“Try again,” Betty said.
“It’s no use. You’ll have to pick another dress.”
“But I don’t want another dress. You said this one matched my eyes. And it cost eleven dollars.”
“I’m not a magician, Betty. I can’t fix things that are unfixable.”
Two weeks earlier the dress, with its long, narrow torso and dropped waist, had fit Betty as if it had been custom-made for her hourglass figure. The boatneck had showed off her clavicles and accented her bosom enough to interest the judges but not enough to mortify her grandparents. Two weeks ago was also the last time she’d seen Abe.
Betty looked down. “I’ll try a different brassiere.”
It didn’t help.
The next day, eight hours before the start of the contest, Betty readied herself in body and spirit. She stood in the middle of her bedroom with the dress pulled up and zipped to her waist with the bodice seams opened and splayed like drooping flower petals around her stomach, hips, and buttocks.
When Georgia and Doris walked in, Betty pointed to her dresser. Atop it sat a spool of blue cotton thread with three needles poking out. Draped across the back of her vanity stool were thin scraps of fabric in shades of blue. An avid and thrifty seamstress, Nannie always kept leftovers.
“What are you waiting for?” Betty asked. “Sew me into it.”
An hour later, the blue dress of Nannie’s and Betty’s dreams lay in segments on the bedroom floor.
“We tried,” Georgia said.
“I want to know what you’ve been eating,” Doris said.
“Why?”
“Because the only thing that’s bigger about you is your chest.”
Betty glanced down, uncertain Doris was right, but uncertain she was wrong. Then she spun around and looked at her alarm clock. “Do you know what time it is?” she asked.
Georgia laughed. “I sure do. It’s time to choose a different dress.”
Chapter 22
BETTY
Betty smoothed the “Miss Stern’s Summer Resort” sash along her torso. She pulled it taut—wrinkles were unacceptable—even though that meant the word Resort was hidden at her hip, under her left forearm.
She held up her head, her shoulders straight. No slouching. Arms at her sides, wrists slightly crooked outward to give her hands the subtle angles of a ballerina’s. Betty inhaled to fill her lungs and calm herself. As she exhaled, the line she stood in started moving forward. Fourth in a procession of twenty swimsuit-attired girls, Betty followed instructions and entered North Shore Pavilion two paces behind Miss Glassman’s Resort and two paces in front of Miss Mendelson’s Atlantic Hotel, whose sash lettering was stitched indecipherably close together.
When Betty reached her designated spot on the stage, she smiled and turned forward to face the audience. She’d watched this contest every summer before this one. Had the pavilion always been this crowded?
Women fanned themselves with leaflets. Children fidgeted. Men watched and waited, also glancing at wrist and pocket watches. Mrs. Martha Bookbinder, the mistress of ceremonies, tapped the microphone. It was time.
Mrs. Bookbinder introduced the five judges from B’nai B’rith, which made sense to Betty, since the Jewish service organization was the contest’s sponsor and the most active community group in South Haven. Betty didn’t know how these men snagged the coveted assignment. Her destiny was in their hands. Literally. The judges held pencils and clipboards where they’d record impressions of the girls, along with their scores for the swimsuit and afternoon dress categories.
It would be better not to be caught staring, so Betty looked straight ahead toward the back of the pavilion, where people stood behind the last row of seats. She kept her gaze fixed above the heads of the crowd. She knew Abe wasn’t there. If he had come, she wouldn’t have to look for him, she’d know. But the hollowness inside her was certain. It wasn’t laced with anticipation; she wasn’t buzzing with glee. He wasn’t coming.
The microphone screeched. “Welcome to the annual Miss South Haven pageant,” Mrs. Bookbinder said. The crowd clapped, some boys whistled. “Now, now. Hold your applause. Today we’ll be naming our Miss South Haven 1951.” Mrs. Bookbinder continued with cursory announcements for all the B’nai B’rith committees and events, times for Shabbos services at First Hebrew Congregation, and a reminder about the meeting on the new Israel Bonds. Then Mrs. Bookbinder leaned into the microphone. “You can clap now.”
It was as if permission had turned a switch. The mostly genteel crowd erupted in a standing ovation. Some boys and men whooped and hollered. The contestants hadn’t done anything. It was as if the room full of spectators had been cooped up all summer, when in fact, summertime in South Haven was synonymous with activities, opportunities, and beaches full of bathing beauties.
Pretty girls made fools of grown men.
It was something Nannie would say, but Betty thought of it herself.
Still, beads of sweat trickled down Betty’s back. As long as no one could see, she didn’t care how she felt. It only mattered how she looked.
Alma Goldberg, Miss Fidelman’s, was called first. She walked to the middle of the stage, stopped, and then proceeded to walk down the runway, which extended about ten rows into and above the crowd. She stopped, turned, and walked back to her place in line, all while her name, measurements, school, and ambition to be a homemaker and mother were announced, though Betty doubted any of it was heard over the ruckus in the room.
The judges glanced and scribbled whatever judges scribbled. Then they glanced and scribbled again. Betty’s heart pounded. She hadn’t expected to be nervous, but her eagerness drowned out most of the introductions for Miss Kellman’s Cabins and Miss Levin’s Resort. Each girl walked in peep-toe pumps, their swimsuits accentuating their bustlines and curves. They wore ordinary suits—one yellow gingham, one with nautical stripes. Betty’s lustrous purple suit might have been too fancy for this off-the-rack runway.
Miss Stern’s Summer Resort was
