Beauty Queen

The clasp was studded with yellow diamonds.
    She fastened the choker around her throat, trying to keep an image of reverence toward her mother. Nevertheless, for just a split second, the thought flashed through her mind that the choker was her mother's dead hand gently encircling her throat, able to squeeze shut and choke her at any moment.
    "I have the oddest thoughts these days," she thought. "I really ought to discuss them with my shrink. Of course, I don't have a shrink, and I doubt that Reverend Irving would make much sense out of them. He'd just tell me that my imagination was working overtime."
    She slipped her feet into her modest silver slippers with the thick heels, and took her silver kid bag.
    There were voices in the living room—her father and some of the others must have come. She swept out of the bedroom, thinking of all the evenings in her life when she had swept out all dressed for the next major step in her life.
    Before she went into the living room, however, she detoured into the study where the family altar was, and closed the door.
    She put her bag on the library table, and knelt down before the altar (being careful not to harm the fragile chiffon of her dress). For a long moment, she looked at her mother's Bible laying on the altar. Then she put her hands over her face, and closed her eyes.
    The altar was really kind of a joke, she thought. The only people in the family who prayed hard in front of it were herself and Steve. The other children all behaved in an unsaved manner. And then there was Sidney—still not saved after all the years of praying and gentle nagging on her part. She had read thousands of stories in Christian Home and Sword of the Lord about how good wives had brought their unsaved husbands to Jesus. Those stories, however, always seemed to happen to other people.
    In the darkness behind her hands, she prayed.
    She prayed for the salvation of her children, Jessica, little Cora, and Lance out west, and of her husband. She prayed for strength and light in the months to come. Politics are not an easy thing anymore, and she prayed for the wisdom to do the right thing, the wisdom to stand up to her critics. She prayed above all for self-control, and at the back of her mind there was the tiny nagging thought that she was not yet ready to venture into the political arena, that she needed more time, more rest. Yet God was obviously calling her to take up arms against the moral degeneracy that threatened to engulf this city, and this great country of ours. And that was her last prayer—that God open the ears and hearts of everyone in the city to hear her words about homosexualism.
    Guffaws of laughter broke in on her prayer.
    She touched her mother's Bible, a thing she always did before leaving the house on occasions like this.
    Then she went into the living room.
    Her father was there, handsome in a dark suit and a wine-colored brocade tie. His face looked just a little strained—she wondered if he would be overextending himself to give her money for the campaign. But of course not—he was always saying that the business was in great shape, and besides, he and Al had always helped her. She had been a little surprised at the small size of the check, but assumed that more would be forthcoming later.
    Tom Winkler was there too, and so was Sidney, wearing shirtsleeves and jeans. Sidney had sworn he had to work on a piece tonight, and he would not be going. She choked back an impulse to feel angry at him.
    She swept up to them with little cries and kisses on the cheeks. It was all "You look lovely, my dear" and "Have you got your speech notes."
    And then they were all sweeping through the lobby, and her father's car was waiting in front. No limousines, no pretentiousness. She was to be the people's candidate, remember? To give the people back their moral rights, remember?
    And then they were sweeping under the green awning and through the restaurant. She was flanked by protective men, as befitted a good woman, with her shoulders wrapped in a soft white cashmere, fringed shawl. She smiled at the reporters' flashbulbs, and assured herself that God didn't mind this kind of smile, because smiles were supposed to do His work for Him.
    And then she was inside, where the room had been reserved and people were already standing by the bar with drinks. The tables had been set with fresh linen and crystal and bowls of daisies, and candles flamed everywhere. This evening would put $25,000 more