The Savannah morning sun had shifted into assault position. No one in this square would be able to escape it until late in the afternoon. It had already attacked the sides of my Coca-Cola cup and left me with a wet hand. I just about ended up bathed in Coke as I tried to find a napkin in my glove compartment, put my cup in a cup holder, and answer my ringing cell phone all at the same time. I grabbed the Coke before it cascaded down the front of my white linen pants.
“Hello,” I answered, sounding rather discomposed for such an early hour.
“Well, Miss Sunshine apparently has already forgotten that she has a real job and the possibility of moving out of her home in a very short while.”
“Miss Sunshine just about rained on herself. Did you decide to work today, or do you want to come out and play with me?”
“If I don’t sell some artwork, I can’t pay rent.”
“Yeah, right, and if I hadn’t gotten a job, I’d’ve been kicked out of Vicky’s house. Anyway, I’m headed to Emma’s house now. Sure you don’t want to come?”
“You mean you’re just going to go over to her house, show up on her doorstep, and say,‘Do you want to tell me your story?’”
“Well, I was planning on it until you said it like that. Do you have a better idea?”
“No, I don’t have any idea. I just hope you’re still packing that BB gun in your trunk. You might need it. And don’t tell her I said anything about her. I don’t want her sending her children over to me for art lessons, if you know what I mean.”
“I have no idea what you mean. Well, I’ve got to go. I’m here.”
“Good luck, brave soul.”
The front of the Riley’s house was as beautiful as it had always been. Mr. and Mrs. Riley were well-respected in the city. They ran a local restaurant down on River Street that was a favorite of tourists and locals alike. They weren’t very assuming people, but they were stunningly beautiful, thus Emma’s flawlessness. I couldn’t imagine that this beauty from high school could be as haggard as Paige and Richard made her out to be.
There wasn’t a doorbell by the apartment door, but there was a beautiful gold-plated lion’s-head door knocker. I clutched the ring that it held in its jaws and tapped it with three determined strokes. There was no sign of the door opening for an extremely long moment, but I could hear movement. Every shade in the downstairs apartment was drawn. After what seemed like enough time for Vicky to both groom and accessorize, a hand lifted the corner of the blind and a blue eye peeked out.
“Who is it?” the eyeball asked.
“It’s Savannah Phillips from up the street. I would like to speak with Emma, if it’s possible.”
The door opened to reveal something I wouldn’t have believed possible. The natural beauty from high school was now just natural. Truth be told, she didn’t even seem natural. She was only two years older than I, but she looked as if she were my mother’s age. In fact,my mother looked better than Emma. Emma’s once sun-kissed blond hair looked as if it hadn’t had contact with a brush in years. Her skin, which used to be so golden and fresh, now looked sallow and worn. Her eyes were once a stunning blue. Now they lacked any life at all.
Almost too shocked to speak, I mustered up something to the effect of, “I just finished my master’s work and heard you had moved back home, and I wanted to see how you were.” I felt like an idiot and knew I probably sounded more like an idiot than I actually felt.
She stared at me, revealing she didn’t believe much of what I’d said. “Savannah, we hardly ever talked in school. Why would you want to talk to me now?”
I decided since honesty had worked in my life up to that point, there was no reason to ruin my track record. The worst that could happen would be a door slammed in my face, or a challenge to make her beautiful again.“Emma, actually you’re right. I’m not here to just talk. I wanted to ask you a few questions for a story I’m working on. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?” She just stood there, staring, glaring.“I promise I won’t take long, and if you don’t want to talk to me, I will take my things and leave,” I said, motioning to my satchel that was hanging on my side.
To my surprise, she opened the door to let me in. I didn’t know, however, that I was going to need a backhoe to make it past the foyer. The place was dirty, excessively cluttered, and filled with the stale smell of cigarette smoke. Emma walked ahead of me in a white tank top covered in I didn’t want to know what. She had on what looked like men’s boxers, and she kicked the toys out of her way to get down the hall to the small living room in the back. She never apologized or even spoke in the process; she just sort of shuffled. She shuffled stuff out of her way and removed clothes from the sofa, motioning for me to sit.
If Vicky had come with me, she would have snatched up Emma, told her to get ahold of herself, then taken her to the bathroom and scrubbed her from head to toe. I, on the other hand, planned to sit there on that sofa and hope I didn’t have Cheerios stuck to my behind when I got up. Emma lit a cigarette, revealing the early lines that had formed around her mouth and the yellowness of her teeth. She really was a pitiful sight.
“What do you want, Savannah?” she said flatly.
“Emma,” I paused for an extremely long time, having no idea how in the world to even begin this conversation.“Emma, I’m sure you know people around town have speculated for years about what has happened to you. Some say your life turned upside down when you lost the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant.”
She took a long drag from her cigarette, but her face registered a moment of shock.“Is that so?”
For a moment I believed she might put her cigarette out on my arm. So I responded quickly.“Well, yes, and if I told you I was working on a story that might reveal that the pageant was in some way rigged, would you be willing to tell me your story?”
At that question, I was sure I saw a scant ounce of emotion in Emma’s eyes. I’m not sure what kind of emotion, but something. Something there reflected a brief recollection of a life past, a faded memory. It was almost as if in one transient expression I saw her experience a reality long since forgotten. As if with one volatile query she was confronted with the reason for who she had become. But it left before I could catch it with my own expression. Her original apathy returned.“I wouldn’t care to tell you anything about beauty pageants. Now if you’ll leave, I need to go get my children from upstairs.” She stood up and headed back to the door.
I would make one last-ditch effort, see if I could retrieve her past and make her confront it. I stood as if to follow her but remained at the edge of the sofa. “Emma, you were once one of the most beautiful women in this city. What happened to you?” I was probably crossing a line, but I believed someone needed to shake this girl up and make her confront her demons. And if my mother wasn’t here to do it, who better than me?
She turned around and glared at me in the most menacing of ways. I decided this was probably how all beauty queens looked without sequins and tiaras, false eyelashes, and imitation body parts. For a moment, I thought about escaping out the back, not sure what women like her were capable of; but I decided, whether I ever published a story or not, this girl needed serious help. It was time for intervention. And if I was to be the interventioner (if that’s even a word), then so be it.
“I mean, well, um . . . look at you!” I said, pushing back my fear, getting even bolder, and taking a determined step forward. “When is the last time you have taken care of yourself: brushed your hair, washed your clothes, picked up after your children?” I asked, gesturing at the mayhem. “When is the last time you looked in the mirror and saw someone you liked? I may not have known you well growing up, but I’m not dumb enough to think this is the real you.” The more I talked, the stiffer her upper lip became and the redder her face. Right before I thought she was going to explode on my head, I decided I would show myself out, but not without one last statement. Unfortunately she beat me to it.
“Who do you think you are coming into my home, with your little preppy-looking self? You have no idea what my life is. You live in your little fantasy world, with no responsibility and no one tugging at your sleeve twenty-four hours a day. You spend time sipping lattes and hanging out with your prissy mama.”
Well, heaven help the child who talks that way about my mama. I can tell you any story about her I dare please. But Emma’s words brought me to life in a way that, honestly, to that point I had never seen myself. “First, let me tell you one thing. I don’t drink lattes. I drink Coca-Cola. Second, I have responsibilities. But I actually take care of them.”
“So do I,” she said, glaring.
“Oh, do you? Well, I make sure at the end of the day when I lay my head on my pillow that I did the right thing, the right way, and at the right time, with hopefully the right motives. I don’t let others suffer at my hands.”
“Does anyone look like they’re suffering around here?”
“Well, I don’t call ten years of T-shirts living the high life. And third, my mother is one of the finest women you will ever meet. It would do you good to learn how to be half the woman that she is. No, it would do us both good.”With that, I passed her in the carved-out path and turned around to add one final thought.
“Emma, I don’t care if you tell me anything about your experience. I might’ve been sent here for one reason alone today, and that was to let you know you need to remember how to live. You have four reasons upstairs. They should be enough to clean yourself up, make something out of your life, and do those things you were created for. Because I assure you this isn’t it. And if you need to figure out where to start, you would benefit from talking to my mother. She has a way of helping people see the good in themselves. I think you’ve forgotten that you have any.”
She walked over to the door and opened it, making it clear she had tired of my dissertation.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I hope you have a good afternoon.” With that, I walked out of the already opened door, and she slammed it behind me.
“Well, that went well.”
I needed a mandatory rest period. There was only one place that ever gave me real quiet—the Savannah College of Art and Design Library. I took my station next to the window, so I could keep my eye on who was coming and going up the street.
As I opened up my satchel, I saw him. His bike was still blue and his curls still curly. He passed by the window, and just as I turned my head to watch his departure, he turned back and caught my eye and smiled a “I know you’re watching me but don’t want me to know” kind of smile. I returned a raised eyebrow and upturned lip. Cocky little something, aren’t you? I wasn’t even looking at you. I was just looking out the window trying to create an adequate opening for my first article. You need to get a job anyway and quit riding around the street like some troubled youth with nowhere to go.
I began an Internet search to find out how I could get copies of the Miss Georgia United States of America program books. The Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant Web site opened to the playing of their theme song.“What a lady, dressed as royalty. With such grace, she has arrived. Can’t you see her magic and splendor? Isn’t this world greater for having her?”
Ooh, bad rhyme, I thought to myself as the song continued. “Here she comes. Walking on air, she comes. Don’t you wish you were her? The lady divine, Miss Georgia United States of America.”
“Ooh, so sad. So very, very sad,” I actually said out loud. I had heard the song a thousand times. Vicky walked through the house singing it to herself. But hearing it from a computer speaker solidified the fact that it truly was wretched.
Searching the Web site, I found the past issues. Some poor soul had been forced to scan every page of every program book over the last fifty years. Grateful, I began the tedious search for Katherine’s picture. She would have to be somewhere before Victoria, who was crowned in 1976.
I found her in 1972. I couldn’t believe it. Despite more than thirty years, she looked exactly the same, without the gray, of course. And the few laugh lines from a good life that had since formed around her eyes were undetectable in the photo. Underneath her picture it read “Katherine Powers, Miss Savannah United States of America, sponsored by the Savannah Chamber of Commerce.”
Finding Katherine, I began to research the judges for her the year she competed. There I saw Mr. Randolph Cummings III himself. I began to scan through the years and learned that Mr. III was a judge from 1970 through 1992 . Then in 1993,Mr. Randolph Cummings IV came into the picture as a judge. I went back to Katherine’s program and looked at the auditors. Her auditors were Mr. Lyle Wilcox and Mr. Stanley Harvard. But looking through the programs from ’71 and ’73, Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Harvard hadn’t audited before or since. The Templetons audited from 1973 until 1996, and then a different set of auditors was used every year after that.
My mind raced with a thousand questions. If the pageant was rigged, by whom? Was it by the directors, a rotund older fella named Mr. Carl Todd, or his daughter, Miss Carline Todd? Was it this Mr. III judge, who never seemed to go away? Or was it these one-time auditors? And were they fired for what they did that year? It was up to me to make this puzzle work. It was up to me to make it all work before Tuesday. Because by Tuesday, Savannah needed a story and Mr. Hicks needed a reason to fire me. I determined I would have mine; I only hoped that it wouldn’t afford him his in the process.
The Atlanta phone book popped up on the Internet and pulled up Wilcox, Harvard, Pratt, and Dean. What could it hurt to call and ask for a meeting? The worst they could do would be to say no. I dialed right there on my mobile phone and heard a friendly voice.“Wilcox, Harvard, Pratt, and Dean,may I help you?”
“Yes, hello. I was trying to reach Mr. Lyle Wilcox or Mr.Stanley Harvard.”
“Oh,” she said, pausing.“Well, they have both retired, but Mr.
Wilcox’s son, Raymond, and Mr. Harvard’s daughter, Suzanna, both work here. Would you like to speak to one of them?”
“Do you mean they’ve retired from the company or have they retired, period?”
“Well”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“Mr. Wilcox retired about two years ago from the company and died immediately after his retirement. Mr. Harvard retired over ten years ago and just passed away last month. So, I guess you could say they have both retired, retired.”
“Well, in that case, how about I just speak with Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Raymond Wilcox?” I said.
“Oh, he’s in a meeting right now, so you can’t speak with him.”
I decided not to remind her that she had just asked me if I would like to speak with him, so I went on to request to speak to Suzanna Harvard.
“Oh,well, she’s in that same meeting. In fact they are all in that meeting. By the way, who is this?”
“My name is Savannah Phillips. I’m from Savannah, Georgia, and—”
“Oh, isn’t that cute. I bet you go around telling people you are Savannah from Savannah.” Her laugh was increasingly irritating.
“Actually, no I don’t say that to anyone. You know what, I don’t think I’ll leave a message. I think I’ll just try back another time.” I hung up and decided to see if maybe Mr. Wilcox’s or Mr. Harvard’s wives were still living. Searching under their personal names, I could find no listing for Mr. Wilcox, but Mr. and Mrs. Stanley Harvard were in Buckhead. I picked up my phone to try again.
“Hello,” said a voice from the other end.
“Hello,Mrs. Harvard?”
“Yes, this is she . May I ask who is calling?” she responded warmly.
“My name is Savannah Phillips, and I am calling you from Savannah, actually,” I said, pausing to see if she would want to add anything of her own to my recent statement. She didn’t, so I continued. “I’m working on a story about the Miss Georgia United States of America Pageant. I know it has been a long time, but I saw your husband’s firm was the auditor in 1972, and I wanted to know if I could discuss that event with you.”
“Young lady, that was a lifetime ago and an experience we don’t fondly recall. I’m not sure what you are working on, but I can assure you, you won’t find any information here.”
“Well, I understand that it’s been a long time, and to you it probably isn’t even worth discussing. But what if I told you that what happened could still be affecting the pageant today? Would it matter at all to you then? I mean, I’m not sure that pageants matter at all to you. They don’t matter much to me myself. But—”
“Pageants are of no consequence to me one way or the other. But whatever some women want to do is their own business. Stanley had nothing to do with those pageants. He only audited them for one year, and then he quit. So I don’t really have any information to give you. Are you some kind of reporter or something?”
The way she said “reporter” had an air of sleaze to it. I had never thought that people might see what I do as somehow less than ethical or necessary. But if they hadn’t met Gloria or read her work, then their only point of reference was the media they were forced to endure on 24/7 news. The kind that can make news from nothing during a slow news cycle.“Actually, I write human-interest stories for the Savannah Chronicle.” No point in her knowing that I had yet to write my first story. “I believe I have found something of interest to Savannah. It revolves around the year your husband was an auditor. I just wanted to come and talk with you about it.”
“You and I have nothing to talk about.”
“I’m not asking you to promise anything. I’m just asking for the opportunity to talk with you.”
“This would be a waste of both of our time, young lady.”
“Ma’am, I know I’m young, but I believe that everyone should have the opportunity to do their best in anything and be granted their due successes accordingly. I’m not a big beauty pageant person, but if that is a young woman’s dream, she ought to at least have the opportunity to pursue that dream fairly.”
The other side of the line was quiet for a while.“I’ll meet you tomorrow at noon at the Buckhead Diner. Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s my favorite restaurant in Atlanta, and I’ll be there by eleven thirty. I’m sure we’ll leave liking each other.”
“Well, we will leave, but I don’t know how much we will like each other.” All that followed was a dial tone.