Chapter 9

And then the phone started ringing.

The first call was from the Clarion. Not even from Sheila, who could have reassured me. Just the Clarion.

“This is Bob McCay,” the Clarion said. “From the Clarion.”

“Hello,” I said, hoping he was trying to get us to subscribe.

“Is Kit Carson there?”

“Kit Carson killed Indians,” I said. “He was a terrible man and he died years ago.”

“I mean Katherine Carson,” he said. “Is she there?”

“I’ll see,” I said, and putting my hand over the phone, hollered “Katherine!” very loudly. There was no answer.

“She doesn’t seem to be,” I said. “Can I take a message?”

“If you would,” he said. “The Clarion would like to have a picture spread on her and her family for this Sunday’s paper. Miss Carson is the first Miss Great Oaks ever in the state contest, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” I said. “Katherine must have forgotten to tell me.”

“Nothing formal,” he said. “Just pictures of her at home, relaxing. Maybe a bathing-suit shot. Have her call me at 342-2017, okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “As soon as she gets in.”

“Thank you,” he said, and we hung up.

I wondered how I could keep Mom from knowing the Clarion wanted pictures of her for their Sunday edition, when the phone rang again. I debated answering it, and bad judgment won out.

“Hello?” I said.

“This is the mayor’s office. Is Miss Kit Carson there?”

“Speaking,” I said. I never lie to mayors’ offices.

“I’ll get Mayor McGowan,” his office said. I heard a click, and then there was Mayor McGowan.

“Hello, Kit,” he said. “This is Mayor McGowan.”

“Hello,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“First of all,” he said, “I want to congratulate you on your victory last night. All of Great Oaks was proud that you won and wishes you the best of luck in the state competition.”

“Thank you,” I said, wondering if he’d taken a poll.

“I’m also calling with a request,” he said. “You are eighteen, I believe.”

“That’s right,” I said, and suppressed a giggle. The usual request that followed that question was not the sort of thing I’d expect the mayor to call me about.

“I assume you are planning to register to vote in November’s election.”

“Eventually,” I said. “I’m not wildly political.”

“It is the obligation of every citizen, no matter how young, to vote,” Mayor McGowan said. “How else will the people be able to express their opinions to those in command?”

“I didn’t know those in command listened,” I said.

The mayor laughed. “It may be hard for you to believe, but, yes, they do listen, and they listen hard, every November.”

“I assumed they did in November,” I said. “It was the rest of the year I had my doubts about.”

The mayor thought about that. “Politics is a complex business,” he said, ending that conversation. “What I wanted to ask you was if you would be one of the speakers at a rally to get the young people out to register. We’re holding it next Thursday night at the high school auditorium. It’s called ‘Make Yourself Heard.’ Would you be interested?”

“What would I have to do?”

“Nothing really,” he said. “Just appear there as both Miss Great Oaks and Miss Harrison County. Maybe draw a parallel about your election and the elections in November.”

“Is the purpose to get them to register as Republicans?” I asked.

“Of course not,” McGowan said. “It’s simply to get them to register. They can be communists for all I care, just as long as they exercise their right to vote.”

“And is the rally free?”

“You’re a regular Joan Baez, aren’t you?” McGowan said.

“I’m apolitical,” I said. “But I don’t want to find myself endorsing something I don’t believe in. I do have an obligation to the Miss Harrison County Contest not to get involved with politics.”

“The rally is free,” the mayor said. “There will be some entertainment and some speeches. We thought it would be nice if you appeared, because as part of the peer group, we thought you would be more convincing than a bunch of aging politicians. Right now this aging politician is starting to have his doubts.”

“Welcome to the club,” I said. “Look, I’m sorry. You caught me at a bad time. Postcontest letdown, you know. Let me think about it; okay, and I’ll call you back tomorrow. All right?”

“Fine,” he said. “Congratulations, once again.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Good-by.”

“Good-by.”

I sat down, feeling evil and rotten, and tried to think. It didn’t do any good. There were no thoughts left in me. I turned the TV on to Lynn’s favorite soap and tried to follow the action. The phone rang again.

“Hello,” I said, wondering how much an answering service would cost.

“Hi there, Kit,” the man said. “This is Barry King.”

“Right,” I said, remembering the Fourth of July. “How are you?”

“Fine, Kit. How are you?”

“Holding up under great strain.”

Barry laughed, and all of a sudden, I decided I liked him after all. “How would you like to make it big on radio?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Everybody says radio’s due for a revival.”

“It is,” he said. “Not this year. Maybe not even this century. But hold on, Kit, and it’ll be there.”

“I’m holding on,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”

“First of all, that Fourth of July stuff you did went over really well. A lot of people listen to that broadcast every year, but we’ve never had a response like this year’s. People called us, wrote in, saying how much they like you, what a nice voice you have. It broadcasts very well, low and smooth.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I grant you it’s a pity it’s not TV,” he said. “With your looks, you’d be a star overnight. But you have the voice too, and that’s a big help.”

“It certainly is,” I said and decided I might have gotten Helen Keller on the basis of my looks, but definitely not on the basis of my voice. It made me feel better.

“Anyway, we’ve been talking about it, me and Larry Haskins, the program manager, and we’d like to take a shot at something. If you’re interested.”

“You’re not planning to take a shot at me?” I said.

Barry laughed. “That’s what I mean. That nice sense of humor. By the way, congratulations on winning. You must have been really excited.”

“Thrilled,” I said.

“I can believe it,” he said. “What we’d like you to do is a weekly fifteen-minute show. We’re thinking of calling it Youthvoice.”

“What would I do?”

“Don’t worry, you won’t have to monologue for fifteen minutes,” he said. “We’re crazy, but we’re not that crazy.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m not that crazy either.”

“We’d set up interviews for you,” he said. “Sometimes it would be adults in the community that kids would want to hear from. Sometimes it would be the kids themselves if they’re doing something important. We wouldn’t want it to turn into Kit and Her Friends, if you know what I mean.”

“I know,” I said. “But I don’t think you’d have to worry about it.” They weren’t speaking to me anyway.

“I know,” he said. “But you know how program managers are. They like to make sure things are clearly understood.”

“Clearly,” I said. “How much work would be involved?”

“Wait,” he said. “I’m not finished. If the show catches on, we might expand it. Keep the fifteen minutes for three weeks in a month, and the fourth week make it a half-hour rap session with two or three kids, you moderating.”

“Just as long as they’re not my friends.”

“Just as long as it doesn’t sound like they are.”

“Would you pay me?”

“Of course,” he said.

“How much?” I asked.

“You’d have to take that up with Larry, our program manager. I’m calling because we got along so well on the Fourth. Larry figured you’d be more interested if you heard it from me.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It sounds like fun, and I could use the money, but there might be some kind of regulation against it. I’d have to check.”

“You mean with the beauty contest people?” he said. “By all means check it out with them, and then get back to us. We’d like to start in two weeks if it’s possible with you.”

“I’ll tell you by tomorrow,” I said. “Either way.”

“Fine,” he said. “It’s been a pleasure speaking to you. You have a very sexy voice over the phone, you know.”

“Yes,” I said. “You sound like a radio broadcaster.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s my curse. ’By, Kit.”

“Good-by,” I said and wondered whether to keep the phone off the hook. Fool that I am, I didn’t, but hung up properly and tried to return to the soap opera. From what I could figure out, it had ended while I was on the phone, and a new one was on. I didn’t care. Other people’s problems seemed just wonderful to me then.

The phone rang. I let it ring six times before I picked it up.

“Hello,” I said, in my best German accent.

“Is Miss Katherine Carson there, please? This is Charlotte Dearing of the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest.”

“I vill see,” I said, staying German to the end. “Miss Katherine!” I called, and this time Katherine was there to take the call.

“Hello,” I said, back in mid-America. “This is Katherine Carson.”

“Hello, Kit, this is Charlotte Dearing,” Ms. Dearing said.

“Hi there,” I said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. We were a little concerned about you.”

“Why?” I said.

“You left so early last night,” she said. “Right after the contest. The judges didn’t have a chance to talk with you at all.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mother had to go to work. She’s a nurse you know, and it was a long drive back.” Actually, Mom was all in favor of staying there forever, but I was exhausted and depressed and wanted to be home. There was no reason for Charlotte Dearing to know that.

“That was very considerate of you,” she said. “Worrying about your mother like that.”

“Well, I also wanted my beauty sleep,” I said. “Eight hours a night, keeps my complexion clear and my eyes sparkling.”

“Your eyes sparkled last night,” she said. “Especially when you read that Anne Frank selection. You were just lovely.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I called to congratulate you,” she said. “I didn’t have a chance to last night, what with all the confusion.”

“Yes, there was a lot of that,” I said.

“And to talk to you about the various responsibilities you will have as Miss Harrison County. Are you ready?”

“I’m still here,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “First of all, there’s the state contest. We have very high hopes for you. You have the look of a winner.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“The contest is at the end of September,” she said. “I hope if you’re planning to go away to college, you’ll be able to return for it.”

“I’m not going away to college,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Sometimes that causes problems for our girls. Now as Miss Harrison County you will be expected to appear at the Harrison County Fair later this month.”

“Sure,” I said. “Do I have to wear a bathing suit?”

“Of course not,” she said. “A skirt and a blouse will be fine.”

“Not jeans?”

“We would prefer a skirt and blouse,” she said.

“Just asking,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “It’s better if everything’s clearly understood from the beginning. It solves so many problems that way.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“It is also customary for Miss Harrison County to spend a day at the Veterans Hospital in Lawrence. It’s a real morale booster for those fine young men.”

“Should I wear a bathing suit?”

“Of course not,” she said again. “A simple skirt and blouse.”

“How about a dress?” I asked.

“A dress would do nicely,” she said. “We have that visit scheduled for a week from Tuesday. Will that be all right with you?”

“I assume so,” I said. “I have no pressing engagements this summer.”

“That’s another thing,” she said. “Are you engaged?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” she said. “The judges in the state and national contests prefer girls who are not seriously involved. You can never tell when the girl might decide to get married and have to drop out of the contest.”

“I have no plans for getting married,” I said.

“Fine,” she said. “Are you politically active?”

“No,” I said. “But the mayor of Great Oaks just asked me to appear at a rally to get kids to register.”

“That’s fine,” she said. “We’re very pleased when our girls are civic-minded. However, please, if possible, keep away from partisan politics. We can’t forbid you, of course, but it has been our experience that the judges shy away from girls who are overly involved, especially with left-wing politics.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.

“To get back to your responsibilities as Miss Harrison County,” she said as though we’d ever been away from them, “we like our girls to give an interview to the Lawrence Enterprise-Gazette. It’s become a tradition for them to have a picture spread on Miss Harrison County every year, with pictures from her childhood. That would be your childhood, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure I could find some pictures.”

“We also like to coach our girls before the state contest. You know seven years ago, Miss Harrison County won the state contest. Unfortunately she didn’t make it as one of the finalists in the national contest.”

“Poor thing,” I said, in my most sympathetic voice.

“She was a lovely girl,” Ms. Dearing said. “She used her scholarship money to go to the University of Massachusetts. She married a nice young man, an orthodontist, I believe.”

“How nice,” I said. “After the contest was over, I hope.”

“Of course,” Ms. Dearing said. “Would you be available for coaching the weekend before the state contest?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Will I be chaperoned?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’ll be a guest at my home for the weekend.”

“It sounds lovely,” I said. “I’m sorry I had to ask, but I know my mother would.”

“Certainly,” she said. “Put your mother’s mind at ease. There has never once been a scandal connected with this contest. Our standards are the highest.”

“I’m sure they are,” I said.

“Which brings up another question,” Ms. Dearing said.

I waited for one on the status of my virginity, but fortunately I was disappointed.

“Are you at all active in women’s liberation?” she asked.

“Women’s liberation?” I said in a shocked voice. “Me?”

“I assume you’re not,” she said. “Fine.”

“Really,” I said. “Do I look like the sort who would be?”

“You never can tell,” Ms. Dearing said. “Some of the most attractive girls around are sympathetic. And you must agree that they have some good thoughts.”

“I’ve never found any,” I said.

“Well, equal pay for equal work,” she said apologetically.

“I grew up in a very old-fashioned household,” I said. “My mother always taught me a woman’s place is in the home. And there she doesn’t have to worry about equal pay.”

“Fine,” she said. “Sometimes a girl who’s active in women’s liberation tries to embarrass the contest.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The last thing I would want to do is embarrass the Miss Harrison County Beauty Contest.”

“Do you have any questions?” Ms. Dearing asked.

“Probably,” I said. “But I seem to have forgotten them.”

“You have my phone number if you should think of them,” she said. “Good-by, Kit. It’s been a pleasure speaking to you.”

“Thank you,” I said and hung up, trying to remember what I’d forgotten. Before I had a chance to sit down, the phone rang again. I suddenly remembered the radio show, and on the crazy assumption it was Ms. Dearing again, I picked up the phone and said, “Hello?”

“Is this Kit Carson?” a man asked.

“Speaking,” I said.

“I bet you have lovely breasts,” the man said. “May I kiss your breasts?”

I hung the phone up and went back to the TV. I turned the volume really loud, but it didn’t drown out the sounds of the phone ringing.