Cal Harper
1968
C al Harper’s face drew into a smile and he leaned back onto the heels of his feet, his hands stuck in the pockets of his slacks. “I’m a judge,” he said, the words oozing out like syrup, his accent thick and slow.
“How are you going to judge a beauty contest?” teased Priscilla’s father as he hauled his golf clubs into the back of his car.
“It’s a problem, I know,” said Mr. Harper. “I’ll want ’em all to win.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blotted the sweat from his forehead. “But I must do my civic duty, Lee.”
Silla’s father let out one of his laughs—a pulsing of air through his nose. Silla, who had been standing by the passenger door, saw Mr. Harper glance at her. “You know, Silla could enter this year.” As Lee turned to close the trunk, Mr. Harper gave Silla a wink that was so fast she thought she might have been seeing things. “She’s old enough now.”
Lee scratched the back of his head and studied the pavement. “Well . . . ,” he began, intending for that to be his only answer.
But Cal Harper knew Lee’s sweet spot. “There’s good money in it,” he said, folding the handkerchief back up, square into square, putting it back into his pocket. “If she wins.” When he looked back at Lee, he could see that he now had his attention.
“How good?” asked Lee.
Mr. Harper just smiled. “Priscilla,” he said, taking his time to turn to her. “How’d you like to be in a beauty contest?” His gaze moved quickly and casually from her feet up to her face, taking it all in, but not lingering on any one part. There’d be time for that.
Silla had worn her white tennis dress to the club, and though she loved how it felt on the court, loved how she could look down and see the muscles in her legs, loved how freely she could move in it, she suddenly regretted that it was so very short. “Well, I . . . ,” she started. “I never thought about it, I guess.” In truth, once she had become aware of her looks, she viewed them as a liability, the opposite of camouflage. Especially while living with Hattie.
Mr. Harper turned back to Lee. “It’s good for ’em, I think,” he said. “Teaches ’em poise.” From the rolling green golf course, there came the hollow crack of a club meeting the ball, and Mr. Harper’s eyes were drawn toward the sound. “And the higher up they go in these things, the bigger the pageants they compete in, the better the prizes.” He followed the arc of the ball until it began its descent. “They can really turn it into a nice little career.”
“Is it too late to register?” asked Lee, feigning disinterest.
Though Mr. Harper was still facing the course, Silla saw his face form a victorious grin. “I’m sure we can pull some strings,” he said, just as Hattie was walking out from the clubhouse. Sunglasses covered her eyes and her solid sheet of blond hair had been teased and then smoothed into a chin-length helmet. As soon as she was within earshot, Cal said, “There she is,” as if he had been waiting all this time just to catch a glimpse of her. “You’re surrounded by beautiful women, Lee.”
Hattie’s raspberry lips curved into a closed-lipped smile. “Cal Harper,” she said, leaning in, letting him kiss her cheek. “Your wife just gave me the most delicious-sounding recipe for steak Diane.”
“Oh, Lord,” he said. “I hope she’s not telling you to ruin a perfectly good steak by covering it in black pepper and mushrooms.”
Hattie swatted him playfully. “You are just terrible, Cal,” she said.
“Well,” he said with his sly smile, “guilty as charged, I suppose.” He began sauntering back toward the clubhouse, his hands back in his pockets. “Call me about that contest, Lee.” As he passed Silla, he gave her another wink. “I think you could have a winner on your hands.”
It would be years later, while reading his obituary, that Priscilla would learn that Cal Harper had made all his money in horses, that he had advised wealthy owners on new purchases, on what animals he thought had potential. It may not seem lucrative, but Cal Harper always got paid, one way or another.
Hattie made for the passenger door without acknowledging Silla, and Silla instinctively stepped aside. As the car glided away from the country club, Hattie lifted her sunglasses and pulled out a compact to check her face. “What was that about a contest?” she asked her husband.
“Cal thinks Silla’s got a chance in that Miss Harris County contest,” he said.
Hattie froze, and Silla watched as the gaze reflected in the compact mirror moved from her own face to Silla’s.
That night, after they got home, after Lee slipped into the den and a Tom Collins, Silla was waiting for the ham loaf to finish heating and was thinking about what Mr. Harper had said. They can really turn it into a nice little career. A nice little career was more than she had hoped for, but now she thought about it. About what it might be like to have some money of her own. Maybe she could get her own apartment. Maybe she could have a bedroom with white lace curtains and a vanity with a little vase of yellow flowers. That’s what she was thinking when Hattie came into the room. Silla’s head snapped up, as if she had been awakened from a dream. She turned to see a small but steady stream of smoke piping from the vent of the oven.
“Oh!” she gasped as Hattie pulled on oven mitts with the stern look of a military medic. As smoke billowed out of the open oven door, Hattie lifted out the baking sheet and dropped it on the cooktop with a clatter.
“Silla, what were you doing?” she demanded, her face sharp and hard as she inspected the burned ham loaf, a ring of char circling it in the pan.
“I . . . ,” started Silla. “I didn’t realize.”
Hattie’s beautiful jaw shut tight and she looked at Silla, letting the weight of the silence achieve its full impact before she spoke. “I swear,” she said, the words coming out slowly, as if they had a flavor she wanted to savor. “Sometimes I think you’re going to end up just like your mama.”