The Thanksgiving Treasure (13 page)

We milled around nervously backstage while the first few girls went out. We kept peeking out the door to see how the ladies were responding to the show and looking to see if Constance had arrived yet. Her chair was still empty.

Carla Mae was on next, in her pink dress with ruffles all over it. I had told her I thought it was a little too dippy with all those ruffles, but it was the kind of thing she liked. She walked nervously up and down the “runway” aisle and swooshed around a couple of times so everybody could see her ruffles as Mrs. Coyne read her card.

“Miss Carla Mae Carter in her original creation, ‘Pink Parfait,'” Mrs. Coyne read. “A lovely number to wear to a Hollywood premiere at Grauman's Chinese Theatre or for eating caviar and champagne at the Eiffel Tower. Yards and yards of fluffy ruffles in strawberry pink provide just the right feminine touch for today's young lady … ‘Pink Parfait.'”

I thought that was a particularly icky description, and I thought I saw Mrs. Coyne trying to hide a smile as she read it.

Then Gloria came out in her dress. It was bright green plaid with white cuffs, white trim around the hem, white belt, white collar and a gigantic white bow at the chin. Unfortunately, Gloria had made the bow so enormous that she had to tilt her head back to keep from ruining the bow, and she had a little trouble seeing where she was going. As a result, she came leaning down the aisle as though she were descending a steep hill. Besides, she hated the whole idea of walking out in front of all those people, so she rushed up and down the aisle like the place was on fire, and she was off stage before Mrs. Coyne had a chance to finish reading her card. All the ladies laughed and applauded her anyway.

When Gloria came off, the four of us poked our heads out the door again to see if Constance had arrived. She hadn't.

“What are we going to do if she doesn't show?” asked Carla Mae.

“She'll be here!” I said, trying to sound positive. “She'll be here! Just don't panic!”

“Well, what if she doesn't come in time to give out the awards?” asked Tanya. “You and your big ideas!”

“Oh, zip your lip, Smithers,” I said irritably.

We heard Mrs. Coyne introducing Tanya next, and she made her way to the stage. Her dress was as obnoxious as she was. She imagined herself a great ballerina, and her dress was a sort of draped chiffon affair in sea-foam green. She had a big bunch of artificial flowers pinned at the waist and actually had the nerve to wear ballet shoes. She was covered in all her mother's best rhinestone jewelry. I had told her that she looked like somebody's fairy godmother, but she just sniffed and said I had no idea of high class and elegance.

She walked up and down the aisle in a slow-step, as though she were in a wedding procession, and then suddenly, with a great lunge, pirouetted around like a top, then went back to her slow-step. She was absolutely ridiculous. Her narration, of course, was the ickiest of them all.

“Next is Miss Tanya Smithers, in her creation for the artistic young woman, ‘Green Goddess.' Note the classical Greek lines in the drape of the luxurious fabric.” As Mrs. Coyne read Tanya moved her hands over her dress to demonstrate. “And the lovely way the dress moves on the graceful dancer's form.” I could tell it was all Mrs. Coyne could do to keep from laughing as she read what Tanya had written. “A perfect frock for sitting in the Royal Box at the opera, or for waltzing in the Vienna woods, or for a New York penthouse cocktail party … ‘Green Goddess.'”

Tanya kept on posing and pirouetting, even after Mrs. Coyne had finished with her narration, and Mrs. Coyne practically had to ask her to get off the stage.

“That was absolutely revolting!” I said to Tanya, when she came off stage. She just stuck her nose in the air and pranced by us, quite satisfied with herself.

“You're next, Addie!” hissed Carla Mae.

“OK, I'm going!” I answered.

“My gosh,” said Gloria, “Constance still isn't here!”

“Don't worry!” I said, and ran for the stage.

I wasn't too crazy about parading up and down in front of the whole Women's Club like a heifer at the County Fair, so I shoved my card into Mrs. Coyne's hand and shot up and down the aisle rather stiffly, trying to get the ordeal over with as quickly as possible. Grandma was in the audience, and she caught my eye and smiled.

My secret dress design was bright blue with red and white rickrack everywhere. I just loved rickrack, and I had gone absolutely crazy trimming the dress. It looked like a road map. As I whirred by, Mrs. Coyne read the description I had written on my card.

“‘Rickrack Rhapsody,' by Adelaide Mills … the perfect dress for driving in your European sports car or signing autographs at Hollywood and Vine or perhaps for brunching in the Blue Room at the White House.” I thought that was one of the better lines of my narration, tying in the color of the dress and the Blue Room and all.

“Note the unusual detailing in the application of rickrack,” Mrs. Coyne continued. “On the sleeves, on the cuffs, on the collar …” As she mentioned each part of the dress, I gestured with my hands to show it to the judges. I had rehearsed it a dozen times at home, but in the heat of the moment I forgot what order the details came in, and I ended up frantically waving my hands around like a windmill, trying to follow what Mrs. Coyne was reading from my card. “On the bodice, on the skirt, on the hem …” She began to laugh, but continued reading, “On the socks, on the purse, on the pigtails …” At that the whole audience began to laugh. “On the hat, indeed, a veritable ‘Rickrack Rhapsody.'”

Suddenly, the door opened at the end of the room, and there was a terrbile crash. Constance had come in and had swung the door open too hard, knocking over a tray of dishes. Everything stopped, and there was an awkward silence.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Didn't mean to interrupt.”

Then one of the judges motioned Constance to her seat at the head table, and Mrs. Coyne finished with my narration. Constance nodded in my direction as she sat down, and I could see she was sorry for spoiling my big moment in front of the judges. I went quickly off the stage, embarrassed at the commotion.

I had been the last to show my dress, and we were all called out on the stage again to wait for the judges' decision. Everyone in the restaurant was watching Constance, and she seemed self-conscious. She was wearing a pale blue suit and a dramatic brown hat with pheasant feathers. She lit up a cigarette and fiddled with it nervously as the judges handed their decision to Mrs. Coyne.

Mrs. Coyne gave Constance a flowery introduction and said, “Won't you please give a warm welcome to our own Broadway star, Miss Constance Payne!”

The audience applauded, but Constance didn't seem to realize she was supposed to go up on the stage until one of the judges next to her tapped her shoulder. She looked startled, then got up suddenly and accidently pushed her chair against the foot of a lady seated behind her. The woman let out a cry of pain, and Constance seemed flustered and fumbled for a place to put out her cigarette. She walked up the steps to the stage and stumbled slightly at the top. The whole audience gasped.

“I'm used to coming out from the wings,” Constance said nervously, “not up the steps.” There was a slight ripple of laughter from the audience. All of us on the stage were watching Constance closely. I wondered why a big star like her would be so nervous and clumsy in front of a crowd.

Mrs. Coyne handed her the paper with the winners' names, and Constance stared at it blankly for a long moment.

“Oh,” she said, “I forgot my glasses.” She started digging through her purse.

“Can I help?” asked Mrs. Coyne.

“No, no, no. It's all right,” Constance said. She looked out at the audience apologetically. “I know how excited …”

“Louder please!” someone called from the back of the room.

Constance began again, louder. “I know how excited you all are to hear the winners …” She trailed off without finishing the sentence, still searching in her purse. I stared at her, wondering what was wrong and why she was so inept. I had expected her to be dazzling.

“I think she's drunk!” someone near the stage whispered loudly. We all heard it, and I looked quickly over at Constance. She had heard it too. She looked as though her face had been slapped. I realized that the woman in the audience was right. I suddenly felt sick. I wanted to be anywhere but there. It had been my idea to invite Constance, and now it was a mess and all my fault. I wished she had never said yes. She went on fumbling in her purse, looking for her glasses.

“Wait,” she said. “This'll just take me a minute.”

“I'll be glad to read the names for you,” said Mrs. Coyne, reaching for the piece of paper.

“I'm sorry,” said Constance. “Just a moment.”

I was burning with embarrassment for her, and I could feel the discomfort from everyone else on stage. I knew drunk people could be unpredictable, and I was afraid she might do something awful.

“I'm afraid the handwriting's hard to read,” said Mrs. Coyne, tugging at the paper. “Let me help you.”

“No, it's all right,” said Constance. And suddenly, as they pulled in opposite directions, the paper tore in half, and Constance's purse dropped from her arm and its contents spilled out on the floor. There was a titter, then cold silence from the audience.

Constance knelt unsteadily to try and gather up her belongings, and Mrs. Coyne, trying to make the best of an awkward situation, bent to help her.

Then Constance seemed to give up and whispered to Mrs. Coyne, “I think you'd better do it. I'm afraid I'm just not feeling very well.”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Coyne.

Constance grabbed her purse, leaving some of her things on the floor, and turned to leave.

“Excuse me … you'll have to excuse me,” she said in the direction of the audience. Then her eyes met mine. She looked terribly sad, and turned and walked quickly to the door. There was a deadly silence as everyone turned to watch her pass by. When she reached the door, she fumbled with the knob, and all eyes were on her as she struggled to get out of the room.

I wondered at that moment, why, in the movies, drunk people were always funny—staggering and hiccuping. Constance wasn't funny at all. I stood on the stage, watching the door after she left, not even listening when Mrs. Coyne announced Mary Beth Walsh had won first prize. I didn't care.

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About the Author

Gail Rock grew up in Valley, Nebraska. After receiving a BA in fine arts from the University of Nebraska, she moved to New York and began a career in journalism. She has worked as a film and TV critic and has done freelance writing for newspapers and magazines.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1974 by Gail Rock

Cover design by Kelly Parr

ISBN: 978-1-4976-7382-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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New York, NY 10014

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