Actually it’s in Hillside, but the school across the street is in Elizabeth. And
then our church, St. Genevieve’s. St. Genevieve’s, when it started, was a
missionary church, you see, just a part of St. Catherine’s. Just a wooden
church. It’s a big, beautiful church now. But the building that stands now—and I
remember when I first went in it—”
That was as trying as it ever got: Dorothy Dwyer prattling on
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about Elizabeth as though this were the Middle Ages and beyond the fields tilled
by the peasants the only points of demarcation were the spires of the parish
churches on the horizon. Dorothy Dwyer prattling on about St. Gen’s and St.
Patrick’s and St. Catherine’s while Sylvia Levov sat across from her too polite
to do anything other than nod and smile but her face as white as a sheet. Just
sat there and endured it, and good manners got her through. So all in all, it
was never anywhere near as bad as everybody had been expecting. And it was never
but once a year that they were brought together anyway, and that was on the
neutral, dereligion-ized ground of Thanksgiving, when everybody gets to eat the
same thing, nobody sneaking off to eat funny stuff—no kugel, no gefilte fish, no
bitter herbs, just one colossal turkey for two hundred and fifty million people—
one colossal turkey feeds all. A moratorium on funny foods and funny ways and
religious exclusivity, a moratorium on the three-thousand-year-old nostalgia of
the Jews, a moratorium on Christ and the cross and the crucifixion for the
Christians, when everyone in New Jersey and elsewhere can be more passive about
their irrationalities than they are the rest of the year. A moratorium on all
the grievances and resentments, and not only for the Dwyers and the Levovs but
for everyone in America who is suspicious of everyone else. It is the American
pastoral par excellence and it lasts twenty-four hours.
“It was wonderful. The Presidential Suite. Three bedrooms and a living room.
That’s what you got in those days for having been a Miss New Jersey. The U.S.
Line. I guess it wasn’t booked, so we got on board and they just gave it to us.”
Dawn was telling the Salzmans about their trip abroad to look at the Simmentals
in Switzerland.
“I’d never been to Europe before, and all the way over everybody was telling me,
‘There’s nothing like France, just wait until we come into Le Havre in the
morning and you smell France. You’ll love it.’ So I waited, and early in the
morning Seymour was still in bed and
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I knew we had docked and so I raced on deck and I sniffed,” Dawn said, laughing,
“and it was just garlic and onions all over the place.”
She had raced out of the cabin with Merry while he was still in bed, but in the
story she was on deck alone, astonished to find that France didn’t smell like
one big flower.
* * *
“The train to Paris. It was sublime. You see miles and miles of woods, but every
tree is in line. They plant their forests in a line. We had a wonderful time,
didn’t we, darling?”
“We did,” said the Swede.
“We walked around with great big bread sticks sticking out of our pockets. They
practically said, ‘Hey, look at us, a couple of rubes from New Jersey.’ We were
probably just the kind of Americans they laugh at. But who cared? We walked
around, nibbling at the tops of them, looking at everything, the Louvre, the
garden of the Tuileries—it was just wonderful. We stayed at the Crillon. The
greatest treat of the whole trip. I loved it. Then we got on the night train,
the Orient Express to Zurich, and the porter didn’t get us up on time. Remember,
Seymour?”
Yes, he remembered. Merry wound up on the platform in her pajamas.
“It was absolutely horrendous. The train had already started up. I had to get
get out of the train there—and we ran out half dressed. They never woke us up.
It was ghastly,” Dawn said, again laughing happily at the recollection of the
scene. “There we were, Seymour and me and our suitcases, wearing our underwear.
So, anyway”—for a moment she was laughing too hard to go on—”we got to Zurich,
and we went to wonderful restaurants— smelled of delicious croissants and good
pates—and patisseries everywhere. Things like that. Oh, it was so good. All of
the papers were on canes, they were hung up on racks, so you take your paper
down and sit and have your breakfast and it was wonderful. So from there we took
a car and we went down to Zug, the center of the Simmen-tals, and then we went
to Lucerne, which was beautiful, absolutely
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beautiful, and then we went to the Beau Rivage in Lausanne. Remember the Beau
Rivage?” she asked her husband, her hand still firmly held in his.
And he did remember it. Never had forgotten it. Coincidentally enough, had
himself been thinking of the Beau Rivage just that afternoon, on the drive back
to Old Rimrock from Central Avenue. Merry at afternoon tea, with the band
playing, before she’d been raped. She had danced with the headwaiter, his six-
year-old child, before she’d killed four people. Mademoiselle Merry. On his own,
on their last afternoon at the Beau Rivage, the Swede had gone down to the
jewelry shop off the lobby, and while Merry and Dawn were out walking on the
promenade to take a last look together at the boats on Lake Geneva and the Alps
out across the way, he had bought Dawn a diamond necklace. He had a vision of
her wearing the diamond necklace along with the crown she kept in a hatbox at
the top of her closet, the silver crown with the double row of rhinestones that
she had worn as Miss New Jersey. Since he couldn’t even get her to wear the
crown to show to Merry—”No, no, it’s just too silly a thing,” Dawn told him; “to
her I’m ‘Mom,’ which is perfectly fine”—he’d never get her to put it on with the
new necklace. Knowing Dawn and her sense of herself as well as he did, he
realized that even to cajole her into trying them on, the necklace and the crown
together, in the bedroom, just modeling them there for him alone, would be
impossible. She was never more stubborn about anything than about not being an
ex-beauty queen. “It’s not a beauty pageant,” she was already telling people
back then who persisted in asking about her year as Miss New Jersey. “Most
people involved with the pageant will fight with anyone who says they were in a
beauty pageant, and I’m one of them. Your only prize for Winning at any level is
a scholarship.” And yet it was with the crown in her hair, the crown not of a
scholarship winner but of a beauty queen, that he had imagined her wearing that
necklace when he caught sight of it in the window of the shop at the Beau
Rivage.
* * *
In one of their photograph albums there was a series of pictures he used to like
to look at back when they were first married and
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even on occasion to show to people. They always made him so proud of her, these
glossy photos taken in 1949-50, when s
he’d held down the nfty-two-week-a-year
job that the head man over at the Miss New Jersey Scholarship Pageant liked to
describe as serving as the state’s official “hostess”—the job of accommodating
as many cities and towns and groups as possible for every kind of event, working
like a dog, really, and receiving in compensation the $500 cash scholarship, a
pageant trophy, and the fifty bucks for each personal appearance. There was, of
course, a picture of her at the Miss New Jersey coronation on the night of
Saturday, May 21,1949, Dawn in a strapless evening gown of silk, stiff and
scalloped at the top, very tight to the waist, and below, to the floor, a full,
voluptuous skirt, thickly embroidered with flowers and sparkling with beads. And
on her head her crown. “You don’t feel ridiculous in your evening gown wearing a
crown,” she told him, “but you definitely feel ridiculous in your clothes and
your crown. Little girls always asking if you’re a princess. People coming up
and asking if the crown is diamonds. In just a suit and wearing that thing,
Seymour, you feel absolutely silly.” But she hardly looked silly— wearing her
very simple, tailored clothes and that crown, she looked stunning. There was a
picture of her in a suit and her crown—and her Miss New Jersey sash, pinned at
the waist with a brooch—at an agricultural fair with some farmers, another of
her in her crown and the sash at a manufacturer’s convention with some
businessmen, and one of her in that strapless silk evening gown and her crown at
the governor’s Princeton mansion, Drumthwacket, dancing with the governor of New
Jersey, Alfred E. Driscoll. Then there were the pictures of her at parades and
ribbon cuttings and charity fund-raisers around the state, pictures of her
assisting at the crowning in local pageants, pictures of her opening the
department stores and the auto showrooms—”That’s Dawnie. The beefy guy owns the
place.” There were a couple of her visiting schools where, seated at the piano
in the auditorium, she generally played the popularized Chopin polonaise that
she’d performed to become Miss New Jersey, leaving out clots and clots of black
notes
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to get it in at two and a half minutes so she wouldn’t be disqualified by the
stopwatch at the state level. And in all of those pictures, whatever clothes she
might be wearing that were appropriate to the event, she would always have the
crown set in her hair, making her look, as much to her husband as to the little
girls who came up to ask, like a princess—more like a princess was supposed to
look than any of a whole string of European princesses whose photographs he’d
seen in Life.
Then there were the pictures taken at Atlantic City, at the Miss America Pageant
in September, pictures of her in her swimsuit and in evening wear, which made
him wonder how she ever could have lost. She told him, “When you’re out on that
runway you can’t imagine how ridiculous you feel in that swimsuit and your high
heels, and you know that when you walk a ways the back end is going to ride up,
and you can’t reach behind you and pull it down….” But she hadn’t been
ridiculous at all: he never looked at the swimsuit pictures that he didn’t say
aloud, “Oh, she was beautiful.” And the crowd had been with her; at Atlantic
City most of the audience was naturally rooting for Miss New Jersey, but during
the parade of states Dawn had received a spontaneous ovation that bespoke more
than local pride. The pageant wasn’t on TV back then, it was still for the folks
jammed into Convention Hall, so afterward, when the Swede, who’d sat in the hall
* * *
beside Dawn’s brother, called to tell his parents that Dawn hadn’t won, he could
still say of her reception, without exaggerating, “She brought the house down.”
Certainly, of the five other former Miss New Jerseys at their wedding, none
could compare to Dawn in any way. Together they constituted a kind of sorority,
these former Miss New Jerseys, and for a while there in the fifties they all
attended one another’s weddings, so that he must have met up with at least ten
girls who had won the state crown and probably twice as many who’d become
friends of this or that bride during the days of rehearsal for the state
competition, girls who’d gotten as far as being Miss Shore Resort and Miss
Central Coast and Miss Columbus Day and Miss
· 406 ·
Northern Lights, and there wasn’t a one who could rival his wife in any
category—talent, intelligence, personality, poise. If he should ever happen to
remark to someone that why Dawn hadn’t become Miss America was something he
would never understand, Dawn always begged him not to go around saying that,
because it gave the impression that her having not become Miss America was
something she was embittered about when, in many ways, losing had been a relief.
Just getting through without humiliating herself and her family had been a
relief. Sure, after all the buildup the New Jersey people had given her she was
surprised and a little let down not to have made the Court of Honor or even the
top ten, but that, too, might have been a blessing in disguise. And though
losing would not be a relief for a competitor like him, not a blessing of any
kind, he nonetheless admired Dawn’s graciousness—gracious was how the folks over
at the pageant liked to describe all the girls who lost—even if he couldn’t
understand it.
Losing allowed her, for one thing, to begin to restore the relations with her
father that had nearly been ruined because of her persisting at something he so
strongly disapproved of. “I don’t care what they’re giving away,” Mr. Dwyer said
when she tried to explain about the pageant scholarship money. “The whole damn
thing,” he told her, “is about being ogled. Those girls are there to be ogled.
The more money they give for it, the worse it is. The answer is no.”
That Mr. Dwyer agreed finally to come down to Atlantic City had been due to the
persuasive skills of Dawn’s favorite aunt, Peg, her mother’s sister, the
schoolteacher who’d married rich Uncle Ned and taken Dawn as a kid to the hotel
in Spring Lake. “It would make any father uncomfortable seeing his baby up
there,” Peg had told her brother-in-law in that gentle, diplomatic way Dawn
always admired and wanted to emulate. “It brings certain images to mind that a
father would just as soon not have associated with his daughter. I’d feel that
way if it were my daughter,” she told him, “and I don’t have what it is that
fathers naturally feel for their daughters. It would bother me, of course it
would. I would think that what you feel is the case with a lot of dads. They’re
really proud, their buttons
407
are popping and all that, but at the same time, ‘Oh, my God, that’s my baby up
there.’ But Jim, this is so clean and beyond reproach there is just nothing to
worry about. The trashy ones get sifted out early—they go on to work the
truckers’ convention. These are just ordinary kids from small towns, decent,
sweet girls whose fathers own the grocery store and
don’t belong to the country
club. They get them up to look like debutantes but there is nothing big in their
backgrounds. They’re just good kids who go home and settle down and marry the
boy next door. And the judges are serious people. Jim, this is for Miss America.
If it were compromising to the girls, they wouldn’t allow it. It is an honor.
* * *
Dawn wants you there to share in that honor. She will not be very happy if you
are not there, Jimmy. She will be crushed, especially if you are the only father
who isn’t there.” “Peggy, it’s beneath her. It’s beneath all of us. I’m not
going.” So that’s when she laid into him about his responsibility not merely to
Dawn but to the nation. “You wouldn’t come when she won at the local level. You
wouldn’t come when she won at the state level. Are you now telling me that you
are not going to come if she wins at the national level? If she is awarded Miss
America and you’re not there to walk up on the stage and hug your daughter with
pride, what will they think? They’ll think, ‘A great tradition, a part of the
American heritage, and her father isn’t there. Photographs of Miss America with
her family, and her father isn’t in a one of them.’ Tell me, how’s that going to
go down the next day?”
And so he humbled himself and he did it—against his better judgment, consented
to come for the big night to Atlantic City with the rest of Dawn’s relatives,
and it was a disaster. When Dawn saw him waiting there in his Sunday suit in the
lobby with her mother and her aunts and her uncles and her cousins, every last
Dwyer in Union and Essex and Hudson counties, all she was allowed to do by her