Shy teen enters pageant to give her

dying father a final memory

By Matt James | La Crosse Tribune | Sept. 6, 2004

Kendra and Kristy both have entered the Miss Blair pageant, and in less than two hours they will stand in front of three judges and answer questions about their lives up to this point. Afterward there will be a banquet at a local supper club for contestants, family members and judges, who, the contestants are told, will be watching right through the chicken, fish and meatball buffet. This will cause anxiety among everyone; the judges who aren’t exactly sure what they’ll be judging at dinner — “We’ll see who drops their food, I guess,” says Lori Glaunert, a first-time judge from Independence, Wis. — and also with a few of the contestants, who thought they said chicken and fish meatballs.

This is it, really. There is no talent portion of Miss Blair, no swimsuit competition, no evening gowns to slip into. This day, there will be one group interview with the three judges, then individual interviews, all in the library of Blair Elementary School. That’s it.

Beauty may help with homecoming queen or landing dates on Friday night, but not here. You have to have a decent grade-point average to enter, but after that, it comes down to two interviews. How quickly can you open up? How much of your soul can you expose to three strangers in a few minutes?

How would you describe Blair? … Who is your hero? … How would you sell yourself to us? … What do you like most about yourself? … What sets you apart from the other candidates?

Four days later, on a Thursday, the departing Miss Blair and her court each will give a little speech — complete with happy stories and thank-yous for pretty much everyone in town — then personally crown her replacement. This also will be in the elementary school, in the gymnasium at a tidy pageant that, among other things, serves as the kickoff to the town’s biggest bash: Cheese Fest.

Kendra wanted to be Miss Blair. Now, she knew it. Sure, she’d signed up in the spring, but this summer she told her aunt she might do it. She was thinking about doing it. If nothing else came up, she would.

You could never tell with Kendra. Maybe it was the most important thing in the world. Maybe it was an afterthought. She wears a permanent poker face. Barely a week ago, she finally confessed she was going through with it and it was all the aunt could do not to say, “Going through with what?” Oh, that? Kendra Stephenson in a pageant? Answering personal questions from strangers? Standing up in front of a gymnasium full of people? Why? It was awesome, but why?

This was the same 15-year-old girl who hadn’t told anyone her father had reached his last days. Sure, others outside the family knew about the esophagus cancer, but not that they had stopped treatment or that they took the couch out of the living room this week to make room for the hospice bed or that when someone calls and asks him what he’s doing, John Stephenson will sure enough answer, “Lying here waiting to die,” then muster the energy to smile and make the caller laugh.

He’s 52 now and never did care too much about what people thought. Stubborn as backyard dandelions. That must be where she got it, why she struggled through an advanced math class last year at Blair-Taylor High School because she couldn’t afford the graphing calculator it required and wouldn’t ask anyone for help. John would have found the money somehow, but she never told him.

“I’m wearing a red shirt and a skirt,” Kendra says into the phone. Of the eight sophomores trying for Miss Blair, the girl on the other end of the call, Kristy Pooler, is the one she calls friend, the only one who even begins to understand what Kendra fights on the inside.

She walks out the front door of her house — the one everyone calls the “Packer House” because of that peeling green and yellow trim and the “Packer Country” street sign on the front steps and that giant “GB” in Christmas lights on the side — she kisses her dad goodbye and walks down the street, across the bridge they’ve been re-paving all summer, a section of Second Street that probably wouldn’t qualify as a bridge except that a stream trickles under it, and into the elementary school to face down the part of her that screams to run back to the Packer House and hide upstairs in her room.

How can 160 steps feel like 160 miles?

You’d never know it from his shrinking frame, but John Stephenson was an athlete back at Blair High School, before they joined a neighboring town, built a new school in the ’80s and called it Blair-Taylor. He earned his diploma in the school his daughter enters now, across the bridge. The kids used to call it “Smoker’s Bridge” because that’s where you could grab a few drags at lunch.

He played baseball, wrestled and threw people around the football field. At his best he was 250 pounds of nothing you’d want to mess with, strong enough to make a minor league football team called the Lake County Rifles. In professional football circles, though, 250 is the stuff punters are made of, and it wasn’t long before that’s what he became. Not much later he was quitting before the coach could hand him a pink slip.

He saw the world with the Marine Corps for nine years, worked for a carpet company in Illinois, then came home and landed a job an hour away at Fort McCoy. On the trip home from work, he used to stop at a bar called Shanty Town, just outside of Melrose, Wis. It was there he met a woman named Tammy, the bar-owners’ daughter. They would be married before long, but John didn’t know what they were up against: the abuse in Tammy’s childhood or the 35 foster children that had marched so much baggage through her parents’ home. Tammy already had two children and custody of neither.

She and John were separated within six months, then Tammy gave birth to a daughter. One weekend, Tammy brought the little girl to John for his visit, got in her car without a word and, 15 years later, still hasn’t returned.

It is Thursday now. Kendra walks up onto that stage in a beautiful black-and-white dress she has borrowed, turns to her right, faces the microphone and the crowd of people, and doesn’t hesitate. “I am the daughter of John Stephenson.”

Really, before that year of chaos, and the marriage he’d refer to as “the biggest mistake of my life,” John had decided he wouldn’t get married. He liked being single, liked the idea of having no one to answer to, no one to nag at him about cleaning or his smoking or money.

He’d avoided a couple close calls with marriage, which only proved his theory that he wasn’t the marrying kind, wasn’t going to share his life, his space, his freedom, with anyone ever again.

Except the damn woman never came back, and here was this baby, this baby girl no less, and what in God’s name was he going to do now? He was a 37-year-old, rougher-than-sandpaper bachelor. At least those guys in “Three Men and a Baby” had each other.

He took Kendra to his mother’s house and held her up to Clara Stephenson as if to say, “What do I do with this?” You suck it up. That’s what you do. Clara’s husband, Albert, died young, and she raised the last six kids by herself. Alone? You want to whine about raising a child alone? Clara had never worked before her husband died, didn’t even have a driver’s license, but that didn’t stop her. Clara cooked at school. Cooked at the Grand View Care Center. Cleaned at the hospital in Whitehall, Wis., until her feet and back ached, then she would drive home to make it to a ballgame or a concert. And she never remarried.

It all made sense.

“He became so wrapped up in Kendra,” says John’s brother, Dennis. “He wanted life for her to be better than what we had when we were growing up.

“Thank goodness for her.”

Who is your hero? What do you say to that? Her dad, of course. But where do you go next? Do you tell them about the time when you were just 4 years old and he bought you a puppy you promptly named Barkley? And do you tell them about the day Barkley got his leash wrapped up in the playground equipment behind the house and you lifted Barkley up over one of the bars so you could untangle it? Do you tell them about running into the house sobbing? “Dad, Barkley isn’t moving.”

He didn’t even get upset. He called the kennel, explained that his little girl had accidentally choked her new puppy to death, and chuckled when she named the new one Barkley II.

No, that’s a little morbid.

What about the time when he took you to an aunt on your mother’s side of the family and pleaded with her to explain puberty, only she didn’t know what to say and took you to her mother?

No, that’s silly.

You could tell them about his first scare, the tongue and throat cancer back in 1992, when you were 4 and he didn’t tell you for days because he didn’t want to ruin your weekend. You could tell them about the agonizing surgery when they took muscle out of his neck and replaced the rotten part of his tongue and the weeks he spent in the hospital.

You could tell them how he beat it, how he quit smoking for years after that. But then again, you’d have to go ahead and explain that he started smoking again, that he calls it his one vice, something he always blamed on a stressful job. He worked at Trempealeau County social services, in charge of keeping track of child support cases, except for his own, which he conveniently misplaced. He didn’t want her money, but after the first cancer, someone else got his cases, and he didn’t have much choice after that.

The job excuse for smoking wasn’t completely true anyway. He started with cigarettes when he was 15, back at Smoker’s Bridge, and he just couldn’t quit. Would the judges be able to see past who he is now, a man withering in their living room, puffing on one Pall Mall cigarette after another because the doctors told him it didn’t matter at this point, his fingers just inches from a humming box with a button that would shove another dose of morphine into his chest?

Who is your hero? Kendra says it’s her father, John Stephenson. And then she goes silent.

How would you sell yourself? She has a bird named Chirpy. That would be a good start. Chirpy the bird. Barkley the dog. That’s funny. She’s funny. Not that they see that. You could count on one hand the number of people who have seen that, who would know she happily keeps her room so messy you can’t see the floor and explains it with, “This way I don’t have to vacuum.” Fewer people would know that until this year, until faced with the prospect of life without a parent in it, she didn’t know how to vacuum or cook or run the washer and dryer. She’s learning quickly, but they wouldn’t know that.

No, most people see what these judges see, a girl who holds more on the inside than most people will ever let out.

She’s here now, isn’t she? That’s something. But they are out-of-town strangers who know only what she allows them to see here, the queen of one-word answers, a painfully-shy teenager trying to break out from behind this wall she has erected, one secret on top of another. The house that sad memories built.

She and Clara, the grandmother who had inspired her son to dedicate his life and what little money he had to his only child, had been close. So close, in fact, that after Alzheimer’s took control of Clara’s mind and she was living at Grand View instead of cooking there, Kendra was the only one who could feed her. If anyone else tried, Clara refused, so Kendra pedaled her bike to the home day after day, month after month because she thought her grandma would starve to death if she didn’t.

Finally, one day Kendra said, “I can’t do this any more,” and there were sighs of relief because it wasn’t necessary. There were other ways, they told her.

Clara died not long after. It wasn’t Kendra’s fault, but, well, try explaining that to a 12-year-old.

“My sponsor,” she will say into the microphone, “is Grand View Care Center.”

Her other grandmother, Mary Hodgson, the one who had explained puberty, another woman with whom the quiet girl had for some reason formed an immediate bond, died of emphysema later that year.

They want her to win. Jolene Ekern and Sue Frederixon are the organizers of this year’s Miss Blair contest, and they want Kendra to win more than they would want it for their own daughters. Both women went to Blair High back in the ’70s, both tried out for Miss Blair twice (only sophomores and juniors are eligible) and both proceeded to lose, both times.

Sue actually executed one of the most memorable moves in Miss Blair history. She got her heel caught in a set of risers, threw her arms out and fortunately, kept her balance. It was not as fortunate for the two girls standing beside her, both of whom she knocked down right there in front of half the town.

Funny how something that felt so important at one point in your life could feel so trivial in another, especially with this girl in the room. They’d wanted what most of these girls want, probably, the scholarship money, the summer of fun and endless parades, the attention of it all. This must be what the Rolling Stones feel like. And you’d think it would become sickening, the crowds, weekend after weekend, doing that idiotic beauty-queen wave … OK, it does. But you never get tired of the cheers and that tiara. It feels beautiful. You feel beautiful.

This is so much more than that, though. This girl has given her father a gift, something to look forward to in his final days. What if? What if she won and they had this wonderful memory that she could hold onto after he’s gone?

She wants it for herself, too, to prove she’s not just some wallflower. Oh, if they could just give it to her, they would. If they could just tell the judges her story. If they could just explain to the other girls what it would mean for Kendra to win Miss Congeniality, but they can’t.

Then again, they don’t know half of it, don’t know half of the pain she shoves in closets, dirty laundry she’ll deal with just as soon as she gets a break, you know, from school and work and watching her father reach for the morphine button, and volleyball practice and selling the Packer House and eventually moving in with her uncle Dennis’ family across town so she can stay in the school district. She doesn’t really know them. They don’t really know her. They’re all a little scared.

This is the executive vice president of the bank’s family, with its college-student son and its senior-basketball-star son and its making-the-beds and eating-meals-as-a-family. Not exactly the way she and John do things. They wouldn’t know where to begin even if they did know all this.

Jolene and Sue sit across from each other as the contestants walk from the teachers lounge to the library for their interviews. They should tell the girls. No, it wouldn’t be fair. They know that.

The girls drift to corners of the room and write down their votes for Miss Congeniality. Sue has asked them to vote for two, thinks it will help avoid a tie, but she is wrong. Jolene and Sue leave the room to tally the votes. Three of the girls have tied. They vote again. This time, they have a winner.

The woman squeezing the camera is trying not to cry. She is a mystery, this woman, an out-of-towner who no one knows.

She is the aunt who appears in Kendra’s life, again and again, the woman who pleads with her. Do you need anything? How’s your dad? Are you going to volleyball camp? No? Here’s the money. Please take it.

Teresa Gerdes is the sister of Kendra’s mother. She latched onto a childhood friend all those years ago, did her best to stay at his house and avoided the chaos in her own. Then she decided she could live in his house forever and married him.

She may not have been perfect, but like it or not, Kendra was going to be part of their family. She introduced her to her grandparents and her half-brothers and sister, brought her to Christmas and family vacations. She even arranged a meeting between Kendra and her mother. Some things weren’t meant to be, some people not meant to connect and everyone just kind of stared at each other and walked away disappointed. You can only repair so much damage.

Kendra and her aunt grew close through the years, and Kendra could talk to her about almost anything; friends and boys and dreams.

“How are you dealing with all this?” the aunt said awhile back.

Kendra answered quickly.

“I’m not.”

They have not talked about it since.

Can you believe this, though? Look at her. On stage. Dressed up. Hair fixed. Facing the world. The aunt beams. She squeezes John’s arm. Squeezes the camera. Wishes she could freeze time because she’s afraid of what awaits. The judges’ decisions. The girls’ votes. How could she possibly win this, the girl who when asked her interests will say, “I enjoy volleyball.” Not even that she plays volleyball, just that she enjoys it, like perhaps her interest is watching volleyball.

Why not tell them everything? That you play flute, even lettered in band as an eighth-grader. Tell them you raised a calf for 4-H, that you see beauty in photographs, that this camera is yours and you can stop time with it, freeze moments around town that others miss, sunny days and elderly couples talking on park benches.

Please. Just tell them. Stop this. Stop this pageant and tell them everything. Don’t hold it in. Go get the tiara and run down here and hug your dad. Please.

Teresa squeezes the camera tighter, clicks the button again and again.

There is a hush. They are announcing the winners. Miss Congeniality is Samantha Solberg. She stands, and the tiara is placed on her head. The third attendant is Ashley Nereng. Tiara. The second attendant is Janessa Ekern. Tiara. The first attendant is Samantha again. She will be both.

And now your Miss Blair … 2004 …

Could it be? What if? Can you imagine? Please, just say her name.

… Rachel Hardie.

A cheer. That’s what happens next. You cheer for Rachel because she deserves it. You cheer because you are actually cheering for your niece. You cheer because you love this girl like she was your own and you may be the only one who knows how much she wanted this, or how much she is suffering right now.

Sue Frederixon aches on the inside. She can’t tell anyone, but she knows that Kendra was one of the three tied for Miss Congeniality and that it was her stupid idea to have them vote for two people in the first place. Maybe this girl would have won if she’d have just left things alone.

At the weekend’s Cheese Fest parade, Sue will tell herself that Kendra isn’t coming. Who could blame her? Every year, they have an extra float for the girls that didn’t make the court, a participation float. It’s a nice gesture, but this is high school. It might as well have “LOSERS FLOAT” in big letters on the side. Often, the invitation is declined.

Two of the four girls will be waiting on the float. But not Kendra, and Sue will sigh. Nope, she wouldn’t have showed up either. And then she will see her, running through the crowd in her band uniform. Kendra will smile and change and climb aboard that float and ride proudly through town.

But not tonight, after the pageant. Tonight she just wants to go home. She wants to get away from these people and these cameras and these girls wearing tiaras. Kendra and Teresa walk toward the door when a woman stops them. Someone wants to take a picture of Kendra and John. Kendra turns and walks back into the gym.

Teresa walks outside and suddenly she cannot hold it back. She cries and cries. She cannot stop. She buries her face in her hands and shakes. “Why? Why can’t she just have this one good memory?”

She wipes her eyes because Kendra is coming back.

They are leaving now, walking back to the Packer House, a father and daughter, across Smoker’s Bridge to whatever’s left on the other side.

Matt James now writes for the Fresno Bee. He can be reached at mjames@fresnobee.com.