Roberts. He’s a total joke.”

  “You don’t think any girls would be tempted to take him up on it, seeing as how he could do them so much good—?”

  “Maybe.” Magic shrugged. “I don’t know any who would, but you never can tell. But what’s the diff? I mean, he seems to have exited stage right, you know?”

  “You sure you didn’t disappear him, Magic?” teased Connors.

  “I wouldn’t waste the energy.”

  “Now, that’s an interesting idea—” Sam was thinking aloud. What if he made promises to more than one girl in return for her favors, and they compared notes and caught on to him?

  “We’re great at poking our noses in other folks’ business,” said Connors. “You want to know if we hear anything?”

  “Girls—” The hostesses were signaling. It was time to go. Sam signed for the check.

  “Yeah,” said Magic, back out on the sidewalk. “I’ve got to get up to my room for a few minutes anyway, see if Denzel sent me roses again.”

  “She’s just pulling your chain,” said Connors. “Denzel is true blue. Though you’d be surprised who turns up if you make it this far. Every man with a roll of hundreds in his pocket and his age bigger than his waistband thinks he can own one of us, he throws a little gold around.”

  “And you don’t intend to be owned?” said Sam.

  “I don’t even intend to be rented. That’s one thing about growing up a Texas woman, you learn quick, you got any wits about you at all.”

  “That Lady Day knew what she was talking about,” added Magic.

  “What’s that?”

  God bless the child who’s got her own, they whistled. The Girlfriends were a mean duo.

  14

  “So, my man,” said Dougie, plopping himself down big-as-you-please beside Wayne in the Monopoly employees’ cafeteria.

  Dougie had a way of just making himself at home that really scorched Wayne. He thought it was rude.

  “How they hanging?”

  Wayne didn’t even bother to answer. He just kept on eating his burger, washing it down with gulps of cola. He’d think about something he liked, fountain cherry colas and French fries with lots of ketchup at the Walgreen’s when he was a little kid, that’d do it, keep his mind off Dougie so he didn’t turn around and put his fist through the wuss’s mouth.

  “So.” Dougie leaned closer. Wayne could smell his breath mints. In Wayne’s opinion, only drunks and fairies used the things. He thought the Certs people ought to be bombed. If he could ever find their factory, he would—by remote.

  Or maybe he’d blow up Dougie. Now, that would be a sight. Little bits of Dougie so fine you’d think somebody just sneezed on you. The thought made Wayne grin.

  “Glad to see you feeling so good.” Dougie slapped him on the back. “I guess you love working for Uncle Tru.”

  Uncle Tru. He always called Mr. F that. In case you’d forgotten that he was the Only Begotten Nephew.

  Just about then Big Gloria strolled by.

  “Hey, Gloria,” Wayne called to her. He liked Gloria. She made him laugh. And, he thought, she probably had the hots for him since she’d seen him land a good one on that pretty boy out in the hall yesterday. She’d probably want to be laying something sweet on him. He ought to chat her up. Besides which, he’d do anything so Dougie would stop talking to him.

  But Gloria shook her head and kept moving. Her face had a great big frown on it. What the hell? Probably her time of the month. Women. All in all, they were more trouble than they were worth.

  “So?” Dougie always started that way. So? So? So? Wayne really wanted to belt him. “So I guess you get lots of good stuff on your tapes, huh, Wayne? You keep copies of the really hot ones, or you just erase them after you’ve checked them out?”

  Dougie had that look on his face like he’d like to come up and watch Wayne’s tapes. All of them. Any of them. Yeah, Wayne had seen his kind before. Just liked to watch. Wayne liked to watch, too, but he had a purpose. It was his job, part of his innate worth to Mr. F.

  “Uh-huh,” Wayne grunted. “I got every high-roller suite in the whole place wired. Mr. F keeps his finger on the pulses that way. You know, you see the guys practicing, the ones who count cards. It’s not just stealing towels, you know.” Maybe if he threw Dougie something, anything, he’d go away.

  “Uncle Tru says you can make people do things, too, with that subliminal stuff. He said you’re a regular electronic wizard. Tell me about it.” Dougie cozied closer, close enough to kiss him on the mouth.

  Wayne jerked back. Guys around them were gonna start moving away too, maintenance guys over at the next table’d think Wayne was some kind of fruit.

  “It’s nothing,” Wayne mumbled.

  “What’d you make them do, Wayne? Come on, tell Dougie.”

  Tell Dougie. Tell Dougie. He’d tell Dougie, all right. “I work magic. I make ’em think they can do anything,” Wayne blurted.

  “Really? Gee, Wayne.” Dougie scratched the top of his pointed little head. “Like what?”

  “Like break the bank. Like walk on water.”

  “Walk on water, that’s great.”

  “Yeah, just like you. I make ’em think they’re Jesus Christ, Mary, and Joseph rolled into one worthless little fart.”

  It took Dougie a minute to get it, to realize that Wayne had actually had the nerve to insult him. With that, Dougie jumped up and stomped out of the cafeteria on his short legs, his shoulders stiff and huffy in his navy blue blazer.

  The guys from maintenance over at the next table, who’d also had a bellyful of Dougie’s guff, were laughing like crazy. “Way to go, Wayne,” one of them hollered.

  Wayne gave him the high sign, then went back to his third burger. He was seriously thinking about getting up and grabbing another order of fries.

  Then his pale blue eyes narrowed into slits as his mind slid back to what he’d said to Dougie. Yeah, he had. He’d worked some magic, all right. Or almost. It was tougher to do in actuality than on the video monitor.

  Oh, well. So sometimes things didn’t work out exactly as you’d planned. He took another bite of his burger.

  15

  “This is highly irregular,” said the big woman in the Miss America sweatshirt posted at the door to backstage. “I’ll have to call Barbara Stein. You know, the governor of New Jersey was thrown out of the wings a few years back, and all he wanted was a soft drink. No one is allowed back here.”

  Now, that was a crock and Sam knew it.

  “There’ve been press tours all week.”

  Sam held her ground.

  “Last week. And on Monday.”

  “I wasn’t here last week or Monday.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Could you call Barbara Stein, please?” Sam pointed at Florence’s phone. That’s what her nametag said.

  Florence stared at the phone, then at Sam, back at the phone, and finally made a top-level security decision. “Barb’s very busy,” she muttered as she dialed, turning her body so Sam couldn’t see the number—in case she wanted to call up Barbara and squander her time chatting about bugle beads, Sam su
pposed. “Uh-huh, uh-huh. Okay. Roger.” She glared at Sam. “June will take you.”

  After all that, the dressing room was hardly worth the ruckus. Sam didn’t know what she was expecting to see—marabou-trimmed dressing gowns, sweating silver champagne buckets, ladies’ maids in little black-and-white ruffled uniforms sneaking smokes while their charges weren’t around. But that was old Hollywood. This was a long narrow room filled with three rows of battered wooden dressing tables, rickety chairs, iron-pipe clothing racks. Chopped celery and carrots and yogurt and granola littered a snack table—along with a respectable showing of junk food. Garment bags hung about. White swimsuits dangled from clothes hangers, their bosoms puffed like pouter pigeons. Despite the feminine footprints through spilled face powder, the blue boxes of Tampax everywhere (since every girl got her period the minute she hit town, according to June), there was something about the place that reminded Sam of the boxing gym where she’d once interviewed a contender. Maybe it was the depressingly dim lights, the steam pipes, the seediness. More likely it was the smell of nervous perspiration that lingered behind the girls who were now up on the big stage practicing their smiling, turning, posing, prancing.

  Sleepy Hollow, another flight up, was a large dark room with shades drawn over large windows overlooking the ocean. It held 20 single iron beds covered with pastel blankets where the girls, worn out by smiling, turning, posing, and prancing grabbed catnaps.

  “Looks like a women’s shelter,” Sam said to June.

  “A what?”

  She couldn’t believe June had never heard the term before, but then she took a closer look at the shiny pageboy, gray silk dress, nude stockings, neat black pumps, diamond studs. Anything was possible.

  June blinked, then said brightly, “I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’m the chief backstage hostess. I started out doing seating at the luncheons.”

  “So you worked your way up?” Oh, the worlds and worlds and worlds.

  “Yes, along with the head of the dressing room crew, I’m in charge of all this.” She waved a hand at her empire. “And solely responsible for Sleepy Hollow.”