Spruce Queen

Small Towns, Polaroids and Vintage Bathing Suits

“Hard to believe they still even do the Spruce Queen Pageant.”

Maggie smiled at John. She had been nervous to come back to Dowling Hills but was glad she had made the drive.

“Changed a lot,” John said. He hadn’t cleared his throat, sounded to Maggie like he might be sick or headed that way. She hoped it wasn’t serious.

“No swimsuits anymore,” Maggie said.

John’s feet shuffled. He looked at Maggie, looked away, mumbled something.

Maggie held an oversized bouquet she was going to present to the 2022 Spruce Queen, a young lady with Down Syndrome whose first name was Monroe.

“You aren’t one of those purists that thinks there should still be a swimsuit competition, are you? Not that I’m against it, I just think it’s unnecessary, really. I remember some of the girls taping their suits to their butt.”

John shook his head no, and Maggie could see color rising in his face. 

He looked ill and she truly worried that he was. It wasn’t her place to ask, but she really wanted to.

Kids were getting the convertibles ready for the parade, the Queen and her family hadn’t arrived yet. 

Maggie worried that the bouquet, with only the little plastic bullets of water at the stems, would wilt before the parade started.

She was the oldest living Spruce Queen able to make the trip back to Dowling Hills.

It felt odd. She was slightly comforted by the fact that she wasn’t really the oldest.

Suddenly John exhaled like he was breaking through the tape of the 5K that had been run earlier that morning.

“Are you okay?”  Maggie asked, “Is anything….”

John wrung his hands, twisted his wedding ring. His wife Alania was running the ID booth at the Millionaires Tent, charity gambling for the Dowling Hills Youth Center, eighteen and over only.

“I owe you an apology, Margaret.”

John had been attracted to her all those years ago. Teased her at first, before it became clear he was interested.

Whatever he had done then had long been forgotten by Maggie. If anything she felt slightly guilty that she hadn’t returned his obvious affection. But decades had passed and-

“You most certainly don’t, John Plymouth. I’ve never held anything but fond memories of you.”

The color in John’s face Maggie noticed before deepened. It was not the color of a healthy man.

“I had keys to everything, Margaret, running audio-visual for school and sometimes city council after school.”

“I remember,” Maggie said. “Scotty Dainan switched out the National Anthem with the Hendrix version and you got blamed.”

John wrung his hands some more. They were sweating. 

“He pulled a knife on me to do it, swear on all the bibles.”

John pulled a folded manila envelope from his Dowling Hills High Boosters Club windbreaker.

“I took a picture of you,” John said.

Every word was slow, heavy.

“A picture?”

“A…a Polaroid, pictu- a, I shouldn’t ummm…”

John turned to face Maggie but his head was directly facing the ground. She could have counted the hairs on his scalp.

“The softball tournament had all the locker rooms. You all changed into your swimsuits in the science lab on the third floor.”

Maggie nodded. “Because the windows on both doors were frosted. I remember. But Mrs. Bootworth was in there with us and…. Miss….Miss Evans was out in the hall keeping watch.”

John’s head just bobbed.

“And I was up in HVAC system. Extra above the science lab because of the chemicals. I took a picture.”

John’s hand shook badly as he handed Maggie the envelope.

“I’m so sorry, Margaret. So…I was seventeen, just. I’m just…”

Maggie took the envelope. She was blushing.

“There are pictures of me in here?”

“One,” John said. “I only took one.”

So many thoughts went through Maggie’s head, so many questions. She didn’t know which one to ask first.

She handed John the bouquet and began to work the brass clasp on the envelope.

John looked at the kids milling about.

“Don’t open it here. I just…I had to… I’m so sorry.”

Maggie thought about just ripping the envelope open.

“Why’d you give it to me here if you didn’t want me to look at it here?”

“You don’t have to look at it at all. I just wanted you to have-”

Maggie stopped trying to open the envelope.

“Why? You wanted me to have it why?”

She was annoyed, surprised, a bit frightened of what was in the envelope.

Were there other girls that might want to know or maybe shouldn’t?

“I just felt guilty and…”

“But you kept it all these years.”

John shook his head and some of his blush dissipated.

“Dowling Historical Society asked for stuff for the anniversary. Photos, mementos and…”

“Were you gonna give them a voyeur picture of me?”

John’s head shook so fast Maggie could hear it.

“It was tucked away with other stuff and I just-”

Maggie ripped the envelope and pulled out the Polaroid. She could feel her chest throbbing, feared the worst.

She looked at the Polaroid. It was upside down, blurry, faded.

She remembered the red one-piece swimsuits. The leg cut had seemed so high in 1969.

She flipped the photo. It was just her, and she could only tell it was her by the one red pump with the black bow she had borrowed from her Aunt Sadie.

If that one shoe hadn’t been on her feet, the photo was just a faceless brunette pulling on a swimsuit, sideboob, and a bit of buttcheek. They showed more on network TV now, every day.

Maggie relaxed.

“I’m so sorry,” John repeated.

“Theresa Myers was right next to me, John. She’s a nun now. You sure you don’t have any pictures of her? She might find that upsetting.”

“No, no, no, Margaret, I only took that one photo. Polaroids make an awful whine and I thought…”

“You would get caught.”

“Yes.”

Margaret looked at the photo again. Thought how much she hated her butt back then and thought how great it looked to her now. 

She was gonna keep the photo.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, Maggie, but please don’t tell my wife what I did. I really feel horrible.”

“Do you feel better now that I have the picture, John?”

“Not much. A little. I’m so, so sorry.”

Maggie slipped the photo back into the envelope and put the envelope into her purse.

She took the bouquet for this year’s Spruce Queen.

“And all you ask of me is that I don’t tell your wife?”

“Please,” John said.

She had heard that please before when he had asked her to homecoming and she turned him down.

Maggie bit her lip.

She was gonna take an Oscar the Grouch magnet her granddaughter handpainted for her and magnet the Polaroid to her fridge.

She wouldn’t dream of telling John’s wife about the picture, but she was gonna spend the weekend at Dowling Hills Days letting John Plymouth think it was a distinct possibility.

***

Image Courtesy of Getty Images