Polished Off (3 page)

I could tell Mom felt the same when she said, “Why don’t you and Kwasi come for dinner Friday? I’ll make my fried chicken and a peach pie.”

“Kwasi’s a vegetarian,” Althea said.

“I’m sure I can come up with something. Let’s say six o’clock.”

I knew that tone. It meant “be there or else.” Alice Rose and I heard it frequently in connection with curfews, family dinners, and Sunday school when we were growing up. It even worked on Althea.

“I’ll invite Walter,” Mom added.

Walter Highsmith, rabid Civil War reenactor and owner of Confederate Artefacts a couple of storefronts down from Violetta’s, was my mom’s most frequent escort. I shied away from the word “boyfriend.”

“Thank you, Vi. I’ll check with Kwasi.”

“You, too, Grace.”

“If I can get away from the pageant,” I promised. Speaking of which, I looked at my watch and realized I needed to get going. I kissed Mom’s cheek and gave Althea a hug. “Later.”

“What pageant? What’s that girl going on about?” Althea asked as I grabbed the tote with my supplies and headed for the door. “Nobody tells me anything around here,” she complained.

TEN MINUTES LATER I STOOD ACROSS THE STREET from the Oglethorpe Theater, having parked under a graceful magnolia tree. The theater was only a fifteen-minute walk from Violetta’s, but strolling a block was enough to bring on heatstroke in the dog days of August, so I’d driven my old Ford Fiesta. I’d considered dashing to my apartment to change, thinking I should look more pulled together to hang out with pageant contestants, but I’d run out of time. My above-the-knee denim skirt and melon-colored blouse would have to do.

Crossing the street, I admired the lines of the building, with its peaked roofline in the Greek revival style and a series of white arches topped by a brick exterior. Rumor had it that both Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis and their wives had seen plays put on at the Oglethorpe. Since its heyday, it had hosted high school plays, been a movie theater for a short period, and played home to a variety of defunct community theater groups performing everything from Shakespeare to experimental stuff the local reviewer called “obscene.” I’d seen a production of
Waiting for Godot
there as a teenager and had never been so bored.

I shook off the memory and noticed a small group of people waiting on the sidewalk and sitting in folding chairs outside the theater. What the heck were they doing? Two minutes in the August heat and humidity was all I could stand. Almost as wet as if I’d plunged into a pool, but not nearly so refreshed, I crossed the street.

As I drew abreast of the group—maybe twelve people, most of them women—they lifted posters and looked more alert. One young woman blocked my way and thrust her placard toward my face. It read: “The Objectification of Women Leads to Violence Against Women.” The last two words were hard to read, scrunched to fit on the poster board.

“Are you in the pageant?” the young woman asked. With sandy hair pulled into a low ponytail, a halter top, and jean shorts, she looked about twenty. Sunburn pinked her bare shoulders.

“She’s too old, Daphne,” an earnest young man with a scraggly goatee called from the relative comfort of the shade cast by a pecan tree.

Too old? Ouch. Before I could reply, Daphne suggested, “Maybe she’s a judge.”

They regarded me for fifteen seconds before the young man said, “Nah, she’s not famous.”

“You can’t really call the channel nine weatherman famous,” Daphne objected. “It’s not like he’s Ashton Kutcher.”

The man shrugged and pulled a Coke from the cooler at his side, rolling it over his forehead. A sign saying “Pageants Kill!!!” was propped against his aluminum chair.

“Kill?” I asked skeptically. “That seems a bit over the top.”

“A girl died competing in this pageant four years ago,” Daphne said, her expression somber.

“She had a heart attack,” the young man said. “Huge bummer. She was only twenty.”

Daphne whirled to face him, her placard coming dangerously close to my face. “Seth, you know that’s—”

“What did I tell you about blocking access to the building?” The new voice came from a man getting out of a Prius at the curb. He was African American, short, and fiftyish, with light brown skin stamped with cinnamon-colored freckles over his nose, cheeks, and pate. Short, tightly curled hair circled his bald spot. Narrow, rectangular framed glasses rested atop his plump cheeks. A loose shirt with white-on-white embroidery at the collarless neckline skimmed a small pot belly. An air of self-conscious intellectualism hung about him like a musky cologne. “We can demonstrate, but we have to allow free access to the public right-of-way.”

“I’m not blocking the sidewalk, Dr. Yarrow,” the girl blocking the sidewalk said. “I’m having a conversation with this woman”—she looked at me enquiringly and I supplied my name—“with Grace about the evils of beauty pageants.”

Evils? That sounded harsh. Were beauty pageants the height of cultural achievement? Probably not. But did they portend the end of civilization? I didn’t think so. I was tempted to ask what the evils were, but I sensed that listening to the answer would make me late.

“I’m going to be late,” I said, edging around Daphne. “But I’d like to hear more another time.”

“We are always happy to engage in dialog with the uninformed,” the newcomer said. He extended a hand with thin, spatulate fingers. “I’m Dr. Yarrow. I’m a professor at Georgia Coastal College.” He gestured at the other demonstrators. “This is a field exercise for the students—exposing them to the kind of activism and vigilance that make a difference in the way our society views oppressed peoples: Native Americans, African Americans, women, gays.”

I shook his hand. His palm was damp. “Great,” I said, not knowing what else to say. Did students get an A for having the best poster? Did they get extra credit for sunstroke in the name of the cause? I pushed a lock of sweaty hair off my forehead. “I’ve got to go. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

“You can count on it,” Dr. Yarrow said as I hurried up the walk, eager to reach the air-conditioned comfort of the theater. It shamed me a bit to realize I couldn’t think of a cause I felt strongly enough about to spend the day demonstrating for in the nearly one-hundred-degree heat.

All thoughts of the demonstrators left me when I stepped into the narrow foyer. I shivered deliciously as the chilly air draped over me. Standing still for a moment, arms held away from my sides, I hoped some of the sweat would evaporate. Cool marble tiles in a black-and-white pattern extended about ten feet to two sets of double doors. A glass-encased ticket window anchored the lobby’s left end. I wanted the old lobby to smell of greasepaint and glamour, but instead the scents of pine cleaner and a hint of mildew made me sneeze. Hearing faint voices, I crossed the lobby to the doors and pulled one open.

An auditorium large enough to seat maybe a thousand people sloped before me, with its rows of chairs covered in faded mustard velvet. Two carpeted aisles split the seating area into thirds. I stood at the top of the left aisle. A gaggle of people milled around on the stage and a piercing voice said, “I can’t be expected to do my interpretive dance after Hayley’s flaming-baton routine with the sparklers. There’s little charred bits on the stage. They’ll ruin my costume.”

“There’s not enough of it to matter,” another girl said sweetly. “The audience would need a magnifying glass to see your costume, never mind any stains.”

“Tabitha, Brooke! Miss Magnolia Blossoms never complain or treat each other unkindly.” Audrey Faye stepped from stage right, a clipboard in one hand. “Tabitha, you didn’t want to go after Morgan either because you said there was gun oil on the stage after she fieldstripped her M16. When—”

I lost the rest of what Audrey was saying in my puzzlement over the M16 comment. Last time I’d watched Miss American Blossom on TV, the talent had run more toward third-rate Celine Dion imitations and tap numbers than assault rifles. This might be even more entertaining than I had imagined. I made my way down the aisle as the argument concluded with Tabitha, a svelte blonde, scheduled to go last, right after a yodeler. Viewing Tabitha’s satisfied smirk, I figured she’d been lobbying to be the final performer all along.

Audrey clapped her hands. “Right. Let’s get back to it. Elise, you’re up.”

I caught Audrey’s attention with a wave of my hand. She stared down at me blankly for a moment, then recognition dawned. “Right. You’re the stylist. Sit there until we get done with this rehearsal, and someone’ll show you around.”

I obediently settled into a chair at the end of the front row, only a couple feet from the stage. The seat squeaked when I pushed it down and the velvet was worn smooth by thousands of rear ends over the years. I looked around but didn’t see Stella. A disembodied voice from backstage announced, “Elise Metzger, a sophomore at the University of Georgia Tifton, will perform a flute solo.”

A movement from the left caught my eye and I saw a man with a sophisticated-looking camera training it on the stage. A proud papa? He looked a bit young for the role, maybe in his late thirties, with a closely trimmed beard and crisp brown hair curling to collar length. Midway through the flute piece, he lowered his camera and slipped through a door I figured must lead to backstage.

Several other acts followed the flautist, including the previously mentioned Morgan, introduced as a member of the United States Army Reserve, who dismantled and reassembled her M16 in sync with the final movement to Tchaikovsky’s “1812 Overture.” Her camouflage-patterned hot pants and halter top added a sparkly note with their bugle bead fringe. When the cannons boomed at the end, she hoisted the rifle to her shoulder and mimed firing it before saluting and running off the stage.

Stella settled into the seat beside me as the crew spread mats on the stage for a tumbler. “Sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “I went home for lunch and lost track of time.” She sounded weary and looked wearier, slumped low in the seat, her hair matted with perspiration. “Did I miss anything?”

“No,” was all I had time to mutter before the next performer bounded onto the stage, executing three back handsprings in a line from the far side of the stage to our end. She was a tiny thing, all green leotard and black hair whipping around in a ponytail. She flung her body into the air in a somersault and landed on the last mat, which separated from the others and slid toward the edge of the stage. The girl windmilled her arms but couldn’t stop. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened as her momentum carried her sideways. She teetered on the edge before the mat slid off the stage, taking her with it.
Oof.
She slammed into my lap, one arm striking my nose and forehead, her feet thumping Stella’s shoulder. She might only weigh ninety-five pounds, but it felt like two hundred dropping on me from stage height.

We sat there entangled for a few seconds. Shock, rather than injury, held me still. It had happened so fast. I took a deep breath as the girl shuddered and burst into tears.

“Are you okay?” I asked. I decided I wasn’t seriously hurt, although my nose smarted.

“Kiley!” A voice called from the stage. “Are you all right?” Several faces looked down at us.

“Here, honey, don’t cry,” Stella said, helping Kiley swing her legs around and put her bare feet on the floor. “Can you stand?”

The girl sniffed and nodded. “I think so.”

I helped by steadying her as she shifted her weight from my lap and stood. “My ankle!” she cried, collapsing to the floor.

Stella sank to her haunches and examined the girl’s ankle. “It’s swollen,” she said.

The photographer was back, camera fixed on us. The man shifted to his right, trying to get a better angle. Before I could ask him what he thought he was doing, Audrey Faye arrived, clipboard in hand, and announced, “This is going to put us behind schedule.” She ran a hand through her russet hair. “God! If it’s not one thing it’s another,” she muttered.

Stella glared up at her, looking quite fierce. A sheepish look crossed Audrey’s face; maybe she’d heard how uncaring she sounded. “We should call someone,” she said, looking around. “Jodi!”

Trotting footsteps told me the unseen Jodi was responding. I called 911 since it didn’t seem to occur to Audrey to do it herself.

Catching sight of the photographer, Audrey snapped, “Not now, Sam. For God’s sake.”

“You said I could have complete access,” the man said, his flat Midwestern vowels in striking contrast to Audrey’s drawl. He shifted slightly to get a better angle of Kiley and Stella on the floor. Audrey’s frown didn’t seem to intimidate him one whit.

“I won’t be able to compete, will I?” Kiley said, tears trickling down her cheeks. She had a delicate, small-bosomed body and didn’t look much older than Stella’s twelve-year-old, although I knew she had to be at least sixteen to be in the pageant. In the green leotard, with her tear-streaked face, she looked like a sad pixie.